He was gone.
The One had said to widen the search. Ernst assumed that meant mobilizing more than just the Order. He called his right-hand man, Kristof Szeto, and told him to fax a copy of her picture to the head of security for the Dormentalists-their Grand Paladin-as well as get it out to the members of the Order.
'The Myers woman,' Szeto said in Eastern Europe-flavored English. 'Yes, this is good. This time we will find her. I have score to settle-'
'No settling anything.' Ernst knew he was still bridling from losing so many men to her. 'No contact.'
'But-'
'A personal directive from the One.'
A pause, then, 'Well, in that case…'
Hank Thompson had strolled in-as usual, without knocking-toward the end of the conversation.
'Her again?' he said when Ernst hung up. He was tall and trim, with a dark, shaggy mane. 'Didn't you track her to Wyoming?'
Ernst nodded. 'We did. But that was as close as we came. It turned out to be a dead end.'
'I thought we gave up on her.'
'The One, apparently, has not.'
He dropped his lanky form into a chair. 'He says 'boo' and your bosses drop everything, right?'
Ernst sighed. 'The Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order-'
'Is this where you remind me once more that you and your Order have loaned this building to me and my guys? I know that. And we're grateful.'
Thompson's posturing could be entertaining at times, tiring at others.
'The Order is devoted to the One's cause. I am an Actuator for the Order. It is my duty to carry out his wishes. It is to your benefit to do the same.'
'Says who?'
'The One.' Ernst pointed to the corner behind Thompson. 'Why don't you ask him yourself.'
It gave him enormous satisfaction to watch the color drain from the man's face as he did a slow turn, then flush with anger when he realized he'd been had.
'You son of a bitch!'
Ernst allowed a smile. Thompson was an odd case. A combustible farrago of intelligence and animal cunning. An ex-con who'd had the drive to write an internationally bestselling… how to classify his book? Kick was a manifesto and a memoir and a call to arms. A Mein Kampf without the racism. His call to kick down the doors that penned you in and evolve into something new cut through racial, religious, and ethnic barriers.
It is time to separate yourselves from the herd. You know who you are. You know who I'm talking to. You don't belong with the herd. Come out of hiding. Step away from the crowd. Let the dissimilation begin!
People everywhere-mostly males, an unusually high percentage of whom came with criminal records- answered the call and began thinking of themselves as 'Kickers,' even going so far as to have the Kicker Man, the symbol of what Thompson called 'the Kicker Evolution,' tattooed on their hands.
The strange thing was, Thompson had gathered this huge, worldwide following that cut across all national and cultural boundaries, with no idea of what to do with them.
Ernst had solved that problem, but the key was to let Thompson think it was all his idea.
'Speaking of sons of bitches and looking for people,' Thompson said, 'what about that guy we were after?'
Although Ernst knew exactly who he meant, he said, 'And what 'guy' would that be?'
'The one who tasered us.'
'Oh, him. I've gotten past that.'
True, at least as far as being tasered. But he hadn't gotten past what the man had said to him. He'd known things he shouldn't have. And something about him had been hauntingly familiar.
'Well, I haven't. Shave off that beard and I bet he'd have been the same guy who stole the Compendium from me.' His hands knotted into fists. 'If I ever get hold of that fuck…'
Another thing about Thompson, he held grudges. Ernst couldn't resist rubbing salt in the wound.
'Ironic that he was within reach so many times, right under your nose here in the Lodge, posing as one of your followers. Why, you might even have spoken to him on occasion.'
Thompson spoke through his teeth. 'Don't think I haven't thought about that.' He shook himself. 'What's the latest on the virus?'
Thompson appeared to want a change of subject.
'The virus is perfected, but we're working on adding one last feature to the payload.'
Thompson grunted. 'You've been working on this since last summer. When are we going to get it done?'
Valez was in charge of a crucial feature of the virus that everyone hoped would complete the coding, but he was experiencing odd delays.
'Good question. I'll make a call right now.'
He punched in Valez's number. The man picked up right away.
'Yes, Mister D.'
'Where are we with the code?'
'As I mentioned earlier, I had trouble with the, um, setup, but everything is in line now.'
'How long?'
'Two days, tops.'
'Very good.' Ernst ended the call and looked at Thompson. 'Two days. Then we have to incorporate it into the virus and make sure it works the way we wish. Then we release the virus. It should take it only a couple of days to replicate and spread globally.'
'So we're talking the weekend.' He rubbed his hands together. 'About fucking time.'
'What did you expect? Bringing down the Internet is hardly child's play.'
6
Jack was feeling a little annoyed with himself as he knocked on the door to Munir Habib's apartment in the Turtle Bay high-rise. He'd pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves downstairs, worn his Mets cap with the brim low over his face, and had kept his head down in the foyer and during the elevator ride. Good chance this mess was going to end up in the hands of officialdom and he didn't want to leave behind anything that belonged to him, not fingerprints, and especially not a face on a security camera.
Still didn't know how he'd let Russ talk him into this. Had to hand it to the guy, he was persistent. Pulled out all the stops:
Munir was one of his few friends, a good guy who didn't deserve this and was an emotional wreck over it, and had Russ ever asked Jack for a favor, no, and hadn't he always come through every time Jack needed something, yes, so couldn't Jack do this for him, because he wasn't asking for a freebie, the guy would pay, just go and listen to him, please-please-please?
Jack had agreed, just to shut him up.
He'd called, but Russ's pal wouldn't discuss it on the phone. Too scared. Had to be face-to-face. Normally Jack would never do a first meet in the customer's place, but Russ had vouched for him, so…
The door was opened by a short, stocky, fortyish man with milk-chocolate skin, a square face, and bright eyes as black as the stiff, straight hair on his head. His clothes were badly wrinkled, like he'd slept in them, and he looked halfway to zombie.
'You're the one who called?' he said in barely accented English.
Jack nodded and extended his hand. 'Mister Habib, I assume.'
They shook, followed by a few beats of silence as he stared at Jack. Jack knew that look.
Here it comes… here it comes…
'I was expecting…'
'Someone different? You and everybody else.'
