Pharos said nothing. He nibbled a cake.
“When I go,” continued the burned man, “I want to leave something behind. A legacy.”
“What kind?” asked Pharos.
“A changed world.”
“Ah. I can pretty well guarantee you’ll have your wish.”
The Gentleman looked at him, and there was an honest, clear light in his remaining eye. “Listen to me, Michael,” he said. It was maybe the second time since they’d known each other that he’d used Pharos’s first name. “Listen to me. I know I’m a monster. I know that in a lot of ways I’m a parasite. You tolerate me because you want the banking codes. No, don’t deny it. We both know it’s the truth. Just as we know that as long as I hold on to them, I get taken care of and washed and drugged. Let’s be effing adults and leave that on the table.”
Pharos said nothing.
“We both know that I’ll never live long enough to see the whole project come to fruition. This is too big, and it will go on for a long time. This is the machine that you used to talk about with Hugo. The well-oiled perpetual-motion chaos engine. Once it’s fully engaged, then it’s going to grind a hole through the heart of this sodding country, and when America goes down, then a whole lot of the rest of the world will go down with it. Chaos for sure, which should please Hugo—whether he’s in Valhalla or the Pit.”
Pharos said nothing.
“But you, Michael, are going to outlive me. You’re going to be there when it all falls down, and you’re going to live a long time in whatever world will come after this one. You know that most of the currency in my accounts will be worthless. Only those currencies tied to moderately stable nations and international banks will be worth something, and even then it’ll be pennies on the dollar. Which doesn’t really matter to you if you get those codes, because pennies on the dollar still adds up to more money than you can ever spend when you’re talking about more than a hundred billion dollars. I’ve seen projections that could put that figure at four hundred billion. You could walk away and retire with fifteen to twenty billion. You’d be able to buy an island, hire an army, and live like a king for the rest of your life, while all around you the world tries to find the reset button.”
The burned man leaned slightly forward in his wheelchair, wincing at the pain. “I want to make you an offer, Michael,” he said. “I want to make a deal.”
Pharos cleared his throat. “What kind of deal?”
“Care for me. Treat me with respect, treat me like a friend, make sure I’m comfortable until I’m ready to die. We both know it’s a temporary job. A few months at most. Maybe only a few weeks.”
“I do that now…”
“No, you go through the motions in the hopes that I get soft in the head and tell you the codes. I’m asking you to be my friend, my last friend, for whatever time I have left. Give me that, and in return I will make sure that you get all of it. There’s more than you think, Pharos. There’s more than currency in numbered banks. There’s gold, too. Do you understand what the value of gold will become when paper currency and electronic banking collapses? This morning, gold was twelve hundred ninety-two dollars and forty-two cents per ounce. In a collapsed economy, gold would be worth five times that. Ten times. More. Do you know how much gold I have? How much I inherited when I became the last surviving member of this organization? Want to take a guess?”
Pharos shook his head.
“I can tell you where you can find three and a half tons of it. In bars. Untouched. Do the math.”
Pharos didn’t need to. His heart was beating so fast, he thought he was going to faint.
“Now listen to me, Michael,” said the Gentleman, his voice hoarse and low. “I will give you the banking codes before I die. I promise. If you’re kind, I promise that. All those billions. But if you swear to me, right here and now, that you will take care of me, be a friend to me, protect me until then … I will give you the location and access codes to the gold vault right now.”
Pharos could not speak.
He absolutely could not.
The Gentleman smiled and held out his one remaining hand. Wizened, scarred, twisted.
“Tell me if we have a deal,” he said.
Chapter Seventy-one
UC San Diego Medical Center
200 West Arbor Drive
San Diego, California
March 30, 7:05 P.M.
Toys stood apart from the group, feeling small and useless and alien.
He listened as Lydia told her team and Junie about the murder of Bug’s mother and the attack on Aunt Sallie. Junie wept. No one else did. Toys looked at the faces of Lydia and Sam Imura, Montana Parker and Brian Botley. And at other soldiers he didn’t know. Their faces were hard. Not without emotion, but completely without mercy.
He expected to hear trash talk, threats, the kind of threats and promises all soldiers make when they learn about a fallen comrade. There was none of that. When Lydia was done relating the news, they all stood there. Toys wasn’t even sure they were looking at each other. They were just—there. As tall and straight and silent as chess pieces.
Without saying a single thing, the DMS agents turned and went back to their posts. Junie stood alone, weeping openly into a crumpled tissue. Toys wanted to say something to her, to offer comfort to her, but he did not have the courage to approach. Not in a moment like this.
After all, what comfort could a monster give when human hearts were breaking?
Chapter Seventy-two
Thomas Jefferson University Hospital
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
March 30, 7:06 P.M.
Mr. Church exited the hospital and got into the Cadillac waiting at the curb. Brick shot the locks, lit up the lights and sirens, and bullied his way into traffic. Two city police cars fell into place fore and aft, and they headed toward I-95 and the airport.
“Sorry about Auntie,” said Brick. “But she’s a strong old vulture. No way this is canceling her ticket.”
“When she recovers, I’ll tell her you called her a vulture.”
“If she wants to kick my ass, she’d better recover. But give me warning so I can get out of town.”
He smiled at Church in the rearview mirror. Church gave him a small smile in return. Neither smile was any more real than the banter.
Church’s phone rang, and when he looked at the display, it showed a symbol rather than a name. A poppy. Deadly and cold. The signature of a very specific person.
A woman of great power. Not exactly a friend. Nor always an ally.
He smiled faintly as he answered the call.
“Hello, Lilith.”
“I heard about the attacks,” said a stern female voice. “They killed a civilian? Your computer man—Bug, is it? They killed his mother?”
“Yes.”
Her reply was a vile curse in an old language known for its eloquent obscenities. “And Auntie? They tried to kill her.”
“They tried.” He didn’t ask how she knew. Neither Aunt Sallie nor Bug was named in any of the news stories, but Lilith had her sources.
“Who did it?” asked Lilith.
“Five-man team,” said Church. “Almost certainly a Seven Kings hit.”
“Kingsmen?” she asked.
“Likely. They were tough.”
“Interrogation?”
“Sadly, no longer an option.”
“Pity,” said Lilith. “Will she die?”
“I don’t know.”
A pause. “I never liked her, you know,” said Lilith.
“There was never love lost between you two.”
“Even so, it’s better to have her in the fight.”
“Yes,” said Church. “It is.”
“And … Circe? I heard about that, too. No suspects. No apparent cause. But the timing is suggestive. So the Kings are targeting the DMS and their families?”
“Apparently.”
“If they’re after Circe, then they know too many of your secrets.”
>
“Of course.”
“Them hitting you now, while the stadium in Philadelphia is still burning, that’s no coincidence. They’re trying to weaken you or distract you, or both, while they make their play.”
“Of course,” he said again.
Another pause. “I’ve got people on this, Saint Germaine.”
“That isn’t my name.”
“It was.”
“And I left it behind.”
“As you left so many things behind. When you’re done with them. When they’re of no use to you.”
“Did you call to try me for old crimes? Your timing is questionable.”
“No,” barked Lilith. Then she sighed. “No … I did not. So, what should I call you? Deacon? Does that still work?”
“It will do,” said Church. “Why are you calling?”
“I don’t want to bore you if it’s something you already know.”
“You are many things, Lilith,” said Church, “but you are never boring.”
“Charm? And a compliment? From you? Pardon me while I faint.”
“Do it later,” he said. “I’m on the way to the airport.”
“Ah. I heard a rumor about the doctor who works for you. Sanchez. My people say he was attacked by a priest. Sanchez was overheard saying a certain name.”
“Yes.”
“If he’s involved in this, then you are all in trouble. But … you already know that. Who’s guarding your people in San Diego, then? That thug Ledger?”
“His team. Ledger was injured in the attack on the stadium.”
“Mmm, I heard. Didn’t die, though. Ah, well,” Lilith said, then added, “Violin is in California. She’s on a job for me, so I can’t station her at the hospital, but she has Banshee with her.”
“Banshee? Who is that?”
“She’s the great-granddaughter of an old friend. Do you remember that cave we found in the Hoia Baciu Forest in Romania? Do you remember who was with me?”
“Everyone who was with you died.”
“Not everyone.”
Church said, “Ah. Strega.”
“So,” said Lilith, “you do remember.”
“I was always very fond of Strega. This is her great-granddaughter? Banshee?”
“Yes.”
“She’s with Violin?”
“Yes. And I can have my daughter leave Banshee to guard Circe. And, just to be clear, Deacon. I don’t make this offer for you. This is only for Circe. Not for you.”
“I understand that.”
“Circe’s pregnant, I hear. Near her time.”
“Yes.”
“Let me help her.”
Church closed his eyes. “Thank you, Lilith.”
The line went dead.
Chapter Seventy-three
Tanglewood Island
Pierce County, Washington
March 30, 7:13 P.M.
Doctor Davidovich was in the bathroom a long time. Longer than he knew was wise, which was the point. He was waiting to see how far this new trust would stretch. How long before Doctor Pharos and that burned freak in the bed would send men looking for him?
He sat on the closed lid of the toilet and stared at the wood grain of the stall’s door. The bathroom and all of its fittings were of the highest quality. Expensive wood, polished brass, imported marble. Incense burning in a discreet niche. Egyptian cotton hand towels.
The degree of conspicuous wealth just in this bathroom was impressive. Everything that he’d seen so far at Tanglewood was designed to overwhelm ordinary senses. Pharos seemed to disregard it, which, Davidovich believed, was a sign of privilege. To be so rich that luxury was ordinary … that was very appealing. He was aware that his level of genius would ultimately bring him to this point. That was inevitable in a technologies-rich market. He had insight and ideas that no one else had. His QC computer was years in front of the competition.
Years.
His fault had been signing that contract with the Department of Defense to work exclusively for them for six years.
Six years.
He’d been four years into that stretch when he’d been abducted by Boy. Four years during which his paycheck wasn’t worth lining his cat’s litter box with. Sure, it was six figures, but it should have been eight. Or nine. Maybe the high nines. Ten was not out of the question. Ask Bill Gates.
The QC was the personal computer of this century. It was the new direction.
Even his software was radical. God, if he’d developed Regis in the private sector and then sold it to the military …
Shit. He’d be worth billions now.
Instead, where was he?
Sitting on a toilet on an island somewhere, while absolute fucking madmen waited for him. While maniacs used his software and quantum technology for what? A stock market and commodities scam? Okay, sure, it was on a global scale, but still. It was a scam. Doctor Pharos was basically a bureaucrat turned big-time con man. Somewhere on the larceny scale between Bernie Madoff and the old robber barons. White-collar thieves. Diamond-cuff-link gangbangers.
Which made him—what?
An accomplice?
A tool?
A lackey?
The speech Pharos gave him back there was impressive. So impressive that Davidovich was tempted to buy the con. But the man was really a bureaucrat and not a salesman. He was good at pitching, but he wasn’t great at it.
And Davidovich knew that the man wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.
Pharos believed the hook was set, that all he had to do was jerk the line to reel Davidovich in.
The scientist got up and washed his face. Thoroughly. Then he wet his fingers and ran them through his thinning hair. He leaned on the edge of the expensive sink and looked into the eyes of a man he did not truly know. An absent father. A husband who despised his wife. A failed son.
A brilliant scientist.
An innovative genius.
A captive.
A slave.
All of those things.
And people were dying because of him. He looked—as he had looked so many times since Boy captured him—deep inside his soul for some faint flicker of conscience. That inward look had always been like looking through black glass. There was never any light to see.
Never.
Never.
He sank to his knees and wrapped his arms over his head.
Why the fuck was there nothing in there to see?
Chapter Seventy-four
UC San Diego Medical Center
200 West Arbor Drive
San Diego, California
March 30, 7:17 P.M. Pacific Standard Time
The woman entered the hospital wearing a hat with a floppy brim and oversize sunglasses. Not at all unusual in Southern California. She was tall and slim, with an olive complexion and good bones. Men noticed her, even wearing a belted trench coat. She was the kind of person who got noticed. She was aware of it, and she used it.
At her side walked an enormous dog. An Irish wolfhound. Forty inches at the shoulders. Two hundred pounds of muscle and bone covered in wiry smoke-gray hair. Eyes that swept left and right and missed nothing.
The dog wore a blue vest belted with Velcro and printed with the words SERVICE DOG—ALL ACCESS in friendly letters. A caduceus was embroidered on the top.
The woman and the dog crossed the lobby, and every eye was on them. The security guard looked first at her, then at the dog, then at the vest, then at the woman’s legs, and then back to the dog. He moved in to intercept her before she got to the reception desk.
“Excuse me, miss? Is your dog registered?”
The woman turned slowly toward him. She smiled a faint, tremulous smile. A cautious smile.
“Yes, she is,” she said. “Do you want to see her license?”
“Please.”
The woman fumbled in her pocket, and as she did so she became less of an exotic beauty and more of a woman with clear disabilities. Not blind, but vision impaired. She went th
rough several pockets of her trench coat before producing the proper license issued by the state of California. The guard barely glanced at it. He already felt enormously awkward, a reaction triggered by the woman’s obvious discomfiture.
The dog sat and waited with quiet patience, her dark brown eyes seeming to take in everything in the lobby without appearing to react to anything. Like a good service dog is trained to do.
“That’s okay, miss,” he said quickly. “Can I be of assistance?”
“Oh,” said the woman, “I—I’m here to visit a friend of mine. She was brought in yesterday.”
“I can help you with that,” said the guard, taking her elbow—the one farthest from the dog—and guiding her to the reception desk. The dog, prosaically, stood and followed. People in the lobby pretended they weren’t watching.
“Thank you,” said the woman. She had a soft voice and a mild Italian accent.
“Carol,” said the guard to the receptionist, “could you help this lady?”
“Sure,” said a bright-eyed Asian woman. “Who did you want to see, miss?”
The woman smiled a warm and grateful smile. “My friend’s name is Doctor O’Tree-Sanchez. She was brought in yesterday. She’s pregnant.”
The receptionist’s smile flickered. “I’m afraid Doctor O’Tree-Sanchez is not allowed to have any visitors.”
“Is Ms. Flynn with her?”
“Um…”
“She called me this morning and asked me to come by. Junie Flynn,” said the woman. “Could you contact her and say that I’m here?”
The receptionist and the guard exchanged a look. The woman, behind her big sunglasses, appeared to be staring in the wrong direction. The dog looked bored.
“Okay,” said Carol. “But I can’t promise anything. We have strict orders.”
“I understand.”
“Who should I say is here?”
The woman said, “Maria Mandocello.”
The receptionist nodded and made the call. She spoke to the federal agent guarding the patient and was surprised to have the call passed to Junie Flynn, who was some kind of liaison to the agency overseeing Doctor O’Tree-Sanchez.
“Put her on, please,” said Junie Flynn. Carol handed the phone to the guard who placed it carefully in the blind woman’s hand. There was a brief conversation that Carol couldn’t quite hear, and then Ms. Mandocello handed the phone back to Carol, though she extended it in the wrong direction. Carol, tolerant and experienced, reached over to intercept it without comment. She put the phone to her own ear.