Page 36 of The Secret of Secrets

“Try again,” the man said, yanking him back up onto his knees. “What were we looking for?”

“I…don’t…know,” Faukman said, barely able to breathe.

The man on the laptop studied some data that appeared on-screen and shook his head. “He’s lying.”

“I will ask you one last time,” Buzzcut said. “And before you answer, let me introduce you to Avatar.” He pointed to the video camera overhead. “This is an AI engine that tracks your eye movement, facial microchanges, and postural shifts. It’s a state-of-the-art veracity analysis system.”

Veracity analysis system? Faukman decided not to chide the thug for using a ten-dollar term for a five-dollar gizmo, but at least it explained the video camera.

The man on the milk crate leaned forward until his face was uncomfortably close. “We know everything about you, Jonas. We know you work late at night, you go running in Central Park when you don’t have a business lunch, and you drink gin martinis with your authors at the White Horse Tavern. So don’t screw with me. Let me ask you one very simple question.”

Faukman waited, his stomach still knotted in pain.

“The manuscript we found in your backpack,” Buzzcut said. “Is that your only copy?”

Faukman knew what answer they were hoping to hear. Unfortunately, telling the truth right now meant instantly losing his negotiating power…and, quite possibly, his life.

Seeing precious few options, Faukman closed his eyes and pictured the hero from one of his most popular thriller series—a spy who consistently beat lie detectors using three simple steps, which Faukman now attempted to employ.

First, he lowered his shoulders and released all tension in his abdomen.

Second, he touched his index finger and thumb very lightly together and slowed his breathing.

Third, he held in his mind’s eye a clear mental image of the truth he wished were true—in this case, an image of a dozen extra manuscripts sitting safely on his desk at Random House.

He felt much calmer.

“No,” Faukman said with as even a tone as possible. “The manuscript in my bag is not the only copy. There are many others.”

Laptop studied his computer and almost immediately shook his head. “Lying.”

Goddamn it, Jonas! It’s called fiction for a reason!

Buzzcut raised a fist once more, preparing to punch him again in the gut.

“Wait!” Faukman said. “I was talking about the digital copies on the PRH servers.”

Buzzcut looked almost amused. “Mr. Faukman, we deleted all the digital copies, which is the reason you were rushing off to the copy center, was it not?”

Faukman fell silent, heart racing wildly. He could hear loud machinery beyond the van, possibly the whine of industrial engines.

“Let me make this very simple for you,” Buzzcut said. “Other than the one in your backpack and those from the PRH servers, do you know of any other versions of this manuscript—digital, hard copy, or otherwise?”

Faukman shook his head. “No, the manuscript in my bag is the only remaining copy.”

“Was the only remaining copy,” Buzzcut corrected. “We’ve already destroyed it.”

Alone in the PRH security center, Alex Conan was aghast.

This can’t be.

He stabbed at his keyboard, refreshing the page, hoping the information before him was wrong, but the same chilling image kept appearing…and reappearing.

God, no…

Minutes earlier, with no sign of Faukman and having been unable to reach either Katherine Solomon or Robert Langdon, Alex had decided to take bold action.

You have skills. You have access.