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He tossed back the scotch and poured another, raised the glass toward the sky. “A child, Mother? I was strong enough to take your life from you. I do hope you are rotting in hell.”
You are worthless.
Did he hear her words again? Was her ghost mocking him still? Havelock hurled the glass across the room, watched it shatter against the marble floor. He felt better now, more in control.
He smoothed down his black hair, gone gray at the temples in a most distinguished manner, shot his cuffs, straightened his collar. At least Mr. Z had succeeded in eliminating Stanford, and now confusion and mayhem were under way in London. At least one part of his day had gone according to plan.
But Mr. X had failed, and how could that have happened? Havelock had designed the perfect plan, and it had been, until the fool had died with Havelock’s implant in his head. All of them knew the chip would be found in autopsy, knew the Americans would figure out what it was, and then they would come. It forced his hand. He would have to move faster than he’d planned.
He needed the Messenger’s son, he needed Adam Pearce, and he needed him now.
Havelock sat back in his chair and uploaded all the video from Mr. X’s brief New York sojourn. He tapped a few keys on the flat dynamic keyboard embedded in the wood, then placed a small metal neuro-cap on his head, snapping the edges down tight so it would have perfect contact with his skin. He waited for the neural pathways to link.
Ten seconds later, he was viewing video footage from Mr. X’s last twenty-four hours. He saw the world through Mr. X’s eyes, heard the voices Mr. X heard, all of it uploaded to Havelock’s servers.
Havelock was working on a way to merge two sets of brain waves, so he could actually link into his assets’ thoughts and tell them what to do from afar, almost like calling on a mobile phone, but with his mind. He hadn’t perfected the technology yet, nor did he know how to solve the one huge obstacle: those test subjects who heard a second voice inside their heads—his voice—had gone irrevocably insane.
So he looked and he listened, wanting more, but content to know that soon he would be able to enhance his micro–nuclear weapons, his MNWs, and set them in place, ready to deploy at whatever target he selected. Or whatever enemy. They’d never know what hit them. All he needed were the coordinates of the lost sub and the key, and for that he needed Adam Pearce.
He fast-forwarded through the footage: arriving at JFK, the ride to the ferry terminal, to the moment Mr. X slipped unseen into the Messenger’s apartment. Mr. X had done a thorough search, carefully opened all the cabinets, the closets, the wall safe behind the Modigliani painting in the office so no one would know he’d even been there. Many locks. But no SD card.
He watched Mr. X insert a thumb drive into the iMac on Pearce’s desk, quickly break through the encryption, do a hard download of all the files. A pity he wouldn’t be able to get the thumb drive, since it was now in the hands of the FBI. But it didn’t matter. He doubted there was anything more than correspondence and records of sales of rare books to clients. No great loss. He continued to let Mr. X’s images wash over him, all the way until the end, when that bastard Drummond had taken him down. He saw Drummond’s elbow hit Mr. X’s jaw, bursting the gel pack, killing him. A fluke, but it was good to know that could happen. He’d have to find a better solution, a better placement. He couldn’t have his assets dying at the hands of the enemy by accident. Inside a tooth would be better, the molars would protect the gel, less chance of splitting the gel pack open. But the tongue—
Havelock unhooked himself from the neuro-cap and lifted it off his head.
Mr. X had proved to be a disappointment. He hadn’t found the SD card, hadn’t gotten his hands on Pearce’s son, Adam, had all but handed the American FBI his magnificent implanted chip on a platter.
He pressed a key and the screen disappeared. He stood and walked to the window, where the light was rapidly dying. He loved the night, the possibilities the cover of darkness brought. He loved to watch the lesser beasts wander through their lives, unknowing, unseeing. He had faith, and sometimes that was all he needed. Soon he would have his perfect weapon, and they would all know his name.
What would the world see when they bowed down before him? The powerful genius, the unparalleled inventor, the man who, very soon, would control the lives of millions with a single drop of fluid? I am a leader of men, Mother, I am good enough, smart enough. And you, dear Mother, are dead.
12
United Nations Plaza
11:00 a.m.
Sophie Pearce accepted Ambassador Xi-Tien’s thanks for her work this morning, and nodded in agreement about their dinner date later this evening. She didn’t cup her hands and bow deeply in the formal Chinese farewell, since the ambassador was a modern man. She shook his hand, saying, “Zai jian,” and waited, not moving, until he turned and walked away with the delegation, then she relaxed with a deep breath. Her services as a translator wouldn’t be needed for the rest of the afternoon. She’d have lunch, then run over to her dad’s place to pick up the rare first-edition Mark Twain she’d promised the ambassador. Her father had pulled the book from his private collection for her. He was amazing, he could always find exactly what people wanted, like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. And at $8,000 for this single gem, her father could afford a lot of hats.
She knew it wasn’t a first/first—that would have set the ambassador back at least thirty grand. She liked that he was happy with the second printing; it made her respect him. Xi-Tien wasn’t flashy like many of the others she’d worked with in her five years at the UN. He was kind and subtle and, even better, had already wired the funds to Ariston’s private bank account.
Sophie hurried down the stairs past security, pulling her badge over her head and stuffing it in her pocket. Her heels clacked on the marble steps, then she was on the street, headed up to Lexington, then over to Fifty-seventh. It was a gorgeous day and everything and everyone seemed cheerful. The oppressive heat of the past few summers hadn’t begun to swallow New York whole yet.
Sophie caught a glimpse of herself in the plate-glass window of a leather boutique, her dark hair pulled up into a ballerina bun at the top of her head, long legs, strong, moving fast. She was in the best shape of her life after all the yoga and running and kickboxing she’d done over the winter. She wasn’t terribly vain, but she looked good, no matter all the long hours of sitting in her small glass booth at the UN, listening, speaking, and repeating endlessly. She’d firmed up, lost weight, and jettisoned a husband along the way, too, the jerk.
She was happier now, helping her dad out on weekends when she could. Life was good. She’d find the right guy, someday.
She wasn’t even out of breath when she arrived at her dad’s building. She’d grown up here, in the Galleria, with the stunning views of Manhattan and white-glove treatment. She’d insisted on getting her own place when she graduated, knowing if she didn’t move out, she’d suffocate under a stack of musty old books. Her dad wasn’t thrilled, but he didn’t stop her. Her trust fund was healthy and she could afford to move out, unlike many of her friends.
She wasn’t too far from home, though, less than a dozen blocks, down in Turtle Bay. She made sure she saw her dad at least once a week. She usually caught him at the store, since he seemed to live there these days. She felt a brief stab of guilt. Since her mom died, and her brother moved out west for school, it had been only the two of them, and she’d been so busy lately, she’d missed some of their normal dates.
/> No more, she promised herself. Once a week wasn’t enough, not anymore. Divorcing the jerk had taught her a hard lesson about betrayal and loss, the importance of keeping those who really loved you close.
Gillis opened the doors for her, merely bowing, saying nothing—unusual, because he was normally chatty. She didn’t realize something was wrong until Umberto rushed over to her, tears sheening his dark eyes.
“Miss Sophia, I am so sorry, so very sorry about your father, we—”
Sophie went still. “What happened? Was there an accident? Did he fall? Umberto, is he okay?”
