F Wilson - Fatal Error

"Big step," Thompson said.

"You're having second thoughts?"

He squared his shoulders. "Me? Hell no. It's just… we don't really know what happens after, do we. We've been told stuff-your people supposedly have all sorts of secret writings-but at this point it's all just jawboning."

"It's ancient lore, Mister Thompson."

"Yeah, that's all well and good, but my point is: It's never happened before. We're stepping through a doorway into a place no one's ever been. And once we set that virus loose, there's no calling it back. There's no time-out or reset button. Once it starts doing its business, there's no stopping it."

"That is the whole point. That is why we have spent so much time and treasure developing this virus-so that no one could stop it, and that includes us."

"Hey, I'm still with you. It's just that, like I said, it's a big step, you know?"

"Oh, I know. I know very well. But it is our time, Mister Thompson. Can't you feel it?"

Thompson shook his head. "Not really."

Ernst felt it. Everything was going smoothly, everything falling into place. Take the final code, for instance. It had been slightly delayed, but Valez had delivered it, and it worked perfectly. The Jihad virus had been perfected. Even the search for the Myers woman-or rather, the Connell woman-had gone swimmingly. The One had asked him to find her, and what happened? A strolling Dormentalist spotted her just one day after the notice had gone out.

Everything was going the One's way… everything. He'd been pleased when Ernst had given him the location, and he had reiterated that he wanted the Order to have nothing more to do with her.

"Well, feel it or not, our time has come. As has your niece's. I have good news."

"Like what?"

"I have been informed that in the early hours of this morning you became an uncle."

For the life of him Ernst could not read Thompson's expression.

After a long pause, Thompson said, "Where is he?"

"I know nothing beyond that. I found a message on my office voice mail. I've heard nothing more."

Again, that same strange expression.

"When do you release Jihad?"

"As soon as I hear from the One and receive the go-ahead. I expect him to call tonight. Trust me, Mister Thompson. It is our time."

Somehow Jack's cab made it down to the East Village before Munir's. He had a bad moment when he couldn't find him. Then a taxi screeched to a halt and Munir jumped out. Jack watched as he hurried to the mailbox and placed the brown paper bag atop it. Jack stepped into the huge Starbucks on the corner of Lafayette and scanned the area through a window wall. While Munir strode down toward the Astor Place Theater and passed a Blue Man Group poster, Jack kept an eye on the mailbox as he began an animated conversation with no one on his cell phone.

Midmorning in the East Village. Layered against the cold, the neighborhood's homeless brigade was out in force, either shuffling aimlessly along, as if dazed by the bright morning sun, or huddled like discarded rag piles around the huge cube in the traffic island. The nut could be among them. Easy to hide within layers of grime and ratty clothes. But not so easy to hide a purpose in life. Jack hunted for someone who looked like he had somewhere to go.

Hollander… he wished there'd been a photo in his personnel file. Jack was sure he was the bad guy here. If only he'd been able to get over to his apartment before now. Maybe he'd have found And then Jack spotted him. A tall bearded guy traveling westward along Eighth Street, weaving his way through the loitering horde. He was squeezed into a filthy, undersized army fatigue jacket. The cuffs of at least three of the multiple shirts he wore under the coat protruded from the too-short sleeves. The neck of a pint bottle of Mad Dog stuck up like a periscope from the frayed edge of one of the pockets; the torn knees of his green work pants revealed threadbare jeans beneath. Blue eyes peered out from under a navy watch cap.

The sicko? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing was sure: This guy wasn't wandering; he had someplace to go.

And he was heading directly for the mailbox.

When he reached it he stopped and looked over his shoulder, back along the way he'd come, then grabbed the brown paper bag. He reached inside, pulled out the paper towel-wrapped contents, and began to unwrap.

Suddenly he let out a strangled cry and tossed the finger into the street. It rolled in an arc and came to rest in the debris matted against the curb. He glanced over his shoulder again and began a stumbling run in the other direction, toward Jack.

"Shit!" Jack said aloud, working the word into his one-way conversation, making it an argument, all the while pretending not to notice the doings at the mailbox.

Something tricky going down. But what? Had the sicko sent a patsy? Jack had known the guy was sly, but figured he'd have wanted to see the finger up close and personal, just to be sure it was real.

Unless of course the sicko was playing the wino and he'd done just that a few seconds ago.

The guy was almost up to the Starbucks now. Keeping his cell to his ear and continuing his argument, Jack stepped outside as if looking for better reception. The only option was to follow him. Give him a good lead and He heard pounding footsteps. Munir coming this way-running this way, sprinting across the pavement, teeth bared, eyes wild, reaching for the tall guy. Jack repressed an impulse to get between the two of them. Wouldn't do any good. Munir was out of control and had built up too much momentum. Besides, no use in tipping off his own part in this.

Munir grabbed the taller man by the elbow and spun him around.

"Where are they?" he screeched. His face was flushed; tiny bubbles of saliva collected at the corners of his mouth. "Tell me, you swine!"

Swine? Maybe that was a heavy-duty insult in Muslimville but it was pabulum around here.

The tall guy jerked back, trying to pull free. His open mouth revealed gapped rows of rotting teeth.

"Hey, man-!"

"Tell me or I'll kill you!" Munir shouted, grabbing his upper arms and shaking his lanky frame.

"Lemme go, man," he said as his head snapped back and forth like a guy in a car that had just been rear-ended. Munir was going to give him whiplash in a few seconds. "Don't know whatcha talking about!"

"You do! You went right to the package. You've seen the finger-now tell me where they are!"

"Hey, look, man, I don't know nothin' 'bout whatcher sayin'. Dude stopped me down the street and told me to go check out the bag on top the mailbox. Gave me five to do it. Told me to hold up whatever was inside it."

"Who?" Munir said, releasing the guy and turning to look back down Eighth. "Where is he?"

"Gone now."

Munir grabbed the guy again, this time by the front of his fatigue jacket.

"What did he look like?"

"I dunno. Just a guy. Whatta you want from me anyway, man? I didn't do nothin'. And I don't want nothin' to do with no dead fingers. Now getcher hands offa me!"

Jack had heard enough. Keeping the phone clapped to his ear, he approached the pair.

"Let him go," he said, raising his voice while still pretending to talk into the phone.

Munir gave him a baffled look. "No. He can tell us-"

"He can't tell us anything we need to know. Let him go and get back to your apartment. You've done enough damage already."

Munir blanched and loosened his grip. The guy stumbled back a couple of steps, then turned and ran down Lafayette. Munir looked around and saw that every rheumy eye in the area was on him. He stared down at his hands-the free right and the bandaged left-as if they were traitors.

"You don't think-?"

"Get home." Jack turned away and gestured into the air, as if angry with what he was hearing. "He'll be calling you. And so will I."