F Wilson - Fatal Error

Ernst stood a moment, letting the tension seep out of him. He couldn't help thinking of the Oscar Wilde remark about how some people bring happiness wherever they go, and others whenever they go. The One fell squarely in the latter category. The room seemed brighter without him.

He picked up his phone to call Szeto and give him the go-ahead. But his thumb stalled over the speed-dial button as Hank Thompson's words came back to him.

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.

True. Once this djinn was out of the bottle, there would be no ordering it back. When the Lady was extinguished, this world would be perceived as non-sentient. The Enemy would abandon it, leaving the Otherness an open field.

What would happen then?

The Order's ancient lore spoke of a Great Change, but was vague on what form that change would take. The Otherness would make alterations that would be terrifying and painful for the masses of humanity. The elite few who aided the One in bringing about the Change, however, would be rewarded, but the lore was even more vague as to what form that reward would take. Ernst assumed it meant insulation from the Change or perhaps even a way to adapt to it.

The lore also stated that those who had been active participants in aiding the Otherness-he and the Council of Seven and other high-ups in the Order, and perhaps even Hank Thompson-would be awarded positions of power. But "power" was such a nebulous term.

He smiled at the parallels between what was about to happen and the Christian myths of the Rapture and the Tribulation. But then, leaks from the Order's lore over the millennia were what had sparked those myths.

Taking a breath, he pushed the button. Time to take the big step: Tell Szeto to set Jihad4/20's activation time for Saturday night and unleash it on the Internet.

No turning back now.

Jack stopped outside a dirty white doorway next to an equally dirty white roll-up garage door in the West Thirties. He looked around. A few pedestrians uphill toward Ninth Avenue. The bulk of the Javits Center squatted down by the Hudson River to the west. Not many people out and about at this hour on a frigid morning.

He rested his coffee cup atop a nearby standpipe and stuck a key into the door lock. After another glance around-no one looking-he pulled his Glock from the small of his back. He held it ready under his jacket as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. He'd left the single overhead incandescent bulb on overnight. Abe's dirty blue van sat directly under it. The garage occupied half the ground floor of an old dilapidated former tenement. Abe rented it to store his delivery truck and other sundries he had no room for at the store.

Jack had left the van's rear doors closed and they remained that way. He stepped up and pulled one open.

There, with taped head, hands, feet, arms, and legs, lay the blindfolded mystery man. Jack and Abe had decided to let him stew overnight. To keep him in place, they'd snaked bungee cords around him and hooked them into the rings in the floor panels. Gulliver might have looked like this if the Lilliputians had had duct tape and bungees.

Jack retrieved his coffee from outside, locked the door behind him, and returned to the van.

"Restful night?" he said through the door as he sipped his coffee.

The guy tried to speak through the tape across his mouth.

"A bit chilly, I'll bet."

The garage wasn't heated but it was warmer than outside. By now the mystery man had to be cold, hungry, and exhausted.

"Ready to talk?"

More tape-muffled squawking.

Jack slipped inside. He pulled off the blindfold and grabbed an edge of the piece of tape covering his mouth.

"No yelling or this goes back on, capice?"

The guy nodded. Jack ripped off the tape. The guy glared at him as he puffed, mouth-breathing for the first time in about a dozen hours. He noticed a pungent odor.

"What's that-?" He spotted a wet stain around the guy's crotch. "Uh-oh. I see you peed your pants during the night. That's gotta be reeeeal uncomfortable."

Another glare.

Jack held up his blue-and-white container. "You drink coffee?"

The guy nodded vigorously.

"Good. I'll run out and get you a cup as soon as we've had a little Q and A. First Q: Who are you?"

Silence.

Jack prodded him with his boot. "This is where you give the A."

The guy glared at him. "Why do you give a shit?"

"I have an inquiring mind."

"Yeah? Then who are you?"

"If this were a B movie, I'd say something like, 'Your worst nightmare.' Truth is, I am no one."

"So am I."

Jack hadn't been able to find any ID on the guy or in the loft, and hadn't any contacts among the cops to run prints for him. He decided to come back to the name later.

"Okay… why Munir?"

"Told you: He's an Arab."

"But why that particular Arab?"

"He was convenient."

"I don't believe you, pal. I might if it weren't for that Septimus brand on your back. What's their interest in Munir?"

"Nothing. The Order's never even heard of him."

That could be true. This guy could be a psycho who just happened to be a member, but Jack's gut wasn't buying. He drained his coffee, tossed the container out the back door, and picked up the fourteen-inch bolt cutter lying nearby. Jack had brought it along from the loft. The coffee soured in his stomach as he looked at the bloodstains along the pincer edges.

"You cut off a little boy's finger with this. How does a grown man do that to a child?"

The guy smirked. "When he has Arab blood? Easy. I picture the Trade Towers collapsing. I picture Daniel Pearl being beheaded and hear his gurgling cries."

"But the kid wasn't even born when the Towers went down. And he's never hurt anyone."

"Neither did Daniel Pearl. Neither did the people in the Towers."

"How about I start lopping off your fingers until I get some answers?"

The guy looked him in the eyes and said, "I don't think you've got it in you."

Jack stared back. In a way, he was right. He'd cooled down since yesterday. Under different circumstances-say, if Gia and Vicky were at risk-he'd have no problem getting medieval. But here, now?

No. He wanted to know why this creep had put Munir through "the wringer," as he'd put it, and whether or not the Septimus Order had anything to do with it, but not enough to assume the role of torturer. They'd have to remain one of life's mysteries. Jack could go on without knowing…

But what about Munir?

Yeah. This was personal for Munir… about as personal as it got.

"Yeah, you're right. I'm not in a fingernail-ripping mood at the moment, but I bet I know someone who is."

He pulled out his cell phone and made a call.

"Munir?" he said when he answered.

"Yes?"

"How's Robby?"

His voice thickened. "His finger could not be saved. I should not have frozen it. I didn't know. It's all my fault."

"No, not your fault. Not your fault at all. In fact, I'm sitting with the man who's really to blame."

"The one who-?"

"Yeah. Mister Non-Hollander. He's reluctant to explain why he did all this to you and your family. I thought you might want to persuade him."

A brief pause, then, "I'll be right over. Where are you?"

"Hang on a minute." Jack slipped out of the van and pointed to the mystery man. "Stay put."

He walked outside to the street, well out of earshot of the garage, and gave Munir the address. Then he returned to the van.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to deal with a guy who's got a bit of a chip on his shoulder where you're concerned."