F Wilson: Fatal Error

"Ironic that he was within reach so many times, right under your nose here in the Lodge, posing as one of your followers. Why, you might even have spoken to him on occasion."

Thompson spoke through his teeth. "Don't think I haven't thought about that." He shook himself. "What's the latest on the virus?"

Thompson appeared to want a change of subject.

"The virus is perfected, but we're working on adding one last feature to the payload."

Thompson grunted. "You've been working on this since last summer. When are we going to get it done?"

Valez was in charge of a crucial feature of the virus that everyone hoped would complete the coding, but he was experiencing odd delays.

"Good question. I'll make a call right now."

He punched in Valez's number. The man picked up right away.

"Yes, Mister D."

"Where are we with the code?"

"As I mentioned earlier, I had trouble with the, um, setup, but everything is in line now."

"How long?"

"Two days, tops."

"Very good." Ernst ended the call and looked at Thompson. "Two days. Then we have to incorporate it into the virus and make sure it works the way we wish. Then we release the virus. It should take it only a couple of days to replicate and spread globally."

"So we're talking the weekend." He rubbed his hands together. "About fucking time."

"What did you expect? Bringing down the Internet is hardly child's play."

Jack was feeling a little annoyed with himself as he knocked on the door to Munir Habib's apartment in the Turtle Bay high-rise. He'd pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves downstairs, worn his Mets cap with the brim low over his face, and had kept his head down in the foyer and during the elevator ride. Good chance this mess was going to end up in the hands of officialdom and he didn't want to leave behind anything that belonged to him, not fingerprints, and especially not a face on a security camera.

Still didn't know how he'd let Russ talk him into this. Had to hand it to the guy, he was persistent. Pulled out all the stops:

Munir was one of his few friends, a good guy who didn't deserve this and was an emotional wreck over it, and had Russ ever asked Jack for a favor, no, and hadn't he always come through every time Jack needed something, yes, so couldn't Jack do this for him, because he wasn't asking for a freebie, the guy would pay, just go and listen to him, please-please-please?

Jack had agreed, just to shut him up.

He'd called, but Russ's pal wouldn't discuss it on the phone. Too scared. Had to be face-to-face. Normally Jack would never do a first meet in the customer's place, but Russ had vouched for him, so…

The door was opened by a short, stocky, fortyish man with milk-chocolate skin, a square face, and bright eyes as black as the stiff, straight hair on his head. His clothes were badly wrinkled, like he'd slept in them, and he looked halfway to zombie.

"You're the one who called?" he said in barely accented English.

Jack nodded and extended his hand. "Mister Habib, I assume."

They shook, followed by a few beats of silence as he stared at Jack. Jack knew that look.

Here it comes… here it comes…

"I was expecting…"

"Someone different? You and everybody else."

They all expected someone bigger, someone darker, someone meaner looking. Not the deliberately average-looking Joe before them.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, this is the guy you get. Mind if I come in?"

Habib stuck his head out the door and cast furtive looks up and down the hall.

"Don't worry," Jack said. "No one's seen me. And I took the elevator up an extra two floors and walked down. But if you keep me standing out here, pretty soon-"

"Yes-yes. Come in. Please."

Jack stepped inside and let Habib close the door behind him.

"You've got the down payment?"

He nodded. "Yes. I was afraid I could not get so much cash on such short notice."

"Keep it for now. I haven't decided yet whether we'll be doing business. What's the story? Russ thinks your wife and son have been kidnapped. Is that it?"

The man broke down and sobbed. "Save my family. Please save my family."

Jack's throat constricted. The pain in those words…

He tried to imagine how he'd feel if Gia and Vicky were being held for ransom. Couldn't.

"Take it easy. Let's sit down and you tell me about it."

He led Jack past a small, cluttered kitchen, past a room with an inflatable fighter jet hanging from the ceiling and a New York Giants banner tacked to the wall-his son's, no doubt-ending in an office that had probably started out as a third bedroom but was crammed with computers and monitors.

"This where you and Russ play MMO games?" Jack said, trying to sound knowledgeable.

"What? Oh, yes."

He sat at the desk, Jack pulled up a straight-backed chair.

"It's true: My wife and son have been kidnapped and are being held hostage."

Jack noted that he didn't say "ransom."

Russ had sworn the guy hadn't called the cops. Said he was too scared by the kidnapper's threats. Jack believed Russ, but didn't know if he could believe Habib.

"Why not call the cops? I know it's SOP for kidnappers to tell you not to, but…"

Habib reached inside his jacket and pulled out some photos. His hand trembled as he passed them over.

"This is why."

The first showed an attractive blond woman, thirty or so, dressed in a white blouse and a dark skirt, gagged and bound to a chair in front of a blank, unpainted wall. A red plastic funnel had been inserted through the gag into her mouth. A can of Drano lay propped in her lap. Her eyes held Jack for a moment-pale blue and utterly terrified. Caution: Contains lye was block printed across the bottom of the photo.

Jack grimaced and moved to the next. At first he wasn't sure what he was looking at, like one of those pictures you get when the camera accidentally goes off in your hand. A big meat cleaver took up most of the frame, but the rest was He bit the inside of his cheek when he recognized the bare lower belly of a little boy, his hairless pubes, his little penis laid out on the chopping block, the cleaver next to it, ominously close.

Okay. Habib hadn't called the cops.

Jack handed them back.

"How much do they want?"

"I don't believe it is a 'they.' I think it is a 'he.' And he does not seem to want money. At least not yet."

"Psycho?"

"I think so. He seems to hate Arabs-all Arabs-and has picked on me." Habib's features knotted as his voice cracked. "Why me?"

Jack realized how close this guy was to tumbling over the edge. He didn't want him to start blubbering again.

"Easy," he said softly. "Easy."

Habib rubbed his hands over his face, and when next he looked at Jack, his features were blotchy but composed.

"Yes. I must remain calm. I must not lose control. For Barbara. And Robby."

Jack had another nightmare flash of Gia and Vicky in the hands of some of the psychos he'd had to deal with and knew at that moment he wanted to work with Habib. The guy was okay.

"An Arab hater. One of Kahane's old crew, maybe?"

"No. Not a Jew. At least not that I can tell. He keeps referring to a sister who was killed in the Twin Towers. I've told him that I'm an American citizen just like him. But he says I'm from Saudi Arabia, and Saudis brought down the Towers and an Arab's an Arab as far as he's concerned."

Jack stiffened. The Towers again? Last summer he'd become embroiled in the intrigue and paranoia surrounding their fall. The consequences were still reverberating through his life.

"Start at the beginning," he said. "Any hint this was coming?"

"Nothing. Everything in our lives has been going normally."

"How about someone from the old country?"