F Wilson: Fatal Error

Screwed… the term had many levels. Screwed as in kicked out of the Order for lying… what he might expect. Or, in Weezy's world, screwed as in killed.

Not that he believed that for a second.

The Order… if anyone had ever told him as a kid that he'd someday be a member of the mysterious and secretive Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order, he'd have thought they were on drugs. One didn't apply to the Order; membership was by invitation only, and who would ever invite Eddie Connell? But six years ago a call had come from someone for whom he'd done some consulting. Would he be interested in joining? He'd been flabbergasted, flummoxed, and, well, flattered.

When he recovered from his shock, he said he was interested. Although the Order jealously guarded its membership rolls, highly influential people from around the world were rumored to belong. The networking opportunities would be good for business.

But saying he was interested didn't make him a member. Few were called and fewer were chosen. A rigorous vetting process began, involving interviews and stacks of paperwork. They wanted to know all about his lineage. It wasn't like the DAR or anything like that. Your parents' social standing or whether or not an ancestor arrived on the Mayflower didn't matter. The Lodge accepted people from all races and walks of life. They seemed to be looking for something else, though they'd never said what. They'd told Eddie he'd find out as he "matured" through the Order. That was what they called it: maturing. They'd also promised he'd learn other things… the way the world worked, and how he could turn that knowledge to his benefit.

Whatever criteria they had, Eddie passed and was accepted as a member. Part of that acceptance involved being branded with the sigil of the Order. It had all been very civilized, with local anesthesia and sterile conditions, but it had not been an option. If you accepted membership, you accepted the brand.

So far, Eddie's experience in the Order didn't seem much different from being an Elk or a Moose: meetings, dinners, networking. Weezy had been convinced since her teens that members of the Order were the guardians of the Secret History of the World. Well, after nearly six years as a member, he'd been made privy to no arcana. But he'd made tons of contacts that had proven immensely helpful in his business.

He hadn't expended much effort toward maturing in the Order-that involved going on special retreats to remote locations around the globe. Who had time? Eddie's actuarial business was flourishing and all his efforts went into growing that. He was never pressured to move up or take a more active role. Others he met at the meetings he attended felt the same way: The Order was good for business.

All of this had served only to bolster his opinion that Weezy was wrong-had always been wrong-about the Order. It was a perfectly benign organization that just happened to keep a close lid on its inner workings. Not unlike the Masons.

But then… today's shocking fax.

That changed everything. Last summer Weezy had said the Order was out to get her, but had offered not a shred of proof. Now this flier appeared out of the blue, asking the membership to report if they'd seen her.

He'd always been able to write off Weezy's suspicions as part of her mental instability-after all, she'd been on one psychoactive medication after another since her teens. She saw a conspiracy in every coincidence. And the Order, so secretive about everything-its origins, its membership, its holdings around the world-had always been a ripe target for her paranoia.

No more. The fax drew a line between his sister and the Order-or at least someone high up in the Order. Still, that didn't mean they were out to kill her.

"I can't see any reason why I'd make it up," Eddie said.

"You say she is your sister but you do not know where she is?"

"We haven't been on the best terms lately. But she's still my sister and I'm concerned that the Order is sending out a fax with her picture to the membership. Why do you want her? What interest is she to you?"

Fournier shrugged and pursed his lips. "That I do not know. Word comes from on high to find this woman, so that is what we try to do in the best way we know how."

"How high?"

Another shrug. "Very high, I suppose. The Council of Seven, I would think."

The thought of the High Council looking for Weezy caused an ache in Eddie's gut. What possible reason…?

"May I ask what your instructions are once you find her?"

He held his breath as he awaited the answer.

"Right now our instructions are to locate her and nothing else. No contact. Simply find out where she is."

Eddie wasn't sure he could believe that, but the man seemed to be telling the truth. He gave off no hint of a personal interest in finding Weezy; he'd been given a job and was simply carrying it through.

Fournier was studying him. "As a brother of the Order, are you willing to help us find her?"

"I am." A lie. If Weezy wanted to stay off their radar, he'd leave her that way. "But I have a condition: I want to know why you're looking for her."

"I have told you-"

"Yes, you don't know. But you can find me someone who does. I need that question answered before I can help."

Fournier nodded. "I can understand that. I will make inquiries."

Eddie felt his bunched neck muscles relax. He'd done it. He'd taken the first step toward proving Weezy right or wrong, toward deciding whether or not he'd made a mistake in joining the Order. And proving to her that no matter what, she could trust her brother to do the right thing.

After a sip of water, Kewan raised the bullhorn to his lips and started the chants again. His throat felt raw from the shouting, but he'd checked the time while he'd sipped and knew he had only a few minutes to go before he could shut up.

Because that was when they'd make their move.

"Two-four-six-eight! Why can't folks dissimilate?"

The two dozen sign-carrying Kickers dutifully shouted their reply: "The Internet! The Internet!"

Round and round they marched in a rough oval outside the entrance to a brick-faced office building in Chelsea. Four heavy-duty glass doors, stacked side by side, separated the chilled marchers from the warm atrium within. Getting everyone through those fast enough to shock and awe security before they called the cops posed a problem. But the boss had solved that.

Taking over the atrium was only the first step. The data center occupied the whole fourth floor and you couldn't get there without a swipe card. But a Kicker on the inside had solved that problem.

"Why are we here?"

"The Internet!"

"And how do we want the Internet?"

"Dead!"

"Two-four-"

"Excuse me, sir," someone said close behind his right ear, accompanying the words with a tap on his shoulder.

Aw, hell, Kewan thought as he turned. If this was a cop it would ruin everything. But instead he found a sandy-haired white guy in an overcoat.

He put on his best scowl. "I'm busy here."

The guy smiled. "I'm Lonnie Pelham from WCBS Eight-Eighty News." He held up the digital voice recorder in his hand. "I'd like to ask you a couple of questions if I may."

Always cooperate with the media.

The boss had said that time and time again. Always cooperate, always treat them with respect, always mention the boss's book when talking about the Kicker Evolution. This was how to grow the Kicker numbers.

"What time is it?"

Pelham checked his watch. "Almost eleven."

"Exact time."

He checked again. "Ten fifty-three."

"Then I can give you seven minutes." He motioned Antoine out of the picket line and handed him the horn. "Take over while I talk to this gentleman."

Gentleman… hear that, boss? I'm doing like you said.