F. Paul Wilson - Ground Zero

“—she never forgets anything,” Jack and Eddie said in unison.

Harris stared at them, nodding. “Right. I guess you two really do know her.”

“As only a brother who grew up in her academic shadow could.”

Jack remembered how Weezy always did well in school and could have been number one in her class, year in and year out, if she’d chosen to be. Not only did she have that photographic memory, but she could put all her stored data to use—often in ways that were a little too unique for her teachers. Eddie had had a hard time following in her footsteps. Academically, he’d been the Andrew Ridgeley of the Connell kids.

“So anyway, when I got back yesterday I started calling her as soon as I landed.”

“Why didn’t you call her from Spain?” Jack said.

Harris gave him a look. “Do you have any idea how closely overseas calls are monitored?”

Jack didn’t. He didn’t travel.

“Okay. You waited till you got back. You called and got no answer, and became worried.”

“Right. I mean, I wasn’t worried at first. Sometimes she goes off the grid—turns off her phone and doesn’t check her e-mail—but never for more than a day. I thought yesterday was one of those days, so while I was waiting I went through my photo files, looking for that face. But it wasn’t there. Today I began calling again and still no answer. Now I was worried. So I came over.” He shrugged. “And the rest you know.”

“No, pal,” Jack said. “Not even close. You said there were multiple accounts buying those puts. Why did she choose this particular one?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

“Well, since I can’t do that, I’m asking you.”

“Well, then you’re out of luck, because she didn’t tell me. She tells me only what she thinks I need to know, and I guess she didn’t think I needed to know that. But I have an idea.”

“We’re waiting.”

“Emilio Cardoza was listed as from Tarragona. In July of 2001, Mohammed Atta, the leader of the nine/eleven attacks, visited Spain and dropped out of sight in the Tarragona area. It’s widely believed he met with high-ups from al Qaeda to finalize the plan of attack. I will bet—although I have no facts to base it on—that they used Bashar Sheikh’s home as a safe house.”

Eddie tapped the table. “You said he opened his account in July.”

“Yep. Right after Atta returned to the U.S. Atta landed in Miami on the nineteenth, and the Cardoza account was opened on the twenty-third. Seems pretty obvious that Sheikh knew the details and decided to cash in.”

Jack tried to put himself in that position and couldn’t imagine doing something so damn stupid.

“Idiot.”

Harris smiled. “Maybe not an idiot. Maybe just greedy. Isn’t greed amazing? Isn’t it wonderful? Even sucking up to Allah doesn’t immunize you. I love greed. It allows me to cherchez la moolah .”

Swell, Jack thought. I’m having a beer with Gordon Gekko.

20

“ Max lost them ,” Szeto said.

Ernst grunted and squeezed the phone as he paced his office. “So we still don’t know where she lives. Why wasn’t I told before?”

Instead of answering, Szeto said, “They are back at hospital with third man. Josef followed them to restaurant and watches the place now.”

So . . . he’d delayed reporting Max’s failure until he could report that the quarry had been spotted again.

“And the woman?”

“ Max watches and —wait.” Ernst heard some muffled conversation in Polish, then Szeto was back. “ Max, he overhear nurse say woman is waking up .”

“Then get her out of there. Immediately.”

“ I will call Josef. We have plan in place. We will move upon his return .”

Ernst ended the call and put down the phone. When he looked up, the One stood on the other side of his desk.

“Where will you be taking her?”

Ernst swallowed. “The Order owns space in the Meatpacking District. They will take her there. They will find out where she lives. She will be a problem no more.”

The One nodded. “And the Fhinntmanchca? You have a suitable candidate?”

“Yes. A perfect candidate. I am working on isolating him now. Soon he will have no one left to turn to but me.”

The One didn’t smile, merely stared at Ernst with those bottomless eyes.

“And then it begins.”

21

Darryl rose from the bed and stepped to the window. He’d tried to nap, but as tired as he felt, sleep wouldn’t come. His mind wouldn’t stop racing, running high and hot but stuck in neutral and not going nowhere.

He wasn’t thinking about the future because he didn’t have one. He had AIDS, man. Fucking AIDS. What wouldn’t leave his head was the question of how . How-how-how?

He’d lain there, searching through his past, looking for a way the virus could have gotten into his body. And then it came to him. That one summer years ago . . .

Stupid! What a fucking idiot he’d been.

He looked down at the street from his third-floor window. The sun was dropping but still had a good ways to go. He had his window open despite the heat. No air-conditioning in this old building, but he didn’t mind. He chilled so easily these days. The place was built like a fortress with thick stone walls that kept out the heat. The open window let some in.

How long did he have? He’d have asked the doc but was sure all he’d get was bullshit, any excuse to fill him with drugs that would only make him feel worse and wouldn’t work anyway.

His bladder started complaining so he headed out into the hall and down to the john. Too bad he didn’t have his own bathroom, but no one did. No one had been living here until the Kickers moved in. The Septimus Order had used it only as an office building and meeting space for a long time, but they’d offered it to Hank for his use. That seemed generous, but Darryl was sure there was something in it for the Order. They’d told Hank that certain of their goals coincided, but hadn’t come right out and said which ones.

He stepped into the bathroom. It had two urinals, a toilet stall, and a shower. He was bellied up to a urinal, relieving himself, when a burly, bearded Kicker named Hagaman came in. He lived down the other end of the hall.

“Shit! What’re you doin’ in here?”

“Drivin’ a cab. What’s it look like?”

“You shouldn’t be in here, man.”

Darryl had a sudden bad feeling about what was coming.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because you got the sickness, you got the AIDS, and shouldn’t be around, spreadin’ it.”

“Fuck you!”

Hagaman’s face got all red. “Hey, I don’t know who you been fuckin’, but it ain’t me and ain’t never gonna be!”

Darryl tried to hold back, but he lost it.

“Yeah? Well, how’s this?”

He turned in a circle, spraying the room with a yellow stream. If Hagaman hadn’t jumped back he’d have caught some.

“Son of a bitch!” he shouted, raising a fist. “If I wasn’t scared of catchin’ something, I’d break your face!”

Darryl tucked himself back in and started toward him, pointing to his own chin.

“Yeah? Let’s see ya try!”

Hagaman backed out and hurried away. Darryl might have chased after him and told him a thing or two, but his throat felt so tight he didn’t think he could manage a word.

So instead he hurried to his room and kicked the wall as he fought back a sob.

22

The appetizers arrived. Jack leaned against the back of the booth as Eddie and Harris sampled their food.

Hell of a day so far.

Weezy Connell had come back into his life—in a comatose state, yes, but he hoped that wouldn’t be for long.