Fatal Error Page 15

  Belgiovene had dropped him off home and then picked him up later for dinner. They wound up at Peter Luger’s in Williamsburg for the best porterhouse he’d ever had—and more wine than he usually drank in a month.

  Then they’d come here, to the Chelsea Piers.

  They weren’t really piers anymore. Everything but. Huge warehouselike structures housed shops, restaurants, dining halls, tennis courts, nightclubs—anything that might entertain or distract anyone at any time.

  Belgiovene said, “As I told you, we’re to meet the U.S. attorney outside here, and then we’ll go up to the space we’ve rented for the next project.”

  Russ stood at the water’s edge and stared at the lights of New Jersey across the Hudson. What was he looking at? Hoboken? Jersey City? He knew they were over there somewhere, but they were just names. Who cared which was where? They were in Jersey.

  “Do we have to meet him right on the waterfront? There’s gotta be a place that’s out of the wind. I mean, like, is all this secrecy necessary?”

  “It was his request. It’s a touchy thing, messing with a federal judge’s ruling. We should accommodate him, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose.”

  Belgiovene pointed down at the rippling surface of the river. “Look. Lights underwater.”

  Russ didn’t see anything, so he leaned forward. He felt a hand press against his back and then he was falling. He hit the water and went under.

  Cold—colder than any cold he could ever imagine. Colder than interstellar space.

  He fought to the surface and saw Belgiovene standing above him, watching.

  “Help! Help me!”

  The guy did nothing. Just stared.

  Panic lanced through him. What was going on here? Was he crazy?

  Well, Russ would show him. He could swim. He’d been a pretty damn good swimmer in his day.

  But his clothes were dragging him down. And the cold was paralyzing his muscles. He sank and clawed back to the surface. After gulping air, he tried to shed his coat but went down again as he struggled with it. This time, despite his best effort, despite the panic adrenaline coursing through his arteries, he couldn’t make it back to the surface. His arms felt like lead. Legs too. Wouldn’t respond.

  A great lethargy came over him, and with it, a strange sort of peace. His oxygen-starved brain kept asking the same question, over and over.

  Why?

  With a sob he exhaled what he knew was his last breath.

  18

  “Are we ready?”

  Ernst dropped his glass of water. It shattered in the sink. He turned, knowing who he would find. He knew that voice. But the kitchen was empty. He stepped into the living room/dining room area of his apartment.

  The One stood in the far corner. He looked relaxed, his hands loosely clasped before him.

  Ernst felt sweat break out all over his body. These unannounced appearances always rattled him. The man—well, he was something more than a man—had an unsettling ability to enter and leave rooms without warning, without a sound.

  “Yes, sir. We are.”

  The One clasped his hands behind him and began to wander the living room at a leisurely pace . . . like a shark in a tank. He was dressed in his usual dark business suit. He had adopted his current, somewhat Hispanic appearance last summer: slim frame, soft features, darkened skin tones, mustache. He had never honored Ernst with an explanation, probably never would. Whatever the reason, he’d maintained the look. He stopped pacing and fixed Ernst with his abysmally dark eyes.

  “Will it work?”

  The dreaded question.

  “I believe it will bring down the Internet.”

  “And that will extinguish the Lady?”

  “The lore says she must be slain three times. The first death was accomplished by another hand.”

  The One’s eyes gleamed. “Yes. That upstart mutant in Florida unknowingly aided us. She might have proven to be an asset, but she was impossible to control.”

  Ernst knew little of this, had gleaned only bits from passing references to the incident. Now was not the time to ask for more.

  “I understand those circumstances were unique. Since they were not reproducible, we turned to the Fhinntmanchca.”

  “Yes. But that failed.”

  Ernst wanted to shout that it didn’t fail—not completely—but held his tongue.

  “Only because the noosphere was too strong.”

  “Will this succeed?”

  “Yes, I believe so, yes.”

  “You do not sound terribly confident. And as I recall, this was all your idea.”

  Another wave of nervous perspiration seeped from his pores.

  “Yes . . . yes it was. But we are in uncharted territory here. First, no one has crippled the Internet before, but I believe we have the best chance ever. The final piece was acquired just yesterday and we are set to begin.”

  “Whether the Internet is down or up is of little interest to me. I want the Lady extinguished—nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Yes, of course. That is what we all want. But as I explained last year when we embarked on this mission, I believe the reason the Fhinntmanchca failed to extinguish her—”

  “She did cease to exist for an instant.”

  “Yes. And even though that was only her second death, she should not have returned. The noosphere should have been too weakened by the Fhinntmanchca to permit it. But she did return. The damaged noosphere was able to revive her almost immediately. That possibility was never addressed in our lore, because it was inconceivable. But the Internet, with its myriad human interactions, was also inconceivable in the First Age. It has energized and strengthened the noosphere to a level far beyond what anyone ever dreamed possible. After the failure of the Fhinntmanchca I theorized that if we removed that input, the still-damaged noosphere would be unable to maintain the Lady. It would have to re-create her from scratch, as originally hoped, giving you the window you need to allow the Otherness to achieve dominance.”

  “And I have allowed you a chance to prove your theory.”

  Ernst bowed. “For which I am honored. Still I must stress that it is but a theory. I have no means to test it, other than to crash the Internet.”

  “It has taken you quite some time to reach this point.”

  “Yes, even with the combined aid of the Kickers and the Dormentalists, it has been a massive, time-consuming undertaking. But it is the only means we have left to us.”

  “There is, perhaps, another way,” the One said as he began pacing again.

  Ernst swallowed. Another way? “What might that be, if I may ask?”

  “You may not. The means have only just recently become available. I am preparing contingencies in case your grand scheme fails.”

  Ernst felt a sudden pain in his gut. It couldn’t fail.

  “I was hoping you had more confidence—”

  The One’s expression darkened. “After the failure of the Fhinntmanchca—not your fault, I realize—I cannot afford to take anything for granted. I’ve been so close for so long—”

  He cut himself off.

  Ernst realized they had both waited their entire adult lives for the advent of the Otherness, but the One had lived for millennia. By comparison, Ernst’s wait was a mere eye blink.

  The One said, “When do you put your plan into motion?”

  “As soon as you say so.”

  “Then I say so. Why did you wait?”

  “Why . . .” Ernst was surprised at the question. “As a courtesy. To be sure the execution date fit with your plans.”

  “My plans?”

  “Well, you told me you were engaged in a project . . .”

  The One had been away for months, appearing only occasionally. All he would say was that he was “down south” engaged in “a personal matter.”

  “Yes. That is in its final stage. In fact, I expect to have it wrapped up by the weekend.”

  “Then shall we set the execution date
for Saturday night? If we release the virus now, we will be more than ready by then.”

  The One’s eyebrows lifted. “It will spread that quickly?”

  “We calculate global saturation within less than forty-eight hours of release.”

  “I am impressed.”

  “We have had the best computer minds in the world working on it for months. Jihad4/20 is so unlike previous viruses that no existing AV software will recognize it. We will introduce it to random email addresses. All the recipient need do is open the email. No link to click in the mail. Simply opening it will allow the virus in.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, it’s what is known as a rootkit—”

  The One waved a hand. “Never mind technological terms. Those sort of details mean little to me.”

  “It will access the address book and send email to all of the contacts listed, thereby entering all those computers where it will do the same, time and again, on and on, spreading itself across the globe in a geometric progression. But it will do more than merely propagate itself. It will take over each computer, turning it into what is known as a zombie—a machine that will do what the virus tells it to do, independent of what its owner wishes.”

  “But neither is anything new.”

  “True. And as the virus spreads, it will create a network of zombies—a so-called ‘botnet’—which, again, is nothing new. But the pervasiveness and penetration of Jihad’s botnet will be unprecedented, as will what the virus will tell its network of zombies to do on Saturday night.”

  Ernst felt a swell of pride as he thought about that. He’d come up with the idea himself. And it was brilliant—not because it was arcane and esoteric, but because it was so obvious, and so elegant in its simplicity.

  “All I care is that it gets the job done. And it had better.”

  The implied threat doused Ernst’s inner glow. “I have every confidence that the Internet cannot stand against it.”

  “Good. I trust the package I sent arrived?”

  “Yes.” A mysterious, locked, oblong box, three feet long. “It is safe.”

  “Then I shall leave you to your task.”

  He turned and started for the door.

  “Oh, I assume you’ve heard about the baby,” Ernst said.

  The One did not break stride. “Of course.”

  “Why is the baby—?”

  “None of that is your concern.”

  And then he was out the door and gone.

  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.

  THURSDAY

  1

  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.”