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.

He felt as if he’d fallen down a rabbit hole. He’d awakened with 9/11 a distant, bitter memory, but very much alive. Now . . .

Eddie sighed. “Nine/eleven . . . it’s been misused and manipulated, and it’s paraded out every time the powers that be think we need a little injection of fear. We need to put it behind us and move on.”

Jack thought about that day. He remembered standing on his rooftop that sunny Tuesday morning with Neil the Anarchist and some of his neighbors from the building, all staring south. The towers themselves hadn’t been visible, but the drifting gray-black plume couldn’t be missed. Some had talked of traveling downtown for an up-close-and-personal look. Not Jack. He found the idea ghoulish. And besides, the city was in full lockdown mode.

And then suddenly the smoke changed—more of it, and a lighter color. Something had happened. They all ran down to the nearest top-floor apartment to watch reruns of the first tower’s collapse. And then the second went . . .

He remembered the gnawing in his stomach. Let the pundits and politicos and preachers argue about whether or not foreign policy chickens were coming home to roost. None of that mattered. This was his city. And some slimeballs had attacked it. Rage had consumed him.

But he’d gotten past that. Or thought he had. Today was dredging up a lot of buried feelings. The rage flooded back.

“I agree with you about the fear,” Jack said. “Yeah, put the fear behind. It’s useless. But keep the rage. Stick it in a back pocket and take it out every so often. A gang of oxygen wasters came into our house and killed some of our family. We never forget that. And we don’t forgive.” He slammed a fist on the table. “Ever.”

He noticed the two of them staring at him. The intensity of his feelings surprised him. He’d dropped out, turned his back, and gone underground. He’d refused to participate in the machine. And yet, on that day he’d felt part of the city, of its gestalt. Felt as if he’d been attacked. He’d taken it personally . . . still did.

That wasn’t like him. But it was the way it was.

Go figure.

“All right. End of speech. Back to Weezy.”

Yeah, Weezy. What had he learned? That she’d been interested in the owner of a Swiss account who, days before the attack, had bet on United and American Airlines’ stock falling and the Tomahawk maker’s stock rising. Obviously Bashar Sheikh had prior knowledge. And if, as Harris said, he’d hosted Atta two months before the attack, that would account for it.