Munroe smiled. “And that will make it their discovery, not something we fed them. Those ambitious fucks, give them a couple of days and they’ll be swearing up and down this was all their idea.”

Munroe sat back in his chair, warm feeling in his gut. This thing had more moving parts than a Swiss watch, but it ticked like one, too. This was going to work.

CHAPTER 36

Al Din watched the exodus of office workers. Impressive, like watching a nature documentary on the migration of great beasts, a relentless stream of capitalists and their minions, pouring from the doors of the office towers, heading to the elevated trains, to the commuter trains, to the tens of thousands of cars that were jammed in the Loop parking garages. Herds of pedestrians as far as he could see.

Each one of them a perfect delivery vehicle.

Al Din watched from a chair in the window of a Starbucks on Madison near Michigan, a messenger bag at his feet, three of the devices inside, the adhesive attached, ready to be placed. He had placed two yesterday. He checked his watch, took a final sip of his coffee, and then stepped out the door into the flow of commuters to flag down a cab. The cab would drop him right at the door to the target location, and the cameras at the target would go down in seven minutes. He’d make sure the cab ride lasted until then. He could have walked, but it would be best not to turn up on any cameras between here and there in the meantime.

After today, he would have five devices in position. The sixth device was still locked in its case in his hotel room. Should activating the devices prove his best course, then the five would be more than sufficient. Tens of thousands dead at a minimum, even if the Americans responded effectively. Hundreds of thousands dead potentially if the devices worked as Heinz had planned.

So Al Din would keep the sixth device in reserve. What was the name of the American children’s game? Show and tell? He might need the last device for that. Once he decided which side he was on.

CHAPTER 37

Lynch put his book on the nightstand, Devil in the White City. He was just reaching to turn out the light, when his phone buzzed. He picked it up and checked the screen. Liz. Clock on the phone said 12.42am.

Lynch answered. “How’s LA?”

“Jesus, these people, Lynch,” she said.

“That’s what you said about Washington.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not in Kansas anymore. Can’t even see it from here. They want to make the book into a thriller. I told them it was a news story.”

Lynch let out a little snort. “Was kinda thrilling, the way I remember. I got shot a couple of times.”

“Yeah, well, this movie shit ain’t happening, not if they can’t play this a little straighter.” Pause. Something harder coming up. “Got a call from Dickey Reagan.”

“Saw him the other night,” Lynch said.

“Took him to the Wild game.”

“We call it the Hawks game down here.”

“Got those tickets for me, didn’t you?”

Lynch went to say no, figured BS it, defuse things. Then he figured they didn’t face this it would just eat them up anyway.

“Yeah,” he said.

He heard her exhale into the phone. “Jesus, John, why didn’t you say something? I could have pushed this back a day maybe, moved some shit around.”

Could have done that anyway is what Lynch thought, but there was a difference between not lying and being an asshole.

“Not that big a deal,” he said. “Just a whim, figured I’d surprise you.”

“I do appreciate the thought, John.”

“I know.”

Another long pause. More of those than there used to be.

“Look, I’m flying out of here tomorrow. I could stop over. Be late probably, but maybe grab dinner, spend the night anyway?

Felt like scraps to Lynch, felt wrong, didn’t want to say that either.

“If it works out,” was what he said. “I’m drowning in this Stein thing anyway, so I can’t promise anything.”

Pause again.

“Yeah, might work better when we can plan it out. Things should settle down in a few days. Guess I should get home anyway.”

She had a place in New York now.

“Yeah,” Lynch said. “You got enough shit on your plate. Look, it’s late. I’m not on LA time. I’m dragging here.”

“I know,” she said. “Sorry about the time. Soon though, right?”

“Sure,” Lynch said. “Soon.”

He put the phone on the nightstand.

CHAPTER 38

Shamus Fenn sat in his room at the Peninsula, plowing through a bottle. He’d blown takes all afternoon. They’d been shooting a scene along the lakefront – his lover leaving him over all the blood on his hands, tricky emotional stuff that needed his focus. Instead, all he could think about was all the places that fucker Hardin could shoot him from. Jesus, a sniper? Really?

So what were his choices here? Call this Lynch back and roll over on Corsco? Right. Then what? Witness protection? Get a job as a fry cook in Omaha? Where the hell was Shamus Fenn supposed to hide?

Corsco’s mouthpiece had told him Tony was pissed. Fenn doing the Oprah thing, pretty much putting his hand up and saying he had a beef with Hardin the same day Corsco’s guys were trying to kill the guy on his dime. OK, that had been a dumb move. Fenn could see that. But there was nothing to be done about it now. Good news was this drug lord was after Hardin, too. Got Corsco off the hook, the lawyer said. Got Fenn off the hook. All they had to do was sit back and wait. But Fenn’d had no idea that Hardin was some kind of killing machine.

Fenn had called Corsco earlier, Tony pretty much laughing at him. Telling him he was a big pussy. Telling him this Hardin had a full-time job not being dead, didn’t have any time to think about Fenn. Telling him Hardin probably thought Tony’s guys had been working for Hernandez anyway.

But Fenn wasn’t sold. If this cop could put it together, then Hardin could put it together.

A knock on the door. Fenn almost shit himself. He ignored it. Another knock. A woman’s voice calling out.

“Mr Fenn?” Little giggle.

Fenn padded to the door, looked through the peephole. He was in a suite at the end of the hall, the door looking all the way down to the elevators, so he had a clear shot. Nobody out there but a couple of hot-looking chicks, a blonde and an Asian. Fenn had a thing for Asians.

“Yeah?” he said through the door.

“Tony said maybe we should stop by? Thought maybe you might be a little tense? No hard feelings, he says.”

Fenn thought a minute. He’d had to keep his pants zipped, at least by his standards, during this whole abuse thing.

“And he sent a present.” The girl was holding up a little baggie of powder.

And he sure as hell couldn’t chance hitting any of his usual connections for some blow. What he needed, probably. Put some mayo in a little girl sandwich, do a few snorts. Tony was right. This fucker Hardin had his hands full anyway.

Fenn opened the door.

Lynch looked at the clock when he heard the phone. Jesus, 4.17am.

“Yeah?”

“Get your ass up, Lynch,” said McCord. “I’m down at the Peninsula. Your buddy Fenn just OD’d.”

CHAPTER 39

“You ever hear of a Dr Mark Heinz?” One of the Google jockeys at Langley on the phone for Munroe.

“Nope. Should I have?”

“Probably not. One of the germ herders down at Fort Dix back in the Eighties. Been out of the game for a bit. Did his twenty, then left for some big pharma gig. But he’s on the list of people to watch. Bottom of the list, but he’s on it.”

“And?”

“And he just turned up dead.”

That got Munroe’s attention. “Where and when?”