“They’re going macro on us. They hit DC. Now they’re hitting us in New York.”
Her chin was on his bicep as she looked in fascination at the gray-scale video. The cameras switched from room to room in steady rotation. There were armed men in every room now.
“You’ve got to do it, Jin,” Wilkes said.
Nijinsky said nothing. The phone trembled in his hand.
“Jin, you have to do it. If you won’t do it I will.”
“What are you two talking about?” Anya asked.
“Blowing up the New York place.” Wilkes tried to sound casual, but Nijinsky could tell that even she, even hard little Wilkes was shaken by the idea.
He punched in a twelve-character code to get access to the Kill button. It was a green button.
Cheerful.
“I have to check with Lear,” Nijinsky said.
“There’s no time for that, Jin,” Wilkes snapped, her voice as ragged as his own. “It can take hours for Lear to respond. You know there’s instructions for all this. Everyone’s biots are outta there, we’re outta there, you know what we’re supposed to do.”
“I don’t think—”
“It’s what they did at the UN, what they did to their own people to hide evidence, and they burned Ophelia’s legs off!”
“So we do what they do?” he demanded, wanting somehow to blame her.
“There are fingerprints, hair samples, personal stuff, clues. Evidence. Whatever the hell. Jin. Jin!”
“I’m the wrong person for this,” Nijinsky said quietly.
“Give it to me,” Wilkes said. “If you don’t do it you’re putting all of us and our families at—” She stopped. Because Nijinsky’s thumb had pressed down on the button.
The video feed went blank.
They sat there, silent, until Nijinsky said, “Anya, would you mind driving for a while?”
FOURTEEN
The instant Nijinsky, Anya, Wilkes, and a heavily drugged Vincent arrived at the church, Nijinsky held up his phone for Keats and Plath to read a text. It was from Lear.
Karl Burnofsky: inventor of the nanobot. Murdered daughter on orders of Twins. Hold at all cost. Kill before you allow escape.
Keats read it twice just to be sure.
Burnofsky saw all this. He sighed. “I assume that’s about me. Am I a dead man?”
No one answered.
“Anya, would you help Vincent to a room?” Nijinsky asked.
There was something wrong with Nijinsky, it was obvious to anyone, something that was not just about a long drive on the turnpikes and freeways. He looked old. He looked as if he could be his own father. His voice was a whisper. He was carrying a paper bag from the liquor store where he had stopped off en route.
Keats took the bag from an unprotesting Nijinsky and set it on one of the pews. He drew out a bottle of vodka. He crumpled the bag noisily, making sure to draw Burnofsky’s attention to the bottle.
Burnofsky licked his lips, and for a few seconds an expression of terrible desire ruled his face.
Keats saw and understood. He’d been right about Burnofsky. An addict.