AFTER
“Thrum has taken the bait,” Stern said. “She is watching your accounts, and AFGC is following our search for Lear.” Plath and Stern were both enjoying a stroll through Central Park. It was a lovely day. Frisbees skimmed, kites bobbed and weaved against a pale blue sky, and skaters clogged the paved paths.
“Okay,” Plath said. Then added, “Good,” because her father had always taught her the value of praising the people who worked for you. “Is there more?”
Stern didn’t answer at first, then he asked, “Do you want more?” Now it was her turn to hesitate. She knew what he was asking. Did she want to know more? Did she want or need to know more? “Tell me, and I’ll decide whether I want more.”
Stern sighed. “I’ve been contacted by a person in Lebanon, a hacker who, as you might expect, says his name is Anonymous.” Stern rolled his eyes slightly. “He’s following AFGC following us. He had some very interesting information on the terrorist incident in Hong Kong.”
“What does it have to do with us?”
“If this fellow is to be believed, the Armstrong Twins were aboard that LNG ship. In fact, they owned it, and used it as a sort of …as a …I don’t even know what to call it. Some sort of cross between a zoo and an insane asylum, I suppose. A floating chamber of horrors. According to our Lebanese friend, Swedish intelligence and the Royal Navy are involved. The Chinese are trying to put a lid on everything, and they’re damned good at cover-ups.”
“Were the Twins killed?”
Stern shook his head. “No one knows. There are rumors both ways.”
“And why would we believe this Lebanese guy?”
Stern smiled. “Because he gave us the keys to the kingdom. He showed us the way into the AFGC system.”
The possibilities made Plath’s head spin. Against all odds they had scored a victory. The FBI and Secret Service were frantically chasing down every rumor having to do with the president’s bizarre and shattering suicide. And intelligence services the world over were investigating the Hong Kong incident.
Soon they would find out about BZRK, too.
But they had taken Bug Man out of the game. Burnofsky had been released—a changed man. Vincent was perhaps on his way back…. They walked on in silence for a while.
“There’s an island,” Stern said. “It’s called Île Sainte-Marie and it’s
MICHAEL GRANT off the coast of Madagascar, quite inaccessible, easy to monitor the single small airport, and the local officials can be bought off for a song.” Plath smiled at him. “Beaches?”
“The most beautiful white sand beaches. Mile after mile of them. We could keep you safe there.”
“I know you could. For a while, Mr Stern. But the technology has been created, and if the Twins are still alive …No place would be safe if they take that last step.”
“So.”
She nodded. “I was trapped into this. I’ve seen some terrible things, and I’ve done some terrible things.” She couldn’t remember Burnofsky’s exact words, but these were close. “Lear knew once I was in it would be impossible to get myself back out.”
“But we can get you out, Sadie.”
Plath looked past him, to Keats, who walked at a distance, watching, waiting until she was done, waiting to see whether, in the end, she would run or stand and fight.
And she looked on beyond Keats, to the man who stood under the trees, shadows muting the lilac and green of his clothing, silhouetting his tall hat.
“There is no out,” she said.
She turned abruptly away, then stopped, looked back at him. “One more thing, Mr Stern. You know the phony search for Lear? Make it real. Find him for me. Find Lear.”