The first time Mara had run this subroutine, it had taken nearly a day to complete due to the massive data set of this module. From the clock counting down at the top, it appeared it would only take half that time.
Why?
She felt an icy touch of dread as she came to one possible answer. When she had fled the lab, she had stripped the Xénese programming down to its base code, basically returning it to square one, to its simplest form.
But now she wondered.
Had some part of what she created earlier and tried to demonstrate to Dr. Carson and the others survived? Was there some ghost within the ghost, some trace of the original intelligence from before?
If so, what does that mean?
And if she was right, how might such an unknown variable corrupt her project? Without knowing the answer, she considered shutting the project down. Her hands reached out, fingertips hovering over the keyboard.
The abort code was known only to her.
Still, she hesitated.
She stared at the figure moving through a verdant forest, Eve’s face a mirror of her mother’s. She also pictured Dr. Carson and the others. The women had died so Mara might live to carry on her work. Charlotte had encouraged her to be bold, to take chances, to push boundaries.
At the window, the black cat meowed in complaint.
She glanced over, her gaze meeting the stray’s huge yellow eyes. Maybe the creature was some messenger from Dr. Carson.
Mara lowered her hands to her lap and let the subroutine continue to run.
I’ll simply need to be more vigilant from here.
Focused on this goal, she heard her name called. Startled, she turned to the low drone of the television. Her face glowed on the screen. The newscaster described her as a “person of interest” in the deaths of the U.S. ambassador and four other women. Before she could react, the segment shifted to an airfield in Lisbon. A casket, draped in an American flag, sat in a hangar. A clutch of men and women gathered around it. Through the open hangar door, a gray-bodied jet waited to carry the body back home.
Stunned, Mara failed to hear what was being said—until the view shifted to a stately young blond woman in a crisp black suit, her features ashen, her eyes haunted. It was Dr. Carson’s daughter, Laura. She stood before a cluster of microphones.
Mara moved closer to the screen to better hear her words.
“If anyone knows anything about the murder of my mother—of the whereabouts of her student, Mara Silviera—please contact the authorities.” A series of phone numbers scrolled the bottom of the screen. “Please, we need answers.”
Laura looked like she wanted to say more. She stood, shoulders trembling, staring straight at the camera. Then she seemed to collapse in on herself, covering her face and turning away. Another came up and hugged her, a near twin to the other.
“Carly . . .”
Mara reached to the screen, as if trying to console her best friend.
I’m so sorry.
The newscast lingered on the mourning pair for what seemed an eternity, then finally cut away. The anchor behind the desk filled in a few more details. Dr. Carson’s body was scheduled to be airlifted back to the States this afternoon, accompanied by her family.
As the news moved on to other matters, Mara turned off the set.
She remained in place for two more strained breaths, daring herself to take the chance, suddenly all too aware of the weight on her shoulders.
I can’t do this alone.
The international airport was only twenty minutes away by taxi. She glanced to her laptop, to the subroutine’s clock counting down.
I should have enough time.
She grabbed her coat and headed for the door.
10:18 A.M.
Carly paced the length of the airport’s empty private lounge. She tugged at the edges of her gray blouse, chafed at the tightness of her black jacket. With each step, the stiff leather of her new shoes cut into her ankles.
Nothing felt like it fit right.
Then again, nothing felt right.
It’s Christmas, and I’m taking my mother home in a casket.
Or at least, her ashes.
That was all that remained of her mother after the firebombing of the library’s brick vault. The flames had turned the enclosed space into a gruesome crematorium. The five victims’ bodies were identified only by bits of metal—rings, fillings in teeth, a titanium hip implant.
Carly took a deep breath, forcing her thoughts away.
She felt the eyes of the Diplomatic Security Service agent who stood guard at the door. He followed her path across the small private space. Following the murder of a U.S. ambassador, protection for the family had been heightened. This also didn’t sit well with her. She didn’t care to be babysat. Her mother had ingrained a fierce independence into both her daughters.
She also suspected the new guards were more show than real concern, a pageantry of security that was too little and too late. Where was that protection four days ago? Whoever had murdered her mother was likely long gone. She had seen still shots of the culprits, taken from a video she was not allowed to view. With their robes, sashes, and blindfolds, they looked like some fundamentalist cult who had ambushed a group of unarmed women, spouting religious nonsense. She imagined them running away, high-fiving each other for their bravery, before going into hiding.
Bastards.
She eyed the door, feeling trapped. She wanted to get out of here. Or at least find a bar open on Christmas that knew how to pour a Jack and Coke. Though, to be honest, she could do without the Coke.
Laura, at least, had escaped the room. She was with their father attending to some final details, keeping him company. He was rightfully a wreck. He taught English at a junior college—Essex County—located roughly between Princeton, where Laura went to school, and NYU, which Carly attended. He had barely managed to get through their mother’s breast cancer scare last year.
And now this.
She should have gone with Laura, but anger kept her agitated, making her poor company. Laura was better suited for this, more even tempered. As the older sister, one who always had to look after Carly, she was always more serious and certainly less volatile.
Still, Carly eyed the door again, feeling guilty for not being with them.
Her cell phone chimed in her pocket with an incoming text message.
Probably Laura saying they were headed back.
She pulled out the phone and looked at the notification screen, then halted in midstep. A single word shone there.
Bangkok
She continued her pacing, so as not to draw attention. The word was code, taken from the rock musical Chess, and the song “One Night in Bangkok.” She and Mara had seen it on Broadway the first time they met, some five years ago, when Mara had accompanied her mother to the States. Since then, they used the code whenever they wanted to talk, inquiring if the other was free.
Mara’s alive . . . thank god.
She sent back a thumb-up emoji. She could barely contain her impatience, waiting for a response. When it came, the flurry of texts was cryptic.
Terminal 1 bathroom @ baggage claim
Stall 4
Turning phone off, yanking battery
Not Safe
Carly absorbed the intent of her friend’s texts. Mara was hiding in the women’s restroom on the landside of the terminal. She must be terrified and justifiably paranoid. Yet she still risked reaching out to Carly. And from the code word used, it had to be Mara.
Carly feared that her friend, as frightened as she must be, might not wait long.
I have to get to her.
She considered calling Laura or her father, but both would likely rouse the police, which risked drawing undue attention to Mara or scaring her off. Still, Carly had one problem to address first.
She placed a palm on her stomach and crossed to the DSS agent. “Need to go to the bathroom. Think I’m gonna be sick.”
At least the firs
t part of her story was true.
“Follow me,” he said, turning to open the door.
She ducked past him and out into the corridor. “I know where it is.”
“Ms. Carson, wait . . .”
“Sick . . . can’t . . .” she groaned loudly.
She ran down the hall and around the corner. The women’s bathroom was four steps away. She kicked the door open, then sprinted down the corridor to the stairs that led to the main concourse. She ducked out of sight and pressed her back to the wall of the stairwell.
Did I make it?
She heard the bathroom door clap shut back there, then an exasperated voice called out from the hallway. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
You’ll be waiting a while.
She softly moved away and headed down the steps. As a precaution, she texted Laura, so she didn’t freak out: Meeting Mara. Be back soon.
She reached the exit and pushed into the bustle of the terminal.
Okay, that takes care of the hard part.
10:36 A.M.
Mara’s heel kept tapping the tiles of the bathroom stall. She tried to distract herself by reading the graffiti on the walls, scrawled in many languages. Still, she clutched her dark phone in both hands.
She also had a small blade tucked in her belt, hidden under the fall of her light jacket. It was only a steak knife, stolen from a room service tray abandoned in the hall of the first hotel where she had hid. Still, the hilt pressing into her hip reassured her.
Locked in her stall, her ears strained at every clatter of footfalls, the flush of a toilet. She listened as a mother scolded a child to wash her hands. Then suddenly a rush of footsteps descended on her stall. A knuckle rapped on the door.
She leaned away. “Oc . . . ocupado,” she stuttered in Portuguese.
“Mara, it’s me. Carly.”
She burst to her feet, unlatched the stall door, and stumbled out. She was immediately in Carly’s arms. The mother at the sink gave them a startled look, pulling her daughter closer, before heading to the exit.
Mara caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror. Clasped together, they appeared like a dark moon eclipsing the sun. Mara’s black hair, mocha skin, and dark amber eyes contrasted with Carly’s golden blond curls, pale complexion, and bright blue eyes.
Mara kept hold of her friend, hugging tightly. She didn’t care how it appeared. She suddenly began sobbing in Carly’s arms, all the terror, grief, guilt tumbling out. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” she gasped in gulping agony. “So sorry.”
Carly squeezed her. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m so happy you’re alive.”
“Your mother . . . she, she—”
“She loved you. I think more than she loved me at times.”
Mara shook her head. “I’m so glad you came for me.”
“Of course, I did.” Carly pulled back, holding Mara at arm’s length. “You’re safe, Mara. I’m going to take you to Laura and my dad.”
“Where?”
Carly glanced to the restroom door. “Not far. But we’d better get back before that security guy raises hell. C’mon.”
Mara allowed herself to be led by hand to the door and out into the crowded baggage claim. Even though it was Christmas day, travelers still packed the international terminal. A myriad of languages droned around her as harried, tired, frustrated people tried to get somewhere for the holidays.
The many different tongues reminded her. She pictured the flow of the subroutine pouring into the Xénese processor. She squeezed Carly’s hand and drew her to a stop amid the tumult.
Her friend turned back. “What’s wrong?”
“My computer.” She looked toward the exit. “I left it running back at my hotel.”
“You’ve still got Xénese with you?”
Her breathing quickened. “Back before, when your mother was . . . when the attack happened, something strange happened. The processor started acting strange, ended up revealing a symbol, as if it were important.” She clutched Carly’s arm. “I think it is important. Like it was trying to communicate, but I don’t know why or what it was thinking.”
“So you’re running it again,” Carly said. “Trying to get it to tell you. Smart.”
“Its action seemed too purposeful. Maybe it’s nothing, or—”
“Or maybe it had something to do with the attack.”
Mara bit her lower lip.
Maybe.
“Let’s get to Laura and my dad. They’ll know what to do from here.”
Mara nodded, and they set off again, hand in hand. But before she could take more than three steps, something clamped on to her free arm and wrenched her backward, ripping her away from Carly. Jarred, her friend lost her footing and toppled into the arms of a huge man who seemed to be waiting there. The man hugged Carly from behind, his intent plainly nefarious.
The hand gripping Mara spun her around. The sight of her assailant stifled the scream in her throat. His bulk towered over her, a muscled giant. But it was his face, olive hued with bottomless black eyes, that strangled her with terror.
Especially the four scabbed gashes down one cheek.
Mara pictured Carly’s mother fighting, lashing out at the attackers’ leader. Charlotte had ripped long nails into the man’s cheek, tearing away the false blindfold he had been wearing.
Here was that murderer.
Terror immediately turned to fury. As if possessed by the vengeful spirit of Dr. Carson, Mara yanked the stolen steak knife from her belt and plunged it with all her strength into the arm holding her. The adrenaline-fueled blow drove the blade fully through the forearm.
She had expected the attack to drive her assailant off, but his grip only tightened on her. His lips hardened into a sneer.
A guttural cry rose to the side, from the man holding Carly. She had stamped her heel hard into the man’s instep. She then slammed her head back as he hunched over her. Her skull cracked into his nose. Blood burst forth with the impact. His arms loosened on her, allowing her to break free and leap at the man gripping Mara.
Carly came at him with an arm cocked back as she flew through the air and slammed the folded knuckles of her right hand into the giant’s throat. He gagged at the nearly crushing blow to his larynx.
Mara broke free.
“C’mon!” Carly yelled.
They started to run deeper into the terminal, but from the crowd ahead, other men folded out of the stunned groups of travelers, intending to block the pair. They were too many for even Carly’s considerable skill to handle. Her friend—with always too much energy—had taken Krav Maga classes at NYU, a self-defense method developed by the Israeli military.
“This way!” Mara tugged her friend in the opposite direction and ran toward the exit.
A row of taxis waited curbside in front of baggage claim. Before anyone could catch them, they bolted through the door and into the sunshine. They sprinted to the front of the taxi line, knocking aside a man dragging a suitcase.
“Desculpe,” Mara called back to him, apologizing as the two piled into the back.
“Go!” Carly yelled to the driver. “Rápido!”
The cabbie showed no reaction, simply put the car in gear, and headed off.
Mara twisted around to stare behind them. She saw the giant burst to the curb. He cradled his impaled arm to his chest and searched around, but he failed to spot them.
Thank God.
More men gathered behind the leader. He waved his good arm and the group hurried away, likely to escape before airport security responded.
Mara settled back to her seat.
Carly lifted one eyebrow. “Okay, now what?”
“That man back there.”
“The bastard you stuck like a pig?”
She nodded. “He’s . . . he’s the one who killed your mother.”
10:55 A.M.
Todor Yñigo sat in the passenger seat of the Mercedes van. He had a phone pressed to his ear, held in place by his shoulde
r. He slowly extracted the knife from his forearm, the serrated edge scraping against bone.
The driver watched from the corner of his eye and grimaced at the sight.
Todor remained stolid, his expression unchanged as the knife pulled free of his muscles and skin. Blood welled thickly. He tossed the blade to the floor and set about bandaging the wound. He worked dispassionately, feeling no discomfort.
It was his curse and blessing.
Science said his condition—congenital insensitivity to pain, or CIP—was due to a genetic mutation in gene PRDM12, which shut off sodium channel blockers and knocked out all his pain sensors. Only a hundred or so souls in the world were so afflicted.
And I am one of the chosen.
At first, he had not considered it a blessing. Neither had his mother. He had been born in a rural village in the Basque region of northern Spain, where the old beliefs still held sway. As a baby, while teething, he had come close to chewing his tongue off, failing to feel the pain. Then, when he was four, his mother returned to the kitchen one day to find him holding a red-hot pan of boiling water in his hands, his palms blistering and smoking as he chuckled, holding aloft his prize to her.
She had already come to suspect his affliction marked him as a spawn of Satan and this act seemed to confirm it. Later that night, she tried to kill him, to smother him with a pillow. His father had rescued him, dragging his mother to the yard and beating her to death. Her end was blamed on a bull trampling her, which was not far from the truth.
His father did not hold to her belief, refused to consider his son evil—a boy to whom he had given the name Todor, which in Basque meant “gift of God.” He taught his young son of the many saints and told of their suffering, of limbs torn off, of being flailed alive, of their bodies roasting on iron racks.
You will never suffer such agonies, his father had told him. It is not a sign of Satan, but a gift from God Himself. You were born to be a soldier in His glorious army, never to feel pain or suffer as the saints did.
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