"They were looking for me last summer. I didn't know it was them at first, but I-"
"I'm beginning to wonder if you might be right about them."
Finally! Eddie finally sees the light. Maybe he's salvageable.
"I am. I know I am."
"I'm going to look into this."
Weezy almost dropped the phone.
"No! Say nothing! Do nothing!"
"Can't do that, Weez. They're looking for my sister and I damn well want to know why. I'll call you when I find out."
"Eddie, please! You can't-"
The phone went dead.
She called him back but he didn't pick up. The tables had turned. Now he wasn't taking her calls.
Was he crazy? What was he trying to prove? They'd eat him alive.
She left voice mail begging him to leave it alone. That she was safe and they'd never find her.
But was that true? And why the sudden renewed interest? She'd kept a low profile since the summer-no profile at all, in fact. How had she once again become a person of interest to the Order?
9
Munir found it difficult to focus on the recording. After all, he had listened to that hated voice over and over until he knew by heart every filthy word, every nuance of expression. So he studied this stranger across the table from him instead.
This man was most unimpressive. True, he was taller than Munir, perhaps five-eleven, with a slim, wiry physique. Nothing at all special about his appearance. Brown hair, and such mild brown eyes; out on the street he would be almost invisible. Munir had expected a heroic figure-if not physically prepossessing, at least sharp, swift, and viper deadly. This man had none of those qualities. How was he going to wrest Barbara and Robby from their tormentor's grasp? It hardly seemed possible.
And yet, as he watched him listening to the recording with his eyes closed, stopping it here and there to rewind and hear again a sentence or phrase, he became aware of the man's quiet confidence, of a hint of furnace-hot intensity roaring beneath his ordinary surface. And Munir began to see that perhaps there was a purpose behind Jack's manner of dress, his whole demeanor being slanted toward unobtrusiveness. He realized that this man could dog your steps all day and you would never notice him.
Munir's thoughts wandered to the question that had dogged him for days: Why me?
He wasn't rich. He wasn't important. He kept to himself. He did not write insulting blogs. He had no public or online identity. Because Arabs and Islam were viewed with suspicion in America, he kept a low profile. He was almost as invisible as Jack.
Why me?
Unless it was Allah's doing. Munir admitted that he had not been an observant Muslim. Worse, he, Barbara, and Robby celebrated Christmas these past few years. Not because of Barbara, who was an infidel as far as any religion was concerned, but because of Robby. They celebrated the secular aspects of Christmas, with the tree and the gifts and the Santa Claus fantasy. They were all Americans, and Christmas was an American holiday.
Had that drawn Allah's wrath? The Koran said that any man who renounces Islam must be killed. He had not renounced his faith, but he had certainly ignored it for many years. Was that why he was being tortured rather than killed?
The recording ended then. Jack pressed the stop button and stared at the phone.
"Something screwy here," he said finally.
"What do you mean?"
"He hates you."
"Yes, I know. He hates all Arabs. He's said so, many times."
"No. He hates you."
"Of course. I'm an Arab."
What was he getting at?
"But this almost seems personal. I get a feeling there's more going on here than just nine/eleven or you being an Arab or any of the bullshit he's been handing you."
Personal? No. It wasn't possible. He had never met anyone, had never been even remotely acquainted with a person who would do this to him and his family.
"I do not believe it." His voice sounded hoarse. "It cannot be."
Jack leaned forward, his voice low. "Think about it. In the space of a few days this guy has made you offend your God, offend other people, humiliate yourself, and who knows what next? There's real nastiness here, Munir. Cold, calculated malice. Especially this business of making you eat pork and drink beer at noon on Friday when a good Muslim is supposed to be at the mosque. I didn't know you had to pray on Fridays at noon, but he did. That tells me he knows more than a little about your religion-studying up on it, most likely. He's not playing this by ear. He's got a plan. He's not putting you through this 'wringer' of his just for the hell of it."
"What can he possibly gain from tormenting me?"
"Torment, hell. This guy's out to destroy you. And as for gain, I'm guessing on revenge."
"For what?" This was so maddening. "I fear you are getting off course with this idea that somehow I know this insane man."
"Maybe. But something he said during your last conversation doesn't sit right. He said he was being 'a lot more generous than you'd ever be.' That's not a remark a stranger would make. And then he said 'faux pas' a little while after. He's trying to sound like a redneck but I don't know too many rednecks with faux pas in their vocabulary."
"But that doesn't necessarily mean he knows me personally."
"You said you run a department in this oil company."
"Yes. Saud Petrol. I told you: I'm head of IT."
"Which means you've got to hire and fire, I imagine."
"Of course." Munir felt a chill. "A Saud employee?"
"That's my guess," Jack said. "Look in your personnel records. That's where you'll find this kook. He's the proverbial Disgruntled Employee. Or Former Employee. Or Almost Employee. Someone you fired, someone you didn't hire, or someone you passed over for promotion. I'd go with the first-some people get very personal about being fired."
Munir searched his past for any confrontations with members of his department. He could think of only one and that was so minor Jack was pushing the phone across the desk.
"Call the cops," he said.
Fear wrapped thick fingers around Munir's throat and squeezed. "No! He'll find out! He'll -"
"I'd like to help you, pal, but it wouldn't be fair. You need more than I can give you. You need officialdom. You need a squad of paper shufflers doing background checks on the people past and present in your department. I'm a one-man shop. No staff, no access to fingerprint files. You need all of that and more if you're going to get your family through this. The FBI's good at this stuff. They can stay out of sight, work in the background while you deal with this guy up front."
"But-"
He rose and clapped a hand on Munir's shoulder.
"I'd like to catch this guy for you, really I would, because he sounds like scum. I'd like to tie him up in a room and leave you alone with him. But I sense time growing short and I'm not the guy to find him before he does something really nasty to you, your wife, or boy. You need help with staff. That's not me. So I'm going to do you a favor."
"What?"
"I'm going to walk out that door and let you call the feds. They're what you need, not me."
And then he walked out of the room and out of the apartment.
He was right, Munir knew that, but still he wanted to cry.
10
The number on the fax had had a 212 area code, which put it in Manhattan. So Eddie had called the Order's New York headquarters-a private number, members only. The man who answered the phone had tried to get out of meeting in person, but Eddie had insisted. Whoever was looking for Weezy had a face and Eddie wanted to see it. He was given the address of an "administrative office" in a medium-rise building in midtown where he found an elderly woman at a reception desk. The familiar seal of the Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order had been painted on the wall behind her.
She'd led him to a room and told him that someone would be with him shortly. Shortly turned out to be almost immediately.
"Brother Connell?" said a voice behind him. "I
am Claude Fournier."
Eddie's pulse jumped as he turned. He hadn't heard the door open. A tall, fiftyish man, painfully thin and dressed in a brown leather coat and dark slacks stepped toward him. He looked as if he had just come in off the street. He extended a long-fingered hand.
Eddie surreptitiously wiped his sweaty palm on his thigh before shaking the proffered hand. The man reeked of tobacco smoke.
"Yes, my name is Connell, but you're not the man I spoke to."
A blue-black mole sat dead center in Fournier's chin. Eddie tried to keep his eyes off it.
"No. He is busy. We are all busy. What can you tell us about Louise Myers? Do you know where she is?"
"No."
He frowned. "Then why this insistence on a face-to-face meeting?"
"The woman you're looking for is my sister."
Fournier's gray eyes narrowed as he hesitated. "This… this is true?"
Eddie had figured this would be the best way to go. If he tried to hide his relationship, it might backfire. He was pretty sure they didn't know that the woman they were looking for had a brother in the Order, but they might know that her maiden name was Connell. If so, and he lied about the relationship, he'd be screwed.
Screwed… the term had many levels. Screwed as in kicked out of the Order for lying… what he might expect. Or, in Weezy's world, screwed as in killed.
Not that he believed that for a second.
The Order… if anyone had ever told him as a kid that he'd someday be a member of the mysterious and secretive Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order, he'd have thought they were on drugs. One didn't apply to the Order; membership was by invitation only, and who would ever invite Eddie Connell? But six years ago a call had come from someone for whom he'd done some consulting. Would he be interested in joining? He'd been flabbergasted, flummoxed, and, well, flattered.
When he recovered from his shock, he said he was interested. Although the Order jealously guarded its membership rolls, highly influential people from around the world were rumored to belong. The networking opportunities would be good for business.
But saying he was interested didn't make him a member. Few were called and fewer were chosen. A rigorous vetting process began, involving interviews and stacks of paperwork. They wanted to know all about his lineage. It wasn't like the DAR or anything like that. Your parents' social standing or whether or not an ancestor arrived on the Mayflower didn't matter. The Lodge accepted people from all races and walks of life. They seemed to be looking for something else, though they'd never said what. They'd told Eddie he'd find out as he "matured" through the Order. That was what they called it: maturing. They'd also promised he'd learn other things… the way the world worked, and how he could turn that knowledge to his benefit.
Whatever criteria they had, Eddie passed and was accepted as a member. Part of that acceptance involved being branded with the sigil of the Order. It had all been very civilized, with local anesthesia and sterile conditions, but it had not been an option. If you accepted membership, you accepted the brand.
So far, Eddie's experience in the Order didn't seem much different from being an Elk or a Moose: meetings, dinners, networking. Weezy had been convinced since her teens that members of the Order were the guardians of the Secret History of the World. Well, after nearly six years as a member, he'd been made privy to no arcana. But he'd made tons of contacts that had proven immensely helpful in his business.
He hadn't expended much effort toward maturing in the Order-that involved going on special retreats to remote locations around the globe. Who had time? Eddie's actuarial business was flourishing and all his efforts went into growing that. He was never pressured to move up or take a more active role. Others he met at the meetings he attended felt the same way: The Order was good for business.
All of this had served only to bolster his opinion that Weezy was wrong-had always been wrong-about the Order. It was a perfectly benign organization that just happened to keep a close lid on its inner workings. Not unlike the Masons.
But then… today's shocking fax.
That changed everything. Last summer Weezy had said the Order was out to get her, but had offered not a shred of proof. Now this flier appeared out of the blue, asking the membership to report if they'd seen her.
He'd always been able to write off Weezy's suspicions as part of her mental instability-after all, she'd been on one psychoactive medication after another since her teens. She saw a conspiracy in every coincidence. And the Order, so secretive about everything-its origins, its membership, its holdings around the world-had always been a ripe target for her paranoia.
No more. The fax drew a line between his sister and the Order-or at least someone high up in the Order. Still, that didn't mean they were out to kill her.
"I can't see any reason why I'd make it up," Eddie said.
"You say she is your sister but you do not know where she is?"
"We haven't been on the best terms lately. But she's still my sister and I'm concerned that the Order is sending out a fax with her picture to the membership. Why do you want her? What interest is she to you?"
Fournier shrugged and pursed his lips. "That I do not know. Word comes from on high to find this woman, so that is what we try to do in the best way we know how."
"How high?"
Another shrug. "Very high, I suppose. The Council of Seven, I would think."
The thought of the High Council looking for Weezy caused an ache in Eddie's gut. What possible reason…?
"May I ask what your instructions are once you find her?"
He held his breath as he awaited the answer.
"Right now our instructions are to locate her and nothing else. No contact. Simply find out where she is."
Eddie wasn't sure he could believe that, but the man seemed to be telling the truth. He gave off no hint of a personal interest in finding Weezy; he'd been given a job and was simply carrying it through.
Fournier was studying him. "As a brother of the Order, are you willing to help us find her?"
"I am." A lie. If Weezy wanted to stay off their radar, he'd leave her that way. "But I have a condition: I want to know why you're looking for her."
"I have told you-"
"Yes, you don't know. But you can find me someone who does. I need that question answered before I can help."
Fournier nodded. "I can understand that. I will make inquiries."
Eddie felt his bunched neck muscles relax. He'd done it. He'd taken the first step toward proving Weezy right or wrong, toward deciding whether or not he'd made a mistake in joining the Order. And proving to her that no matter what, she could trust her brother to do the right thing.
11
After a sip of water, Kewan raised the bullhorn to his lips and started the chants again. His throat felt raw from the shouting, but he'd checked the time while he'd sipped and knew he had only a few minutes to go before he could shut up.
Because that was when they'd make their move.
"Two-four-six-eight! Why can't folks dissimilate?"
The two dozen sign-carrying Kickers dutifully shouted their reply: "The Internet! The Internet!"
Round and round they marched in a rough oval outside the entrance to a brick-faced office building in Chelsea. Four heavy-duty glass doors, stacked side by side, separated the chilled marchers from the warm atrium within. Getting everyone through those fast enough to shock and awe security before they called the cops posed a problem. But the boss had solved that.
Taking over the atrium was only the first step. The data center occupied the whole fourth floor and you couldn't get there without a swipe card. But a Kicker on the inside had solved that problem.
"Why are we here?"
"The Internet!"
"And how do we want the Internet?"
"Dead!"
"Two-four-"
"Excuse me, sir," someone said close behind his right ear, accompanying the words with a tap on his shoulder.
Aw, hell, Kewan th
ought as he turned. If this was a cop it would ruin everything. But instead he found a sandy-haired white guy in an overcoat.
He put on his best scowl. "I'm busy here."
The guy smiled. "I'm Lonnie Pelham from WCBS Eight-Eighty News." He held up the digital voice recorder in his hand. "I'd like to ask you a couple of questions if I may."
Always cooperate with the media.
The boss had said that time and time again. Always cooperate, always treat them with respect, always mention the boss's book when talking about the Kicker Evolution. This was how to grow the Kicker numbers.
"What time is it?"
Pelham checked his watch. "Almost eleven."
"Exact time."
He checked again. "Ten fifty-three."
"Then I can give you seven minutes." He motioned Antoine out of the picket line and handed him the horn. "Take over while I talk to this gentleman."
Gentleman… hear that, boss? I'm doing like you said.
As Antoine restarted the chants, Kewan led the reporter half a block down to a corner where they could stand on the side street, away from the noise and out of the wind whipping along Eighth Avenue. Time for a friendly smile.
"I think I heard you a couple times on the radio, man. I ain't much for news stations, but I tune you guys in for weather and stuff. What you wanna ask me?"
Pelham thumbed a button on the recorder and held it between them. His breath steamed in the cold air.
"First off, what's your name?"
"Kick."
"No, your name."
"That is my name to people outside the Evolution. Other Kickers know me by a different name, but I'm just 'Kick' to the assimilated world."
This was a new policy instituted by the boss: Don't let outsiders know your name. A good policy, considering what they had planned for a few minutes from now.
"Very well then, Kick, how long have you been a Kicker?"
He smiled and gave the stock answer. "All my life. I just didn't know it until I read Hank Thompson's Kick last year." There: plug done. "After that, I knew I had to dissimilate and join the Kicker Evolution."
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