1
After some obligatory small talk, Russ said, “So, what brings you to my humble abode?”
Humble it was, a tiny one-bedroom over a Tex-Mex restaurant on Second Avenue in the East Nineties. The place tended to smell better when the kitchen below was going full blast, but they didn’t do breakfast. Russell Tuit—he pronounced it like bird talk—didn’t have a pocket protector or taped horn-rimmed glasses, but had the mouse-potato pallor and flabby look of someone whose fingers did all the walking. A certifiable geek; and it seemed a while since he’d had a shower.
Jack pulled out Weezy’s disk. “Wondering if you might take a look at this.”
Russ took the disk and headed for his computer in the corner of the sparsely furnished front room. Barely furnished was more like it, and what he had looked fourth hand.
Following him, Jack said, “You still stealing Internet?”
A federal judge had banned Russ from all online activities for twenty-five years. His crime: hacking into a bank and siphoning a fraction of a cent off each transaction. He’d accumulated a seven-figure haul before he was caught.
“It’s not stealing, it’s sharing. It’s my compensation.”
Russ had helped the guy in the neighboring apartment install a Wi-Fi system. He’d made sure to place the access point on the wall they shared.
He thought of Alice Laverty.
“Just met a lady whose life was complicated by someone hacking into her Wi-Fi system.”
He slid the disk into a slot in his computer. “Unsecured, right?”
“I suppose so.”
“Hardly anyone secures their home network. But no worry here. I insisted that Bill create a password-protected gateway and firewall—for his protection, of course.”
“And yours too, maybe?”
“Of course.”
“And you know the password?”
“Of course.”
“What if he changes it?”
“He already has—twice.”
“So . . . aren’t you locked out?”
He gave Jack a sheepish look over his shoulder. “I installed a keystroke logger when I set up his Wi-Fi.”
Again? Jack wondered how many computers were bugged with those things.
“Swell.”
“Hey, I don’t abuse it, man. I respect his privacy. It just sends me a signal whenever he opens the password manager. That’s the only time I peek.”
Russ hit a few keys and an array of pictures of bin Aswad’s face popped onto the screen. He stared at them a moment, scratching his red hair, then swiveled his chair and faced Jack.
“Who’s this—a terrorist?”
The question jolted Jack. Then he realized that any bearded, turbanned Islamic could look like a terrorist.
“Uh-huh. I’ve joined the CIA.”
Russ laughed. “That’ll be the day. No, seriously.”
“Just a guy I need to find, except there’s a good chance he doesn’t have a beard anymore. Any way you can use some computer magic to remove those whiskers?”
“Remove?” He shook his head. “Not that I know of—at least not that I’ve heard of.”
“I was counting on you having heard of everything.”
“Well, there’s facial-recognition software, but that’s used for comparison—you know, does this face match that one? This is something different.”
“Come on. They’ve got these police identi-kit programs that can put a beard on a face; there’s got to be some program that’ll take it off.”
“It’s not that simple. If you have the underlying facial structure, it’s nothing to add some facial hair to see what he looks like with a beard. But beards, especially these long, raggedy Muslim types, they hide the underlying facial structure—lots of times they hide the lips, f’Christ sake.”
Jack pointed to the screen. “Look, you’ve got multiple angles here, and you can see his lips. Do something.”
“I’ll try, man. That’s all I can say. I’ll check around, see if someone’s come up with an algorithm that’ll work. Can’t promise anything, though.”
“Can’t you write one yourself?”
He laughed as he shook his head. “Oh, man, that’s way above me.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll need something for my time, even if I come up empty.”
Jack was okay with that. Time was life.
He wondered how much of either anyone had left.
2
Finally! Weezy thought as she turned the page and saw the words “Opus Omega.”
The Final Task . . . what she’d found so far gave the impression they thought they’d have it finished before too long. But thousands of years had passed and it still wasn’t completed. Sort of like the very early Christians who thought the Second Coming was just around the corner. Opus Omega’s age was multiples of Christianity’s.
The title read “BEGINNING THE END” and described the dimensions of the pillars, the symbols that had to be engraved on the sides, the size of the opening in the end, and how a living person—the “Sacrifice”—had to be sealed within. She knew all of this from Jack.
Come on, come on, come on, she thought. Tell me something I don’t know.
Then it began to describe the age of the Sacrifice, how he or she couldn’t be too young or too old, but should be in the prime of life. Weezy guessed that was to dodge the possibility of some sick old crone volunteering herself . . . or a family ridding itself of a deformed or severely crippled child. The pillar demanded a healthy male or female.
In other words: with everything to lose.
The message was sick enough, but the dry, matter-of-fact delivery made it worse. Like reciting the rules of baseball.
The batter shall take his position in the batter’s box promptly when it is his time at bat . . .
It described the pattern of column placement—lines of force supposedly ran between all the nexus points, from each one to every other one. A pillar had to be placed wherever three of those lines crossed.
The pillar had to be inserted vertically but did not have to remain in the ground to have its effect. Mere insertion was sufficient to accomplish the purpose—like injecting a toxin.
What purpose? Do damage? To whom or what? The Lady?
But as with so many things within its pages, the Compendium assumed the reader already knew. Then it moved to the order in which the pillars had to be placed.
Weezy straightened in her chair. Here was something new. She’d gathered from Jack and Mr. Veilleur that the pillars were being buried in no particular order.
But as she read on she realized that only the first pillar’s placement mattered. The Final Task had a set starting point. The first pillar had to be inserted at a very specific location called the Null Site. All others could follow in random order, but the first must occupy the Null Site.
Of course, nothing was said of what made the Null Site so special, or why Opus Omega had to start there.
She turned the page and found herself in the middle of a paragraph on some unrelated subject.
She clenched her teeth. Just when she was making progress. So frustrating.
She turned back. Both the pillar and its insertion point shared the same name, a Latin word she knew. It meant “beginning.”
Orsa.
3
Time on his hands.
Gia had taken Vicky to her weekly art lesson down in the West Village. Too early for Julio’s. Didn’t want to interrupt Weezy’s study of the Compendium. Too soon to hear from Russ. He could go hang with Abe or . . .
The photos of the senior Drexler had parked the Septimus Order in Jack’s mind and it wouldn’t budge. Maybe he could get it to move on if he wandered down to the Lodge and checked what the Kickers were doing. Their presence at a Septimus Lodge meant intimate involvement with the Order. But why? Why was the Order interested in them? Unless it was thinking of involving the Kickers in Opus Omega to speed its conclusion.
Might be a good idea to put in an appearance an
yway. He tried to show his face once or twice a week. Hadn’t been there since Monday, so maybe he was due.
So he donned his down-market Kicker clothes, put on the sunglasses and the Mets cap, then hopped a C train downtown. After a couple of switches he emerged from underground and strolled the rest of the way to the Lodge, weaving through the Saturday shoppers like a man with nothing better to do.
When he reached the Lodge he hung around outside, making his cigarettes available. Kewan sidled up and took one. Borrowed Jack’s lighter too.
“So when do we kick some more Dormentalist butt?” he asked as Kewan lit up.
His dark, pocked cheeks puffed as he blew smoke. “Johnny, ain’t you heard? We supposed to leave ’em be.”
“What?” This was news.
“Yeah. Word come down Monday after we got back. We all best friends now. How come you don’t know that? Where you been?”
“Oh, I, um, got a little job doing landscaping in Queens.”
He’d done that when he’d first come to the city so figured it was as good a cover as anything.
“He pay cash?”
Jack nodded. “Every day before we split.”
“Can he use another body?”
Jack shook his head. “Don’t know, but I’ll ask.”
“You do that. ’Cause I’m tired of being busted all the time. And I’m gettin tired of hangin out here.”
“I hear you, man. I—whoa, check this.” A black Bentley was pulling up to the curb. “What do we have here?”
“That Lodge guy again.”
“Lodge guy?”
“One of the peeps that own the place.”
“Oh, someone from the Septimus Order.”
“Yeah, them. I seen him before. Used to stop in every few weeks or so, but he’s been in every day this week.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t know that, seein as how you been out makin money an all.”
A guy from the Order making frequent visits. Had to be Hank Thompson—who else would he care to see? Jack could understand sporadic visits just to make sure the Lodge was being well treated. But every day?
Add that to the sudden cessation of hostilities against the Dormentalists and something was up.
Jack turned back to the Bentley in time to see a door open and a man in a white suit glide from the rear. He carried a black cane that Jack knew was wrapped in rhinoceros hide.
“Holy . . .”
“What? Whassup?”
For a single, frozen heartbeat he was fourteen again. He knew this man . . . Mr. Drexler.
No, make that Ernst Drexler II.
He hadn’t changed much. He looked older—wrinkles at the corners of the eyes, maybe a touch of gray around the temples—but the rest of his hair was still black and slicked back, his blue eyes just as piercing as in 1983.
Afraid he’d be recognized, Jack felt an urge to turn away, but fought it. That would only draw attention. And besides—no way Drexler could recognize him. More than a quarter century had passed. Jack wasn’t a kid anymore, and had a beard. But Drexler . . . still wearing that damn white suit and carrying that same cane.
So Jack watched him stride across the sidewalk and ascend the stone steps without a nod or even a sideways glance to acknowledge that anyone else was about.
Same old Drexler. He remembered some of the elitist crap he’d poured into his ear when he was a kid, little knowing it was running out the other side.
First Eddie, then Weezy, now Ernst Drexler. Jack’s past was taking over his present.
Drexler was a honcho in the Order, and the Order was pulling strings in the Dormentalist Church, and the Dormentalists were heavy into Opus Omega. Could Drexler’s presence have anything to do with—?
“Shit!”
Goren’s words flashed back to him.
I can see someone standing in the background . . . as far back as anyone could be and still be visible . . . wasn’t dressed like the others . . . in a much lighter color . . . seemed to be in white.
“Wussup, John Boy? You look like you just seen a ghost.”
“What? Oh, just some stomach cramps. I gotta go inside.”
Kewan grinned. “Oh, yeah. Don’t wanna be messin your Depends.”
Jack hurried up the steps and inside. As always, he was struck by the huge version of the Order’s sigil embossed on the rear wall of the high-ceilinged foyer.
He arrived in time to see Drexler approach the sigil, then hang a right into the hallway. He followed a ways and saw him step into the third doorway down on the right. Jack entered the hall and passed just as Drexler closed the door behind him. He kept going and was about to enter the bathroom when a Kicker stepped out.
His name was Ansari and he acted as security of sorts. Jack had seen him a few times. He’d started out a regular guy but lately he’d developed a strutting, aggressive mien.
“Where you going?” he said, voice thick with challenge as he blocked the doorway.
“Where you just came from.”
“This ain’t public.”
“Well, I ain’t public,” Jack said with plenty of ’tude as he flashed his faux Kicker tattoo.
Ansari stepped aside.
Jack went into a stall and leaned against the door, wondering what to do. He’d had no plan other than showing his face to keep it familiar and finding out what the Kicker hoi polloi were up to. Sure as hell hadn’t expected to see Ernst Drexler here.
After a few minutes he flushed the toilet and was pushing on the door to the hallway when he heard voices. He eased the door open half an inch for a peek and saw Hank Thompson standing outside Drexler’s door.
“He’s moved,” Thompson said. His voice sounded strange . . . strained.
“How far?”
Jack assumed the accented voice was Drexler’s. A long, long time since he’d heard it, and the accent was lighter, but it had to be him.
“Past the halfway mark. And he’s changed some more. Lots more.”
“Interesting. Let’s go.”
A few seconds later, Drexler, cane in hand, stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. The pair walked off.
Well, that was an enlightening conversation. Who were they talking about?
As they walked away, Jack slipped from the bathroom and followed. They crossed the rear of the foyer and headed down a stairway that Jack knew led to the basement.
He did a quick scan as he entered the foyer. Ansari was talking to someone, looking the other way, so Jack scooted past behind him and took the steps down. The doorway at the bottom was closed. He hesitated, baffled as to what he might find on the other side.
Past the halfway mark . . .
So? Some guy halfway through a PowerPoint presentation? A brunch with the eggs Benedict half gone?
Yeah right.
He pressed his ear against the door and heard nothing. He decided to risk an entry by pretending to be looking for someone. Not Thompson. Someone just a little bit down the food chain.
Knocking as he turned the knob, he said, “Darryl?”
The room was empty except for a couple of folding tables and maybe a dozen chairs. He looked around and spotted another door. When he reached it he listened. More silence. He shrugged and decided to try the same approach as before.
“Dar—?”
The knob wouldn’t turn. Locked. Jack checked the jamb and saw a quarter inch of exposed latch bolt. He fished out the notched credit card he kept in his wallet and stared at it a moment, thinking risky thoughts. One thing to barge into a room pretending to be clueless. Quite another to pop the latch beforehand.
He decided to knock first.
“Hey, anybody in there?”
After two tries and no answer, he worked the corner of the card into the space. He hooked it into the receptacle in the striker plate and twisted, pushing back the spring latch. The door popped open.
“Darryl?” he said as he palmed the card and stepped inside.
A sma
ller room, and empty as expected. But a closet door stood open, and in the floor of that closet, an open trapdoor.
Jack peeked over the edge and saw a circular stairway leading down. He listened and thought he heard voices but they were too faint to understand.
The idea of sneaking down rose but he tossed it. The wrought iron on the circular stair left nowhere to hide. Better to get out of here unseen while he could.
Locking the door behind him, he returned to the main basement room and was almost to the exit when Ansari appeared.
“You again. What’re you doin down here?”
“Looking for Darryl.”
He sneered. “Darryl ain’t here. He’s gone.”
“When’s he due back?”
“He ain’t, leastways not if any of us got something to say about it.”
Here was something unexpected.
“Hey, I ain’t been around since that Dormie thing on Monday”—nice to be able to mention that—“so I got no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You ain’t heard? For a minute there I thought you might be one of his butt buddies.”
“What the—?”
“Guy’s queer. Got the virus—AIDS. He’s outta here. The boss gave him the boot Wednesday. Ain’t seen him since.” His eyes narrowed. “What you want with him?”
“Just checking in.”
Ansari shoved Jack. He probably thought it was a surprise move, but Jack had seen him tense for it. He let it happen and bounced off the wall behind him.
“You are one of his butt buddies, ain’t you!”
So what if I am? Jack felt like saying, but held back. He also held back from putting Ansari face-first on the floor—despite his presenting about half a dozen openings—because he didn’t want an enemy in this place. Well, not another in addition to Thompson, who’d probably try to kill him if he recognized him.
“Hey-hey!” he said, raising open-palm hands and backing away with a cowed expression. “Dude, I just seen him around a lot, is all. Everyone knows Darryl.”
“Yeah, well, not any more they don’t. Better forget about him. Now get your ass upstairs where it belongs.”
“You got it,” Jack said and ducked out the door. “You got it.”
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