by James Swain
“Peter, come with me.”
“Did you see that, Max?”
“Yes. You gave him a hell of a fight.”
“I mean the walking stick. It left my hand on its own accord. Did you see that?”
“Yes, Peter, I saw it.”
“How did I do that?”
“You did it very well. Now come with me, before the police arrive.”
Max pulled his student beneath a shop awning across the street, and hid in the shadows. Two police cruisers pulled up, and the sidewalk in front of Rowe’s apartment turned into a crime scene in the blink of an eye. Max suddenly looked afraid.
“I must get you out of here,” Max said.
“But I need to talk to the police, and tell them what happened,” Peter said.
“No, you don’t. You’ve got to stay away from the police. Let me deal with them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me, it’s for your own good.” His teacher pushed him down the sidewalk toward First Avenue. He did not stop pushing until they’d reached the busy intersection.
“Now go home. I’ll call you later, once the dust has settled,” Max said.
“All right, Max. But first answer my question. How did I do that?”
“I think you know.”
“With my mind? But that’s not possible.”
“For you it is, Peter.”
Peter didn’t understand what Max meant. A psychic’s powers were limited, and did not include mind over matter, or the ability to instantly anticipate what a person was going to do, as he’d done with Wolfe. He’d never heard of such powers before. Across the street he spotted a uniformed cop taking a statement from an eyewitness, who kept pointing in their direction.
Max pushed him. “Go. Before it’s too late.”
Too late for what? Peter had more questions, but the tone of Max’s voice was enough for now, and he hurried up First Avenue, away from the chaos he’d just created.
PART II
THE CHILDREN OF MARBLE
17
With his ears ringing and his vision blurred, Wolfe staggered into his seedy hotel room. He’d ditched the car he’d stolen, and made his way back to where he was staying, through a series of alleys and crowded sidewalks. The police were everywhere, and he’d been lucky to escape their manhunt.
He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed. For a few minutes he stared at the water stains on the ceiling while trying to collect his wits. He was staying in the Hotel Carter on West 43rd Street. A search on Google had shown it to be the worst-rated hotel in Midtown. So far, it had lived up to its reputation. It wasn’t the kind of place where the police would come looking for him. At least, not right away.
His head was throbbing and he went to the bathroom and downed two aspirin with a glass of water. Then he gazed into the mirror above the sink. As a soldier, his speciality had been hand-to-hand combat, although he never would have known it by his reflection. His face was cut up, his left eye nearly shut. On the back of his head was a lump that made him wince every time he touched it, while his left ear looked like a blood sausage. He’d come out on the losing end of this one, that was for sure. The question was, why?
Everything had been on his side, from the element of surprise, to the fact that his opponent didn’t know how to fight. So why had he lost? He could blame it on bad luck, only that was a weakling’s excuse. Something else was going on here, and he was determined to find out what it was.
Sitting on the bed, he pulled his laptop from its case, and powered it up. It was noon, which made it five o’clock back home in England. The British lived for traditions. Tea at four, pubs closing at the stroke of midnight, and other strange rituals that were ingrained in the genes, and would never die. The Order was no different. He was required to contact them every day, rain or shine, come hell or high water, at five in the afternoon their time, regardless of what part of the world he was in, or what he was doing. Sometimes a phone call would do; if he was embedded in a city, as he was now, then it was over the Internet using Skype, which let the Order see and talk to Wolfe via the Web cam on his laptop. A loud beep signaled the connection had gone through. A minute passed.
“Come on, lads, I haven’t got all bloody day,” he grumbled.
A blue light flickered across his laptop’s screen. It expanded until he was staring at the Room of Spirits, a darkened chamber whose walls were covered with mystic signs from ancient Babylon. The room boasted several aquariums filled with poisonous reptiles and venomous snakes that snapped at the glass. Flanking the aquariums were life-size marble statues of the Oracle of Delphi, and the Greek sorceress Medea. It was here that the elders of the Order held séances, and peered into the future.
Three men dressed in black robes sat at a glass table encrypted with Zodiac figures, kabbalistic emblems, and algebraic symbols that pulsated with a life of their own. Each man wore a white plastic mask which covered his face. The elder in the middle addressed him.
“Hello, Major Wolfe. How are we today?”
“I’ve had better days,” Wolfe replied.
“Is something wrong?”
He tilted the laptop so the Web cam captured his damaged face. “See for yourself.”
The elders leaned forward in their chairs to study his face.
“You look rather beat-up,” the middle elder said.
“That would be an understatement. I nearly got bloody killed.”
“By who?”
“That little bastard Peter Warlock did this to me.”
“Did he catch you by surprise?”
“On the contrary. I had him right where I wanted him.” Wolfe paused to let the words sink in, then said what was on his mind. “He’s one of you, isn’t he?”
Clearly upset by his remark, the elders stirred in their chairs.
“What is that supposed to mean?” the elder on the left asked.
“Peter Warlock is more than just a psychic,” Wolfe replied. “He anticipated my every move, and knew exactly what I was thinking. I didn’t stand a chance.”
“You’re making excuses,” the middle elder said accusingly. “Admit it. You blundered.”
Wolfe brought his face inches from the screen. “Listen up, gents. I know when someone’s got my number, and Peter Warlock has it. He got into my head. Every time I tried to take him down, he anticipated what I was going to do. It was like trying to fight against myself.”
“You’re saying he’s different than the others,” the middle elder said.
“Much different.”
“Excuse us for a minute, Major. We need to discuss this.”
“Be my guest.”
The elders began to talk amongst themselves. Not knowing their names, Wolfe had learned to differentiate them by their accents. The elder on the left had attended either Oxford or Cambridge, and spoke like an aristocrat; the middle elder had worked in broadcasting and had what was commonly called a BBC accent; while the elder on the right was a commoner, and spoke with a Cockney bite. Finished, the elders resumed looking at him through the Web cam.
“What about the other names on your list?” the middle elder asked.
“I took out Madame Marie last night,” Wolfe replied. “Afraid there was some collateral damage. Her husband attacked me. No choice but to blow him away.”
“And the others?”
“I had a go at Lester Rowe this morning. That’s when I ran into Warlock.”
“Did you dispose of Rowe?”
“Afraid not.”
“Do you mean to say you’ve only eliminated one psychic so far?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve been in New York three days. This is taking too long.”
“Have I ever let you down?”
“Not yet, Major. But there’s always a first time.”
“I’ll get them all. You have my word.”
“Even Peter Warlock?”
“I’ll run a bloody bus over him if I have to.”
&
nbsp; “Glad to hear it. Give us a timetable for your mission’s completion.”
“I’ll be done in forty-eight hours,” Wolfe replied.
“No sooner?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“How about thirty-six hours?”
Wolfe didn’t like this. Killing people by committee never worked. He made his own decisions, which was why he’d lasted as long in his profession as he had.
“I could, but it would mean a lot more collateral damage.”
“Squeamish?” the elder on the left asked.
“If you want a butcher, go to the meat market.”
“Is that an attempt at sarcasm, Major?”
“Take it any way you please.”
The elders fell silent, clearly displeased.
“Is forty-eight hours the best you can do?” the middle elder asked, breaking the silence.
“Yes, it is,” Wolfe said.
“Very well.”
A breeze passed through the Room of Spirits, causing the elders’ robes to flutter. The circular table began to rotate, and the strange signs etched on the glass glowed like night flies. The elders studied the signs while mumbling to themselves. Finally the table stopped spinning, and the signs lost their glow.
The middle elder addressed Wolfe. “We have reached a decision. It is imperative that you finish your mission. Find the remaining psychics on your list, and do away with them. A forty-eight-hour window is not preferable, but is acceptable. Once you are done, get out of there as fast as possible. Is this understood?”
“Understood.” Wolfe’s finger touched the mouse on his laptop.
“I’m not finished. We are bothered by your lack of resolve, and your defiant attitude. You were recruited into the Order because you’re a soldier, and soldiers do not run in the heat of battle, or question their superiors. Your mettle needs to be tested.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my bloody mettle,” Wolfe snapped.
“We feel otherwise.”
A hissing sound came out of the laptop. Behind where the elders sat, an aquarium wall had lowered, and a giant Burmese python spilled out, and slithered across the floor. Wolfe had encountered a Burmese python while in the army, and knew it was lethal. Jumping into the air, the python burst through the laptop’s screen, courtesy of the elders’ dark magic.
The python landed in his lap. Wolfe grabbed the snake before it could wrap its body around his throat. It was six feet long, and incredibly powerful. Falling onto the floor, he wrestled with the beast, knocking down furniture and causing all sorts of noise. Finally he got the python’s head between his powerful hands, and squeezed until it went limp.
The laptop had fallen on the floor. Its screen was facing him, and he saw the elders nod their approval.
“Good-bye, Major Wolfe,” the middle elder said. “Stay in touch.”
The picture became a pinprick, then disappeared. Wolfe stared at his hands. The python had vanished. In its place was one of his shoes, which had been lying on the floor.
“Bloody arseholes,” he said.
18
Liza was furious. Peter had been gone for hours, and hadn’t responded to her calls or texts. She knew that her boyfriend had mood swings, and often took long walks to clear his head. There was nothing wrong with that, but it wasn’t right that he didn’t stay in touch, especially after the attack at the theater last night.
Fuming, she sat at the kitchen table. Peter was a psychic, and he was also a flake. He hardly seemed to care about her feelings, or what she thought about their relationship. There were times when she wondered if he’d been raised by wolves.
A pad of paper sat on the table. On it she’d written the words Order of Astrum. The man who’d attacked Peter was a member of the Order, and she’d overheard Peter and Detective Schoch talking about them on the stoop. They were the key to the puzzle.
She pulled out her BlackBerry to try and learn more. To her surprise, her Google search turned up nothing but a vague reference on Wikipedia. She decided to call in reinforcements, and dialed Snoop.
“Hey, it’s me,” she said. “You at home?”
“I’m sitting at the bar at the Waverly Inn watching the beautiful ladies,” Snoop replied.
“I have a favor to ask. Can you meet me at Peter’s place?”
“I’m game. The girl I was hitting on just blew me off.”
“Her loss. Do you still have that hot laptop you told me about?”
“Hot isn’t the word. It’s steaming.”
“It can’t be traced back to you, can it?”
“Not in a hundred years. What have you got in mind?”
Liza stared at the pad. If the Order of Astrum was sending assassins out to kill people, then some government agency had to know about them.
“I want you to hack a government mainframe,” she replied.
“Yipes. Which one?”
She had to think. Secret Service? No. CIA? Not them, either.
“FBI,” she said.
“Now you’re talking. I’ll grab the laptop from my apartment.”
“Thanks, Snoop. I owe you big time.”
Liza ended the call. She assumed that breaking into the FBI’s computer was a federal offense, punishable by jail time, waterboarding, and who knew what else, yet she had no qualms about doing it. Peter was in danger, and she was going to find out why.
She fixed a pot of coffee while waiting for Snoop. When it came to hacking, Snoop had few peers. At fourteen, he’d gotten caught downloading a hundred thousand music files off the Internet, which he’d distributed to his entire high school class. At sixteen, he’d been tagged for breaking into a dozen Fortune 500 companies. At nineteen, he’d hit for the cycle, and been arrested for hacking three government servers deemed impenetrable. When a judge had asked him why he’d done it, Snoop had replied, “Because they’re there, Your Honor.” Snoop had never hidden his past. If anything, he was proud of his accomplishments, and boasted that there wasn’t a computer in the world whose defenses he couldn’t penetrate. Liza hoped he was right, because it was the only way she was going to find out what was going on.
The front buzzer rang. She bounded down the hall and opened the door.
“That was fast.”
Snoop entered with a shoulder bag draped over his shoulder. His hair hung in his face like a shaggy dog’s, and his purple sneakers were untied. They walked down the hall to the kitchen. Taking a Dell Latitude laptop from the bag, he placed it on the table.
“So who’s our target?” he asked.
“I told you—I want you to hack the FBI.”
“I thought you were kidding.”
“Afraid not. Is that a problem?”
Snoop picked up the coffee mug Liza had set for him, and sipped the steaming brew. “Depends on what your definition of problem is. Is spending ten years of your life making license plates inside a federal prison a problem?”
“You can back out if you want to.”
“Me? Back out? Never. But we need to take precautions. The FBI doesn’t screw around. Once they realize we’ve hacked their computer, they’ll come after us.”
“I thought a hot laptop couldn’t be traced.”
“It can’t be traced to me, but it still can be located. The FBI has developed a special tracing system which allows them to lay an invisible thread into a hacker’s computer,” Snoop explained. “That thread lets them pinpoint a hacker’s location anywhere in the world. I found out the hard way when I was in college. I wanted to find out what the FBI knew about Roswell, so I hacked their computer. Ten minutes after I’d signed off, an SUV with tinted windows pulled up to my dorm, and four guys in black suits came and arrested me.”
“The men in black ran you down? Come on, be serious.”
“I am being serious.”
Liza drank her coffee. Snoop looked nervous. That was hardly like him.
“Look, I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me,” she said. “Just show me how to ge
t into the FBI’s mainframe, and I’ll take care of this myself.”
“That could take years. I’ll get us in, but on my terms. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Snoop drained his cup and returned the laptop to his shoulder bag. “There’s a sports bar on Second Avenue called Ball Four that has Wi-Fi and roasted peanuts. We’ll go there.”
“Why not use the Internet here? It’s secure.”
“Nothing’s secure on the Internet. Besides, I like peanuts.”
He left the kitchen before Liza could reply. A moment later, the front door banged open. She got the hint, and hurried to catch up.
* * *
Ball Four had all the charm of a college frat house. Liza got two Cokes and a bowl of roasted peanuts from the bar, and brought them to the corner booth where Snoop sat typing. His boyish features were a study in concentration, his fingers a blur.
“Someday, you’re going to have to explain how you hack a computer,” she said.
“Hacking isn’t as hard as you think,” he said. “Most passwords use lowercase letters, and the numbers zero through nine, or thirty-six total characters. A five-character password has a total of sixty million possibilities. I can run a sixty-million simulation on my software program in five minutes.”
“It can’t really be that simple.”
“It just takes practice.”
He fell silent, and continued to work his magic on the laptop.
“Okay, I’ve broken through the FBI’s firewall and bypassed the security system,” he said. “With one click, I’ll be inside the mainframe. Now, what are we looking for?”
“The Order of Astrum.”
“Didn’t the guy who attacked Peter belong to that group?”
“Yup. I need to find out who they are.”
“Does Peter know about this? You know how he gets when we do things and don’t tell him.”
Liza thought back to Peter’s shocking revelation of this morning. It had felt like a betrayal, and she had to know what else her boyfriend was hiding.
“Do it anyway,” she said.
“Whatever you say. Once I log in, you’ve got ten minutes to find what you’re looking for. Then we get out of here. Agreed?”