by James Frey
An rolls over and they see his face. The tattooed tears. “That’s him,” Aisling says.
“According to Wi-Fi, he’s been busy,” Marrs says. “Hacked Google, Twitter, Facebook, Anonymous, Dropbox, Instagram, the NSA, the DIA, the CIA, the NGA, NASA, Russia’s FSB, MI6, Israel’s Unit Eight-Two Hundred, China’s MSS, and god-knows-what else.”
“She’s already in his system?” Aisling asks.
“No, that’s based on visual. To get into his system, we’ll have to go in and physically tap it.”
“So we wait for him to leave,” Jordan says.
“He’ll only leave if he’s never coming back is my guess,” Aisling says. “No. We have to take him out.”
“I agree,” McCloskey says from the floor.
“Good old McCloskey, always ready to jump in feetfirst,” Jordan says.
McCloskey stands and stretches. “Pop! One shot and out.”
“I’d take that shot with a smile on my face,” Aisling says.
“I don’t know, man,” Marrs interjects. “We might want to get in his computers first. Wi-Fi thinks he has some choice intel.”
“Can we talk to her?” Pop asks.
Jordan shakes his head. “No. KFE protocol is to shut the hell up when they’re casing. I can have her move to comm distance, though.”
Aisling considers it, but then says, “You sure they can get in there without Liu knowing?”
McCloskey says, “KFE could climb up a kitten’s asshole without it knowing.”
“Thanks for that image, McCloskey,” Aisling says.
Pop ignores the joke. “We could sedate him and check his intelligence to see if it’s developed enough. If it is, we kill him. If it isn’t, we let him wake up and carry on.”
McCloskey shakes her head adamantly. “We’ve had a shit ton of experience with serums. No matter how engineered they are, the mark knows something was done to him. Remember that kid in Bahrain?”
Jordan rolls his eyes. “Farouq al-Nani?”
“Old Two-Left-Feet Farouq,” Marrs says. “Couldn’t walk a straight line for six months after we hit him with that cocktail.”
Aisling clicks her tongue. “I agree that sedation is too risky. Besides, I want to see KFE in action. I mean, they are going to be my personal black-ops super death squad, right, Jordan?”
“Damn right they are.”
“Can they go in tonight?” Aisling asks.
“They can go in in two minutes, if you want,” Jordan answers confidently.
Aisling shakes her head. “I think we should all be there on support. I’ll take a cover sniper position on this building to the west, and you guys can split up to block the roads off the island north and south—just in case it gets hairy. Otherwise, let’s get KFE on the horn, and let’s see what these badasses of yours—I mean, ours—can do.”
My blood will I take and bone will I fashion
I will make man, that man may
I will create man who shall inhabit the earth,
That the service of the gods may be established, and that their shrines may be built.
But I will alter the ways of the gods, and I will change their paths;
Together shall they be oppressed and unto evil shall they . . .
And Ea answered him and spake the word:
. . . the . . . of the gods I have changed
. . . and one . . .
. . . shall be destroyed and men will I . . .
. . . and the gods . . .
. . . and they . . .
HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT
The Vyctory Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas, Nevada, United States
Stella’s message comes at the appointed time. A young porter delivers it and disappears down the hallway. Hilal opens the envelope. The single sheet inside reads, Tell the clerk with the yellow flower “Our mutual friend is Rima Subotic.”
Cryptic but straightforward. Hilal likes it. Gets his canes, burns the message, and leaves Caesars. He will walk to the Vyctory.
The streets are not as empty as they were on his first night. As Hilal travels the Strip, he passes makeshift kiosks that hawkers and madmen and entrepreneurs have set up on the sidewalk. Their signs say things like: Are YOU Prepared? and How to Make Sure You Have Water! and Your DOG and Your GUN Will Be Your Best Friends and one sign that simply says How to Kill.
A man stops Hilal and literally tries to sell him salvation: “An investment in the Lord Jesus Christ, on the Day of Judgment, when the sky turns black and the rivers run with blood, and what comes after!”
Hilal admires the man’s pluck but tells him he is not interested and leaves the man behind. After 15 minutes, Hilal reaches his destination. He pauses in the street. The Vyctory hotelxi is a 75-story mirrored cone that reflects the skyline and the mountains and the clouds and the sun. The word Vyctory is emblazoned vertically over the southernmost side, covering more than half of the lower floors.
Hilal passes a cordon of armored vehicles belonging to a private security force and goes into the ornate lobby, the plush red carpeting, the warm lighting, the glass chandeliers of all colors and shapes. The place is busier than Caesars but not hectic.
Hilal pulls the device from his satchel and holds it overhead. And there, almost directly above him, is the caduceus marking Wayland Vyctory.
Hilal eyes the clerks. None wear yellow flowers. In fact, there is a dearth of flowers in the whole lobby. If this Rima Subotic person is his key to reaching Ea, then he will just ask another clerk for help. He walks to the main desk and picks an Asian woman in her late 40s, her long hair pulled into a tight bun on top of her head. She has red lips and dark eyes. The name on her tag says CINDY.
“Hello, Cindy,” Hilal says. She was engrossed with something under the hood of the desk—a computer, her phone—and didn’t notice him.
“Hell—oh!” She brings her fingertips to her lips and breathes in sharply.
“I am sorry for my appearance.”
“No, it’s . . . I mean, I wasn’t expecting . . .”
Hilal waves his hand. “Think nothing of it.”
“Are you checking in?”
“No. But there is someone here I wish to see.”
Cindy punches something into her keyboard. “Very well. Room number?”
“I don’t know it. Her name is Rima Subotic. She is a friend.”
Cindy looks left then right before whispering. “You want to see Ms. Subotic?”
“Yes,” Hilal says simply. Apparently people do not ask to see Rima Subotic—or, he guesses, Wayland Vyctory.
Cindy straightens. “I’m sorry, but that’s not possible.”
“Yes, Cindy, it is. When she learns I am here, it will absolutely be possible.”
She shakes her head. Punches something else into her keyboard. Hilal notes some movement in his periphery.
Security.
“Anyway, Ms. Subotic isn’t here at the moment.”
Cindy is an awful liar.
Hilal’s voice is low, gravelly, ominous-sounding. “I know that is not true. I can assure you that she will want to see me, and I can assume that her boss—your boss—will not be happy when he finds out that you tried to shoo me away.”
Cindy looks up. She is clearly scared.
Security gets closer.
“My name is Hilal ibn Isa al-Salt, the Aksumite. A mutual friend sent me to see Ms. Subotic. Tell her that. Understand?”
She nods slowly. Holds up a hand.
Security stops moving in.
Cindy makes the call from a phone out of earshot. She hangs up. “Wait here, Mr. al-Salt.”
“Thank you, Cindy.”
Three minutes later two very large guards appear. Without saying a word they take Hilal to the bank of elevators past reception. They escort him to a private carriage at the end of the hall that they access with an old-fashioned brass key. It has two buttons on the silver panel: UP and DOWN. The bigger of the two guards—a man who Hilal estimates to be 202 centimeters in height and 127 kil
ograms in weight—presses UP. The other man indicates that Hilal should raise his arms in order to be searched.
Hilal does so.
The carriage begins a fast ascent.
The guard checks Hilal’s satchel, ignores the bundles of cash, and holds up the device from the ark.
“Do either of you speak?”
One of the guards shakes his head, opens his mouth.
His tongue has been cut out.
Hilal nods. “You’re Mr. Vyctory’s Nethinim, yes?”
Without so much as a hint of surprise, the guard nods. He shakes the device.
“I am here to present this prize to Mr. Vyctory. It is harmless. You can hold it if you wish, but you must hand it to him when I say so.”
Expressionless, the guard slides it into one of his pockets.
The elevator comes to an abrupt stop. The doors open. Hilal is ushered into a bright white foyer, a single table on the far wall, on it a vase exploding with yellow lilies. Mounted on the wall behind the flowers is a photograph of deep space. Hilal recognizes it as one taken by the Hubble Space Telescope. The guard frisks Hilal, starting at his feet. He removes Hilal’s machetes and hands them to his counterpart, and continues up to Hilal’s chest, feeling the thing under his shirt. His eyes widen and grow fearful. He grabs the collar of Hilal’s top and rips it open, revealing the Breastplate of Aaron.
Hilal says, “It is not—”
“What you think,” an androgynous voice says, cutting Hilal off. “It’s quite benign, Kaneem. A memento from a bygone age.”
A tall woman ambles through the doorway on the left. The woman’s skin is relentlessly pale, as if it has never seen the light of day, and its paleness is accentuated by her black, silky, straight hair. Her eyes are larger than usual, as if they have also spent countless hours in the dark and have grown bigger in order to take in more light. She is svelte, graceful, as young as 25 or as old as 50. She is dressed in a form-fitting light-green business suit, a thin red belt hugging her waist. Silver flat-soled shoes. No jewelry of any kind.
If Hilal didn’t know better, he would think that she was part alien.
He bows to the woman. “Miss Rima Subotic, I assume?”
“Yes, Aksumite,” she says. “Please, state your business.”
Hilal understands that as Stella’s mole, Rima must keep up appearances. He plays along. “Ms. Subotic, I humbly present myself to you. A Player of Endgame, the member of the Aksumite line. I bring a gift for the Lord Seer and Father, the Chief Scion of the Old Order, the Heliach. I bring him a most unexpected gift.”
Subotic betrays no emotion. Joins her hands at her waist. “Why should I believe you, Aksumite?”
Hilal keeps his head low, watches the floor at the woman’s silver-shoed feet. “This is your choice, sister, whether to believe me or not. But I come here because I know that our Lord Seer, he who is called Ea, would like to participate in the Great Puzzle.”
“And how would you propose he do that?”
“Please, Nethinim, show Ms. Subotic what I have brought.”
The woman holds out her hand, and Kaneem hands her the device. She takes it, turns it over, runs her fingers over it. It does not function for her.
“What is this?”
“It is from our master’s long-lost cousins. My line opened the Ark of the Covenant with the Makers, and this was inside.” The woman’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t speak. Hilal thinks, She’s good. Convincing. “It will enable Ea to communicate with his brethren, and help him see that the game ends however he wishes it to end. Here. Let me show you.”
Hilal holds out his hand. The woman passes it to him, and immediately it glows to life, showing the bottomless well of stars and space. He swings it toward one of the doors, and the caduceus comes into view. “That is Ea,” Hilal says. He moves it so that its heading is 236˚ 34' 56". The throbbing orange ball fills the screen. “That is Sky Key.”
The woman gives Hilal a mischievous smile, takes the device back from him. It falls into darkness. “So you used this to find Master Vyctory?”
“Yes.” Hilal doesn’t dare mention Stella or the other caduceus that marks her. Nor does Subotic.
“All right, Aksumite, you have earned your audience, but it will be closely monitored.”
“Naturally.”
She makes a perfunctory bow. “You can keep on the witch doctor’s vest”—she points a disturbingly long index finger at the Breastplate of Aaron—“but the canes will have to stay.”
Perhaps too convincing. Doesn’t she know that if I am to succeed, I must be allowed to keep them?
“Ms. Subotic, look at me. I was nearly killed by a pair of Players not long ago. I need my canes.”
Rima Subotic shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but they could be used as weapons. As you and I both know, your line excels at a martial-art form of stick fighting, am I right?”
“Yes, although I prefer my machetes, which this man has already taken. Please, you are free to inspect them,” Hilal says confidently. “They are harmless.”
Rima Subotic gives the unnamed Nethinim a curt nod. He takes the canes and disappears for nearly four minutes. Hilal leans uncomfortably against the elevator doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
The man reappears. He hands the canes to Rima Subotic.
Nods.
She looks at them. “They’re clear, Aksumite.”
“I know.”
She runs her fingers over the carvings, over the vacant eyes. “Snake heads, hm?”
Hilal smiles. “Did the snake not tempt man?”
She passes Hilal his canes. “Yes, he did, Brother al-Salt.”
Subotic presses a series of unmarked points on the wall, a hidden panel beneath glowing red then green then purple then blue then white. The door hisses open, sliding away. Another white room beyond.
“Now please, Aksumite. Follow me. Master Vyctory awaits.”
xii
AISLING KOPP, AN LIU, KILO FOXTROT ECHO
Shang Warehouse, 3 Chome-7-19 Shinkiba, Kt-Ku, Tokyo Port, Japan
It is 4:17 a.m.
Aisling lies prone on the roof of a two-story building one block west of An’s warehouse. She holds her beloved bolt-action sniper rifle, the Brügger & Thomet APR308, a barrel-like silencer screwed onto the muzzle. She has on a black jumpsuit guarding her from the cool wind blowing off the water. She has unobstructed sight lines of the streets to the south, east, and north. To her right is a high wall she can vault over and take cover behind. To her back, 75 feet away, is the edge of the building, which dives straight down into the water.
Over her left eye is a Griffin Marrs–modified Google Glass monocle mounted on a hinge.
She flicks through video uplinks on the monocle. Charnel is opposite from her, bearing 85˚ 42' 39", 716 feet away, covering the eastern side of An’s warehouse with his own sniper rifle, a suppressed M91A2. Clov and Hamm are on the roof of An’s warehouse, each sighting An’s slumbering body from opposite sides, ready to rappel into the warehouse if needed.
Duck, the demolitions and communications expert, is covering the bay doors from the street. Zealot is covering the rear exit in a back alley. Skyline is assisting Wi-Fi. Wi-Fi, clad completely in black, is already hanging on the line that dangles inside An Liu’s domain.
Aisling flicks two more times. Sees Marrs’s array of computers. He’s in a van several blocks to the north. Jordan’s with him. Flicks again. Sees Pop, his hands folded serenely over the top of an M4 carbine in the passenger seat of another van, this one several blocks to the south, McCloskey at the wheel.
Jordan’s voice comes over Aisling’s earpiece. “All units double-check sync time. Nineteen seventeen and thirty-five seconds Zulu.”
Aisling checks: 19:17:35 and ticking.
“One click from all units for go.”
Aisling clicks her monocle—her note is F-sharp—and hears the distinctive, multitoned clicks of the others.
“Roger. All counted, all ready. This is
a go on Shang. Repeat, go on Shang.”
An’s sleeping body is curled and turned to the wall, his fingertips gracing the strands of Chiyoko’s hair and her shriveled ears.
Wi-Fi descends from the ceiling. She lands bottom-first on the floor without a sound. She unclips her rappel line and flips onto her stomach and edges forward. She reaches An’s desk, slides under it, finds the slumbering Mac Pro that acts as the central station for all of An’s computers.
Wi-Fi pulls a black box no bigger than a pack of cigarettes from a pocket on her thigh. Grabs a roll of soft plastic from a pocket on the other thigh. Props herself on her elbows and gets to work. The black box is a very small and very powerful solid-state computer. She takes the only cord leading from it and carefully plugs it into the Mac Pro’s high-speed data port. Wi-Fi’s little black box is programmed with a special protocol that will not wake up the tapped system: the Mac Pro continues to sleep.
She unrolls the soft pad of plastic. A silent keyboard.
She types. The black box works. She sees the display in her monocle. She establishes the uplink. From his perch in the communications van, Marrs scours An’s system, transferring as many files as he can until he hits pay dirt: the video An recorded and the accompanying information he gathered on the remaining Players of Endgame.
A seagull cuts over Aisling as she watches Wi-Fi’s feed. Once she’s established the link, Wi-Fi sits cross-legged under the desk and draws an HK Mark 23, also silenced, and levels it squarely at the center of An Liu’s back, a faint dot marking his spine and lung. Aisling watches as An’s shoulders rise and fall under a thin dark sheet.
Aisling and Wi-Fi and all of Kilo Foxtrot Echo wait.
Wait for Marrs to do his thing.
An Liu dreams of Chiyoko. She is alive, swimming in black inky water, her hair cut haphazardly, her ears missing, her lips smiling, her head and neck and white round shoulders the only part of her that are visible. A breeze pushes across the water’s surface, causing little ripples. Chiyoko’s face fills with alarm. She raises an arm. Goose bumps speckle her shoulders. She points. Opens her mouth and screams.