The apartment! The job offer! My generous benefactor! I’d forgotten all about them all. I look down at my destroyed shoes and feel a pang of sorrow. “Is he...” I begin.
“Who?” Eve asks.
“You know who,” I say.
“Oh.” She hooks her arm in mine and leads me on. “Yes, he is one of us. But don’t feel bad! His job offer is totally genuine. If everything goes well tonight, there’s a real job, with a salary containing many zeros, waiting for you at a certain online retail giant.”
“I don’t want it now,” I pout.
“Why not?” Eve is surprised.
“Now that I know somebody has already built my Megalytic machine? What’s the point?”
“You could build a better one,” Eve suggest.
“It’s not the same as building the original.”
“No, maybe not–”
“But the airport,” I interrupt, trying to keep the conversation on track. “That car. The dress. The chase. Was any of that real?”
“All of it,” Eve throws up her arms. “Well, some of it. We had fair warning. From Junior. We were able to clear the streets, so no one got hurt. And we made sure you had a very fast car.”
“I didn’t know I could drive like that.”
“After all those late nights playing video games in your dorm room? Don’t you remember who introduced you to Gran Turismo?”
I do now. Sitting on the end of Logan’s bed, playing against his girlfriend on his tiny flat panel. “Oh no! The helicopter!” I remember.
“Don’t worry, they’re fine. Turns out the East River isn’t such a bad place to crash.”
“But the Lincoln Tunnel? All those cops? How’d you pull that off?”
“That might not totally have been on the up-and-up.”
“And the police station?”
“Yeah, not a police station.” Eve admits. “Didn’t you recognize it? I think they film NCIS there.”
“I wasn’t exactly focusing on the décor,” I say.
“It had to be a film set. We needed the steam tunnel into the bank. And those were our cops outside on the street. And actors playing the bank customers.”
“And the guns?” I ask.
“Loaded with blanks, I assure you.”
“Then up to rooftop. And the helicopter.”
“Again, like the airport, there was a 100 percent chance that things ended up at the helicopter.”
“But you-” Just thinking about it makes the horrid feeling in the pit of my stomach return. “You fell.”
“Toward an air cushion painted to look like the street. It was a tricky stunt, but I’d had plenty of practice. The helicopter was supposed to fly you to where we’re heading now – to the Trade Center Memorial Site.”
“But I jumped.”
“You jumped.”
“Why’d I do that?” Even after-the-fact, I have no idea why.
“It was always a possibility. The Rubric predicted it. We were prepared for the eventuality. But it meant your capture by Tusk’s men was all but inevitable.”
“But why?” I say again.
“Junior calculated there was a-” Eve begins to explain.
“No,” I cut her off. “Why did you make me believe you fell? I...I was devastated.” I could see nothing wrong with telling her the truth. Not at this juncture.
“Ah,” Eve sighs. “That right mix of romantic entanglement and personal peril, remember? That was always Junior’s goal. And what’s more entangling than a beautiful love interest? The memory of a lost one?”
“That’s horrible.”
“But affective.”
“But you weren’t really going to be dead.”
“No, of course not. We’re not monsters.”
“But I messed all that up, when I took the baseball instead of the letter opener?”
“Totally. That was completely outside the scope of the Rubric. There was no eventuality in Junior’s calculations where you stole an autographed baseball and were able to use it to escape. I mean, exactly how did you do it?”
“It was dumb luck, really,” I shrug.
“Yeah, well, I guess even Junior can’t compensate for the dumb luck factor.”
We fall into silence, walking side-by-side along the path. The stillness of the night is punctuated by the occasional passing siren or a sudden, thundering explosion.
“There’s still one thing I don’t get,” I say, breaking the silence.
“What’s that?” Eve looks at me.
“What was the deal with all the outfits?” I ask, laughing.
Eve laughs too. “Well, Junior was hazy on your exact fantasy. The odds were evenly spread. So we figured, we’d give you some options, see which one worked best.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“But the girl in the elevator? With the Funyuns?”
“Well, you do have a doctorate in mathematics. There was more than an outside chance that you were...you know, an inhaler pumper.”
“That’s just stupid,” I dismiss.
“You have to understand, we were working under critical time pressure-” Eve begins.
“No, I mean, why go to the trouble?”
“Huh?” Eve isn’t understanding my point.
“I mean...” I wave at Eve in a ‘look at you’ sort of fashion. She still doesn’t get it. “Come on, just you. Like this. Right now. What guy are you NOT his fantasy?”
Eve stops and gets a queer look on her face. There’s that fire in her eyes again. I stop, keeping my distance. I can’t tell if she’s flattered or angry.
She takes a step toward me and leans in. I’m looking down into those burning eyes. “You know, you’re sort of cute yourself,” she says.
I lean in too. She tilts her head slightly to the side. I’m going in for the kiss...
...and all hell breaks loose. The feeling of déjà vu is unmistakable. The remaining helicopter, from the chase along the FDR, pops up out of nowhere. It’s kicking up dust and blowing over shrubs.
Eve and I look at it in terror, hanging on to each other. “No chance this is all part of some Rubric?” I ask.
“Not on your life!” Eve answers. “Run!”
Chapter 21
We don’t make it three steps before we’re hugging the trestles. The helicopter comes in low and fast, kicking up a great storm of dust and garbage. It passes overhead, climbs and does a great arc in the night’s sky before us.
Back on our feet, we run to the railing of the park. An empty street is right below us, but it’s a long drop. We peer down over the edge, warily.
The helicopter banks around.
Then a glimmer of hope. A military truck pulls out from underneath us. It rolls to a halt at a stop sign. The opportunity is just too good to pass up. Eve and I quickly scramble over the railing.
“Ready?” I ask Eve, the toes of my handmade shoes slipping dangerously off the steel of the railing.
“Ready!” Eve replies. And we both jump. We hit the canvas top of the bus truck. Eve manages to keep her footing. I fall forward and roll. I run out of truck and go feet first over the side.
I end up in a heap on the blacktop. Eve leaps down gracefully beside me. We can already see the lights of police cars approaching.
The helicopter whooshes overhead.
“We need to get off the street!” Eve is up and running. I painfully pull myself up off the ground. She runs toward a gleam of neon, pointing down an alley. I run after her.
As we dodge down the alley, I look back at the approaching cars. I can see the familiar shape of a black SUV leading the pack.
The neon leads us down the alley to a velvet rope and an impossibly large doorman. It’s a night club, still very much in business. Now that the helicopter has pulled away, I can clearly hear the thumping base track emanating from behind the closed door.
The doorman takes one look at Eve and unclips the velvet rope. Is it always this easy for girls to get into a club?
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I follow. The doorman doesn’t stop me.
Inside, it’s deafeningly loud. Everyone and everything is cast in a garish purple hue. The club is packed, wall-to-wall. It looks like one hell of a party. Two steps in and we’re already invisible in the crowd.
“Dance!” Eve screams at me, over the thunderous beats. She starts doing so herself. She is, of course, excellent at it. I, on the other hand, am a mathematician. I make a weak attempt.
As I’m doing my best two-step, I notice the three agents in dark glasses enter the club. I nudge Eve. She nods.
We start dancing toward the back of the club.
We soon run out of dance floor. The agents spread out, pushing their way through the dense, human mass. They’re scanning the room, searching, their bodies remarkably unmoved by the pumping bass. Even in the purple light, they keep their mirrored aviator shades on. How can they see anything?
Unable to boogie our way to freedom, Eve and I dodge under a VIP rope. Again, the large bouncer with the ear-piece barely pays us any attention. In amongst the garishly dressed VIP’s, we find a place to sit on a large, overstuffed couch. We scoop up a couple of forgotten glasses of champagne and try to make ourselves look like we belong there.
It’s only then that I notice that every other couple in the VIP section is engaged in some form of making out. We seem to have pushed our way into the smooching section. As one of the agents closes in, I panic. There’s no where left to run. We’re at a dead end.
Then, without warning, Eve grabs me around the neck. She plants a kiss on me, her face square into mine. It’s nice. Perfect, even. Her lips taste like beer and Funyuns. It takes me back to our first meeting – or reunion, I guess – back in the elevator, descending from the penthouse. I realize that was just a few hours ago. It seems like another lifetime.
The kiss goes on long after the agent has passed us by. I sort of hope it never ends.
When we finally break apart, Eve looks at me sheepishly. I can only imagine the dumbfounded look on my face.
Then Eve cracks a smile, chuckles, and slaps me affectionately on the chest. “How’s that for romantic entanglement and personal peril, huh? Figured out how to save the world yet?”
I shake my head, dizzy. “No, sorry. Maybe if we try it again?” I lean in for another kiss.
“Easy,” Eve pushes me back. Something across the room has caught her attention. “I think that perhaps we’ve overstayed our welcome.”
And like that, the thumping bass cuts out. I turn my head to see one of the agents holding his badge up to the DJ. There’s a pop, then the purple haze turns into a garish, florescent white.
Suddenly, everyone in the club is screaming, angry, pushing and shoving, demanding explanations from anyone who might have one. Even the denizens of the VIP section look up from their canoodling, blinking into the bright light.
Note to future generations, if there ever are any: Don’t try and shutdown an end-of-the-world party. People don’t take it well. And they’ve got nothing to lose.
The agent up on the stage – the one who’d told the DJ to turn the music off – doesn’t see the beer bottle until it’s too late. It hits him in the side of the head, knocking off his dark glasses. After that, there’s a great rush of bodies toward the front of the club and a great deal of screaming and shouting. Eve and I are already leaping over the VIP rope, and we sprint for the club’s only fire exit. Just as we clear the back door, the familiar boom of the bass speakers returns, thumping over the collective cheers of the crowd.
But we’re outside now, in the cool of the night. The street is empty, silent.
“Do you think they’ll be okay?” I ask, looking back at the fire door. I can barely make out the noise of bass track through the closed doors.
“Who cares?” Eve dismisses. I look at her. “They’ll be fine,” she adds, realizing she’s being callous. “They have guns and badges. We’ve got work to do.”
“How much further is it?” I ask. We’re somewhere in Greenwich Village, even I’m able to recognize the neighborhood.
“Not far to go now,” Eve says, taking my hand. “But we’d better hurry.”
“We’ll never make it on foot,” I pull her back, holding her hand tight. “Not with that helicopter.”
Eve doesn’t fight me. She knows I’m right. She’s thinking. Then her ears pique up. She can hear something. “No, but what if we catch a ride?”
She’s running again, pulling me by the hand.
It’s my turn not to fight her.
Chapter 21
There’s a fire truck rolling down the avenue, sirens blaring and lights flashing. When it slows down at the intersection to blow through a red light, Eve and I sprint up and leap onto the back. The fire truck accelerates almost instantly, hurrying off south toward whatever emergency called it out. I almost fall off, but Eve puts an arm around me.
We’re making good time. And we’re almost totally invisible from the air.
As we speed along the city streets of Lower Manhattan. I sneak a peek forward and can see the Freedom Tower in the distance. We’re almost there.
Then, as suddenly as it had accelerated, the truck slows. It’s tires lock and squeal to a halt. Eve is squashed between me and the red fire truck as we both struggle to hang on.
Voices are screaming. There’s the sound of breaking glass. Then the soft whoosh of something, followed by a loud bang. Almost instantly, the smell and taste of teargas hits me. I’m coughing, pulling my hoodie over my mouth.
Eve and I leap down from the trunk. Coming around the side, we see what made the truck hit its brakes: a large barricade of shopping carts, tires and jersey barriers blocking Canal Street in front of us. A block down, there’s a phalanx of police in riot gear. Near us, a mob of masked men are tossing rocks.
We’d stumbled into the middle of a real riot.
There’s another soft whoosh, and I watch a teargas canister arc toward us, spewing pink smoke. It hits the ground near my feet, skipping and coming to rest against the curb. A man in a gas mask sprints toward it, scoops it up and tosses it back toward the police line. But the dose of gas is more than enough to really get the tears going. Eve and I double over in retching fits.
“Run!” I splutter and point past the barricade. Eve nods and shuffles off, doubled over, in that direction. I follow, as do many men throwing rocks.
I think they were waiting for somebody, anybody, to start the advance on the police line. Eve and I inadvertently get things going, trying to cross the street and head south. A battle cry raises up from the rioters. They are met by the sound of truncheons thumping on riot shields.
Then, both sides are in full charge, sprinting toward each other. They collide in the middle of the block. A battle royale.
Eve and I don’t wait around to see who wins. We’re running south through TriBeCa, wiping our eyes and trying to clear our lungs.
We make it almost to City Hall before the world comes crashing down around us.
We’re sprinting down Broadway when we spy the first black SUV, turning off Park Place. We do a 180, running back toward the riot, when a second SUV turns right off Warren. We start east down Murrey, but three cars are already waiting there. We’re boxed in.
Before we can react, the SUV’s have formed a circle around us.
I’m panting, out of breath, still recovering from the teargas. I want to fight. But with what? Only then do I remember I left the gun back in Logan’s apartment.
The back passenger door of the SUV before us cracks open. A shiny loafer and a well-tailored trouser leg appears. I’m half expecting President Tusk to step out. Instead, a small, less orange man climbs out of the car.
“Logan?” I ask in disbelief.
I look down at the object in his hand. Yep, there’s my gun.
“Roddy,” Logan says, giving me a nod. I can’t help but notice the gun is pointed at me.
I look at Eve. Is this another one of her games? But she looks as flabbergasted as me.
“Surprised to see me again so soon?” Logan asks.
“Surprised to see you pointing a gun at me,” I answer. From the other cars, dozens of agents appear holding assault rifles. “Care to explain what’s going on?”
“It’s simple enough, my old mate,” Logan smiles. “You didn’t think that the Second Foundation was the only organization with a mole at Cal-Tech, keeping an eye on things, did you?” He points at Eve with the gun. “The young kids think they’re so smart, but we already knew about you, Gant, years before they did.”
“You mean, you’re a-” I can hardly say it. “You mean you’re a Mason?” I accuse.
“I told you, mate, we run everything.”
“No, that’s not possible...” Eve shakes her head.
“Sorry, Stacy, love. It was nothing personal.”
I’m angry. “You bastard.”
“No! No!” Logan correct. “Certainly not a bastard. You see Roderic, my friend, I’m not just WITH the First Foundation. I AM the First Foundation. A direct, blood descendant of Meyer Rothschild himself. The big cheese, so to speak. All this – everything that’s happened this evening – has been my doing. You thought that President Tusk was the First Foundation’s top agent,” Logan laughs maniacally. “Well, you were wrong, my friend. Very wrong.”
Logan is talking, but I’m not really listening. It’s all like some strange dream. I feel like I’m floating above myself, watching the conversation happen. Logan? A Rothschild? A mole, planted in my dorm room to spy on me, all those years ago? Our whole friendship just a pretense to keep tabs on me?
Logan’s lips are moving, but I’m looking at the gun. My gun. The gun I’d once pointed at him, now points back at me. There’s a weird, perfect symmetry to the whole situation.
Then something inside my brain clicks. A rotor turns or a lever snaps closed. My eyes grow very wide, and I suddenly can’t open my mouth fast enough.
“I know how to fix it!” I blurt. “I understand it now!”
“Do you mind!” Logan bellows back. “I’m sort of having a moment here!” His grip shifts on the handgun uncomfortably.
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