I wasn’t surprised by any of this. It was almost exactly what I’d expected.
‘This was precisely what Drexler wanted,’ I said. ‘To turn enough people within American national security against me so that they’d take their eye off the ball. He wanted them infighting and wasting their energies chasing the wrong man, so he could be left in peace to get on with his own plans.’
Giles grunted. ‘Well, I can tell you that American national security is already wasting a whole lot of its energies on trying to get something out of the elements of The Order they’ve managed to get their hands on. As you might have seen on the news, there have been major raids on the Order properties in Manhattan, DC, and upstate New York, but the subsequent effort to interrogate the hundreds of young men and women arrested has been as time consuming as it’s been useless. Either these kids are incredible actors, or they’ve genuinely been kept in the dark about nearly everything.
‘What’s more – and you won’t have seen this on the news – the FBI managed to sniff out the team behind the Aimes murder, right here in DC. There were six of them, holed up in a place on Chesapeake Street. And you won’t be surprised to hear that not only were all six of them on the Bureau’s missing person register, but one of them was none other than Aimes’s missing daughter… But these six also yielded next to nothing during interrogation. Incredibly, they seem to know nothing outside the logistics of their own attack.’
‘It makes sense Drexler has ensured nobody knows too much,’ I replied. ‘After all, you can’t compromise plans you know nothing about, it’s an elementary safeguard.’
Giles grunted again.
‘So what now?’ he said, with an air of defeat. ‘Your son’s still at large. Vannevar’s still a hostage. And whichever way you look at it, you’re on the run. So what now?’
‘Well, I have a choice,’ I said evenly. ‘Either I lie low and do nothing. Or I try and find Drexler and put an end to this. I personally prefer the latter.’
‘And how, tell me, do you intend to find him?’ said Giles skeptically.
‘The same way you found me. By taking everything I know about Drexler, everything that he’s done so far, and seeing if I can find some kind of pattern in it. I may be out of leads, but I still know a lot about him – surely more than anyone else does.’
‘It took me years to find you,’ said Giles slowly.
‘Well, obviously I don’t have years,’ I said. ‘I have just over three days. But that’s not going to stop me trying…’
‘Look, at midnight of March 4, Vann and Samuel are set to be executed. But that’s not all: Drexler told me on the phone that there’s going to be a “grand finale” and that says to me that he’s planning another attack, even bigger than what we’ve seen already. Now I for one can’t just sit around waiting for all this to happen. I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to at least try and work with the information I’ve got and see if there’s anything there. And I’m just going to come out and say it: I want your help. Because if there is something hidden within the information, my chances of extracting it will be a whole lot better with you on side – the man who caught Saul Marshall…
‘And don’t pretend like you’ve had no desire to get involved in this these past few days. I know you, Mort. I know you’ve been itching to get your hands on all the information – to have a proper crack at this. Well, here’s your chance.’
Giles sighed. ‘It’s true: it’s been frustrating to be so cut off from the investigation. And frustrating, too, to watch them waste their time on so many misguided pursuits.’
Giles sighed again, then fell silent. I knew he was weighing up whether it was worthwhile to help me or whether this was simply a fool’s errand. At last he said:
‘Fine, I’ll do it, I’ll come help you… Like you say, it’s worth a shot.’
I smiled broadly to myself.
‘Where are you, Saul?’ he added.
‘In Manhattan. The Hotel Gansevoort on 9th Avenue.’
Giles made a knowing noise. ‘So no motel in back-water America for Saul Marshall?’
‘That’s where they’d expect me to be.’
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m in DC, but I’ll leave right away. But before I do, two quick questions. First: does anyone else know about Samuel’s defection?’
‘As far as I know, we’re still the only ones.’
‘And second: what about clearing your name?’
‘It’s not an immediate concern. Drexler made it clear that he has every intention of taking the credit for The Order very soon – that this whole business of framing me is only temporary. Besides, I haven’t got time to worry about it.’
‘Right,’ said Giles. ‘Then I’ll see you soon.’
‘Bring money,’ I said. ‘And a laptop. I’ve got one here, but another will help.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. Make sure you’re not followed.’
Chapter 37
Friday, March 1, 2013, 9:10 p.m. EST – The Hotel Gansevoort, 9th Avenue, Manhattan.
At ten past nine, Mort called again to tell me he was in the hotel lobby. I went down and found him looking serious-faced but pleased to see me. He was clutching a brown deli bag; and over his shoulder was a laptop satchel.
‘How was your journey?’ I asked. ‘How did you get here?’
‘I was careful,’ he rumbled. ‘I took a cab to Dulles, then rented a car from there. I queued up with a bunch of new arrivals so that the staff at the rental company wouldn’t remember me in particular. The valet’s just taken the car off my hands, and I’ve grabbed us some sandwiches from the deli down the road.’
At that, I nodded my appreciation, then led Giles up to the suite, and through to the living room directly off the large, meticulously tidy foyer. But while the living room had also been tidy, it wasn’t anymore, because over the past few hours I’d converted it into my situation room, which had involved shifting all the furniture to one side, and using the floor-space as a canvas for information. The two maps were now unfurled on the floor, and on both I’d marked every place I could think of that had remotely anything to do with Drexler or The Order. Nearby, there were piles of paper, on which I’d written all the potentially important information I’d accumulated: what I could recall from the SIOC, and from my talk with Lamphere; what I’d learned from Lilly, from my conversations with Parkes and Drexler; and the name and description of everyone I’d met since February 26 – be they now alive or dead.
In brief, the last four hours had been a painstaking exercise in recall; an attempt to bring together all the raw information.
Giles gave a low whistle as he looked the room over. Then, after we both sat down on the floor and Giles handed me a sandwich, we began, at a slow and focused pace, to discuss it all, hoping to spot a cosmos in the chaos.
Chapter 38
Saturday, March 2, 2013. 1 a.m. CST – 7505 South Laflin Street, Englewood, Chicago.
Drexler put his eye to the peep-hole. Just as he’d expected, Vannevar was sitting in the middle of the room, fastened to his chair, strapped into a bomb-vest. But, more unexpectedly, he was also wide awake, despite the lateness of the hour.
On seeing this, Drexler made his decision: he was going to talk to Vannevar before resting from the drive. And scarcely had he thought this when he unlocked the door and stepped inside. But before he could say anything, Vannevar beat him to it.
‘Are you the guy in charge of this theater? Because for the last time: I’m not David Blaine. You’ve got the wrong guy.’
Vannevar said this with nothing in his voice; with his face completely blank. In response, Drexler smiled. Then he pulled up another chair from the side of the room, placed it opposite Vannevar, and sat down.
‘Actually, I think I’ve got precisely the right guy,’ replied Drexler at last. ‘Just the man for the job.’
‘Well, if the job is musical chairs, then you could be right,’ said Vannevar. ‘Though, truth be told, I’m a cheat
: the reason I’ve never lost my chair is because I’m tied to it.’
Once again, Vannevar said this without cracking his face. Drexler arched his brows.
‘Are you sure you’re taking this situation quite seriously enough?’ asked Drexler, with a playful air.
‘I may like to joke around,’ replied Vannevar. ‘But at the end of the day, my message is perfectly serious: I will not let you cut down this beautiful chair.’
Drexler leaned back and regarded Vannevar carefully. He was encouraged by what he’d seen so far: Vannevar, unlike Marshall and Francis Bindle, had exhibited a sense of humor. And though he was currently using it to make light of the situation, Drexler had expected no less. After all, Vannevar hadn’t been informed about any of the events that had happened since his capture – so as far as he knew, the situation wasn’t that serious…
And what was more, Drexler knew there was a distinct possibility Vannevar hadn’t yet realized who he was talking to.
Drexler leaned forward. ‘Do you by any chance know who I am, Mr Yeung?’
‘My friend Jason Bourne also had the misfortune of suffering memory loss,’ replied Vannevar. ‘But I’m sure if you keep at it, you’ll work it out eventually.’
Again Drexler smiled. ‘Very good. It’s always nice to see someone retaining their sense of humor in a tight spot. But since you won’t answer my question, I’ll have to tell you. Does the name Ivan Drexler ring a bell?’
For the first time, Vannevar smiled. ‘You bet. Ivan Drexler, the sickest son of a bitch this side of the equator. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’
‘And since we’re friends and all now, you wouldn’t mind loosening these ties, would you? I’ve got to say: it comes across a little desperate when you tie up your guests for anything more than twenty-four hours.’
‘So these are the thanks I get for trying to look after your posture?’ replied Drexler with a grin. But Vannevar didn’t smile. His face had reverted to a blank.
‘Now, Vannevar,’ Drexler went on. ‘Do you have any idea where you are?’
‘Do I get any lifelines for this one?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Well then, I’d have to say Chicago.’
Drexler narrowed his eyes. ‘How did you know?’
‘I didn’t,’ replied Vannevar.
Drexler unleashed a big laugh.
‘Very quick, Vannevar. It’s refreshing; it really is. But truth be told: I don’t mind you knowing where we are, seeing that you won’t be getting the chance to tell anyone. On the contrary, I was planning to tell you – I’ve been wanting to discuss the subject with someone capable of understanding for quite a while now.’
‘Oh, I bet you say that to all your hostages,’ replied Vannevar.
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Drexler. ‘But now, here’s the big money question: do you have any idea where in Chicago we are?’
‘The Sears Tower?’
‘I think the real answer is going to impress you a whole lot more,’ said Drexler. ‘Because while this may look like any old dilapidated warehouse, it’s not. It belongs to the FBI. It was purchased so that five Counterterrorism agents could conduct a highly classified operation here in Chicago – an operation so classified that outside those five agents, only the Director of the FBI was supposed to know about it. But, as you might’ve guessed, I found out about the warehouse, and usurped it – and the Director remains none the wiser. What better place to hide from the authorities than in their own most classified location?’
Drexler paused, and looked at Vannevar hard. Then, for the first time, Vannevar gave him a serious answer.
‘So you had a mole on the inside?’
‘Bingo,’ said Drexler.
Drexler was gratified. After telling Vannevar about just one small element of his ingenious designs, he’d already impressed him enough to put an end to his glib responses. But he had no intention of stopping there.
‘But that’s just the tip of the iceberg,’ continued Drexler. ‘I’ve pulled things off this past week you wouldn’t believe and because so many of them have come since your capture, you’ve missed quite a show. So I’ll fill you in. First there was Mineral. Not only did the plot you deduced – the live ammo at the re-enactment – come off without a hitch, but the results were awesome: eight dead, fourteen in intensive care. Then there was the spectacle in Manhattan later that day. Paramount Pictures were filming a scene on a metro train, involving fake nerve gas. But I managed to replace their gas with the real thing, and the actors ended up suffocating themselves to death. It was beautiful – thirty-seven dead in one fell, spectacular swoop.
‘And then there was the run-around I gave your friend Saul Marshall. I released him after Mineral but he was still very much ensnared in my designs. And I’m not sure what’s taken more of a toll on him: the discovery that his son is in fact one of my loyal disciples; or the fact that I’ve ingeniously had him framed as the mastermind behind The Order – a maneuver which has forced him to go on the run from the law.
Drexler chuckled, then went on:
‘And so now I’ve got American national security so distracted chasing their own man that I’ve got nothing standing in my way from carrying out my final attack – the grand finale. It’s due to take place on the Tuesday morning, March 5. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you much about it: I’ve decided that only the team carrying it out are allowed to know the details. But what I can tell you is this: I’m hoping it’ll surpass 9/11 – if not in terms of the death toll, then certainly in terms of psychological harm. But already I’ve said too much…’
Once again, Drexler paused to let what he’d said hit home. And it did: Vannevar’s face hardened, his eyes widened, and he began slowly shaking his head. He was coming nearer, Drexler thought, to understanding the complexity and genius he was up against. But still this wasn’t enough. And so it was at this point he began telling Vannevar the part of his plot he was most proud of – his escape strategy. And, sure enough, as Vannevar took it in, it had the desired effect: his face hardened still further, and his eyes glared.
‘So Vannevar, what do you think?’ Drexler added after he finished. ‘You said yourself I was sick. So wouldn’t it be great if I went viral after pulling this off?’ And even as he said it, he felt certain he’d now more than secured Vannevar’s respect; that Vannevar would finally engage him in a proper back-and-forth.
But Vannevar’s response surprised Drexler. Because he didn’t reply with words – he burst into laughter; a kind of uncontrollable, hysterical, out of all proportions howl, accompanied by a stream of tears. It seemed to go on and on.
‘Enough,’ commanded Drexler, after a full ten seconds of laughter. ‘I really don’t see what you find so amusing.’
Vannevar took a deep breath, bringing his laughter under control.
‘You really don’t get it, do you?’ he said. ‘You come in here, and I ridicule you because you’re a pathetic and contemptible worm, who gets his kicks from hurting innocent people. But you don’t realize this. You think I simply don’t comprehend how impressive you are, so you brag about your atrocities, thinking it’ll win my respect. But it hasn’t. It’s just made you all the more laughable.’
And with that, Vannevar started howling once more.
All at once, Drexler understood. He’d been wrong about Vannevar – he was, just like the others, blinded to his genius by the cancer of empathy. And with this realization, Drexler suddenly found himself overcome with anger. And so he let it out: he leaped off his seat, and punched Vannevar square in the face – then again, and again, and again. But despite the assault, Vannevar kept up his manic laughter.
‘Torturing people again, eh, Drex?’ said Vannevar, when Drexler finally stopped to catch his breath. ‘Just like all those years ago, working for Costana. Weren’t so smart back then, were you? Landed yourself in prison for almost a decade and a half.’
Again, Drexler saw red and in one fluid motion he whipped out
a small switchblade, seized Vannevar’s left pinky, and smashed the tip of the blade under his nail. As Vannevar gasped and recoiled, Drexler snatched the next finger along, and drove home yet again.
Then Drexler raised the blade to Vannevar’s throat. For a few moments he held it there contemplatively; then, with his anger subsiding, he backed off.
‘If you’d shown some respect, there was a chance I would have let you live,’ Drexler hissed. ‘But now you have no chance: you will die.’
Vannevar gulped in two deep, composing breaths. Then, the next instant, an anarchic grin crossed his face, and he said:
‘And here I was thinking I was going to live forever.’
‘You won’t be laughing when midnight of March 4 comes around,’ Drexler spat. ‘I’ll be remotely detonating your vest, and the explosion’ll blow your head straight off your neck.’
‘Shame you won’t be here,’ said Vannevar. ‘Or you’d have been able to follow it up with a witty quip, like: looks like he lost his head.’
Yet again, Vannevar broke into hysterical laughter. Drexler scowled, then stormed out of the door.
Let the clown laugh.
Chapter 39
Saturday, March 2, 2013, 6:05 a.m. EST – The Hotel Gansevoort.
It was about five minutes after Mort had left the hotel – in search of some food following a nine hour fruitless discussion – that I realized someone was inside the suite. I was sitting in the living room, and then suddenly I could hear the faint footsteps of someone moving across the lobby; someone who was, by the sounds of it, already halfway across the room. And immediately I knew I should be worried. Because this person had navigated the front door and penetrated a good way into the suite in utter silence, and this wasn’t something that could be done by accident. This person was making a deliberate effort to catch me off-guard, and probably had special training.
False Prophet Page 24
