And then he walked out of the room and out of the apartment.
He was right, Munir knew that, but still he wanted to cry.
10
The number on the fax had had a 212 area code, which put it in Manhattan. So Eddie had called the Order’s New York headquarters—a private number, members only. The man who answered the phone had tried to get out of meeting in person, but Eddie had insisted. Whoever was looking for Weezy had a face and Eddie wanted to see it. He was given the address of an “administrative office” in a medium-rise building in midtown where he found an elderly woman at a reception desk. The familiar seal of the Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order had been painted on the wall behind her.
She’d led him to a room and told him that someone would be with him shortly. Shortly turned out to be almost immediately.
“Brother Connell?” said a voice behind him. “I am Claude Fournier.”
Eddie’s pulse jumped as he turned. He hadn’t heard the door open. A tall, fiftyish man, painfully thin and dressed in a brown leather coat and dark slacks stepped toward him. He looked as if he had just come in off the street. He extended a long-fingered hand.
Eddie surreptitiously wiped his sweaty palm on his thigh before shaking the proffered hand. The man reeked of tobacco smoke.
“Yes, my name is Connell, but you’re not the man I spoke to.”
A blue-black mole sat dead center in Fournier’s chin. Eddie tried to keep his eyes off it.
“No. He is busy. We are all busy. What can you tell us about Louise Myers? Do you know where she is?”
“No.”
He frowned. “Then why this insistence on a face-to-face meeting?”
“The woman you’re looking for is my sister.”
Fournier’s gray eyes narrowed as he hesitated. “This . . . this is true?”
Eddie had figured this would be the best way to go. If he tried to hide his relationship, it might backfire. He was pretty sure they didn’t know that the woman they were looking for had a brother in the Order, but they might know that her maiden name was Connell. If so, and he lied about the relationship, he’d be screwed.
Screwed . . . the term had many levels. Screwed as in kicked out of the Order for lying . . . what he might expect. Or, in Weezy’s world, screwed as in killed.
Not that he believed that for a second.
The Order . . . if anyone had ever told him as a kid that he’d someday be a member of the mysterious and secretive Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order, he’d have thought they were on drugs. One didn’t apply to the Order; membership was by invitation only, and who would ever invite Eddie Connell? But six years ago a call had come from someone for whom he’d done some consulting. Would he be interested in joining? He’d been flabbergasted, flummoxed, and, well, flattered.
When he recovered from his shock, he said he was interested. Although the Order jealously guarded its membership rolls, highly influential people from around the world were rumored to belong. The networking opportunities would be good for business.
But saying he was interested didn’t make him a member. Few were called and fewer were chosen. A rigorous vetting process began, involving interviews and stacks of paperwork. They wanted to know all about his lineage. It wasn’t like the DAR or anything like that. Your parents’ social standing or whether or not an ancestor arrived on the Mayflower didn’t matter. The Lodge accepted people from all races and walks of life. They seemed to be looking for something else, though they’d never said what. They’d told Eddie he’d find out as he “matured” through the Order. That was what they called it: maturing. They’d also promised he’d learn other things . . . the way the world worked, and how he could turn that knowledge to his benefit.
Whatever criteria they had, Eddie passed and was accepted as a member. Part of that acceptance involved being branded with the sigil of the Order. It had all been very civilized, with local anesthesia and sterile conditions, but it had not been an option. If you accepted membership, you accepted the brand.
So far, Eddie’s experience in the Order didn’t seem much different from being an Elk or a Moose: meetings, dinners, networking. Weezy had been convinced since her teens that members of the Order were the guardians of the Secret History of the World. Well, after nearly six years as a member, he’d been made privy to no arcana. But he’d made tons of contacts that had proven immensely helpful in his business.
He hadn’t expended much effort toward maturing in the Order—that involved going on special retreats to remote locations around the globe. Who had time? Eddie’s actuarial business was flourishing and all his efforts went into growing that. He was never pressured to move up or take a more active role. Others he met at the meetings he attended felt the same way: The Order was good for business.
All of this had served only to bolster his opinion that Weezy was wrong—had always been wrong—about the Order. It was a perfectly benign organization that just happened to keep a close lid on its inner workings. Not unlike the Masons.
But then . . . today’s shocking fax.
That changed everything. Last summer Weezy had said the Order was out to get her, but had offered not a shred of proof. Now this flier appeared out of the blue, asking the membership to report if they’d seen her.
He’d always been able to write off Weezy’s suspicions as part of her mental instability—after all, she’d been on one psychoactive medication after another since her teens. She saw a conspiracy in every coincidence. And the Order, so secretive about everything—its origins, its membership, its holdings around the world—had always been a ripe target for her paranoia.
No more. The fax drew a line between his sister and the Order—or at least someone high up in the Order. Still, that didn’t mean they were out to kill her.
“I can’t see any reason why I’d make it up,” Eddie said.
“You say she is your sister but you do not know where she is?”
“We haven’t been on the best terms lately. But she’s still my sister and I’m concerned that the Order is sending out a fax with her picture to the membership. Why do you want her? What interest is she to you?”
Fournier shrugged and pursed his lips. “That I do not know. Word comes from on high to find this woman, so that is what we try to do in the best way we know how.”
“How high?”
Another shrug. “Very high, I suppose. The Council of Seven, I would think.”
The thought of the High Council looking for Weezy caused an ache in Eddie’s gut. What possible reason . . . ?
“May I ask what your instructions are once you find her?”
He held his breath as he awaited the answer.
“Right now our instructions are to locate her and nothing else. No contact. Simply find out where she is.”
Eddie wasn’t sure he could believe that, but the man seemed to be telling the truth. He gave off no hint of a personal interest in finding Weezy; he’d been given a job and was simply carrying it through.
Fournier was studying him. “As a brother of the Order, are you willing to help us find her?”
“I am.” A lie. If Weezy wanted to stay off their radar, he’d leave her that way. “But I have a condition: I want to know why you’re looking for her.”
“I have told you—”
“Yes, you don’t know. But you can find me someone who does. I need that question answered before I can help.”
Fournier nodded. “I can understand that. I will make inquiries.”
Eddie felt his bunched neck muscles relax. He’d done it. He’d taken the first step toward proving Weezy right or wrong, toward deciding whether or not he’d made a mistake in joining the Order. And proving to her that no matter what, she could trust her brother to do the right thing.
11
After a sip of water, Kewan raised the bullhorn to his lips and started the chants again. His throat felt raw from the shouting, but he’d checked the time while he’d sipped and knew he had only a few minutes to go before he
could shut up.
Because that was when they’d make their move.
“Two-four-six-eight! Why can’t folks dissimilate?”
The two dozen sign-carrying Kickers dutifully shouted their reply: “The Internet! The Internet!”
Round and round they marched in a rough oval outside the entrance to a brick-faced office building in Chelsea. Four heavy-duty glass doors, stacked side by side, separated the chilled marchers from the warm atrium within. Getting everyone through those fast enough to shock and awe security before they called the cops posed a problem. But the boss had solved that.
Taking over the atrium was only the first step. The data center occupied the whole fourth floor and you couldn’t get there without a swipe card. But a Kicker on the inside had solved that problem.
“Why are we here?”
“The Internet!”
“And how do we want the Internet?”
“Dead!”
“Two-four—”
“Excuse me, sir,” someone said close behind his right ear, accompanying the words with a tap on his shoulder.
Aw, hell, Kewan thought as he turned. If this was a cop it would ruin everything. But instead he found a sandy-haired white guy in an overcoat.
He put on his best scowl. “I’m busy here.”
The guy smiled. “I’m Lonnie Pelham from WCBS Eight-Eighty News.” He held up the digital voice recorder in his hand. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions if I may.”
Always cooperate with the media.
The boss had said that time and time again. Always cooperate, always treat them with respect, always mention the boss’s book when talking about the Kicker Evolution. This was how to grow the Kicker numbers.
“What time is it?”
Pelham checked his watch. “Almost eleven.”
“Exact time.”
He checked again. “Ten fifty-three.”
“Then I can give you seven minutes.” He motioned Antoine out of the picket line and handed him the horn. “Take over while I talk to this gentleman.”
Gentleman . . . hear that, boss? I’m doing like you said.
As Antoine restarted the chants, Kewan led the reporter half a block down to a corner where they could stand on the side street, away from the noise and out of the wind whipping along Eighth Avenue. Time for a friendly smile.
“I think I heard you a couple times on the radio, man. I ain’t much for news stations, but I tune you guys in for weather and stuff. What you wanna ask me?”
Pelham thumbed a button on the recorder and held it between them. His breath steamed in the cold air.
“First off, what’s your name?”
“Kick.”
“No, your name.”
“That is my name to people outside the Evolution. Other Kickers know me by a different name, but I’m just ‘Kick’ to the assimilated world.”
This was a new policy instituted by the boss: Don’t let outsiders know your name. A good policy, considering what they had planned for a few minutes from now.
“Very well then, Kick, how long have you been a Kicker?”
He smiled and gave the stock answer. “All my life. I just didn’t know it until I read Hank Thompson’s Kick last year.” There: plug done. “After that, I knew I had to dissimilate and join the Kicker Evolution.”
“Just in case there are a few people who haven’t heard it explained by now, what exactly does it mean to dissimilate?”
Kewan had been coached on how to answer FAQs about Kickers, and this was one of them.
“It’s Hank Thompson’s own word for the opposite of assimilate. As everybody grows up, they’re pushed into being absorbed by the society or culture or religion or just the plain old herd around them. But when you’re an adult, it’s time to break free, to throw off the chains of assimilation and dissimilate.”
“But critics say that by joining the Kicker Evolution you’ve simply traded one group for another.”
“To anyone still assimilated, it might look like that, but you can’t understand dissimilation until you’ve experienced it.”
“But—”
“I ain’t here to argue.”
“I understand. What did you do before you were . . . before you dissimilated?”
“Life before dissimilation doesn’t matter. Whatever you did, whoever you were, it’s all irrelevant. As we like to say, ‘You get a clean slate when you dissimilate.’ ” He spread the web between his right thumb and forefinger. “You also get one of these.”
Pelham squinted at the black tattoo on the dark brown skin. “Oh, yes. That’s certainly a familiar figure.”
Should be, Kewan thought. It’s been spray-painted all over town.
But he laughed and said, “Maybe I should get mine outlined in white.”
“That would be . . . different.” Pelham cleared his throat. “All right then, let’s get to the here and now: Why are dozens of Kickers out here on this chilly winter night picketing a closed building?”
Kewan winked. “Well, for one, football season is over.”
Pelham laughed. “Seriously.”
“What time you got?”
A glance at his watch. “Ten fifty-eight.”
Okay. Two minutes left—if the car was on time.
Kewan stepped back around the corner and pointed to the building.
“A major Internet data center hides on the fourth floor there. Big fat fiber-optic cables run in and out of it, feeding the World Wide Web in this country and crossing the Atlantic. We want that stopped.”
“But why?”
“Because the Internet is the biggest assimilator of all. It sucks people in and won’t let them out. So many more people would be able to dissimilate if not for the Internet. That’s why we protest.”
“But on a Monday night?”
“Why not? The Internet runs twenty-four/seven, and so does the Kicker Evolution.”
And . . . that’s when building security is at its lowest.
He eyed the marchers. They’d moved away from the doors and laid down their signs. He heard a roar of a car engine and saw a beat-up old Chevy speeding up Eighth Avenue from Greenwich Village. Its tires squealed as it braked into a hard left turn mid block, jumped the curb, and barreled across the sidewalk to smash through the glass doors.
Right on time.
“Oops!” Kewan broke into a run. “Gotta go.”
The marchers had the car open by the time he got there. Most were hauling long- and short-handle sledgehammers, pry bars, and axes from the trunk; a few others who’d been trained in their use were easing the three EMP generators from the backseat. Kewan grabbed a long splitting maul and charged into the glass-littered lobby where a red-faced security guard was being tied to his chair with plastic fasteners.
The rest of the Kickers crammed into the two elevators. Kewan pulled out the insider’s security card and swiped it through the scanner, then pressed 4. He jumped out, then entered the second elevator with the EMP crew and repeated the process.
“Remember,” he said as they rose. “No hesitation. Soon as we arrive, we open the doors and go after them. Only a few nerdy techs inside this time of night, so don’t worry about resistance. Take the routers and servers down hard and the nerds down gentle. The boss don’t want nobody hurt. It’s bad press.”
One of the guys with an EMP gun snickered. “Yeah, we’ll get enough of that when nobody around here can check their Facebook or MySpace tonight.”
Another laughed. “Kicker Man will be defriended all over town.”
The Kicker Man had his own MySpace page with a strange assortment of friends. Yeah, a lot of people would be pissed, but that was the whole idea—gather them together to split them apart.
“And remember: Don’t cut the cables, hammer them.”
A cut cable was easy to fix. Hammering fractured the fibers inside with no clue as to where they were broken.
The car slowed and dinged for the fourth floor. The doors opened, revealing the
first group massed and waiting outside the steel doors to the data center. Kewan swiped the card again and the doors opened.
He stayed back with the EMP guys while the others charged into the center. He pulled a sheet of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it to reveal a map of the center. Their insider had sketched it out for tonight’s visit.
The commotion drew some nerdy-looking guys to the front. One look at the invaders and they fled toward the rear.
“Okay, everybody! You know what to do! You see anyone on a phone, stop ’em!”
He led one of the EMP guys along the course laid out for him. The place was nothing like what he’d expected. In the movies computer centers were always brightly lit, high-tech palaces. This was dingy and dusty and not much more than stacks of black boxes on racks.
He headed for the routers that fed the high-capacity fiber-optic backbone cable that snaked across the floor of the Atlantic to England. He’d been briefed on what he’d find and given all sorts of names and abbreviations for the equipment, but he’d stopped listening after a while.
All he needed to know was that the equipment in the room in question had to be destroyed. His fellow Kickers would be smashing or frying every router and server and hammering every cable they could find, but Kewan had been assigned to the heart of the beast. His job was to pierce that heart and stop its beat.
TUESDAY
1
“What are they thinking?” Jack said as he stared at the headline of the Post.
KICK ’EM IN JAIL!
Abe shrugged. “I should know? I should explain the doings of meshuga Kickers?”
Jack leaned on the customer side of the scarred counter at the rear of the Isher Sports Shop. Abe Grossman perched his egg-shaped body on the stool across from him, perusing his array of morning newspapers as he munched one of the bialys Jack had brought. Bits of onion decorated his white shirt and shiny black pants.
“It was rhetorical.”
“Rhetorical implies you know the answer already.”
Fatal Error Page 5
