Fatal Error

by F. Paul Wilson

  7

  “I’m falling apart,” Munir said.

  They sat in his kitchen while they waited for the phone to ring, and he did feel as if he were crumbling, physically as well as emotionally.

  “You’re under unimaginable stress,” Jack said as he bandaged Munir’s hand in thick layers of gauze to make it look injured. “You’ve got a guy out there trying to break you.”

  “Well, he’s succeeding.”

  “You can’t let him win. You’ve got to hold on. You’ve got a wife and child somewhere out there depending on you.”

  He sensed Jack was not comfortable in the cheerleader role. And he shouldn’t have been. He wasn’t very good. Motivational speaking would not be a good alternate career choice.

  “But what good am I to them? I’m not good for anything. This has made me realize how isolated the three of us have become. We became a self-sustaining unit: Barbara, Robby, and me. And now they’re gone and I’m useless without them. You’re all that’s holding me together.”

  “I didn’t sign on to hold anyone together,” he said. “That’s your responsibility.”

  After finishing the bandage, Jack rose and went to the refrigerator where he removed the bag with the amputated finger.

  “Where are you going?” Munir said.

  “The bathroom, to give this a little wash. We want this to be as convincing as possible, and you don’t strike me as the type to have dirty fingernails.”

  Munir shook his head. Jack thought of everything.

  When the call finally came, he ground his teeth at the sound of the hated voice. Jack stayed beside him, gripping his arm, steadying him as he listened through an earphone he had plugged into the answering machine. He had told Munir what to say, and had coached him on how to say it, how to sound.

  “Well, Mooo-neeer. You got that finger for me?”

  “Yes,” he said in the choked voice he had rehearsed. “I have it.”

  The caller paused, as if surprised by the response.

  “You did it? You really did it?”

  “Yes. You gave me no choice.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Hey, how come your voice sounds so funny?”

  “Codeine. For the pain.”

  “Yeah. I’ll bet that smarts. But that’s okay. Pain’s good for you. And just think: Your kid got through it without codeine.”

  Jack’s grip on his arm tightened as Munir stiffened and began to rise. Jack pulled him back to a sitting position.

  “Please don’t hurt Robby anymore,” Munir said, and this time he did not have to feign a choking voice. “I did what you asked me. Now please let them go.”

  “Not so fast, Mooo-neeer. How do I know you really cut that finger off? You wouldn’t be bullshitting me now, would you?”

  “Oh, please. I would not lie about something as important as this.”

  Yet I am lying, he thought. Forgive me, my son, if this goes wrong.

  “Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we? Here’s what you do: Put your offering in a brown paper lunch bag and head downtown. Go to the mailbox on the corner of Lafayette and Astor. Leave the bag on top of the mailbox, then disappear. Got it?”

  “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

  “Of course you do. Even a bonehead like you should be able to handle those instructions.”

  “But when should I do this?”

  “Ten A.M.”

  “This morning?” He glanced at his watch. “But it is almost nine-thirty!”

  “Aaaay! And he can tell time too! What an intellect! Yeah, that’s right, Mooo-neeer. And don’t be late or I’ll have to think you’re lying to me. And we know what’ll happen then, don’t we.”

  “But what if—?”

  “See you soon, Mooo-neeer.”

  The line went dead. His heart pounding, Munir fumbled the receiver back onto its cradle and turned to Jack.

  “We must hurry! We have no time to waste!”

  Jack nodded. “This guy’s no dummy. He’s not giving us a chance to set anything up.”

  “I’ll need the . . . finger,” Munir said. Even now, long after the shock of learning it was real, the thought of touching it made him queasy. “Could you please put it in the bag for me?”

  Jack nodded. Munir led him to the kitchen and gave him a brown lunch bag. Jack dropped the finger inside and handed the sack back to him.

  “You’ve got to arrive alone, so you go first. I’ll go out the back way and follow a few minutes from now. If you don’t see me around, don’t worry. I’ll be there. And whatever you do, follow his instructions—nothing else. Understand? Nothing else. I’ll do the ad-libbing. Now get moving.”

  Munir fairly ran for the street, praying to Allah that it wouldn’t take too long to find a taxi.

  8

  “Gentlemen, I have an announcement,” Ernst said when Thompson and Szeto had seated themselves on the far side of his desk. “Valez has delivered the goods.”

  Thompson muttered, “About time.”

  Szeto simply nodded.

  Ernst hadn’t expected cheers, but had thought he’d see a little more enthusiasm than this.

  “Come, come, gentlemen. This is excellent news.”

  Szeto said, “Not until we test code and see if it live up to expectations.”

  Ernst couldn’t help smiling. “But we have. And it does.”

  Szeto straightened in his seat. “So soon?”

  “Valez delivered it yesterday and our people have been testing it all night. It lives up to its advance press. It does everything we hoped and more. It’s a work of genius, and it’s all ours.”

  “And you have incorporated into Jihad?” Szeto said.

  “Yes, and Jihad can slip past any firewall in existence.”

  Szeto pumped a fist. “Then we are set.”

  Ernst nodded. “We are testing and retesting, but I am assured that Jihad4/20 will be ready tonight.”

  Szeto sighed. “A big step. The High Council is sure this will speed Opus Omega?”

  This was the story being fed to all lower echelon members of the Order working on Jihad. Like them, Szeto knew nothing about the Change. He was high enough to know about the One, but believed that bringing the One to power would simply put the Order in charge of his dominion, not end the world as he knew it.

  “Of course they do.” He quickly shifted the subject. “The Connell woman’s brother. What do we do about him? Let him know we’ve found her, or keep him in the dark?”

  “I have been thinking about that. Why do we not take photo we have and see what he says when we show to him?”

  “Excellent idea. A sort of loyalty test. I like that. He’s met Fournier. Use him. But right now, go make sure our Lebanese brother is on schedule with the video.”

  Nodding, Szeto rose and left.

  Ernst glanced at Thompson who sat staring at his hands, strangely silent. “Mister Thompson . . . have you nothing to say?”

  Was he worried that his Kickers would not be able to carry out their part of the plan?

  “This is it, then?” he said, looking up. “We pull this off, the Others return?”

  Thompson’s late father had imparted a warped version of reality to his young son, and Thompson still clung to it. He believed that certain powerful beings—the Others—had been booted off the Earth and were trying to return, and would reward those who helped them regain their former status here. Its simplicity made it easy to grasp, but the truth was more nebulous. The Otherness was not a discrete being but rather a consciousness, a state of being.

  “Not right away,” Ernst said. “This will, in a sense, clear the path to a doorway which the One will open.”

  Thompson was the only one among all the Kickers who knew that bringing down the Internet was a means rather than an end. And among members of the Order, only the Inner Circles knew of the organization’s connection to the One and to the Secret History.

  “Big step,” Thompson said.

  “You’re having second thoug
hts?”

  He squared his shoulders. “Me? Hell no. It’s just . . . we don’t really know what happens after, do we. We’ve been told stuff—your people supposedly have all sorts of secret writings—but at this point it’s all just jawboning.”

  “It’s ancient lore, Mister Thompson.”

  “Yeah, that’s all well and good, but my point is: It’s never happened before. We’re stepping through a doorway into a place no one’s ever been. And once we set that virus loose, there’s no calling it back. There’s no time-out or reset button. Once it starts doing its business, there’s no stopping it.”

  “That is the whole point. That is why we have spent so much time and treasure developing this virus—so that no one could stop it, and that includes us.”

  “Hey, I’m still with you. It’s just that, like I said, it’s a big step, you know?”

  “Oh, I know. I know very well. But it is our time, Mister Thompson. Can’t you feel it?”

  Thompson shook his head. “Not really.”

  Ernst felt it. Everything was going smoothly, everything falling into place. Take the final code, for instance. It had been slightly delayed, but Valez had delivered it, and it worked perfectly. The Jihad virus had been perfected. Even the search for the Myers woman—or rather, the Connell woman—had gone swimmingly. The One had asked him to find her, and what happened? A strolling Dormentalist spotted her just one day after the notice had gone out.

  Everything was going the One’s way . . . everything. He’d been pleased when Ernst had given him the location, and he had reiterated that he wanted the Order to have nothing more to do with her.

  “Well, feel it or not, our time has come. As has your niece’s. I have good news.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have been informed that in the early hours of this morning you became an uncle.”

  For the life of him Ernst could not read Thompson’s expression.

  After a long pause, Thompson said, “Where is he?”

  “I know nothing beyond that. I found a message on my office voice mail. I’ve heard nothing more.”

  Again, that same strange expression.

  “When do you release Jihad?”

  “As soon as I hear from the One and receive the go-ahead. I expect him to call tonight. Trust me, Mister Thompson. It is our time.”

  9

  Somehow Jack’s cab made it down to the East Village before Munir’s. He had a bad moment when he couldn’t find him. Then a taxi screeched to a halt and Munir jumped out. Jack watched as he hurried to the mailbox and placed the brown paper bag atop it. Jack stepped into the huge Starbucks on the corner of Lafayette and scanned the area through a window wall. While Munir strode down toward the Astor Place Theater and passed a Blue Man Group poster, Jack kept an eye on the mailbox as he began an animated conversation with no one on his cell phone.

  Midmorning in the East Village. Layered against the cold, the neighborhood’s homeless brigade was out in force, either shuffling aimlessly along, as if dazed by the bright morning sun, or huddled like discarded rag piles around the huge cube in the traffic island. The nut could be among them. Easy to hide within layers of grime and ratty clothes. But not so easy to hide a purpose in life. Jack hunted for someone who looked like he had somewhere to go.

  Hollander . . . he wished there’d been a photo in his personnel file. Jack was sure he was the bad guy here. If only he’d been able to get over to his apartment before now. Maybe he’d have found—

  And then Jack spotted him. A tall bearded guy traveling westward along Eighth Street, weaving his way through the loitering horde. He was squeezed into a filthy, undersized army fatigue jacket. The cuffs of at least three of the multiple shirts he wore under the coat protruded from the too-short sleeves. The neck of a pint bottle of Mad Dog stuck up like a periscope from the frayed edge of one of the pockets; the torn knees of his green work pants revealed threadbare jeans beneath. Blue eyes peered out from under a navy watch cap.

  The sicko? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing was sure: This guy wasn’t wandering; he had someplace to go.

  And he was heading directly for the mailbox.

  When he reached it he stopped and looked over his shoulder, back along the way he’d come, then grabbed the brown paper bag. He reached inside, pulled out the paper towel–wrapped contents, and began to unwrap.

  Suddenly he let out a strangled cry and tossed the finger into the street. It rolled in an arc and came to rest in the debris matted against the curb. He glanced over his shoulder again and began a stumbling run in the other direction, toward Jack.

  “Shit!” Jack said aloud, working the word into his one-way conversation, making it an argument, all the while pretending not to notice the doings at the mailbox.

  Something tricky going down. But what? Had the sicko sent a patsy? Jack had known the guy was sly, but figured he’d have wanted to see the finger up close and personal, just to be sure it was real.

  Unless of course the sicko was playing the wino and he’d done just that a few seconds ago.

  The guy was almost up to the Starbucks now. Keeping his cell to his ear and continuing his argument, Jack stepped outside as if looking for better reception. The only option was to follow him. Give him a good lead and—

  He heard pounding footsteps. Munir coming this way—running this way, sprinting across the pavement, teeth bared, eyes wild, reaching for the tall guy. Jack repressed an impulse to get between the two of them. Wouldn’t do any good. Munir was out of control and had built up too much momentum. Besides, no use in tipping off his own part in this.

  Munir grabbed the taller man by the elbow and spun him around.

  “Where are they?” he screeched. His face was flushed; tiny bubbles of saliva collected at the corners of his mouth. “Tell me, you swine!”

  Swine? Maybe that was a heavy-duty insult in Muslimville but it was pabulum around here.

  The tall guy jerked back, trying to pull free. His open mouth revealed gapped rows of rotting teeth.

  “Hey, man—!”

  “Tell me or I’ll kill you!” Munir shouted, grabbing his upper arms and shaking his lanky frame.

  “Lemme go, man,” he said as his head snapped back and forth like a guy in a car that had just been rear-ended. Munir was going to give him whiplash in a few seconds. “Don’t know whatcha talking about!”

  “You do! You went right to the package. You’ve seen the finger—now tell me where they are!”

  “Hey, look, man, I don’t know nothin’ ’bout whatcher sayin’. Dude stopped me down the street and told me to go check out the bag on top the mailbox. Gave me five to do it. Told me to hold up whatever was inside it.”

  “Who?” Munir said, releasing the guy and turning to look back down Eighth. “Where is he?”

  “Gone now.”

  Munir grabbed the guy again, this time by the front of his fatigue jacket.

  “What did he look like?”

  “I dunno. Just a guy. Whatta you want from me anyway, man? I didn’t do nothin’. And I don’t want nothin’ to do with no dead fingers. Now getcher hands offa me!”

  Jack had heard enough. Keeping the phone clapped to his ear, he approached the pair.

  “Let him go,” he said, raising his voice while still pretending to talk into the phone.

  Munir gave him a baffled look. “No. He can tell us—”

  “He can’t tell us anything we need to know. Let him go and get back to your apartment. You’ve done enough damage already.”

  Munir blanched and loosened his grip. The guy stumbled back a couple of steps, then turned and ran down Lafayette. Munir looked around and saw that every rheumy eye in the area was on him. He stared down at his hands—the free right and the bandaged left—as if they were traitors.

  “You don’t think—?”

  “Get home.” Jack turned away and gestured into the air, as if angry with what he was hearing. “He’ll be calling you. And so will I.”

  Facing the window glass,
he watched Munir’s reflection move away toward the Bowery like a sleepwalker. Jack talked and gesticulated for another minute or so, then closed the phone and stepped back into the Starbucks. Might as well get a coffee.

  What a mess. The nut had pulled a fast one. Got some wino to make the pickup. But how could a guy that kinked be satisfied with seeing Munir’s finger from afar? He seemed the type to want to hold it in his grubby little hand.

  But maybe he didn’t care. Because maybe it didn’t matter.

  Jack pulled out the slip of paper on which he’d written Richard Hollander’s address. Time to pay Saud Petrol’s ex-employee a visit.

  10

  Eddie’s direct line was ringing. He picked it up and immediately recognized the voice.

  “Brother Connell, I need a word with you.”

  “How did you—? Never mind.” He was going to ask how Fournier had found his office number, but realized what a ridiculous question that was. “About my sister?”

  “Yes. We have a photo.”

  His gut coiled. Already?

  “You’ve found her?”

  “We need you to look at the photo. I am outside on the street. Shall I come up?”

  “No, I’ll come down.”

  He threw on his coat and took the stairs—he needed the exercise. All the way down he debated what to say if the photo showed Weezy. If he told the truth, they’d have her—and for what purpose, he still didn’t know. If he lied, he might be found out later. What were the consequences of that?

  Maybe he should have kept his damn mouth shut. Well, too late for that. Had to see this through.

  He found Fournier standing to the side of the office building entrance, smoking with the secretaries on their cigarette break. He stepped away from them as Eddie walked over to him.

  “Take a look,” Fournier said, handing him a three-by-five photo. “Is this her?”

  Not wanting to give anything away, Eddie set his features before looking. He felt a sinking sensation as he recognized the blurred face. She’d lost weight since he’d last seen her, but no question: Weezy.

  So soon? They’d sent out the fax only yesterday.