Fatal Error

by F. Paul Wilson

  “I went a little crazy, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “If he hadn’t been an Arab, I would have been fine. But—”

  “What does being an Arab have to do with anything? We have many Arab brothers in the Order.”

  Valez looked away. “But it’s my sister I’m talking about. A flesh-and-blood sister who worked at Cantor Fitzgerald in the Trade Center. She’d been on the job just six weeks on nine/eleven when the jets hit. She was twenty-four years old. Since then I can’t look at an Arab without wanting to kill him. So you can see why I went a little crazy.”

  Ernst repressed a scream of rage. “I see nothing of the sort. You were given a task—”

  He looked up. “Which I successfully completed.”

  “Do not interrupt me!” Control . . . control. “Ever.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me everything. I want a day-by-day account of every event as it transpired.”

  As Valez spoke, Ernst could not escape the crushing irony of the situation. James Valez, a member of the Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order, had quite possibly sabotaged the most important project in the Order’s millennia-long history because of his hatred of Arabs as the culprits behind the fall of the Trade Towers. The irony? He was not a high-enough ranking brother to know that the Order itself had guided the Arabs who had guided those fatal jets.

  Ernst might not have learned any of this if Habib had not hired some sort of detective to help him. As a result, Habib, his wife, the detective, the police, and who knew how many others were aware that Habib’s game code had been the object.

  But they could not know why . . . because Valez did not know.

  Ernst gathered his thoughts. How to deal with this?

  He could see only one path open to him.

  “At the first inkling that you were becoming emotionally involved, you should have informed us and we would have replaced you.”

  “I know that now. I’m sorry. I swear to you, this will never happen again.”

  How right you are, Ernst thought.

  “I believe you, and I accept your apology. You need medical attention, but we can’t risk a hospital. Wait outside. Szeto will take you to a doctor who’s a brother and will guarantee discretion.”

  Szeto came in right after Valez left.

  “Is it as bad as you thought?”

  Ernst nodded. “Yes and no. He could not have made a worse mess of it, unless he had failed to acquire the code. But he succeeded there, and Jihad has been set free and is spreading around the globe. So our plans remain unchanged.”

  “So, he suffers no repercussions?”

  “Of course he does. He thinks you’ll be taking him to a doctor. I do not wish him seen by a doctor, or anyone else, for that matter. See to it that he’s never seen again. By anyone.”

  He smiled. “Consider it done.”

  “But before he disappears for good, remove the rest of his fingers. One by one.”

  The smile broadened . . . “Consider it done” . . . then faded . . . “We may have another problem.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Could be.”

  Ernst closed his eyes. “What now?”

  “Connell. He met with Fournier yesterday and mentioned ‘Jihad.’ ”

  Ernst felt a lead weight plummet into his stomach. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. He could not allow Jihad to be connected in any way to the Order. If the virus was successful, it would not matter. But should it fail . . .

  “How could he possibly . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. But that may have been his real purpose all along—to spy on us.”

  “But for whom?”

  “If you want my opinion—his sister.”

  Far-fetched but not impossible, though Szeto’s opinions regarding that woman were automatically suspect.

  “Round him up and find out what he knows, and who he’s told.”

  A light glinted in Szeto’s eyes. “His sister too?”

  Ernst jabbed a finger at him. “What was the One’s directive regarding that woman?”

  The glint faded and he looked away. “No contact of any sort.”

  “Then why did you suggest picking her up?”

  “I just thought—”

  “Is there confusion on your part as to the meaning of ‘no’ being something less than an absolute?”

  “None at all.”

  “Then banish that woman from your thoughts. We will not mention her ever again unless we are instructed otherwise.”

  If the One wanted her left alone, then left alone she would be. With the Great Change imminent, this was no time to jeopardize his store of goodwill with the One.

  “As you wish. Since Connell has seen me, I will have to involve someone else in picking him up.”

  “Fournier will do. Did he take care of that hacker?”

  “Last night.”

  “No links to us?”

  “You know Fournier—very clean. But what of the remains of these two brothers?”

  “The usual—q’qr them both. And I don’t want them found.”

  Again, none of that would matter if Jihad succeeded and paved the way for the Change.

  8

  Jack idled the van next to a fire hydrant upstream from the Lodge as he waited for Valez to reappear. He figured they eventually had to find him some medical care.

  Or maybe they wouldn’t. The Order couldn’t be happy with him after what Jack had told them.

  Between periodic glances in the rearview to check for a passing patrol car—didn’t want a ticket for parking here—he watched Kickers straggling in and out. One of those glances revealed Hank Thompson himself walking down the sidewalk. To further hide his face in case the hat and shades weren’t enough, Jack scratched his cheek as Thompson passed. Thompson knew him as the guy who did a smash and grab on his Compendium of Srem almost a year ago. Things would get ugly if he recognized Jack. But he passed without glancing inside.

  A little later, a vaguely familiar figure appeared—swarthy, dark-haired, with a unibrow and perpetual five-o’clock shadow, wearing a chrome-studded black leather jacket. Took Jack a few seconds to place him. He didn’t know who he was, but he’d shown up in Weezy’s hospital room last year, pretending to be a good Samaritan. What had he called himself? Bob Garvey. Yeah, right. Like a guy with a Czech or Polish accent would be named Bob Garvey. He’d tried to pump Jack and Eddie for information about Weezy.

  Garvey walked off in the other direction.

  Still no sign of Valez.

  Shortly after that, a car pulled up ahead of him and double-parked, idling like Jack.

  The so-called Garvey sat behind the wheel.

  Interesting.

  Then a big black Lincoln Town Car pulled up in front of the old stone Lodge. Less than a minute later Valez came limping down the steps and got in.

  About time.

  Jack put the van in gear and pulled out to follow, but Garvey had the same idea.

  Even more interesting.

  So Jack followed Garvey.

  A mini caravan.

  Why was Valez in one car and Garvey following? Didn’t make sense. Or maybe it did. Maybe the Order had plans for him other than medical care. Jack knew from personal experience how murderous the Order became when it felt threatened. Was it equally murderous with members who displeased it? In Valez’s case, he hoped so. If not, Jack would follow Valez to the hospital or wherever, then follow him home. He wanted to know where he lived so he could look him up should the need arise.

  9

  Eddie’s private line rang in his office. He picked it up. Weezy maybe?

  “Brother Connell?”

  He recognized Fournier’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  “The Actuator wishes to meet with you.”

  Didn’t they ever refer to Drexler by name?

  “Sure. When?”

  “Immediately.”

  “I’m in the middle of—”
<
br />   “I am on my way over with a car to pick you up. I will be out front in three minutes.”

  He had an urge to tell him what Drexler could do with his car, but hesitated. Maybe he had some information on Weezy and why the Order was so interested in her.

  “Okay. Meet you out front.”

  He saved the file he’d been working on, threw on his coat, and headed out. When he arrived down on Sixth Avenue, he found the car waiting for him. Fournier stood outside and pulled open the rear door as Eddie approached.

  “I’m riding in the back?”

  “It seems I am a chauffeur of sorts for the day.”

  Eddie thought this royal treatment a bit odd, but didn’t see much choice but to go along. As he slid into the rear he noticed another man sitting at the far end of the seat. He looked disheveled and had a bloody bandage on his right hand.

  “Meet Brother Valez. He had an accident. We are taking him for medical care, then going to Mister Drexler.”

  The man nodded to him distractedly. Eddie nodded back and hid his annoyance. Fournier had made it sound as if Drexler were in a rush to see him, but here they were, making a side trip.

  As the car slid into motion, the door locks clicked shut.

  The sound made him uneasy. But some cars locked automatically. He tried the door handle but it didn’t work.

  He was seated directly behind Fournier so he tapped him on the shoulder.

  “What’s going on with the doors? Why won’t they open?”

  Fournier shrugged. “Child-guard locks, I suppose. I do not know why they are engaged. Are you claustrophobic? Do you want me to stop and undo them?”

  Eddie suddenly felt foolish. Yes, he was a bit claustrophobic—not so much as when he’d been a kid—but he could handle this.

  “No, of course not. Just curious.”

  None of this seemed to bother Brother Valez. He sat to Eddie’s right, brooding and clutching the wrist of his injured hand. So why let it bother him?

  10

  Jack hunched over the steering wheel of the van and stared in shock as the Lincoln pulled away . . . with Eddie inside and Garvey, or whoever he was, following.

  Garvey’s staying out of sight made sense now. Eddie would remember him from the hospital. And if Eddie connected him to the Order, he’d know something was up. But why follow at all unless . . .

  . . . Eddie was headed for the same fate as Valez?

  Jack hit the gas. He had to get Eddie out of the car.

  But how? Under other circumstances he might approach them, acting all innocent and asking for directions. But both Garvey and Valez knew him, and even if they didn’t, Eddie might give it away.

  An idea began to form . . . one that involved a much more direct approach.

  Jack hated direct approaches.

  As they headed uptown, he pulled the van ahead of Garvey and settled beside the Lincoln, pacing it, looking for some indication that it might be getting ready to turn. It pulled to the far left and stopped at a light with its turn signal blinking.

  Jack stopped a little ahead and to its right, checking out the driver through the windshield. No one he’d seen before. Valez slumped on the rear passenger side, looking a little dazed. Eddie, seated behind the driver, wasn’t visible from this angle.

  As the light for crosstown traffic turned yellow, Jack jumped the green, darting around the Lincoln and beating it onto the cross street. The Town Car honked its annoyance. Jack took his time along the block, slowing enough to make sure he was first at the stop line when the next light turned red.

  He put it in park and pulled on a pair of driving gloves. He unlatched the driver door, then lay back on the front seat bench, drew up his knees, and poised the soles of his boots toward the door, ready to kick.

  Things were about to get ugly.

  11

  Fournier muttered something that sounded like a curse and leaned on the horn. Eddie shifted his gaze from people watching on the sidewalk to straight ahead.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That damn van won’t move!” He hit the horn again. “Is he asleep?”

  True enough—the traffic light had turned green and the truck wasn’t budging.

  “Maybe he stalled.”

  “No,” Valez said, speaking for the first time since Eddie had entered the car. “His tailpipe is smoking.”

  Fournier grabbed his cell phone and speed dialed someone. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. Do you want me to go see?” He listened, then nodded and said, “Very well.”

  “Who was that?” Eddie said.

  “No one.”

  Eddie was about to call him on that when he saw someone in a black leather biker jacket hurry past on his left and approach the van.

  “Now we will see,” Fournier said.

  “Hey, that looks like Szeto,” Valez said.

  Eddie glanced over and saw a concerned, almost frightened look on his face.

  “Who’s that?”

  “One of the Order’s enforcers.”

  He said it like everyone knew.

  “We have enforcers?”

  Eddie watched as Szeto reached the van’s door. Suddenly it exploded open, its edge catching him in the face and throwing him back against a parked car. Eddie jumped and leaned forward.

  What the hell?

  He got his first look at Szeto’s face and realized he’d seen it before. But where?

  He winced as the door caught Szeto twice more, slamming him against the parked car again and again. And each time Eddie saw booted feet kicking it open.

  Then a man in a sweatshirt, baseball cap, and sunglasses jumped out and grabbed Szeto by the back of his head and slammed his face against the side of the truck, and once more on the roof of the parked car. He released Szeto and let him crumple to the pavement.

  The bloodied face was barely recognizable now, but memory of it before all the damage sparked recognition.

  Eddie cried, “He was in the hospital!” just as Valez said, “I know that guy!”

  “Who?” Fournier shouted, reaching inside his coat.

  The man from the van bent and pulled something from inside Szeto’s jacket, then sprinted their way. Eddie noticed he now carried a pistol in his gloved hand, then looked at his face and recognized him.

  “Jack!”

  What was he doing—?

  “Who?” Fournier repeated.

  Valez said, “Him!”

  Eddie saw Fournier raise his right hand clutching something dark and oblong.

  A gun! What? Why? To shoot Jack?

  Eddie grabbed for it. He got a two-handed grip on the barrel and tried to yank it free. Flame erupted from its muzzle with a deafening blast. Valez’s head exploded in a spray of red as the window behind him shattered.

  Eddie recoiled in shock and revulsion and lost his grip on the pistol. As it swung toward him he grabbed Fournier’s wrist but that only slowed the angling of the muzzle toward his face. The pistol went off again and Eddie felt what seemed like a blast of compressed air against his right cheek as a bullet whizzed past.

  And then the driver’s window exploded inward as two shots sounded from outside the car. Fournier’s left eye erupted in a gush of red and he released the pistol as his face slammed against the top of the front seat, then slid from view. Eddie dropped the pistol and fought back a surge of vomit.

  “You all right?” Jack shouted through the shattered window as he tried to open Eddie’s door. His voice seemed far away, distorted by a high-pitched whine.

  “It’s locked,” Eddie managed. His own voice echoed in his head. “I can’t open it.”

  Jack opened the driver’s door and hit a button. The lock popped up. He threw the pistol onto the front seat, then opened Eddie’s door, grabbed his upper arm, and yanked him out.

  “Into the van! Move!”

  Jack shoved him away from the car and retrieved Fournier’s gun from the backseat, then raced ahead of him back to the van. Szeto was stirring, raising himself off t
he pavement onto his elbows. Jack jumped on his back and used him as a step into the van.

  Eddie found his way to the passenger door and hauled himself inside. Jack was already in the driver’s seat. He threw the van into gear and gunned it into motion. Eddie hadn’t closed his door yet. He leaned out and lost lunch in one hot, acidic gush.

  “Jack!” he gasped as he pulled the door shut and wiped his mouth. “What the—?”

  “You do know you were on a one-way trip, don’t you?”

  Eddie hadn’t realized it then, but no argument now. Clear as day. Two men killed, right before his eyes, their heads blown open just inches away. He couldn’t stop shaking.

  “Why me? What did I do?”

  “You screwed up. You got in over your head. You played boy detective and got caught.”

  Boy detective . . . he used to make fun of Jack with that when they were kids.

  “But how . . . how did you wind up here?”

  “Long story. Can’t talk now. Gotta get this crate off the road. Strap in and hang on.”

  As Eddie complied and Jack started driving like a maniac, he spotted Fournier’s gun on the seat between them.

  “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Wipe it down and get rid of it. It’s lousy with your prints.”

  Was it? Yes, he guessed it was. How had Jack even thought of that? His mind must click through details like—

  He hung on as the truck made a wild swerve around a slowing car. This wasn’t the Jack he’d known as a kid. This was someone else. Weezy had mentioned this side of him but Eddie hadn’t understood. He did now.

  After he’d put a few blocks between themselves and the shooting, Jack said, “Did you recognize the guy who got a faceful of door as the guy who called himself Garvey in Weezy’s room at the hospital?”

  “Yes. The other passenger—”

  “Valez?”

  “Yes.” Was there anything Jack didn’t know about this? “He said his name is Szeto. He’s some kind of ‘enforcer’ for the Order.”

  “I believe it. He was carrying a Tokarev”—he pointed to the pistol between them—“just like this one.”