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Authors: Catherine Coulter
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voiceâhad gone irrevocably insane.
So he looked and he listened, wanting more, but content to know that soon he would be able to enhance his microânuclear weapons, his MNWs, and set them in place, ready to deploy at whatever target he selected. Or whatever enemy. Theyâd never know what hit them. All he needed were the coordinates of the lost sub and the key, and for that he needed Adam Pearce.
He fast-forwarded through the footage: arriving at JFK, the ride to the ferry terminal, to the moment Mr. X slipped unseen into the Messengerâs apartment. Mr. X had done a thorough search,carefully opened all the cabinets, the closets, the wall safe behind the Modigliani painting in the office so no one would know heâd even been there. Many locks. But no SD card.
He watched Mr. X insert a thumb drive into the iMac on Pearceâs desk, quickly break through the encryption, do a hard download of all the files. A pity he wouldnât be able to get the thumb drive, since it was now in the hands of the FBI. But it didnât matter. He doubted there was anything more than correspondence and records of sales of rare books to clients. No great loss. He continued to let Mr. Xâs images wash over him, all the way until the end, when that bastard Drummond had taken him down. He saw Drummondâs elbow hit Mr. Xâs jaw, bursting the gel pack, killing him. A fluke, but it was good to know that could happen. Heâd have to find a better solution, a better placement. He couldnât have his assets dying at the hands of the enemy by accident. Inside a tooth would be better, the molars would protect the gel, less chance of splitting the gel pack open. But the tongueâ
Havelock unhooked himself from the neuro-cap and lifted it off his head.
Mr. X had proved to be a disappointment. He hadnât found the SD card, hadnât gotten his hands on Pearceâs son, Adam, had all but handed the American FBI his magnificent implanted chip on a platter.
He pressed a key and the screen disappeared. He stood and walked to the window, where the light was rapidly dying. He loved the night, the possibilities the cover of darkness brought. He loved to watch the lesser beasts wander through their lives, unknowing, unseeing. He had faith, and sometimes that was all he needed. Soon he would have his perfect weapon, and they would all know his name.
What would the world see when they bowed down before him? The powerful genius, the unparalleled inventor, the man who, very soon, would control the lives of millions with a single drop of fluid?
I am a leader of men, Mother, I am good enough, smart enough. And you, dear Mother, are dead.
12
United Nations Plaza
11:00 a.m.
Sophie Pearce accepted Ambassador Xi-Tienâs thanks for her work this morning, and nodded in agreement about their dinner date later this evening. She didnât cup her hands and bow deeply in the formal Chinese farewell, since the ambassador was a modern man. She shook his hand, saying,
âZai jian,â
and waited, not moving, until he turned and walked away with the delegation, then she relaxed with a deep breath. Her services as a translator wouldnât be needed for the rest of the afternoon. Sheâd have lunch, then run over to her dadâs place to pick up the rare first-edition Mark Twain sheâd promised the ambassador. Her father had pulled the book from his private collection for her. He was amazing, he could always find exactly what people wanted, like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. And at $8,000 for this single gem, her father could afford a lot of hats.
She knew it wasnât a first/firstâthat would have set the ambassador back at least thirty grand. She liked that he was happy with the second printing; it made her respect him. Xi-Tien wasnât flashy like many of the others sheâd worked with in her five years at theUN. He was kind and subtle and, even better, had already wired the funds
So he looked and he listened, wanting more, but content to know that soon he would be able to enhance his microânuclear weapons, his MNWs, and set them in place, ready to deploy at whatever target he selected. Or whatever enemy. Theyâd never know what hit them. All he needed were the coordinates of the lost sub and the key, and for that he needed Adam Pearce.
He fast-forwarded through the footage: arriving at JFK, the ride to the ferry terminal, to the moment Mr. X slipped unseen into the Messengerâs apartment. Mr. X had done a thorough search,carefully opened all the cabinets, the closets, the wall safe behind the Modigliani painting in the office so no one would know heâd even been there. Many locks. But no SD card.
He watched Mr. X insert a thumb drive into the iMac on Pearceâs desk, quickly break through the encryption, do a hard download of all the files. A pity he wouldnât be able to get the thumb drive, since it was now in the hands of the FBI. But it didnât matter. He doubted there was anything more than correspondence and records of sales of rare books to clients. No great loss. He continued to let Mr. Xâs images wash over him, all the way until the end, when that bastard Drummond had taken him down. He saw Drummondâs elbow hit Mr. Xâs jaw, bursting the gel pack, killing him. A fluke, but it was good to know that could happen. Heâd have to find a better solution, a better placement. He couldnât have his assets dying at the hands of the enemy by accident. Inside a tooth would be better, the molars would protect the gel, less chance of splitting the gel pack open. But the tongueâ
Havelock unhooked himself from the neuro-cap and lifted it off his head.
Mr. X had proved to be a disappointment. He hadnât found the SD card, hadnât gotten his hands on Pearceâs son, Adam, had all but handed the American FBI his magnificent implanted chip on a platter.
He pressed a key and the screen disappeared. He stood and walked to the window, where the light was rapidly dying. He loved the night, the possibilities the cover of darkness brought. He loved to watch the lesser beasts wander through their lives, unknowing, unseeing. He had faith, and sometimes that was all he needed. Soon he would have his perfect weapon, and they would all know his name.
What would the world see when they bowed down before him? The powerful genius, the unparalleled inventor, the man who, very soon, would control the lives of millions with a single drop of fluid?
I am a leader of men, Mother, I am good enough, smart enough. And you, dear Mother, are dead.
12
United Nations Plaza
11:00 a.m.
Sophie Pearce accepted Ambassador Xi-Tienâs thanks for her work this morning, and nodded in agreement about their dinner date later this evening. She didnât cup her hands and bow deeply in the formal Chinese farewell, since the ambassador was a modern man. She shook his hand, saying,
âZai jian,â
and waited, not moving, until he turned and walked away with the delegation, then she relaxed with a deep breath. Her services as a translator wouldnât be needed for the rest of the afternoon. Sheâd have lunch, then run over to her dadâs place to pick up the rare first-edition Mark Twain sheâd promised the ambassador. Her father had pulled the book from his private collection for her. He was amazing, he could always find exactly what people wanted, like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. And at $8,000 for this single gem, her father could afford a lot of hats.
She knew it wasnât a first/firstâthat would have set the ambassador back at least thirty grand. She liked that he was happy with the second printing; it made her respect him. Xi-Tien wasnât flashy like many of the others sheâd worked with in her five years at theUN. He was kind and subtle and, even better, had already wired the funds
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