“They killed more and more people,” Cooper said, “and then something happened.” On intuition, he said, “The Romans decided they’d had enough.”
Epstein nodded. “The Sicarii were hunted, pursued to the fortress of Masada, where they were either slaughtered or committed mass suicide. But look deeper.”
“The rest of the Jews.” It was coming clear to Cooper. “The Romans punished not just the killers, but the rest of the Jews.” He turned to the man. “You want me to kill John Smith because if he keeps doing what he’s doing, the government may turn against New Canaan.”
“Will turn against. It’s in the data. Extrapolating current terrorist activity and charting it against public countermeasures, mapped against similar historical datasets, there’s a 53.2 percent chance that the US military will attack New Canaan within the next two years. A 73.6 percent within three.”
Cooper had a flash of the briefings he’d seen, the preemptive plans, the missile strikes. One thing the DAR has, he’d thought on the way in, is plans. “So why not kill Smith yourself? You’re the big man here. The King of New Canaan.”
The abnorm had winced. “No. It’s not. It doesn’t work like that. Besides. I like people. But people like him.”
“You want him dead, but you’re afraid that if you kill him, your…artwork…will tear itself apart.” Cooper laughed grimly. “Because no matter how smart or rich you are, he’s a leader, and you’re not.”
“I know what I am.” There was the faintest hint of sadness in his voice. “I’m not even me.”
The whole thing felt vaguely dirty, had the stench of palace politics about it. An odd reaction, Cooper knew, but he couldn’t shake it. Still, the arguments made sense. And Epstein was right—if things kept going the way they were, New Canaan would be destroyed. And it might not stop there. Congress had already approved a bill to implant microchips against the carotid artery of every gifted in America. What was to keep those chips from becoming bombs?
He’d never thought of himself as an assassin. He’d killed when he had to, but always for the greater good. That was a certainty that fueled him. It was the only thing that kept him apart from John Smith. This, though, felt like crossing a line.
What line? You came here to do this.
Yes. But not for him.
So don’t do it for him. Do it for Kate. And then go home.
“You understand?” Epstein seemed nervous on the point, afraid. After all, he had revealed not only his secret, but his agenda. The man might have an unparalleled head for data, but a chess player he was not, Cooper realized.
“Yes, I understand.”
“And you’ll do it? You’ll kill John Smith?”
Cooper had turned, started up the ramp. At the door, he’d turned, taken in the whirling chamber of data dreams, and the man at the center of it. An architect trapped in a palace of his own design, watching a tsunami approach.
“Yeah,” he’d said. “Yeah, I’ll kill him.”
The elevator doors slid open. Cooper shook his head to clear it, then stepped out into the office. The sudden sunlight was bright but not clean, the air beyond the windows thick with dust. Shannon had looked up at him, quirked that grin of hers. The lawyer had twisted his lips. From behind the desk, the handsome hologram of Erik Epstein gestured him in.
It was only Millie who understood, though.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The lawyer ushered them back the way they’d come, down the sun-smeared hallway and the tiered stacks of plants. Cooper paused at the door of “Epstein’s” office, glanced back at the hologram. The thin, handsome doppelganger met his eyes, started a smile, and then canceled it. They stared at one another for a moment. Then, slowly, the faux-Epstein nodded and disappeared.
In the elevator, Kobb said, “I hope you realize what an honor that was. Mr. Epstein is a very busy man.”
“Yeah,” Cooper said. “It was eye-opening to meet him.”
Kobb cocked his head at that, didn’t respond. Cooper had suspected the lawyer didn’t know, felt it confirmed. He wondered how many people did.
The doors slid open on the lobby, the massive tri-d tuned now to a nature show, lush jungle green, monkeys perched in the crooks of tree limbs, gauzy light filtering from a faraway sun. Shannon tucked her hands in her pockets, craning her neck. “Funny. After the display upstairs, this isn’t quite as impressive.”
“That’s for sure.” He turned to Kobb. “Thanks for the time.”
“Certainly, Mr.…Cappello. A pleasure. You can see yourselves out from here?” The lawyer spun on his heel, already checking his watch as he strode to the elevator. Late for something. He seemed the kind of guy who ran through his whole life heading for something more important.
“You okay?”
“Sure,” Cooper said. “What did you talk to, uh, Epstein, about?”
“You. He asked if I thought you were telling the truth.”
“What did you say?”
“That I’d seen you attacked by DAR agents. That you’d had plenty of opportunities to make sure I got arrested, and that you hadn’t.” She grinned. “Kobb stopped just short of advising Epstein to have us both arrested. I don’t think he enjoyed that meeting.”
“I don’t get the feeling Kobb enjoys very much.” They strolled through the lobby, heels clicking on the polished floor. “He must be a kick in bed, huh?”
She laughed. “Three to five minutes of church-approved foreplay, followed by restrained intercourse during which both partners think about baseball.”
“Mr. Cappello?”
He and Shannon spun, easy enough but both shifting weight, softening the knees, positioning themselves back-to-back. They’d grown used to each other already, knew which side to cover if something went wrong. Funny.
The woman who had called his pseudonym wore too much lipstick and her hair in a tight bun. “Tom Cappello?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Epstein asked me to give you this.” She held up a tan calfskin briefcase, smooth and expensive looking. Cooper took it from her. “Thanks.”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled vacantly and turned away.
“What’s that?” Shannon asked.
He weighed the case and his words. “Epstein is going to help me. But you know. Nothing for nothing.”
“What are you doing for him?”
“Just an odd job.” He gave her a bland smile and saw her read it, understand. She was in the biz, after all. Before she could ask a follow-up question, he said, “Listen, I know we’re all done, but…”
She tilted her head, the idea of a smile crossing her lips. “But?”
“You feel like grabbing a bite?”
After all the whirling forward-thinking of New Canaan, the café seemed downright nostalgic. It wasn’t, of course—he hadn’t yet seen one art deco sign here, one ironic T-shirt—but the place was simple and straightforward, with curved plastic booths and mediocre coffee in stained cups. The change was welcome.
“Are you serious?” He took a swig of the coffee. “Your boyfriend really said that?”
“Cross my heart,” Shannon said. “He said my gift was clearly a sign of insecurity.”
“You may be many things, but insecure ain’t one of them.”
“Yeah, well, thank you, but I spent the next three weeks in my bathrobe, crying and watching soap operas. And then I heard he was dating this stripper chick with huge—” She held her hands out in front of her chest. “I mean, like, water-melons. And it occurred to me, maybe the problem was that he didn’t want to be with a woman who could manage to not be noticed. If his new girlfriend rubbed two brain cells together, she didn’t have a third to catch fire, but she sure got noticed.” She paused. “Of course, that was probably because she was always toppling over.”