Kade shuddered with the echo of it. He knew that power. He knew that righteousness. To punish the guilty. To rid the world of monsters. He’d felt it when he’d neutered that bastard Bogdan in Croatia, when he’d stopped that sex slaver in Nairobi, when he’d squeezed his mental fist around Holtzmann’s brainstem…
He fell to his knees, gasping. He wanted that power. He craved it. He’d felt most alive these past few months when he’d let it course through him, when he’d used his back doors to cripple the bastards who used Nexus to harm others.
It would be so satisfying to use that back door for more, to reach out and fix the world, fix the problems that people couldn’t seem to solve on their own. Oh yes. It would feel so damn good.
This was the logical extension of all he’d been doing. He’d used his back doors to stop thefts. Why not use them to stop the massive theft of humanity’s future that was happening right now? He’d used them to stop rapes. Why not use them to stop the rape of the earth? He’d used them to prevent murders. Why not use them to end the unnecessary deaths of millions from famine and poverty and preventable disease?
He dreamt of linking those million Nexus-using minds around the planet, why not use Shiva’s tools to force that linkage?
Shiva’s vision was just Kade’s own, only bolder, larger.
And imposed on humanity by the will of one man. Or two.
Ilya’s right, Kade realized. If I deserve the back doors, then so does Shiva. If Shiva doesn’t deserve them, then I don’t either.
Are you wiser than all humanity? Ananda had asked.
That was the crux, wasn’t it?
Kade ate a bit from the dinner cart, avoiding the meat, too aware now of the cost to living things of all varieties. Nita had shown him that, shown Shiva that, long ago. Then he showered, to give himself time to think, to be sure he was doing what he believed in.
He dried himself off, dressed in fresh clothes, slipped sandals onto his feet. And then he knocked at the door, to signal for one of his keepers.
The door opened a moment later. The dusky-skinned security man stepped in, the Nexus jammer around his neck, the secondary door closed behind him.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Kade nodded. “Would you please let Shiva know that I’d like to see him, if he’s available?”
The man smiled. “Yes, sir.”
64
STORM WARNINGS
Wednesday October 31st
Holtzmann spent Wednesday at the office in a daze. He accepted the well wishes on his return to health, pushed through messages and meetings, delegated tasks, assured Barnes that he was working hard on back doors.
Anne fought with him that night. It was one-sided. He let her rant at him about his secrets, question why he’d really gone to Boston, whether he was fucking Lisa Brandt, whether he’d fucked her when she was his student, whether he really believed the conspiracy theories he was spouting. He didn’t defend himself. He was too tired for all that, too far gone in his own world. Instead he apologized to his wife, again and again, then slept on the couch.
Thursday November 1st
Holtzmann woke Thursday morning to two pieces of news.
First, Zoe’s storm track had bent further, sending it almost directly northwest now, aiming it squarely towards Washington DC. The Mayor of DC had ordered an evacuation of the city. The governors of Virginia and Maryland had ordered evacuations of counties in the storm’s path. The DHS and other agencies had backed up those orders, commanding only essential personnel to stay. Holtzmann wasn’t among them.
Second, a new message on the Nexus board, just minutes old.
[Friday night, during the storm. Staffing will be bare bones. A fire alarm will go off in a different wing of your building. Get your friends out. Get them to Pecan Street. A white van will meet them.]
Holtzmann stared at the message, read it again and again. Someone else. They had someone else inside. Someone who could pull that alarm.
But they needed him too. He’d have to stay, to find some way to free Rangan and the children, without being caught himself.
Three hours later, Anne was gone. She’d woken, then started packing for evacuation. He’d told her he was staying. She’d screamed at him, then pleaded with him, alternated between the two, telling him he was going mad, telling him he was throwing his life away, throwing her life away. In the end, she’d gone without him.
Noon on Thursday now. Wind was picking up outside. In less than thirty-two hours, he’d be breaking prisoners out of ERD Headquarters. Madness.
There was one other piece of madness to attend to. He picked up the phone, dialed Claire Becker.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Claire, it’s Martin Holtzmann.”
“Martin… Anne said you had a fight…”
“Claire, I’m looking for any files Warren may have left behind. Anything from the early days of the ERD, or even further back, from his time at the FBI.”
“Martin… I know Anne thinks I’m crazy. But I think they killed him. To keep him quiet.”
“I know, Claire.”
She went silent for a moment. Then, “You believe me?” Her voice sounded girlish – vulnerable.
Holtzmann sighed. “I don’t know. But I don’t think you’re crazy. And I don’t think it’s impossible.”
She responded with relief. “Oh my God, thank you, Martin, thank you, thank you–”
“Claire,” he cut her off. “What I’m looking for in Warren’s files… If I found it, it would be the opposite of keeping him quiet. You understand?”
There was silence across the line again. Then Claire Becker spoke.
“We’re about to leave, Martin. In the evacuation. The girls are almost finished packing. If there are any files, they’d be in Warren’s office. I can give you the door code…”
An hour later he was on his way to the Becker home.
Holtzmann punched the door code into the panel inset on the Beckers’ front door. The lock flashed green at him, and its motor whirred as the deadbolt slid open.
He pushed open the door. “Hello?” he called out.
There was no answer.
It felt wrong, being here. He hadn’t set foot in this home since Warren died. Nothing for it.
Holtzmann padded into the main room, leaning on his cane, then pushed himself up the stairs to the second floor. Something made him move in a hush, an eeriness about the place. His friend had lived here. And now that friend was dead.
ERD had been here, he was sure, cleaning up after Becker. What could he hope to accomplish? But he had no other leads.
He pushed open the door to Warren Becker’s office and stepped in, cane in hand. It felt like entering a mausoleum.
The room was tidy. Wooden shelves lined the wall, filled with mementos, display plates, paper books. A single window gave light. A large wooden desk sat below the window. A circular carpet covered most of the floor. Two doors led to a washroom and a closet, respectively.
Holtzmann sat behind his friend’s desk. It still felt wrong, being here. But he had to.
Pictures of Claire and their daughters decorated the desk. Everything was tidy. There was a workstation atop it, a four-inch black cube with a handful of ports, a large flat display and a keypad. There was a space where his secure terminal would have been, undoubtedly cleaned away by DHS.
Holtzmann activated the workstation. Password-protected, of course.
The desk drawers were unlocked. Holtzmann rifled through them. Papers, nothing classified. A personal slate, also password-protected. Pens. Medals and commendations that Becker never displayed. A drink drawer with a half-full bottle of Laphroaig, glasses, an empty ice bucket.