Kang said nothing. He was far too horrified to risk saying the things that rose to his tongue. And he was also trying to determine exactly who he should report this to. National security spot checks and unscheduled evaluations were all good and well, but this interview had crossed a line. Anyone would see that.
“I’d really like an answer, Doctor,” insisted Mr. Priest.
“This is ridiculous and I think we’re done here.”
“No, I don’t think we are.”
Kang stood up. “Yes, we are. If you want to file an official report, then please do so, but this discussion is closed and this interview over. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Mr. Priest lowered his hand and leaned back in his chair. “Dr. Kang, if you don’t sit down right now I will kneecap you.”
“I’m sorry — what did you say?”
Mr. Priest opened his jacket and produced a pistol. He did not point it, but instead laid it on his lap. “Do you know what ‘kneecapping’ is? Can you imagine what it would feel like? A bullet punching through your knee, through bone and tissue. The shock of the entry wound, the red splatter as it exits the back of your knee, carrying pieces of tissue and nerve and tendon with it. The pain, Doctor. The searing agony.”
Kang felt the blood drain from his face. “Get the fuck out of my office. Right now.”
“No,” said Mr. Priest. His tone was mild, conversational.
“I’m calling security.” Kang reached for the phone.
“Make that call, Doctor, and you’ll kill your wife.”
Kang froze, his fingers an inch from the phone. His heart seemed to freeze, too. The world had suddenly become surreal. When he spoke his voice was barely a whisper.
“What… what did you say?”
“For a smart man you are moderately slow on the uptake, Dr. Kang. Let me make it clear, and since you’re likely in shock I’ll use small words, yes?” Mr. Priest looked amused. “Right now, even as we’re having our chat, there are four teams in play. One has been following your wife since she dropped Jason off at preschool. Another is in the preschool. A third team is at Los Angeles Elementary School, and the fourth is inside University High School. Go, Wildcats.” He paused for a small laugh. “If I don’t send a coded signal at the appropriate time, four bullets will be fired. Five, counting the first round I fire, which will be through your left kneecap.”
Kang collapsed into his chair, landed badly, and began sliding out onto the floor.
Mr. Priest made a disgusted noise. “Show a little self-respect, Doctor. Sit up like an adult.” He waited while Kang wrestled his slack and clumsy limbs into the chair. “That’s better. Now, I think even taking into account the degree of shock and anxiety you’re feeling right now, you can predict what’s coming next, yes? Indulge me, though. Tell me, just so I know your brain hasn’t actually shorted out. Why is this happening?”
It took a lot for Kang to say it, to organize it into a simple sentence, but even then it stalled as he tried to force it out. “You… you… you…”
“Take a breath, Doctor. That’s it. Now try again.”
It cost him so much. Tears sprang into his eyes. “You… want the nuclear reset codes to—”
“No. Try again. Think of something a bit more outré.”
Kang’s eyes brightened as he understood, but then he frowned. “The book code? This is about that silly book code?”
Priest smiled. “Very well done. Yes, I want the book code. I want, in fact, access to your computer here, since it has the administrative authority to access any project. Who knows what other delicious things I will find? You’ve done considerable work for Dr. San Pedro and Dr. Erskine, I believe? Yes? Then I want everything connected with them, no matter how small or tangential.”
The tears began rolling down Kang’s cheeks. “Please don’t hurt my family.”
“That is entirely up to you. If you do what I want, absolutely nothing will happen to them. And just to comfort you, here is how it will play out. You log me in, I do what I came here to do, then I leave. You will sit here and do absolutely nothing for one hour. You won’t answer the phone, you won’t make any calls, you will not touch a single key on your computer. Those are the rules, and believe me that I will know if you break any of those rules. At the end of one hour I will call you on this.” Mr. Priest produced a small disposable phone and placed it in the center of Kang’s desk blotter. “This is what we call a ‘burner.’ Untraceable. It has been configured to receive a single phone call. Once you get that call, I will tell you whether I need more time or if everything is all clear.”
“All clear—?”
“Yes. At that point you may ring all the alarms, call the authorities, and do what you like. At that point you will also know that the teams overseeing the welfare of your family have been withdrawn.”
“How… how…?”
“How do you know you can trust me?” Mr. Priest gave a small wave with his free hand. “Trust is such a difficult thing to ask, but I insist that you trust me.”
“How do I know you haven’t already…?” He stopped, unable to finish the sentence.
“You don’t. That’s the real challenge, isn’t it? It’s all about trust, and you have no choice at all whether to trust me.” Mr. Priest reached into the side pocket of his trousers, removed a sound suppressor, and without hurry began screwing it onto the barrel of his gun. Kang sat there, tears rolling down his face, staring in dreadful fascination. When Mr. Priest was done he once more laid the pistol on his lap. “Shall we begin?”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Church and Bolton got into an argument about what to do next. Bolton wanted the book tested to see if invisible ink or some other kind of concealed text had been used. Church tried to convince him it was a waste of time. Violin looked absolutely devastated, and I couldn’t blame her. She’d fought and killed for this book, and she’d been hunted halfway around the world by Closers and the psychopaths from the Brotherhood. To find out that it was all for nothing crushed her. It also pissed her off. A lot.
I called Bug to try and get some news, but got nothing.
I saw Harry standing like a lost soul by the window and I went over to talk to him. “Hey,” I said, “buy you a cup of coffee?”
He looked down at the coffee cup he was already holding. “I…”
“Just an expression, kid. C’mon, let’s get some air.”
With only a flicker of doubtful reluctance he followed me out of the conference room and up to the back deck that overlooks the ocean. Harry Bolt did not look like a spy. He didn’t even look like the kind of spy who wasn’t supposed to look like a spy. At a distance he looked like a frat boy who’d had a few too many pizza and beer nights and too few afternoons at the gym. But at closer range you could see that there were some cracks in the shallow-rich-boy-jerk façade. There was a furtiveness in the eyes that spoke to a life spent dodging sharp criticism, and a sad resignation that I’ve seen in kids who know that they are disappointments. Some excitement because all of this was big, and a lot of the kind of fear a passenger has on a sinking ship; the kind of person who doesn’t know how to work the lifeboats and who’s sure he won’t make the cut for bench space on the boats being lowered into the water.
I could see all this and know it because I know people, but it wasn’t something to which I could directly relate. My dad had money and my brother, Sean, and I grew up in comfort. Not millionaire comfort, but definitely upper middle class. My dad is mayor of Baltimore, working through his second term. There is a lot of love, support, and respect flowing in all directions. Our Thanksgiving and Christmas family gatherings were fun, easy, without the usual kinds of infighting I often hear about. I’d expected Harcourt Bolton, Senior, to be as good a father as he was a role model, but what I’d witnessed a few minutes ago changed all that.