“You’re the head of the organization, but you won’t accept responsibility,” Michael said. “Don’t forget the attack a few months ago when we lost the quantum computer.”
“What do you mean, we? You’re not a member of the executive board.”
“He is now,” Mrs. Brewster said.
General Nash glared at Boone. “Don’t forget who hired you, Mr. Boone. I’m in charge of this organization and I’m giving you a direct order. I want you to escort these two down to the basement and lock them up. I’ll call a meeting of the Brethren as soon as possible.”
“You’re not listening, Kennard.” Mrs. Brewster sounded like a schoolteacher who had suddenly lost patience with a stubborn pupil. “The board has met this morning and voted. It’s unanimous. As of today, you are no longer executive director. There’s no negotiation about this. Accept your emeritus position and you’ll be given a stipend and perhaps an office somewhere.”
“Do you realize who you’re talking to?” Nash asked. “I can get the president of the United States on the phone. The president-and three prime ministers.”
“And that’s exactly what we don’t want,” Mrs. Brewster said. “This is an internal matter. Not something to discuss with our various allies.”
If Nash had remained seated, Boone might have allowed him to continue talking. Instead the general pushed back his chair as if he were going to run into the library and call the White House. Michael glanced at Boone. It was time to follow orders.
Boone nodded to the mercenaries. The two men grabbed Nash’s arms and pinned them to the table.
“Are you crazy? Let go of me!”
“I want one thing to be clear,” Mrs. Brewster said. “I’ve always considered you to be a friend, Kennard. But remember-all of us answer to a higher goal.”
Boone stepped behind Nash’s chair, opened the plastic case, and took out the syringe. The toxin was in a glass container about the size of a pill vial. He forced the needle through the safety seal and filled the syringe with the clear liquid. Kennard Nash glanced over his shoulder and saw what was about to happen. Shouting obscenities, he struggled to get away. Dishes and silverware fell onto the floor, and a soup bowl cracked in two.
“Calm down,” Boone murmured. “Have a little dignity.” He jabbed the needle into Nash’s neck just above the spine and injected the toxin. Nash collapsed. His head hit the table and spit drooled out of his mouth.
Boone looked up at his new masters. “It only takes two or three seconds. He’s dead.”
“A sudden heart attack,” Mrs. Brewster said. “How very sad. General Kennard Nash was a servant to his nation. Missed by his friends.”
The two Romanians were still holding Nash’s arms as if he might come back to life and jump out the window. “Go back to the boat and wait,” Boone told them. “I’m done with you.”
“Yes, sir.” Able adjusted his black necktie, bowed his head, and he and Baker left the room.
“When will you call the police?” Michael asked.
“In five or ten minutes.”
“And how long will it take them to travel to the island?”
“About two hours. There will be no trace of the toxin by the time they get here.”
“Dump him on the floor and rip open his shirt,” Michael said. “Make it look like we were trying to save him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think I’d like a drop of whiskey,” Mrs. Brewster said. She and Michael stood up and walked over to the side door that led to the library. “Oh, Mr. Boone. One more thing…”
“Ma’am?”
“We need a higher level of efficiency in all our endeavors. General Nash didn’t understand that. I hope you do.”
“I understand,” Boone said, and then he was alone with the dead man. He pulled back the chair, pushed the body to the right, and it fell onto the floor with a thump. Crouching down, Boone ripped open the general’s blue shirt. A pearl button flew through the air.
First he would call the police, and then he would wash his hands. He wanted hot water, strong soap, and paper towels. Boone walked over to the window and looked out over the trees at the Saint Lawrence Seaway. The rainstorm and the low clouds colored the water dark silver. And the waves rose up and collapsed as the river flowed eastward to the sea.
42
Maya passed through darkness so absolute that her body seemed to disappear. Time continued, but she had no point of reference, no way to judge if this moment lasted a few minutes or a few years. She existed only as a spark of consciousness, a succession of thoughts unified by her desire to find Gabriel.
SHE OPENED HER mouth and it was filled with water. Maya had no idea where she was now, but water surrounded her and there didn’t seem to be a way to the surface. Desperately, she flailed her arms and legs, then controlled her panic. As her body screamed for oxygen, she relaxed and let the bubble of air held in her lungs pull her body upward. When she felt certain about the right direction, she kicked hard with her legs and emerged from the top of a wave.
Breathing deeply, she floated on her back and looked up at a yellowish-gray sky. The water around her was black with patches of white foam. It smelled like battery acid, and her skin and eyes began to burn. She was in a river with a current that was pushing her sideways. If she changed position and bobbed up and down, she could see a riverbank. There were buildings in the distance and points of orange light that looked like flames.
Maya closed her eyes and began to swim toward land. The scabbard strap was slung around her neck and she could feel the sword moving slightly. When she stopped to adjust the strap she realized that the riverbank was even farther away. The current was too strong here. Like an abandoned rowboat, she was spinning around aimlessly.
Looking in the direction of the current, she could see the distant outline of a shattered bridge. Instead of fighting the river, she turned slightly and swam toward the stone arches anchored in the water. Both the current and her own strength propelled her forward until she slammed against the rough gray stone. Maya held on for a minute or so, then swam over to a second arch. The current wasn’t as powerful at this point, and she walked through shallow water to the shore.
Can’t stay here, she thought. Too exposed. She scrambled up the bank of the river into a patch of dead trees. Fallen leaves crunched softly beneath her shoes. Some of the trees had already fallen, but others were leaning against one another like silent survivors.
About a hundred yards from the river, she crouched down and tried to adjust to her new surroundings. This dark forest was not a fantasy or a dream. She could reach out and touch the dry stalk of grass in front of her. She could smell something burning and hear a distant roaring sound. Her body sensed danger, but-no, it was more than that. This was a world dominated by anger and a desire to destroy.
Maya stood up and moved cautiously through the trees. She found a gravel pathway and followed it to a white marble bench and a park fountain filled with fallen leaves. These two objects seemed so out of place in the dead forest that she wondered if they were put there to mock the person who found them. The fountain suggested a genteel European park with old men reading newspapers and nannies pushing perambulators.
The pathway ended at a redbrick building with all the windows smashed and the doors ripped off their hinges. Maya shifted her sword so that she was ready for combat. She walked inside, passed through the empty rooms, and peered out the window. Four men were out on the road that ran past the abandoned park. They wore boots or mismatched shoes and a motley collection of clothes. All of them were armed with homemade weapons-knives, clubs, and spears.
When the men reached the far end of the park, a second group appeared. Maya expected a fight, but the two groups greeted each other and headed off in the same direction-away from the river. Maya decided to follow them. She stayed off the streets and passed through the ruins of the city, stopping occasionally to glance through a shattered window. Darkness concealed her movements, and she stayed away from the gas flares burning from broken pipes. Most of these flares were small and sputtering, but a few larger ones were twisting columns of fire. The flares left black soot on the walls and the smell of burned rubber filled the air.