“What are you doing to yourself?” he says, his voice quaking.
“Francisco was telling the truth,” I say.
“Who is Francisco?”
I hold out a bloody palm with the tubule in it.
“He was a soldier,” I say. “Like me.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
HOWARD USES VODKA FROM THE MINIBAR TO STERILIZE THE CUTS.
Then he takes a roll of duct tape from his bag, and I use it as a battlefield dressing to close the wounds. It’s a temporary measure, but a good one. It will stem the flow of blood and allow the body to begin to heal until I can get to a drugstore and find more appropriate dressings.
When we’re done cleaning me up, we sit down in the room, and I tell him what I know about the chip. I tell him what Francisco said about its neurosuppressive quality, the effect it has on throttling fear.
“I’ve never heard of anything like that,” Howard says.
“But it’s possible?” I say.
“There have been a lot of experiments studying the effect of magnetic fields on the brain. But there’s nothing functional at this scale. This would be a level of sophistication years beyond anything available now.”
“It makes sense,” I say. “If you want to create the perfect soldier, start by taking away his fear.”
“How do you feel with it outside of you?”
“The same as I did before.”
“So maybe it was bullshit. Or maybe he was wrong about what it does.”
“Maybe so. But he wasn’t wrong about the chip being there. So what else could it be?”
“Let’s take a look,” Howard says. He powers on his computer, then places the tubule on the lighted Plexiglas device he used to scan the SDHC card earlier.
A moment later, a magnified picture of the tubule appears on the computer screen. Howard points to it. “There’s a computer chip located here. And do you see the little wire coil that surrounds half of the chip?”
“What is it?”
“It could be a power source. Or an antenna.”
That’s when the hotel phone rings, the noise echoing in the quiet of the room.
Howard looks at me.
“Don’t touch it,” I say.
The phone continues to ring.
“You have to get out of here,” I tell Howard. “They’re coming.”
“Who’s coming?”
The Program. A freelance team. Moore’s people.
Whoever it is, it will be trouble.
I don’t have time to explain it to him.
“Grab everything and get it into the other room,” I say.
I imagine them downstairs, whoever they are, inquiring at the front desk about which room we’re in. If the desk is good, they won’t give out that information. But in Manchester, in the middle of the night, it’s probably a young guy who wishes he weren’t here. A young guy who doesn’t want a hassle, who isn’t above providing a little information when forty dollars is slipped across the counter.
Maybe they asked him to call to make sure I was in, or maybe he knew something was up and called after they left. Either way, it’s not a coincidence. Not at five AM
Howard starts pulling plugs from outlets, slapping his laptops closed and stacking them to carry to the other room.
“Wait until you hear the door to this room open,” I tell him, “then get out as quickly and quietly as you can. Hide somewhere in the hotel, and don’t come back here no matter what. Wait until there’s no movement from upstairs or in the parking lot, then get yourself back home to New York. Take the train if you can, but if you need it, there’s a black truck in the back of the parking lot. Keys in the front wheel well.”
“What will you do?”
I shake my head, unwilling to answer.
“If something happens to me—”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Listen,” I say calmly. “If something happens and for some reason you don’t hear from me, I don’t want you searching for me. Destroy any evidence of our communication. It’s the only way to keep yourself safe.”
“Holy shit holy shit holy shit,” he says, starting to panic.
I grab him by the arms.
“You’re going to be okay, Howard. I promise you.”
He takes a deep breath, looks me in the eye. I see his body relax slightly.
“Be careful, Daniel.”
“I will.”
He rushes into the other suite, and I close the door behind him.
I spend sixty seconds fixing the room, straightening cushions, checking for anything that might give away Howard’s presence.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, bare-chested with my wounds taped up.
I reach up to my chest and carefully peel back the tape there.
I press the tubule into the adhesive, then I put the tape back over the wound.
The chip is no longer inside me, but it’s hidden against me, safe, until I can examine it further.
I throw on a T-shirt, realize it will not cover the cuts on my arms, and grab a hoodie from the closet and zip it to my neck, hiding the wounds.
I hear a door open and close down the hall.
Whoever they are, they came by stairs, not risking the elevator
I turn out the lights, and I sit in a chair at a diagonal from the door.
My breathing is fast, much faster than normal. I take a moment to center myself, relaxing my shoulders and willing my breath to slow as I’ve done a thousand times before
It doesn’t work.
My breathing turns rapid and shallow, my chest moving in a strange way. Something is wrong with my body. It seems to be reacting without my being able to control it.
It takes enormous concentration to get calm and centered. I only have time for three deep breaths before I hear it.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
IT’S NO LOUDER THAN A WHISPER.
The sound of a lubricating spray being squirted into the door lock followed by a tool being eased into the mechanism. The knob is jiggled briefly, and the door opens.
A figure enters the room in an instant, moving with the ease of a shadow.
I know the posture, the powerful way he moves through the world.
It’s Mike.
He stares at me, and I stare back, unblinking.
He steps deeper into the room and closes the door behind him. My breath catches in my chest.
“You don’t look good,” he says.
I wipe sweat from my forehead.
The glow of daylight comes through the blinds, illuminating Mike’s profile in front of the doorway. He looks huge inside the room.
“I haven’t been sleeping well,” I say.
“No, it’s something else,” he says. He studies me curiously. “You look afraid. You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
I will myself not to react to his comment. I make my face calm, breathe slowly and evenly. I touch my forehead again, and my hand comes away wet.
“Why are you here, Mike?”
“It’s not a social call, if that’s what you were wondering.”
“That’s good, because I didn’t have time to buy party favors.”
“You’re still funny,” he says. “Even under duress.”
“I’m not under duress. But you obviously are. You’re sneaking into a hotel room in the middle of the night.”
“I didn’t know what I’d find in here.”
“You found me. Now why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?”
He’s moved closer to me without my realizing it, every step a chess move.
Francisco was right. You can know Mike yet not see him coming.
“The Program sent me,” Mike says simply.
I stand up, bringing my body to a state of readiness. I want Mike to view me as an operative like him. Dangerous like him.
“The Program… has… disappeared,” I say.