That could have put the operative in the room with Takanawa. It had an LW suit and used it to disappear when the raid began. When we let him go, it followed him, hoping he would lead it to the case before it left the hotel.
No. Upgr …forget the target …the case.
…about the …
Kill her.
Forget the target. Get the case. “Target” might have referred to Takanawa. “Kill her” must have referred to Holst.
Sean had said she was being treated here at Mercy Greaves. I brought up the inpatient records for the hospital.
HOLST, JAN—she was there, in another wing. Her condition had been upgraded from critical to stable, but the damage to her larynx was severe. She couldn’t swallow and was being fed intravenously, but, amazingly, her attacker had missed both jugulars. I checked her records to see if she was wired for Posthumous Service. She wasn’t.
“Mr. Wachalowski?”
I opened my eyes. The doctor had come in. I packed the recording away.
“Good morning, Doctor.”
“Good morning to you, Agent,” he said. “But I don’t think you should be accessing those records. Is Miss Holst classified as a terrorist?”
“She’s a person of interest in an ongoing investigation. Under the current alert status, I have authorization,” I said. His face said that he already knew this, but disagreed.
“Can I convince you to stop the records access, at least until you’ve checked out?”
I nodded. “How is she?”
“Miss Holst is in stable condition, as you now know,” he said. “She is shaken, but except for her voice box, she’ll make a full recovery. The rest will require more specialized attention, but although she won’t sing, I think she’ll speak again before it’s over.”
“That’s good news. Is she well enough for a visitor?”
“She’s not well enough for an interrogation.”
“She’s stable, though?”
The doctor nodded.
“Thank you. Am I clear to go?” I asked.
“There is no trace of the substance left in your bloodstream, and there appears to be no long-term damage. Aside from that, you have some lumps, but nothing serious.”
“Thanks.”
When he was gone, I checked in at the FBI, but Sean hadn’t checked in. I tried his cell, but there was no answer.
31 03 76 11 52 57 81 1
The numbers floated there in front of me. Something was wrong.
I put in a call to Assistant Director Noakes. He picked up immediately.
Wachalowski, you’re awake. Good.
Noakes, where is Sean Pu?
I don’t know. In the field, I think. Why?
Did he log out?
Hold on. He went idle for several seconds. No. What’s this about?
Maybe nothing. I’m trying to track him down.
Are you checking out of the hospital today?
Yes.
Then get down here. Looks like we got another survivor from the raid last night.
Who?
Your gunshot victim in the basement—son of a bitch lived. The medics are clearing him now, and then Vesco’s going to take a crack at him.
I want to bring someone in on that, I said. He knew I meant Zoe. I waited to see if he’d argue, but he didn’t.
Then you’d better hurry.
Understood. I’m on my way. Noakes cut the connection.
I sat in the hospital bed, thinking for a moment longer. Zoe could help me get information I might not otherwise get access to. She might be able to help me in more ways than one.
I made the call. Her voice mail picked up.
“Zoe, this is Nico. I need your help,” I said. Then, after a second: “Keep this one under your hat. I’ll meet you at the Federal Building.”
I hung up, and began to get dressed.
Zoe Ott—Pleasantview Apartments / FBI Home Office
I opened my eyes, and the first thing I saw was her. I was sitting in a folding chair, angled away from a gray conference table, and that woman, that dead woman, was standing in front of me. The concrete wall behind her was painted green.
“It’s you,” I said.
The first two buttons of her blouse were undone, and I could see she still had the big scar there, right in the middle of her chest. She was wearing a wig—a straight, black, shoulder-length deal—and her eyes glowed a little as they stared out from under the straight bangs.
A big boom came from somewhere above us but it was muted, like we were deep underground. The overhead light flickered, and dust sifted down from the ceiling. It had been a while since I’d fallen asleep and ended up in the green room. I’d been hoping that dream was over for good.
“God, just kill me …” I said.
“You don’t die here. You die in a tower.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
I was more lucid these days, and I tried to make a point of looking around when I got stuck in a vision. The room looked the same as it always did, more or less; the table was there, and the chair, along with the three hanging lights at the far end. The electric switch box was mounted on the wall next to the metal door, and the steel panel that hid the handset was next to that. Something was a little different, though. Had the switchbox and door been on the opposite wall last time?
The boom came again, and more dust sifted down from the ceiling. Something flickered then, a red band of laser light that reminded me of a bar scanner. It shone through the dust from behind me, but when I turned around, it was gone. I couldn’t see where it had come from.
“I came to tell you something,” she said.
“Good,” I said, still distracted by the laser. I’d never seen that before. “Start by telling me what this place is.”
She just stared and didn’t answer.
“Where are we? Where is this place? What’s with the explosions? What’s happening up there?”
“I came to tell you something,” she said again.
“I know you’re real,” I said. “I’ve seen you in the real world…. Is that who I’m talking to now? Or are you just who I picture when the information comes?”
She didn’t answer, and I could see she wasn’t going to. I shook my head.
“Fine. Just …say what you came to say.”
“The city is going to burn.”
I shrugged. “Yeah. I’ve seen it. I saw it years ago. Did you come to tell me something I already know? What do you want me to do about it?”
“The day will come when everything will fall on you. The fate of everything will be in your hands.”
I smiled and shook my head. It was almost funny. Not quite, but almost.
“Then the fate of everything is in big trouble,” I said.
“That’s true.”
She turned and threw the big electrical switch on the wall. A buzzing sound came from the ceiling and three lights snapped on at the far end of the room. Two people were standing there, not moving, one under the left light and one under the right light. The spot under the middle light was empty.
The person on the left was Nico. The person on the right I recognized too. She was there that night in the factory.
“This one could be your salvation,” she said, pointing at Nico. The number 3 was pressed into his forehead in black ink.
“What happened to him?” I asked, moving closer. That scar of his usually covered a big patch on the right side of his chest and right shoulder, but now it was just on his chest. Before it got to the shoulder it stopped in a neat line, like it had been painted over or something. The other half was just gone. Everything on the other side, the shoulder and arm, were the wrong color. Unlike the rest of him, his shoulder and arm were pale and gray. They were the same color as the dead woman.
“Your chance of successfully navigating this relationship is sixty percent,” she said. When I looked at her, she was staring at him, but I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. After a minute, she pointed to the woman.