Bzrk Apocalypse (14 page)

He was middle-aged, with long graying hair and a wry, observant

expression. He was dressed like a dandy—a purple velvet blazer, a top

hat that sat on the counter beside him.

If he had ever had a real name, Plath didn’t know it. His nom de

guerre, his BZRK name, was Caligula.

Plath had seen him in action. He was a confident and extremely

capable killer. He was the eighth person of whom Lear had spoken.

But it was not possible for Plath to imagine giving him orders.

It was Caligula who had killed Ophelia after she was captured

by the FBI. He had burned out her brain so as to leave no traces of

nanotechnology behind. If Plath brought him into BZRK now—into

her BZRK—Wilkes, who had been close to Ophelia, who had very

nearly died beside her, might try to kill him. And that would be the

end of Wilkes.

And yet, here was Plath meeting Mr. Stern to discover what he

had learned in his efforts to track down the elusive personality behind

BZRK. Was that why Caligula was here? Did he already know? Should

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BZRK APOCALYPSE

she be expecting a bullet or a knife or the killer’s trademark hatchet?

Could Caligula guess what they were talking about? Surely not.

But he had found a way to follow her, or perhaps to follow Mr. Stern.

That knowledge made her feel faint. It weakened her knees.

God, it was true: there was no escaping the man in the velvet suit.

The NKVD.
Plath had Googled it. Anya had spoken the truth. And

now here was her own personal NKVD sipping a coffee and watching

to see what she would do.

Or fail to do.

As Nijinksy’s body was being cut loose by paramedics, Plath

bought a street pretzel and a Nantucket Nectars cranberry. Stern

had a coffee and an Italian sausage. They looked, perhaps, like a girl

meeting her father. Or a student with her atypically tough-looking

professor.

“Now that we’re alone, how have you been, Sadie?”

“Getting used to being back in the world,” she said, looking

around at the other lunchtime diners, all somewhere between coats

and sweaters on this gray day.

“It was good of you to pay the money to the boat crew who died.

One of them had two young kids. Softens the blow.”

“What have you found?” she asked, too cold to want to chat, and

too aware of Caligula’s cobra gaze.

“On the Armstrong Twins? I suspect they are in a place called

Sarawak, which is in Malaysia. AFGC owns a facility in Malaysia, a

rare earths mine. Rare earths are a class of rare minerals used in some

sophisticated electronics components. It makes sense that AFGC

would have a source.”

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MICHAEL GRANT

“How likely do you think it is that they’re there?”

Stern thought it over. “I’d say seventy percent. It seems consistent

with what we’re seeing. But it’s possible they’re elsewhere. It’s even

possible they are back in New York.”

“And the
other
person you’re looking for?”

Stern glanced at Caligula. “There sits the one man who might be

able to take us to Lear.”

“Stay away from him,” Plath said too quickly.

“You’re that scared of him.”

“I’ve seen his work, Mr. Stern. The man who warned me about

him doesn’t scare easily.” Vincent. Back when Vincent was
Vincent
.

“But he was scared of Caligula.”

Stern raised his cup, sipped, and said, “I have leads, nothing solid.

Lear’s cell number is obviously switched out daily. You gave me four

such numbers. All the numbers are throwaways. Burner phones. But

interestingly, two of them were purchased in odd locations.”

“Odd how?”

“Well, one was bought in London; one was bought in Wellington,

New Zealand; one was bought in Saint Petersburg, Russia. The last

was from Punta Arenas, Chile.”

“What am I not seeing in those four locations?”

“Wellington and Punta Arenas share a distinction as major

jumping-off points for Antarctica.”

“Antarctica. Why . . . Never mind. I had another text exchange

with Lear. Here’s the number.” She read it off to him. “Why doesn’t

Lear just block the number?”

“Excellent question,” Stern said approvingly. “Arrogance? Or, more

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BZRK APOCALYPSE

likely, he’s deliberately leaving bread crumbs. Either a false trail, or . . .”

“Or what?”

“Or a trail meant for the right person to follow.”

A game? Was she supposed to believe that Lear was playing a

game with her?

In the coffee shop, Caligula was standing up. He put on his hat,

straightened it carefully, and looked directly at Sadie, who returned

his gaze evenly. Then he tugged at the front brim in a slight but

unmistakable acknowledgment of her, and faded from view as he

moved away.

Stern caught the gesture and said, “And you’re sure we shouldn’t

question
him
?”

“He’s tight with Lear. He’s Lear’s attack dog. And I may need him.”

“What are you planning?”

Plath shrugged. “Lear’s orders. He still wants us to wipe out all

AFGC data on nanotechnology. And soon.”

Stern took a long pause at that. He searched her face, looking for

something to reassure himself. But reassurance did not come, and

now he was wary. “Have you told Lear about the practical objections

to such a harebrained scheme?”

“No,” Plath said. “Not yet.”

She hesitated, unsure if she should go forward. Stern was an

experienced interrogator—he knew when just to wait.

“It’s just . . . ,” Plath began. “It’s just, well, I was thinking . . . a

bomb of some kind?”

“A bomb? Are we back to that?” He shook his head slowly without

shifting his gaze from her. When she said nothing, he said, “Sadie,

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MICHAEL GRANT

please listen to me. I’ve been to war. I was in Iraq, and before that

I was in Somalia. When you’re in it, when you’re scared and when

you’re mad and you want revenge, maybe, you find yourself think-

ing about doing things no human being should do. You think about

crossing the line.”

“Where’s this line, Mr. Stern? The Armstrongs killed my father

and brother. They basically killed the president of the United States,

even if that’s not what they intended. Burnofsky was trying to unleash

self-replicating nanobots that could kill every living thing on the

planet. So where’s the line?”

Stern put down his coffee, carefully crumpled the paper from his

sandwich, and set it aside. He wiped his hands with a napkin. Then,

with a clean forefinger, he pointed at Plath’s forehead. “In there.”

Then he pointed at her heart. “In there. That’s where the line is.”

It was not easy to meet his worried, penetrating eyes.

“Sadie, you need to ask yourself: Is this
you
? Are you really, truly

a person planning what would look like a terrorist attack in Midtown

Manhattan?”

Finally she couldn’t take it and turned away. “No, of course not.

But get me everything you can, okay? Everything you feel okay about

giving me. I still need to find a way. . . .”

He wasn’t buying it. And for a moment she was afraid he might

just walk away. Then, with a pained expression, an expression of loss,

he nodded his head.

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ELEVEN

Saks would not release the store surveillance video. But Mr. Stern had

excellent connections throughout security companies in New York.

An underpaid guard, when offered ten thousand dollars in untrace-

able cash, decided he could in fact arrange for the video file to make

its way to Mr. Stern.

He in turn passed it along to Plath. Who watched it for the third

time with Keats, Wilkes, and Anya. Billy had not been asked to be

present, but he was, anyway.

They decided that there was no need for Vincent to be subjected

to it in his condition.

His
condition
. Fragile, that was his condition. Borderline nuts,

still. High-functioning unbalanced.

“Jin lost his shit,” Wilkes said on a second viewing. “Look. That’s

when it starts. He’s fondling a pair of pants. Then that’s him texting.”

“‘Two new biots,’” Plath said dully.

“The text was sent three minutes later,” Noah pointed out. He had

compared the video time code to the time signature on Plath’s phone.

They watched the second part of the tape. Nijinsky hurling him-

self down the escalator. There was no sound. The video was decent

115

11

MICHAEL GRANT

quality, but the angle was poor. They were seeing him from behind.

“Jesus Christ, how many times do we have to watch this?” Wilkes

cried suddenly. She stormed off to the kitchen. Then came back with

a bag of chips.

“‘Two new biots,’” Keats said. “But he was
against
getting any more.”

The third segment of tape showed a distraught Nijinsky, face-on

this time, kneeling, feeding his scarf into the escalator.

It went on for way too long. Nijinsky dead. People milling around

helplessly. Store employees rushing over with scissors, trying to get

at the scarf and cut him loose. Failing, because it was too tight, too

tangled.

Eventually a security guard. Then, at last, far too late, the para-

medics.

“He went crazy,” Anya said. “It was deliberate. He was looking at

clothing and then he was killing himself. Madness.”

She wasn’t thinking about Nijinsky. She was thinking about Vin-

cent. She glanced nervously toward the stairs leading up to his room,

then tried to cover the telltale gesture with a reach toward Wilkes’s

chips.

“New biots,” Plath mused.

“Just totally lost his shit.” Wilkes spoke around the crunching of

a corn chip.

“Who could make a biot for him?” Keats asked. “It takes a tissue

sample and the equipment.” He didn’t mean to single Anya out by

looking at her, but she was the only one in the room with the skills,

and she controlled the equipment that had been hidden in the base-

ment of the safe house.

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BZRK APOCALYPSE

“It takes a tissue sample, the equipment, and the skills,” Anya

said. Then, angrily, “Why would I do that to Nijinsky?” She didn’t

wait for an answer. Everyone knew the answer. Anya sighed. “Yes, I

disliked him. But I would never do this.”

That earned her carefully blank looks.

“No, you listen to me, all of you. I would never. I did never. I did

not do this.”

All eyes were on her.

“No!” Anya cried. “No, do not do this! Suspicion will destroy us.”

“What ‘us’?” Wilkes asked. “Look at
us
. Ophelia’s dead. Renfield.

Vincent’s out of it. Now Jin. Fucking Jin, man.” She laughed her weird

heh-heh-heh laugh and looked ready to cry. “We’re a fucking joke.”

“We stopped the Armstrongs,” Keats said reasonably. “We accom-

plished a lot. More than we should have been able to.”

Anya ignored him and instead pleaded with Plath. “Plath, you

know I didn’t do this. Look at me. I did not hurt Nijinsky.”

Plath wanted to say something reassuring. But she couldn’t quite

get the words to come out. If not Anya, then who? Someone at McLure

Labs? But how many people there even knew of the existence of biots?

And of those, how many could make one? And of
those
, how many

would use the knowledge to kill Nijinsky? Was Anya a traitor?

“I know what you are thinking.” Anya’s Russian accent was com-

ing to the fore. The word came out
thinkink
. “You are wrong.”
Wronk.

“It was someone else. Why would [
vwould
] I . . . ? For what reason?”

Keats said, “No one suspects you, Anya. I don’t, at least. But the

thing is, who else then? Not you, okay. But who?”

“I don’t know,” Anya pleaded. “I can think of only three others

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MICHAEL GRANT

at McLure Labs with the knowledge and the access to equipment. But

how would they have a tissue sample from Nijinsky?”

“He’s dead now, can we call him by his real name? Shane Hwang.

Not some dead, crazy Russian ballet dancer.” This from Wilkes. She

punched the bag of chips and sent crumbs flying. “His name was

Shane fucking Hwang. I never even knew Ophelia’s real name. And

poor old Renfield. And when I’m dead or crazy, you people won’t

know me, either.” The flame tattoo under her eye looked like extrava-

gant tears. “Jesus, no one will even know me.”

“Okay,” Plath said, bringing silence. “I believe you, Anya. I

think . . . I mean, I choose to think . . . that this is the remote biot-

killer technology that Lear was talking about. Which means we are

all in danger. But still, Anya, I—we—need to be able to watch you.”

Plath put a finger to her eye. It looked like a gesture, some kind

of evil-eye, maledictory gesture. But in fact Plath had sent one of

her biots racing around her own eyeball to clamber over lashes and

reach the cheek.

Through her biot’s eyes she could see the vast column of flesh

descending like some cylindrical meteor from the sky to press a giant

furrowed fingertip within a few seconds’ walk.

Her biot ran beneath the vast curve, ran on until fingertip and