She rattled off a quick recap; then she got angrily to her feet and stalked across the room, tore open the drawer, and snatched up the cell Hugo had left for her.
“What are you doing?”
“He took our money! Our money.” Her voice was a harpy’s screech.
“I’m going to goddamn well tell him to give it back.”
She flipped open the phone and scrolled through the stored numbers until she located one labeled: ME.
“He was always an ugly child,” sneered Eris as she pressed the call button.
The forty pounds of C4 packed tightly into the hold vaporized the Delta of Venus. The blast could be heard for thirty miles in every direction, but they were so far out to sea, no one heard a thing.
Epilogue
(1)
The Sea of Hope became a massive floating crime scene. Everyone who was on board had to be interviewed and checked. That included the performers, many members of Generation Hope, and everyone else. There were protests and threats of lawsuits and actions, but those were hollow. The DMS had just averted the worst terrorist act in history. That bought us all the slack we needed. All of the celebrities and the children of the power players were off-loaded to the Navy ships. Eventually they’d all go home.
Home and alive.
I flew home in a big C-140 with Pink, Taylor Swift, and the guys from U2. DeeDee was aboard, too, with Khalid watching over her. She would keep the eye, but it was damaged and so was her face. It was too early to tell if she’d ever stand in the line of battle again. I had a couple of dozen stitches in my back, chest, and gums, but I was deemed fit to travel. Ghost was there, too. Sedated but alive.
It was all surreal.
The celebs on our plane kept their distance, occasionally shooting strange looks at me. I don’t know what stories they’d been told about me, or what rumors had floated around. And I didn’t care.
But sometimes you can’t tell about people.
“Cuppa?”
I looked up to see who’d spoken and Bono stood there holding two cups of steaming tea. He held one out to me. I took it, hissing at the pain the action caused in every molecule of my body.
“Mind if I sit?”
I tilted my head toward a metal equipment case and he sat down. He was a small man, short and slim. His signature sunglasses were tucked into the vee of his shirt.
“Your name’s Joe?”
I nodded.
“Look, man, I came back to say a couple of things, but I’ll piss off if I’m bothering you.”
“No,” I said. “No, it’s good. What’s on your mind?”
I sipped the tea. It was lousy.
“I made this myself.” He sipped his. “God, it’s piss.”
“It’s hot,” I said, and we clinked mugs.
“Tell me, man … why do you do this sort of thing?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Ask me something I know the answer to.”
The plane flew a lot of miles before either of us spoke. We’d drunk our bad tea. Bono stood up.
“Anyway, man,” he said. “For me and my mates and, I guess, for everyone … I just wanted to say thanks.”
He offered me his hand.
I took it. Then he nodded and walked back to sit with the other members of the band. I smiled. A good guy.
Why do I do this sort of thing?
God, I wish I had an answer to that.
(2)
On December 28, Rudy, Circe, and I took a DMS chopper from the Hangar and flew south into Pennsylvania. We landed outside the walls of Graterford Prison. Warden Wilson met us at the gate.
“Has he said anything?” asked Rudy as we shed our coats in the warden’s office.
“He hasn’t said a word since Dr. Sanchez ordered him placed in solitary,” said Wilson. “I had video and audio recorders placed inside his cell and all along the path from cell to showers and back. Nicodemus is always escorted by four guards that I pick randomly, and the time for his shower varies according to a schedule I make up. A schedule I keep in my head. If there was a leak inside the prison, someone feeding information to Nicodemus, these procedures seem to have stopped it.”
Rudy and Circe exchanged a look and said nothing. Neither looked pleased. Wilson caught it.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Rudy. “Except that a little subtlety might have helped us findthe leak rather than cut it off.”
Wilson looked flustered and angry. “Well, you could have said that, Dr. Sanchez.”
“He shouldn’t have had to,” I said. Wilson turned aside to hide a face.
“Can we see the prisoner now?” asked Circe.
“Sure,” Wilson said with bad grace. He led the way and we followed him through cold, damp halls that felt more like the corridors of an ancient dungeon rather than part of a modern prison. We passed through two heavily occupied cell blocks, and as we passed we saw hundreds of prisoners standing on the other side of the bars. Their eyes followed us, reading us. They watched Circe O’Tree, who wore a tailored suit that hid none of her curves.
The prisoners were absolutely silent.
And that was creepy as hell. I had never heard a quiet cell block before. Not once as a Baltimore cop or during my time with the DMS. There were always catcalls and laughter, the low murmur of conversation, smart-ass remarks. There should have been some whistles at Circe, some off-color remarks.
All we heard was the hollow sounds of our own heels on the concrete floor. Even the warden felt it. He stopped in the middle of one of the rows of cells and looked around. When he made eye contact with the convicts, they returned his stare, but they said nothing.
Wilson cut a look at me and continued leading the way.
Several turns took us through a series of locked doors until we reached the secure area used for solitary confinement. The cells on either side of Nicodemus’s cell had been left vacant. The video cameras on the wall were pointed toward his cell. I could see a small figure on the cot, curled asleep under a thin brown blanket.
A guard-supervisor stood at the far end of the row, and he came to meet us.
Wilson said, “Bill, these people are with Homeland. They want to interview Nicodemus.”
“Sure, but if you’d called down I could have—”
“Just open the cell,” I said.
It was against all protocol, and the guard studied the warden for a moment before complying. He waved to two other guards and they came to join us, bringing waist chains and riot sticks. All three of the guards cut worried looks at the cell. It was the fearful reaction Rudy had described. He was right: these guys were scared as hell by the little prisoner.
“Nicodemus,” called the supervisor, Bill. “Rise and shine.”
Nicodemus ignored him.
“Come on,” Bill said, his tone almost pleading. “Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.”
When Nicodemus still didn’t stir, the supervisor turned and yelled down the hall, “Open Six!”
There was a metallic clang inside the wall and the door twitched open. The two guards braced the doorway. One opened it, the other drew his riot stick and tapped on the door frame.
“Come on—let’s not be screwing around here.”
When there was still no compliance, they looked to the warden, who gave a nod, and they entered the cell.
“What the hell? Oh—shit!”
We crowded the doorway, watching as one of the guards grabbed the blanket and whipped it away. Circe and Rudy gasped as black and brown roaches scuttled in all directions. Hundreds of them.
There was a pillow and a rolled-up bundle of clothes.