TEN

That night, finally, not long after sunset, Brutran leaves her office and heads for her car. I run for mine. It’s a mile away, but I set a world record getting to it. I’m not unduly worried about losing her in traffic. My ears are acutely attuned to every sound in IIC’s basement, where the firm stows their cars. Fortunately, the garage isn’t equipped with vacuum-plated glass, and I’m able to hear Brutran not only start her car, but say good night to the garage attendant.

To my surprise, Brutran heads north on Pacific Coast Highway, not south into Los Angeles. The road is winding, the traffic sparse. I hang back a mile. The woman drives a white BMW, one of the six brands of cars I sacrificed to the sniper and his Gatling gun. As I follow, I try to envision what type of security I will find at her home, and what I’ll have to do to defeat it. My heart beats with anticipation, and I realize how anxious I am to get my hands on her, to get to the truth of IIC and its mysterious Array.

The woman has a remarkable ability to control her mind, but I’m confident I can break her. There’s a limit to how much pain any human being can stand. Plus her cavalier attitude toward assassinating innocent people angers me, and when I’m angry, my behavior knows no limits.

Brutran drives north along the coast until there’s a break in the hills on our right and she’s able to take a country road across vast farmland. From there she accelerates and races into the hills overlooking Ventura. I’m not surprised to see her turn up a long driveway that leads to a mansion sitting atop its own peak. The architectural style of the residence is the opposite of her workplace. This house belongs on an old Spanish plantation. Although technically one story, it’s spread over an acre of shifting terrain, giving it a half dozen different levels.

The view is beautiful: the glittering lights of the city below, the dark expanse of the far-off ocean. But what strikes me most as I sit in my car down the hill from her driveway is the silence of the spot. I hear a garage door open and close. Brutran turns off her engine and enters her home. Yet she talks to no one, because no one’s there. For the moment I’m bewildered. There’s no husband present, no children, no security guards.

I remember the conclusion I came to earlier, when I spoke to Lisa. That Brutran must have stayed at work because she was afraid of me. The idea seemed logical at the time. The woman and I had a tense conversation, and then she went out of her way to spend the next thirty-six hours locked in her fortress. But now she’s come out in the open, and returned home to an empty mansion, without a soul around to protect her.

There’s something here I’m missing.

Yesterday afternoon, I was unable to read Brutran’s thoughts. Yet when I did catch a faint glimpse of her mind, it felt like a tight capsule of consciousness that intimidated even me. She wasn’t simply disciplined and calculating. It was her coldness that struck me the most. It was like she had been born without a conscience, or else had had it surgically removed from her brain because it no longer suited her goals.

I know nothing of her likes and dislikes, but I do know she’d leave nothing to chance. Yet she has met me, face to face, and felt the danger I represent, the same way I sensed the danger she represents, and now she’s left herself wide open to attack.

It worries me. No, it scares me.

What I’m missing is the unexpected.

Carefully, I park in a cluster of trees and get out and hike around the ridge where the house stands. I search for hidden cameras, scanning lasers, infrared sensors—any type of high-tech surveillance equipment. But I find nothing, which is odd. Nowadays, virtually anyone rich enough to own such a mansion would have installed a basic blanket of electronic security. It’s like Brutran’s so confident of what’s inside her that she’s no longer worried about what’s outside.

I hear Brutran turn on the TV. CNN.

My head tells me to wait, to learn more, to see what she’s up to. My heart burns with impatience. I not only want the truth, I want revenge for all those she’s so casually killed.

I step to a sliding glass door at the back of the house. It’s locked. I snap it quietly using brute force. Then I’m inside, my Glock in my right hand, the safety off, moving silently toward the sound of the TV.

Suddenly a little girl, with big green eyes, stands before me.

I’m stunned—I didn’t hear her approach.

“Who are you?” she asks.

I kneel beside the child. “A friend of your mommy’s.”

She holds up her doll. A beat-up clown with a sad smile.

“Mr. Topper can’t sleep. He’s having nightmares. He keeps waking me up.”

I pat the doll’s head. “Mr. Topper just needs a big kiss from you. Then his bad dreams will go away.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. Now go back to bed. I have to talk to your mommy.”

The girl nods and walks away. Strange little thing. Silent as a mouse.

I continue my hunt. Around a sharp corner, in an open living room with windows that reach from the floor to the ceiling, I see Brutran munching on a fruit salad and watching the news. There’s no sign of her husband. Then again, I never saw Mr. Brutran in his office the last two days. And it was easy to identify his workplace. His office is next to his wife’s. I have to assume he’s out of town.

Her food is fresh, with slices of strawberries, bananas, oranges, apples, kiwis, and melons. I realize I’m starving. I don’t know whether to shoot her or to ask her for a bite.

Brutran lifts up the control and lowers the volume.

“Are you going to stand there or join me?” she asks.

I assume she heard me talking to her daughter, although we were both whispering. Of course, nothing about this woman makes sense. I decide to join her. Crossing the living room, I sit in a chair beside her, keeping a grip on my Glock but letting it lie in my lap. She’s changed out of her work clothes and taken a quick shower, and now she wears a fluffy white bathrobe. Most people would say she looks relaxed. But I’m blessed with an arsenal of subtle senses, and I’ve only to gaze into her dark eyes to know she’s not let her guard down an inch.

She gestures to the TV, leaving the volume down low.

“Do you keep up with worldly affairs, Alisa?” she asks.

“I watch the news and read the New York Times.”

“Do you like CNN?”

“I think they do a pretty good job of reporting.”

“IIC owns CNN. Of course, they don’t know that, and wouldn’t believe it if I told them. But they never make a major programming decision without input from the people we put on their board.” She points to the black newscaster. “We’re thinking of promoting this man. He’s smart. He appeals to middle-aged women.”

“It must be intoxicating to have so much power. Or is it frustrating that you don’t get to brag about it?”

“I feel no need to brag.”

“Except to me.”

She shakes her head and reaches for a strawberry. “You misunderstand me. I’m trying to give you a sense of our reach, not to impress you, but so you can better understand us.”

“You brought me here to educate me?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Why didn’t you educate me yesterday when I was in your office?”

“Too many people were watching and listening.”

“Was your husband one of those people?”

“He’s not important.”

“It’s my understanding he’s president of IIC.”

“In name only. I run the company.”

“Does he know this?”

She shrugs. “He’s a man, he thinks he’s in charge. I let him think that. It changes nothing. I’m in charge of a unique company, and I’m always on the lookout for unique individuals.”

“Don’t tell me you’re offering me a job.”

“The title’s irrelevant. I’d like us to work together. That is, if we can come to an understanding.”

“The best way to gain my cooperation is to tell me what I want to know. Then I relax. But when I feel confused, I . . .” I gesture with my gun. “I react badly.”

“I understand. Unfortunately, there’s a limit to how much I can tell you before I know I can trust you.”

“What do I need to do to earn your trust?”

“You can kill Shanti and Lisa for me, for one thing.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“Why do you want them dead?”

“Lisa knows too much about the inner workings of IIC. She’s a loose cannon. And Shanti . . . well, it would be hard to explain the threat she poses to my company. Just accept that the threat is real. She has to be neutralized.”

“What if she just stops working for you?”

“That won’t stop the damage.”

“The damage to what? She’s a teenage girl with a severe handicap.”

“On the surface. Beneath that, she’s the center of an infection that makes the AIDS virus look benign.”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Explain.”

“Not yet. I told you, I have to trust you first. I have to know you’re loyal.”

“I can be very loyal to those I care about.”

“Is that why you won’t kill Shanti?”

“It’s one reason. Besides the fact she’s done nothing wrong.”

Brutran stares at me. I feel the power in her cold gaze. It is as if a massive magnet scans me from head to toe, although her eyes never leave my face. I’m surprised when I feel a sudden wave of dizziness. It’s usually I—my ancient eyes—who makes people swoon.

“I didn’t expect you to be so sentimental,” she says.

“I take it you’ve been studying me.”

“From a distance.”

“Tell me what you know about me.”

“I know you’re very old and very strong.”

“Go on.”

“I know you live and act alone. That’s what puzzles me most.”

“Why?”

“It makes you unique.”

“Why?”

She acts surprised. “You honestly don’t know, do you?”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

She nods again, to herself. “Interesting.”

“Did you send an assassin to my house last week?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“What makes you think I know?”

“For someone who is trying to win my confidence, you’re not very forthright.”

“I’d like to win your confidence. But to do that, you insist I confide in you, when I keep telling you I need to know if I can count on you. We’re obviously bumping up against what people call a catch-22. One of us is going to have to make a good-faith gesture. I think it should be you.”

“I disagree.”

“I thought you would say that.” She reaches for the TV control and raises the volume a notch. “They’re talking about the tension in the Middle East. Some experts believe Iran already has the bomb, while others say they are still a year away from having enough purified uranium to build one or two nuclear weapons. What do you think the truth is?”

“I don’t know. But I’m sure you do.”

“Iran already has the bomb. Not one they built on their own, but a dozen they bought on the black market. Saudi Arabia also has the bomb. They have hydrogen bombs, a hundred of them. You might wonder how I know this when the president of the United States doesn’t. The reason is simple. I can write a check for a hundred billion dollars and he can’t. Not without the approval of the House and the Senate.”

“You’re saying these countries bought their bombs from Russia?”

“Saudi Arabia did. When the Soviet Union collapsed, the Saudi royal family looked north and figured the Russians couldn’t possibly keep track of the thirty thousand warheads they were supposed to decommission. No doubt some smart nephew of the king figured that with a hundred billion euros he could buy an already-made nuclear arsenal. Of course, somewhere along the line the king must have agreed to the plan.” She pauses. “You see my point?”

“You’re saying money can buy anything.”

“Yes.”

“Where did Iran buy their bombs?”

“From North Korea. They charged a lot less. Then again, their bombs don’t always work. Iran has to remember that if they go to war against Israel. Speaking of which, they have their own nuclear arsenal. One we sold them.”

“Everyone who goes on the Internet knows that.”

“Yes. But they don’t know why we sold them the bombs.”

“We did so out of guilt. Because we turned our heads during World War Two and let six million Jews die.”

Brutran nods. “Very good. Spoken like a wise observer who lived through those turbulent years.”

“What makes you think I’m so old?”

“Intensive research. For such a rich lady, you have no birth certificate. Nor do you have any death certificates. You’ll laugh at that last remark and say, ‘Of course, I’m still alive. Why should I have a death certificate?’ But let me give you a taste of the advice I can pass on to you if we agree to work together. You should have let your old identities die. It would have covered your tracks better. None of your earlier aliases were ever buried. That’s one of the main ways we were able to track you.”

Her advice is sound. I have been careless at killing off my earlier incarnations. Before the computer age, it wasn’t necessary. Now I see I’ll have to adjust my lifestyle to include regular funerals.

Brutran has scored a point.

“How old do you think I am?” I ask.

She studies me. “Our data reaches back four centuries. You’re at least that old. But sitting with you now, I sense we’ve barely scratched the surface of who you really are.”

“Interesting.”

“Now you sound like me. Good.”

I shake my head. “I’m not like you. You may be right about certain worldly events, but I’ll never believe money can buy everything. IIC can accumulate all they want, but when the public becomes aware of what you’re up to, there will be such an outcry, your wealth will be useless.”

“How is anyone going to know what we’re up to?”

“No secret remains secret forever. Even now, there are cracks in your veil.”

She brushes my words aside with her hand. “We own CNN and your beloved New York Times. Within five years we’ll control all the major media outlets. Events don’t make the news, the people who own the news companies do. Why, I could make you famous in less than a month, Alisa Perne. Or should I say Lara Adams? Talk about cracks in my veil. Your veil is paper thin. I don’t have to physically touch you to destroy you. You have more secrets than any of us.”

I play with the gun in my lap. “Are you sure you want to threaten me?”

“I’d rather reason with you. But threats have their place.” She adds, “By the way, you can’t harm me with that gun. Out of respect, I thought I should warn you.”

“So a bullet through the brain won’t bother you?”

“You’d never get that far.”

“You sound pretty confident.”

“I am.” She slowly smiles. “Let’s not fence. We have much to offer each other. We should form an alliance.”

“So far I haven’t heard what you can do for me.”

“Let’s say I know who sent that assassin after you. How would you feel if I told you I can stop your enemies from sending another?”

“Who are my enemies?”

“Don’t answer a question with a question. How would you feel?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“That man nearly killed you.”

“How do you know how close he came?”

“To escape you had to blow up your house. He must have come damn close.”

“And you promise to keep the bad guys away?”

“Yes. Among other things.”

“Such as?”

She nods to the news on TV, where there are images of Arabs and Jews killing each other. “IIC has a greater goal than wealth and power. Our higher purpose is to save mankind. Yes, I know that sounds grandiose. But the truth is mankind needs saving. You’d be hard-pressed to find a scientist who wouldn’t agree that we’re destroying the earth with global warming, pollution, and overpopulation. You’d have trouble finding a politician who doesn’t believe we’re heading for a major war in the Middle East or with China.”

“And you have a magic pill that will make people behave?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“The Array?”

She blinks. “What do you know about the Array?”

I gamble to keep her talking. “I know it’s begun to malfunction. You can no longer count on making your usual percentage in the stock market. I wonder. Has the magic gone out of the pill?”

I have hit a nerve. The woman’s face darkens.

“It seems a part of your nature to taunt us mere mortals. Perhaps if I’d lived as long as you, I’d do likewise. But I must warn you, I find the quality annoying.”

“That’s the second warning you’ve given in two minutes. Has anyone told you it seems a part of your nature to threaten people when you’re in the midst of asking for their help?”

Her expression remains flat, distant. “I’m asking you to join us in a great cause. To use your special abilities to help save mankind.”

“And I can start by killing two innocent young women?”

“I explained to you why they must die.”

“No, you haven’t.” I pause. “Not yet.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes.” I raise the gun and point it at her face. “I believe it is.”

She shrugs. For some reason she uses her remote to lower the volume. I see her push the mute button, and the sound stops. For the first time I realize she hasn’t let go of it since I entered her house. Indeed, she was holding the remote even before I entered the living room. If it’s a weapon, I assume she would have to point it at me for it to work—something I won’t allow. At the same time, the device looks harmless.

But she doesn’t put it down. She stares at my gun without the slightest trace of fear. “Are you going to shoot me?” she asks.

“I will if you don’t start answering my questions.”

“You’d kill me knowing I can protect you?”

“I know nothing of the sort. Tell me about the Array.”

Her smile widens, yet it’s a joyless expression.

“Why tell you about it when you can have a demonstration?”

“Huh?” I manage to mutter before I feel a sudden pressure at the back of my head. The sensation distorts my balance. I try to stand, to get away from what’s causing it, but I have no control over my legs. It’s as if someone else has taken charge of my central nervous system. The pressure escalates rapidly until the pain itself almost blinds me. I feel as if a metal claw fresh from a furnace has clamped down on my skull at the top of my neck. My cervical vertebrae make loud popping sounds. They feel close to rupturing.

“I think you will shoot yourself before you shoot me,” she says.

I shake my head, trying to shake free of the invisible but all too real vise that squeezes me. The internal pressure is so great, I fear my brain cells will explode.

“No!” I gasp.

“Shoot, Alisa. Shoot yourself in the head.”

Fearing she has somehow hypnotized me, I tear my gaze away from her eyes and try blocking out her voice. My right arm shakes. The hand that holds the gun twitches. With each passing moment, it twists the gun closer to my head. I don’t understand what’s happening, I only know I’m unable to resist it.

“No!” I cry.

“It will stop if you shoot. Just shoot yourself, Alisa.”

I force myself to focus on the TV, anything to drown out the wicked suggestions she continues to force-feed my agonized mind. But on the screen the rival Arabs and Jews no longer fight each other. Instead, I see close-ups of children pressing guns to their temples and firing. As their innocent skulls shatter, their brains splatter the screen, and three-dimensional images of gross gray matter drip from the TV. I smell it, the bloody pulp, and I, who have killed thousands, feel sick to my stomach.

The next child who appears on the screen is Shanti. Beautiful Shanti—it’s an image of her before her fiancé threw acid in her face. I’m confused. Where did such a picture come from? Is it real? Holding a gun beside her mouth, she begs for me to save her life.

“Shoot yourself and I’ll live,” she cries.

“No!” I shout back.

“Please, Alisa?”

“Shanti!” How does she know my name?

“I don’t want to die,” she pleads, before she puts the gun in her mouth. I cannot help her any more than I can help myself. My hand keeps twitching, and soon my gun is pointed at my face the same way hers is. Only I won’t open my mouth, I refuse to open my mouth.

“Save me!” Shanti mouths a mumbled cry as the barrel of the gun slides past her lips.

“Don’t do it!” I cry back.

“Sita!” she moans, calling me by my childhood name.

“Shanti!”

She pulls the trigger. The impact of the bullet hurts me as badly as if the bullet entered my own skull. The bullet ricochets around inside the girl’s mouth, ripping out her right eye, tearing off her right nostril, bursting through her cheek and leaving a gaping hole. It’s like the acid all over again.

Incredibly, the Shanti on the screen doesn’t die. Her face covered with blood, she calmly puts down the gun and speaks to me in the hissing tone I’m familiar with, only amplified tenfold.

“You promised to protect me,” she says.

I feel myself weep. “I’m sorry.”

Shanti is suddenly bitter. “Why, you can’t even protect yourself. Go ahead, pull the trigger and get it over with.”

“No!”

“Put the gun in your mouth and do it!” She stops to grin as blood leaks from the hole in her face. “Who knows, you might survive and look like me. It’s not so bad.”

“Please, no,” I beg like a frightened child.

“In the mouth,” she insists.

I cannot resist her command. No matter how much my will strives to say no, my mouth begins to open, and my hand steers the barrel of the Glock into my mouth. I feel the cold steel scratch the top of my teeth. My tongue tastes the residue of the gunpowder inside the barrel from the last time I fired the weapon. I don’t remember when that was, who I killed, but I know with a sickening certainty that this will be the last time I fire any gun. How ironic my long life should end in suicide.

“Oh, God!” I cry.

Shanti’s grin causes her face to tear open further. More blood spills out, like black oil from a cracked engine. “That’s a secret lesson the Array never had a chance to initiate you into. There’s no God, Sita. He’s nothing but a childish illusion. There’s only power. The power over life and death.” She stops and giggles like a hysterical witch. “Now pull the trigger and die!”

For some reason, hearing the final instruction of my doom from the image of a child I know is devoted to God causes me to think of Krishna. It’s sad but true—in my life I’ve never known for sure if he was God. But like Yaksha once said, it didn’t really matter if he was God or not. God was just a word. Krishna was simply too powerful to disobey. And now that my life is about to end, I see him in a slightly different light, and I would have to say it doesn’t matter what we call him—he was just so loving, I have to love him in return.

If only I could say his name before I die. To die with Krishna’s name on my lips means I’ll go to him after I draw my final breath. That’s what the ancient scriptures promise. But the gun is stuck deep in my mouth, and I can’t speak. I can only think of him, and the dark blue light of his unfathomable gaze. Maybe death won’t be so bad if it means I will see him again.

I hear his mantra vibrate inside my soul.

Om Namo Bhagadvate Vasudevaya.

A wave of peace washes through my chest.

As if from far away, I hear myself coughing. Gagging.

I pull the trigger. The bullet explodes in a vision of blue light.

I die, I am dead. Yet I have not lost my vision of Krishna.

I open my eyes—I don’t remember closing them—and see I have shot out the TV. Somehow, I must have pulled the gun out of my mouth at the last second.

Brutran stands above me, her face creased with fear. A white trail of smoke rises from the tip of my fired weapon. She looks down, thinking she should grab it from me before I recover. Or else she considers reaching for another gun before I shoot her in the head. It’s odd, but suddenly her thoughts are crystal clear to me. Her protective veil has been ripped away.

Only I know the effect won’t last. Krishna promised me that I would have his grace, his protection, if I obeyed him. And even though I’ve gone against his word on more than one occasion, he has chosen to save me again. However, he helps those who help themselves, and I know I have to get out of this house as quickly as possible. Before the Array returns.

Standing, unsteady on my feet, I slip the gun in my belt.

I stare at Brutran, who’s pale as a ghost.

“Impossible,” she whispers.

“That I continue to live? Or that there could be a God?”

“Yes . . . Yes.”

My reply is strangely sympathetic. “I’ve pondered those two riddles all my life. For me, the answer is knowing that I’ll never know the answer. I have to take it on faith that both miracles are true. I suppose that’s why I’m still alive.” I pause. “And that’s why your Array can’t kill me.”

The woman appears resigned to death. She doesn’t grovel.

“Kill me then. I can’t stop you,” she says.

“Why did you try to murder me if you wanted my help?”

“I decided I could never trust you.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“You’re right, you can’t trust me. I’ll probably kill you later, and you won’t stop me.” Turning, I head for the door. “Until then, leave my friends alone. Understand?”

She doesn’t speak but nods.

I suppose that will have to do.

I leave her as shaken as I feel.