He went to remove the CD from the drive and then thought, Better check the disk, just to be sure.

He opened a file from the CD and stopped breathing when he saw:

HOPE YOU REMEMBERED TO BACK UP!

"No! No-no-no-no-no!"

He switched back to the hard drive and checked a random file.

HOPE YOU REMEMBERED TO BACK UP!

One after the other, the same message. That fucking virus had got back into his system and cleaned him out! Everything was gone!

He started kicking at the computer tower on the floor, but stopped himself after two strikes.

Wait. All was not lost. His files were gone, but the cows didn't know that. They'd already seen what he had… he could still string them along, keep squeezing them till they ran out of juice.

But still, this was a fucking catastrophe.

Feeling sicker than before, he flopped back into his seat. The phone started ringing but he couldn't bring himself to answer it. All that work, all that risk… gone. He still couldn't believe it.

Eddy popped back in then with the coffee and picked up the phone. A few seconds later she stuck her head through the doorway.

"It's the guy from Computer Doctor. Want to speak to him?"

"Do I? Do I?" He snatched up the receiver. "Yeah?"

"Oh, Mr. Cordova," said a prissy male voice he didn't recognize. "This is Ned from Computer Doctor. We just wanted to call and check on how satisfied you are with our service."

Richie wanted to kill him. In fact, he might just go down there now and tear his whole staff into little pieces.

"Satisfied? I'm NOT satisfied! Listen, asshole! The virus you were supposed to kill off is still there! And it wiped out all my files again!"

"Well, sir, if you want to I'll be glad to come up and recheck the hard drive. I'll even restore all the files from your backup."

"Don't bother."

"Really, sir, it will be no trouble at all. And while I'm there—"

Richie knew if he got within ten feet of this geek he'd rearrange his face. Things were bad enough at the moment; he didn't need an assault and battery charge added to the pile of shit his life had become.

"Just forget about it, okay? You've fucked things up enough already."

"Really, sir, I hate the thought of a dissatisfied customer. Just get out your backup disk and I'll—"

This asshole just wouldn't take no for an answer.

"I don't have a backup, you little shit! It was stolen last night! Now what are you going to do?"

"No backup?" the voice said. "Oh, well, then. Never mind."

And then the fucker hung up. He… just… hung… up!

2

Jack stood amid the surging pedestrians on Lexington Avenue and pocketed his cell phone. He smiled as he imagined Fat Richie Cordova pounding his receiver against his desktop, maybe even smashing it through his monitor screen.

Game. Set. Match.

He'd arrange a meet with Sister Maggie later. Now it was time to awaken his xelton.

Jack had dressed in his blue blazer and a tieless, button-down white oxford shirt. He entered the temple, used his swipe card for a free pass through security, then went to the information desk. It looked like an old hotel registration desk.

"I have an appointment for a Reveille Session," he told the uniformed young woman behind the counter, then added, "With Luther Brady."

Her hand darted to her mouth, covering a smile. Jack detected the hint of a giggle in her voice as she said, "Mr. Brady is going to Reveille you?"

"Yes." Jack glanced at his watch. "At nine sharp. I don't want to keep him waiting."

"No, of course not." Her lips did an undulating dance. She really, really wanted to laugh. "I'll call upstairs."

She pressed a button then turned away as she spoke into the receiver. It was a short conversation, and when she turned back, she was no longer smiling. Her face was pale, her expression awed.

She swallowed. "G-GP Jensen will be right down."

Jack figured it wouldn't take long for word to spread that he had Luther Brady as his RT—one, maybe two nanoseconds after he and Jensen stepped into the elevator it would be all over the building. A few more nanos after that it would be spread throughout Dormentaldom.

He'd had a reason for mentioning it. He planned to use his new cachet to allow him access to places that would be verboten to a regular newbie.

Jensen showed up in his black uniform, looking like the megalith from 2001. On the trip to the top floor the two of them started off with an earnest discussion about the weather, but Jensen soon steered the talk toward Jack.

"How was your day, yesterday?"

"Great."

"Do anything interesting?"

Jack thought, You mean after I ditched your tail?

"Oh, tons. I don't get to New York that often, so I did some shopping, had an excellent steak at Peter Luger's."

"Really? What cut?"

"Porterhouse." Jack knew from a number of meals at Luger's that porterhouse was the only cut they served. "It was delicious."

"And then what? Called it a night?"

Jensen wasn't being the least bit circumspect about third-degreeing him.

"Oh, no. I went to an Off-Broadway play someone had recommended. It's called Syzygy. Ever hear of it?"

"Can't say as I have. Any good?"

Gia had dragged him to Syzygy last month and he'd wound up liking it…

"Very strange. Lots of twists and turns in the plot." Jack feigned a yawn. "But it didn't start till ten and I was late getting to bed."

That would jibe with the report from whomever Jensen had put on the Ritz Carlton last night.

Jensen delivered Jack to the twenty-second floor where he found Brady standing near the receptionist's desk. His suit hung perfectly on his trim frame, and not a single strand of his too-brown hair was out of place.

"Mr. Amurri," he said, stepping forward and extending his hand. "So glad you could make it."

"Call me Jason, please. And I wouldn't miss this for the world."

"Very well, Jason. Come in, come in." He led Jack into the office area. "We'll conduct the session in my private quarters and—"

"Really?" Jack said in his best gosh-wow voice.

"Yes, I thought it would offer more privacy and a much more personal atmosphere. But I have one matter to attend to before we get underway, so why don't you make yourself comfortable until I get back."

Jack swept an arm toward the enormous windows. "The view alone could keep me occupied for hours."

Brady laughed. "Oh, I assure you it will be no more than a few minutes at most."

As Brady breezed out, Jack looked around, searching for the ubiquitous video pickups. He couldn't spot a single eye, and then realized why: Luther Brady would not want anyone monitoring his meetings, recording his every word and gesture.

Jack turned away from the windows and faced the opposite wall. The mysterious globe sat behind those sliding steel panels. Jack wanted a look at it. Jamie Grant had mentioned something about a button on Brady's desk.

Jack walked over and examined the vast mahogany expanse. No button in sight. He stepped behind the desk and seated himself in Brady's high-backed red-leather swivel chair. Maybe he had a remote somewhere.

Two rows of drawers formed the flanks of the desk. Jack went through them quickly and found mostly papers and pens and notepads with From the Minds of Luther Brady emblazoned across the top of each page in some fancy heraldic font.

Sheesh.

The only thing out of the ordinary was a stainless-steel semiautomatic pistol. At first glance it looked like his own PT 92 Taurus, then he noticed the different safety, making this a Beretta 92. A box of 9mm Hydra-Shok Federal Classics sat next to it. What made Brady think he needed a weapon?