Havelock unhooked himself from the neuro-cap and lifted it off his head.

Mr. X had proved to be a disappointment. He hadn’t found the SD card, hadn’t gotten his hands on Pearce’s son, Adam, had all but handed the American FBI his magnificent implanted chip on a platter.

He pressed a key and the screen disappeared. He stood and walked to the window, where the light was rapidly dying. He loved the night, the possibilities the cover of darkness brought. He loved to watch the lesser beasts wander through their lives, unknowing, unseeing. He had faith, and sometimes that was all he needed. Soon he would have his perfect weapon, and they would all know his name.

What would the world see when they bowed down before him? The powerful genius, the unparalleled inventor, the man who, very soon, would control the lives of millions with a single drop of fluid? I am a leader of men, Mother, I am good enough, smart enough. And you, dear Mother, are dead.

12

United Nations Plaza

11:00 a.m.

Sophie Pearce accepted Ambassador Xi-Tien’s thanks for her work this morning, and nodded in agreement about their dinner date later this evening. She didn’t cup her hands and bow deeply in the formal Chinese farewell, since the ambassador was a modern man. She shook his hand, saying, “Zai jian,” and waited, not moving, until he turned and walked away with the delegation, then she relaxed with a deep breath. Her services as a translator wouldn’t be needed for the rest of the afternoon. She’d have lunch, then run over to her dad’s place to pick up the rare first-edition Mark Twain she’d promised the ambassador. Her father had pulled the book from his private collection for her. He was amazing, he could always find exactly what people wanted, like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. And at $8,000 for this single gem, her father could afford a lot of hats.

She knew it wasn’t a first/first—that would have set the ambassador back at least thirty grand. She liked that he was happy with the second printing; it made her respect him. Xi-Tien wasn’t flashy like many of the others she’d worked with in her five years at the UN. He was kind and subtle and, even better, had already wired the funds to Ariston’s private bank account.

Sophie hurried down the stairs past security, pulling her badge over her head and stuffing it in her pocket. Her heels clacked on the marble steps, then she was on the street, headed up to Lexington, then over to Fifty-seventh. It was a gorgeous day and everything and everyone seemed cheerful. The oppressive heat of the past few summers hadn’t begun to swallow New York whole yet.

Sophie caught a glimpse of herself in the plate-glass window of a leather boutique, her dark hair pulled up into a ballerina bun at the top of her head, long legs, strong, moving fast. She was in the best shape of her life after all the yoga and running and kickboxing she’d done over the winter. She wasn’t terribly vain, but she looked good, no matter all the long hours of sitting in her small glass booth at the UN, listening, speaking, and repeating endlessly. She’d firmed up, lost weight, and jettisoned a husband along the way, too, the jerk.

She was happier now, helping her dad out on weekends when she could. Life was good. She’d find the right guy, someday.

She wasn’t even out of breath when she arrived at her dad’s building. She’d grown up here, in the Galleria, with the stunning views of Manhattan and white-glove treatment. She’d insisted on getting her own place when she graduated, knowing if she didn’t move out, she’d suffocate under a stack of musty old books. Her dad wasn’t thrilled, but he didn’t stop her. Her trust fund was healthy and she could afford to move out, unlike many of her friends.

She wasn’t too far from home, though, less than a dozen blocks, down in Turtle Bay. She made sure she saw her dad at least once a week. She usually caught him at the store, since he seemed to live there these days. She felt a brief stab of guilt. Since her mom died, and her brother moved out west for school, it had been only the two of them, and she’d been so busy lately, she’d missed some of their normal dates.

No more, she promised herself. Once a week wasn’t enough, not anymore. Divorcing the jerk had taught her a hard lesson about betrayal and loss, the importance of keeping those who really loved you close.

Gillis opened the doors for her, merely bowing, saying nothing—unusual, because he was normally chatty. She didn’t realize something was wrong until Umberto rushed over to her, tears sheening his dark eyes.

“Miss Sophia, I am so sorry, so very sorry about your father, we—”

Sophie went still. “What happened? Was there an accident? Did he fall? Umberto, is he okay?”

Umberto was shaking his head. “I’m so very sorry, your father, he’s dead, Miss Sophia. The FBI is upstairs. They didn’t call you? Forgive me, but I do not have the details.”

She ran to the elevator, ignoring everything else in a mindless chant of No, no, please, no.

The elevator doors slid open, and she slammed down on the button once, twice. She knew it took exactly twenty-two seconds without stops to reach the twenty-third floor—a sign, her father always said, that this was truly their home. Twenty-three was the family’s lucky number. For twenty-two long seconds, she didn’t breathe, stood deathly still, counting.

She raced down the long hallway to the front door. It was unlocked. She burst in, saw a man and a woman, both with guns clipped to their waists, speaking in front of the picture windows. She watched their hands go to their guns as they whirled around to face her.

“What happened to my father?” She knew she screamed the words. She was getting hysterical and took a deep breath and tried again, more calmly this time: “Please, tell me what happened to my father.”

The man spoke first. He was British, not an American. “I’m Special Agent Nicholas Drummond, with the FBI. This is Special Agent Michaela Caine. You’re Mr. Pearce’s daughter, aren’t you?”

She was shaking, couldn’t help it, and grabbed the back of a chair. “Yes, I’m—I’m Sophia Pearce. Where is my father? What’s happened?” The internal No, no, no, no, no beat through her body in time with her heart, but she knew, deep down, she knew.

“I’m very sorry to tell you, but your father was killed on Wall Street this morning.” He’d spoken slowly, quietly. “We’ve been trying to track down his next of kin. I’m sorry. Please, come and sit down.”

She waved her hands, trying to ward off his words. “No, no, there’s got to be a mistake. It doesn’t make sense. My father had no reason to go to Wall Street. He’d have been at the store. How could anything kill him? What happened? Please.” She heard the hysteria rising in her voice again but couldn’t help it.

“Come.” Nicholas took her arm and sat her down on a large burgundy leather couch. He kneeled in front of her. Sophie realized vaguely that he was a big man, young, and she saw pity in his intense, dark eyes and knew this moment would be seared indelibly on her brain forever.

His voice remained low and calm. “We believe he was lured to Wall Street with a fake text message from someone named EP. But EP wasn’t there. Another man was waiting for him. They argued, then he stabbed your father. I’m so sorry.”

She couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Hearing the words made it real, horribly real.

“Can you tell us who EP is?”

Something flashed in her eyes, but she didn’t say anything. The room began to spin, the man on his knees in front of her, holding her hand, blurred, and then she didn’t see anything.