Beating Ruby (15 page)

I grabbed some small plastic pearls in one of the LEGO boxes and loaded them on each side of the barrel. “Then I think you press here to fire them against each other—haven’t tested it yet.”

While Alex watched with an expression of incredulity, March bent toward the LEGO model to press on the block I was pointing at. A small click resounded, and indeed the two plastic pearls were released and collided in the barrel. At the same time a small piece fell off.

“Is it broken already?” March asked anxiously.

“I don’t know,” I said, reaching inside the barrel to retrieve the piece. “It doesn’t look like a LEGO brick. I’m not sure where it goes.”

Once I held the tiny object in front of my eyes, I realized it wasn’t a LEGO, but rather a micro SD card.

“That’s MacGyver shit!”

The three of us turned to look at Degraeves, who had been watching the whole operation with undisguised interest.

March gave him the cold-killer look. “Can you wait in the living room, please?”

Degraeves padded away reluctantly. “You the boss, sir.”

Once the guy’s back was turned to us, March and Alex moved closer to examine the SD card.

“I’ll plug it in my phone and check what’s on it,” I said, hardly able to contain the excitement in my voice.

I went to get my phone in my bag and sank back in the gamer chair’s soft blue leather while March and Alex stood on each side, leaning against its back to better watch the screen. Two perfectly timed sighs of annoyance caressed my hair when a password prompt popped up on the screen. Of course the data was protected. But thanks to Colin’s efforts, I was pretty sure I knew what to type in that field.

My doom has come upon me.

“Is this that quote he used as a password to protect his files at EMT?” Alex asked as my fingers danced on the glass screen.

“Yes.” I pressed Enter, only to deflate instantly when a red window appeared on the screen. “Dammit. We don’t have time for this!”

“Twice the same password . . . that would have been too much luck,” Alex commented grimly.

My fingers rapped on the desk as I went through my options. We could just take the drive and abandon decrypting its content for now; there was no telling what sort of secondary protection protocol might start if I entered one too many wrong passwords. But just one last try—surely we could afford that. My eyes searched his desk for a hint, anything that might sound like the perfect password. No, Thom had probably stuck to using a full sentence; staring at his stapler wouldn’t help.

March, at least, had refrained from commenting on my failure. But, above me, his breath was a little unsteady. I didn’t want to disappoint him—to disappoint anyone. I didn’t want to lose. I stared at the screen. In my mind, flashes of conversations replayed, a kaleidoscope of words, memories I had with Thom, of Colin and me cracking his password.

This is taken from Homer’s
Iliad
. It’s the part where Hector is about to die.

“I want to make one last try,” I mumbled as I typed the sentence, praying my brain cells wouldn’t betray me. “But we’ll probably need Colin again.”

It wasn’t actual joy, but when on the screen the window’s fire-engine red faded to a welcoming green, I laughed. I watched my phone grant us access to the SD card’s content, a series of nervous chortles shaking my frame. It was so logical, so . . . beautiful, in a way.

“Sometimes I wish I had a flashlight and could take a trek in there,” March said in a tender, almost reverent tone, tapping his index finger against my skull gently. “What was it?”

I looked up. “Back at EMT, we found that Thom had used a famous line from
The Iliad
to encrypt his code:
My doom has come upon me.
I thought maybe I’d try the second part of that line:
Let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle.
”

As it was, Thom’s choice of password didn’t leave much doubt regarding the circumstances of his involvement in the Ruby scheme, and the pictures he had scanned and stored on this card only drove this point home. They were a little grainy, likely taken with a telephoto lens: his wife and son at the park, the three of them in their living room, Thom leaving EMT’s building. Someone had threatened him and made it clear that he had nowhere to hide.

On my right shoulder, I felt a warm touch—Alex’s hand. “You were right. He was trapped, and he tried to leave bread crumbs.”

A little huff escaped March. “Island, is there anything else on the drive? What’s this file?” He pointed to a text file, among the images.

I tapped to open it. One line of code. A bit underwhelming, if you ask me.

RR extends coreLaunch {}

“What is that?” Alex inquired.

“No idea . . . coreLaunch is one of Ruby’s classes. It basically gathers all the necessary configuration info, checks that all the files are ready, and launches the program. But I’m pretty sure we don’t have any class called ‘RR’ extending this one. Maybe it’s something Thom added to the version of Ruby that was on the servers he destroyed?”

Alex’s hand finally slid away from my shoulder to point at the code. “You told Ellingham you were worried Ruby’s code might have been stolen. Do you think Thom could have added this ‘class’ to help find it?”

“I don’t know. Given what coreLaunch does, it’s more likely that it’s a set of hidden functions meant to tweak Ruby’s launch parameters. Perhaps even make it crash entirely.”

He winked at me. “I like the sound of that.”

“So do I,” March concurred. “Now what we need is to understand who recruited Roth. I’ll ask Phyllis to arrange a flight to Zürich. Mr. Morgan, please warn your superior that Struthio will bill his division for any expense made on your behalf. Processing fees will apply.”

A whiff of good-guy cologne reached my nose as Alex leaned forward.
“Processing fees?”

“Yes.”

“Let me make sure I get this right: You ruined my tires, and now you’re going to bill the CIA ‘processing fees’ for the trip you’re
already
billing them?”

“Yes. Five percent fixed rate.” March typed something on his phone. “Would you like to subscribe to our options package? There’s a supplement.”

“What’s in it?” Alex asked warily.

“Seat, parachute, light meal. Drinks not included.”

I sprang up from the chair. “What the hell,
Marc
h
?
”

“I’m sorry, Island, rates and packages are determined annually; this is out of my hands.”

A destitute childhood had left March a bit of a tightwad in some regards, and I remembered one of his friends once telling me that he negotiated his flights from Paulie, a rather nice mobster operating an illegal private airline in Pennsylvania. Squaring my shoulders, I glared at him. “What about the Paulie Airlines discount?”

March’s jaw ticked. “I don’t think Mr. Morgan qualifies for this program.”

“But
I
do?”

His features relaxed. “Of course.” He reached inside his jacket for a small leather wallet, from which he pulled a golden rectangular plastic chip with a little plane engraved on it. He placed it in my hand. “Free flights. Free drinks. It’s yours.”

I held the coupon in my hands for a few seconds, looking into March’s eyes, in that ocean of blue. And I wondered if he understood that I didn’t care about free flights, that I didn’t need him to make Alex miserable in order to assert some sort of virile superiority. Apparently not.

I handed him the golden chip back with a sigh. “I’m redeeming it; I want a seat for Alex. And a parachute.”

Ever a master of self-control, March took the chip with a curt nod, the rise of his chest and the tightening of his lips the only hints that he was, in fact, seething.

A cocky smile tugged at the corners of Alex’s lips, while March reached inside his jacket for a tube of extra-strong mints and poured a couple into his hand. Oh, I knew this posture, this face—the slanting of his eyes, the way his molars ground the candy with muted sounds. The last time March had looked at me like this, I had ended up in his trunk as retribution for a similar display of insubordination.

FIFTEEN

The Medal

“Book your tickets to hell.”

—
Quasimodo d’El Paris
, 1999

When we stepped out on Main Street, the sky had turned a dark gray, and a light drizzle had started to fall, the characteristic scent of rain on grass and asphalt permeating the air. I saw a couple of passersby in the park facing the waterfront, but other than that, the area was still as deserted as ever. Maybe it’d get a little better after five, when people would come home. Along the Queensboro Bridge, I could see the Roosevelt Tram approaching the island, its red car dangling from its cable a measly 250 feet above the East River. I had never taken it. Never needed to, for one, and, well, the idea of being trapped up there made me feel a little queasy. As one of my dad’s friends put it: “They had it renovated by the French. French cars. French cables. Cables that surrender! Would you ride in a tram that surrenders? I sure as hell wouldn’t!”

Alex’s palm on my chest took me by surprise. Don’t get ideas: he was merely blocking me, and I realized March had frozen as well. Both men’s jaws were set, their upper bodies imperceptibly leaning forward as they gazed at the Lexus twenty yards away.

“Not like you to litter, Mr. November,” Alex said in a low voice.

“Indeed, Mr. Morgan.”

I squinted at the car. Alex was right.
I
would never have noticed, but less than an inch away from March’s visible front tire lay some kind of discarded burger wrapper, which could have, indeed, been the result of a random act of littering, but, with the right amount of paranoia, it almost looked like it had been placed . . . with the clear intent for the car to drive on it. My eyes traveled back and forth between the two of them. “What is it? What’s wrong with the car?”

March stepped in front of me. “Island, stay back, please.”

A chill coursed through my body. My eyes never left his gloved hands as he pushed back his left sleeve to reveal a high-end black chronograph I knew. He pressed a button on the side, turning the glass into an LCD screen. Would he use it to text someone, like I had seen him do in Tokyo? He seemed busy rotating the bezel ring instead. Lights flashed twice in the distance. I refrained from applauding when the Lexus’s engine started, because judging from the looks on March and Alex’s faces, this was not the time to imitate a sea lion—I do it well, though.

Alex’s hand sneaked around my waist, pulling me backward and against him. I fidgeted a bit at his sudden closeness. March’s eyes were locked on the car. He started rotating the ring again slowly, commanding the front wheels. The car moved a few inches.

I felt the explosion as much as I heard it—a deafening boom thundering through my rib cage at the same instant Alex gathered me in his arms and shielded my head with his hand. The Lexus was propelled in the air by the force of the blast, before being swallowed by a cloud of flames and smoke, debris flying all the way in our direction as the charred carcass crashed back on the ground.

The seconds after were a blur. My ears were buzzing, making March’s and Alex’s voices sound muted, distant. There were burning fragments of plastic and metal everywhere, and I could see both men had pulled out their guns. I registered a sort of hum coming from our right, getting closer. I know it’s stupid, but the first thing I connected it with was a chain saw, and my legs nearly gave way. How angry do you have to be to blow up someone’s car and go after them with a chain saw right afterward?

I was wrong. The hum morphed into a roar, and two bikes tore through the acrid smoke, their riders’ faces concealed by dark helmets. Oh God, I knew where this was headed. Alex dragged me behind one of the thick concrete columns flanking the building’s entrance; March imitated him and took cover behind the other. Blood rushed and pounded fast in my temples. One of the bikers drifted to a stop and raised something that looked bigger than a gun in our direction. A machine pistol. He fired at us, sending a round of bullets smashing against the walls and pavement with earsplitting cracks. Alex squeezed me against his body so hard it hurt, while around us chunks of concrete exploded under the force of each impact. Somewhere nearby I heard screaming; the passersby I had noticed were running away toward a building to shield themselves.

A beat of silence followed the last shot. Could be that the gun’s magazine was empty. There was no second round, though. Before our attacker had the time to see him through the thick cloud of dust enveloping us, March stepped out. There was something surreal, I now realized, about the calm fluidity of his movements. Always so precise, so focused amidst the chaos surrounding him. One shot. All he needed. I saw our assailant collapse, his helmet visor shattered by the star-shaped impact.

I think March and I had the same idea; he spun around, gun still firmly in hand, looking for the second biker. There was a roar coming from the left; Alex shoved me to the ground when the guy raced toward us. March shot twice in the bike’s rear wheel, causing it to somersault. Alex finished the job, firing four bullets at the unfortunate biker without hesitation as he tumbled forward.

My fingers were still gripping Alex’s leather jacket; I felt his free hand stroke my back. I stared at the two dead men at our feet. The one Alex had killed was bleeding on the pavement, a thin layer of dust absorbing the growing red stain like a blotter. I took a deep breath to block the nausea churning in my stomach and let go of Alex, stepping closer to March. He seemed nearly unruffled, when I knew I must have looked haggard.

I wasn’t given time to think about it any further. “We need to move,” March said as he grabbed my hand and signaled for Alex to follow with a jerk of his chin. Next thing I knew, the three of us were running fast down Main Street toward the Queensboro Bridge, and my feet were barely touching the ground. My mind was spinning, fueled by adrenaline. Between two choked intakes of air, I blurted out the first coherent thought I could hold on to. “March! Y-Your leaflet talked about nonlethal methods!”

“There’s some fine print on the last page.”

“I knew it,” Alex snapped.

We kept running, even as on the bridge police cars could be seen approaching, sirens blaring. We were almost at the tram station. I gathered March intended for us to seek refuge under its massive triangular hangar. Screams echoed from the station’s entrance, and a group of panicked people hurried down the ramp leading to the cars—random explosions and gunshots tend to do that.

I had already been picturing myself safely inside the hangar, but my relief was short-lived. Above us, a new detonation tore through the air. I screamed, certain for a split second that I had been shot. I was still alive, but near us, Alex had stumbled and fallen to the ground. On his left shoulder, something had torn his jacket, and a dark, wet stain was rapidly forming on the worn leather. I freed myself from March’s grip to lunge toward him. “Alex! March, Alex is—”

“Superficial,” Alex groaned as he struggled to get up.

I offered him my arm, but March shoved my head down at the same time that two new shots were fired in our direction. Where
the hell
from? We were well away from Thom’s residence. There was only one brick building left behind us, and its windows all seemed closed. Everything else was just vast empty lawns, and the waterfront. I saw March look up with a snarl as he hauled a wincing Alex up. I followed the direction of his gaze.

Seriously?

Now at least I understood why those people had fled the tram station. Alone in a rapidly rising car stood a guy with a sniper rifle. The double doors that would normally prevent passengers from shooting fellow commuters were half open, and he was still aiming at us. I watched the car shake as it passed the first tower base, forcing him to postpone his killing spree.

Alex was able to cover the last yards to the hangar with March and me, but his face was ashen, and beads of sweat had formed on his temples. We hid behind one of the large steel pillars supporting the structure.

“Stay with him, and for the love of God, don’t try anything,” March ordered, tapping the tip of my nose—a habit he had taken up on our first encounter, because he seemed to believe it held the power to shut me both up and down.

Next to me, Alex managed a smirk. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

March nodded and retreated further inside the hangar. There, a deserted control room overlooked the red doors of the tram departure ramp, on which an empty car still waited.

“What are you doing?” I hissed, seeing him climb up the metal stairs leading to the control room.

He didn’t bother with a reply and kicked the door open before lunging at the dashboard.
Oh God.
There were at least two things I knew for sure about March: he was
not
an accredited tram operator . . . and he never gave up.

I have no idea what he touched—what he broke—but after a couple of seconds, the huge cables hauling the cars started to vibrate and creak ominously above our heads. I craned my neck to see that the small wheels rolling on the track cable now seemed to be spinning backward. That asshole in the red car was being hauled back toward the island at the same time that the second car was starting to move.

I felt Alex’s amazed gasp against my ear. “Oh shit, he’s got some balls.”

March stormed out of the control room and jumped down to the first floor, not even bothering with the stairs, just in time to force the second car’s doors open and get in.

“Oh no . . . Oh
nononono
. . . March! Please
stop thi
s
!
” I yelled in vain as the car sped away and toward its evil twin.

Against me, Alex shifted a little to see what was going on. The movement caused a renewed trickle of blood to appear on his jacket, which he ignored with clenched teeth. I searched my pockets for tissues and pressed several on the wound, my stomach heaving when I saw the sticky red coating my fingers. For a moment I could no longer focus, and a long, painful shudder shook my frame. Alex was bleeding in my arms, while in the distance, March’s car was about to reach that horrible sniper guy’s car, traveling in the opposite direction. I tried to breathe through my nose, concentrated on pressing my hands to Alex’s shoulder.

In my throat, air wheezed. March was climbing on the car’s roof, his jacket flapping in a rising wind that seemed to hinder his progress. “Alex, he’s gonna kill himself!”

“Maybe. That looks like a ten-foot jump with a one-, maybe two-second window, though. His odds aren’t that bad,” Alex said, his eyes locked on the two cars and the dwindling distance between them.

“But there’s a guy with a rifle in there!” I squeaked.

Indeed, the other car’s occupant had no intention of getting caught. He leaned precariously against the half-open doors and attempted to fire at March. The wind carried the sound of a first gunshot; I squeezed Alex’s hand harder. Thankfully, for the particular task of hanging from a tram car like a monkey and shooting people, a handgun would have been more practical than the heavy rifle that guy carried. I jumped and breathed shivering sighs of relief with every shot that missed March, who was shielding himself behind the steel arm securing his own tram car to the cable.

“He’s doing well so far. He can still survive the jump and die later,” Alex commented in a conversational tone, while we could make out March’s silhouette standing on the tram car, an ink stroke against the low clouds engulfing Manhattan’s skyline. The cars were now too close to each other for the other guy to shoot at March, who stood legs and arms slightly apart, body projecting forward. He was getting ready to jump.

I struggled for air in a series of panicked pants and squeezed my eyes shut; I couldn’t look. I couldn’t.

“Island, you can open your eyes.”

Alex’s hand squeezed mine. My eyelids fluttered open.
Thank you, Raptor Jesus. Owe you one.
March was still alive, now kneeling on the roof of the opposite car. Several seconds passed, during which the car approached the first base tower it had passed earlier, and again it struck me how feline, how unhurried his movements were when March did his “job.” He was now closer than ever to the car’s opening, hands resting on the edge of the roof. The shooter apparently wouldn’t take the risk to come up, and had opted to retreat to the corner farthest from the door, his back to the windows. Waiting.

March chose the moment the car was passing over the first base tower. The steel structure trembled; I saw him leap forward and rotate his body around the roof’s edge, agile as a big cat. He was inside the car before I could even understand how he had done that, and if enough gym hours could teach me the same trick. Several gunshots echoed in the dark, then only silence. I couldn’t make out the inside of the car clearly. I’m pretty sure I forgot to breathe.

“March . . .” I whispered.

At my side, Alex didn’t seem convinced that “Mr. November” had survived the fight. He placed his index finger on the black Glock’s trigger, ready to welcome the shooter if need be.