The God Machine (47 page)

What does Macalister have in store for us?
Koster wondered. It would be so easy for him to pull off to the side of the road, near some jetty or pier, put a couple of bullets in them and then drop them like garbage into the sinewy depths of the Hudson.

The Suburban came to a halt. Koster waited.

But Macalister didn't get out of his seat. He merely sat there, without moving, the engine still idling. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer. Koster leaned forward and said, “No hard feelings, Macalister, right? About before, I mean. When I asked you to get out of Nick's office. Right?”

Macalister was silent. Koster sighed. “Is it traffic? Is that what it is?”

Finally, Macalister spoke. “My family's been serving the Robinsons for three generations. It's in our blood. They're an honorable clan, deserving of praise and devotion.” He paused. “And Master Nick has always been a good friend to you. Since you two were boys. Though I never did understand it. I think he feels sorry for you, the way he protects you. Like a brother that's bigger and stronger. But you…” The words seemed to catch in his throat, as if they were covered with thistles. “…you don't know the meaning of loyalty. You squander his trust and his friendship. A besom comes into the picture and it all goes to hell.”

“Now, see here, Macalister,” Koster said. He reached for his blindfold.

“Take that off and I'll kill you.”

Koster hesitated. Then he lowered his arms.

“I should kill you both, anyway. For breaking his heart. Right here, with my hands. If he hadn't said otherwise. I saw it coming but he wouldn't believe me. He just couldn't. He trusted you.”

Koster didn't reply. What was the point?

Macalister took off their blindfolds. “I should kill you,” he said, “but I won't. Unlike some,” he said bleakly, “I was raised to be a man of my word.”

The Suburban started to move. They ascended a ramp and slipped south on the parkway, following the river. Thirty minutes later, they were once again in the heart of the Village.

Macalister dropped them off at Union Square. He simply pulled over and they got out. He never said a word. He didn't even look at them as he swung back into traffic.

They headed downtown on foot. No one seemed to be following them. Sajan checked several times. They
walked past Koster's building, between Broadway and University, and then doubled back, ducking into the lobby at the very last moment.

“He has to be stopped,” Sajan said as soon as they entered the elevator. They were the first words she'd spoken since leaving the temple in Harlem.

Koster didn't reply. He waited until they were standing alone in his loft. The elevator moved out of sight, back down to the lobby. He watched the light disappear through the Plexiglas window in the door. He felt for the light switch. “Did you know?” he said, finally, as the lights in the ceiling popped on.

Savita moved toward the kitchen. “Know what?” she replied. She pulled out a bottle of seltzer from the fridge.

Koster didn't answer. He followed her into the kitchen. He sat at the counter. It filled him with ineffable pleasure to simply watch her, especially when she was performing such ordinary tasks. The turn of a wrist. The twist of the hips. The curl of her lips as she concentrated.

“I always suspected he had the Gospel of Thomas,” Sajan said, adding ice to her glass. It fizzled and hissed. “If that's what you mean.” Then she turned and looked up at him. “Irene told me she sent it to him, but Nick staunchly denied it. She wanted him to publish the logoi, and Nick promised he would.” She took a sip of her drink. “At first, the countess refused to accept it. Her Lodge issued a protest. She made quite a stink. But after Jean-Claude died… and Maurice—Irene took their deaths harder than I did, I think. Is that a bad thing for me to admit?”

Koster shook his head. But he didn't say anything.

“Anyway, I believed Nick when he told me he wanted to find the Gospel of Judas. I wanted to believe him, I guess. But when I saw Franklin's map, all the pieces… I knew. He wanted the El Minya schematic, not the
Gospel of Judas. We can't let him build it, the God machine. We just can't, Joseph.”

“I have the last piece,” Koster said. “Only you and I know that it even exists.”

“You mean the one that I drew? Where is it?”

Koster tapped at his temple. “Safe and sound.”

“You
remember
it? But I added dozens of extra components. How could you possibly remember it?”

“Don't ask me how, but I do.”

Sajan folded her arms. “Besides,” she continued, “you have no idea if what I sketched means anything. I'm no Franklin or Tesla. Or da Vinci, for crying out loud.”

“No, you're not. You're Savita Sajan. A Gnostic and Freemason, and a most logical choice at the end of a long line of learning. Not to mention the woman I love.”

She took another sip of her seltzer. Her face was impassive. Then she leaned forward and said, “Did you mean what you said before? About love being at the top of your list?”

“Yes, I meant it. I don't give a damn about the Gospel of Judas. Or the God machine. Not if it means losing you.”

She searched his eyes. Then she nodded. “Good. Come with me.” She left her glass on the counter and slipped down the hall. As soon as she entered the bedroom, she ducked into the closet and returned with his suitcase.

“What are you doing?” he said.

She flung the suitcase up on the bed. “I want you to take a bus out to Teterboro. Rendezvous there with Ravindra. He has instructions to fly you south to Belize. I have money squirreled away all over the world. We can be together,” she said. “You and me. Safe and sound, Joseph.” She reached into his bureau and started plucking out clothes.

“What about you?” Koster asked.

“I'll meet you on Ambergris Caye, in a day or two.”

“A day or two? You want me to leave?” Koster reached out and grabbed her. He held her tight by the wrist.

“Let go of me.”

“If you want me to leave, Savita, just say so. I'm a big boy. I can handle it.”

“Oh, God, Joseph.” She sighed and pulled away. “You're such an idiot. Is that why you said all those things?”

“What things?”

“To poor Nick.”

“Poor
Nick! Now you're starting to sound like Macalister.”

Sajan walked away from the bed, toward the window. She looked down at the alley below. Someone had planted a palm in a sliver of sunlight. “I'm not one of those chicks who gets off on men fighting over them. Not in real life, anyway… Well, maybe that isn't quite true. I'm a Gnostic, after all. Not a saint.” She shook her head. “Are you testing me? How'd I do, Joseph? Convinced yet?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Or did you feel you had to knock Nick down to become him? Perhaps you simply enjoyed it.”

“Nick deserved it. He's been lying to us from the start. You heard him. He admitted it. He's been using us.”

“You have a lot to learn about love, Joseph.” Sajan's eyes blazed at him. “Nick's just doing what he thinks is right. We all are. We're all prisoners of our convictions.”

“Oh, I see. The end justifies the means, is that it? Call me fussy, but I don't endorse kidnapping. Or murder. We're lucky we got out of that place. If I hadn't given him the Tesla schematic… Oh, forget it!” He strode into his closet and returned with her suitcase. He threw it down on the bed. “Now, get packing. We're leaving. Both of us.”

“It's too late for that now. For me, anyway. There are things here I still have to do—”

“Either pack your suitcase, or I'll put you in it,” he snarled. And he meant it.

When they had finished packing, they hauled their two suitcases to the front of the loft. Koster pressed for the elevator.

“Where are we going?” Sajan asked him.

“I don't know. Out of here. Belize sounds good. I have a friend in Ann Arbor. One in Moscow, too. Friends all over the world.”

“You… have friends… all over the world.”

“Why do you sound so incredulous?”

“When's the last time you saw them?”

“Once a week, via Skype.”

“No. In person.”

“Well,” said Koster. The elevator groaned as it climbed up the shaft. Then a light appeared in the crack. “I've never actually met them… in person. They belong to my math club. But that could be a distinct benefit now.”

There was the clatter of shattering glass. Koster turned just in time to see three men in helmets crash through the windows and roll to the floor.

Something burst into smoke at his feet. Koster grabbed Sajan by the hand. The elevator door finally opened. He leapt forward—and stopped.

The elevator. It was taken. It was jammed full of cops.

S
OME PEOPLE BOAST ABOUT VALOR IN THE FACE OF THE ENEMY
while confronting unassailable odds. Some recount desperate rallies, or rousing escapes. But few have had the pleasure of staring down New York's Finest when they've been told they're arresting another terrorist cell. Precious little burns in the minds of New Yorkers with more indelible horror than the memory of September 11. Especially New Yorkers wearing uniforms.

All this came to Koster as he found himself pushed to the floor of his loft, as his face was pressed to the tile and his arms twisted behind him. He could barely see. The air was still thick with smoke, and his eyes burned. Then he was handcuffed, and being yanked to his feet. He coughed as they searched him for weapons. Koster felt like he was going to throw up.

A few feet away, he saw Sajan being dragged through the curtains. They were taking her toward the rear of the loft. Toward the bedrooms.

“Hey, wait a minute—” said Koster. The words had barely left his mouth before he felt the blow in his kidney
. The air was forced from his chest. Koster buckled. He started to fall, but someone caught him at the very last moment and spun him about.

He was a large man with green eyes and a wisp of black hair poking out from just under his helmet and gas mask. A sergeant, Koster noticed. And he was holding a nightstick.

“Where are they taking her?” Koster demanded.

“You don't learn, do you?” the sergeant replied. Then he snuffed him. He jabbed Koster with all of his might, with the tip of his club, without warning, in the pit of his stomach.

Koster buckled and retched, but nothing came out save a thin stream of spittle. He spat, turned his head. The smoke was beginning to clear and he noticed some men standing around his computer. One sat at his desk. He was tapping at the keyboard.

“You're under arrest,” said the sergeant.

“On what charges?” As he straightened, wheezing, Koster realized that his handcuffs prevented him from drawing his elbows together in front. His stomach and sternum were completely exposed. Sajan was nowhere in sight.

“For violations of the Patriot Act.”

“You're joking, right?”

“You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney…” The sergeant jabbed him with the tip of his nightstick each time he concluded a sentence. A second policeman materialized out of the smoke.

“Sergeant, you're wanted in back,” he began.

The sergeant looked up. “Says who?” he snapped.

The man's visor and gas mask made it impossible to see his face. “Special Agent Webster. Homeland Security. Look, Sarge, your captain's really pissed off about something. I'm just passing the message along. If you want, I'll take the prisoner down for you.”

The beefy sergeant's eyes narrowed. Then, he waved to another policeman. “Hey, Peterson,” he called. “Take this guy down to the lobby for me.”

Webster shrugged. Peterson came over and together they escorted Koster to the elevator. Smoke had permeated the shaft, and the enclosed space reeked of chemicals. Koster could barely move, jammed as he was between the two massive policemen.

“Hey, Peterson,” said Webster, as the door closed.

“Hey, what?”

“Ever see one of these?”

Peterson looked down. Special Agent Webster was holding something in his hand; Koster couldn't see what it was. Then he heard a soft
pop
.

Peterson's head shot back against the elevator wall. Two red wires jutted out of his neck. He wiggled and thrashed about like a fish. Then he collapsed. As he fell, the red wires grew taut, and Koster finally noticed the stun gun in Webster's right hand. “What the hell…” he began.

Without warning, Webster struck him in the windpipe with the side of his hand. Koster couldn't breathe. He bent over, and Webster slammed him against the elevator door. There was a loud
crack
as his face struck the panel. Then, nothing but pain.

When Koster finally opened his eyes, Webster was turning a key in the panel beside him. Right there. By his face. Everything seemed to appear as if it were down a long tunnel. Blurred by tears. Koster looked up. He could just dimly see the floors counting off on the digital display.
Three. Two. One
. But the elevator kept going. It didn't stop at the lobby.

Koster tried to get up. He put one shoulder on the wall, but Webster pushed it away, and he tumbled back
down to the floor. Then, the elevator stopped. The door opened.