A shiver ran up Jessup’s spine.

  “There’s something you should know,” she continued. “During surgery, he died twice and fought his way back to life. Please understand, nonscientifically speaking, his flesh had seared until little more than the nerve fibers were left. Kenji Hiroshige’s treatment, presumably, saved him, overriding eons of evolution. Even so, he’s one hell of a fighter.”

  “Are you preparing me for the worst scenario?”

  She smiled. “I just wanted you to know he’s now one up on Jesus.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  DECLAN SAT at a dining table on his veranda, overlooking a dense-foliage garden surrounding a pool, spa, tennis courts, and five large stone heads from the Angkor region of Cambodia, each mounted on pedestals surrounding the pool. Along the parameter of the fifteen-foot-tall garden walls stood nine well-armed security personnel and a dozen unobtrusively placed security cameras. Beyond the walls spread a view of Holmy Hills, Bel-Air, and Beverly Hills, which form the “Platinum Triangle,” the most exclusive neighborhoods in California. Declan’s Holmy Hills Mediterranean-style villa boasted views of the Los Angeles Basin, which now seemed filled with tanks, artillery, and military outposts surrounded by sandbags established at strategic locations. Chopping the sky, army gunship helicopters swarmed in tight formations.

  Declan wore his silk pajamas and shoveled down raspberry crepes with as good an appetite as ever. Regardless, it was anger, not hunger, that drove him. He chewed with his elbows on the tabletop as he stared at his laptop showing mob scenes, one after another, from cities across the country. The destruction and looting was mind-boggling. Military and National Guard troops were doing their best to quell the violence, but they were too few and could only enforce martial law in the metropolitan areas, leaving 95 percent of the country to the vigilantes.

  Portman, the butler, poured grapefruit juice into cut-glass tumblers.

  Declan glanced across the table at Diane McCarthy, who was also wearing pajamas. Even fresh from sleep she was a beautiful woman, one of the few he knew who could give him a run for his money in the boardroom and the bedroom. She was an inch taller than him, with lovely features, and she had that casual athletic grace that so many Californians carry. She often beat him at golf and tennis. She scuba dived, snowboarded, and rode a polo pony with the best of them. Her chief assets were her organizational skills and sharp intellect, which made her a superb CEO of Golden Eagle Industries. He cuffed his mouth with his napkin, leaned across the table, and kissed her.

  “What’s that for?” she asked.

  He shrugged as he sat back down and lifted his coffee cup in Portman’s direction. It was promptly refilled.

  He turned back to his laptop. On his screen, perhaps five thousand demonstrators, all of them male, waved assault weapons like banners. Occasional shots fired into the air punctuated the mood. Their faces were livid, or, to be precise, their faces were performing rage for the cameras. He could see in their eyes, the exhilaration they felt at the presence of the media. It was the exhilaration of celebrity, of what Saul Bellow had coined “event glamour.” They were on history’s red carpet, brandishing their weapons and carrying signs reading DEATH BEFORE DISARMAMENT and WE STAND BY THE 2ND AMENDMENT. They gathered for their close-up. The image shook Declan to his core: the happily angry faces, rejoicing in their defiance, believing their identity was born of their insolence. Surrounding them were National Guard troops reinforced by armored vehicles. The look on each guard’s face was that of determination.

  Declan thought a good deal about what he termed “ultraviolence” over the last few days. About the allure of terrorism, how it made disheartened men feel powerful and consequential. And how the media glorified it so that it became hip—Rambo defending his rights against a corrupt system.

  He switched to his CNN app, showing a video of a burning car in San Francisco. It was the same video he’d seen a dozen times. The voiceover described the possible burning death of the scientist Kenji Hiroshige by extremists, and the possibility of his accomplice, Matt Reece Connors, still alive at the Bothin Burn Center at San Francisco’s Saint Francis Hospital.

  “Still no word on recovering the formula?” Diane asked.

  “Nada. And Harrington’s created a full-blown civil war,” he said. “Bit off more than she can chew is a colossal understatement. Mama Cass choking on a ham hoagie comes to mind.”

  Diane said, “Polls say 80 percent of voters outside the southern states support her. Even 47 percent in the Bible Belt.”

  “Sure, but the minority are well-armed, Alt-right wing nuts, fighting for their lives. Literally. Over seven thousand deaths and quadruple that number of injured in just five days since Congress outlawed private ownership of weapons.”

  “On the positive side, over a hundred thousand assault rifles were turned over to authorities, with the military confiscating another thirty thousand, and twice that many handguns.”

  “A drop in the ocean.”

  “Yes, but it’s spreading over the globe. I never thought that could happen. I’m stunned. Kenji Hiroshige created something that has the potential to change life on this planet forever. What doesn’t make sense is now that he’s dead, why continue to de-arm? He was the only one making these demands, so why hasn’t the government backed off?”

  “I’m guessing it wasn’t him in that car. It’s the only answer. And as for people turning in guns, they were mostly women, wives turning in their husband’s stash. This movement will cause more divorces than any other event in human history.”

  “That speaks volumes about the differences between the sexes. Not to mention the fact that women are becoming assertive. We’re taking charge to bring about a peaceful world.”

  Declan stabbed a finger at his laptop screen. “You call that peaceful?”

  “You see very many women in those mobs?”

  “Touché. But assuming Kenji’s alive, he’s created a clever diversion. Harrington foolishly threw the country into chaos, so everyone is trying to quash the uprising, and no one is left to hunt Kenji. He’s free to skip town with my formula.”

  “Our formula.”

  Declan raised one eyebrow, and they shared a smile.

  The phone at his elbow played the Captain America theme song. He reached for it, turned it on, and pressed it to his ear. “Declan.”

  “It’s Jeffery Wolfe,” a voice said. “Are you alone? I need to share classified intel.”

  Declan stared across the table at Diane. “Let me call you back on my laptop so we can talk face-to-face over a secure link.”

  He clicked on his Skype application. “Portman,” he said, “some privacy, if you please.” Portman bowed and walked into the house. Diane began to rise, but Declan waved her down. He punched Wolfe’s name on his address list, and Wolfe’s face appeared on the screen.

  Wolfe smiled. “Good morning, or do you say buenos dias in La-La Land?”

  “Is that a racial slur? Never mind. The only good thing about morning is it ends at noon, which begs the question, how much of your time can you spare? I’ve got questions about this train wreck of a manhunt.”

  Wolfe’s smile widened. “As much time as you need.”

  “Unlimited one-on-one time? Wow. You folks in DC must be panicked.”

  “We like to think we’re determined.”

  “From what I’m seeing, you’re determined to rip this country apart before moving on to a global confrontation.”

  “The enemy has bloodied our nose, but we’ve begun pounding them into smaller and more impotent groups, cut off from each other because we control the communications satellites. We’re now moving to step on their throats, one by one.”

  “The enemy? You’re talking about US citizens? Voters? The people who pay your salary?”

  “They’ve become enemies to the state by forming illegitimate fighting forces bent on defying laws passed by Congress. We’re past the tipping point and gaining the upper hand.”

  “From what I’m seeing, these militants are moving freely through the country, gathering strength and growing more violent.”

  Wolfe’s smile evaporated. “Don’t believe everything you hear in the media. Our strategy will put our fighting men in spots where they can subdue the enemy.”

  “Subdue? You mean kill?”

  “Only if need be,” Wolfe said.

  “May I speak freely, off the record?”

  Wolfe nodded.

  “Washington implemented a strategy to de-arm Americans regardless of the human and financial cost, so the 1 percent can enjoy longer lives. How can you people justify that?”

  “We’ve given serious thought to the human cost.”

  “Now I feel better. Seven thousand in five days. What’s your estimates for the long haul?”

  Wolfe lifted his hands, palms up. “We will de-arm no matter what it takes in terms of time, money, and lives.”

  “And if this takes five trillion dollars, fifteen years, and twenty million dead?”

  Wolfe stared at him.

  Declan shook his head, not believing this conversation.

  Wolfe continued, “Americans need to understand this strategy to de-arm the world is not only our choice as rational guardians of society, it’s our moral obligation.”

  “I swear if you dare to bring God into this conversation I’ll hang up and never speak to you again. I will not be treated like an idiot.”

  He was about to hang up anyway. He’d had a bellyful of this bullshit already. They both sat silent. He glanced at the armed security guards covering the garden walls, and he wondered how soon the government would strip him of his protection.

  Diane scribbled on a notepad and held it up for him to read: Get on topic! What’s his classified intel and what about the manhunt?

  Declan nodded. “Kenji and Matt Reece were not killed by a terrorist car bomb. Do we have a clue where they are now? Any idea about the state of the formula?”

  “How did you know?” Wolfe asked.

  “Because I have a triple-digit IQ.”

  “It was not our fugitives who died in that explosion. As of now, we have no idea of the whereabouts of Kenji or the formula, which is why I’m calling.”

  “The FBI let him slip through their fingers?”

  “They’re doing everything they can. But now we know the assassins are close. They might even have our fugitives in custody. Because of that, the president intends to escalate plans to protect our interests. President Harrington and everyone in Washington, Moscow, and Beijing feel we must act now or risk losing everything.”

  Declan knew whatever was coming would not be worth a damn.

  “You’re alone?” Wolfe asked a second time.

  Declan nodded.

  “Seven days from now, Moscow will nuke the Vatican—”

  “You mean Rome. Moscow will nuke Rome?”

  “Let me finish. China will nuke Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. We’ll annihilate Tehran.”

  Politically, Declan knew the choices made sense. There were too many Christians and Jews in America for Washington to attack Israel or the Vatican. And he knew this option of cutting off the monster’s head was being discussed with other world powers. Still, it was sheer lunacy, a leap toward World War III.

  “Impossible,” Declan said, his voice uneven.

  “Not impossible, buddy, merely unthinkable.”

  Across the table, Diane’s face lost all color. Her lovely mouth hung open. Declan knew denial was the mind’s defense mechanism to counterbalance horrifying realities that produced more stress than the body could handle, and she was caught up in that mechanism now. Hell, he was as caught up as she.

  Declan gave her a solemn shrug, wanting to help her through this but not wanting Wolfe to know she was listening in.

  “This is madness,” Declan said. “I can’t support this.”

  “Let me remind you that the world’s current population growth is an exponential progression occurring within a finite space with limited resources. If assassins have kidnapped Kenji, and his formula becomes public knowledge, the end of human civilization will come within our lifetime. It won’t be Revelations, fire and brimstone, or even nuclear war… it will be an apocalyptic collapse caused by the sheer number of hungry mouths fighting for dwindling resources. Given that triple-digit IQ you’re so proud of, you should know that the mathematics are indisputable.”

  Declan slammed down the screen hard enough to crack the casing. He grabbed the computer and flung it over the railing, where it splashed into the pool.

  Diane held her throat with both hands. “I’m going to throw up.”

  “We’ve got to stop this insanity,” he said.

  She moved to the rail. When she turned to face him again, she had regained her composure. “There’s only one way to do that.”

  He nodded. They had seven days to find Kenji, or at least find the formula. Once these pigs had what they wanted, they would back off these war games.

  “We need reliable info,” Declan said, “because we can’t trust anything coming from Washington.”

  Diane was moving toward the bedroom to change. “Let’s track down this FBI agent everyone’s so in awe of, go right to the quarterback in the huddle. I’ll make some calls to locate him. Perhaps he’ll give us something we can work with. And while you team up with him, I’ll fly to Israel to close down our Tel Aviv office and get our people the hell out of there.”

  Declan grabbed her wrist, stopping her. “No, call them and tell them to wrap up the office and evacuate to Switzerland.”

  “That’ll cause a citywide panic. No, I need to be there to manage this. I’ll be in and out days before anything happens. I promise.”

  She pulled away from his grip, and he knew arguing was pointless.

  Declan followed her inside, thinking he would apply all the pressure needed on Salman Landau’s two most sensitive body parts to stop this madness.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  JESSUP SAT beside the hospital bed. They were in a private room in the burn unit, and for three days Jessup only abandoned his chair for bathroom breaks and food in the cafeteria. Blake slept in the other bed. Patrick was out walking Groucho.

  Two days ago the doctors had lessened the medication to allow the patient to regain full consciousness. The patient, however, showed extreme trauma, so they medicated him back into a coma. He lay with his head and body bandaged, resembling a mummy.

  Jessup gazed at the chest inflating and deflating under those dressings. He shook his head while talking to himself. “He just needs to sleep through this. Boys love their sleep. He’ll be right as rain once I get him home.”

  Dr. Falses breezed in, flashing Jessup a wounded smile.

  “Well, if it isn’t the miracle worker,” Jessup said.

  “You’re mistaking me for your husband. I’m just a run-of-the-mill old sawbones.”

  She touched the boy’s wrist. She peeled back an eyelid and then the other. Donning her stethoscope, she listened to his heart and pressed her fingers here and there on the abdomen. She checked the flow on the plastic drip sack, and moved to the end of the bed and lifted the chart. She checked her wristwatch and scribbled notes on the chart.

  She turned to Jessup. “It’s time he regained consciousness again.”

  “You told me sleeping is restorative.”

  “Yes, but too long in a coma brings on its own set of issues.”

  Blake stirred, coming awake. He sat up.

  “And I want another scan,” the doctor said. “I’ll schedule it for tomorrow morning.”

  “Should I be worried?” Jessup asked.

  “We’re simply covering all the bases to understand as much as possible before taking the next step.”

  Jessup nodded. “And what exactly is the next step?”

  Agent Landau entered the room carrying a paper bag and a briefcase. “How’s our patient?” he asked. “How soon can we question him?”

  “Perhaps as early as tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “On the other hand, we won’t know until he regains consciousness.”

  Landau eyed Jessup. “Mr. Connors, I’d like you to come with me. What I have to tell you will be easier to swallow if we grease the skids.” He nodded at the paper bag he held. “You’re a rye man, right?”

  “I can’t leave my son, and Patrick’s walking the dog. I should be here—”

  “I ran into Patrick in the lobby. He’s agreed to be our designated driver for the evening. Trust me. What I have to show you, you’ll want some privacy and space to think.”

  Jessup paused. “Shit.”

  “Enough to bury us, Mr. Connors.”

  THEY DIDN’T speak on the ride to Ocean Beach. Patrick drove with Groucho riding shotgun. Jessup and Landau rode the rear seat. Blake stayed behind to watch over the patient. Landau didn’t seem to mind that Patrick dodged through traffic like a fleeing deer, speeding through yellow lights and squealing around turns. Jessup, however, had a white-knuckle grip on the door handle.

  By the time they reached the beach, Jessup longed for that first snort to calm his nerves. He and Landau perched on the cement seawall overlooking the sand while Patrick raced Groucho out to the water’s edge and threw driftwood for the dog to retrieve.

  The sky was a radiant twilight. Above them, an anemic streetlamp shed a pallid glow.

  Landau passed Jessup a bag of Ruffles potato chips and a bottle of WhistlePig rye. He pulled a pint bottle of single malt scotch from the paper bag and cracked it open. They clicked bottles and both took a healthy swig. Jessup felt a delightful numbing in his head.

  Since that first day in the interrogation room, Jessup sensed that he and Landau had come to an understanding. It was founded on a trust that both men were trying their damnedest to bring Matt Reece and Kenji home safely. As far as Jessup was concerned, Landau had proven himself to be tough as an old saddle—seasoned by copious use, weathered and wrought, a repository of valuable experiences. And now that the manhunt was over, even with the terrible result, Jessup felt he had nothing to hide from Landau. They could even become friends. This drinking together certainly carried that possibility.