

Maiden Lane

by

Christopher Blankley
Chapter 1

It's the shoes that get you – what inevitably undermines the working-class resolve. Some will say that it's the bespoke suits, Savile Row, of course. Or the private Gulfstream G650's. Or the thousand dollar a plate dinners – anything served south of Houston and above the thirtieth floor will do. Some will say it's the bottles of Krug Clos du Mesnil Blanc de Blancs 1995, or maybe the hefty shots of Dalmore 62 afterward. Others will focus on the cars – supercars, hand-built: McLaren, Maybauchs, Bugatti's, perhaps a Pagani Zonda in a pinch, with wing doors and more cylinders than common sense might dictate.

In an honest moment, one might concede that there's a mystique to the six-story mansions outside the city, with infinity swimming pools and countless auxiliary buildings, or the trophy wives who inevitably occupy them.

All these arguments can be made and have been. I might even agree with some. On principle. But I can tell you, from personal experience, it's the shoes that eventually get you – make you forget any notion of class struggle, or hatred of consumer capitalism. A well-curated, university education is instantly forgotten the moment those hand-sewn, buttery-soft, calfskin shoes touch your feet, molded to your exact contours, every inch in perfect symmetry.

It's like you've never worn a shoe before, just a strange box laced to the ends of your legs. There's no willpower known to man that can help you withstand it. YOUR FEET DO NOT HURT, your body purrs with every step. For the first time in your life, your feet do not hurt. And like that, you're sold. Or have sold, as in your soul to the devil.

Mine were fitted not a week earlier, in the penthouse suite by a Mennonite girl, _Handmaid's Tale_ bonnet and all. She measured my feet many times, and caressed the calluses with a delicacy I found slightly troubling. The shoes came yesterday, in the sort of wooden box you might use to store salted fish or bury a beloved pet.

They fit perfectly, like gloves for my toes. They're the final salvo in a war of luxury that has finally destroyed the last of my defenses. They're the chink in my armor, the one thing I cannot resist.

I'd done so well, up until today, represented my class and my people admirably. I was NOT going to give in to the opulence. I would not succumb. But against the shoes, I am lost. The weight of their perfection is entirely too much. I am an owned man.

Demon money has finally sunk its claws into me.

I bend over in the hallway and retie my left shoe. The lace is thick, like a small rope used to moor a ship. But they're also supple. They tie like they have no other purpose but to make a knot.

Before the shoes, they'd tried a similar tactic with my clothes. But the wardrobe fitting had failed to dent my proletariat armor. I can even say that it sort of bored me. The folly of it all.

It normally took three years to get an appointment at number 11 Savile Row, but a call from my generous benefactor jumped me to the head of the line. I had to go to them. That hardly felt like service, but it was only a forty-five minute flight, from New York to London, aboard the Virgin Galactic Sub Orbital. So it wasn't much of a chore.

I flew first class, of course; there is no couch in space. I watched in wonder as the air hostess floated weightlessly down the tight aisle, serving Bollinger champagne in sippy cups and keeping her prim uniform perfectly creased.

Later, a sleek, silver Bentley rolled me over the cobbled streets of Mayfair and down Savile Row. In the back of the car, I struggled to stifle a yawn.

I stand and straighten the suit's tie in the hallway mirror. The silk tie is orange and white, my Caltech colors. I hit the elevator down button, and admire myself in the Huntsman.

The suit is certainly worth the pampering. It makes me look, literally, like a million bucks. It easily could have cost that much, with the flight and the car and the express shipment back to New York. But compared to the shoes...well, there is no comparison. The suit might make me look like a million bucks, but the shoes make me FEEL it.

I wink at my reflection and look at the Submariner on my wrist. Plenty of time to get to the airport, even considering Manhattan traffic. Submariner. I smirk at the watch. The deepest underwater this watch will ever go was in the glass-bottom swimming pool of the penthouse behind me.

I look back at the door. I'm almost tempted not to leave. Three stories. Twenty rooms. Chef's kitchen. The showers...three I never got a chance to use. The New York home of my generous benefactor. Of course, he's in Seattle, working, leaving me to enjoy the view of New York at night.

The elevator _pings_ , snapping me out of my musings. The doors open, and I step inside. I wasn't expecting anyone to be in there. I'm on the top floor, and it's just me. You need a fingerprint scan just to get the buttons to light up for the floor. But someone is inside the elevator, as I step in. I almost knock the sack of potato chips out of her hand.

"Sorry," I mutter, reflexively stepping back to let the girl off the elevator. Then I reconsider, looking her up and down. The pink knit pussy hat. The baggy top. The thick glasses, covered in dandruff, and the heavy, well-worn boots. She certainly doesn't look like she belongs up here. I'd be hard pressed to guess where she does belong.

Luckily she doesn't move. She just stands there munching her Funyuns. I realize she's just along for the ride, on an elevator going up, when she'd meant to go down. I sigh a little inside and step on the elevator. I don't want to be the one to ask her who she is or where she's going.

The doors close. I give her a smile and straighten my jacket. What a pair we make, I think to myself: me in the Savile Row and her with her onion chips. She smiles back, her mouth full of food.

I can see the moment of recognition on her face, even before she opens her mouth. "Hey, you're that guy," she says, raising a yellow, dusty finger uncomfortably close to my face.

I sigh again, this time on the outside. I'm not _that guy_. Even in the fancy suit, with the hand-made shoes and the $10,000 watch, I'm not _that guy_. Before, back in California, before all this, I got it a lot. I look like him. But now, in the suit, with the hair and the gold...hell, maybe I am _that guy_?

"No, not me." I hate to disappoint her, she looks so excited.

"Yeah you are!" she says. "You're that guy."

"No, I'm not. I'm a mathematician."

"No, you're him. You're really him! I love your stuff."

"I'm not-" I start again, then stop myself. What does it matter? The elevator is already heading down. So, she tells her friends that she met someone famous, when she only met me. What's the harm? "How you doing?" I ask her instead. "Having a nice evening?"

Her jaw drops open, showing me a mouth full of half-eaten Funyuns. I find something interesting about the elevator's control panel to look at.

"Hi, my name is Eve," she wipes the yellow onion dust off her free hand and offers it to me.

I shake it, weakly. "I'm Roderic." I smile.

A look of bewilderment, then sadness crosses her face. "Oh, then you really aren't him?" she pouts, looking up, studying my face.

"No, my name is Roderic Gant," I say. We're still shaking. It's weird. "Like I said, I'm a mathematician."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"You don't LOOK like a mathematician."

No. No, I don't.

I finally pull my hand out of the shake. Despite Eve's efforts, my hand is still covered in Funyun dust. I begin to wipe it off onto my suit, but I stop myself just in time. I reach inside my jacket and pull out a handkerchief.

"But you are famous?" she asks, reflexively wiping her hands on her clothes.

"No," I chuckle. "At least, not yet."

"Are you some sort of celebrity mathematician?" she asks. "Like Stephen Hawking, or Sheldon Cooper?"

I don't know how to answer that. There's just so much wrong with that question. "Err, not really."

"Then, what are you doing in New York?"

"I'm here for a job interview," I say with pride.

"By the look of that suit, I think you got it," the girl laugh-snorts. Her hand goes back into the Funyun bag and comes out with a fist full of rings. She starts munching. Perhaps thirty percent of the chips are making it into her mouth.

"Well," I allow myself a smug, self-congratulatory smirk. "It's more like I'm interviewing the job, if you know what I mean."

"I do not," she says slowly and clearly, taking the Funyuns out of her mouth to hear my response.

I suddenly feel shy. After all, I shouldn't be boasting to a perfect stranger. I'm just a kid from El Segundo. So what if I've made one of the greatest breakthroughs in mathematics since Newton? Did she care? Probably not. My momma would tell me to be humble.

But, oh what the hell! Why not? Why shouldn't I boast, just a little? After all, the girl thought she was meeting someone famous. And she's half-right. This time next year, I would be a celebrity mathematician. Ten times more famous that Stephen Hawking and Sheldon Cooper put together. I can say with confidence that the name Roderic Gant would soon be a household name. And this girl gets to meet me before I'm famous. That's quite a story she can tell her friends.

"You see," I say in a confiding tone. "I'm here on an all-expenses paid trip, sponsored by a certain dot-com retail giant. They're wining and dining me, so to speak. Showing me the good life. They want me to come work for them."

"Doing what?" the girl asks, hanging on my every word.

"Predictive algorithms. Big data analytics. Artificial Intelligence. I don't know. I don't know if they do, either. Really, anything I want. You see, I'm sort of a pioneer in my field. I've founded a whole new branch of mathematics. All the big dot-coms are trying to snatch me up...you know, before the other guy gets me."

"New math? What? Like trigonometry?"

"Sort of. It's called Megalytics."

"Megawhatics?"

"Megalytics. It's the math of really, really big numbers."

She laughs. "That's different than the math of regular-sized numbers?"

"It is."

"How big? A billion?"

"Bigger."

"A trillion?"

"Bigger."

Her eyes roll back in her head, thinking. Nobody can think of the one after trillion. It's quadrillion, by the way, but that's still nowhere near big enough.

"Think about a number with a trillion zeros," I say. "And you'd be about a trillionth of the way there."

The girl's mouth opens ever so slightly, letting a loop of Funyun fall out. I want to tell her more, but the elevator has arrived at the lobby.

"Sounds neat," she recovers, reaching into the bag for more Funyuns.

"It is," I agree. The elevator doors open. I hold the door, waiting for her to step out first. She shakes her head, nibbling on an onion ring. I step out instead. "Nice talking to you, Eve," I say back to her.

"Nice talking to you, Roderic," she says. And the doors begin to close. At the last moment, she thrusts a hand between the doors. They chime and reopen. "Say, Roderic, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure." I smile, looking at my watch. The limo should be just outside the door. An hour at most to get to Kennedy. That would give me over an hour to get through security. I'd have time to stop and get-

"What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?" the girl asks.

"What?" I ask. My thoughts derailed. I'm thinking I didn't hear her clearly.

"What lies at the end of Maiden Lane, Roderic Gant?" she asks again.

I chuckle, but she's not joking. I look at her, and she's looking at me from behind those dandruff-encrusted glasses. But now there's a fire in her eyes. An intensity. She's no longer that dopey, nerdy Funyun muncher from just moments before.

She lets go of the elevator doors, and they begin to close. I've got so many questions, they all fall over each other trying to get out of my mouth. I say nothing. What... _where_ is Maiden Lane? And what does it have to do with me?

Before I can react, the elevator doors _click_ shut. She's gone. I shake myself. That was weird – she was weird. The whole elevator ride was weird. But who cares? I have a plane to catch. I need to get to the airport. I turn and start across the lobby.

But I stop and look back at the elevator. No, something in that last moment is still bothering me. Before the doors snapped shut, before the girl was gone, I could have sworn that I recognized her. From where and when, I can't quite put my finger on, but there was something about her, asking that strange question, that was vaguely familiar.

What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?

Who knows? I shrug and turn for the door. As suddenly as that sense of recognition hit me, it's gone. Never mind. I'll worry about it and Maiden Lane and the girl on the plane. Or not. Whatever. I'm heading back to California.

I'm heading home!
Chapter 2

"Nice suit," the driver says.

"Thank you," I reply. I can forgive his ignorance. He can't see the shoes from the front seat.

"Say, are you that guy?" he asks.

"No," I reply sternly, a sense of annoyance building on top of my encounter in the elevator.

"Are you sure?" he asks, stupidly.

"Yeah," I roll my eyes. "I'm pretty sure."

The driver shrugs unconcerned, and changes the subject "Have a good time in New York?" he asks, but I've already got my phone out, checking my texts.

"Yes, thanks."

"I bet," he chuckles. "I don't know what kind of Prime membership you have, buddy, but this sure beats free shipping...Just so you know, it's all taken care of."

This makes me look up from my phone. What's taken care of? Why wouldn't it be? Maybe he means the gratuity. That would make sense. "Thanks," is all I say.

"Totally taken care of," he repeats.

I don't like his tone. What's he getting at?

This is the first time since climbing into the back of the limo that I look around at the city outside the windows. I don't know New York, but even I know you don't take Broadway north to get to Kennedy Airport. "Hey, where you going?" I ask, putting my phone away. "I want to go to JFK."

"I know, I know," the driver makes a reassuring gesture. "Like I said pal, it's all been taken care of."

"Look, I need to get to the airport. I don't have a lot of time to screw around."

"Don't worry, you'll make your flight," the driver says, matter-of-fact. "Or the next one. Like I said, it's-"

"All been taken care of." Then I realize what's happening. This is some sort of headhunter trick. This guy is from Google or Facebook or Microsoft or somebody, about to give me a twenty-minute pitch on the way to the airport. Jeez, how desperate can you get? But we don't seem to be heading for the airport. In fact, we're heading in exactly the wrong direction. "Look, are you going to take me to the airport, or not?" I ask point blank.

"You bet!" he cheers. "But first..."

"What?" I growl.

"Don't you want to go to a party?"

No. No I do not. I don't want to go have cocktails at Tavern-on-the-Green – or wherever he's taking me – and trade small talk with SnapChat's technical recruiters. I want to go home! California. Beaches. Sand. The sun. This week has been an amazing experience and all, and I'm extremely flattered by all the attention, but I just want to go home and sleep in my own bed. My normal, average, working-class bed. With the zero-count, scratchy sheets and the side I can't really lay on because the springs are all broken. No more opulence. No more fancy parties. No more recruiting!

The driver looks back at me in his rear-view mirror. He's smiling, nodding. His eyes are saying, "Please Mister, come to this damn party. Be a friend. I don't get paid if you skip out."

I sympathize. He's just a little guy, trying to make a living. So, he takes a couple extra bucks from some suit to drive me to a swanky party. What's the harm? I mean, who wouldn't want to go? Free food. Free drinks. Pretty girls. He makes some extra cash and still gets me to the airport. A little late, maybe, but the flights can always be figured out.

Like I said, I sympathize. But I just don't have the time. I sit back, relax. I try to look like I'm resigned to my fate. I even start looking at my phone again. And then when the limo stops at the light at 23rd Street, I leap for the door handle.

Twenty-Three Skidoo.

I'm out on the sidewalk, heading east down 23rd. The driver is yelling, standing by his car, but he can't follow. The light is already turning green. I wave back an apology and turn my attention to my phone. There's a subway stop a block away. Looking at the MTA map, I can take the 4 train to the A train and that will get me to Kennedy. What do I need with a limo? After all, I'm in New York. Best publicly-funded transit system in America. I can take the subway to the airport. Just like a regular guy.

I used to be a regular guy. Not a week ago, in fact. There were no limos, no bespoke suits, no orbital flights to Europe. A week ago, I was just Roderic Gant. Mathematician. Has all the good food, top shelf liquor and man-pampering made me forget who I really was? Who I really am? Where I'm from? No, I not only can take the subway to the airport, I need to. I need to shake off some of this capitalist excess. Walk a block, ride a subway, eat a hot dog...

Yum, a hot dog. That's one thing I'd forgotten to do in New York. In the flurry of Michelin stars and five-course menus, I'd forgotten the simple pleasure of the sidewalk hot dog. Up ahead, in front of the subway station, there's a catering truck. It looks like it has dogs.

I pause and fish my wallet out of a breast pocket.

"What'll it be, Bub?" a woman's voice asks from inside the truck.

"A dog with kraut," I say, taking a twenty out of the billfold.

"Anything to drink?" she asks.

"No, I-" And I look up to hand over the money. Something about the girl in the truck looks familiar.

She takes my money and hands me back my change. "What?" she looks at me puzzled. I'm staring.

It's her. The girl from the elevator. She's no longer wearing the pink pussy hat or the thick glasses. In fact, she looks good, despite the NYC Health Department hairnet and apron. She's wearing lipstick. She gives me a crooked smile, like I'm being crazy. "What?" she says again. He voice is totally different. Thick, Bronx accent.

"What are you doing?" I smile. Is this some sort of joke?

"What am I doing?" she sasses me. "Getting you your dog, Bub. That's what I'm doing." And she hands over the hot dog, complete with sauerkraut. "Enjoy."

"Eve?" I ask.

"Yeah?" she raises and eyebrow. I realize the name tag on her apron reads _Eve_.

"Sorry," I shake myself. I'm a little young to be having a senior moment, but there's no other explanation. "I thought you were someone else."

"That's okay, I get that a lot," she says. "You must too."

"How's that?" I'm not really listening. I could swear that she's the girl from the elevator...

"You know...'cause you look like...you know..."

"Oh yeah," I nod. Well, I do.

"Enjoy your dinner," she concludes, pointing at the dog in my hand.

"Yes. Thanks. I will." I take a bite. Yum. I'm not disappointed.

I turn and start heading for the subway.

"Oh! Hey, Bub?" the girl in the food truck yells after me.

"Yeah?" I turn back, mouth full of hot dog.

"Tell me somethin': what lies at the end of Maiden Lane?" she calls out.

I stand still, rooted to the spot.

Everyone on the street must have heard her say it. But nobody's reacted. They're just walking along like she'd told me to have a nice day. I look around, confused, then back at the girl. She smiles, that fire still burning in her eyes.

Okay, now this is more than just weird: this is creepy. Is she working with the guy in the limo? Is this some crazy recruiting stunt? But how could she get here ahead of me? How could she know I was going to ditch the limo here at 23rd Street? And how could she get here and change her clothes and put on makeup and wash her hair and totally change her voice? All in...what? Five minutes?

No, it wasn't possible. This was starting to get freaky.

I decide to pretend I didn't hear what she said. I wave, smile and take another bite of my hot dog. I turn my attention back to navigating the subway stairs, down to the platform. I want to run for my life, but I'm not totally sure from what. That girl? She seems harmless enough. From her question? What does lie at the end of Maiden Lane? Is she asking for directions? Tourist information? Do I look like a native?

No, there's nothing to be afraid of, but I can't quite shake the creeping heebie-jeebies. So I do what any New Yorker would do: I lower my head and try not to make eye contact with anybody on the subway.

I'm just trying to get where I'm going, Bub. And it's nowhere near any place called Maiden Lane.
Chapter 3

I don't have an MTA card, and the ticket vending machines aren't taking credit cards, but I manage to get the right combination of dollar bills into one machine and get a ticket. I don't know if it will get me all the way to JFK, but I'll worry about that at the airport.

Suddenly, I'm in one hell of a rush to get out of New York.

I take the stairs down to the platform and stand with the other evening commuters, waiting on the 4 train. Okay, I might be a little overdressed for the subway. People are giving me some funny looks. But any port in a storm, you know?

Waiting, I take the chance to pull out my phone and type "Maiden Lane" into a search engine. The hourglass icon appears on my screen. I wait as the search executes. I don't get a chance to see the result. A voice distracts me.

"Roderic Gant?" it asks.

I look up. Three men in dark suits are standing before me on the subway platform. Their suits are most definitely not Savile Row bespoke. They're wearing dark glasses, despite being underground. And dark outside.

Their posture positively screams Federal Agent. But they don't flash any badges. They just stand there, looking sinister.

"Yes?" I reply weakly. Now what?

"You're THE Roderic Gant?" another Fed confirms.

"Yes," I repeat. How many Roderic Gants could there be?

"You'll have to come with us," the third says.

"What? Why?" I put my phone away.

"We can discuss that on the way," the first agent says.

"On the way? Where?" But the two other agents are circling around me, each taking an arm.

"There's a car waiting," the first agent adds. That's not really an answer.

"I've got to get to the airport," I say. "I have a flight to catch." But I sound like I'm whining. They self-evidently do not care.

"You'll make your flight, Mr. Gant." I'm being led in the wrong direction, back toward the stairs then back up to the street. Every part of my body screams _No!_ I want to go THAT WAY!

The 4 train is pulling up to the platform.

"Where are we going?" I ask again.

"Why, Mr. Gant, you've going to a party," the agent to my left replies. His voice is syrupy with false sincerity.

No, not this again! Who are these guys? The NSA? Is this some sort of interview tactic, too? Like the guy in the limo? They can't just kidnap me off a subway platform. I'm sure as hell not going to work for any organization that treats prospective employees this way. "Hey, don't wrinkle the suit!" I say, pulling my arm free from the agent's hands.

At just the right moment, the 4 train starts unloading its passengers. For a few seconds we're surrounded by commuters, pushing toward the stairs. There's a guy with a bike. He's in-between me and the first agent. The guy to my left is bouncing around in the crowd. This is my chance. I pull my right arm down hard, breaking the third agent's grip. I duck down, dodge, swerve and pop up right beside the 4 train's door. Before the agents can figure out where I am, the subway doors are closing.

They watch helplessly from behind their sunglasses as the train pulls out of the station. I give them a happy wave. They do not wave back.

I find a seat on the crowded train. I again fish my phone out of my pocket. I look at the search results for my "Maiden Lane" query. Nothing. No signal. I'm underground. I sigh, returning the phone to my breast pocket.

Who the hell were those guys?

They were serious. At least the girl in the elevator and the guy in the limo hadn't gotten physical. Those guys were taking crazy up a notch. What sort of recruiter sends men to manhandle a client? This can't all still be about a job. That doesn't make any sense. What would the Federal government want with me? Or Megalytics for that matter? Was the girl with them too? And the limo driver? Hell, what evidence did I have that my generous benefactor was really the CEO of a certain dot-com retail giant? None. I hadn't actually met him after all, face-to-face. Could this all be some sort of tick? The whole lap of luxury weekend? No, now I was getting paranoid.

I relax, take a breath, and look around the subway car. Regular people, going about their regular evening: office drones heading home from a late night at work; girls, made up for an evening out, heading for the clubs...

Oh hell, no! I quickly find something about my custom-made shoes to study. This is not happening. It's just totally impossible. Sitting directly across from me on the train are two girls, dressed in short skirts and glittery tops. They've got big, New Jersey hairstyles and more makeup than is certainly prudent. But the one on the right is most certainly the girl from the elevator. And the hot dog truck. It's her. Eve. I'm certain of it.

I look up to confirm. It's her. This is insane. It's not possible. How could she have gotten on the train? She was up on the street, not five minutes ago. She wasn't down on the platform with me. But nevertheless, here she is.

She looks at me, chewing on gum, and smiles.

"What the hell is going on!" I leap to my feet, shouting. The whole train is taken aback. I can feel everyone physically recoil. "Why are you following me? You can tell your thugs to back off, I'm not going to go to your damn party!"

She looks up at me, terrified. She says something. Not in English. She's talking fast, babbling in something Eastern European. Russian, maybe? Croatian?

She's scared, but a Croatian New Yorker is still a New Yorker. She's not going to back down in front of a crazy guy on the subway. She's going to give just as good as she's about to get. She yells back at me, waving her arms, pointing up and down the train. The other passengers are emboldened by her strength. Two large men in high visibility vests climb slowly out of their seats.

"I don't know if you think this is funny, or what, but I've had enough!" I'm shouting over the girl's steady stream of Croatian insults. "You play your little tricks and pretend not to understand me, but I know you can! Just tell whoever you work for that they can just forget about me coming to work for them! Okay? It's never going to happen. Never. I don't appreciate these sort of head games! Enough. Understand? Enough."

"Yeah, buddy, I think that's enough," one of the construction workers says to me. The girl is still screaming her gibberish, a mile a minute. The train arrives at the next station. Nobody else moves. "I think this is your stop."

"No wait," I try to protest, but the two beef slabs in high visibility vests are having none of it. They bodily eject me off the train. I stumble out onto the platform. The girl is still screaming her Croatian after me.

Nobody else gets on or off. Everyone is just watching. The train doors slide closed.

As the train pulls away, I can see the girl mouthing something at me, her face still contorted in anger. I could swear she's asking, in English: _What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?_
Chapter 4

I could wait for the next train, but everyone on the platform is shooting me disgusted looks. Suddenly I realize, in their eyes, I'm the bad guy. I'm the crazy guy who attacked a young woman on the train. Nobody knows about the elevator, or the hot dog truck, or the three guys in suits.

Speaking of which, they're probably aboard the next train. I need to get off the platform, quick. I'm way out in the open. I don't want to run into them again. So much for my working-man's ride to the airport. I turn on my heels and sprint for the stairs. A minute later, I'm back out in the Manhattan evening.

I take a moment to let myself calm down. Breathe Roderic, I tell myself, just breathe. It'll be fine if I can just get the heck out of Manhattan. I know what I would do in Pasadena in this situation. I reach for my phone, with every intention of opening up the Uber app.

But when I unlock my phone, the "Maiden Lane" web search is still open on the screen. Now that I'm back above ground, it's completed. They're a few thousand results returned, but at the top of the search engine screen is a drop pin in a map, indicating the street's location and my relative proximity. It's here in New York, Maiden Lane, and I'm only a few blocks away.

What lies at the end of Maiden Lane? I ask myself. Well, why don't I go see?

More curious than smart, I set out north. Maybe if I can answer that question, the girl will leave me alone. It's worth a shot.

I walk the long block down to Broadway to where it and Maiden Lane cross.

It's just a street, cutting east to west. I walk a block or so east. I follow it until I can see where it goes under the FDR and ends in the East River. Is that the solution to the girl's riddle? The East River? No, that make no sense at all.

I walk the other way, back to Broadway and look east. Here, I can see one of the new World Trade Center buildings and a glimpse of the Freedom Tower. But Maiden Lane seems to cut between them. From here, there doesn't seem to be anything at the west end of Maiden Lane...

I briefly consider walking west to the Hudson, but I consider what such a hike might do to my brand new shoes. I look down to check their condition. I've been doing more walking than I'd anticipated. They look fine, but as I examine them, I notice a clock in the sidewalk between my feet. If that wasn't curious enough, I quickly realize what time it's telling me. Oh no! I quickly check my Submariner for confirmation. It's accurate. I have less than an hour to catch my flight!

I once again reach back in my pocket for my phone and pull up the Uber app. There's a car only two blocks away. I'm about to hit the _request_ button, when I hesitate.

If the insanity of this evening proceeds unabated, what are the odds the driver of that Uber is going to be the girl? Maybe in a rastacap, sporting dreadlocks, but certainly the girl. Almost 100 percent? That'd be my bet. I put my phone away, contemplating hailing a cab.

I reconsider, taking my phone out of my pocket for a third time.

"Hey, Logan!" I call cheerily into my phone. "Yeah, Roderic. Roderic. Rod-er-ic. Yeah, yeah, I know it's been a long time. I don't know...what? Three years? Yeah- say, I know this is coming out of nowhere, but is there any chance you could give me a ride to the airport? Now. Now. Yes, New York. Broadway. Broadway and Maiden Lane. Yes, yes. RIGHT NOW."

#

Logan is less than pleased – both to hear from me out of the blue and to give me a ride to airport. We used to be roommates in college, good friends. But after graduation, we sort of went our separate ways. I went off to grad school, and he came to New York and the Stock Exchange. We always planned to keep in touch, but I never really held my end up.

"What are you playing at, you muppet?" Logan calls out as he pulls his black Audi up to the sidewalk.

I leap around the car and climb into the passenger's seat, infinity relieved to be safe off the street. "Thanks for this," I say, reaching for the seat belt. "You're really saving my life."

"What are you wearing?" Logan asks.

"Oh, this old thing?" I straighten my lapels.

"Nice threads, man!" Logan laughs.

"Will you drive!" I exclaim, pointing at the street.

"Oh, sorry," Logan says, putting the car into gear and pulling out into traffic. "You know who you look like?"

"Yes!" I yell. "So everyone keeps telling me!"

"Sorry!" Logan holds up his hands in surrender.

"No, no, I'm sorry man," I calm down. "But you can't believe the crazy night I'm having." I fill him in on the girl in the elevator, her reappearance on 23rd Street, the Federal agents, and the girl's subsequent reappearance on the subway. When I'm done, Logan shoots me an awestruck look while still keeping one eye on the downtown traffic.

"You have got to be kidding me!" he finally says.

"No. No joke." I shiver. Safe in Logan's car, the adrenaline is finally wearing off. I'm getting the shakes.

"You know who it is?" Logan begins.

"It's not-"

"Masons," Logan finishes.

"It's not the Masons." I sigh. With Logan, it's always the Masons. 9/11, World War Two, the Kennedy assassination, the moon landing, all perpetrated by the Masons. It's some weird, East London paranoia of his. "I'm telling you, mate. Work here in the city long enough and you learn, it's all the Masons. All of it. All those hedge funds, secret handshake boys. The whole thing – all of Wall Street, I tell you. All of it!"

"It's not the Masons," I say again.

"How else-"

"Masons can't teleport people."

"Then who?"

"I don't know."

The car comes to a halt. We're in traffic waiting to get onto the Brooklyn Bridge. I'm almost off Manhattan. I can taste it.

"You think it's got something to do with that new maths of yours?" With the traffic stopped, Logan turns and looks at me. "I read that article about you, in _Popular Science_. Megastatistics, is it?"

"Megalytics," I correct.

"Right. You think it's got something to do with that?"

"It's got to be," but I shrug. I can't quite put my finger on how, exactly. "That's why I'm in New York. With my thesis published, all the tech companies are trying to hire me. I'm sure this is some elaborate hiring pitch, for some dot-com company. I just can't figure out how they're doing it."

"But pretending to be Federal agents," Logan exhales. "That's some serious business. You sure those guys down in the subway were legit? You know, working for..."

"The Masons?" I fish.

"No," Logan laughs. "Well, not directly. You know...the Central Intelligence Agency. The spooks? They'd be interested in your Megalytics, too, wouldn't they?"

"I guess."

"Maybe this is one of those offers that a guy can't refuse. You know?"

I don't. But the car is moving again. We're moving onto the bridge. I look back at Manhattan in the window behind me. I've made it!

"What is this Megalytics of yours, anyway?" Logan asks, his attention back on the road. "I mean, I read the article, but I didn't understand any of it."

"It's the math of really, really big numbers," I answer, distracted.

Logan looks confused.

I realize I'm going to have to explain the whole thing. Logan deserves nothing less. After all, he is getting me out of a pretty tight pinch. "Really really, big numbers. Think of the biggest number you can and add some zeros." I'm more into it now, trying to sell it. I've given this speech a million times of late, to a million different CEO's. It's become like a personal mantra. "Not a dozen zeros, but a million zeros. A billion. You get it? Numbers like that have special qualities. Quirks."

"Like what?"

"Well," I pause, going off script. I try to think of a real world example. "You ever watch a flock of birds? You know, circling, getting ready to migrate. There's hundreds of them, thousands, right? All flying in formation."

"Sure."

"And then suddenly, as you're watching, they all change direction, all at once. All of them, in an instant, like they all knew that moment was the exact moment they absolutely had to circle left. But there's no reason to, no force making them circle left. There's no obstruction in front of them, just clear sky, nothing chasing behind them. They just do it. Turn left. The flock makes up its mind, and it does it. Really, really big numbers are sort of like that: unpredictable and prone to shifts."

"And you can predict the shifts? With your Megalytics?"

"Maybe more than predict," I allow. "Have you heard of Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle?"

"Is that the guy with the cat?" Logan asks.

"No, that's Schrodinger. Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle is from quantum mechanics, the math of really, really small numbers. It states that you can't know both the position and velocity of subatomic particles, because the act of observing the particle affects its state. Well, there seems to be an Uncertainty Principle to very, very large numbers, too. That the act of measuring them affects their state. That's what Megalytics is all about."

"And this is useful to tech companies? Useful enough to them that they might try and kidnap you off a subway platform?"

"Oh yeah. Think about it. With enough aggregated data, you could not only predict the next Harry Potter, Justin Timberlake, or fidget spinner, you might actually be able to gently push the market in a certain direction..."

"Just by calculating exactly how improbable that really is?" Logan laughs.

"Exactly!" I'm glad he understands.

"But," Logan considers. "You can't actually do it, right? Big, online retailers have lots of customers. Lots and lots of customers. Tens of millions. But nothing along the lines of the numbers you're talking about. Right?"

"Right. And that's the trick. You can't just look at a single metric. The scale isn't large enough for Megalytics to take affect. You have to look at the aggregate. Sometimes the aggregate of the aggregate."

"I don't follow."

"Well, it's like you're driving to the airport, right?"

"I am aware of that," Logan nods.

"Now, it's hard to predict the path that you'll take."

"No it isn't," Logan dismisses. "This is the way to the airport."

I shake my head. "But imagine if I were unaware of your final destination, just watching a car cross a map. Each intersection would represent a quadruple split in the chances that you'd end up at some specific spot on the map. Maybe you'll go straight, maybe you'll turn right. Maybe you turn left, or just maybe you'll turn around entirely. Go through a dozen or so intersections, and the number of possible end points starts to get pretty big."

"But not big enough, am I right?" Logan is enjoying himself.

"Exactly. You could drive across the country, go through every intersection in every state, and Megalytics could no more predict your final destination that a random pin stuck in a Triple A map."

"So? It doesn't work?" Logan concedes. "Not in real life, then?"

"No, it does, you're just not thinking big enough." I point ahead, at the traffic light we're approaching. "Here's an intersection. Are you going to turn left or right?"

"Well, neither. The airport is that way." Logan points straight ahead.

"Right, but if you did, WHY would you turn left or right? Traffic, right? If there was a traffic jam up ahead, you might turn left to get around it."

"Sure."

"Well, the guy in the car in front of you is also making a decision to turn left or right, or straight ahead, based on exactly the same criteria as you, based on his read of the traffic in front of him. As he approaches the intersection, he's taking into account traffic patterns as he sees them, his destination of choice and his understanding of the best, quickest route to get there."

"Okay?"

"And the guy in front of him made a similar decision when he approached this intersection, based on his read of the traffic conditions, affected by the decision of the guy in front of him, also taking into account his destination of choice and-"

"Okay, okay I get it," Logan holds up a hand for me to stop.

"All the way up the line to the first guy to drive through this intersection, maybe in a horse and buggy, two centuries ago, who made a decision on which way to turn, left or right, taking into account his desired destination and his read of the best route to get there." I'm still talking long after Logan has stopped listening to me.

"I get it! I get it! When you take into account every driver who's ever traveled through this intersection, the numbers start getting really big, really quick."

I nod. "And that's Megalytics. You just have to build a computer big enough, fast enough, to keep track of all that data. Computers are good at that."

"And someone has built this?"

"No, not yet. That's what all the dot-coms want me to do."

"Lord!" Logan exhales. "Why are you wasting your time in retail, mate? Why don't you come to Wall Street and help me pick stocks with that computer?"

"Yeah, that's the thing," my point made, I turn my attention back to watching Brooklyn pass by the car window. "It doesn't work with money."

"What doesn't?"

"Megalytics. Cars on maps, flocks of birds, young adult novels, the mating habits of sub-Sahara gorillas...Megalytics can predict all that. But money – stocks, bonds, dollar bills in wallets...Megalytics doesn't work on that."

"What? Why's that?"

I shake my head. "I wish I knew."

"You don't know?"

"Despite my best efforts and the fastest computers, none of my models have ever managed to pick a blue chip stock."

"So you invented a totally new type of mathematics," Logan glances at me. "But you can't make any money with it?"

"Not directly, no."

"And this is what you've been doing with yourself for the last three years, while I've been out here making pretty solid cheddar?"

"Pretty much." I shrug.

"You never were the smart one, were you Roderic?" Logan laughs.

I laugh too. "No, you're right about that."
Chapter 5

Logan drops me off at Departures. I have less than fifteen minutes to catch my plane. After a quick agreement that it will not be another three years before we talk again, I sprint off across JFK, toward the ticket counters. When I arrive, breathless and sweating, I push my way to the front of the line.

"I have a first-class reservation for the 9:20 to LAX-" I begin, yelling rapidly at the woman behind the counter. She looks up from her computer and gives me a smile.

I'm not ready for the blindside. I'm of the delusion that getting out of Manhattan meant that the whole thing was finally over. But it's not. I stagger back, stumbling into the old couple I'd cut off. I trip over their rolling bags and crash to the airport floor.

It's her. The girl from the elevator. Eve. Behind the ticket counter, dressed in a flight attendant uniform. But it's her, as sure as I'm breathing in and out. She's somehow beaten me to the airport.

My mind screams in panic. What the hell is going on? She's here, standing in front of me and smiling. Is she going to ask me that question? Again? Maybe I should beat her to the punch? What the hell lies at the end of Maiden Lane?

"Hey, idiot. Watch out!" the older man yells down at me. I look up at him, a stupid look of incomprehension on my face. The look of anger on his face is so...comforting. Real. Normal. He's angry that I almost knocked over his wife. Damn right he is. He should be. I'm a jerk. I should be treated like a jerk. Who am I to think I can cut to the front of the line?

These people are from the real world where people have manners. Not some bizarro world where the same girl keeps popping up over and over. Their presence means that the real world still exists. Somewhere. I haven't been sucked into some computer, virtual-reality, matrix-construct sort-of-thing. I'm not in bed having a bad dream. That old guy is angry at me. Thank the Lord!

I stand up and apologize profusely to the older couple. I do such a good job they actually start apologizing back to me. They must sense my sincerity, my utter relief. They even let me, officially, cut in line and talk to the girl behind the counter. She's watching the whole thing with that same smirk on her face.

"Good evening," I begin. "I have a reservation on the 9:20 to LAX, and I'm afraid that I might miss my flight."

Smooth. Calm. Like I don't recognize the girl. If I could have pulled off the whole cool-guy act without tripping over all the suitcases beforehand, it might have worked.

"Not a problem, sir," the girl says, tapping at her computer. "Good news." She looks up, happily. "It looks like that flight has been canceled."

"How is that good news?" I ask.

"At least you're not late." She smiles.

"Then, when is the next flight to LAX?" I ask calmly. She's not going to get a rise out of me.

"There's a flight at 10:30. But I'm afraid that's been canceled too."

"Canceled? Why?"

"Bad weather."

"In LA?"

She looks at her computer, then back up at me. "Snow."

"In June?"

She nods.

"Okay, so are there any other flights to-" I turn to look at the Departure board. As I watch, all the flights to Los Angeles, Orange County, San Francisco, even Las Vegas, begin to show canceled. A great collected groan rises from the Departure lounge.

I smile. I smile a pained, almost frantic smile. "What are you doing?" I ask in a half-whisper.

She leans forward, trying to hear. "I'm sorry sir, what was that?"

"What. Are. You. Doing?" I say again, louder.

"I'm trying to get you on a flight to LAX." She smiles. "Is that not your final destination today?"

"You can't keep me here in New York."

"I'm trying to help the best I can, sir."

"I don't want to stay in New York."

"I wouldn't want you to-"

"Just!" I scream. Everyone turns to look. "Just," I repeat, quieter. "Just ask."

"I'm sorry, sir?" She feigns ignorance.

"Just ask it. I know you're going to ask it. You know you're going to ask it. Just quit the pretense. Just ask your question and get it over with."

"What question would that be, sir?" she's still smiling. She's enjoying torturing me.

"You want me to say it, don't you?"

"Well, of course sir. I can't answer a question unless you ask it."

I shake my head in disgust. "Whatliesattheendofmaidenlane?" I say.

"I'm sorry sir? Again? I couldn't quite make that out. What was the question?" she holds a hand to her ear.

I sigh. "What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?" I say, defeated.

She shakes her head. "Hmm, I still don't totally understand..."

Fine. Fine. I take in a deep breath. Might as well make it count. I turn to the whole Departure Lounge and declare in a deep baritone: "What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?"

I turn back to the girl. She's dropped the pretense. Her eyes are burning with that fire. "And?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "Have you figured it out?"

I put my hands on the desk, leaning forward so no one else can here this part. "The Twin Towers. Okay? Is that what you want me to say? The Twin Towers used to sit at the end of Maiden Lane. But they're not there now. They're gone, so your question is meaningless. What you should have asked is: What once lay at the end of Maiden Lane. Past tense, Bub."

"No," she shakes her head slowly. "I've got my tenses correct and the question still remains: what lies at the end of Maiden Lane, Roderic Gant? When you know that, you can go back to California."

I slam a fist down hard on the counter. The girl leaps back, startled. She wasn't expecting that.

I look back, embarrassed. The old couple are staring at me, waiting for their turn in line. Ouch! That hurt my hand.

I try a new tact: pleading. "I just want to go home. I don't care about Maiden Lane, or whatever Truther nonsense this is. I don't know how you messed with that board, but let me talk to a real ticket agent? Okay? Let me go back home."

The girl looks distracted. Disinterested. "You want to get out of here?" she asks. I don't believe she heard a word I said.

I'm about to say 'Yes', but then I realize what she means. "What? No! I want to go home!" I clarify.

"I'm afraid," she's undoing her air hostess neckerchief, taking it off, "it's going to be getting out of here with me, or leaving with them." She nods behind me.

I turn, still holding my pained hand. Across the Departure Lounge I can see them: the three men in suits. They're talking to a TSA agent, showing ID's.

"Oh no!" I panic.

"Make up your mind," the girl says. I turn back, and she's taking her earrings out, setting them on the ticket counter. "And do it quick. Once they get over here, there'll be nothing I can do."

"Who the hell are they?" I ask. "Who the hell are you?"

"Eve," she says, and points to the name tag on her uniform. Sure enough, it reads 'Eve.' She takes off the jacket and tosses it aside.

Oh hell! Rock and a hard place. I never really understood that expression until I was between them.

I look back. The TSA guy is pointing in my direction. The agents turn and glare from behind their dark glasses at the ticket counter. They must see me.

I consider my options: I could run. But I'm confident no matter where I ran, the girl would just show up in the next restaurant, or toll booth, or cinema I passed. She's a bad penny like that. The agents look very unfriendly. They'd be angry about how I ditched them on the subway platform. They'd already gotten physical. What option do I have but to go with the girl? At least that way I would be able to keep an eye on her – she couldn't pop up randomly and make my life a living hell if I was with her. Going with the girl wasn't getting me to California, but nothing seemed to be doing that.

It was the girl or nothing.

"Okay, let's go," I say.

"Great." She smiles. Really smiles. Nothing sardonic or amused. She seems genuinely happy that I decided to trust her. That fills me with the tiniest bit of hope. "Follow me," she says and starts for a door behind the ticket counter.
Chapter 6

The sign reads _Authorized Personnel Only_. I'm pretty sure we don't qualify. But Eve's keycard gets us right through. She's still shedding clothes, as we sprint between the baggage conveyors. I don't have time to think about where we're going. Suddenly, a door swings open, and we're out in the night air.

We run down a flight of stairs and then sprint across blacktop. I pull ahead of Eve, determined to make my escape. I'm not really watching where I'm going, or where I've been, my eyes darting left and right, looking for agents.

"Say, do you mind driving?" Eve says behind me. "It kills my feet to shift in these heels."

I stop and turn around. She's shed the last of her airline uniform. Now she's wearing a full length evening gown, complete with jewels and a clutch purse. How'd she do that? Make the quick change? She couldn't have had that outfit on under her uniform. Could she?

She tussles her hair and comes up looking like a model. I gasp.

"What did you say?" I manage.

"Do you mind driving?" she repeats, fishing a set of car keys out of her small handbag. She holds them out to me.

"Drive? Drive what?" I take the keys.

"Turn around."

I do. I gasp again.

I swear that wasn't there a second ago.

It's...well, it's some sort of McLaren. A P1, maybe. Certainly some sort of super car, all low to the ground, with scissor-wing doors and an engine in the back. I can't believe my eyes. It's just sitting there, out amongst the baggage carts and jet planes.

"This is your car?" I ask in disbelief.

"Of course," Eve says, opening the passenger door. I swear it hisses like some spaceship airlock. "You've got to have a fast car to stay one step ahead of you, Roderic Gant."

"But...wait..." I stammer.

"Get in!" she insists.

I comply, opening the great, rotating door. The inside is tiny, more a cockpit than a driver's seat. I put the keys in the ignition and close my door.

There's a million buttons and flashing controls in front of me. Which one starts the car?

Noting my confusion, Eve reaches forward and pushes a button. The engine roars to life. And I mean roar. Grr, baby.

"Drive!" Eve says. "Before they figure out where we went."

I don't need telling twice. Foot on the pedal, stick in gear, I pop the clutch and leave twenty yards of rubber on the runway.

"Oh my sweet Jesus!" I scream as the car rockets down the runway. I momentarily worry that a plane might be about to land, but my concerns are quickly forgotten as I shift through the racing transmission. Second, third, fourth. Before I'm forced to hit the brakes at the end of the runway, the speedometer is reading 170.

"Take the gate!" Eve laughs as I hit the chicane of a small access road at the far end of JFK. There's a security gate and guards, but they're not expecting anyone approaching from the runway side of security. The P1 fits perfectly under their barrier arm. _Vroom!_ I'm onto the city streets and accelerating away before the guards even realize I was approaching.

"This is amazing!" I laugh as I throw the car into a corner, doing ninety. It hugs the corner and slides perfectly between a MTA bus and SUV. I shift down and gun the engine. Eve and I are crushed against the back of our seats.

"Slow down!" she yells over the screaming engine. "I'm pretty sure we lost them."

I let off the accelerator, bringing the car back to city speeds. Almost.

"I'm sorry, I got a little carried away," I apologize.

"Don't worry, I know the feeling."

"Who were those guys back there? In the suits and the dark glasses?"

"You haven't guessed?" Eve smiles, coyly.

"Feds?" I try.

She shrugs. "Oh sure, but not the half of it."

"There more to it than the Federal government?" I ask in disbelief. Eve nods. I take a right at a traffic light. I'm almost at the parkway. "Like what?" I prod.

Eve hesitates, not totally comfortable saying the words out loud. "Red Shield."

"Red Shield?" That wasn't the answer I was expecting. Russians, the Mob, Democrats, maybe, but Red Shield? I've never heard of it. "Who are they?"

"Not a _they,_ " Eve says.

"Red Shield is a person?"

Eve doesn't answer. "Really? You have no idea?"

I shrug and look bewildered. It's an easy act to put on. I have no idea what she's talking about. I merge the super car onto the parkway and open it up to eighty. We're making good time, heading back toward Manhattan. "Tell me."

"Err...okay..." Eve stammers. "I'm not quite sure where to begin."

"Maybe at the beginning?"

"Really? But the beginning is a mighty long time ago." Eve sucks in a deep breath. "Have you ever heard of a man named Mayer Rothschild?"

"Rothschild?" I dare steal a glance at Eve's face. She's serious. I instantly return my eyes to the road in front of me. "You mean, like the wine?"

"Yes, Mayer is the progenitor of that family line. He was a banker, in Hanover, in the late eighteenth century. A successful man, but otherwise of little, historical note. What Meyer Rothschild did do, however, was have five sons: Nathan, Jakob, Solomon, Kalman and Amschel, all successful bankers in their own right. Hoping to extend his business empire, Mayer bankrolled each of his sons, having each set up a bank in a different European capital – London, Paris, Vienna, Naples and Frankfurt. They all thrived, making money as bankers do. But it was Mayer's son Nathan, the one he sent to London, who really hit on something big.

"You see, this was the middle of the Napoleonic wars. All the Rothschild banks got rich financing the war. They financed both sides equally. They played no favorites. Both the Allies and Neapolitan needed money to buy cannons and muskets and to pay soldiers' wages. They say an army marches on its stomach, but someone, somewhere has to pay to fill those bellies. Inevitability, that job fell to the Rothschilds and their banks. And with every battle, every loss, every victory, their wealth increased.

"But all wars, as profitable as they might be, eventually come to an end. And Neapolitan's end finally came on the 18th of June, 1815. The Battle of Waterloo. Which, you may or may not know, is in Belgium, a long way from London. Nathan Rothschild was heavily invested in the war effort backing the allies against Napoleon. He was gambling on a long conflict, but then, not three months after Napoleon's return to France, the war was suddenly over. Nathan was ruined. He was about to lose everything – his investments, his bank, his family's good name. The British pound was certain to surge at the news of Napoleon's defeat. People would call in their loans, exchanging worthless paper for cash, money. There'd be a run on his bank, and Nathan didn't have the liquidity to cover his investments. But Nathan had one ace up his sleeve. Once last chance to save himself, his bank, and the Rothschild name.

"You see, one of the Rothschild family's greatest strengths was their messenger network. The five brothers were suspicious of using any formal postal system to communicate between their banks, so they had established a private network of couriers, all over Europe. This excellent network brought Nathan word of Napoleon's defeat almost instantly after the battle ended, almost a full day before word would arrive by more formal channels. Nathan was forewarned that the end was near. But the wise businessman that he was, he didn't panic. He simply started to move money around, make new investments...as if Napoleon had won the battle of Waterloo.

"He started short-selling pound sterling, gambling that the pound was about to crash. Ostensibly, Nathan was losing a small fortune. Other investors paid attention. What was Nathan doing? 'Rothschild knows,' people began to whisper. 'Waterloo is lost,' the rumor mill began to turn.

"Other investors followed suit. The value of the pound plummeted. And then, in the minutes before official word came about Napoleon's defeat, Nathan turned his order from sell to buy.

"And when the news of the victory at Waterloo broke, the value of the pound soared. Nathan made a fortune, more than enough to offset his war losses. In fact, when all the celebrating was over, and the markets returned to normal, Nathan Rothschild had virtually cornered the market on the British pound. From that day forward, if anyone in England needed money, the government included, they had to come to a Rothschild's bank for the loan."

"This is interesting and all," I interrupt. Brooklyn is peeling back, and I can see the skyline of Manhattan before me. "Maybe going right back to the beginning wasn't exactly what I meant."

Eve continued, ignoring me. "The Bank of Rothschild essentially became the lender of last resort for England and the rest of the European powers. A central bank of sorts. Nothing happened without the Rothschild's say so. No war fired a shot, no railroad laid a track, no mine sank a shaft, and no king got assassinated without the Rothschild's explicit permission. And with every war and railroad and mine and assassinated king, the Rothschild's wealth grew and grew."

"But?"

"But what?" Eve answers, confused.

"There must be a 'but.' I'm guessing there's a 'but.' You didn't start a story like this unless there's a 'but' at the end."

"No, you're right," Eve takes another breath. "But..." She smiles. "...America was mostly free of the Rothschild's influence."

"You mean we could start our own wars? Build our own railroads? Sink our own mineshafts and kill our own kings without the Rothschilds?"

"Exactly. Early American leaders were strongly opposed to the establishment of the Rothschild bank here. Alexander Hamilton, a noted Rothschild agent, tried and failed. He was assassinated in a duel when his attempts started to show fruit. The First and Second Bank of The United States collapsed. Andrew Jackson called the defeat of the Second Bank his most important act as President. But after the market crash of 1907, politicians began to agitate for a lender of last resort in the American banking system."

"The Federal Reserve?"

"Correct. The purpose was overtly to stabilize the U.S. currency, but many saw the hand of the Rothschild's behind the push. In 1912, a year before the establishment of the Federal Reserve System, a group in Europe opposed to the Rothschild's influence, sent three envoys to the United States to warn of the threat. Benjamin Guggenheim, Isidor Straus and David Astor. They set out from London to New York aboard the fastest conveyance available for crossing the Ocean at that time. They never arrived. Along with fifteen-hundred other people, the three envoys were lost at sea."

"The _Titanic_?"

Eve nods.

"You're joking?"

"I wish I was. But you asked who those guys were, back there."

"You called them 'Red Shield?'"

"Rothschild is derived from the German 'zum rothen Schild' meaning 'with the red sign.' Rothen Schild...Red Shield..."

"So those agents – the Feds. They work for this Rothschild guy? They're from the Federal Reserve?"

"Not exactly. They work for one of Red Shield's most powerful agents."

"Who?"

Eve opens her mouth to answer, but she doesn't get the opportunity. We're on the Brooklyn Bridge now, crossing the East River. We're almost home free. Then, out of nowhere, helicopters swoop down on the bridge, blades thundering. They're low, really low, searching the westbound lanes with spot lights. Before I can act, their lights lock onto the McLaren. Could we be any more conspicuous?

"Oh hell! They found us!" Eve screams. "Punch it!"
Chapter 7

It isn't like I'm going to outrun a helicopter. They can fly after all. But they can't stop me either. Not up there, clear above the bridge's iron cables. No, I'm far more concerned about the two black SUV's that appeared in my rear-view the instant the searchlight locked onto our car. They're closing in fast, and a collision between one of those steel machines and my carbon fiber go-cart would not end well for one of us.

They might have the weight, but I have the speed. At this hour, the bridge is mostly clear ahead of me. I'm doing one-hundred and twenty when Eve screams out. "Take the FDR!"

The hairpin turn is only feet away. I throw the wheel to the right and take the corner with aplomb. I shift up to third as I pass the SUVs, heading in the opposite direction, taking the off-ramp down to the waterfront highway.

The FDR is wide open. There's only a few taillights in the distance. I let the car do its thing, hitting 150 before I slack off the gas. The whole thing feels like a dream. This can't actually be happening; the car feels almost too responsive to my touch. I must have fallen asleep, back at the airport, waiting for my flight. And this is the dream I'm having! Oh, what a dream. I swerve around a slow-moving Honda. It's like the car already knows what to do.

But something hits the roof hard, shaking me out of my fantasy. The glass portions of the roof above me shatter, raining safety glass down over the seats. I look up and see the landing strut of a helicopter. I'm no longer under the protective canopy of bridge cables. One of the helicopters had swooped down and landed right on top of my car. I hit the gas and pull away, the Manhattan Bridge looming before us. The helicopter has to pull up and away, climb or crash into the bridge deck. The landing strut did little damage, but I'm shaken out of my comfortable fantasy. They're really trying to kill us! I brush glass off my jacket and look in the rear view mirror. The black SUV's are back there, hurtling along, keeping pace.

"What the hell?" I shout at Eve.

She looks as terrified as I feel. "Faster!"

When we're clear of the Manhattan Bridge, the helicopters again swoop down low. This time I'm ready for them, careening left, then right across all the lanes of traffic. At the Montgomery on-ramp, a herd of police cruisers – lights flashing, sirens blaring – join the black SUVs in the chase.

"Watch out!" Eve screams.

I'm watching the cops in my mirrors, not paying attention to the road. There's a van right in front of me. I have to hit the brakes hard not to rear end it. A helicopter whizzes past overhead. It banks and hovers over the street in front of us. The van swerves to avoid hitting the helicopter and smashes the Jersey barrier, doing forty. Its front end crumples. I'm low enough to the ground that I slip right under the helicopter's skids.

But I've lost precious momentum. The SUV's are almost on top of me.

One pulls up to my right. The driver's side window comes down. One of the agents from the subway looks over at me, glaring from behind his dark glasses. I cock a finger in acknowledgement, just as I shift down and accelerate. The agent throws his wheel over hard, but I'm already nowhere near where I was a second ago. The two SUV's collide to the sound of breaking glass and twisting metal.

The helicopters are still up there, only feet above me. We're hauling along, and the Williamsburg Bridge is closing fast. One helicopter take a chance and swoops in for the kill. I hit the brakes at the last second, and he overshoots his target. But before he can pull out, I floor the gas and my windshield hits the helicopter's landing strut, cracking the glass. It rakes along the carbon fiber roof, making a terrible groan, and its back end latches under my rear, hydraulic spoiler.

I keep up the throttle. He can't pull up against the force of my 900 horsepower. The Williamsburg Bridge is closing. I can hear metal groaning, expensive things snapping, as the pilot frantically struggles to detach his helicopter from my car. The bridge is almost on top of us...

...and we both go under it, together. The helicopter just fits under the bridge deck. I slam on the brakes and the strut comes loose, along with my rear spoiler. But the pilot is out of control. He does three complete circles in front of me, then banks hard to the right. The last thing I see is the helicopter going down, backwards into the East River.

I take a breath, looking back. The night's sky behind me is a flashing light show of strobing red and blue.

"Oh my God," Eve exclaims in disbelief.

"I think I broke his helicopter," I reply in equal disbelief.

The road is open before me now. The second helicopter is keeping a safe distance, and the SUV's can't keep pace.

Despite the damage, the McLaren is purring along, ready for the next challenge.

And soon enough, it's in front of me. I see why the police weren't in a big hurry to catch up. The whole of the FDR is a great phalanx of police cruisers, hurtling the wrong way down the road toward me.

There's only one shot: the 42nd Street exit. But the police cruisers are almost right on top of it.

Luckily I have a fast car.

"No! No!" Eve cries out, realizing what I'm trying to do. As the car accelerates forward, playing chicken with a solid half of the NYPD, Eve desperately searches for something to hang on to. She settles on a door handle. And my right arm.

"Ouch!" I scream in pain. But I don't have any time to tell her to stop. The cop cars, the flashing lights, the ever narrowing gap between Jersey barrier and speeding fender that is the 42nd Street exit...

...I slide through with only inches to spare – less than inches, as my left mirror disintegrates against the wing of a speeding cruiser. I hit the bakes hard and navigate the tight left at the end of the off ramp. And like that, I'm on 42nd Street, heading west. I blow through the first red light, picking up speed.

There's nobody behind me. I've even lost the last helicopter amongst the tall buildings. But I don't want to slow down, give anyone the chance to catch up. 2nd Street, 3rd Street, Lexington, Park – I blast through a red light at each. I'm cutting between buses and trucks, inches on my left and right. Traffic is blocking the intersection at 5th. I have no choice but to slam on the brakes. I take the momentary break in the action to remove Eve's fingers from my right arm.

She looks over at me, terrified, only then realizing what's she had a hold on. "Sorry," she says.

When there's a glimmer of light between cars, I gun the engine. But a Prius pulls forward, and I bump its fender. "Come on! Move!" I shout. I would have rolled the window down and shouted, if the windows in this car rolled down. I look in the mirror and can see the two SUV's closing in. How they cleared a path through the dozen police cars back on the FDR, I don't know. But here they are, closing in, and I'm waiting for a Prius to move ten inches in reverse.

"Move it, you idiot!" I scream again. From my pantomiming, I think he gets the idea. He slowly, laboriously, pulls his car back a few inches. I gun my engine. I'm away again!

I watch as the SUV's reach the same intersection. They're slightly less subtle about their approach. One SUV his the Prius square in the side, sending it whirling. The other follows through the wreckage.

"Who are these people?" I ask in despair.

"I told you, Red Shield," Eve answers.

"That doesn't mean anything to me! What do they want from me? What did I ever do to them?"

"It's your mathematics," Eve says. "They want the new math you invented."

"Megalytics? Why?"

Eve shakes her head. I make a hard left at the Port Authority. I'm following the signs to the Lincoln Tunnel. If they want to chase me, fine. They can chase me all the way back to California, for all I care, cannonball style. A right, then a soft left, and I merge into the tunnel. I open up the throttle and take the bend as fast as I dare. But with the many openings of the tunnel before me, I slam on the brakes hard. I'd thought the phalanx of police back on the FDR had been impressive.

It looks like I found the other half of the NYPD.

The tunnel is completely choked with police cars. Men in SWAT uniforms are waiting, rifles raised. I contemplate throwing the car into reverse, but I can already see the flashing lights of the approaching police cruisers.

I'm boxed in. Trapped.

I look at Eve. She's looking at me, her car door is already open.

"Where are you going?" I ask her.

"I don't know why they want you," she says with a wistful air. "But I do know that the answer to that question is the same as the answer to mine: What lies at the end of Maiden Lane, Roderic?"

And with that, she's gone, running off into the night, her evening gown billowing behind her. I think she might have a good idea and open my door. But I'm met by the barrels of a dozen guns pointing at me. Men in gas masks are bellowing that I should raise my hands.

I slowly comply.
Chapter 8

They cuff me and make me sit on the curb, getting my handmade shoes all scuffed. A dozen policemen stand as guards. There's a lot of discussion and pointing at the McLaren. I'm quickly getting the sense that they don't know quite what to do with me.

Or they're waiting for something. Yeah, that's it. Five minutes pass, and the two black SUV's – all broken glass and twisted metal – roll up. The agents climb out.

I begin to protest, but one of my guards tells me to sit down and shut up.

The agents strike up a conversation with a sergeant, or a lieutenant, or someone who looks like he's in charge. They take badges out of their pockets and show them to the lieutenant. I squint, trying to see what sort of Feds these guys really are. The badges look weird. Not FBI. And I'm sure CIA agents don't carry badges. Maybe they really are Masons. Federal marshals perhaps? Then it hits me – the suits, the glasses, the earbuds. They're Secret Service.

They say something to the lieutenant and point at me. I can't hear what they're saying, but I can tell from his body language that the lieutenant doesn't like what he's being told. One agent repeats his command, and the lieutenant visibly deflates. He turns and start across the road toward me.

"Come on," he says, his men helping me to my feet. "You're going with them."

"No, no," I start.

The lieutenant grabs me by my cuffed hands. Another officer gives me an unhelpful shove.

"Don't worry, Mr. Gant," one of the agents says. "We're going to a party..." He smiles. Maybe he's trying to look nonthreatening. It just comes off as a triumphant sneer.

No, no, no! I can't go with them. I have to think fast. Really fast.

"Allahu akbar!" I yell out and head butt the lieutenant in the nose. In slow motion, I see his head snap back, a torrent of blood gushing down his face. Then everything goes back to real time, and the cops are piling on top of me, fists punching and feet kicking.

I'm on the ground, and every part of me screams in pain. It takes the lieutenant a few minutes to call off him men. He's in no rush, and the cops give me a good working over in the meantime. When the finally pull me back up to my feet, I'm spitting blood, and my left eye is swelling shut. The lieutenant is furious. There's no more talk of handing me over to the Feds. I'm going to be a guest of the NYPD, at least for an evening.

They pile my broken, cuffed body into the back of a patrol car.

It worked. Sort of. Maybe going to a party might have been a little less hard on my face.

Still, I'm not in the hands of Red Shield. That seems like a win. But where did the girl go? She just vanished, leaving that damn question, ringing in my ears: What lies at the end of Maiden Lane? Something to do with Megalytics and Red Shield, I'm guessing. But what?

And what, if anything, does an eighteenth century, German banker and the Federal Reserve have to do with it? And the Twin Towers? Now it's getting creepy. Doesn't anybody know that Megalytics doesn't work on money? If this is all some sort of scheme to make a bunch of cash, they're going to be sorely disappointed. I need to get back to California, where I'm safe. Nothing like this would happen in California. Coming to New York was my mistake. I'm starting to really develop a real distaste for New York City. I watch it roll by the window of the police car.

I don't watch it for long. I spit out a mouth full of blood and pass out for a little while.

I wake up, being carried into a police station.

It's like a scene out of a cop show: a front enclosure with bulletproof glass and a tiny speaker set at eye level. A bunch of hobos and hookers are screaming at the desk sergeant behind it. Everything is chaos – I'm guessing just another Saturday night – but the cops holding me up by my arms push through it all. They drag me past the bulletproof glass and back into a large bullpen of desks. They drop me at one, unceremoniously into a chair, and I let out a pained groan.

It'll be fingerprint and mugshots next, I think. The cop behind the desk has his back to me, typing at a computer. I wait. I'm in no rush. The mayhem of the precinct station's main floor will certainly be better than a holding cell, I'm sure. I breathe heavy, watching the back of the cop's head.

I'm looking where the cop's black hair is tucked up under his cap. Hey, this cop isn't a guy, he's a girl, I realize. What with the body armor, it's hard to tell.

A girl?

I lean back in my chair and allow myself a small smile.

The cop turns around, spinning on her chair.

"Hey there," she says.

"Oh thank God!" I exhale, relieved. It's her, it's really her. Sitting behind the policeman's desk, dressed in full uniform. How did she get here so fast? Is she really a cop? I look around me for an instant, taking a reality check. No one is paying us any undue attention. "It's about time!" I say. I never thought I'd be so happy to see another person in my life. "What happened to you? Those guys..." I lower my voice, leaning forward conspiratorially. "...Red Shield...they almost had me. I had to think fast."

"This is thinking fast?" She gives me the sideways smirk. "What happens when you have time to think about things? You end up in a hearse?"

"They had badges! They were the one's calling the shots!" Then I remember. "Hey, do you know those guys are Secret Service?"

Eve nods.

"Then they work for..." I almost fall out of my chair in shock. "They work for HIM?"

Eve doesn't reply.

"But you said they work for Red Shield?"

"No, I said they work for Red Shield's most power agent..."

"You mean...?"

"Of course," Eve shrugs. "How else do you think a guy like that can get elected?"

"But-" I'm speechless. I throw my hands up in despair. "I'm a dead man."

"You're not a dead man," Eve reassures. She's looking for something in her desk.

"I'm a dead man," I repeat. "I'm sitting in the middle of a police station, and the President of the United States wants me dead. I'm a dead man!"

"Shh!" Eve hisses.

Okay, maybe I said that last bit a little loud. I look around. No one seems to be looking in my direction. The screaming from the hobos and hookers has stopped. Be thankful for small graces, I think.

"Look, Roderic, you'll be fine. I'm here to get you out. Here." She finds what she's looking for in the desk: a set of keys. She tosses these to me.

"You have some sort of plan?" I ask as I fumble to unlock my cuffs.

"Plan?" Eve leans forward, watching the room. "Of course I've got a plan. The problem is, I can't help you out until you answer my question."

"What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?" I have the cuffs off. I drop them on the floor beside my chair. "I already answered your question, why do you keep asking me?"

"Because I need to know the real answer," Eve replies.

"You mean, you don't know?" I ask, confused.

"Of course I know," Eve grits her teeth, frustrated. "But I need to know YOUR answer. What lies at the end of Maiden Lane, Roderic Gant?"

"Nothing!" I yell too loud. I look around, realizing I'm making a scene. But nobody's paying me any attention. In fact, there's hardly anybody in the bullpen. Moments ago, it'd been bustling with activity – dozens of cops. But now... "What is this? Some sort of Truther thing?" I ask, but I'm not really paying attention to the answer. I'm looking around, trying to find where all the cops went. The last one seems to be leaving by a side door.

Now I know why the hobos and hookers are quiet – they've left too. In fact, the whole police station seems to be empty. It's just Eve and me, sitting at our table.

I turn and look back at her. She looks concerned. "What's going on?" I ask.

"They're here," she says.

"They? Here?" It doesn't really help for me to repeat things, but it makes me feel better.

"We're running out of time." Eve climbs to her feet. "What's your answer, Roderic Gant?"

"I don't know!" I panic. "Peace? Love? Hope? Change?" I try. "A bridge to the Twenty-First Century?"

Eve growls in disgust. "Come on!" she commands, turning and sprinting off across the bullpen. I leap to my feet and follow. As I do, the lights at the far end of the police station cut out.

"What's going on? Who's coming?" I ask. In a cascade, the overhead lights snap off one by one. By the time we're at the far wall of the station, the floor is pitch black.

"They're coming," Eve answers. "Red Shield." She tries a door. It's locked.

I look back in terror. Beyond the bulletproof glass I can see red lights dancing, the tight laser beams of targeting scopes. "Hurry up!" I tap Eve on her Kevlar shoulder.

She steals a glance back, then returns her attention to the door. "It's locked," she says, fumbling with a ring of keys on her belt. "It's not supposed to be locked."

"I thought you said you had a plan!" I exclaim. The red lasers are dancing closer now, shining through the bulletproof glass.

"I do have a plan!" Eve yells back. "But it's on the other side of this door, which isn't supposed to be locked!"

"Come on!" I shout, dancing in hysterics from foot to foot.

"I got it!" Eve yells back. She pushing a key into the lock. Then the door is open.

We're running down dark corridors. Eve has a flashlight. It flickers to life. Elevator. Stairs. Eve takes a few steps up, then the sound of boots echo down from above. More dancing lights beam down the stairs.

We turn about and run down the stairs. A basement. Overhead pipes. We're running. My legs are much longer than Eve's. and I'm pulling ahead.

"Here, wait!" she calls out behind me. I stop and turn around. She pulls an access card on a string from her lapel and taps it against a door. It pops open. "In here," she waves to me.

I follow. The door slams shut behind me.

Darkness.

Eve gives her flashlight a few good thumps, and it snaps back to life. I take in a deep breath in shock.

We're surrounded by guns. Hundreds and hundreds of guns. Rack after rack of automatic weapons glimmer in the tiny flashlight's beam.

"The precinct armory," Eve says and hands me the flashlight. "Here, we're going to need some of these."

She takes a submachine gun off a rack and pulls back its bolt.

"What are we going to do with those?" I ask in apprehension.

"We're going to get you out of here," she hands me the machine gun. I almost drop it but catch the barrel under my arm. "Do you want to go out there without a gun in your hand?"

"No, but..." I try to get the gun pointing in the right direction. It's heavy and it's not even loaded. "I thought you said you had a plan."

"I do," Eve takes a gun for herself. "And this is it. Here." She pushes a number of magazines into the hand holding the flashlight. I drop a couple, and the flashlight, and scramble to pick them all up. "Do you know how to use that?"

"No," I answer truthfully, shining the flashlight up into my own face.

"Well..." Eve sighs. "Learn. Quick."

And without another word, Eve returns to the armory's door. She pops it open, looks both ways down the corridor and vanishes into the dark.
Chapter 9

"So, I give up," I say as we move slowly down the long, dark corridor. I have the machine gun the right way up now, Eve has demonstrated how to load it. I think I got it right. We dare not use the flashlight. We're feeling our way along in the blackness.

"How's that?" Eve replies.

"I give up. What's the answer? What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?"

"That's my question to you, Roderic Gant."

"So not peace or love, then?"

"No," Eve says flatly. "This isn't a riddle. Besides, you're a mathematician, Roderic. You're the last person on the planet I'd ask about stuff like that."

"Then it's something to do with numbers?" I shoot back, quickly. Eve stops in her tracks. In the dark, I crash into the back of her. She's removed her police uniform but kept the body armor. "And not just any numbers, but big numbers, am I right?" I can see on her face that she's let something slip she shouldn't have. She turns away without speaking, raising her gun. "And Red Shield. This all this has something to do with him. And the Fed. You mentioned the Fed and Maiden Lane is right there. What does this have to do with the Fed?"

"You answer questions, Roderic," Eve replies. "You don't get to ask them." She's moving forward slowly, covering the corridor with her gun.

"Well, if the question you're asking has something to do Megalytics and the Fed, I can answer it right now."

"Oh yeah? What lies at the end of Maiden Lane, then?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Eve repeats, surprised.

"Yeah, nothing. If you think there's some way to influence the Fed with Megalytics, then the answer to your question is this: Nothing lies at the end of Maiden Lane. Because there's nothing there: Megalytics. It doesn't work with money."

Eve stops and turns to me in the dark. "But how can that be? Didn't you say your math was the math of really big numbers? Aren't the numbers on the balance sheet of the Fed big enough for you?"

"They are," I allow. "But I can tell you one thing with total certainty, and I'll tell Red Shield the same thing when I meet him: Megalytics doesn't work on money."

Eve doesn't reply. Even in the blackness, I can see she doesn't like my answer. But she doesn't get a chance to complain. From behind us, down the long, dark corridor, comes the sound of boots running. I look back. I can see the dancing red lights.

"Come on!" Eve starts running. She stops at a seemingly random spot in the hallway. "This is the way out." She hangs her gun around her neck and pushes on a panel. "Give me a hand!"

I do. After a few good shoves, the panel caves in. There's a steam tunnel behind it, all cobwebs and gloom.

"You knew this was here?" I ask.

"Of course," Eve returns her gun to her hands. "Like I said, I've got a plan."

"What?" I snort. "Walk around in the dark until I answer your stupid question?"

Eve doesn't bother to contradict me. She's fiddling with her uniform, removing her utility belt. "Do you want to get out of here or not?" She doesn't wait for my answer, just ducks down and climbs into the tunnel.

I don't protest. Cradling the submachine gun in my arms, I stoop over and follow after.

The tunnel isn't long. It makes a hard right and then ends in a brick wall. Nothing. No door, no panel. I look around, thinking I missed something. But I haven't. It's a dead end.

"What now?" I ask in despair. "They're right behind us!" I can hear the boots on the concrete, growing louder. Red lasers are dancing all around us.

"Here," Eve hands me a pair of headphones. I take them, and she fishes a pair out for herself from a sack I hadn't noticed her carrying. "Put them on," she commands.

If anything, I've learned to obey. I put the headphones on over my ears. Eve does the same and then pulls a small, round device out of the sack. This she slams hard against the brick wall.

It sticks. She pushes a button, and a timer blinks to life. She toggles it up to twenty seconds then pushes the button again. The clock begins to count down.

"Run!" she yells.

"What?" I can't hear anything through the headphones. I'm watching the clock count down – eighteen, seventeen, sixteen – dumbfounded.

"Run!" she repeats, already twenty yards down the corridor. I turn on my heels and chase after her. I make it around the corner and spy Eve flat up against the wall. She grabs me as I run by, pulling me in close.

I'm squeezed up against her, only our machine guns squashed between us. I can smell her perfume. She looks up at me. "Open your mouth," she says. I can't hear her, but I read her body language. I lean into her, moving my mouth toward hers. But she opens her mouth wide – too wide. Too wide to kiss her. And then-

BOOM!

We're safe around the corner, protected from the blast, but the compression wave makes my ears pop. I stagger back in pain, holding my hands to the headphones.

"I told you to open your mouth!" she bellows as she rips her headphones from her head. "It takes the pressure off your eardrums."

Wailing in pain, I remove the headphones and wiggle my fingers in my ears.

"Come on!" Eve is already running back around the corner.

I stumble after her, woozy, the ringing in my ears slowly fading. "What the hell was that?"

"Shaped charge. One-hundred and twenty-five grams of C4." We scramble through the dust and smoke and see the result: a man-sized hole in the brick wall.

"Maybe a little warning next time?" The dust makes me cough.

"No time," Eve raises her machine gun and steps through the breach. As she does, I notice that she's wearing camo-pants and combat boots. When did she change out of her police uniform?

I follow, but my gun gets caught on the jutting brickwork. As the smoke clears, I begin to get a sense of what we have blasted our way into.

Massive, round steel door. Bars. Marble walls and floor. Row after row of small, brass lock boxes.

We're inside a bank vault.

"Oh, hell," I exhale. We just blew our way into a bank vault. "We shouldn't be in here..."

"Don't worry," Eve says, taking something out of the pocket of her camo pants. "The door's unlocked."

That was pretty much exactly the last thing I was worried about. "This...this is a bank vault," I state. There are literally stacks of money in the barred cage beside me. I could help myself.

"Yeah, I said I had a plan. I didn't say it was a good one."

"We've got to get out of here!"

Eve nods. She puts the thing she pulled out of her pocket onto her head. It's some sort of black cap. "Let's go."

We push on the great, thick vault door. As promised, it's unlocked. The vast door swings open. We're in a basement, ornate, art deco stairs climbing up.

I take them three at a time.

We emerge on the bank's main floor, behind the counters. No one sees us until we've pushed through a security door out into the main lobby. Customers scream at the sight of us and our guns, as we sprint for the main doors.

Eve comes up short, a few steps from the exit. She catches my arm as I run by. "Wait, look," she says, point with her gun out the door. Black SUVs are pulling up, followed by police cars.

I look down at my gun, then back as customers scramble for cover. "This doesn't look good," I say.

"Well, when in Rome..." Eve says. She pulls another black cap out of her pocket and tosses it to me. "...try to look like a Roman." She reaches for her cap and pulls it down over her face. I realize it's not a cap but a ski mask.

Eve turns and takes up her machine gun. She fires a burst of automatic fire into the ceiling.

People scream.

"This is a robbery!" Eve yells over the terrified wails of the customers, now hostages. "Everybody be cool!"

I panic. Now we're robbing a bank? I hurriedly pull my own mask over my face. I raise my weapon, trying to look intimidating. "What are you doing?" I growl at Eve out of the corner of my mouth.

"Buying us time," Eve growls back. "You!" She points her gun at a bank teller. "You! I hope you didn't push the silent alarm!"

The teller stares back at Eve, shaking her head in terror.

"Don't lie to me!" Eve shakes her gun. The teller's head shake turns into a nod. Eve visibly relaxes, lowering her gun. She turns to me. "That means the real cops will be on the way. Those guys out there won't dare make a move until the real cops show up."

Eve strides off, heading for the back of the bank.

"Where are you going?" I yell after her.

"Well, we can't get out that way." She points back to the front doors with her gun. "Or back that way." She points toward the stairs leading to the vault. "So there's only one way to go." She shakes her gun over her head.

I look up at the ceiling.

For the first time I realize I'm going to die. Eve is going to get me killed.

I look back at the bank's front doors. Outside, dozens of Secret Service agents and New York City cops are leveling their guns at us.

I'm going to die.

And Eve is going to get me killed.
Chapter 10

"What's on the roof?" I ask, looking up at the floor indicator above the elevator.

"Trust me," Eve replies. She removes her ski mask, her hair flying wild and loose. She tussles it and throws her head back. My heart skips at least three beats.

"There is absolutely no way on this planet that I trust you," I say, watching the indicator count down, heading for us.

"Then rely on blatant self-interest," Eve counters. "There's a helicopter waiting for us on the roof, ready to whirligig us the hell out of this place."

"A helicopter?" I ask, incredulous. "Was that the plan all along?"

"It's the plan now," Eve answers, cryptically.

"And Red Shield, out there?" I look back, toward the lobby of the bank.

The elevator _dings_. The doors open. I have a sudden sense of déjà vu. Didn't all this start in an elevator?

"You worry about answering my question," Eve says. "And I'll worry about Red Shield."

We step into the elevator, Eve pushes the button for the top floor.

"Well, you're doing a bang up job of it so far," I smirk.

"Everyone's a critic," Eve sighs, shaking her head.

We ride the elevator to the top floor in silence. Eve removes the magazine from her gun and checks the ammunition inside. Satisfied, she returns the magazine to the gun.

Twenty, Twenty-One, Twenty-Two. The floors tick off. This is a tall building. Where are we? I have no sense of where I am in New York. I try to think back to how I got here. Bank, tunnel, bomb, basement, police station, patrol car, Lincoln Tunnel...it doesn't help. We could be anywhere.

We reach the twenty-seventh floor. The elevator _dings_ , and the doors open. Instantly, I can hear the helicopter thundering above us. I feel a great sense of relief. At least that turns out to be legit.

"The stairs to the roof are over there." Eve points down the penthouse corridor, toward a fire exit. She's climbing out of her body armor, tossing it aside.

This time I'm determined to watch the costume change – she's not going to surprise me. How many layers does she have on? It's like a magic trick.

It's another uniform under the bank robber outfit. But this time, not a cop. The pieces fall into place as we push through the door, out onto the rooftop; The helicopter hovering over us has a wide red cross emblazoned on its side. A medevac chopper. And Eve is changing into a paramedic's uniform.

The feeling that I understand what's going on is short lived. It's gone the instant I see the first red laser dance across Eve's paramedic's shirt.

"Watch out!" I call out. But the guns are already thundering. Machine guns fire, bullets whiz past us both.

Eve stumbles, falling to the rooftop. I scream in panic. Automatically, my machine gun comes up. I fire blindly left and right, shooting until it's empty.

When I pause to reload, I see Eve pulling herself back to her feet. Half out of her bank robber's outfit, half in her paramedic's uniform, she charges toward the helicopter, firing her machine gun.

When I have a new magazine back in my gun, I chase after her. I can't see where the bullets are coming from, but I hear them whizzing by my head. I fire and fire and fire, shooting from the hip.

Eve is almost to the helicopter. She drops to her knee, raising her gun to her shoulder. She lays down covering fire as I sprint across the roof. My gun is empty. I toss it aside.

I run past her and leap for the hovering helicopter. I catch its skid and pull myself up. Quickly, I'm in the open side door and turn back to Eve. She jumps to her feet and runs. A hail of bullets hit the helicopter. I fall back, the helicopter banks. By the time I'm back to the door, the helicopter is climbing away from the rooftop. Eve is hanging one-handed from the skid.

I reach down and grab hold of her wrist. She looks up at me, that same fire in her eyes. I scramble to get hold of her arm, but her fingers are already slipping away from the skid. The helicopter climbs fast, bullets pounding its hide. She can't hang one. I lean out, almost falling from the helicopter myself. But it's no good. In an instant, Eve's fingers slide from the skid. They slip through my fingers and she's falling.

In slow motion, I watch her tumble toward the streets of New York below. She's watching me as I watch her fall. The fire in her eyes never seems to fade, not for an instant, as she plummets into darkness.

The helicopter banks left, climbing, to clear a nearby skyscraper. I lose sight of Eve's falling form. By the time the helicopter banks right, she's gone. Lost in the black of the street below.

"Eve!" I scream out, calling down into the nothingness.

She's gone. Really gone. I close my eyes, trying to wish away what just happened. When I open them again, she's still gone. I'm alone in the back of the helicopter. All alone. Outside, New York is hurtling by, turrets and rooftops only inches below me.

Instantly, I make a decision. Maybe not a good one, but a decision nevertheless. I swing my feet around and plant them firmly on the skid. Timing it just right, I leap forward and jump clear of the helicopter. I fall, a rooftop rushing toward me.

I feel like I'm already dead, even before I crash into the copper roofing of the skyscraper. The pain from the impact causes some animal part of my brain to take over. I scramble, trying to find a fingerhold as I slip across the smooth, green tiles. But there's nothing to grab onto. The edge of the roof rushes toward me. Before I can scream, I'm over the precipice, falling, about to join Eve, dashed against the cold, dark streets of New York. But my arms flail out, and I catch hold of something – a thin gutter. I lock onto it with both hands, hanging on for dear life, but it groans and creaks under my weight. In a second, brass nails snap free from the stone wall. I'm falling again, down, now with a great length of guttering between my palms.

I see windows rushing by, a blur as I'm picking up velocity. Then my feet hit something, folding underneath me. I roll instantly off another sudden drop, arms and legs flying, but the broken-off length of gutter catches on something.

I stop in my descent. Hanging in midair by a foot or so of bent gutter.

I look down and regret it. My eyes come up to the building in front of me.

There's a window right at eye level. Art Deco smoked glass, but most definitely a window. I don't waste a moment, I kick off the windowsill, swinging on the gutter, and come back into the glass with my feet out before me. It gives in, and the gutter comes loose above me. I fall, but forward and inside. The next thing I know, I'm sitting on a Persian rug, surrounded by broken glass.

I look around, dumbfounded. I'm in some sort of study. There's an unlit fireplace, a comfortable looking leather chair and a great number of books. I climb to my feet and brush the glass off my suit. I have only a vague comprehension of how I've ended up in the room. I think maybe I hit my head, leaping from the helicopter.

Then the memory hits me like a punch in the gut: Eve falling, her burning eyes looking up at me as I reach for her. She's gone. She's really gone. Halfway in the middle of her costume change between bank robber and paramedic, halfway between the rooftop gunfight and the helicopter. Eve said she had a plan, but I don't think any of this was part of it.

I drop down heavily into the comfortable, leather chair. I'm bodily exhausted. I should be dead a dozen times over. I exhale, looking down at my handmade shoes. They're wet, torn, smeared with dirt, and the left shoelace has snapped in two.

I hardly have time to consider my loss. From somewhere deep inside the penthouse suite, I hear a bell announce the arrival of an elevator.

I look up at the study door, pensive. I consider throwing myself out of the broken window. But that seems pointless. Perhaps there won't be a lucky length of gutter to save me a second time.

Eventually the door opens. The three Secret Service Agents in dark suits step into the study. I have no idea how they could have found me so quickly, but I'm past the point of being surprised.

"Mr. Gant," the center agent says. "I'm glad we finally caught up with you."

It's pointless to run. No matter what I do, they're going to get me eventually. And the chase has already killed Eve.

The agent smiles, realizing that he finally has me cornered. "It's not too late to make it to that party."
Chapter 11

There's a fresh black SUV waiting at street level. I'm bustled into the back seat, with an agent to my left and right. The one on my right keeps the barrel of a black pistol thrust in my ribs. The third agent climbs into the driver's seat. There's no cops around, no sirens or flashing lights. If there was a bank robbery in progress, I could see no signs of it. The black SUV pulls out into the street and starts north. Slowly, I begin to see recognizable landmarks of midtown roll past our tinted windows.

No one says a word. Just that black gun, a few inches from my heart.

They take the Queens Midtown Tunnel. Then the parkway. The brownstones and tenements of New York begin to give way to the tree-lined boulevards of Long Island. An hour turns into two as the black SUV winds its way out into the countryside. Where are they taking me? I dare not be too curious. The two agents beside me are ever vigilant, watching me from behind their dark glasses.

They're not going to shoot me, I tell myself. I'm far too valuable to Red Shield. The whole evening had been one long attempt to catch me unharmed. They need me and my mathematics for something I can't quite fathom. Something to do with the Fed. Now that they have me, they're certainly not about to shoot me dead. But I didn't feel like I could overplay my hand. Accidents happen, after all, and guns go off. I decide to sit still and let thing unfold.

Eventually, the SUV pulls off the parkway and follows a country road back and forth for many miles. The two-lane road turns to one lane, then into a dirt track. That ends in a grand gate, with a certain man's name emblazoned on it in gold letters.

I look at the agent to my left, then at the one on my right, holding the gun. They really are Secret Service Agents. I'd only seen the badge for a second, but here we are, driving up to one of the President's personal estates at the Great Gatsby end of Long Island.

The President of the United States, working for Red Shield. It's incredible. Unbelievable. But it explains a lot.

The grand gate, baring the letters T.U.S.K. obligingly open for us. The black SUV heads inside. It's darkness beyond, and takes the car many minutes to navigate the long driveway. Eventually, lights break through the undergrowth.

And we drive right into the middle of a party.

There's a formal ball taking place all around, inside and outside of a palatial mansion, overlooking the Long Island Sound. The black SUV pulls up to the shining, gold main doors, falling into line behind limousines depositing formal guests. I feel decidedly underdressed when my turn arrives, but the agents shove me out of the SUV's door.

I stumble up the mansion's front steps in my torn suit and ripped shoes, and give the black SUV a choice hand gesture. A butler in a tuxedo gives me a shocked look and I realize that I'm now in more refined company. I straighten my suit, turn toward the main doors, and step into the party.

It really is a party – a grand party of a scale I can only barely understand. Formal gowns and beautiful women with men in black tie. All evening, in the back of my mind, I'd been thinking that the three dark-suited agents were using "party" as a euphemism for jail, or torture, or something even worse. But here I am, in the middle of a real, honest to goodness party. The man in the limousine, the three agents, had all been talking about a real party. In a way, after everything I've gone through, what I've lost, ending up at a real party was more disconcerting that ending up in a cell. Why all the subterfuge? Why all the car chases? Why all the guns? If the President of the United States really wanted to invite me to a party, send an invitation, with gold calligraphy. I'd probably have ignored it, but at least nobody would have gotten killed.

I take a glass of champagne from a waiter. I stagger about, bewildered. No one pays me any attention. Here, probably more than anywhere else, I really am a nobody. I see senators, generals, and famous movie stars. This party is a who's who of America. What am I doing here? I find a quiet corner and sip at my champagne. Hey, isn't that guy over there third in line to the British throne?

"Mr. Gant?" A voice comes in my ear. I turn and find myself face-to-face with a beautiful woman in a long, fashionable gown. I'm momentarily shocked that she's talking to me, then I spot the earbud. She's holding a clipboard. I realize she's staff, not a guest. "Mr. Gant?" she asks again.

"Yes," I try to casually take a sip of my champagne. But when the glass comes away from my mouth, it's swirling with blood. I put it aside, quickly.

"If you'll follow me," the woman says, looking at the clipboard.

"Where are we going?" I think to ask.

"The President would like a private word." She's already walking away, not waiting for me to follow.

I hurry to catch up. "President? President Tusk?" I ask, just wanting to be absolutely clear.

She laughs, "Do you know any other presidents?"

"No, but..." I scratch my head. "Why does he want to talk to me?"

She doesn't answer. She just opens a door and beckons me inside. It's a library. There's a large desk and a TV on one wall. Shelves lined with books are left and right, looking like they've never been touched. There are large, glass door behind the desk, leading out to a conservatory. Over the fireplace, there's a massive portrait of the President, enthusiastically giving the whole room a double thumbs up.

I look up at it in terror.

"The President will be with your shortly," the woman says and closes the door behind me.

President. President Tusk. I'm in President Tusk's house – in his office. This is his desk, I realize, looking at the desk before me. President Tusk. Oh Lord, I begin to panic, why me? Are they taking that "Je Suis Charlie" T-shirt I wore in college seriously?

Then I can hear a voice outside the door, that thundering voice that could only belong to one man. I only have a few seconds before he's inside the room. I frantically scan the desk in front of me. My eyes fall on a golden letter opener, laying on the desk. It's about ten inches long, with a bold eagle on its hilt. It looks like a pretty formidable weapon.

Someone is turning the handle of the door. Thundering laughter explodes from the other side.

In the last instant, I reach out and grab an autographed baseball off the desk and slide it quickly into my jacket pocket. I turn to face the door, as it swings open. President Tusk, all red-faced and orange-haired, storms into the room. He's flanked by men in tuxedos. He's laughing at one of their jokes – or they're laughing along with him at one of his. Yes, that's more accurate. Almost as an afterthought, Tusk notices me, standing before the desk.
Chapter 12

"Who the hell is this?" Tusk points at me in disgust. From somewhere, the woman with the earbud appears and whispers to the President. He nods, remembering, and clears his throat. He swaggers forward, offering me a big slab of a hand. "Roderic Gant," he says, "I hear great things about you. Wonderful things." I shake his hand, and he yanks on my arm so hard I think I hear my shoulder pop. "Your country needs you, young man. Badly. Very badly. Very, very badly. It needs smart men like you. And me. But today, mostly you. I'm glad you could come to this excellent event we're hosting here tonight."

I pry my hand free of his. As if to rub salt into the wound, he slaps me hard on the injured rotator cuff in question. I wince.

"You're..." I stammer. "...you're Ronald Tusk."

The President beams. He seems happy to be recognized. I glance up at the portrait over the fireplace. It's the splitting image. "President Ronald Tusk," he corrects, giving me a wink.

"You work for Red Shield," I say.

The mood in the room suddenly shifts.

A man in a tuxedo – I think he's the Secretary of State – coughs uncomfortably. I've obviously spoken the unspeakable. I look between the gathered men. No one dares look me in the eye.

"Can I have the room?" the President announces. People leave, including the woman with the earbud. But not everyone. When the door to the library closes, I assume those left in the room are Tusk's inner circle.

"What's that you say, Mr. Gant?" the President feigns deafness, cupping a meaty paw to his ear.

"You're the President of the United States and you work for Red Shield."

"Wrong," Tusk replies, pointing a finger at me. "I'm the President of the United States. I work for the American People." Tusk circles around his desk and drops into the large chair behind it. He begins to organize things on the desk, shifting the letter opener, moving a stack of papers.

I'm worried that he'll notice the missing baseball. I'm not sure why. I have no idea what I plan to do with it. But I figure it's best to keep him on his back foot. Distracted. "Cut the crap," I attack. "We both know what this is all about." I wish that was true. On that score, the President has me at a disadvantage.

"Good," Tusk nods not looking at me. "Then we can talk business."

"You need my Megalytics." At the very least, I know that. "Well, I can't help you."

"Yes you can," a man in a tuxedo to my left says. "And you will."

"I won't help you or Rothschild," I say. "You can tell him that from me."

Again, I've said something wrong. The President looks up from his desk and between his advisors. They all look bemused. Damn! I've put my foot in it. What did I say that was wrong?

"Mr. Gant," the President looks me straight in the eye. "Your country needs you. Are you or are you not a patriot?"

"This has nothing to do with the country," I dismiss. "If you needed me on official business, you wouldn't have had your goons jump me in the subway."

Tusk shrugs off this accusation. "Okay, maybe my people were a little heavy-handed, but time is short." He reaches for a remote on his desk and turns on the large, flat screen television.

It's a twenty-four hour cable news channel. One sympathetic to the President. They're covering some story about a drop in the stock market. An unprecedented dip in after-hours trading. Experts are mystified.

So this does have something to do with the Fed. I wasn't far off the scent.

"This," Tusk points at the screen with his remote. "This is what you're here to fix."

Now's the time I usually give my standard proviso: that Megalytics doesn't work with money. But I don't think Tusk is the kind of guy who listens to explanations. "I'm sorry," is all I say. "I can't help you."

Tusk throws down the remote angrily. He's back on his feet, turning red-faced. "Okay, now it's time for YOU to cut the crap!" He circles the desk and pokes me hard in the chest with a meaty finger. "We have top men on this – very smart people – and they all say this..." He points the fat digit at the TV screen. "...is exactly what your Megalingticks is for!"

"Megalytics," I correct. That's a mistake. "I don't know how to help you!" I blurt, trying to recover. "I know nothing about economics."

"Oh, we've had our eye on you. Been keeping tabs on you for years, sunshine. Don't think we don't know what you've been up to..."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I look around the room, helpless to understand exactly what's going on.

"You think we're stupid, huh? Dumb?"

"No, no!"

"You think we can't figure this stuff out for ourselves?"

"No - I mean, yes. I mean..." What do I mean?

"Sure, we can fix this. Make the economy beautiful. Prime the pump. Get America moving. Only eggheads like you keep knocking us back. Not giving the little guy a fair shake. Well, now it's time for you eggheads to pull your weight. You know math, right, smart guy?"

"Sure, but-"

"And ain't this math?"

"Well, yes, but-"

Tusk clicks his fingers. As if by psychic command, the doors to the library open, and the three dark-suited agents step in. "Okay, maybe we need to give you time to think this whole thing over. We've got Caribbean accommodations just waiting for smart guys like you. Maybe sweating it out in Gitmo will inspire you. I'd think long and hard on how you can be helpful."

Tusk heads back to his desk and drops heavily into the chair.

"You can't throw me in Gitmo!" I protest. "I'm an American citizen!"

"You're a Russian spy, caught snooping around a Presidential estate," Tusk wags a finger at me. "At least, that what it looks like to me."

"Snooping? Your goons dragged me here. Against my will!"

"Perhaps not Russian," the man in the tuxedo interjects. "I don't think we'd want to bring up the Russian angle. How about North Korean?"

"Erh..." Tusk shrugs. "...he don't look North Korean. In fact, he sort of looks like..." The President chuckles.

"No I don't!" I scream in frustration.

"Okay, okay," Tusk relents. "We'll just go with North Korean..."

"No you won't!" I exclaim, but the agents are already dragging me from the room. "I've never even been to North Korea!"

"Ain't you from Berkley?" Tusk dismisses. "Pretty much the same deal."
Chapter 13

"Caltech!" I manage to shout before the library doors close. I'm left staring at the beautiful wooden paneling, until one of the agent pulls me away, roughly.

Two of them virtually carry me off by the arms. The third pushes open a side door and leads us all down a poorly lit corridor. Men in white jackets are rushing back and forth, carrying trays of appetizers and drinks. I can hear the noises and smell the smells of a busy kitchen somewhere deep inside the house.

I won't be leaving by the way I came in. Front doors, I get the feeling, are for those who please the President.

The corridor banks left, then right, then descends a flight of stars. I struggle against the hands holding me, pulling loose. "I can walk," I say. The agents don't protest, stepping back and letting me continue under my own power.

I reach into my jacket pocket and put a hand on the baseball.

I really have no idea why I took it. It was an impulse, a last-second decision I can't undo. But now I turn the ball over in my hand, surely smearing whoever's signature is on the ball. What the hell am I going to do with a baseball, I ask myself. I have no clue. But I surly have no interest in a one-way trip to Gitmo. I assume it would be one-way. It would have to be one way. Gitmo isn't exactly the sort of place American citizens get to come home from.

I briefly consider throwing the ball at the back of the agent's head in front of me. That might knock him out, but that would still leave me two agents, each with a black handgun holstered under his jacket, to contend with. Bad idea. But I need to think of something, and I need to think of something quick. They'd made the mistake of not cuffing me and there is the general chaos of the party to consider. Later on, there'd be cuffs and shackles and black bags over my head, but right now...

And all I have is this stupid baseball. Why didn't I take that damn letter opener? I could have stuck that into one of the agents and grabbed his gun. With a gun, I could have shot the other two agents. I could be halfway to California already. But no, I had to pick the baseball.

Way to go, smart guy.

At the bottom of the stairs, we take another corridor toward the back of the mansion. If it's possible, there's even more men in white jackets here, exchanging empty trays for full ones. There are a dozen or so service carts all lined up along one side of the corridor. They're covered in pristine white table clothes, each carrying two of those large, silver serving troughs you get breakfast out of at a hotel. We pass them, and I can smell the warming food. Beef, if I'm not mistaken. Each platter has a small Sterno can under its belly, keeping everything warm.

That gives me an idea.

I stealthily take the baseball out of my pocket. I look up over my head. Sprinklers. Everything looks up to code in Tusk's palatial mansion. In my right fist, I grasp the baseball in a tight knuckle ball. I'll have only one chance; I'd better make it count.

At the end of the corridor, there's a door. When the agent in front of me pauses to reach for the handle, I make my move. I spin on my heels, bring the baseball back, and throw it. A perfect pitch. The ball sails back down the hall and collides with one of the great silver serving trays. The tray gongs like a bell, the ball ricochets off, and...

...nothing. The tray wobbles a bit but decidedly refuses to fall over. The baseball bounces on the ground, rolling to a stop. The two agents behind me look back, watching the path of the baseball, and then turn to each other in total incomprehension. When they look back at me, they're angry, reaching under their coats for their guns.

Then something happens. Finally. And I wish I could take credit for any of it. It really turns out to work pretty well. But it's all dumb luck. Chance. At least, I think it is...

Down the corridor, totally ignorant of my scheme to upend things with a baseball, the men in white jackets rush to and fro, getting ready for another round of drinks, or a second course, or something. One catches my baseball with his toe and sends it sailing down the corridor. It hits another waiter right in the ear, sending his full tray of champagne flying. There's an almighty crash as the crystal hits the floor, instantly followed by a second waiter pratfalling on the spilled champagne. He back flips into the line of waiting service carts, loaded with the heating trays. They topple over, one after the other, like dominoes. _Thud, thud, thud,_ with the last going over the edge, tipping its Sterno heater out onto the white tablecloth. That catches fire, fast, and flames lick up the side of the corridor wall. One final waiter adds fuel to the fire, literally, as he tries to extinguish the small blaze with pitcher of some drink he's carrying. That is a bad idea, as his drink is something well over one-hundred proof. The whole thing goes up in a great ball of flames, sending white jackets toppling like a seven-ten split.

It's like watching a Rube Goldberg machine unwind. I watch it all, helpless to intervene. The explosion, the heat, the screams of pain, and the subsequent deluge from the sprinkler system, cause the two agents to pause, their guns half-raised.

They turn to behold the chaos. That moment of inattention is all I need.

The third agent is behind me, blocking the door. But I have no intention of escaping that way. The two agents in front of me have their backs turned. I plow heedlessly forward, tackling them both, stumbling and slipping in the torrent of falling water. I run toward the smoke and fire. The agents go over, face first to the floor. Nobody has a hand on me, as I dive down a side corridor, away from the devastation.

I take a door, then another, then sprint across a busy kitchen. There's a pair of double doors, and I'm in the corridor again, well past the burning service carts and smoldering white jackets. I stop running, walking casually away from the explosion. Another turn and I come face-to-face with a rack of white jackets – just the jackets, this time, no people in them. I quickly pull off my bespoke, Savile Row tweed and exchange it for one off the rack.

I double back and join the line of waiters not actively fighting the fire down the corridor. When it's my turn, I pick up a tray of drinks and head back out into the party.
Chapter 14

I might as well be on another planet. Brown skin, white jacket: the perfect one-percenter camouflage. At a party like this, nobody pays attention to the staff. The agents could spend the whole night searching for me and never find me on the party floor. I serve my drinks and make my way toward the back of the mansion. When my tray is empty, I slip out onto the grand veranda and find a tray of appetizers to carry.

The party is raging out there, too, all the way down to the Long Island Sound. Boats are puttering around in the water, decked out in lanterns and lights. I mingle, but my appetizers are less popular than the drinks. I still have half a tray by the time I reach a hedgerow south of the veranda. I scoop up a handful and shove them in my mouth, tossing the tray away into the hedge.

Out of sight of partygoers, I circle around the house, away from the water. The ground is wet here, and my shoes sink deep in the mud. Oh, my poor shoes. I look down in disappointment. Is there no indignity too vile?

Heedless to the cost, I push on and soon can make out the glass outline of the conservatory in the darkness. Through the glass, I see the lights are still on in President Tusk's office. Moving as silently as I can, I slog through the mud, toward a window in the building proper.

The lead-paned window is slightly ajar. When I'm near, I hear the sound of the cable news channel coming from inside. Tusk is still watching the news, sitting in a chair by the fireplace, fidgeting with the remote control. The news isn't good. The stock market is still crashing, unlikely to recover. Experts are baffled. Democrats are blaming Republicans, Republicans are blaming Democrats. In a matter of hours, whole fortunes have been wiped out – people's savings, retirement funds gone. Crowds are taking to the streets in protest. The National Guard has been called.

I linger at the window. There's nothing left for me to see inside, but the news on the television is disconcerting. What the hell is going on and exactly what do people think I can do about it?

Nothing, I tell myself; this is all some sort of stupid misunderstanding. I'm just about to back away from the window, when I see the headlights of a car approaching the conservatory. I duck down, hiding in the bushes. Perhaps I lingered a little too long.

The car stops, the headlights die. A door opens. Shoes crunch against the gravel then thunder on steps, up into the greenhouse. Then there are voices inside Tusk's office.

"What the hell are you playing at?" a woman's voice demands. I almost leap up out of my hiding place. It's Eve! I'm sure of it. More cautiously, I leave the cover of my bush and return to the window. Inside, it's Eve, dressed in a different but equally stunning, evening gown.

"What? What?" President Tusk says, defensively. He doesn't get out of his chair.

"I had everything under control," Eve continues, angrily. She throws her purse down on Tusk's desk, and pulls her shawl off her shoulders. She tosses this onto her purse. "And then you come barging in with your Praetorian Guard–"

"Oh," Tusk dismisses, waving the remote at Eve. "Your little _Mission Impossible_ fantasy was never going to work. We've wasted precious time that we just don't have." Tusk points the remote at the TV, turning up the volume.

"It was working!" Eve stamps her foot, furious. "I almost had him, back there at the helicopter."

"He jumped!" Tusk laughs.

"Yes!" Eve stops herself, spitting mad. She takes a second to calm herself down. "Yes, he jumped. You and I both know that jumping was always a calculated possibility. The Rubric indicated a sixteen point-"

"Ah, your Rubric is full of crap," Tusk interrupts. "Sixteen-point four percent chance that wonder boy there would be a red smear on the sidewalk of New York? Well, he ain't. And I've had enough of your Foundation and its infernal math. I'm taking over from here." Tusk turns his attention back to the TV.

"You idiot!" Eve snatches the remote from the President's hand, turning off the television. "You know our plan had the best probability of producing results! In the shortest time! And now, what are we going to do?" She points at the silent television. "With people already out in the streets!"

"Ah, he'll come around," Tusk dismisses, trying to snatch his remote control back.

"Come around? Come around?" Eve is incensed. "You can't just waterboard him into helping us!"

"I don't know," Tusk shrugs. "It works with the Syrians."

"And to bring him here of all places? And today of all days? Are you insane?"

"Look! You're not calling the shots here!" Tusk yells back, finally getting angry.

But I've stopped listening. I'm backing away from the window. I'm numb from the neck up. The intense feeling of elation I'd felt, realizing that Eve was still alive had quickly vanished into a horrible pit in my stomach. Tusk and Eve are working together. The whole evening had been some sort of game to get me to help them with...what? The news says the stock market is crashing. And I'm somehow supposed to stop that? With my Megalytics? No, it's all insane. I just want to get away. I begin to squelch away in the mud.

"What's that?" Eve says inside the library. I freeze, mid-step. "What are those lights?"

I look back through the window. Eve has noticed the fire alarm lights flashing.

Tusk shrugs. He, of course, has no idea.

On cue, the three dark-suited agents burst through the door. They're sopping wet from head to toe.

"He's gone," one says.

"Find him!" Tusk jumps to his feet.

The agents nod and turn for the door.

"Wait!" Eve calls out. She's looking down at the desk. She picks up her purse and her shawl and tosses them aside. She reaches down and picks up the American eagle letter opener. "What is this doing here?"

No one answers. Eventually, Tusk says weakly, "It's a letter opener."

"If he didn't take this, what did he take?" Eve scans the desk, frantically. "What's missing?"

"What are you talking about?" Tusk asks.

"He was supposed to take the letter opening before you arrived in the room. If he didn't take this, he must have taken something else...WHAT'S MISSING?"

"Umm, umm..." Tusk looks over the desk. "...err...the Willie Mays autographed baseball!" he says triumphantly.

"A baseball?" Eve looks at him in terror, brandishing the letter opener. "A baseball? He really is gone!"

"What?" Tusk realizes the implication, suddenly angry. "You mean, this is all part of your Rubrics?"

"Of course it is! Do you think you're so perfect that Junior can't predict your actions too!" she turns to the agents. "Find him!" Her voice echoes around the library.

I've heard enough. I'm no longer concerned about silence. I sprint from the window, running around the conservatory. The car is still there. I try the driver's door. It's unlocked. I climb inside.

The keys are in the ignition. I start the engine and put the car in gear. I tear away in the gravel, bringing the car around in a wide arc.

It sounds like I'm finally one step ahead of them all. Eve's voice, yelling 'He's really gone!' rings in my ears. I step on the gas. All I've got to do is keep things unpredictable. The driveway is long and twisting, but the performance sedan takes the gravelly corners without difficulty.

Okay, so what's the last thing on earth, a guy like me, who's had a day like I've had, going to do?

The front gates of the estate, bearing Tusk's name, are in front of me. They're open, letting yet another limousine inside. I thread neatly between the car and the iron gates. I'm out onto the dirt, country road behind.

Yeah, what's the last thing in the world, right now, I want to do?

Head back to New York, I answer.
Chapter 15

I abandon the car in Flushing. It's a government vehicle, after all; I'm sure it can be tracked. And a car isn't really doing me any good. The closer I get to Manhattan Island, the crazier the roads start to get. The news was right, the drop in the stock market has started some sort of widespread panic. The parkway out of town is jammed with people hoping to flee civilization before it collapses in on itself. The roads heading into town are no better. Everyone seems to be out and about, protesting the government, fighting each other, or just loading up to run for the hills.

I pass a main street of stores, all with their windows smashed in. Looks like the looting has started early.

I ditch the car down a residential street, leaving the keys and my white waiter's jacket in the front seat. Before I leave, I check the trunk, hoping for a little surprise. I'm not disappointed. It is a Secret Service car, so there's a full tactical load-out in the back, all snug in high-impact cases, with foam lining – a couple of machine guns, a sniper rife, body armor and hand grenades. I pass all that up and help myself to a black handgun. I slide a magazine into the hilt and hide the gun away in the back of my pants, under my silk shirt. It sticks out, but I'm not too fussy.

By the time I'm back on Manhattan Island, I've picked up a dark, black hoodie from a looted discount store and traded the trousers of my bespoke suit for a pair of cargo shorts. I pop out of a subway station on the Upper West Side. The city is quieter here than out in Queens. The subway was still running but almost completely empty. I think I might have caught the last train. As I climb the stairs up to the street, an MTA worker is closing the metal gates in front of me. I have to sprint to make it out before he hurriedly padlocks himself inside the gate.

I don't think he likes the look of me. I don't much either, noting my reflection in the windows of the empty Starbucks. No more hand-sewn Savile Row tweed. But I still have the shoes. I look down at the beautiful, perfect shoes, and my heart sinks. They're almost dead – I've almost killed them, all caked in mud and grime and oil. I can see my sock through the toe of the left one. It's just not fair, not fair at all. They deserved so much better. Why do such beautiful things have to suffer so? Today of all days...what a day for shoes like these to come into my life! Yesterday, tomorrow, perhaps they might have stood a fighting chance. But today...

I put one foot in front of the other, letting what's left of my beautiful shoes take my weight. "It's not far now," I tell them. "Only a few blocks. And then you can rest."

Yeah, I'm talking to my shoes. Get over it. I just jumped out of helicopter. And lived. I get to talk to my shoes.

It takes me ten minutes to reach my destination. The building looks quiet from across the street. The lobby is empty. I watch the front door for a good fifteen minutes, hiding behind the stairs of a brownstone down the street. I'm half expecting Eve to pop up in some sort of crazy outfit. But nothing happens, nobody comes or goes. Eventually, I decide the coast is clear and head into the lobby. I take the elevator up to the eighteenth floor.

I've had Logan's address in my phone for years. Of course, up until this moment, I've never bothered to drop in. Not until the whole world is collapsing down around my ears.

I ring the doorbell to apartment 1815.

My face is bruised and bloodied. I have the hood of my sweatshirt up. There's a gun in the back of my shorts. I'm every bit the sort of trouble nobody would want showing up on their doorstep in the dead of night.

Logan opens the door. He's eating. He doesn't even bother to look at me, just turns and walks off, back toward his couch, leaving the door open. "Y'alight, mate?" he says over his shoulder.

I step inside, warily closing the door behind me. Is this some sort of trick? After everything, I wouldn't be surprised. I scan Logan's apartment. Everything looks normal. He's watching the news. Protests in front of a certain President's midtown skyscraper.

"Logan..." I begin. I feel like I should explain. He's not paying attention. "I...you don't seem surprised to see me."

"Surprised?" This makes Logan turn around. He laughs, his mouth full of chicken or something. It's not a pretty sight. "Why would I be surprised, you narna?"

"Well-"

"I mean, I pick you up, you tell me that yarn about the Masons. Then I get home, and this is all over the telly." He points at his flat panel. "I'm not wondering if you're going to show up mate, I'm just wondering when!"

That makes a certain kind of sense. I pull my hood back, unzipping my sweatshirt.

"Get comfy, mate." Logan turns back to the television. "It looks like the end of the world."

I let myself relax. This is no trick, this is just Logan's apartment. For the first time that evening, I realize that I'm finally free of it – of whatever game Eve and Tusk have been playing with me. What did she say? I took the baseball, not the letter opener? I don't know exactly why that matters, but if it means Eve is no longer two steps ahead of me, then I'm glad I did.

I take off my sweatshirt, remove the pistol from my shorts and hide it inside. I place the whole ball down on a chair and then move across the room to the couch.

"Crazy, huh?" I say, dropping down next to Logan.

"Insane, mate," Logan doesn't look away from the action. "Absolutely mental. I can't tell you how much money I've lost!" He points at a laptop on the coffee table. It shows a bunch of lines, zigzagging down from left to right. "I mean, I can tell you EXACTLY how much money I've lost, but I don't care! I really don't! 'Cause it ain't just me, mate, it's everyone. All them Masons, too. They're really getting it, good and hard. You know what they say, the bigger you are..."

"It's not the Masons," I tell Logan, rubbing my face.

He splutters, incredulously. "Not the- he...you need a beer?"

"Yes!" I really do.

"Just a sec," Logan puts his chicken down on the table and heads off toward his small, galley kitchen.

"I stocked up!" he calls back from the kitchen. "You know, when it started to look like Armageddon. Figured I'd need plenty of beer. Got plenty of loo roll, too. Can't run short of that. My old Nan was in the Blitz, you know. Rationing and all that. She always told me: Logan my boy, be sure to keep extra bog paper on hand. 'Cause you never know when you're going to be wanting. And the Lord's truth, you don't want to be wanting for that."

While Logan is talking, my attention strays away from the television. I've lost interest in the 'Never Tusk' protest. I glance around me, looking over Logan's stuff. He's done well for himself. The apartment is small, but all the furnishings are very nice. Not a bad place to wait out the end-of-the-world, I think.

Then I see it: the picture on the side table, by the couch. It's Logan and me, back in college. Smiling and laughing, handsome and young. It's Logan and me and...a girl...

It's her. It's really her, in the picture. Eve. But how can that be? She'd looked vaguely familiar, that first time we'd met in the elevator. But...no. I can't be her. It just can't. I jump to my feet and snatch up the picture, looking closer.

It's her. It's really her, five years younger, but just as beautiful. Her hair is short and she's wearing a Caltech sweater, but...it's her. And that means...

I glance back at the kitchen. Logan is fishing out two bottles of beer, still blabbing on about his Nan. I put the picture down, cross the room and pick up my hoodie. I take the gun from underneath.

When Logan turns around, I have it leveled at his head.

"Jesus!" he screams and drops both beers. They hit the linoleum and explode. "Where'd you get that?" He raises his hands.

"I've had enough, Logan," I say. "I've really had just about enough. Where is she?"

"Where's who?" Logan plays it dumb.

"You know who!" I wave the gun, then yell to the room. "Okay! You can come out now!"

But nobody replies.

"Who are you talking to?" Logan asks, petrified.

"Her!" I bellow. "Her!" I point to the picture.

"Who?" Logan is simultaneously terrified and confused.

"Her!" I say again. I step back to the couch, not lowering the gun, and toss the picture at Logan's feet.

He picks it up and looks at it, none the wiser. "Who? Stacy?" he says.

"Her name is not Stacy!" I yell back.

"Yes it is!" Logan nods, like he's talking to a madman. "Stacy. You remember Stacy...my girlfriend, junior year..." He puts the picture down on a bookshelf, raising his hands back in the air.

Now that he mentions it, I do remember a Stacy...but...no...

"Come on Roddy, my old mate," Logan eggs me on. "You remember Stacy. She moved to Phoenix, with that hippie guy who drove the Datsun 210. I was broken up about it for weeks."

"Stacy?" I ask, confused. I'm still pointing the gun at Logan's head.

"Yeah, Stacy. She ain't here, mate. She's a thousand miles away."

"No, she's the girl in the elevator. In the subway."

"Nah," Logan shakes his head. "Nah, she might look like Stacy, but it ain't her. I think maybe you've been working a little too hard. You said yourself you've been seeing things."

"I'm not seeing things!" I bark. "It's Red Shield!"

"It's what?"

"Red - Never mind. That's her, the girl from the elevator. The girl who's been chasing me all over town. And if that's Stacy, that means you're in on it, too."

"No, Roddy, my man, no! I'm not in on anything," Logan lowers his hands. I brandish the pistol at him and he quickly raises them again. "You've got to believe me! Maybe that is Stacy, I don't know! But I haven't seen Stacy in years!"

"It can't be a coincidence!"

And as if to let me know that is wasn't, the doorbell chooses that exact moment to chime.
Chapter 16

"Who could that be?" Logan laughs nervously.

"Who indeed?" I look at Logan down the sights of my gun. I remember the commitment I'd made to doing exactly the opposite of what I'd normal do. Well, shooting Logan in the head and leaping out of the window felt like exactly the last thing I'd do. On a normal day.

But then...it could be anyone at the door. Maybe Logan ordered a pizza? It could be a Jehovah's Witness with insomnia. Shooting Logan felt very permanent, regardless of his allegiance to Red Shield. I had to give him the benefit of the doubt.

I back up across the room, not taking the gun off Logan. He doesn't try to move. When I'm at the door, I turn the handle. It's not locked.

I steal a glance to see who's at the door. Just as I'd guessed. I didn't really need the proof. I should have just shot Logan.

"Am I interrupting something?" Eve asks. She steps into the apartment and closes the door behind her. She's not wearing any sort of costume – no evening gown, or combat gear – just a coat and pants and her hair tied back.

"Stacy!" Logan laughs, realizing how bad all this looks. "What a surprise! You look good."

"Logan," she nods. "It's been a long time."

"Cut the crap!" I yell.

"No, no!" Logan waves his hands in panic. "Love, you got to tell him! This is the first time we've seen each other in years! Stace...pet...you've got to tell him!"

I look at Eve, she's looking at Logan. "Well?" I ask.

"Shoot him or not..." She shrugs. "...it's got nothing to do with me."

"No! No! Wait!" Logan is absolutely melting down.

I'm not paying attention. "Is this some sort of trick?" I ask Eve.

"No, no more tricks," Eve answers. "I just came here to talk."

She walks over to the couch and sits down, turning the TV off.

I lower the gun.

Logan instantly turns off the waterworks. "You're not going to shoot me?" he asks hopefully.

"Not right now," I answer. But I don't put down the gun. I pick the picture up off the bookshelf and hand it to Eve. "Care to explain this?"

Eve looks at the picture. She smiles. "What's there to explain? You don't remember?"

"Vaguely," I scratch me head. Now it's coming back to me. We smoked an awful lot of pot in those days: Logan, me and a girl, up in our dorm room. That could have been her. "You and Logan?"

"For about six months."

Logan laughs. "See?"

"But now you work for Red Shield? Did you back then?"

Eve sighs. "I don't work for Red Shield. Well, not exactly. I work for an organization called The Foundation. The Foundation's goal is to guide and protect humanity – steer its course."

"Into the hands of Red Shield?" I add.

"It's not like that."

"No? But, even back then..." I show her the picture again. "...you were working for this Foundation?"

"Yes."

"Then this is more than just tonight?"

"Yes, Roderic," Eve acknowledges. "We've been watching you for a very long time."

"Err, sorry to interrupt," Logan interrupts. "But what hell is going on?"

"Yeah," I wave the gun at Logan supportively. He winces. "What the hell IS going on?"

"We needed you to answer a question," Eve replies.

"What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?" I repeat. Eve nods. "Why is that so important?"

"It's not, in and of itself. But if you'd been able to correctly answer the question, you'd have certainly been on the right track."

"Right track to what?"

"To fix this," Eve turns the TV back on. It looks like the protests have turned violent...or celebratory. It's hard to make out, watching it on TV, if the whole thing is one blow-out New Year's Eve party or a riot. Perhaps both. Are people actually welcoming the end-of-the-world?

"How can I fix that?" I laugh. I don't find it funny.

"With Megalytics," Eve replies.

"Megalytics can't fix that...whatever that is," I dismiss.

"Yes it can. And that's the answer to the question. That's why I'm here. And that's why I was there, too." She points at the picture. "Megalytics holds the answer to fixing all of this: the stock market crash, the economic damage and resulting social unrest. Red Shield has predicted it."

"Predicted it?" I ask. "How?"

"Well," Eve thinks for a moment. "With Megalytics."

I'm confused. So is Logan. "Wait? Somebody stole Roderic's maths?"

"No, not exactly..." Eve scratches her head.

"Then what?" I ask, angry.

"Well...that's how I've been able to predict your movements around town – showing up before you, places you don't even know you're going yourself. That's what Megalytics does."

"My math can't do that!" I scoff.

"Yeah, yeah it can!" Logan add excitedly. "You said so yourself, in the car. Taking into account every possible decision, and every possible outcome, at every intersection on every road, the numbers get really, really big, really, really fast. Then you get a flock of seagulls, or something...and stuff...and I sort of stopped listening after that..."

"We call it the Rubric," Eve says. "The probability matrix of all input and all outputs. It's where your math would have taken you, Roderic, in five to ten years."

I'm appalled, angry, hurt. How does she know where my math would have taken me in five to ten years, if I don't even know? "But even if such a calculation was possible, it would take a computer of unimaginable power to perform it. No such computer exists on this planet."

"It does," Eve contradicts. "In fact, we have two."
Chapter 17

"Care to answer my question now?" Eve asks.

Things are a little more relaxed. I've put the gun away. Logan fetched more beer.

"What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?" I ask rhetorically. "That's easy. I understand now. What lies at the end of Maiden Lane is Rothschild, himself. Red Shield lies at the end of Maiden Lane."

"Rothschild?" Logan ask, surprised.

"But not a man named Rothschild, his creation. Red Shield. A gigantic number crunching machine. A computer so powerful that it can calculate the Rubric – a probability matrix of all inputs and outputs, predict the actions and decisions of everyone, everywhere at all times, down to the most minute detail. That's what lies at the end of Maiden Lane. Rothschild himself. Or rather, itself."

"You're kidding," Logan whistles across the top of his beer bottle.

"He's not," Eve sips hers. "I knew you'd get there in your own time. I had faith...Red Shield said you were one of the smart ones..."

"But wait, you have TWO of these computers? Is one good and one evil? Do they play tic-tac-toe with thermonuclear weapons or something?"

"No, it's not like that.. It's more like the old one and a new one. The original and the upgrade."

"That can predict everything, all the time?" Logan interjects.

"Exactly."

"Except...what's going on out there?" Logan points out the window with his beer bottle.

"Oh no, Junior predicted that, too."

"Junior?" I ask.

"We call the new one Junior," Eve smiles.

"So it wanted the stock market to tank? For everyone to riot?" Logan goes on, ignoring us both.

"No, certainly not."

"But it did nothing to stop it?"

"It certainly did. That's why we're all sitting here, right now. This is what Junior did about the stock market crash."

"Right, but it didn't have a butterfly in Abu Dhabi flap its wings, so a hurricane might hit the East Coast and close down the stock exchange, or something." Logan looks at me. "I mean, that's how your math works, right?"

"Not exactly," I answer, but I'm watching Eve's expression. She's relaxed, enjoying the conversation. No more pretenses, no more games.

"No," she says. "Red Shield foresaw this eventuality, but it was powerless to stop events via its usual means. Care to tell us all why, smart guy?" Eve winks at me.

I don't appreciate it. "Because Megalytics doesn't work with money," I answer flatly.

Eve makes a gesture like that should explain everything.

"I don't understand," Logan says.

"No, neither do we," Eve sits up, more interested in making this point. "I mean, Megalytics should work with money – does work with money, we have factual proof that it does. It's just...you see...our understanding of Megalytics is really only slightly more advanced that what he's published." She points at me. "Red Shield may have the big computers, but when it comes to the theoretical stuff..."

"You need this guy," Logan points at me too.

"Exactly."

"Lord, are we all royally screwed," Logan laughs.

"Shut up," I tell Logan, then turn to Eve. "Wait a minute, you say Megalytics can work with money?"

"Yes."

"You just can't get it to work?"

"Correct."

"But you have proof?"

"We do."

"Like what?"

"Well," Eve finishes off the last of her beer. She waves it at Logan, who gets the hint and heads for the kitchen. She continues, when we're alone. "You remember I said we have two computers – two Red Shields."

"Right."

"Well, everything I told you in the car was true – about the original Red Shield and a man named Meyer Rothschild."

"And the Battle of Waterloo?"

"Correct. When Rothschild cornered the British pound and took over the Bank of England, he saw this for exactly what it was: a tremendous shift in the fundamental power structure of the European economy. But Meyer was a brilliant financier. One motivated by more than just greed. He knew that such power, concentrated in the hands of one family – one man – was evil in and of itself. But at the same time, he knew that limited, strategic control of the money supply could act as a moderating force on the young, European economy, and as means to counteract such gambits as the one that delivered the Bank of England into the hands of Rothschild family in the first place.

"The power just need to be separated from the man. And that's exactly what Meyer Rothschild did."

"How?" Logan was back with three more bottles of beer.

"He commissioned the greatest clockmaker in Frankfurt, a man named Hershel Barthman, to build a clockwork machine. A vast, intricate computer dedicated to one task and one task only: calculating the value of the British pound, in gold, and issuing buy or sell orders for gold bullion based on that calculation."

"What? That's it?" I ask. "I thought you said it calculates the Rubric?"

"Right, but this is the original Red Shield," Eve reaches for her new beer. "A clockwork computer of springs and cogs and gears. It's function is extremely primitive, but its results...well, when Red Shield was complete, it was installed in the vault of the Bank of England and quietly set to work. The great age of British prosperity ensued, along with its vast Empire, often attributed to the stability of its currency. Rothschild, the man, passed away, but Rothschild the machine kept ticking on, methodically regulating the value of the pound to the relative value of gold."

"Fascinating," Logan says. But by his breezy tone, it was obvious that he has no idea what Eve is talking about.

"Yes, fascinating history lesson," I cough. "But what does this have to do with the twenty-first century? And with what's going on outside? And you and your quick-change show? And the President of the United States? And why the heck are you in that picture over there?" I'm yelling again. Logan looks terrified.

Eve just rolls her eyes. "Will you let me finish?"

I calm down. "Sorry."

"Where was I?" Eve considers.

"You were about to tell us what the Masons have to do with all this," Logan interjects.

I sigh. "Shut up-"

"Yes, exactly!" Eve cuts me off. "Thank you."

I look at Logan in horror. He looks at me in glee.

"So, by the beginning of the last century, England's financial power is in decline. The Foundation of Cordwainers, Horologists and Thimble-makers – established and controlled by the Rothschild Family, with the goal of maintaining the mechanical parts of Red Shield, and keeping its existence a closely guarded secret – came to the decision that Red Shield would be more effective at stabilizing the world's economy if it was put to work calculating the exchange rate of the U.S. dollar. To this end, plans were put into place to move Red Shield from the Bank of England to New York, to be installed in the new institution of the Federal Reserve."

"This is the bit with the Masons," Logan whispers smugly to me.

"Shut up," I whisper back.

"No, he's right," Eve adds. "The public face of the Foundation I belong to – the one created to secure and maintain the original Red Shield, is commonly known as the Masons."

"Really?" I'm shocked – shocked that Logan is right about anything.

"She's a Mason," Logan whispers again. "Wait? My college girlfriend was a Mason? Oh Lord, that explains so much..."

"Think about it. What's the Mason's emblem?"

"The compass?"

"Yes. Yes and no. It is, in fact, the hands of a clock. It was a clockmaker who built the original Red Shield."

"Okay, okay," I wave my hands, trying to dismiss all the talk about Masons. "Something tells me the creation of the Federal Reserve is only the beginning of this story?"

"It certainly is," Eve leans back. "The idea to move Red Shield to the United States created a schism within the Foundation. The orthodox faction of the Foundation – the First Foundation – were vehemently opposed to the move. They believed doing so would betray Rothschild's original genius. The more modern faction – the Second Foundation – believed that Rothschild could never have foreseen the seismic shift in global power toward the United States. After all, how could he? For back in his times, America was little more than a rural backwater. But the First Foundation would have none of it. Rothschild had placed Red Shield in London, and in London it would stay. They revered Rothschild – revere Rothschild, still do – with an almost religious fervor. A miscalculation on Rothschild's part was not only incomprehensible, it was impossible. Members of the Second Foundation were not so pious. They wanted to study Rothschild's machine. Learn from it. Perhaps even improve it. This was tantamount to blasphemy to the First Foundation.

"As you might guess, things got ugly. Fast."

Eve pauses to take a sip of her drink. I realize that I'm literally on the edge of my seat, listening intently. I look over at Logan. He's similarly enthralled.

"With the two factions in open warfare, the decision was made to covertly move Red Shield to the New World. By night, Red Shield was removed from its vault under the Bank of England and loaded aboard the newest, fastest ship in the Rothschild family's fleet."

"The _Titanic_?" I remember.

"Yes. Secure in the hold of the ship, the Titanic began to steam for New York. But at the last minute, the First Foundation learned of the plan and managed to place three agents aboard the vessel."

"Those men you mentioned? Guggenheim, Straus and Astor?"

"Yes. Three agents with explicit instructions to do whatever it took to stop Red Shield from arriving in America."

"And?" Logan and I say in unison.

"And...well, let's just say, the Titanic didn't hit an iceberg."

"They sank it?" Logan is blown away. "With the machine aboard? No way!"

"No way is right. Perhaps it was an accident, perhaps agents of other powers were vying to steal the machine. Maybe sending the machine to the bottom of the ocean was a better option than letting it fall into non-Foundation hands. Nobody survived the voyage who could be held to account."

"But Red Shield did make it to New York?" I ask. "Or we wouldn't be sitting here. Did you fish Rothschild's machine out of the ocean? Or build a new one?"

"Neither, Red Shield arrived in New York harbor on schedule, in the hold of the _RMS Titanic_."

"But you just said-" Logan begins.

"No, the ship that sank at sea on April 14th, 1912 was not the _Titanic_ , but its sister ship, the _RMS Olympic_. The Second Foundation made a great spectacle of packaging up and loading a decoy Red Shield aboard a decoy _Titanic_ , expecting the First Foundation to intercept it. The real apparatus crossed the Atlantic a week later, aboard the real _Titanic_ , under great secrecy. But it served our purposes to let the First Foundation believe that Red Shield was lost at the bottom of the ocean. At least until it was properly installed in the new, American Federal Reserve."

"Did you ever tell them what happened?" I ask.

"They figured it out," Eve allows. "Eventually. Even secret societies have problems keeping secrets."

"But then what happened?" Logan asks excitedly, like a kid listening to a bedtime story.

"Then what? Well, the roaring twenty's happened, that's what," Eve smiles. "With Red Shield firmly in the hands of the Second Foundation, we were able to study its workings, attempt to decode its design. We made great advances, invented whole new forms of engineering. The ground work for modern computing came out of the Second Foundation's study of Hershel Barthman's clockwork masterpiece. Other discoveries, the Second Foundation kept closer to its chest, for they were far too powerful to be left in the hands of the general scientific community. Among our greatest achievements was a new form of mathematics that seemed to decode in inner working of the machine. What powered its remarkable predictive capabilities. A new math of very large aggregates."

"Megalytics?" I exclaim.

"Woh!" Logan echoes.

"I didn't invent it?"

"Sorry," and Eve looks genuine. "Rothschild sort of already invented and used it to keep the world economy stable for two centuries."

"But I..." my head is spinning. "But I remember..."

"...Smoking lots of weed in your dorm room?" Eve glares at me, looking for a sign of recognition. "With Logan...and his girlfriend..." She points two fingers at herself.

"You!" I shout, climbing out of my chair. "You did it!"

"Yeah, I maybe, sorta, kinda planted the seed of Megalytics in your head."

"What? All of it?" Logan is disgusted too.

"Pretty much." I'm about to scream. "But you came up with the branding: I mean: 'Megalytics'...wow! That was all you. And way cooler that what we had been calling it. And look on the bright side: everyone, everywhere, for all time is always going to THINK that you invented it. I mean, nobody is going to believe in a super, secret cabal of clock-makers. Well, nobody but Logan."

"Not really comforting." I sit back down. Then the real question occurs to me. "Why on earth would you do such a thing?"

"Yes, well, we're getting to that. You don't want to jump ahead in our story, do you?"

"Certainly not," Logan sounds offended.

I wouldn't mind getting to the punchline.

"With the new predictive power of Megalytics at our disposal, the Second Foundation began to consider the idea that we might be able to actually do a better job controlling the world economy than a century-old clockwork computer. We were confident that we'd decoded Red Shield's secrets, understood its mechanics. With the power of Megalytics under our control, we could do more than just stabilize the world economy, we could vastly increase its productivity. With the right calculations made at the right time, we could easily wipe out poverty in under a decade. Class warfare? Civil strife? No problem. With the insights of Megalytics put to good works, instead of wasted on simply calculating the value of the dollar against the value of gold, which of the world's problem could we not solve?"

"Oh, this isn't going to go well," Logan says, like he's commenting on a movie. He gets to his feet and goes to the kitchen for more beer. "Wait, wait, wait! Let me guess what happens...err...World War I? World War II? Aliens attack!" He returns to his chair with three bottles.

"We know what happens," I say dryly, taking my new beer. "It's happening again, outside the window, right now."

"Exactly," Eve says and takes a big swig to finish her beer. "The Second Foundation turned the machine off on Monday, October 28th, 1929. The next day, the New York Stock Exchange fell 40 percent. We turned Red Shield back on that Wednesday..."

"But it took fifteen years and a world war to pull the planet out of depression." I say, looking out the windows.

Eve stays silent, contemplating her new beer.

"But in the end, everything turned out okay, right?" Logan asks hopefully.

"Well, the Second Foundation certainly learned its lesson," Eve goes on. "We'd succumb to the original mistake – the very conceit that Rothschild had strived to avoid. That so much power, in any single organization's hands, was an evil unto itself. We didn't mess with Red Shield again. Let it do its thing. We even made peace with the First Foundation." She waves her bottle behind her. I think she's getting a little tipsy. "Tusk and his cohorts. We brought them back in to oversee the hardware, make sure everything was running smooth. The years 1945 to 2001 constitutes the greatest continual expansion of wealth in human history. Two billion people – _two billion_ – were pulled out of poverty. All by doing nothing but letting a centuries-old computer calculate the value of a dollar."

"And that's what lies at the end of Maiden Lane," I hold my beer up as a salute. Eve and Logan follow suite.

"Exactly," Eve smiles. "When Red Shield moved from London to New York, a great army of clockmakers and tinkerers moved with it. Even the decedents of the original clockmaker, Hershel Barthman, had a store there on Maiden Lane."

I remember the moment, standing at the corner of Maiden Lane and Broadway, looking down at the clock in the sidewalk and realizing I was late for my flight. Barthman, the face of the clock had read.

"But as America's dependence on the machine grew ever more critical, the size of the modern data mining equipment and telecommunications infrastructure attached to the ancient computer multiplied tenfold. Soon, the city of New York had to build a whole new facility, deep underground, just to house it. They built two office towers above. The tallest in the world. Two symbols of America's stability and greatness, literally and figuratively built on top of Red Shield."
Chapter 18

Something explodes outside the window, snapping us all back to the here-and-now. We leap to our feet and run to the window. Down on the street, a car is burning. Kids are dancing around it, cheering, throwing garbage on the fire.

"The World Trade Center," I say, watching the car burn. I mean, I already knew it. I'd figured that bit out, right out of the gate. I just hadn't figured-figured it out. You know?

"The World Trade Center," Eve repeats, looking down at the street. "Al-Qaeda and the Islamists, they knew what they were attacking. Both in 1993 and 2001. They knew the real source of America's strength and prosperity. They knew how to truly strike a deathblow to Western imperialism. Destroy Red Shield and you'd destroy America."

We back away from the window, returning to our seats. We're safe. It's a long way down to the street. But the explosion is still disconcerting. How could things have gotten so bad so fast?

"Red Shield was damaged when the towers fell," Eve continues. "But not beyond repair. When we were able to get back into its vault, three days later, and we got it back online. Considering the overall paralysis of the world economy – with planes grounded and the markets closed – there was very little long-run fallout from the attack. The terrorists had failed in their ultimate goal, but they were not totally unsuccessful. Even members of the First Foundation had to face the truth: admit that the damage to Red Shield was too extensive to ignore. It couldn't continue to run indefinitely in its damaged state. Eventually it would malfunction, and no one alive possessed the knowledge to repair its clockwork mechanisms. So it was agreed by all parties to construct a new machine – a second Red Shield – to replace the dying original.

"Junior?" Logan asks.

"Junior," Eve acknowledges. "But this time, Red Shield would be no machine of springs and gears. The original genius of Barthman was long since forgotten, even by his progeny. No, the new Red Shield would be the most powerful computer ever constructed, based on the century of study the Second Foundation had poured into Megalytics. As the World Trade Center site was cleared, room after room of server farms were installed in the old, Red Shield vaults, underneath. The race was on, to replicate the function of the original Red Shield before it turned its last gear. Six years later, and millions of lines of code written, we were ready – ready to cut across to the new machine. Junior represented a technological masterpiece. We'd spent a full third of the U.S. GDP in its construction. Below the 9/11 memorial, a full hectare of computing space sat humming away. We leveraged the latest quantum storage technologies, connected it to every, major Internet backbone. Junior could collect and calculate over a zettaflop of data in a second. Fully correlate and calculate the actions and motivations of the whole of humanity in real time."

"All the inputs and the outputs," I mutter.

"On February 2007, we turned control of the Federal Reserve over to Junior. We switched the feed, taking the original Red Shield off line. After two hundred years, we hoped that the senior Red Shield could finally be retired..."

Eve pauses in her story, looking back at the window, wistfully.

"And?" Logan prods.

"Things went better than 1929," Eve shrugs. "But not by much. We kept Junior hooked up to the controls for almost a whole week. But, we soon had to cut the feeds back to the old Red Shield. You might remember a small housing bubble that bust. We had contingency plans in place this time around, of course. If things went wrong. We had agents imbedded in the major media outlets. Full control of social media, the Internet. We were able to easily distract attention away from the total and complete systemic failure of the world economy."

"And that's when your realized–" I start.

"That Megalytics doesn't work with money?" Eve finishes. "Oh yeah, we learned that the hard way. But it didn't make any sense! And it doesn't make any sense now that everything we know about Megalytics comes from studying a device that exclusively applied its principles to finance. If anything, it should ONLY work with money." Eve grunts in frustration.

"So you needed someone to figure out what was wrong?" I say.

"Right. Our best calculations indicated that it'd take twenty years for the economy to recover from the damage Junior had caused. And we had nothing like that sort of time left before the old Red Shield turned its final cog. We needed to fix Junior, and we needed a fix fast. And to do that, we needed to figure out what was wrong with our mathematics. Luckily, even if our $10 trillion mistake was useless for controlling the money flow, it was not totally without its uses. We had, after all, built the world's first Megalytic computer and it is very good at doing what Megalytic computers could do. Like predicting the course of very complex, dynamic systems..."

"So, Junior couldn't tell you what's wrong with itself, but it could tell you, out of the whole human race, who could?" I smile.

"Exactly!"

"And that's when you showed up, at Cal-Tech, with a bag of weed and some crazy ideas about really large numbers."

"The Rubric calculated that you were our best chance at repairing Junior and getting it online within the mean time to failure of the clockwork original. Junior predicted that, left to your own devices, you would one day formulate the principles of Megalytics all on your own. But we had nothing like time to let you figure things out for yourself. So we–"

"Let him crib off your Second Foundation notes!" Logan laughs. He's loving it all.

Eve nods and gives me a weak smile.

"Wait," Logan is no longer laughing. "You were just pretending to be my girlfriend so you could plant the idea of Megalytics in Roderic's head?"

"Yeah, sorry." Eve shrugs. "It was nothing personal."

Logan looks genuinely hurt. Deflated. I can't blame him.

I try quickly to change the subject. "So you really think I can reprogram this $10 trillion computer of yours? And save the world economy?"

"Oh no, you're not anywhere near ready," Eve said. Like Logan, I'm a little hurt. "No, and it turns we didn't have anywhere near the time we thought we did. The cogs and gears inside Red Shield ground to a halt yesterday at 6:17 in the afternoon. We cut the feeds across to Junior the moment Red Shield failed, but everything going on outside is what happens with Junior running the show. And it's only going to get worse and there's no one alive, even you, who knows how to stop it."

I can feel a 'but' coming. "But?" I ask.

"But..." Eve breathes in. "...Junior calculated a Rubric with a very small chance of...well...sort of kick-starting you. It predicted that if you were subjected to just the right mix of romantic entanglement and personal peril, that it might..."

"Focus my genius?" I suggest.

"Make him drop a brilliant brick?" Logan tries.

"Save the world?" Eve suggests.

At that, we all retreat into our own thoughts. Outside, we can still hear the kids cheering as the car burns. There are gunshots.

"Well, that didn't work," I state the facts.

"No," Eve nods. "No, it didn't."

"And here we are,"

"Now what?" Logan asks, finishing his beer.

"Yes," Eve shrugs and looks at me. "Now what?"

"I would think it's obvious," I say as I put my beer down and climb to my feet. I pull my hoodie over my head and put my hands in its pockets.

"Not to me," Logan objects, getting to his feet as well.

"No, me neither," Eve looks at me, curious.

"There's really only one thing we can do," I say.

"What's that?"

"Go see what lies at the end of Maiden Lane."
Chapter 19

"This is going to take forever," Logan says from behind the wheel of his Audi. I'm in the passenger seat, Eve is in back, her knees tucked up under her chin. We haven't even made it a block. There's some sort of mass demonstration clogging Broadway. It's part protest, part Mardi Gras parade. Someone has even broken out the Macy's Day Parade balloons. People are clapping, singing, dancing and screaming. It's all heading south. The direction we want to go.

"We'll have to take another street," I start, but when I look back over my shoulder, I can see police lights behind us.

"The cops!" Logan panics. "Crap!"

"Wait, are those the real cops?" I ask Eve. "Or...you know, like before..."

Eve looks slightly offended. "I will have you know, that the President of the United State is an agent of the First Foundation. The authenticity of his police cannot be questioned."

"You know what I mean!"

"I do not!"

"But..." Logan watches the cop cars approach in his rear-view mirrors. "...you're all on the same side, right? You said the Foundations made up! Years ago. They're not here for us, are they?"

"Ah yes..." Eve looks a little less offended. "Well...you see, there's sort of been a little bit of a disagreement about the whole 'Let's get Roderic Gant's great, big brain to figure things out for us' plan. Where Junior predicted that you could be cajoled into helping us..."

"What? What?" I panic.

"Tusk and the First Foundation don't think we have the time to be so subtle."

"Is this the whole Gitmo thing again?"

"I think the boat for Gitmo thing has long since sailed. I think we're at 'Hold a gun to your head until you fix Red Shield' sort of tactic now."

"Oh hell!" I reach for my seatbelt. "Drive!" I tell Logan.

"No, no. Get out," Logan answers, calmly.

"What?" Some friend!

"No, you'll make quicker time on foot. Join the crowd. It's heading in the right direction. I'll turn the car around. The cops will follow me. I can buy you some time."

The lights are getting closer. There's no time to argue. "Come on!" I yell back to Eve.

The car doors haven't even closed and Logan is reversing. He flips the car around and accelerates. At a corner, he fishtails off to the north. As predicted, the police cars give chase.

Eve and I join the protest. We blend right in. People are singing, chanting, banging on drums. Signs vary from _John 3:16_ to _Workers of the World Unite!_ There are plenty of _Impeach Tusk!_ signs as well. The air is a cloy mix of burning incense and car fires.

A naked man, totally painted orange, is dancing on a platform, carried by a dozen stout men. He does a handstand, but overcompensates and comes crashing down into the crowd. He's instantly lost in the chaos.

"Three beers and I think I'm only a tenth as drunk as everyone else here," I say to Eve. I have an arm around her, fearing that she'll get dragged away by the throng.

"This is New York," she says. "Any excuse for a party." She has to yell, I can only just hear her.

"So, how did you find me?" I ask a minute later. She can't hear me. "How did you find me?" I bellow and point back at Logan's apartment building.

She understands. "You don't need a Megalytic computer to realize you'd go see the only person in New York you know."

I pull Eve away from the marching crowd so I can hear a little better. "But Junior didn't figure that out?"

"I doubt anyone bothered to ask. We're outside the predictions of the Rubric now. Way outside."

"What happened?" I ask.

"Junior got it wrong," Eve dismisses.

"That sounds unlikely. Junior can predict the future. He knew that one day, I would have invented Megalytics. It can predict my random movements around town well enough to continuously keep you one step ahead of me and give your plenty of time for a costume change. And you say it got something wrong? What? It didn't know I'd escape from Tusk's mansion?"

"No, it knew you'd do that. It was critical that you did that. But you were supposed to steal the letter opener off his desk in those few moments you had before Tusk came into the library. With that, you were to stab one of the Secret Service Agents in the leg, steal his gun, and shoot the other two. With blanks, of course. Then you would have made your way out into the party, where I would have been waiting, miraculously returned from the dead. The first words from my mouth would have been all too predictable: 'What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?' In that scenario, there was a 56 percent chance that you'd fall madly in love with me, right then and there."

"Madly in love? Fifty-six percent?" I'm appalled. "Was this some sort of sick game?"

Eve isn't listening, or can't hear me. "Instead, you took a baseball. You somehow used it to start a fire, and I have no idea what happened next. Why would you take a baseball? Who takes a baseball? There was a weapon right in front of you, and you took a Willie Mays autographed baseball!"

"I guess I always liked sports," I say as some sort of defense.

"Anyway, that shot the Rubric's predictive matrix all to hell. And there was nowhere near time enough to recalculate a new one. All we were left with was the truth. That's why I showed up at Logan's apartment."

"I'm glad you did," I say, looking down at Eve. She looks up and smiles. I'm glad she's there. Wherever we're going, whatever happens next, I'm glad she's there with me. I'd hate to have to try and save the world on my own.

"Watch out," Eve says suddenly. I think we're having a moment, and then she elbows me in the gut.

"What?" I cough.

"Agents," she says, pointing down the street.

Sure enough, the demonstration is slowly pouring into Columbus Circle, in front of the Tusk Tower. The three Secret Service agents from Tusk's mansion are moving beside the crowd, searching it from behind mirrored sunglasses.

This was a mistake.

"We're marching right back into their hands," I say.

"This way," Eve grabs me by the hand. We break from the crowd, still well clear of the circle, and take a side road. Things are much quieter here. I can hear myself think again.

"So, up until the baseball," I ask, after we've walked in silence for a few blocks. "You knew all of my movements? Weeks in advance?"

"No, not exactly. It's all probabilities. Mostly you stayed within the standard deviation, but occasionally you threw us for a loop."

"I understand how you'd know I'd be in the elevator. But the limousine?"

"That was Tusk's people. The First Foundation. Junior predicted they'd attempt to grab you on the ride to JFK. I needed to make contact before. There was a 15 percent chance that you'd accept their offer, or stay in the car too long."

"But how'd you know I'd get out at 23rd Street exactly?"

"If I kept you talking in the elevator to exactly 9:51, 23rd would be the first red light you'd hit up Broadway."

"Seriously?" I laugh.

"That's the Rubric." Eve laughs too.

We're walking alone, down a New York street, brownstones on either side. It's like we're on a date. Except the world economy has collapsed. And the streets are totally empty, except for the occasional burning car.

"So you get to the hot dog stand ahead of me. Because I'm going to be heading for the subway, but..."

"There was more than a 94 percent chance that you'd stop for something to eat. Something authentic. The odds were on pizza, but I played a hunch: hot dogs."

"And the agents in the subway?"

"They were in an SUV behind the limo all the way from the hotel. Tusk doesn't take no for an answer."

"And you?"

"One stop up on the 4 train. They were holding the train, waiting for me. All the people who got off at your stop were our people. Running interference, helping you get on the train, but not looking like they were running interference and helping you get on the train. It worked out pretty well."

"And you were in there waiting, pretending to be?"

"Croatian," Eve rolls her eyes. "I had to study those lines for four months! Do you know how many ways there are to call somebody a sick pig in Croatian?"

"I bet you do."

"I do. But, oh!" Eve grabs my arm in genuine excitement. "This is when we almost lost you! You come out at Wall Street and, as predicted, checked out Maiden Lane. But there's a 61 percent chance that you call an Uber and head for the airport. But you didn't!"

"I called Logan."

"Exactly. And there I am, in a Hyundai, waiting for you to tap the app."

I get a strange sensation. "You didn't have your hair up in dreadlocks, did you? Wearing a rastacap?" I ask.

"No," Eve looks at me, confused. "Red, leather jacket and a sequined cap that read _Fresh_."

"Okay, good," I sigh in relief. "I'd hate for things to get weird."

Eve is about to say something, but a police car cuts across in front of us, running with lights and sirens. We freeze in place. I'd almost forgotten we were running from the cops. We take cover behind a stoop and listen as the sirens fade.

"I don't think he saw us," I venture.

"We need to get off the street," Eve says. "They're going to realize we broke away from the protest and start searching the blocks by quadrants. It'll only be a matter of time."

"And it's still a long way to Maiden Lane."

"I have an idea," Eve grabs my hand. "Come on!"

Chapter 20

We find stairs that lead up to the High Line Park and hop the gate. Even if the world wasn't coming to an end, and it wasn't three in the morning, the park would have been the perfect way to stroll leisurely downtown. The city stretches out to our left and right, and the trestles of the old, raised railroad are solid underfoot.

We walk in the moonlight, with the wind blowing through the trees.

"It's a nice night," I say.

"A nice night to save the world?" Eve replies, dreamily.

I laugh. "Don't get your hopes up."

"Oh, I have faith," Eve says. "More than faith. After all, you've been my full-time job for the last eight years."

"Well, that's not creepy at all..."

It's Eve's turn to laugh. "Oh, don't get all excited. It's not like I've been watching you sleep or anything."

"No, just predicting my every, nuanced move – oh! That's right!" I run ahead a few yards, stop and face her. I clap my hands together. "Where were we? At the airport! Of course, you knew I'd go to the airport."

"Of course. One-hundred percent certainty. We originally planned on contacting you there, but the chances that you might accept Tusk's invitation to the party – or his thugs managed to manhandle you into their car – were just too great. We had to make contact first, in the elevator of the apartment. Tilt the Rubric well in our favor."

The apartment! The job offer! My generous benefactor! I'd forgotten all about them all. I look down at my destroyed shoes and feel a pang of sorrow. "Is he..." I begin.

"Who?" Eve asks.

"You know who," I say.

"Oh." She hooks her arm in mine and leads me on. "Yes, he is one of us. But don't feel bad! His job offer is totally genuine. If everything goes well tonight, there's a real job, with a salary containing many zeros, waiting for you at a certain online retail giant."

"I don't want it now," I pout.

"Why not?" Eve is surprised.

"Now that I know somebody has already built my Megalytic machine? What's the point?"

"You could build a better one," Eve suggest.

"It's not the same as building the original."

"No, maybe not–"

"But the airport," I interrupt, trying to keep the conversation on track. "That car. The dress. The chase. Was any of that real?"

"All of it," Eve throws up her arms. "Well, some of it. We had fair warning. From Junior. We were able to clear the streets, so no one got hurt. And we made sure you had a very fast car."

"I didn't know I could drive like that."

"After all those late nights playing video games in your dorm room? Don't you remember who introduced you to _Gran Turismo_?"

I do now. Sitting on the end of Logan's bed, playing against his girlfriend on his tiny flat panel. "Oh no! The helicopter!" I remember.

"Don't worry, they're fine. Turns out the East River isn't such a bad place to crash."

"But the Lincoln Tunnel? All those cops? How'd you pull that off?"

"That might not totally have been on the up-and-up."

"And the police station?"

"Yeah, not a police station." Eve admits. "Didn't you recognize it? I think they film _NCIS_ there."

"I wasn't exactly focusing on the décor," I say.

"It had to be a film set. We needed the steam tunnel into the bank. And those were our cops outside on the street. And actors playing the bank customers."

"And the guns?" I ask.

"Loaded with blanks, I assure you."

"Then up to rooftop. And the helicopter."

"Again, like the airport, there was a 100 percent chance that things ended up at the helicopter."

"But you-" Just thinking about it makes the horrid feeling in the pit of my stomach return. "You fell."

"Toward an air cushion painted to look like the street. It was a tricky stunt, but I'd had plenty of practice. The helicopter was supposed to fly you to where we're heading now – to the Trade Center Memorial Site."

"But I jumped."

"You jumped."

"Why'd I do that?" Even after-the-fact, I have no idea why.

"It was always a possibility. The Rubric predicted it. We were prepared for the eventuality. But it meant your capture by Tusk's men was all but inevitable."

"But why?" I say again.

"Junior calculated there was a-" Eve begins to explain.

"No," I cut her off. "Why did you make me believe you fell? I...I was devastated." I could see nothing wrong with telling her the truth. Not at this juncture.

"Ah," Eve sighs. "That right mix of romantic entanglement and personal peril, remember? That was always Junior's goal. And what's more entangling than a beautiful love interest? The memory of a lost one?"

"That's horrible."

"But affective."

"But you weren't really going to be dead."

"No, of course not. We're not monsters."

"But I messed all that up, when I took the baseball instead of the letter opener?"

"Totally. That was completely outside the scope of the Rubric. There was no eventuality in Junior's calculations where you stole an autographed baseball and were able to use it to escape. I mean, exactly how did you do it?"

"It was dumb luck, really," I shrug.

"Yeah, well, I guess even Junior can't compensate for the dumb luck factor."

We fall into silence, walking side-by-side along the path. The stillness of the night is punctuated by the occasional passing siren or a sudden, thundering explosion.

"There's still one thing I don't get," I say, breaking the silence.

"What's that?" Eve looks at me.

"What was the deal with all the outfits?" I ask, laughing.

Eve laughs too. "Well, Junior was hazy on your exact fantasy. The odds were evenly spread. So we figured, we'd give you some options, see which one worked best."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"But the girl in the elevator? With the Funyuns?"

"Well, you do have a doctorate in mathematics. There was more than an outside chance that you were...you know, an inhaler pumper."

"That's just stupid," I dismiss.

"You have to understand, we were working under critical time pressure-" Eve begins.

"No, I mean, why go to the trouble?"

"Huh?" Eve isn't understanding my point.

"I mean..." I wave at Eve in a 'look at you' sort of fashion. She still doesn't get it. "Come on, just you. Like this. Right now. What guy are you NOT his fantasy?"

Eve stops and gets a queer look on her face. There's that fire in her eyes again. I stop, keeping my distance. I can't tell if she's flattered or angry.

She takes a step toward me and leans in. I'm looking down into those burning eyes. "You know, you're sort of cute yourself," she says.

I lean in too. She tilts her head slightly to the side. I'm going in for the kiss...

...and all hell breaks loose. The feeling of déjà vu is unmistakable. The remaining helicopter, from the chase along the FDR, pops up out of nowhere. It's kicking up dust and blowing over shrubs.

Eve and I look at it in terror, hanging on to each other. "No chance this is all part of some Rubric?" I ask.

"Not on your life!" Eve answers. "Run!"
Chapter 21

We don't make it three steps before we're hugging the trestles. The helicopter comes in low and fast, kicking up a great storm of dust and garbage. It passes overhead, climbs and does a great arc in the night's sky before us.

Back on our feet, we run to the railing of the park. An empty street is right below us, but it's a long drop. We peer down over the edge, warily.

The helicopter banks around.

Then a glimmer of hope. A military truck pulls out from underneath us. It rolls to a halt at a stop sign. The opportunity is just too good to pass up. Eve and I quickly scramble over the railing.

"Ready?" I ask Eve, the toes of my handmade shoes slipping dangerously off the steel of the railing.

"Ready!" Eve replies. And we both jump. We hit the canvas top of the bus truck. Eve manages to keep her footing. I fall forward and roll. I run out of truck and go feet first over the side.

I end up in a heap on the blacktop. Eve leaps down gracefully beside me. We can already see the lights of police cars approaching.

The helicopter whooshes overhead.

"We need to get off the street!" Eve is up and running. I painfully pull myself up off the ground. She runs toward a gleam of neon, pointing down an alley. I run after her.

As we dodge down the alley, I look back at the approaching cars. I can see the familiar shape of a black SUV leading the pack.

The neon leads us down the alley to a velvet rope and an impossibly large doorman. It's a night club, still very much in business. Now that the helicopter has pulled away, I can clearly hear the thumping base track emanating from behind the closed door.

The doorman takes one look at Eve and unclips the velvet rope. Is it always this easy for girls to get into a club?

I follow. The doorman doesn't stop me.

Inside, it's deafeningly loud. Everyone and everything is cast in a garish purple hue. The club is packed, wall-to-wall. It looks like one hell of a party. Two steps in and we're already invisible in the crowd.

"Dance!" Eve screams at me, over the thunderous beats. She starts doing so herself. She is, of course, excellent at it. I, on the other hand, am a mathematician. I make a weak attempt.

As I'm doing my best two-step, I notice the three agents in dark glasses enter the club. I nudge Eve. She nods.

We start dancing toward the back of the club.

We soon run out of dance floor. The agents spread out, pushing their way through the dense, human mass. They're scanning the room, searching, their bodies remarkably unmoved by the pumping bass. Even in the purple light, they keep their mirrored aviator shades on. How can they see anything?

Unable to boogie our way to freedom, Eve and I dodge under a VIP rope. Again, the large bouncer with the ear-piece barely pays us any attention. In amongst the garishly dressed VIP's, we find a place to sit on a large, overstuffed couch. We scoop up a couple of forgotten glasses of champagne and try to make ourselves look like we belong there.

It's only then that I notice that every other couple in the VIP section is engaged in some form of making out. We seem to have pushed our way into the smooching section. As one of the agents closes in, I panic. There's no where left to run. We're at a dead end.

Then, without warning, Eve grabs me around the neck. She plants a kiss on me, her face square into mine. It's nice. Perfect, even. Her lips taste like beer and Funyuns. It takes me back to our first meeting – or reunion, I guess – back in the elevator, descending from the penthouse. I realize that was just a few hours ago. It seems like another lifetime.

The kiss goes on long after the agent has passed us by. I sort of hope it never ends.

When we finally break apart, Eve looks at me sheepishly. I can only imagine the dumbfounded look on my face.

Then Eve cracks a smile, chuckles, and slaps me affectionately on the chest. "How's that for romantic entanglement and personal peril, huh? Figured out how to save the world yet?"

I shake my head, dizzy. "No, sorry. Maybe if we try it again?" I lean in for another kiss.

"Easy," Eve pushes me back. Something across the room has caught her attention. "I think that perhaps we've overstayed our welcome."

And like that, the thumping bass cuts out. I turn my head to see one of the agents holding his badge up to the DJ. There's a pop, then the purple haze turns into a garish, florescent white.

Suddenly, everyone in the club is screaming, angry, pushing and shoving, demanding explanations from anyone who might have one. Even the denizens of the VIP section look up from their canoodling, blinking into the bright light.

Note to future generations, if there ever are any: Don't try and shutdown an end-of-the-world party. People don't take it well. And they've got nothing to lose.

The agent up on the stage – the one who'd told the DJ to turn the music off – doesn't see the beer bottle until it's too late. It hits him in the side of the head, knocking off his dark glasses. After that, there's a great rush of bodies toward the front of the club and a great deal of screaming and shouting. Eve and I are already leaping over the VIP rope, and we sprint for the club's only fire exit. Just as we clear the back door, the familiar boom of the bass speakers returns, thumping over the collective cheers of the crowd.

But we're outside now, in the cool of the night. The street is empty, silent.

"Do you think they'll be okay?" I ask, looking back at the fire door. I can barely make out the noise of bass track through the closed doors.

"Who cares?" Eve dismisses. I look at her. "They'll be fine," she adds, realizing she's being callous. "They have guns and badges. We've got work to do."

"How much further is it?" I ask. We're somewhere in Greenwich Village, even I'm able to recognize the neighborhood.

"Not far to go now," Eve says, taking my hand. "But we'd better hurry."

"We'll never make it on foot," I pull her back, holding her hand tight. "Not with that helicopter."

Eve doesn't fight me. She knows I'm right. She's thinking. Then her ears pique up. She can hear something. "No, but what if we catch a ride?"

She's running again, pulling me by the hand.

It's my turn not to fight her.
Chapter 21

There's a fire truck rolling down the avenue, sirens blaring and lights flashing. When it slows down at the intersection to blow through a red light, Eve and I sprint up and leap onto the back. The fire truck accelerates almost instantly, hurrying off south toward whatever emergency called it out. I almost fall off, but Eve puts an arm around me.

We're making good time. And we're almost totally invisible from the air.

As we speed along the city streets of Lower Manhattan. I sneak a peek forward and can see the Freedom Tower in the distance. We're almost there.

Then, as suddenly as it had accelerated, the truck slows. It's tires lock and squeal to a halt. Eve is squashed between me and the red fire truck as we both struggle to hang on.

Voices are screaming. There's the sound of breaking glass. Then the soft whoosh of something, followed by a loud _bang_. Almost instantly, the smell and taste of teargas hits me. I'm coughing, pulling my hoodie over my mouth.

Eve and I leap down from the trunk. Coming around the side, we see what made the truck hit its brakes: a large barricade of shopping carts, tires and jersey barriers blocking Canal Street in front of us. A block down, there's a phalanx of police in riot gear. Near us, a mob of masked men are tossing rocks.

We'd stumbled into the middle of a real riot.

There's another soft whoosh, and I watch a teargas canister arc toward us, spewing pink smoke. It hits the ground near my feet, skipping and coming to rest against the curb. A man in a gas mask sprints toward it, scoops it up and tosses it back toward the police line. But the dose of gas is more than enough to really get the tears going. Eve and I double over in retching fits.

"Run!" I splutter and point past the barricade. Eve nods and shuffles off, doubled over, in that direction. I follow, as do many men throwing rocks.

I think they were waiting for somebody, anybody, to start the advance on the police line. Eve and I inadvertently get things going, trying to cross the street and head south. A battle cry raises up from the rioters. They are met by the sound of truncheons thumping on riot shields.

Then, both sides are in full charge, sprinting toward each other. They collide in the middle of the block. A battle royale.

Eve and I don't wait around to see who wins. We're running south through TriBeCa, wiping our eyes and trying to clear our lungs.

We make it almost to City Hall before the world comes crashing down around us.

We're sprinting down Broadway when we spy the first black SUV, turning off Park Place. We do a 180, running back toward the riot, when a second SUV turns right off Warren. We start east down Murrey, but three cars are already waiting there. We're boxed in.

Before we can react, the SUV's have formed a circle around us.

I'm panting, out of breath, still recovering from the teargas. I want to fight. But with what? Only then do I remember I left the gun back in Logan's apartment.

The back passenger door of the SUV before us cracks open. A shiny loafer and a well-tailored trouser leg appears. I'm half expecting President Tusk to step out. Instead, a small, less orange man climbs out of the car.

"Logan?" I ask in disbelief.

I look down at the object in his hand. Yep, there's my gun.

"Roddy," Logan says, giving me a nod. I can't help but notice the gun is pointed at me.

I look at Eve. Is this another one of her games? But she looks as flabbergasted as me.

"Surprised to see me again so soon?" Logan asks.

"Surprised to see you pointing a gun at me," I answer. From the other cars, dozens of agents appear holding assault rifles. "Care to explain what's going on?"

"It's simple enough, my old mate," Logan smiles. "You didn't think that the Second Foundation was the only organization with a mole at Cal-Tech, keeping an eye on things, did you?" He points at Eve with the gun. "The young kids think they're so smart, but we already knew about you, Gant, years before they did."

"You mean, you're a-" I can hardly say it. "You mean you're a _Mason_?" I accuse.

"I told you, mate, we run everything."

"No, that's not possible..." Eve shakes her head.

"Sorry, Stacy, love. It was nothing personal."

I'm angry. "You bastard."

"No! No!" Logan correct. "Certainly not a bastard. You see Roderic, my friend, I'm not just WITH the First Foundation. I AM the First Foundation. A direct, blood descendant of Meyer Rothschild himself. The big cheese, so to speak. All this – everything that's happened this evening – has been my doing. You thought that President Tusk was the First Foundation's top agent," Logan laughs maniacally. "Well, you were wrong, my friend. Very wrong."

Logan is talking, but I'm not really listening. It's all like some strange dream. I feel like I'm floating above myself, watching the conversation happen. Logan? A Rothschild? A mole, planted in my dorm room to spy on me, all those years ago? Our whole friendship just a pretense to keep tabs on me?

Logan's lips are moving, but I'm looking at the gun. My gun. The gun I'd once pointed at him, now points back at me. There's a weird, perfect symmetry to the whole situation.

Then something inside my brain clicks. A rotor turns or a lever snaps closed. My eyes grow very wide, and I suddenly can't open my mouth fast enough.

"I know how to fix it!" I blurt. "I understand it now!"

"Do you mind!" Logan bellows back. "I'm sort of having a moment here!" His grip shifts on the handgun uncomfortably.

"Understand what?" Eve looks at me, ignoring Logan.

"The answer to your question! What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?"

"We all know the answer to that!" Logan sighs. "A bloody great supercomputer called Red Shield!"

"No, no, that's not it," I insist.

Logan's disgust turns to concern. He's studying me, trying to figure out if I've had an epiphany, or an aneurysm. He knows very well what lies at the end of Maiden Lane. What am I talking about?

"I mean, that might very well be what's physically located at the end of Maiden Lane. But that's not the answer to the question," I go on.

"Then what is?" Eve asks, curious.

"Another question: which end?"

"Which end of what?" Logan asks. He's back to being disgusted.

"Maiden Lane. What lies at the end of Maiden Lane? Which end do you mean? Maiden Lane is a two-way street – it has two ends. I made that mistake the first time I stepped foot on it, I looked east first, saw nothing, then looked west. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but now I understand, it's the answer to everything! I under what's wrong with Junior! How to save the economy! Why Megalytics doesn't work on money! The answer was already there, hidden in your question, I just couldn't see it. Until now."

There's silence. Even the agents with the machine guns have lowered their weapons to watch me for sudden signs of insanity. Nobody gets it. Nobody should. There really isn't time to explain.

Eve is the first to react. "You mean, you know how to fix it? You really think you can stop all this?"

I laugh. "I'm sure of it."

Eve grabs my hand. "Then, there's no time to-"

Logan clears his throat. He waves his gun about, reminding everyone that it's still there. His agents snap their rifles back to their shoulders. "If it's not too much trouble, we're not totally finished here."

"But Logan, don't you understand? I can fix it! I can fix everything! I can stop all of this!"

Logan doesn't move. He doesn't lower the gun.

"Isn't that what all of this has been about?" I ask.

Again, Logan doesn't answer.

"You WANT me to stop this, right? Logan? You want Red Shield restored."

Nothing.

"Logan?"

"No." It's Eve who answers. "No, they've never trusted it. None of the First Foundation. They only cooperated with the Second Foundation because they thought it would never work. Fixing Junior would put an end to their long-predicted apocalypse. Deny them their ascension."

"But the whole economy is going to crash! People are going to suffer. The end-of-the-world is nigh."

"They don't care," Eve growls. "It's all part of Rothschild's plan. It must be."

"If the end-of-the-world is now," Logan says, softly and slowly. "Then who are we to interfere?"

"But I can fix it. I can fix the whole thing. Stop the collapse."

"And deny Rothschild his true vision?" Logan looks at me, eyebrow raised.

"You're insane!" I step back. He still has the gun pointed at me.

"No," Logan shakes his head. "But I can't let you interfere..."

The gun comes up. I quickly put myself between Logan and Eve. If he's going to shoot anyone, he's going to have to shoot me. But he doesn't get the chance. Down the street, the sound of drums and horns suddenly erupts. The protest – the parade – from further up on Broadway is rounding the bend. The whole marching crowd, giant balloons, naked orange man and all are turning off Broadway, heading toward City Hall. Suddenly, our private conversation, replete with automatic weapons and the desire to do us harm, has become a lot less private. The Secret Service agents look at each other, to Logan and at the protesters as they close in.

Logan turns to me in a panic. He wants to shoot but knows he can't. He glances back at the approaching crowd. Is there time? When he looks back, Eve and I are already gone.

"After them!" he shouts. And the agent's sling their weapons, sprinting close behind.
Chapter 22

"This way!" Eve calls back to me. We run. I'm following Eve. There are men right behind us. We're running away from the safety of the protest. That doesn't seem wise. Still, I'm focused on outrunning our pursuers.

We turn a corner, and there's the Freedom Tower. We're here! Finally at the end of Maiden Lane. Eve doesn't stop to look around, she's running, heading down into the World Trade Center Memorial. After a momentary pause, I follow, really pouring on the speed.

She comes to a halt beside the south reflecting pool. I almost topple over her. I look back. Our pursuers are gone. Maybe we out ran them, maybe they don't dare follow us into the Memorial. Either way, we're suddenly alone.

Eve pants, doubled over, hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

"Now what?" I ask, looking around.

Eve straightens and pulls a coin out of her pocket. At first I think it's a quarter, but it's too large. Looking closer, it's a dollar coin. But not one of the new, aluminum ones with a president's face on it, but a real, old dollar coin. Maybe even made of silver.

"What's that for?" I ask.

"Okay, don't freak out," Eve says, still breathing hard. "But this next part gets a little bit James Bond."

And she tosses the coin into the reflecting pool.

It hits the water with a satisfying _spelunk_. It was a real coin all right, nice and heavy.

Nothing happens. I look at Eve, she looks at me. She smiles.

Then everything happens all at once.

The waterfalls down the sides of the pool cut out, like someone somewhere turned off a faucet. What water is in the bottom of the pool quickly drains, and a hidden section of the wall below our feet moves out, forming a staircase down into the pool. From inside the central hollow, light streams up and out. A door is opening, like great blast doors on a missile silo. Down through the crack, I can see the blades of a very familiar helicopter. Men in uniforms are running about.

James Bond is right.

When the mechanism is finally complete, slick, wet stairs lead all the way down into the center of the reflecting pool. Eve wastes no time, leaping over the railing and hoping down each gargantuan step.

I look around, wondering if anyone else is seeing this. Nobody is there. I'm all alone, standing at the edge of the pool. I remember the men with guns and gingerly hop over the railing.

Down underneath the reflecting pool, it's a hive of activity.

Nobody pays us any attention. I stumble dumbstruck across the helipad, looking at everything. Soldiers are refueling the helicopter, unloading supply vehicles. It looks like the whole place is getting ready for the long haul. Or a siege. That thought is slightly disconcerting.

Eve grabs me by the arm. I've wandered off. "This way," she says.

She leads me to a set of bombproof doors. I understand logically that this was once a basement level of the old World Trade Center Tower 2, but I can't quite make what I'm seeing all around me jibe with that reality. Through the giant doors, we're inside a long, glass corridor. To either side are racks of computers. It's like walking between infinity mirrors. To the left and right, hardware seems to go on forever. Everywhere lights are flashing.

"This is Junior?" I ask.

"Some of it, yes," Eve has me by the hand. I'm not moving fast enough. "There's sixteen rooms like this on this floor, and fourteen more floors under our feet. And that's just this tower."

"I can't believe it!" And I can't. I stop in my tracks, marveling at it all.

"There's no time to sightsee," Eve protests, pulling on my hand.

"But..." I sigh. "You did all this? To replace one clockwork computer?"

"Yes!" Eve tugs on me angrily. "I already told you."

"But now I understand what you really did, it's just so much more amazing."

"There's no time."

"Yes, yes," I relent. "Let's go."

The corridor leads to a command center. Something right out of _War Games_. Giant screens take up two or three stories of wall space. All of them are showing market indicators, all pointing down. Hundreds of military personnel are manning bank after bank of workstations. They could be landing the Apollo space capsule or fighting the Third World War. It's rather hard to tell.

There's a command deck in the command center. Eve pulls me across the floor toward this. There, half a dozen Generals are gathered, all in their fine uniforms, sporting chests full of medals. In amongst them, I see President Tusk. I pull back hard on Eve's hand.

"It's okay," she assures.

A General notices me. "Who's this guy?"

"Hey, he looks like-" another add.

"He's not!" Eve holds up a commanding hand.

"What's that clown doing here?" Tusk bellows, the instant he sees me. "Get him out of here! Guards!"

Men with guns close in.

"No! Wait!" Eve calls out. "You have to listen! Gant can fix Junior! He's figured it all out!"

Tusk raises a hand. The guards stop advancing.

Instead, Eve and I climb up onto the command deck. The Generals look suspicious. Tusk looks bemused.

"So, you know how to fix it, huh?" Tusk smirks. "You figured it out? They said you were a smart one, but I had my doubts."

"I have. I know how to save the economy."

"Eve's little fantasy game finally paid out?"

"No, it had nothing to do with that."

"No?"

"No. But the question that it proposed was certainly the right question to ask. I'm guessing Junior's Rubric suggested it?"

Eve looks at me, confused. "Of course."

"What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?" I ask the gathered generals. "That's what it asked."

"Well, here we are," Tusk chuckles, looking around the room. "At the end of Maiden Lane."

"Yes, but that's not what Junior meant. I mean, at a certain level, that's true, this facility lies at the end of Maiden Lane. But think of the question another way: What lies at the end of Maiden Lane? If you travel down Maiden Lane, where are you when the journey is done?"

Tusk is confused. I look at Eve. She's confused too. But one of the Generals gets it. A Marine. "With some sort of solution to this damned economic crisis," he says.

"What lies at the end of Maiden Lane? A solution to our crisis. And what has gone wrong?"

"Red Shield has gone offline?" Eve answers, playing along. "And Junior can't do what Red Shield could?"

"Exactly. And why?"

"Because Megalytics doesn't work with money."

"Correct. And that's why you need me. Because, despite all this," I wave around at the command center. "I'm still the world's foremost expert on Megalytics."

"We already know all this, smart guy," Tusk complains. "How about you get to the part where you fix Junior?"

"Oh, I can't do that," I answer.

"What?" Tusk almost explodes.

"What?" Eve echoes. "You said that you figured it out, that you know how to fix Junior!"

"No, I never said that," I correct. "I said I can stop the economy from collapsing. I can't fix Junior. Junior is working fine. Better than fine, in fact. It's truly amazing!"

"But how can you fix the economic collapse," one of the generals asks. A navy man, so I guess that makes him an admiral. "Without reprogramming Junior to replace the functions of Red Shield? There's no time to build another computer."

"Oh no, we don't need to build another computer," I dismiss. "We have all the computing power here that we'll ever need. More, in fact, than we need. That's sort of the problem. No, what we have to think about is why Junior – a purpose-built Megalytic computer – can't replace the functions of Rothschild's original machine."

"Because you're crappy math doesn't work on money," Tusk growls. "We just went over that."

"Right. Megalytics doesn't work on money. Up until this evening, even I had no idea why that was true. Why doesn't the math of really big numbers work on the really big numbers of money and finance? Are the numbers not big enough? Absolutely not. Too big? Not a chance. I mean, Megalytics should work on money." I turn to Eve. "As you said, the math was formulated studying a machine doing exactly that. What's the disconnect? And then it hit me, standing up there, with my former best friend point a gun at me that I, just an hour before, had been pointing at him. It's a two-way street – Maiden Lane. There's two ends of the street."

Silence again, just like before. A General speaks up. "You're not making a whole hell of a lot of sense."

"Sorry, let me explain. What if Megalytics doesn't work on money, because Megalytics doesn't work on Megalytics?"

"Now you're just rephrasing the same nonsense," Tusk says.

"No, think about it. What is money?" I ask everyone. Nobody speaks.

Then a brave General, Air Force, answers tentatively, "A medium of exchange?"

"Yes! Thank you! And?"

"A store of value," Eve adds. She's catching on.

"Correct! And?" I look between the confused faces watching me. "And? No one? A unit of account. It's this last one that's interesting. The standard unit of measurement for market value – we think about the value of things in terms of dollars and cents, even though dollars and cents have no intrinsic value themselves. Money is data, data we use to understand economic wealth. That's where Megalytics and money break down."

"But Megalytics works on other forms of data. Junior consumes it by the petabyte."

"Right. And that's the point. A Megalytic computer requires vast amount of data to process its predictions. After all, Megalytics is the math of really big numbers. Really, really, really big numbers."

"You're trying my patience, Gant," Tusk is watching me from behind squinting eyes.

"But what if there's already a computer processing that data, making predictions of its own, faster than Junior can make them?"

"There's another Junior?" A General panics. "The Russians?"

"You mean like Rothschild's original computer?" Eve answers, ignoring the General. "But it's totally broken."

"No," I shake my head. "Not Red Shield. But the computer you studied to design Junior. The computer on which all of Megalytics is based."

"But that's..." Eve looks at me, worried. Her concern quickly turns to skepticism. "But that was Red Shield. We developed Megalytics, studying the daily function of Rothschild's machine."

"No, you developed the mathematics of Megalytics, studying the daily EFFECT of Rothschild's. Not its function. As you said yourself, Red Shield's function is extremely primitive, it's the results that are remarkable. You developed the mathematics studying the effects that Red Shield produced, not its function. That's simple. So simple, you've totally overlooked it."

"But..." Eve begins to protest. "Our best minds..."

"Are maybe too smart of their own good. Me too, up until now. We don't see the answer because it's right in front of our face. It's true that the Second Foundation formulated Megalytics studying the most powerful Megalytic computer ever created, it's just that computer is not Red Shield. It's the world economy itself. You weren't studying the predictive capabilities of a Victorian difference engine, you were studying a machine much older and more powerful: the predictive capabilities of a billion humans, performing a billion transactions, involved in free exchange, day after day after day."

"You mean, it's..." Tusk begins, looks up at the giant screens.

"An economy in a bottle!" I complete, in awe of the achievement myself. "Isn't it amazing? A machine of quantum gates and 3D storage, replicating the value-added effect of a global economy, mimicking a billion transactions a second, predicting everything from the price of bananas to how much to invest in cancer research, all reproduced in copper and steel."

"But it can predict far more than the price of bananas," Tusk says.

"Exactly. All that economic processing power, with the ability to run custom code – not just economic models...of course it can predict a single mathematician's movements around the city of New York. I can only imagine what it can't predict."

"But that still doesn't explain why it can't replicate the function of the original Red Shield," the Admiral says.

"Yes it does. Maiden Lane is a two-way street, remember? An economy can't make predictive decisions on an economy that's making predictive decisions without that economy knowing that the other economy is making predictive decisions. Understand?"

Nobody answers. "No," Eve finally replies.

I groan in frustration. I grab Eve by the shoulders, turning her to face me. "We're walking down the corridor toward each other. We both need to move to one side so we can pass each other. You predict that I'm going to step to my left, so you do the same, moving to your left, leaving enough room for me to get by. But if you can't see me, you don't which way I stepped, left or right. You probably don't even know there's a decision to be made, so you keep walking down the middle of the corridor. That totally invalidates my ability to make a predictive decision, because I'm making it on a false pretense. If you don't have the full dataset, it invalidates my predictive capabilities too. Don't you see? It's a feedback loop. My decision has to be based on your predictive capability to formulate a decision which, in turn, has to be based on my predictive capability to formulate a decision. And that's the battle Junior and the world economy are locked in: They're both walking down the corridor, toward each other, guessing who's going to dodge left and who's going to dodge right. Except that world economy doesn't know that Junior is there. That's why the whole thing is going wrong so fast. The world economy and Junior are dancing left and right, always blocking each other's attempt to correct. It's a positive feedback look. Except it's happening a million times per second."

"So...we should just turn it off?" the Admiral again.

"Sure, that'd slow things down, but the damage is already done. We still need to address the original issue, replacing the function of Red Shield."

"And what was that?" Tusk asks.

"Well, let's think like Rothschild for a second, after the Battle of Waterloo. He's found himself with unique access to the levers of world, economic power. And what does he do? He wants to protect the economy from another systemic failure, either intentional or accidental, just like the one he, himself, had almost caused. What does he see as the problem?"

"Insufficient regulation?" someone says.

"Lack of liquidity?" another says.

"Not exactly. Rothschild understood there's something fundamentally wrong with the money supply itself. Think back to my original question: What are the characteristics of money?"

"A medium of exchange?" Eve answers. "A store of value?"

"And a unit of account. But what's the fourth characteristic that we all forget?"

No one answers.

So I answer myself. "A convertible format. That's what Rothschild realized was missing from the money supply – what was wrong with the British pound. It lacked convertibility."

"Convertibility? Into what?" Tusk asks.

"Into something more valuable." I look around at the blank stares. "Um...think about gold. When money was made of gold, there was an innate convertibility to the money supply. If the money began to inflate, a kilogram of gold coins would become less valuable than a kilogram of gold jewelry. In that situation, there'd be natural instinct for people to melt down the gold coins and turn them into jewelry. Inversely, if the money supply deflated – a kilogram of gold coins became more valuable than the same weight in jewelry – there would be a natural instinct to melt down the jewelry and make gold coins.

"You see, with a convertible currency, there's an innate check on inflationary and deflationary forces. This is what Rothschild could see that an economy based on the British pound lacked. Sure, back then, the money was backed by gold: the receipt was for gold bars stored in a bank, but the abstraction denied the economy the natural check of a convertible currency. The money was free to inflate or deflate, and the economy would suffer boons and busts based on that cycle. Win a war? Lose a war? Things could change dramatically. So what did Rothschild do?"

"He build a computer," Eve answers. "To convert the currency."

"Yes, the original Red Shield. Calculating the value of the British pound – or U.S. dollars – in gold. But it was doing more than that. By issuing buy and sell orders on bonds issued by a central bank, it was essentially taking money in and out of the economy, keeping the value of the dollar pegged to the value of gold. That's the genius of Rothschild – that's the function Junior can't even hope to recreate. Despite all its predictive power, despite all its computation prowess, it lacks the function to do that most basic task."

"Then all we really need..." Eve says, thinking.

I already have my phone out, tapping away. "Is a very simple algorithm, ignorant of any outside data source, except the total calculation of dollars in circulation and the total tonnage of gold available."

"It can't be that simple."

"Oh, but it is," I tap my phone two more times and I'm done. "Here," I say to a lieutenant sitting at a computer. "Plug this in."

I hand him my phone. He looks at it in confusion. He looks to the President. We all do. Slowly, warily, Tusk nods.

The lieutenant pulls a cord from the side of his computer. He plugs it into the phone. With one last affirmative from Tusk, he raises a finger over the phone's small screen. He taps on the dollar bill icon.

For a moment, nothing happens. Everyone is watching the big screens, tentatively. I peer over the lieutenant's shoulder, looking at my phone's screen. I'm worried I did something wrong.

But then an alarm, somewhere stops sounding. I hadn't really noticed it was there until it stopped. Then, looking up at the three story screen in front of us all, I can see the line indicating the Dow Jones average begin to level out.

A cheer rises up from the whole command center.

The other economic indicators quickly begin to trend up, too. Suddenly, I'm shaking hands with generals, being slapped hard on the back. I'm blinded by their wide grins. People are on their feet, jumping up and down.

But I don't take my eyes off the screen. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. But after seconds, minutes, nothing about the indicators changes. Everything is pointing up. The economy is recovering. Fast. Really fast.

It's over.

There's a hand on my shoulder. I turn. It's President Tusk. "What did you just do?" he asks.

"I replaced Red Shield with a very small shell script," I say.

Tusk doesn't get a chance to respond. I'm pulled out of his grasp. Eve has an arm around my neck. She looks up into my eyes.

She doesn't say word. She just kisses me. Long and hard.

Just the right mix of romantic entanglement and personal peril will focus my genius, I'm thinking.

Without a doubt, I'm focused.
Chapter 23

Eddie checks his watch. The 4 train is 10 minutes behind again. He keeps his lunch box close, tight on his lap, keeping the seat to his left and right clear. Doesn't the MTA know people have places to be?

Calm down, Eddie tells himself, you'll still be there in plenty of time. Eddie turns his attention to studying the other passengers in his car. It's his normal, morning routine, a game he likes to play with himself. Can he guess where the other passengers are going? Coming from? What lays ahead of them in their day? Success? Failure? The same old day-to-day routine?

Eventually, the 4 train arrives at the Wall Street station. Eddie checks his watch again. Eleven minutes late now, he shakes his head. But still, plenty of time.

Eddie disembarks, carrying his lunch box in his left hand. He climbs the stairs and exits the station. It's a nice, early winter's day. Eddie turns north on William Street and passes Cedar and Liberty streets. Then, on Maiden Lane, he takes a left. Half a block along, he scans his ID card against a nondescript door into the Federal Reserve building. It's unmarked. Uninteresting.

Inside, there's a metal detector and two men with machine guns. They welcome Eddie by name but put him through the full security scan. They search his lunch box thoroughly. It's the same as yesterday – the same as every day – but they take the ham and cheese sandwich out of its foil and flick through its layers like a deck of cards. They open the flask and sniff at the coffee, swirling it around.

Satisfied, they put the lunch box back together. Eddie steps through the metal detector to the sound of no alarms. That used to trip him up – months ago. His belt buckle. After the third time of full pat-downs, Eddie got smart and bought a plastic belt. Now it's just his keys, MTA card and ID in the bucket beside the scanner. The guards check these over anyway. Nothing new.

With the formalities over, Eddie recovers his belonging and continues on deeper into the building. At an elevator, he scans his card again. He takes the elevator down many floors. Many, many floors it seems. Eddie doesn't know. There's no indicators on the inside of the elevator. Just an up and down button. It takes a full two minutes before the elevator doors open again. Eddie steps out into a long corridor.

The corridor ends at another nondescript door. This one also guarded by two armed men with machine guns. They welcome Eddie by name, but they don't move.

Standing at the door between them, Eddie fishes into his pocket and flips through his keys. He finds a large one, like a church key, and puts it in the lock. The door makes a great deal of grinding as Eddie turns the key and pushes the door open.

It makes just as much noise as Eddie turns the key on the other side, locking himself in. As he does, a motion sensor triggers the light. It's a small room, empty except for a card table and chair in the center. The lights are garish, white. One tube is blinking on and off. Eddie sets his lunch box on the table. He pulls our the chair and sits.

He looks at the small, black phone before him on the table. There's a USB cable coming out of it, running who knows where. Eddie looks at the time. He look at his watch to confirm.

There's just enough time, he thinks, reaching for his lunch box.

He has his ham and cheese sandwich almost to his mouth, when the phone chimes, telling him there really wasn't. Eddie rolls his eyes and puts down the sandwich. He checks the phone's screen. One new message. He opens it. A long string of figures, as always, and a dialog box.

_Upload Data to the Federal Reserve?_ it reads. And there's a button for _Yes_ and a button for _No_. Eddie taps the button for _Yes_. The message on the screen disappears and is replaced by a confirmation: _Upload Successful_.

His work done for the day, Eddie turns his attention back to the sandwich. Ham and cheese. Delicious.
Chapter 24

"Breakfast, Monsieur," the valet says, pushing his cart into the room.

"Excellent, thank you," I reply. "On the veranda, please." I point at the double doors, out toward the Mediterranean.

"Oui, Monsieur," the valet nods and busies himself emptying large, silver trays of food. As he works, I busy myself with the morning papers. The news is good. It's almost like the economic collapse never happened. The news cycle has moved on, and the papers are obsessing themselves with President Tusk saying something new and alarming.

When the valet finishes, I toss the papers aside and tighten my impossibly fluffy dressing gown. "Oh," I say after the valet. "And if you might do something about those shoes by the door, that would be great."

The valet stops and picks up my shoes. Or what's left of my beautiful, perfect handmade shoes. "Oui Monsieur," he answers in disgust. I can almost sense him deciding if he should just throw them away, or make an attempt at repairing them.

I'm not overly concerned. I sit down at the table on the veranda in the morning sun and pick up a slice of toast. I begin to chew.

Sensing breakfast, Eve emerges from the bedroom, wrapped in an equally fluffy, white dressing gown. She sits across from me and blinks out at our majestic view of the French Riviera. She finds some bacon and eats with her hands.

"You know Tusk said we can stay at any of his hotels, anytime we want. For free. We don't have to hang around this dump any longer than we really want." She smiles at me across the table. I smile back.

"Yes, but..." I sigh. "...when you have a Megalytic super computer at your disposal, you really do have to break the bank at Monte Carlo. Just once."

"You know we're going to have to give that money back, right?" Eve holds her hand over her eyes, making sure she can see my expression.

"I know, I know," I agree. "But it was worth it, just to see their faces..."

Eve laughs. I help myself to the eggs.

"But seriously," Eve goes on, after we've portioned out the breakfast between us. "We need a plan. We can't just keep bumming around Europe like we're Princess Grace."

"We can't?" I shrug. "You mean we don't have a plan?"

Eve looks at me as I eat. Half curious, half concerned. "What do you mean?" she finally asks.

"Oh come on," I swallow. "I know what's going on. What we're going to do next."

"What? What's going on?" Eve puts her utensils down, playing coy.

"That this is all still part of it. Everything has been predicted. That we're still in Junior's Rubric."

Eve guffaws.

I'm not laughing. "Don't try and deny it."

"What makes you think-"

"Look, I might not be as smart as you say I am, but I'm not stupid. I figured it out. It may have taken me awhile, but I figured it out. Back there, back at Tusk's estate, I know I was always supposed to take that baseball."

"What?" Eve is shocked.

"All of this," I wave at the Mediterranean. "Everything that happened: you in Logan's apartment, the rush across Manhattan, me figuring out how to replace Red Shield. All of it – all of it was predicted by Junior's Rubric. Don't try and deny it."

Eve doesn't. She's just watching me across the breakfast table.

"Tell me, what were the real odds that I'd pick the baseball over the letter opener? One-hundred percent?"

"Ninety-six point three," Eve answers.

"Wow," is all I can say.

"Yes, I guess you're not the stabby, shooty kind of guy. When did you figure it out?" Eve returns to her breakfast.

"Oh come on!" I laugh. "Logan? A direct descendant of Rothschild? He's from Bromley. His dad was a dentist."

"Yeah, that was a little over the top," Eve allows. "I think he got carried away. But just the right mix of romantic entanglement and personal peril, remember? And it worked."

"YOU worked, you mean?"

Eve doesn't answer. She just pokes at her food.

"Was it all the Rubric?" I have to ask. "Was all of it Junior's predictions? Even...us?"

"No," Eve shakes her head, not looking up. "Not that."

"But Junior did predict it, correct?"

"Junior?" Eve sounds offended. "Junior is just a computer.'

It's my turn to be speechless. "You mean?"

"That you're not the only math genius at this table?" Eve looks up at me, that fire burning in her eyes. "Sorry."

I almost fall off my chair. "You mean, you're..."

"The real Red Shield? The direct, biological descendant or Meyer Rothschild himself?" she nods.

"YOU predicted...all of this? You always knew what Junior really was? That it could never replace Red Shield? You knew when Red Shield was going to fail?"

"No, that was a surprise – way earlier than I'd originally predicted. But I had a Rubric ready for the eventuality."

"But you knew it WOULD fail. And you knew I could fix it. But if you're such a genius, why did you need me?"

"As you said, sometimes we're so smart, we're stupid. I guess I needed...a second opinion."

"But you knew I'd have to fall in love with you – really fall in love with you – for me to succeed."

"I knew we'd have to fall in love with each other. Maiden Lane is a two way street, remember, smart guy?"

"But..." There was really only one question to ask. "Why?"

Eve shrugs. "Call it a dry run."

"Dry run!" I exclaim. "The total collapse of the world economy? That's a dry run? Dry run for what?"

"As you said, we're still in the Rubric," Eve smiles. "Anything is possible."

"But? What's PROBABLE?"

"It's nothing to really worry about. A one in two-hundred chance, at the outside."

"One in two-hundred chance of what?" I can't quite describe the feeling of terror building up inside of me.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about faster-than-light travel, would you?" Eve asks, scratching her ear.

Faster-than-light travel? I laugh. Eve doesn't.

What lies at the end of Maiden Lane? I think. Eve has asked me that a million times. Only now, I realize that I really never had an answer.

What does lie at the end of Maiden Lane?

