

# UNITED HATES

First published as:

TO EAT THE WORLD

A Novel by Gary J Byrnes

Copyright 2014 -18 © Gary J Byrnes.

The right of Gary J Byrnes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright & Related Rights Act, Ireland, 2000. All rights reserved.

In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Please message the author, at garyjbyrnes@gmail.com, if you spot any formatting or spelling errors. I aim for perfection but am only human!

Novels by Gary J Byrnes, in print and ebook formats, available from all good online retailers.

Connect at www.readathriller.com

Number one bestseller _9/11 Trilogy_ and _Thriller Box Set_ by Gary J Byrnes, available now as ebooks.

Table of Contents

United Hates

About

Discover

Connect

For Bernadette

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to everyone who encouraged, advised and assisted me during the creation of this story, especially George Byrnes, Rory Ferris, Beverly Sperry, Joseph Glynn, Charles Hanna, Gerry Butler, Suzanne & Wayne Fahey, Barbara & Kieran O'Brien and New York City.

The rich rule over the poor, and the borrower is slave to the lender.

The Bible, Proverbs 22:7 (New International Version)

## UNITED HATES

## BY GARY J BYRNES

PROLOGUE

GAASTERLAND, THE NETHERLANDS

Friday, 4 May, 1945

The taste of fear lurked at the back of his throat, acidic, nauseating. _I'm gonna throw up if they don't come soon._ He tasted blood then, from a chewed-up cheek. His watch glowed faintly, almost midnight.

The forest rested. The smell of the hot day lingered, Scots pine and marigold. Three men lay on the blue-green needles. They chewed Wrigley's Spearmint gum, but their mouths still felt dry.

A distant rumbling then, the low growl of a massive diesel engine, a beast in the dark. Major Kieran Johnson gripped his submachine gun tighter, knuckles blue white, pressed his body deeper into the soft ground, twenty yards up the low hill from the trail. There was a moonlit view to the south, a negative of a sunny day, something better than this. He looked to his right, nodded at his two best men. Brown also had a grease gun, Williams held the handle on the box that would detonate the shaped charge of twenty pounds of Explosive "D", enough to level a half acre. Certainly enough to destroy their target.

A ball of sweat fell from the tip of the major's nose. An animal scratched the ground nearby. Maybe a fox.

'Here they come.'

The dark shape of a German jeep appeared on the trail, its red, slitted headlights throwing just enough light to show the way, but not enough to attract the attention of any prowling Allied night fighters. The jeep travelled slowly. But that rumble didn't fit.

'There!'

An enormous silhouette appeared, keeping in the jeep's tracks. It was the command vehicle, followed by a heavy tractor, which towed the Meillerwagen, upon which sat the prize, a V-2, vengeance weapon. The world's first long-range ballistic missile, olive green, forty-five feet long and fitted with a two thousand pound high explosive warhead. The hairs on the major's neck stood up. What a piece of work is man!

The V-2s had shattered London and the Nazis were desperate to throw as many as possible across the Channel in the war's final fury. Germany would sign the surrender any day now, any minute, Hitler allegedly already dead. This launch was pure vengeance: the utter, depraved madness of a regime that had come terrifyingly close to ruling the world with missiles and tanks and a terrifyingly effective propaganda machine.

But a specialist US Army team was ready to stop this bastard in its tracks. Major Johnson had been assigned to a unit with a special focus on Nazi technology. So he saw the V-2 as both terrifying and amazing. After the surrender, the race would be on to secure V-2s in their bases, keep the Russians away and get the rockets back to the States. After. For now, they had to be destroyed.

The rocket was followed by its vital support vehicles, including the fuel wagon and the liquid oxygen tanker.

A sudden change in noise levels. Engines idling, turning off.

'Shit, Major,' was whispered. 'They've stopped.'

'Are they in range of our charge, Jimmy?'

'Not a chance, sir. We'd scorch the paint on the jeep in front, but that's it.'

You're supposed to keep driving! To the clearing a mile down the road where our reconnaissance flights spotted the scorch marks.

Human shapes emerged from the vehicles and orders were barked in German. _Begin fuelling_. The major didn't need to have too much of the language. _We've got just under two hours until launch. Shit._

The fox ambled up the road, froze when she saw the Nazis.

A cranking, ratcheting, click-clicking noise and the fox was gone. The rocket trailer lifted its load into vertical launch position.

His men looked at him, waited.

A security detachment fanned out from the convoy. Waffen-SS, the worst fuckers that ever pulled on a uniform. _Coming our way._

'When these guys get in the firing line, blow the charge. Then we get to the convoy, use our guns and grenades to hit the tankers. Just stay in the treeline. Escape plan remains as is. Got that?'

Both men nodded.

Three storm troopers came.

They reached a rock that had been positioned as a visual marker.

The fox called. It sounded like a laugh.

German heads turned and night became day.

GRONAU, GERMANY

Two days later

The still air vibrated gently as a thousand cannon fired, far away to the east. A brilliantly bright and hot day. With Berlin surrounded and the surrender being signed, literally at that moment, the Third Reich was done.

A rusty aircraft hangar, a dozen thin men in shabby suits smoking inside, down the back, beside crates of 500 kg bombs and the Messerschmitt Me 262 jet bomber, the Swallow. The plane, one of Hitler's desperate secret weapons, was like a shark out of water.

Nerves jangled, some nervous chatter. Each of the scientists had a leather briefcase and a bulging suitcase. But one stood alone, in the deepest shadows. Beside him, a beaten trunk.

The platoon of US Marines sat on aircraft part crates just inside the gaping door. They smoked and drank Coke. They had the easy manner of soldiers on the winning side, far from the front line.

An RAF Dakota came in to land, buzzed back up the runway and stopped at the hangar. The soldiers snapped to attention as a major left the plane, followed by his aide, who carried a bunch of papers, and two been-through-it-all soldiers with sidearms and stubble.

The major's left arm was in a sling, some dark blood peeking through. Nazi lead. He was grateful for his wound in a selfish way. It meant that he missed out on the camps. News had begun to filter through. Literally mountains of emaciated bodies. Instead of all that, he was on babysitting duty, heading home.

He walked to the jet fighter. The major caressed the sky grey underside of the jet, noted the Edelweiss squadron badge.

'Good Jesus. That was close, Jimmy.'

'It sure is one nasty-looking motherfucker. Sir.'

They were distinctly aware of the plane's importance.

Then they noticed the men.

The German rocket scientists came out of the shadows. The C-47's arrival had delivered their salvation. There would be no Russian gulags - or worse - for them. They allowed themselves careful smiles.

Crickets chirped in the yellow grass.

'Which of you worked on this beauty?' the Major asked.

Three of the Germans came forward.

'I worked on the engines,' said one.

'I designed the airframe.'

'I did some wind tunnel work, aerodynamics.'

The major nodded, happy that he would bring home the men who would give America global military dominance for half a century to come. 'So why didn't you succeed?'

One of the three said 'Because our Führer is insane. Instead of using the 262 to decimate your B-17 bombers, he decided to slow it down with bombs so any Mustang pilot could knock it out of the sky.'

'Correct,' said the Major. 'Technology is useless without tactics. Remember that.'

One of them would.

The major drank a cold Coke and set up at a trestle table, just inside the hangar door. He called the German scientists forward, one at a time. He checked their credentials against the details that had been painstakingly collated in individual folders, then took a new profile page from his aide and paperclipped it to the front of each file. _You are no longer Nazi. You are reborn, cleansed, new. Now help us to build our missile forces so that we may rule the world in your stead._

The second last man came forward, dragging his trunk.

The major checked his file, clipped the new data sheet to the front of the folder.

'No luggage, you knew that, Dr Heim.'

'If the Major will permit me,' said Dr Death, making a lid-opening gesture.

The major nodded, looked at his wristwatch.

Dr Death opened the case. _What might have been?_ Inside were dozens of paintings and original prints, flat and in rolls, as well as some small trinket boxes. And hidden blueprints, for the reactor that would spin lead into gold. He took a box, opened it, showed the pearl necklace to the major. Then he rifled through the art, grunted at a scene of moonlight on the sea, pulled out a canvas that looked like it had lain on the floor of a drunken artist's studio for a couple of busy months.

'Please,' said the German, 'a gift. Which would you like?'

'This,' he said, pointing, 'this isn't art. But I like the look of those pearls. They real?'

'Of course, quite natural. Gold detailing, too. Very expensive. Please take them for your wife, your sweetheart. A nice souvenir from this terrible war, yes?'

'And show me that little picture there. I like that.'

'By Cézanne. The master. Are you sure?' Hesitation. He loved that painting.

'I think my wife would like it.'

'Here, take it.'

The major folded it into his big combat jacket hip pocket, in with some loose .45 inch bullets, a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes and his diary.

'Okay. Get your trunk on board. We're going to New York.'

So Dr Death put the Jackson Pollock painting, _Composition with Pouring 1_ , back with the other works and boarded the Dakota, ready to corner the American art market.

The final German offered his identification papers.

The major looked at him, saw the sweat on his forehead. It's hot. But...

'Jimmy, where are the mugshots?'

'Here, sir,' passing a folder.

The shuffling of papers as the Dakota's twin Pratt & Whitney engines thundered back to life.

The picture matched. Jimmy saw it, released his Colt .45's safety catch.

'Erich? You worked at Mauthausen?'

'If the major will permit me, I have some very important blueprints...'

Major Johnson stood up from the table, took a step back. The beat of the plane engines went up a pitch. He looked at Jimmy. Jimmy shot the German twice in the face. When he was on the ground, he got another bullet in the back of his head.

It was the easiest way to deal with a complicated situation.

Pale faces at windows.

Johnson gathered up the German's papers, said 'Let's get the hell out of here. I need New York.'

The major sat in the cockpit, enjoyed the smell of jetfuel and hydraulic fluid, the sight of an experienced pilot nursing the sweet beast into the air, the thrum of the twin propellers, the cup of coffee sitting, deliberately, behind the controls. The adjustment of power, the tapping of the throttles until the engines were in complete unison, the ripples dancing across the coffee, echoing the perfect harmonics, the beat becoming a hymn and the aircraft and its passengers leaving mainland Europe forever, lifting comfortably into a perfect, hopeful sky.

FORT LAUDERDALE, USA

Thursday, December 1, 1955

The talk in the veterans' bars on East Las Olas Boulevard was all _nigger this_ and _nigger that_. Some black lady had refused to give up her seat on the bus to a white man. That was up in Alabama. Montgomery. Indignation. _Why can't some people just keep in their place?_

The lady's name was Rosa Parks.

'You fought in Korea, Kieran. Which is lowest, gooks or niggers?'

Major Kieran Johnson (retired) looked up from his Pabst. Just the thought of Korea made his right knee ache. 'Lowest, eh? The lowest form of human being I ever did meet was the common or garden Nazi. And you know the funny thing about Nazis?'

'Huh?'

'They're as white as we are. Whiter even than a lot of good men who fought and died beside me.' _I really don't want to go into that bad place tonight._ 'And with that, gentlemen, I bid you _adieu_.'

He walked east on the boulevard, towards the Atlantic _. Might loosen up my knee_. It was a perfect night, quiet, just a couple of cars puttering by, one or two couples on their way home from the movies. Oddly, the moon brought him back to that night in the Dutch forest. He rubbed his arm, the shattered ulna that had brought him south.

He lifted his collar against the oh-so-gentle December chill, dug his hands into the deep pockets of his overcoat. Over the lagoon bridge and there lay the sea ahead, shining silver. It reminded him of a painting, but he couldn't remember which.

His knee had eased up a little _. Fucking Korea_. Just a few years' worth of jet and rocket technology, developed by all sides from the spoils of a shattered Germany, had taken war to a whole new level of madness and horror. _What will the next war be like?_ He shuddered at the idea of it.

He reached the sidewalk at the edge of the beach and turned right, south towards Miami.

It was like a storm was starting to whip up, out there in the dark blue.

Nobody around. Just how he liked it. The problem with people was, well, people.

A man walked towards him, held his hat against the building wind.

As he passed, a flicker of recognition.

'Major?' A European accent, no j.

Kieran stopped and turned. He twisted his knee a little, felt that jabbing shrapnel again. _Trying to tell me something?_

The man came towards him, his hand extended. 'I'm Doctor Heim, Aribert Heim. You helped me escape from Germany after the war.'

_Paperclip_. 'Oh? Yeah.' They shook hands. 'How are you liking the land of the free?'

'Oh, it's wonderful. The love of art among the rich here. And so many rich! Do you remember the painting I gave you? Where is that I wonder?'

'That little thing? It's hanging in my living room.'

'At home? Good. Good. Major, can I buy you a drink? For old time's sake?'

'Thank you, no. I need to get along.'

The man rummaged in his pocket. 'Then this?'

The major didn't have time to react. The needle pierced his arm and he collapsed heavily onto the cold white sand.

ONE

NEW YORK CITY, USA

Today

Speeding, spinning hearts. Thumping as a glorious, bloody chorus. Can you _feel_ it? Faster again, building to some kind of crescendo. So these were as one, connected by dizzy madness. One point six million more beating out there on that tiny and wild and scared and suffering island, once the calm home of the Lenape Indians who smoked a peace pipe with strangers and the game was up. The Dutch took it, called it New Amsterdam. The British renamed it New York, finally losing it to the New Americans and the beat, the beat it made would shake the planet. Another heart in this drama, Manhattan the nervous ultimate.

***

The Butcher was excited. This was why he did it. The sly thrill, the adrenaline, the aching heart, pulsing blood, tingling palms. He needed this to feel alive. He knew it was wrong, sick, that he should be locked away in a mental institution, put down, even. He knew this yet he still committed the acts. _Truly, this is the definition of beyond crazy._ He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, eventually decided that he liked what he saw, smiled.

'I'm coming, sweetheart,' he called over his shoulder.

He admired the ornate mirror, with its blemished reflection.

He washed his hands again, checked his fingernails. He pulled on a pair of non-latex surgical gloves, flexed his fingers. He selected the required items from the tray of surgical equipment, left the bathroom and marched down the brightly-lit corridor, with its early Pollock, dripping red and green and black and white, and its Picasso litho print, _Head of a Young Boy_ from 1945. The living room was dark, dominated by a wall of window, the office towers and hotels of downtown Manhattan shimmering in the dying light, 1 WTC's angled planes ablaze. The silhouette of a girl tied to a chair, back-lit by the loathed, hating, fighting, conspiring city. He glanced at the clock, one of those old French designs, and saw that it was time.

Once you listened for it, its low tick filled the room.

He found the leader for the intravenous drip tube and jabbed it into her forearm. She recoiled, her eyes pleading, her mouth silenced by the gag. The drug - propofol - had an instant effect and she slumped forward. From now on, everything was timed to the minute. This was what his heart craved. She slept soundly, twitching gently like a newborn.

He took her hand in his and made the first incision.

***

Sophie cursed, but under her breath. She wasn't the kind of chef that gloried in foul language, bullying or ego. It was about the food, not about her. But, Jesus, the Speaker of the House of Representatives is out there and he's waiting for his pesto chicken á l'orange and what's with the oven? _The oven!_

Basil and citrus took their vows and began a beautiful, if short, life together.

'Timing and communication, Carl! Can you give me an ETA on the mains for table four? What's wrong with that damned oven?'

Carl knew not to do a visual, not to open the oven door. That would cost an extra two minutes' cooking time. He calculated from experience that they would be ready in three minutes. He also knew that his boss knew. She was just venting. But he would still get the oven temps checked tomorrow.

Three hundred and sixty degrees Fahrenheit - a _hot_ 360 - same temperature as a match igniting.

'Three minutes, chef.' _Just don't fucking burn it!_

'Will they be perfect, Carl?'

'Yes, chef,' he said, wiping his sweaty forehead with a filthy-looking towel from over his shoulder. _Yes, chef. Your recipe always turns out perfectly. The congressman adores it, as do many more of the richest one percent of the city._

The food would be great, she knew this, but still she fretted, needed the approval that only a clean plate could deliver and her heart, her heart.

'How are the sides doing, Carl?'

'We're there, chef,' he replied, a bead of his sweat falling, as if in slow motion, onto the vast, bubbling potato gratin dish as he raised it from another oven. The bowls of salad were all set and the broccoli was just gone into the steamer. The broccoli could not be overcooked, that was a sin. Contrary to the Law of Sophie.

Sophie paced the kitchen at Oral Pleasures. She sucked on a stick of celery, fought the urge for a cigarette, made sure that every dish for every diner was perfect. She wondered what it was that drove chefs to seek approval so, to work sixteen hour days, to avoid the idea of life outside the kitchen, away from the brigade of chefs. _Did they all have love-free childhoods like mine?_

'Table four?'

'Ready, chef,' said Carl as he carefully took the dishes from the oven, the cherry tomatoes pulsing, the reduced orange sauce honeymooning with the pesto, pulsing, bubbling, to fill the kitchen with the uniquely delicious aroma.

He stuck his index finger into the chicken. _One, t -, ow!_ If you can't reach three, the meat's hot enough.

Sophie smiled, inhaled the buzz.

Better than sex? Depends on the lover.

She plated the dishes herself, using a cookie cutter to pick out a perfect disc of gratin, placing the moist, dripping chicken breast on top, arranging the broccoli florets and cherry tomatoes around the perimeter, pouring the zesty sauce over the top. Then she added a sprinkle of fine sea salt and a shower of roughly-chopped basil from the roof garden, freshest possible flavours. 'What do the Chinese say, Carl?'

'We eat with our eyes first, chef.'

The dishes were laid out under the hot lamps, all in a row.

'Beautiful,' said Sophie, going around the rims of the plates with her towel one more time. 'Happy with everything, Carl?'

'All good, chef.'

'Happy to hear that. Because Sam doesn't like surprises.'

***

Those microseconds of condensed thought, memories that always rested just there at the front of his temporal lobe.

'Christ,' he thought. 'My heart can't take too much more of this.'

The room was hot and wet and the tension was visible across every face. For Jacob, time dilation had begun with the very first bid. The man with the gavel looked straight at him.

'Do I hear seven point one?'

Seven million and change for a bowl? Okay, it's a French tureen from the seventeen thirties, made by Thomas Germain for the court of Louis XV. So it's a beautiful thing from a very different and unique time, with its delicate silver branches, each leaf exquisite, and its lid handle in the form of hounds bringing down a stag. But it's still a freaking soup bowl.

Jacob nodded. _Yes. I bid seven point one million dollars for the bowl._

'I have seven point one. Do I have seven point two?'

The frozen stag, its scream petrified, looked to the ceiling for mercy.

Jacob's gaze roamed around the auction room, sought out the other bidders. Rich people spoke on phones, made mental calculations, wondered what their other halves would say if they went any further. _What about the economy?_ The hesitancy stretched and Jacob could finally taste victory.

Seven point one. Bang. The auctioneer confirmed that the sale was done and that Jacob (or rather, Jacob's super-rich client in Shanghai) was now the proud owner of the bowl. So much money to be made in manufacturing the electronic junk that kept the hordes amused. Would the smartphones and games consoles be tomorrow's antiques? Hardly - there was simply too much of the damned tat. He looked around the room, almost every person tapping a glowing glass screen. _We are slaves to our gadgets._

His iPhone purred. A message from the office about the article, the damned article.

Jacob's heart relaxed at the proximate reality of his one percent commission, but just a little. As he made his way through the crowded room, people smiled at him appreciatively, some in awe, thinking he was Bill Gates or somebody, with his casually immaculate suede jacket and slightly gawky grin. Spectacles too. Just as he reached the sales office, Sarah, his editorial assistant from the magazine - _Antique Guru_ \- appeared at his side. She was young, sharp-minded and, of course, shockingly beautiful, crammed into her charcoal grey suit. She made his forty-something heart skip a beat.

'Did you get everything?'

She held up her notebook. 'Every detail, every nuance. I'll type it up for you tomorrow.'

'Good. Sorry for being so obsessive. I just _need_ records. I don't know exactly why.'

'Are you staying on after you've been through the formalities?' she asked.

'Well, I do have an interest, a personal interest, in a lot that's up soon.' He wanted to say that he was shattered, bone-weary, that late auctions were a chore and he so needed to get to bed. But he hoped -

'Feel like grabbing a drink downtown after?'

'Oh? Where were you thinking?'

'Bleecker Street. A friend's band is playing The Bitter End later.'

Giddy blood coursed through hardening arteries.

Later? It's nine thirty already!

'Sounds great. I used to love Bleecker Street.'

He resolved not to comment on the unnecessarily high music volume when they reached the bar. But that would be a big ask. _Always trying to act so young, it's going to get you into trouble one day. Not your fault dad got Alzheimer's at forty._

First, a quick double espresso at the bar. Second, business. Back in the sales room, the loud murmurs dropped to a hush, then a gasp, as the white-gloved assistant held up a slim old volume.

The auctioneer said 'Ladies and gentlemen, we are delighted to offer an original work by the famed seer Michel de Nostradame. Published in 1555, the _Traite des Fardemens_ is one his lesser works, containing a variety of beauty treatments and recipes, including his famed recipes for cherry jam which, I am told, has never been bettered. We will start the bidding at $50,000 for what I'm sure you'll agree is a fascinating piece of history, provenance assured.'

You'd be crazy to get involved, Jacob.

He grimaced at the high starting price, which was immediately accepted by a telephone bidder. It jumped, five grand at a time to seventy in under a minute. _Christ!_ Jacob had made seventy-one thousand for winning the bowl and had some more money to spare. One hundred was the limit that he'd set himself, honestly not expecting the book to reach that level. _And remember the almost nine percent sales tax on top._ He had an overdraft facility of fifty thou at twelve percent, had been living off it, couple of lean months. Forty grand left to play with there. Bank was calling it in, two weeks away. Worry about it then. How would Jacob's generation cope when the easy credit disappeared?

Best to just stay out this time.

At eighty thousand, he made his first bid. Blame the adrenaline.

The telephone bidder dropped out.

But a tall, blond woman in an implausibly white Chanel suit wanted the book.

Something about her.

Eighty-five.

Ninety.

Miss Chanel went to the hundred thousand.

Jacob gritted his teeth and went the extra five. Worst case, sell off my art.

Turned out she didn't want the book so badly. Christ. One-o-five. Call it one-fourteen, with taxes. _Jesus. That's it. I'm bust._ Sarah appeared at his side and squeezed his hand. Her cheeks were flushed.

'Oh. My. God. That was so exciting! You did it!'

'She almost had me,' Jacob said, nodding towards Miss Chanel, who'd been staring at him.

'She doesn't look overly-happy.'

'Jesus, I do need a drink now. Just let me finalise the transaction. You want to come back to the sales office?'

'Can I? Wow,' said Sarah, giddy like a nine-year-old.

As they walked towards the office, Jacob noticed the woman in the Chanel suit approaching. From a distance she was striking, up close she was as arresting as a Greek goddess, her physical presence preceded by the Sicilian lemon notes of her Annick Goutal perfume. There must be a statue of her somewhere, figured Jacob.

'Mr Johnson?'

'Yes?' _My God, look at you._

'Might I have a word with you alone, please? It concerns some business that you may be interested in.'

Jacob would have taken time for her if she wanted to talk about paint drying. As it was, he had just created a fatal hole in his finances, so new business was a very good thing.

'Of course,' he said. 'And your name?'

'Julia,' looking at Sarah.

'This is my assistant, Sarah. Sarah, can I see you at the bar in a few minutes?'

Sarah, utterly professional, smiled and left.

'Sorry about the book,' said Jacob.

'Forget the book. I just wanted to get your attention.'

'Wow. Okay. You've got it,' he said. _And cost me, what, twenty grand?_

'Tell me, would like a taste of heaven?'

'I don't think I know - . Ah. Yes. Yes I would.'

'You understand?'

'Goodies from the bottom of the Baltic?'

'Exactly. So, that specific lot is being auctioned here next Monday and I need you to become a member of a bidding ring. I cannot, under any circumstances, lose the auction.'

Jacob appraised the woman again. 'Isn't a bidding ring illegal?'

'Flat fee. Fifty k. Are you in?'

'I'm in.'

***

Where was daddy?

'Daddy?' she cried feebly, but it didn't sound right. Like it was somebody else talking, a little kid maybe.

It was dark, but hazy lights swam into focus. They were outside. Through a window.

'Mom?'

She felt weird, like her body was coated in something viscous, honey or maple syrup. _Where am I?_ A dull pain in the back of her neck began to pulse through her body then, cut through the honey. She became aware of a tightness around her wrists and, yes, also around her ankles. She wriggled, but she couldn't move.

The tightness turned to discomfort and - what? - what was the sensation in her hand? It began to burn. Then, all at once, the morphine wore off and her heart jump-started back to a fast rhythm, the hurt and the panic consuming her. She wriggled her fingers, felt that honey again, sticky, piercing. A dizzying awareness that her little finger was gone. Gone.

She vomited an acrid bile but the gag in her mouth blocked its escape and she struggled and choked and cried and eventually swallowed it back down. Her tears were hot and salty and she could smell roasted meat then. Like pork or something.

A vague sizzle, a ticking clock.

Her wet eyes saw something else through the distorted darkness, the city half-light. A few yards away stood an old artist's easel, rich layers of burnt umber and raw sienna and sap green on cherry wood, and on it was a picture of her dad. An election poster from his successful congressional campaign.

'Daddy?'

***

The heart monitor beeped lazily, as if saying _Are you sure you want me to bother?_

The man lay in a deep sleep, his skin grey and dry as a careless fish, out of water for days. He looked older than his ninety-seven years. Something to do with the quality of his life.

The only window was in the ceiling. The sky was cobalt blue, like a fine evening dress or a high summer's star-scattered midnight.

The art on the walls of his little room would be changed today.

'I would like a Van Gogh,' he muttered. 'There, beside my favourite Cézanne.'

'Of course, Doctor,' she said, occupied.

The nurse fussed over his morning injection, placing the syringe of thick, pink liquid into the metering device. It had been prepared in the adjacent laboratory, a scientific wonderland of the most advanced machines on Earth, a chemist's candy store of elixirs, stem cells, poisons and explosives. He closed his eyes and thought about the past. Some would say that he'd led a bad life. But he didn't see it like that. There were so many good memories, such glowing achievements, tantalising glimpses of world-conquering success. _We so nearly had it all._ Then the collapse, the escape to America with the delicate planting of the story of the second life, first hiding in plain sight in Germany, then the escape to Egypt, the conversion to Islam and the death in 1992. Case closed.

That would have been your worst nightmare, America, a Nazi Muslim!

As the liquid oozed into the plastic tube and inched down to his arm, he pondered the past and relished the future. The plans were perfect, every aspect gently falling into place.

_Gently._ This was how the greatest deeds were accomplished.

The world would soon be his. It was so close he could taste it.

He licked his lips, so dry. He smiled and they cracked.

His heart rate began to increase as the potion - the sum of his life's research - did its work. For a few long seconds he felt strong, excited, like he was a young man during the Great Years. _To be!_

The nurse frowned as she made some notes on a chart. She rubbed some balm on the man's lips, gently. His smile was easier now. She peeled off her latex gloves, washed her hands, got a fresh pair from a dispenser on a white cabinet. Then she sat in a worn leather armchair beside the bed, carefully took a book from the Rococo side table. He relaxed, stared at the monitor that displayed real time financial data from all the world's markets.

Shakespeare's _Hamlet_ , Good Quarto, printed in 1605.

The old man sat up then, the machines beeping frantically. CNN's Richard Quest on the screen, very excited. _He looks a Jew, but I like him just the same._ A graph, numbers popping. The tipping point had been reached.

The nurse put the book down. _What a piece of work is a man!_

'Nurse!' he called eagerly, some colour in his cheeks, his eyes alive for the first time in weeks. 'Get me the congressman. Get him now. The markets have completed the plan. It is time for us to take the world. To _take_ it.'

The nurse began to dial the number that was written on a card by the phone.

'Please stay calm, Doctor. Your heart -'

'My heart,' he laughed, a cruel cackle. He hissed 'My heart ceased to exist in 1940. I have a muscle that pumps my vril, my life force. But I have no heart. Now if you do not make that telephone call _schnell_ , you will not see sunset. Is this clear?'

She glanced at his eyes but there was a force in them that she could not comprehend, something black. Her hands shook as she hit the number keys, praying to God that the congressman would answer quickly.

Or not to be?

TWO

The crazies were out tonight, all screams and spit and empty threat. Self-defence, he mused. _Look at me, I am a person, I exist. But stay away._

The Butcher walked across streets and up avenues and to the restaurant called Oral Pleasures. He walked past it on the opposite side of the traffic, thought through the implications of what he was about to do. But this was no moral pause, this was maximising the pleasure, the thrill, the horror that would soon be delivered. He glanced through the front windows, saw just sides of beef hanging there in the cold room, some indistinct faces beyond. Decent crowd. Good.

Frigid memories of Idaho grasslands.

He carried on, watching one ranter in particular, a youngish guy who was banging on about Jesus right on the corner of 52nd and Broadway. It was his regular spot. He screamed into the individual faces of the theatre crowd, ranted about repentance, rebirth, hell, all the usual comfort stuff. His victims, fresh out of _Jersey Boys_ \- musical, Frankie Valli, Four Seasons - just wanted to sing _Big Girls Don't Cry_ , hold on to the hundred dollar memory.

The ranter was clean, visually normal. So he made his move, went up to the guy, looked him right in the eye. Guy's name was Paul and all he wanted to do was save some of these souls, y'know, _just save them_.

'You served?' asked the Butcher, nodding at Paul's army coat, didn't look bought from a stand down on Canal Street.

'Afghanistan,' he replied. 'Dirty sons of bitches. I did my duty for my country and it drove me crazy. VA won't even give me a goddamned doctor's appointment. You?'

The Butcher pushed up a sleeve and showed his Rangers tattoo with campaign ribbon.

'We almost got that mother in Tora Bora.'

Hell took on the form of cold, dusty caves then.

'Spin Ghar? Shit,' Paul's eyes opened. 'That was too close. Still, we got the fucker. Eventually.'

'Eventually.'

Got you.

So they smoked Marlboros and traded war stories and the Butcher told him about the man in the restaurant opposite, just over there, who's made homosexuality not just legal, but almost mandatory.

'And he's made it a criminal act to criticise the Koran. The Koran! 9/11, I mean, is this how we remember the good Christians who were cut down on that day? How are we supposed to just _tolerate_ that filth?'

Paul loved this.

'Who is this guy? I want to kill him.'

Then he glanced uneasily in every direction. Was this some kind of trap, set by the liberals? _Damn them all._

'He's right in that restaurant and there's a way that you can hurt him, but without becoming a martyr yourself.'

'Okay. I'll do it.'

The Butcher took a small package from the pocket of his leather jacket.

'Deliver this to the congressman. You won't get near him, just make it to the bar, get a drink -'

'I don't drink.'

'Get a Coke, watch the congressman, he'll be at his usual table just beyond the far left corner of the bar. See who his waiters are, then choose one them. Offer him fifty to deliver this to the congressman.'

'I don't -'

'Take this fifty for the waiter, and one more to get your Coke. Okay?'

'Thank God for bringing you to me. What's in the package?'

'Better you don't know. It'll ruin his night, trust me. Maybe his whole life.'

'Praise the Lord.'

'As soon as you pass on the package, get out of there. If the cops stop you or track you down, tell them a guy with a beard gave you a fifty to drop a present off for him. You needed the money. He looked legit. Actually, he looked a bit like a Muslim now that you think of it. That clear?'

'Clear. How do I get past those cops on the door?'

'Tell them you've got a reservation. Name of O'Malley. Too late for service, but the name's on tonight's list so they'll let you in.'

'Okay. Then what?'

'What?'

'After this?'

'If this goes smoothly, I'll be in touch. We are an army of two now.'

The Butcher smiled warmly then, put his hand on Paul's shoulder and squeezed fondly. His first lieutenant.

'I'm always here,' he said, pointing at the sidewalk. 'Hey,' he added nervously, his voice catching, 'I'm not going to get in any trouble, am I?'

'What for? Your prints are on the outside of the package, but that's it. You needed the fifty, yeah?'

'Yeah.'

'Kill twenty minutes before you make your move. I need to get part two done before they get the scent.'

The Butcher grinned as he straightened Paul's hair, winked, retreated slowly. Paul waited a few minutes on the sidewalk. Then he made it past door security and the game was on.

The Butcher hurried back to the girl.

That feeling, that good feeling at the end of a busy, smooth service. Uneventful but for the trainee chef dropping his spectacles into the pot of boiling water and the customer who didn't want to pay for his steak. Sophie put her hand into the water to retrieve the glasses without thinking. 'All the nerves in your hands will become numb over time. And get a cord for the spectacles, yeah?' Steak guy said he didn't like it. 'He should've realised that before he ate the whole damned thing. He even licked the T-bone clean! Now tell him that we've got police officers on the premises and I can get them to sort it out for us.' So he paid and apologised. It reminded her of the time the diner complained that her Vichyssoise was _simply freezing_. This kind of stuff happens every single day. Part of the reason she loved the job. It was all about meeting the key primal need for food, which comes even before sex and shelter in terms of daily importance.

Her dad, who brought his French culinary skills over during the War, always impressed on young Sophie the importance of food as a business. _People can put off buying a new car or a coat. They can never put off eating lunch and dinner. And, in the end, hunger will make them kill for food._

So just some desserts going out, then a gushing sliced thumb, 'You using my Global knife again, Jimmy? So don't. Back in my knife bag _before_ you get the first aid kit. And never cut towards yourself. Really'. _Definitely a first generation cook_. The busboys fiddling with the fancy coffees, the waiters counting out and divvying up the tips, the kitchen staff eating the family meal at the table by the kitchen, a hot Thai curry tonight, or drinking Peroni beer from coffee cups or smoking cigarettes or grass joints out in the back alley by the stinking trash and the sodium street lamps and the fat rats and the pure, clean night air.

Sophie pointedly ignored the drug and alcohol abuse that went on among the staff. It was defined by economic class, from the crack-smoking dishwashers to the pot-smoking busboys to the alcoholic waiters to the coke-snorting managers. It came with the territory. When you go out to a restaurant on a quiet night, you will likely deal with a staff that's collectively off its face. Busier nights are better. Less boredom, less time to be filled with narcotics.

'Table four sends their compliments, boss,' says Ramon, a good waiter, union rep.

'Four? Okay, thanks,' she muttered. Odd. And he hasn't been out for his smoke with the help yet. Something's up.

She washed her hands, slapped some cold water on the back of her neck, dried off. Then she carefully applied some lipstick, poured a glass of house red, a decent Californian Pinot Noir - Ingrid's - good berry and chocolate tingles. And so, to meet her audience.

The restaurant was still full of customers but calmer now, all baked New York cheesecake, Colombian coffee and French brandy. The congressman spotted her and stood, grinning broadly. That spark in his eye, that curious, irresistible molecular reaction in her, like strawberries meeting balsamic vinegar. How did it happen, the two of them? He loved his food and the restaurant was near his campaign office. Was that it? Was that what brought people together, the coincidence of the mundane? No. Her food was definitely not mundane. That's why her stake in Oral Pleasures was worth at least a million, so the accountant said. She glanced at the couples sharing desserts with single, long-stemmed spoons. Eight out of ten would certainly get in the _neighbourhood_ of sex tonight, the condom machines in the bathrooms proved that. The minds would be willing, the bodies less so. _Have more sex, then you won't get so fat._ One hundred and four covers, two seatings per night. Sometimes three. Hundred bucks a head. Do the math. Turnover last year: eight million. Surely this was something to be proud of?

So why the unease, the slithering emptiness?

Sophie's typical day: Lie in bed awake until the alarm bings at 7.30. Green tea and salty olives and French cigarettes on the terrace, feed the dog, the Bijon Frise in her little house outside on the balcony (she rarely gets in the apartment), morning noises and smells, honking cabs and muffled shouts and the aromas of toasting bagels and street coffee drifting up from Bleecker Street below. The Village. The pulsing heart of Bohemian New York. Nigella sniffs the air, cocks an ear. Beautiful. Okay, she gets inside when Sophie's home. Shower. More tea, more smoke. Set up Nigella's feeder, top-up her water. Then stroll up to West 4th St, catch the E up to 50th Street or, more often than not, walk, walk fast. Impossible to do that now without thinking back to that day, that crazy rush uptown with the bewildered thousands on The Day The Planes Came.

In the restaurant by 9.30, checking that the night cleaners had done a perfect job. Oversee the prep for lunch and dinner and the deli counter. How many potatoes peeled and diced? How much pesto today? Ten gallons, ten! It also sells by the half-pint to take away out front, nice little side earner. Sophie helps out a little during lunch service, but doesn't run the show. Her assistant, Carl, a little rough around the edges but talented and getting better, he manages lunch. She monitors, rolls her sleeves up when required, say when a tour bus with thirty jaded Japanese tourists turns up unannounced, all facemasks and Nikons. This happens. It's the pesto and the Facebook page.

Split shift. The afternoon is all about the accounts, with Wang, who runs the back office for her. Numbers, account balancing, debtor and creditor management, payroll, taxes. The dullest but most important part of the restaurant business. Sophie enjoyed it. As much as cooking even.

This was why she was so successful, why she was sometimes hard to live with. She cared passionately about the little details, wouldn't let stuff slide. When things were in a smooth groove, she'd have some time to work with Lucy, the young marketing graduate who looked after the ads, the coupon deals so-loved by the rich, the public relations, the website. Green tea and cigarettes and a bowl of fresh pasta with butter and black pepper at six. Maybe a few prawns fried in olive oil on top.

On sticky summer days, she would sneak up to the rooftop herb garden and sunbathe naked for an hour. This made her feel like she was being naughty, a feeling she relished. Of such tiny revolutions are interesting lives made.

5pm. Send a busboy out for another pack of Marlboro Gold, then sleeves up and dinner service. Four manic hours, wind down, maybe sit with some guests for a while, depending on who's in: movie star, politician, fashion designer, or anyone old rich. Sip a glass of wine. Maybe another. Pass the baton to her business partner Rod, the general manager and maitre d', the perfect front of house man, who was rich (old money, very old), interesting and had the connections that mattered in business. Cab back to Greenwich Village. Balcony. Cigarette. Shower. Cigarette. Bed, to lie there, stare at the cracks in the ceiling, process the day. It seems like her eyes just slow-blink and she's awake again, waiting on the alarm.

'Sophie!' called Congressman Sam Walsh, the third most powerful man in American politics.

'Mr Speaker. Enjoy your meal?'

'Did you get my compliments?'

'You normally do it in kind. What's up?'

'Later, honey. Don't bust my balls, okay?'

That vague edge of menace to his syrupy voice, not strong enough to put a finger on, just the subtle ring that made you do what you were told. The congressman was not a super-wise man, not especially charismatic, so go figure how he became so powerful. Family. Tradition. Wealth. Connections. No real ability, yet just two heartbeats from being the most powerful man in the world. Sophie felt this enigma from the beginning, chose to ignore it. And here she was, his piece on the side when he was up from Washington, typically at weekends. No doubt he had a woman, maybe more than one, down there too. She often wondered whether he'd make a good president, wondered if she'd get to see the Oval Office.

'I'm sorry,' he said then. 'It's all this war talk.'

He embraced her and kissed her cheek wetly, caused her glass to lose a drop or two of red, which trickled down her grubby whites. Then he turned to his party. Sophie knew them all, especially the congressman's permanent detective escort, Danny O'Brien, a decent Irish-American cop from Woodside, over in Queens. Those wet lips proposed a toast to the _best chef in New York City_.

A wild-eyed man eased off the bar stool.

They sat and talked and spooned dessert and drank and then the guy showed up at the table. He wanted to keep both fifties. Everything slowed down as the congressman's security got to their feet and reached inside their jackets. The congressman grabbed a wine bottle by the neck. Sophie's crazy alarm went off as the guy loomed over her. He looked familiar, somehow. But how could a guy like this be familiar, with his shining blue eyes, his shaved head and his tattoos? _The street, he's off the street._

'This is for you, sir,' he said in a strong voice, more of a bellow, as he thrust a little parcel towards the congressman. Sophie thought that it looked like a lover's gift, wrapped nicely in golden paper with a white bow. Maybe a pearl necklace inside.

The background buzz of slurred conversation stalled, died.

One of the other plainclothes cops grabbed the guy from behind while Danny snatched the parcel from his outstretched hand. A tableful of drinks went flying crashing. Sophie instantly calculated the replacement cost. _Bastard._

The package fell apart, exposed its contents. The congressman saw the flash of gold, remembered, knew. _It has to be a real surprise._

The spilling light startled the girl, shook her from her drug-addled funk as the door to the apartment opened. It was dark outside and she didn't know who, where or why she was. _Just this cruel pain._ Then she saw his face and she tried to gasp.

The Butcher seemed to be in a hurry as she watched him arrange his knives and tubes and phials on the glass coffee table.

'Don't bother getting worked up,' he said. 'I'm going to give you a little something now to take away the pain. When you wake up in a few hours, I'll be gone and so will your gag. Then you can scream like hell.'

The drip narcotic was connected to the tube and into her arm and she was out in seconds. After switching on a desk lamp, the Butcher reviewed his notes, taped a thick pad below the work area and made an incision. It was twelve inches across, below the ribs on her right side. He quickly cut through her flesh, chunks of it thudding into a porcelain serving bowl, until he could see the kidney. He cut away her ureter, the tube that carried urine to the bladder, then hacked off the blood vessels. He removed the kidney and placed this into the dish with the flesh. He was sweating. He wiped the blood from his gloves, then clumsily stitched the ureter shut. There was some bleeding in the void, so he stitched it up and taped a dressing in place. She moaned a little but the drugs were powerful. He checked the time. One hour gone. The congressman would have his first gilded dish by now and the police would be working hard to find his child. The FBI would have been contacted already and their first contact agents would be framing their response to a possible terrorist atrocity.

Two black jeeps flashed blue, sped towards Sophie's restaurant.

They will find her within hours, that's according to plan. So, to complete the main course. He gave himself thirty minutes, that would be time enough.

He took the bowl of flesh and went to the kitchen. He removed his gloves and washed his hands and forearms well. The fake tattoo turned the water black. He eyed his ingredients, all lined up in order, worked through the recipe for Irish stew with kidney. This would be an unforgettable dish.

He quickly chopped the girl's beautiful flesh into bite-sized chunks then put the meat on to fry in butter. The carrots, onions and potatoes were peeled and diced in minutes, he timed every step. He added the veg to a pot of boiling water, along with some aromatic thyme. He heard a moan from the other room.

'It's okay, honey. Just rustling up something special. You have a little Irish in you, don't you?'

As the meat sizzled and the vegetables simmered, he worked on the gravy. The easy answer would be to stir a can of condensed beef soup into the water, but this man was a professional. Insane, but still a professional. He crumbled lamb stock cubes into the bubbling water then cursed when he realised that he'd forgotten to bring the Worcestershire sauce, the descendant of the Romans' liquamen, their ubiquitous salty rotted fish sauce. He looked through the cupboards until he found the one with the rarely-used condiments and he rooted, and there, in at the back, was the little red and white-labelled bottle that hides in almost every kitchen with the Tabasco sauce and the red wine vinegar. A good squirt, two, three.

With care, he sliced the girl's kidney into thin slices. This would give the dish the _je ne sais quoi_ that every gourmet meal must have. Using the chopping knife's broad blade, he lifted the kidney slices, then slid them into the frying pan for just a few seconds. _Perfect._ He carefully lifted the meat and kidney pieces from the pan and added them to the pot. The pan was taken off the heat, to preserve those spine-tingling meat juices. He seasoned the pot with salt and pepper then got to work on his roux, to thicken everything up nicely. In a mixing bowl, he whisked equal parts butter and white flour into a paste. He added this to the pan, back on the heat and it browned beautifully. Some of the water from the pot was ladled into the roux and juice mix so it wouldn't go lumpy when added to the stew. Then the roux went into the pot and voila, simmer for a few minutes - or an hour in the oven if there was time - and the dish was fit for a king. Or a congressman.

He checked on the girl. She was still out. Good. Dawn was creeping across the mirrored faces of the sleepy buildings outside. Time to move. He ladled the steaming stew into two bowls. One he set aside, with a plate and a Post-it note on top. The other bowl was too good to waste. He found a spoon and sat beside the girl. He marvelled at the golden display outside the window and savoured every mouthful of the delicious stew of which any Irish mother would be proud. Sated, he placed the bowl and spoon and the cooking utensils into the otherwise empty, rarely-used dishwasher. Then he found the large gauge syringe in his bag, the kind they used for sucking the fat from rich women. He made a small incision in the girl's buttock. She mumbled, beads of sweat on her face and neck now. He filled the syringe with her white and pink and lumpy goodness and sealed it with a plastic cap.

The Butcher had crossed the moral line of the last great taboo. He perceived the meat and kidney in his dish as simply of a different animal, the treatment of the girl morally no different to the treatment that any lamb - the typical meat in a hearty Irish stew - could expect in an abattoir, just weeks after its birth. No, the girl was in a much better position, for she would live.

At least until the final course.

The Butcher packed his tools away in a doctor's black bag, prepared to leave, to progress the plot.

He put his clothes back on, fantasised about the congressman's mistress. Oh, the things he would do to Sophie.

THREE

Jacob walked home, through a grey morning of cranky commuters, a speeding cyclist nearly knocking him over as the guy sped through a crossing signal. A younger Jacob would have screamed at the guy. This Jacob, here, today, was in a happier place. He frowned after the bike and whispered _Asshole._

The bar had been fruitful, though he'd almost felt like a dirty old man, so many young girls, so many gracious curves, such silicone-enhanced wonders, what tattoos of skulls and Jesus and symbols of anarchy, and so many hipsters, more beards than Kabul. The music could barely be defined as such, a horrible banging and screeching, melody vaguely discernible. Weren't there city statutes regarding noise levels in an internal public place? But the crowd loved it, lapped up every syllable, every thud, every caterwaul.

So this is what it means to be young.

But through the banging, he perceived an undercurrent, a tangible malaise. From the song lyrics talking about ending it all, to the wan-looking girls in pale dresses with heavy mascara that kept trying to talk to him. _Got any Xanax?_ Or _I'd love a sugar daddy before I die_. This is the end, the decline of Western capitalism. Such events always bring out death-obsessions in the young, who feel the sadness, the exhaustion, the sheer futility of life about twenty-five years too young. Little wonder that they've had enough. They always go back to the European Romantic ideal, Tristan and Isolde with their _Liebestod_. Love death.

This world is dying, so let's party!

Jacob clutched his bottle of Heineken, smelled it, stood at the end the bar, furthest possible point from the stage. He tried to work out if the sound would be less, right under the speaker, in the shadow of the cones. But, Christ, getting through that mass of writhing, leaping lunatics? No.

He was ready to leave when the music stopped abruptly. Show's over. Jacob worked his jaws up and down to try and equalise the pressure, ease the ringing. Then Sarah bounded up to him, took his beer, drained it in one long, beautiful swig.

Sweet sweat gleamed on her clavicles, the little keys to Jacob's secret heat.

'Jesus Christ. Thanks. Let me get you one back,' she said, her face shining and wet. Glowing.

'Take it easy,' Jacob said, nodding to the girl behind the bar, two fingers raised. She'd gotten to understand his sign language during the gig. He was a gesturer.

'They're great. How was it up front?'

'Amazing. It's like being in a collective consciousness, part of the music, a sweaty hive.'

'A sweaty hive? I like that. My ears are still buzzing.'

'Thanks for coming down. You want to go to a party? The band will be there?'

So he went to the party and it rocked.

Jacob ate silvery Beluga caviar and drank twentieth century wines as he entertained a group of hungry, sparkling Columbia University students with amazing tales of Nazi art hordes and meeting Picasso, getting ever closer to his one true quest: the definitive definition of art. _Chemistry is life. Design makes life easier, better. But art..._ His last memory was of a French-manicured hand stroking his forearm.

Now, reality was poking its way back into his brain. A black coffee from a street vendor on Broadway helped. Jacob was down to the last mouthful as he reached his apartment building, The Leinster, on Maiden Lane, leading to South Street, the East River and the beautiful, flowing mass of cast iron engineering known as the Brooklyn Bridge. He threw the cup in a trash can, checked the time. Then the scene registered. Police cars. An ambulance. A crowd of people, just standing around, nothing better to do on a Thursday at 8.19am. Damned recession.

He made the edge of the crowd just as a medical team came out the front door of the building - his building - with somebody on a stretcher. Two policemen told the crowd to get back, get back. Jacob saw that it was a young woman, girl even. She had an oxygen mask over her face and her eyes were lolling, her shaggy blond hair tousled. It was like she was having a fit or something.

Her heart laboured, unable to maintain the blood pressure that every cell demanded.

They loaded her onto the ambulance and screamed away to Bellevue, over on First Avenue, a police car in front. The audience muttered, started to disperse. Jacob went to the cop who waited by the door, asked if he could get in.

'You live here, sir?'

'Yes. Apartment 5C.'

'5C? Just a second.' He spoke into the radio mic at his shoulder. Jacob didn't like his tone.

Something was up. Dread piled up in his belly, turning the coffee to inky acid.

'Just a moment, sir,' said the cop, moving that little step closer to Jacob.

A minute later, two detectives appeared at the door, experienced-looking guys with tired, lined faces.

'Mr Johnson?' said one, a black man with a shaved head and a nice grey suit, white shirt, blue silk tie.

'Yes,' stuttered Jacob. 'Is there a problem?'

'You bet there's a problem,' said the other detective, a more crumpled looking character, hint of Russian off him. As if in slow motion to Jacob's still sluggish understanding, he took a pair of handcuffs from a holster on his belt and, in a smooth motion fixed the hard, hard loops around Jacob's wrists.

'You have the right to remain silent,' began his partner.

As Jacob's rights were read to him, his knees weakened and he felt like he could throw up. His legs buckled and both detectives lunged for him, grabbed him hard under his armpits.

'I'm okay. Thanks,' he said, stronger now, aware of all the eyes fixed on him, able to actually _feel_ the gazes on his wet skin.

The black detective started firing questions at Jacob.

'Where were you between midnight and 8am this morning? When were you last in your apartment? Does anybody else have keys to your apartment?'

Jacob tried to think, tried. _I can't remember. I honestly don't know. Sweet God no, not me, not now!_

'I can't remember. Sorry.'

The ambulance well gone, some of his neighbours suddenly became aware of Jacob's situation. They came nearer, asked the policemen what they were doing. They just want gossip fodder, thought Jacob, as he tried to look innocent, which is how, exactly? _Don't smile, they'll think you're mad. Just look relaxed. Yeah. Right._

'Step back, please,' said the cops.

The detectives looked at each other. One nodded. They each gripped an elbow, gripped hard, led him through the entrance doors.

'Okay, Mr Johnson. We're taking you up to your apartment, see if your memory comes back, yeah?'

'I have the right to see my attorney, you just said.'

In the lobby, the black detective said 'I'm Detective Ryan and this is Detective Sanders. We're from 1st Precinct. We're investigating a very serious crime which has been committed in your apartment. Until we know otherwise, you're the prime suspect. Do you understand?'

Jacob nodded.

'Do you understand? Yes or no?'

'Yes, goddammit.'

His head was pounding, a pleasant morning comedown had swiftly degenerated into a killer hangover.

'Now,' continued Detective Ryan, 'we have to move this investigation forward real fast. Unbelievably fucking fast. Get me? I'm prepared to release you temporarily if you will come to the apartment with us now and tell us what's what.'

'Then what? Then you arrest me again? I didn't do anything!'

There was a little bit of reefer in a metal box in the kitchen, he used it to get to sleep sometimes. Anyway, glaucoma ran in his family.

'We'll see what happens next. Do you agree?'

'I agree. Now get these primitive fucking shackles off of me.'

The cuffs were released and Jacob rubbed his wrists - just like in the movies - to ease the tingling as his blood rushed back into the constricted vessels.

They took the lift to the fifth, Mozart's _Flute Concerto No. 2 in D Major_ merrily chirping from the overhead speaker. Jacob felt the weight lifted from him, if only for a few seconds.

'That man was a genius,' said Jacob as they exited the lift, into the all-too-familiar corridor, the music still playing there. 'Mozart. I came that close,' index finger and thumb an inch apart, 'to getting hold of the original score of his _Paris Symphony_.'

'Oh.'

A uniformed cop with a clipboard stood at the door to Jacob's apartment. The detectives gave him Jacob's name and he added all three of them to the Entry/Exit Log.

'Don't touch anything. Clear?'

'Okay,' Jacob said. 'This is weird.'

A detective led the way, Jacob following. The weirdness was just beginning.

He'd been trying to work out what relevance the injured woman had to his arrest, to the whole damned mess. He'd figured her for a burglar who'd been double-crossed by an accomplice - couple of damned junkies, how did they get in? - after the Picasso signature was noted. She got shot maybe, and the cops assumed that Jacob had hurt her himself, revenge, then fled the scene in panic. _What else could it be?_

So he was both relieved and confused to see the art still on his walls.

What else?

A gaggle of cops and crime scene investigators was busy in the tiny kitchen, but the detectives led him past it and into the living room, where another huddle was in progress. A female detective, tall, athletic, gorgeous like a Gauguin vision from the South Seas stood quietly watched him intently. Her gaze made Jacob uncomfortable. He caught her eye but couldn't hold it, glanced back at his Picasso. She won.

A chair was by the window and there was some debris on the coffee table. Blood across his bible, Gombrich's _The Story of Art_. Pools of it under the chair, splashes of bold red across the carpet and onto the table. Got to get that off the pile before it sets, thought Jacob, or it'll need ammonia.

'What do you think?' asked the black detective. Nobody else took any notice of Jacob. He wanted to blurt out that they were in his home.

'This is new to me,' started Jacob. 'When I went out yesterday, that chair by the window was over at the dining table. The coffee table was clean. There was no blood.'

What a ludicrous statement. Is this really happening?

The hope of a dream, a narcotic relapse. No.

The other detective took a call on his cell. The last of the colour dropped from the hard face.

'The commissioner's on her way. We need to have something for her.'

'Fuck,' said his partner. 'What's the point in _her_ coming here? Okay. Okay. Mr Johnson, let's take a look at your kitchen. How's your stomach this morning? Hungry?'

Jacob swallowed but his mouth and throat were painfully dry, just like the detective's sense of humour. Coffee and bile gurgled up from his shivering stomach. He swallowed it back down, the burning, knowing that just one more little thing would push him over the edge.

Going into the kitchen was all it took.

The sight of human meat. _Cooked!_

The sound of the blood thundering in his ears.

The smell of some kind of casserole, thick, heavy notes.

The strong grip of the detective biting into his bicep. _Stop!_

And the urgent taste of last night's party delicacies as they made their way up his throat.

He managed to get his hand to his mouth, forced the vomit back as he ran to the bathroom, the detectives right behind him.

A painful stream of orange and black - _blood?_ \- shattered the pure Zen of the white enamel.

What is my life now?

FOUR

Sophie walked to the restaurant, following Broadway for a change. The bright morning delighting her.

She passed through Washington Square, took the time to pause at some performances, street art, vendors.

Union Square, marking the union of Broadway and the Bowery, the Barnes & Noble store where she liked to buy thrillers and food books and, there, the Decker Building, Andy Warhol's Factory.

She resolved to take a walk in Central Park - how long had it been? - during the mid-afternoon lull between lunch and dinner. Rod would be around to keep tabs.

She jumped in a cab, sat back and saw Macy's, Times Square, all the stuff New Yorkers take for granted.

Her business partner was at his usual table, enjoying a pot of coffee and some scrambled eggs. He rose when Sophie walked in.

'Like some coffee, Soph?'

'Yes, thanks. I'll grab a cup.'

So she got a white china coffee cup and sat across from Rod in a red velvet booth.

'You look a little shaky,' he said. 'I heard about last night.'

Sophie shook her head. _Did all that really happen?_ 'The police were here until five. When I did get home, I couldn't sleep.'

'Shit.'

'I hope we're busy today. That'll keep me going. Else I'm in trouble. You look partied out?'

He made a dismissive gesture with his left hand as he poured Sophie's black coffee. 'Just a few drinks. I want you to tell me everything. From the start. We need to be ready for any press attention, maybe look at putting out a release.'

So she inhaled the coffee steam, told him the story, from the minute the guy had appeared at the table.

'He handed a little package to the congressman, looked like it was a really nice present. The congressman's security jumped on him right away and the box dropped to the floor along with the table and everything else.'

Rod nodded, looked to where the busboys were resetting the table after the Cuban cleaners had spent the end of the night mopping and soaking and drying. A vague smell of chemicals.

'The guy was from off the street, he's always down at the corner shouting about God and 9/11 and stuff,' continued Sophie. 'He said that a guy had just walked up to him and offered him a hundred dollars to bring the package in and hand it to the congressman. Two officers cuffed and held him while Detective O'Brien took the package back into our office.'

Danny O'Brien was made of strong stuff alright. He had witnessed all of the horror that passes for daily life in New York. No need for details. He had used his gun twice on duty, killed one man. He still thought about the man often \- too often - but, in terms of the actual killing, he was good with that.

Inspecting the package, the neat little bow, the delicate wrapping paper, he expected a threatening note, a bullet, a turd even. Instead, he got a smell, a smell that brought him back to when his mom used to roast a leg of lamb or a shoulder of pork on a Sunday, back before the divorce and the breakdowns and all of that bad stuff that he also thought about too often.

It was a little golden sausage, resting on a bed of straw-like paper strips. Literally golden, the thing was wrapped in gold leaf, that really thin sheet of gold you get by beating pure gold forever with a little hammer. Wrinkles and a bulge. A knuckle. The gold was clinging tightly to the sausage. Not a sausage at all. A finger. A damned finger.

Using his pen, he gently lifted the gold leaf, exposing the browned flesh. A painted fingernail and a thin gold ring there, with a little heart shape. _Oh no_. In his gut, Danny knew.

The congressman was at the door. Danny said nothing just pointed at the finger.

'What the fuck?' said the congressman.

Danny shrugged, his brain was spent.

'A finger? What the fuck?'

He leaned closer, the smell of it. The black-painted fingernail, the ring he bought for her sixteenth birthday.

'It's Cathy. They cut off her finger, Danny! Her finger! Oh, my poor baby.'

Sirens sounded outside, the bomb squad, an ambulance, more cops. The congressman left Danny and the finger and went back out to the restaurant floor, to the mutilator.

He lunged, punched the guy hard on the nose so blood streamed out. He hit him again and would have kept doing it, but the strong arms of the uniformed officers restrained his rage.

'I don't think he knew what he was doing sir,' explained one. 'He's just a patsy.'

'Where is she?' screamed the congressman. 'Tell me or I'll tear you to pieces.'

The guy just slouched there, his cuffed hands at his nose.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'The man said it was a birthday present for you, said he was in a hurry.'

'What did he look like?' asked a cop.

'Tall guy,' he mumbled. 'Well-dressed, beard. Now that I think about it, he spoke in an accent. Could've been a Taliban, you know, that kind of look.'

Danny was at the congressman's shoulder. 'Shit. We've got to call in Homeland Security.'

Sophie sighed, suddenly looked frail and exhausted.

'She's on life support now.'

'Will she pull through?' said Rod.

'The doctors are hopeful, but the poor kid was cut to pieces. Bastard.'

'Can she ID him?'

'I don't know. But the Feds were here in minutes and they're working on the assumption that it's terrorist-related.'

'Good.'

'Good?'

Rod flushed. 'Good that they have a line of investigation. Look, I think we should adopt a _No Comment_ line with this whole thing. Any publicity is good publicity, but we don't want to jeopardise any prosecution. Agreed?'

'Agreed. I told everybody who was on last night not to talk to the media.'

'Excellent. I'll remind everyone today. What's next?'

Sophie glanced at her watch, drained her coffee cup as she stood. 'Lunch. Doors open in twenty minutes. You need anything to eat?'

'No thanks. I'm stuffed, ate very late last night.'

Rod went to the men's room, washed his hands. Then he went to his office and looked at the CCTV footage of the gilded dish's delivery from the backup files on the hard drive. This made him smile.

FIVE

Jacob's head shook as he took in the scene in his kitchen. _His_ kitchen, stomach lurching, confused by the signals from his olfactory senses and his brain. The residual smell was clinging, that earthy, meaty smell that only a good stew delivers. It reminded him of Sophie; she made a mean Irish stew. But his brain flashed red: you must not eat human meat.

_Where does that come from?_ wondered Jacob. Is it social conditioning or something deeper? Would humans have eaten each other back fifty thousand years ago? Early human development is still a complete mystery. What about those guys who were stuck in the Andes? Do they still practise cannibalism in Africa or Papua New Guinea or wherever? Shit, I'm going to have to throw out everything in this kitchen. Everything.

Long pig. That's what the Polynesian cannibals call human meat. Long freaking pig.

'Anyone hungry?' asked a forensics guy, taking a chunk of meat from the dish of stew on the serving spoon.

The others laughed while they could. The Commissioner was coming.

Jacob was stunned. A serving dish of stew. The pots and other cooking utensils piled up in the sink. Human flesh in the stew.

'There's a used bowl in the dishwasher,' said Jacob, gesturing at the open appliance.

'Yeah,' said a detective. 'Fucking guy ate his fill.'

Bile reached up Jacob's throat. He swallowed it back down with a burning grimace. Bizarrely, he thought of the Catholic rite of Holy Communion, the bread and wine transformed by the priest into the body and blood of Jesus Christ. _For all to consume. And it's not just symbolism, it's transubstantiation. They actually believe it so._

'See anything different here?' asked the detective.

Jacob walked through the kitchen, craned his head around the forensics guys and the detectives and the cameras. The Gauguin was close, observing Jacob intently.

'Yeah. That stock cube there on the counter. That's not mine. Never heard of the brand.'

The detective nodded, got the photographer to take a couple of shots, picked the cube up in his gloved hand and examined it.

'Gourmet Catering Supplies. Lamb stock. Nice. If this is a restaurant brand, we have our lead. Maybe this fucking guy is a chef?'

Jacob leaned back against the wall. _Jesus Christ. And the day had been going so well. Until I got home._

'One more thing, Mr Johnson. This note was on the stew dish. Mean anything to you? Please don't touch it.'

He held out a yellow Post-it, words scrawled in black felt-tip pen. All capitals.

NOSTRADAMUS WAS RIGHT!

'Shit,' said Jacob.

'Go on.'

'I bought an expensive first edition by Nostradamus last night. This has got to be just a coincidence.'

The detectives looked at each other. In serious crime, coincidences were rare.

'You're going to have to get in touch with your lawyer, Mr Johnson. We've got to bring you in for further questioning.'

Jacob knew how everything must have looked, so he didn't bother to argue. Let them go through their motions until they got something on whatever sick bastard actually did it. He didn't want to use his alibi until absolutely necessary.

But the Nostradamus connection unsettled him deeply.

'What's this?' asked an investigator, holding up an old lock block, caked in fluff and dirt and grease.

'Where did you find it?' said Jacob.

'Down behind the cooker. So what is it?'

'It's a broken lock, 18th or 19th century French, I think. I bought it in a junk shop. Haven't seen it in a couple of years.'

The investigator shrugged, bagged it.

The uniformed officers' radios crackled.

'The commissioner's here.'

'Shit,' said the black detective. 'Mr Johnson, can you please step to the side? We'll have to wait, answer any questions the commissioner may have.'

Jacob sensed the tension level increase a couple of notches. The commissioner's reputation was for maximising internal and external communications and adopting a zero tolerance approach to corruption and incompetence within the NYPD. The congressman and the citizenry loved her, as did most of the cops. The old guard called her Adolf.

She was accompanied by the congressman's detective, Danny O'Brien. They wore latex gloves and were guided through the crime scene by the lead forensics investigator. The commissioner asked questions, mainly about how long the DNA tests would take and what else had been discovered. This brought up the stock cubes and Jacob.

'Mr Johnson. I gather you've been placed under arrest?'

'Yes. I have no idea about what went on here.'

She was Hispanic, high BMI, perfectly clear skin and beautiful eyes. Add in highly intelligent and a Glock in a shoulder holster under her grey trouser suit jacket and Jacob saw that there was a formidable woman running the massive agency that thought him guilty.

'Do I know you, Mr Johnson?' asked Detective O'Brien.

'I think maybe we've met. Can't recall.'

'Wait. Do you know Sophie Wheeler?'

'Yes,' said Jacob. 'We used to go out.'

Danny whispered something into the Commissioner's ear. She looked at Jacob in disapproval.

'Danny,' said the Commissioner, 'Is it correct that the Irish resorted to cannibalism during the Great Famine?'

'Yes, ma'am. It's recently been proven beyond doubt. The Famine also gave us black pudding. Those with livestock would bleed the animals for protein, mix the blood with cereal and bon appetit,' he smiled.

'Sorry,' Jacob said. 'Am I missing something here?'

'Just trying to join the dots, Mr Johnson. That's a classic Irish stew sitting on your counter,' she nodded towards the kitchen. 'Only, classic Irish stew doesn't normally contain human body parts.'

'And the Famine?'

Detective O'Brien said '1845 to 9. The potato crop sustained the peasant population. It got infected with blight, a fungus. One million died from starvation or disease. A million more emigrated. Which is why I'm here now.'

'A million dead?' said Jacob. 'I had no idea.'

'Most people don't,' said the detective. 'Given the population at the time, it's equivalent to fifty million Americans starving to death in slow motion.'

'Dear God. But wasn't Ireland a British colony back then?'

'For sure. The British were sending what crops there were off to London while the locals starved. It kind of explains the IRA and all that hatred, was the catalyst that eventually led to independence - '

'But does it bring us any closer to catching our man?' interrupted the commissioner. 'Mr Johnson has been good enough to give us one lead, the stock cube.'

'We've got nineteen thousand restaurants in Manhattan alone.'

'So we'll start with those. Do we have a number yet from the cube suppliers?'

'They're high end, pricey,' said a detective on a call, 'I'm talking to Gourmet Catering now, just three hundred customers in Manhattan.'

'Good. I need that restaurant list emailed immediately and I want names of every staff member in every one of those restaurants who was off last night or didn't show up. Start with kitchen staff. Can we take it that our perpetrator is a chef?'

Shrugs. Not a cook among them.

'Then we'll need a chef in here,' said the commissioner.

'I know just the woman,' said Detective O'Brien, flipping open his mobile.

'Very good. Now, Mr Johnson,' she said, her hands on her hips, no trace of a smile, as though she was addressing a naughty schoolboy 'what are we going to do with _you_?'

Jacob said nothing. The gravity of the situation was making him nauseous. _Christ, the Nostradamus book had to be picked up, assuming the payment had gone through okay. Then there was the new job, got to nail that, got to. The magazine. Oh Christ, the magazine, three days to finish off the new issue. And last night, Jesus, what were the implications for work? For everything?_

The commissioner took the quiet female detective to the hallway for a talk well out of earshot. Jacob stood, swaying, fearing a dank, windowless cell from which he might never be freed.

'Mr Johnson?' said the commissioner again, shaking him from his mindmelt.

'Yes?'

'Sorry to trouble you, but you're being taken down to the station. My gut tells me that this isn't your work - you don't look stupid enough to piss in your own soup - and most, I repeat _most_ , of my team agrees with me. But there's something more, too many connections. I just don't know what's what. So, see you later.'

Jacob was cuffed and led from the building, to the tut-tuts of his neighbours. The glare of the startlingly bright day brought on the headache that had been threatening. Detective O'Brien followed.

'By the way, the Irish got some help from America during the Famine.'

'Really?' said Jacob.

'Sure. The Choctaw Indians, down in Florida, they sent a shipload of food across to the Irish. Ain't that something?'

'It is. Listen, I'm from Florida, so how about you hand me a break here? What goes around and all that?'

'Go on.'

'Got any Tylenol?'

O'Brien shrugged as Jacob was shoved into a marked police car. Just then, Sophie arrived in hers.

Sophie found the high-speed trip down to the crime scene exhilarating, her heart freezing whenever they screamed through a red light.

The officer explained that a woman had been mutilated by a cannibal and cooked - _cooked!_ \- and the detectives needed to know if the guy was a professional or what.

'Don't worry, ma'am. The victim is long gone.'

'Thank God for that,' said Sophie, relieved. 'I've never been to a crime scene,' she lied. 'I don't think I could handle a corpse.'

'No, no,' laughed the cop. 'She's _alive_. Fucking guy cut her up and kept her alive while he ate her. Pardon my French.'

'Jesus. Poor girl.'

Sophie thought about this as Broadway's neon jungle flashed by. There was a goldfish on the big screen at Times Square, advertising some junk that nobody really needed. Buy it, seven seconds later, forget why you wanted it. Western economy. Chinese-made garbage. Nobody ever really, genuinely, actually _satisfied_ with what they have. Bill Hicks, the great, dead comedian had it right. _If you're in advertising or marketing, kill yourself. Rid the world of your evil fuckin' presence._ But _the fish_. Yes. Chinese dish, Ying Yang Fish. Also known as Dead-and-Alive fish. Take a carp. Using a towel, hold its head tightly. Roughly descale its flanks with a knife, then hold it tail first in boiling fat. Serve on a plate with some sweet and sour sauce. Pick at the cooked meat while the fish looks up at you - still very much alive - its mouth moving, the damned fish saying _Why are you eating me while my heart still beats?_

Or Japanese Ikizukuri sashima. Now there's a dish. The diner selects the fish from the tank. The skilled chef delicately fillets the fish, without damaging its heart or any internal organs. The fillets are diced and laid on the plate with the still-alive fish as dressing. Again, the fish looks at you while you're eating it and says _Why?_ The diner says _Fresh!_

As they pulled up outside Jacob's apartment building, Sophie caught a glimpse of a familiar tousled head in a squad car that was pulling away. Then she saw where they were. Jacob?

SIX

Sophie was shocked by the scene in Jacob's apartment. Through there, the bed, the wide, soft bed where they had enjoyed - _how many?_ \- maybe a dozen nights of entwined limbs and pumping fluids and desperate little deaths. And here, the couch before the beautiful window. How many bottles of expensive vintage? How many interesting conversations, flirty glances, hands held? Now, splashes of blood and so many cops with hard eyes and harder mouths.

'Through here, ma'am, the kitchen.'

Sophie was greeted by the lead investigating detective and the commissioner, who'd been to her restaurant a couple of times with the congressman. The commissioner smiled in greeting but stayed quiet, allowed the investigation to progress unimpeded by her presence. She just wanted results, damn it.

'So we're not sure whether the perpetrator is a chef or a doctor-stroke-surgeon. If he's neither, we need to cast our net wider. For now, we'd like you to tell us if you think the guy's a trained chef.'

'Okay. I'll tell you what I can.'

The detective held out a transparent evidence bag with a stock cube inside.

'The owner of the apartment says that this isn't his.'

'Yes, I know the brand. Catering only, far as I know. Good quality. We use them in my restaurant.'

At the station, Jacob sat in an interview room, with its two-way mirrors, grimy surfaces and memories of lies and pain and fear.

An air conditioning unit hummed by the window while a fat fly buzzed by the fluorescent light and all Jacob wanted was darkness and quiet and someone to hold him.

He felt like shit. Then his attorney arrived. This perked him up a little.

'Jacob. My god, look at you.'

'Matt.'

'What the fuck is going on?'

'I really don't know what the big deal is.'

'The big deal? Are you shitting me? The big deal? You know that girl who was butchered and cooked in your apartment?'

'Figuratively speaking, yeah.'

'Well, that was the congressman's fucking daughter, Jacob. The Speaker of the House.'

Jacob's guts, punished already by the narcotics and shock hormones that had been coursing through his system for many hours now, gave up then.

'I need to use the bathroom.'

After a few minutes, he was glad to be back in his plastic chair; it's not nice having a cop stand outside the cubicle while your colon squeezes out all the evil-smelling bad stuff.

'Did you do it?' asked Matt, his pin-striped suit and shiny shoes and waxed hair reminding Jacob that he was a very good lawyer.

'God no. I was out all night with a girl from the office. I strolled home this morning without a care in the world and then, wham, here I am.'

The lawyer smiled.

'Speaking of _Whaam!_ , any sign of another Lichtenstein for my collection?'

This is good. He wants to talk pop art.

'I presume you saw that _Ohhh . . . Alright . . ._ went for forty-two million plus, yesterday? I've lost track, was that yesterday?'

'Yep,' said the lawyer, writing with a Mont Blanc pen on onionskin paper.

'I was at the auction but passed once it reached the twenty.'

'Yeah. A new record. Not good from my collection's point of view. We may have to focus on Warhol.'

'I think that's wise. There's a shitload of his stuff still out there.'

'What about the Madoff auction? Anything good?'

'A lot of junk. So, Matt. Tell me. How am I?'

'You're good, Jacob. Don't worry. Once they get the paperwork sorted, you're out of here. There's nothing to hold you on. No witness account. No forensics. Nothing. The fact that the crime went down in your apartment while you were out is, actually, irrelevant. You're going to have to tell them who has keys, though. No sign of a break in.'

'Okay. I can do that short list now.'

Matt pushed the notepad across the table, his pen on top.

'Shoot.'

'And my phone?'

'They're sifting through that now. You'll get it back on the way out. Anything to hide in there?'

'Shit. I don't know. I don't think so.'

'Did you call the congressman's daughter last night?'

'No.'

'Then you're okay.'

So Jacob wrote the names of people who had keys to his apartment while Matt talked about _Ohhh . . . Alright . . ._ and who might have bought it.

'Forty-two point six million. I'd retire if I sold that, Jacob. I'm not kidding. So where were you last night?'

'I'd rather not say.'

'You'd rather not say?'

'Fifth amendment,' said Jacob, holding up his right hand solemnly.

'Jesus Christ, Jacob. That's not much use to me,' said Matt, standing. 'Assuming nothing sticks about the congressman's daughter - her name is Catherine by the way \- assuming that, there's a risk some little fuck of an assistant DA will push for an obstruction charge, under contempt. Five years in the hole.'

The remaining colour fled from Jacob's face. He swallowed painfully. _God, I need a drink._

'Five years?'

'Sorry kid. Look. Let me get you a cup of coffee while you think about it. That sound good?'

Sophie scrutinised everything about the kitchen. The way the pots and dishes were stacked in the sink. The way the finished dish was presented, edge wiped, silver laid on napkin. The way the components of the dish had been cut and combined. Finally she dipped her little finger into the sauce.

'Jesus, no!' cried the detective. 'That's got human flesh in it.'

'It's been properly cooked,' said Sophie. 'It's just meat.'

So she tasted it, let the flavours dance on her tongue, earthy, rich, salty, with a subtle tang. The cops blanched, even the commissioner.

'Yes. A professional chef,' she said. 'This is a near-perfect Irish stew. If not a chef, then someone who works in a restaurant or food preparation environment.'

Then she told them her thoughts about the Eastern taste for eating fish that was still alive.

'So could we be talking about a sushi chef? Somebody Chinese, maybe?'

'These live dishes are illegal in New York though I'm sure you could get a Ying Yang Fish down on Canal Street if you pick the right place. But this stew would be an odd choice for a Chinese or Japanese chef. The flavours are too different and this stew is too good. The palates are, in my opinion, incompatible. I would lean towards the notion that this is a Western chef who's aware of world cuisine, maybe wants to impress with his knowledge.'

'Looking for affirmation?' said the commissioner. 'Pretty common trait among psychos.'

The investigators had a quick discussion while Sophie enjoyed the lingering flavours in her mouth, using her tongue to search out every last molecule.

'One more question, miss. The gilded finger that was delivered to the congressman? Why was it wrapped in gold leaf?'

'That was fairly common back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, typically on roasted meats. I assume the nobles did it simply because they could.'

'Would the gold have been eaten?'

'That I don't know. There's one man who could tell you, though. He's an expert on the period.'

'Let me guess,' said the commissioner.

Sophie smiled.

The commissioner impressed the team with the urgency of the case one last time, then she left and the lead detective asked Sophie to hang on while he called the station to pass on the gilding question for Jacob and the team bagged up the key evidence from the kitchen so she could double-check everything, take a look in the cupboards, like the one where she would find the coffee to bring to Jacob's bed.

Matt returned with two polystyrene cups of machine coffee. It tasted of chemicals and detergent, but at least it was hot, somehow comforting.

'Well?' he asked.

'Let's talk some more.'

'Good. You're far too pretty for prison,' he smiled. 'Listen, a cop needs to talk to you about gilded food or something.'

'Okay. First, sit down a second. Have you ever heard of a private club on Central Park West at a place called _Vierte Corporation_?'

SEVEN

The storm fell on them from a clear night sky. A calm and steady progress quickly became a melee of rigging and screams and high water. The captain was drunk, having tapped into the cargo. He was lolling on his cabin bunk, dictating a new bill of lading to the clerk. The captain was cunning - he'd brought a supply of paper, knowing that this would be his best opportunity to build his pension before France fell to pieces.

The ship's relentless rocking meant that the young scribe made many mistakes. He had finally finished his work when a wall of water slammed into the ship, throwing the captain onto the coarse wooden floor. The roll continued, so the ship capsized and fell gently through the frigid water, finally coming to rest on its side, a hundred fathoms down. The captain and the clerk danced, a slow, black, salty embrace.

***

Three hundred and twenty-one years later, a group of friends from Sweden decided that their July holidays would be spent diving the tideless Baltic Sea. They had hoped to find a plane or a ship from World War Two. A massive algal bloom stayed off to the east, so conditions were excellent for diving.

Descending through the brackish top layer of water and into the more saline, anaerobic layer below, they could not be aware that this lack of oxygen at lower depths - a peculiar feature of the Baltic - would be key to their fortunes being made.

Three shapes drifted down, down through the plankton clouds and herring shoals, the sun glinting from the azure sky in that other, above world. They reached the seabed and worked a search pattern. The sunshine just a light vagueness now, their torches shone on the mud and the weeds and the scuttling things.

_There!_ Gestures, shallow breathing, wasted oxygen. A ship, it must be a ship. The thrill of approaching an artefact, a thing from another time looming from the murk. _What if?_ Mikael, the dive leader, couldn't help but remember the first time he made love, to that Danish girl with the freckles, on another summer holiday, in another time. The feeling was intense.

A hermit crab, scared, retreated into its shell until the shadows passed.

The divers reached the vessel and saw immediately that this was no Nazi gunboat or Finnish cargo ship. It was on its side, covered in a gently sloping, thick layer of mud so, to the casual observer watching a sonar display, it looked much like a natural seabed formation. But there were stumps to one side, masts. Mikael reached it first, touched the mud on the hull, wiped it off in thick clouds until his glove touched oak.

Their excitement was palpable, eyes wide behind the masks, as they surveyed the wreck. On the deck, a gaping hole led into a black question. Mikael checked his watch, yes, enough oxygen for a quick look. He gestured _ten minutes_ to his buddies and _careful_ and in they went.

It only took four minutes for them to discover the bones and the perfectly intact wooden cases with the legend still easily legible.

Veuve Clicquot Champagne.

1786.

***

Jacob had been awake for thirty-two hours straight when he met Julia in a bar on Columbus Circle. It was an Irish-style place, fairly dark, neon Guinness signs, maudlin' music in the hazy background, chatty barman, daytime drunks.

She'd called as he stood on the street outside the police station, wondering _What the hell do I do now?_

He was on his second screwdriver. The vodka was a blessing to Jacob then, fuzzing reality, lessening the shock of life. He thought of Munch's _The Scream_ , put his hands on his face, silently became the art. Then she walked in, turning most heads. Jacob half-stood, gestured to the other seat at his table. Christ it was just like the interview room, only with booze.

'What would you like to drink?'

'Nothing here,' glancing around, a vague distaste on her lips 'thank you. If you can just finish up, I'd like to bring you somewhere we can talk.'

She stayed standing while Jacob drained his glass, even taking all the crushed ice into his mouth. He got up and waited for her to lead the way. She hurried out of the place.

They crossed the Circle and over to Central Park West, past the Trump Hotel and to a nearby building that was newly familiar to Jacob. _Vierte Corporation? Again?_

Jacob admired the building's lines and details. He thought it funny how he'd never noticed the place before, though it was so near his golden triangle of Museum of Modern Art, Metropolitan Museum of Art and Guggenheim. _Wrong side of the Park_ , he figured. They passed through the marbled lobby, the airport-style metal detector remaining silent, two suited security guys, ex-military types, calmly watching from behind a massive desk. They greeted Julia, formally. Usually, two SIG Sauer military issue automatic pistols and a German MP5 sub machine gun lurked in the desk's top drawer. Today, one of the SIG Sauers was missing.

Julia presented a photo ID and asked to sign Jacob in as her guest.

'Welcome back, sir,' said a guard.

Jacob filled in his name, cell and social security numbers and stood for a photo. Within seconds, he was presented with a clip-on, laminated photo ID, GUEST across the top.

Jacob glanced at the lists of occupiers on huge boards in the elevator hall. He got a sense of international trade and investment finance.

Then they were alone in the elevator.

'What is this building?' he asked.

'Simply a busy commercial premises,' Julia said. 'It's owned by a trust fund and the offices are leased out to members of a club at preferential rates. We work hard at helping each other out. We have hedge funds, investment banks, accountants, legal, art and antiques brokerages, you name it. Our main trading office is down on Wall Street. That's where we make the gold. But we keep a duplicate trading floor here. So business isn't interrupted, in the event of another -'

She didn't need to say it.

'You work hard together and, I'm guessing, play hard?' _Not so subtle, Jacob._

She smiled a fake smile, all business.

They exited the elevator at the top floor - thirty-two - and walked along a pleasant, airy corridor, office doors along each side, potted plants, good light. At the far end of the corridor, a window let the afternoon autumn sunshine flood in, an orange tint to it. Immediately to the right of the window, the last door had no name plaque beside it, just a security camera dome fixed to the wall above. The door handle was different too, not the functional brushed chrome of the others, but something more ornate. Golden.

'Interesting,' said Jacob. 'The handle is in the style of Louis XVI.'

She nodded, taking a beautiful key from her purse. She inserted the key delicately into the lock, twisted it until there was a solid click from deep inside. No ordinary lock, no ordinary key.

A flight of wide, wooden stairs.

The thirty-third floor. A sacred number among Freemasons.

'It's a really lovely building,' said Jacob. 'I like the Art Deco style. 1930s?'

'Just after the War, actually,' she said, locking the door, checking it.

At the top of the stairs was a security desk, an unsmiling Filipino woman sitting behind it, and a large cloakroom. A massive oak double door stood open, the clatter of silver and the gentle buzz of late afternoon conversation escaping.

A stunning, wide open room, glass on three sides, Central Park in front, facing east. An odd hue to the glass, mirrored on the outside, Jacob figured.

Electromagnetically shielded, bullet proof and alarmed also.

A wide, circular column in the centre of the room, bar around it, stools and high tables. Everything made of gleaming brass or the finest polished wood, walnut, mahogany, oak. The smell of timeless money. Maybe twenty or so people enjoying afternoon drinks, mostly at the low tables by the floor-to-ceiling window that faced onto the Park. Amiable-looking people. Wealthy certainly, that you could tell, but something about the group as a whole unsettled Jacob. Something wasn't right. _But what?_

Utterly priceless view. But Jacob's attention had been hijacked by the art.

On this pedestal, a Roman bust, probably Nero. On that pedestal a Babylonian lion. Glass cabinets with delicate beauties lit by gentle recessed lights. Dalí's eggs. Fabergé's too. A Ming vase or three. Along the oak-panelled partition wall at the far side - which seemed to cut off maybe half of the floor area, the smell of a kitchen, a waiter exiting a door there with a tray of jumbo prawn salads - paintings and doors. A really old man, maybe in his eighties or nineties, sat beside a large painting of a unicorn by Swiss symbolist artist Arnold Böcklin and a dark work of a moon over the sea. Jacob knew the moonlight work well, really _knew_ it, but he couldn't think why. The old man read an antique book, raised his head and smiled enigmatically every so often. Everyone who walked by him, staff member or customer, acknowledged him. Clearly a senior member of the club.

The paintings!

Julia used her exquisitely-manicured index finger to gently push up Jacob's lower jaw. His teeth clunked.

'Sorry, I - . Is that a Van Gogh over there?'

'One of his earlier works. We can take a look after we talk business. Okay?'

'Okay. Okay.'

Julia led him to a table by the window. They sat in le Corbusier armchairs and a waiter appeared within seconds.

'Chateau Margaux, please,' said Julia. 'And some nibbles. Red okay with you, Jacob?'

'Chateau Margaux? God, yes.'

'Is the 2000 vintage suitable, madam?'

'Perfect, thanks.'

Julia relaxed and smiled, studying Jacob as he savoured the view, which included the Guggenheim's delicious curves.

'2000?' he said, frowning slightly. 'So it's bottled sunshine that may as well be from another time, another world entirely. Think about it. The new millennium was a hopeful time. Some said it would be the Age of Aquarius, peace and love and all that. Instead, we got 9/11, wars across the Middle East, global warming, natural disasters, fundamentalism, hatred and, to cap it all off, economic meltdown.'

The waiter returned with the Pavillon Rouge du Chateau Margaux and two huge wine glasses. He quickly opened the bottle, smelled the cork and poured a mouthful into Julia's glass. She declined the invitation to test it, so he poured both glasses and faded away.

'If the cork has gone mouldy, the waiter will smell it. The whole testing thing is just peasant behaviour. Anyway,' she raised her glass, 'to us.'

'To us,' said Jacob.

Their glasses clinked. Instead of rushing to drink, they both held their glasses up to the light, their eyes drinking in the luxurious, dark, velvety redness of it. Then to the nose, the deep inhalation of fruits and toffee and oak, the barrel still prominent.

Then the taste, that tender first sip. They filled their mouths with it, every tastebud tingling, air drawn in to maximise the oxygenation of the flavour explosion. A creamy, toasty, thick and rich fruit bonanza that lingered in the brain for precious, long seconds to savour. A tannin aftertaste followed. But not bitter: mellow, an added bonus.

'Wow,' said Jacob.

'It can do with another few years in the cellar,' she said, 'but it's certainly drinkable.'

Jacob laughed as he took a mouthful, held it until he coughed, drenching his tongue. _Drinkable!_

'You can judge the quality of a wine by the length of flavour,' he said. 'This just doesn't want to go away. The taste of another time. A better time.'

'I don't know,' she said. 'The world is in constant flux. It really depends on your perspective. Things have been going well for us here. And you can be part of it.'

A plate of nibbles arrived, delicate little wedges of brie and Camembert, salty crackers and squares of high cocoa plain chocolate. Everything selected to complement the wine.

'The elderly gentleman on the stool,' she began. 'He's the last surviving founder, a life member of our board. Where we are now is open to a very restricted number of members and their guests, but we do try to trawl our nets as widely as possible to get a vibrant cross section of the elite to come and play. But only a tiny number will get into our inner sanctum, our Leader's Club. That door beside our founder, that door leads to our greatest treasures, our greatest secrets, our greatest pleasures. Work with us and I'll get you in there.'

She paused, eyebrows raised. She had him.

'Yes please,' he said.

She nodded.

'Excellent. Now, to business. You're aware of the discovery of King Louis's Champagne in the Baltic Sea last July?'

'Of course. A remarkable find.'

'And you know that two complete cases from the find are up for auction in Christie's on Monday?'

'Yes. Guide of fifty to one hundred grand per bottle. I don't know if they've decided on whether to split up the cases yet.'

'They will be sold as complete cases,' she said firmly. 'And we want both.'

'I can see that they would be remarkable,' mused Jacob. 'Sommeliers have tasted a couple of bottles. I've read that the flavours are quite amazingly complex. Talk about vintage, it doesn't get much better.'

'Exactly, so competition will be fierce but we _must_ have them for a themed event here next Friday night. Failure is simply not an option.'

There was a stirring at the entrance door then, two men in Christie's overalls carried a medium-sized painting box, accompanied by an older man in a suit, plus two uniformed and armed guards from a private security company, and another man in some kind of uniform behind.

'If you'll excuse me for just a moment,' said Julia, standing. 'Our Lichtenstein has arrived.'

'Ohhh... Alright...'

She laughed. 'I like you, Jacob.'

'It's a beautiful piece.'

'True. We already have some of his lesser works which I'm planning to offload soon.'

'So you've just pushed up their value.'

A nod, but her mind was on the delivery, her head already turned away.

A thunderclap then and everything froze, time paused, the world wobbled, stuttered upon its axis. Another explosion. Jacob, his brain already tender, reflexively leapt to his feet, the glasses of Chateau Margaux falling over slowly. Jacob watched them tumble.

_Follow the sound, Jacob._ The old man sitting alone at the far wall. He was slumped in his chair, his chest red. A hazy cloud of grey smoke. A man with his back to Jacob, right arm outstretched. Another clap. The old man lurched. _He's dead! No need to shoot anymore! Guns are so loud!_ A fourth shot, then a fifth.

Julia ran back towards Jacob. He grabbed her and pulled her down behind the cool leather armchairs. _The smell of her hair._ Jacob's hands were shaking, his spine hot. He winced as one more shot rang out.

EIGHT

The lunch crowd hadn't yet arrived, the business types with their stripy shirts, leather braces and corporate credit cards, the tourists who wanted to taste the famed pleasures on the cheap, the wealthy retirees who came on a particular day every week, even every day of every week.

Rod busied himself in the kitchen. He had training, knew how every dish went together, so Sophie was happy to see him running lunch. Dinner no, lunch yeah. Anyway, it kept his interest in the place high.

So Rod worked on the specials. Linguini - little tongues - with prawns in a pesto sauce. And steak tartare - steak à l'Americaine - with raw egg, capers and onions. Both dishes would have a little something special, something to make the business types and the tourists and the retirees sit up and take notice. There was a new chef in Oral Pleasures today. Just taste the difference.

Rod wore chef's whites. Tucked into his apron was a syringe full of fat. _Woman ass fat._ He made up a batch of base, enough for maybe ten orders of the linguini special. He squirted half the syringe into the heavy frying pan, along with plenty of diced onion and garlic. He gently sweated these off, the fat combining with the sulphurs of the bulb vegetables to cause an involuntary salivation. The other kitchen staff prepping everything else for lunch, the hand-cut fries, the sliced and diced onions, the salad greens, the fresh pesto, they each looked to Rod and smiled. _Something smells real good, boss._ Then he set the mix aside, ready to be cooked with the prawns as ordered, then mixed with the linguini and a little more of that oh-so-amazing house pesto.

The steak tartare didn't require cooking, so could be made up. He did five portions, prime aged beef, finely ground, with the rest of the special fat and sea salt and ground black pepper. He mixed the ingredients well with his bare hands and made up the six ounce patties, covered them with cling-film and into the refrigerator. Nice. If they didn't move, they would be fried up as burgers at dinner service.

'Order! Table five. Two linguini. One tartare. One fillet, medium rare, mash and onion rings.'

'And so it begins,' said Rod.

The secrets of the trade were so clear to him now, it was like enlightenment. Fat, ideally from cream and butter. Salt. Sugar. Use these ingredients copiously and the food will taste great. Almost every restaurant used this golden threesome to satisfy their customers. But the human fat that Rod had added to the raw steak and prawn dishes would deliver the creamiest, butteriest mouth-feel, the ultimate flavour. They'd love it.

The fillet steak went on the grill first. Its thickness needed time, even to achieve a juicy medium. The creamy, salty mash sat in a hot pot, ready to go, just a knob of butter. He called for a portion of onion rings. He plated up the steak tartare then, sliding the patty of meat onto a fresh plate, cracking a room temp egg and gently spilling it onto the pink and moist centre, the bullseye. A sprinkling of chopped onion and some capers and a final few grains of sea salt and set it aside.

He set a wide frying pan over a high heat, dropped the linguini into a pot of boiling, salted water, a dash of olive oil and a good pinch of fresh basil in there as well. As the pasta cooked, the frying pan received the fatty onion and garlic mix, sizzled and spat. After only a few seconds, two handfuls of grey prawns from a sustainable farm in Ecuador, their sugars instantly caramelising, bringing out a fabulous pink hue, like tiny flamingos dancing on a salty lake.

Stir the pasta. Nearly there. More orders came in, mostly steaks and lamb chops. Time of year. He passed these out to his team. Another tartare, also passed on as the prawns were done.

He took the pan off the gas ring, let it rest while he tasted the linguini, proving it al dente \- firm to the tooth - drained it in a big stainless steel colander, watching the steam, the main cause of injury in restaurants. Jesus, cappuccinos and second degree burns, it's not funny.

So the pasta went back into the dry pot with a knob of butter, then the prawns with their human touch, then a couple of generous spoons of the house pesto. Stir it around, then spoon it carefully onto the plates. Clean around the edges of the plates, then onto the service area. Put up the tartare. The steak was perfect. He called for Pedro, a reliable fry chef from somewhere south in Brazil, to plate up the mash and onion rings.

'Already done, chef.'

'Thanks, Pedro. Service, table five!'

And the dishes were away. Rod watched as the waiters smilingly presented the plates to the table of four. He wiped his sweating forehead with his forearm, had a quick look around at his team, all okay, got started on the next linguini order. He worked fast, but couldn't resist watching table five as they took pleasure in the flesh of Eve.

NINE

Jacob was on the street again. It was dark, thank God that day of fear shuddering to an end.

The gunman had disappeared in the confusion and the room was quickly evacuated. As Jacob descended the flight of wooden steps, armed security men from the downstairs lobby barged past. Julia took his arm there, thanked him for trying to protect her, asked him to keep Wednesday free.

'I'll be in touch before then. Okay?'

'Jesus! What just happened? What about the police?'

Jacob was breathless, the long night and startling day placing massive stresses on his heart.

'Just get away, Jacob. You don't need to be seen by the police. Am I right?'

'You're right,' he said, rubbing at his wrists. 'I didn't see the shooter anyway. Did you? Did you know him?'

'I didn't see anything. All I know is that a harmless old man has been cruelly murdered,' Julia said, her voice cracking. 'It's awful.'

Jacob felt an urge to kiss her cheek, so he did. She smiled at him and he went for the elevator, sharing it down with about ten more pale, silent people, their eyes full of fear and loss, the loss of a golden moment, a little shaft of pleasure in a world gone mad.

Outside. The gas fumes had had the day to accumulate, so the air burned Jacob's throat. The traffic noise also seemed a few decibels higher, or it could have been the gunshots still ringing, bouncing around his queasy brain. His iPhone chimed. The auction house.

'Mr Johnson, your payment has cleared and you may collect your purchase at any time. The collections department is open until five today if that suits.'

Christ, what was I thinking?

'Oh. Okay. Thank you.'

'And you will bring photo ID?'

'Of course.'

'Goodbye and thank you for your custom.'

Sophie. That's what I was thinking.

Some direction at least, figured Jacob. Something to do. Keep moving forward. Bring it to Sophie? Nah, she'd be working. Always working.

He strolled the twelve blocks to the auction house. Over the first couple of blocks, the adrenaline wore off and the latent tang of the Chateau Margaux dissipated.

His physical energy, his actual ability to maintain motion fading fast, Jacob reached Christie's at a quarter before five. Some viewings were concluding, good interest in an upcoming auction of Oriental art, massive growth area. This reminded him about the cover story. Jacob concluded his business quickly. The Nostradamus cookbook was shown to him, with its yellowing paper, its frayed bindings, its ink of soot, turpentine and walnut oil, its calling from the Dark Ages. Jacob swore he felt a hum, a crackle of electricity from it when he gently touched the cover. This contact, this buzz, this was why he loved his work. The book was placed between layers of bubble wrap, secured in a cardboard document box and finally placed in a leather briefcase, combination lock activated.

'The case is with our compliments, sir. Code is two-seven-three.'

_A fifty dollar briefcase from your twenty grand commission. Easy._ 'Thanks.'

'Enjoy your purchase, sir.'

Back on the street, autumn evening closing, sidewalks writhing, city pulsing. Only this time, Jacob had a book worth over a hundred thousand dollars in his hand. _How many of these random strangers would kill me for this briefcase?_ He started to walk uptown, not with any sense of purpose, just so he wouldn't appear aimless or confused or vulnerable.

Because he was all of these things.

So he didn't spot the man who stood half a block away, the P226 pistol in his coat pocket, the handle gripped like it would break, only half a magazine left.

I'm calling Sophie.

He felt like back when he was fifteen years old, way down in Florida, just far enough from the beach, just close enough to the swamp, and he'd saved up to buy a pretty ring for a girl on Valentine's Day. Sterling silver, Claddagh design, hallmarked. Pretty. He didn't tell mom or dad, they wouldn't understand. But waiting to see her, to see Emma, he felt like his heart would just explode.

So he called Sophie and was surprised when she answered.

'Hi Soph. How are you?'

'At work. Busy.' She paused. 'Not busy really.'

'I'd love to see you.'

'Can you come over now? We could eat?'

Rod could deal with dinner service, he was on a roll. She needed to stop. To just get out of the kitchen.

'I'd love that. I'm only a few blocks away. I'll grab a cab. See you in maybe ten?'

'Can you give me a little more time to get cleaned up?'

'That's fine. I feel a cigar coming on.'

'Great,' she said, her mind already on the dress that had been hanging in her office for weeks, wrapped in dry cleaner's plastic.

Great. It was as though something had happened somewhere in the city, an event that had pulled the customers home, lots of cancellations. So she asked Rod if he could keep up the good work. He was beyond enthusiastic, even offered to cover for her over the weekend.

'You've, like, never had a weekend off, Sophie. Come on.'

'I don't know what's wrong with me, Rod.'

She didn't. She stood on the thick rubber mat, stared straight ahead as she mechanically diced a chunk of blue cheese for some dressing. The knife sliced into the index finger of her left hand, just below the fingernail. A quiet rivulet of red streamed into the cheese. Rod couldn't take his eyes off it.

'Okay Sophie, that's it. Get back to the office and clean that wound. Then get changed and sit down for some dinner with your friend. And I'd like to see you on Monday, your head back together. Okay?'

'Okay.' _Never cut towards yourself._

'So what's the order that needs the dressing?' he asked, putting the bowl of bloody cheese to one side, frantically wondering how he could get hold of fresh human flesh and fat and blood tonight and what he could do with the cheese right now.

Jacob needed a double espresso, so he passed on Starbucks and enjoyed a stiff Colombian in a warm Cuban cafe near Radio City. Salsa music, exotic waitress, warm and sunny smells, multiple Che Guevara images, all boxes ticked. He took a little table under a palm tree in the smoking garden and ordered his coffee, a good rum and a cigar, a simple corona. The waitress brought his order on a silver tray and sat beside him. She cut off the end of the cigar, advised Jacob that it was Cuban, but perfectly legal in that it was hand-made by Cubans in Miami. She lit it for him using an odourless match.

Jacob sat and puffed and drank, keeping his briefcase between his legs, enjoying the ambience of the place and the leathery, earthy smoke and the chocolaty coffee and the sweet and oaky and cocunutty rum, all the flavours dancing around his mouth and lungs and organs. For a few minutes at least, Jacob felt like a king. The waitress caught his eye, flashed her sunset lips and moonlight teeth. _It doesn't get too much better than this. On balance, maybe it wasn't such a bad day._

He attempted to process recent events, but kept running into brick walls. No chance of getting his apartment back for maybe a couple of days - the cops would get back to him - and the risk, however remote, of being convicted of a heinous crime, lurked in the background of every thought, ready to mug any positive emotions. Circumstantial evidence only, but genuinely so. _Is it smart to see Sophie now?_ No, but changing his natural behaviour patterns would likely point more towards some kind of guilt.

Anyway, the gift had to be passed to its intended recipient. _A hundred and five plus tax! Jesus, Jacob, you'd better secure that Champagne._

Another sip of rum, the empty glass waved at _that_ waitress. So he finished his second rum, stubbed out the cigar and drained the coffee. A ten dollar tip.

On the street again, looking like any other tired businessman with his briefcase and the smell of cigars and booze on his breath, looking for the next buzz, the next tiny victory of temporary escape from mundane existence. _Such a messy day today, honey._ But no home to end up in, just a fuzzy image of a monotonous hotel room, lurking somewhere downtown, ready to wrap his weariness in anonymity.

Paying the cabdriver, Jacob suddenly realised that he was almost out of cash. His account was in tatters, thanks to the book, so he would survive on credit cards until the Champagne deal. He couldn't remember even paying the last card bills, so he'd need to make some calls before he wound up in any more awkward situations. The Champagne auction took on a dread sense of importance, like his life depended on it.

Where did it all go wrong?

Sophie was waiting for him at the best table in the house. She looked fab, an elegant turquoise dress, her blond hair slicked back off her face, a smile, red lipstick and freckled skin. _What are you hiding, Soph?_ But always that vague unease behind it all, like she was ready to be knocked back. He kissed her cheek, took back her smell.

'Hi. You look amazing. How do you stay so thin in this place?'

'You don't want to know. Good to see you.'

'This is for you, Sophie,' handing her the briefcase.

'Really? A briefcase?'

'Look inside. Number's two-seven-three.'

She thumbed the wheels and opened the case, gently unwrapping the book.

'Wow. _Nostradamus?_ This looks really old. Original?'

'It is.'

'And rare.'

'Very.'

'And expensive.'

'No comment. I thought you'd enjoy it. It's said that Nostradamus wrote the best recipe for cherry jam. It's never been bettered.'

'I love cherries.'

'This I know. Maybe you'll make me some jam one of these days?'

She cleaned her hands with the linen napkin, positioned the book on the perfect white tablecloth, then carefully turned every page. Her French was good enough to understand most of the language. But the print quality was astounding, rich and striking, these pages laid down almost half a millennium ago, the printers in Lyon toiling late into the night, checking registration by candlelight.

'Nutmeg oil, plague medicine, ooh, look at this one, "a lovers' sexual potion as used by the ancients." Hmmm.'

'Sounds good. What's in it?'

She ignored him, carried on through the book.

'How to make hair blond. I could save a fortune with this.' _You're crazy. What were you thinking?_

'It pays for itself.' _Right._ 'What else, what's in the food section?'

'Jam, quince, sugar candy, preserved pears, marzipan. I'll be trying all those.' She put the book aside then. 'Enough of that for now, but thanks again. I love it. And I have something for you,' she said rummaging in her little handbag. 'A Dalí.' She turned her hand to reveal a Chupa Chups lollipop, strawberries and cream. Logo designed by the artist in 1969. _Chupar,_ Spanish. One of Jacob's favourite stories. 'Now what would you like to drink? This is on me.'

'I love it, thanks. I shall enjoy a good suck later. Drink? Well, I had a sip of Chateau Margaux 2000 earlier. Rudely interrupted, unfortunately. Then I had a couple of rums and a pseudo-Cuban cigar - '

'I can smell that. So how was the Margaux?'

'Divine. Like an angel's tears of joy when God said she could have the day off from watching over miserable humans.'

Sophie laughed, her spirit lifting. This _was_ a good idea.

'Why not take a look at your menu first and we can choose the wine after.' She nodded to George the waiter, a big Italian-American from New Jersey who was tired of all the Tony Soprano jokes, drove a yellow cab on his nights off. He was standing nearby, nervous, the boss didn't normally eat at a table. 'A couple of frozen margaritas please, George. Heavy on the tequila.'

'What an amazing idea, Sophie. Love it. So, what do you recommend?'

'Rod had a prawn linguini on for lunch today, seems to have gone down really well. I'm sure he could rustle it up if you'd like. Tonight's specials are ethically-produced foie gras, some sublime roasted monkfish, an interesting, slow-cooked Irish stew,' _Now there's a coincidence_ , thought Sophie, 'and melt-in-the-mouth venison from upstate.'

'That's lovely, dear.'

They laughed and looked over the menu. The steaks in all their fashions, the Irish lamb, the pork chops, the Maine lobster, the mashed Idaho potato, real onion rings in beer batter, all the simple, old-fashioned, incredible food. Then there were the pesto dishes, the pasta cornucopia, the roast vegetables, the Mediterranean wonders. Steak tartare even sounded good. And there was a multitude of salads, this being New York. Jacob simply ignored those.

'Don't forget my deconstructed Spanish paella, a nod to elBulli. I simply _have_ to get to the foundation, to taste, to learn to love it all. Ferran Adrià? Greatest chef in the world. Ever. God.'

'What's in it? Your paella, I mean.'

'Let's just say it includes prawn air.'

'You know what? I just need something simple, comfort food. Meat. Red wine. You choose.'

George got back with the margaritas, wide frosty glasses, salted rims, the smell of limes and memories of vacations, the sun so unforgiving it would strip the skin from the back of your neck before you'd drained the glass.

Clink.

So Sophie ordered the fillets, medium rare, paprika-dusted fries, onion rings and a little side salad to share, just greens, cherry tomatoes and red onion with some extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Few things better. She also decided on a bottle of Screaming Eagle, a Cabernet Sauvignon from the Napa Valley. The 2004 was the most expensive American wine ever sold. She went for an 08.

'I'm impressed,' said Jacob. 'What's the occasion?'

'I think we both need something special. And,' she said in a gentle voice, leaning across the table to touch his hand, 'to say thank you for the book. It's really something.' _You could've just got me a class at elBulli._

'You're welcome,' draining the salty glass.

A waiter arrived with two more margaritas.

'The service here is wonderful,' she said.

'It's the kitchen staff that excite me.'

Sophie slouched back into her seat, swirled her drink with the straw.

'Jacob,' a hint of a slur, lot of tequila hiding in there, 'I was in your apartment today.'

'Well, you do still have a key.' Then he snapped back into his grim reality. 'Oh. Oh. What for?'

'I know what happened. I think I was arriving just as you were being taken away. God. The police called me in to see if the guy was a chef or a surgeon or a random lunatic.'

'And?'

'I thought a chef.'

'Did you tell them that I couldn't cook to save my life?'

'Of course.'

'Jesus, that must have been weird for you.'

'Seeing your bed brought me back, yeah.'

'Well I'm evicted from my own home until they catch the guy.'

'That's hardly fair.'

They finished the drinks in silence, the developments sinking in, the re-emergence of the history of intimacy between them, the memory that could never be overlooked and, like a corpse in the Hudson, could bob to the surface again at any time.

Rod prepared their mains, thinking about that scene in _Fight Club_ , where they steal body fat from a lipo clinic.

Sophie took a brief call from Sam. His daughter was stable and he would be staying at her bedside. Though he had virtually cut her from his life, it looked good in the press.

Anyway, she _was_ his daughter.

'So where are you staying, Jacob?'

'I don't know. A hotel I guess.'

'Why don't you stay at my place for the weekend?'

His heart swooned.

'Could I? Really?'

'Why not? No funny business, mind.'

Damn.

'Sure. I've got a lot of work to get through, an article to be finished for Monday morning.'

'Well, let me cook for you and take care of you and thank you for the gift.'

He took her hand then, sincerely. 'Sophie, thanks. I mean it.'

'De nada.'

The steaks arrived, breaking the physical contact. Under the table, Jacob rubbed his hand where they'd touched, pressing her warmth into him.

'Oh,' said Jacob. 'What about Nigella?'

'Your allergies?' One of the reasons their relationship couldn't progress. 'She stays outside now. And I got one of those Dysons for animals.'

'Outstanding. My God. Look at this plate before me.'

'Rod's pretty good when I give him a chance. Great support team makes all the difference. He just -'

She paused, used the mill to sprinkle black and pink pepper across her plate.

'He just?'

'I don't know. Nothing. Let's just enjoy this, yeah?'

The bottle of red had been uncorked and poured. Sophie didn't go for the sip-testing thing either. They toasted.

'To us, here, now,' she said.

'To this day starting well, going rapidly downhill, plumbing the depths, then ending on a high,' he said. He didn't mention the shooting, made a mental note to follow that up on the web later.

The wine was intense, with flavours of blackcurrants and elderberries and the smell of the blood-red earth of California. The steaks had just enough cow's blood for pools to form in the plates, turning the fries and onion rings pinky red.

Odd for a Friday, the restaurant was never more than half-full and, when Sophie and Jacob got ready to leave at about nine, Rod had let most of the kitchen and floor staff go, one eye always on the wage bill. The waiters and busboys divided up their tips, the busboys popping in to the guy in the dish room who cleared the plates and separated the dishes and silver and glassware into big plastic basins for washing so they wouldn't have to. They paid him five dollars each per shift.

So Rod came to their table and accepted the compliments. Jacob had that lazy smile and chatty streak that comes with a heavy, fat-laden dinner swimming in a lake of alcohol. Sophie thanked her business partner for the break. He said not to worry, just go, eager to get service finished, add up the takings, then follow up on his lead for some fresh meat and flesh for Saturday. Lunch was strong and dinner was booked out.

Sophie had a slice of New York cheesecake, then excused herself while Jacob finished a brandy. She went to the bathroom and made herself throw up.

They got a cab right outside, lucky to beat the theatre crowd. _My God_ , thought Sophie, _it was almost twenty-four hours ago that all this mess started._ Jacob stared at the blurry Broadway lights, his eyes foggy, unaware of the cab that stayed close behind, followed them downtown, right to Sophie's place.

Later, service long finished and the cleaners getting started on the kitchen, Rod sat and savoured a tall vodka tonic. He was tired, deep in his muscles, but the buzz of what he'd accomplished kept the grin on his perfectly-moisturised face. The audacity of feeding human fat to Manhattan's elite. _Brilliant._ He'd worked through his options and had a plan forming when Pedro the sous chef approached.

'Chef?'

'Yes, Pedro.'

'I just wanted to say you did great tonight.'

'Thanks, Pedro. You're last out as usual. Done now?'

'Yeah.' He turned to go to the changing rooms, stopped himself. 'Just one thing, chef.'

Rod looked up at him, thinking _Just go home, will you?_

'Yeah?'

'I saw you put something in the dishes from a tube or something. What was that?'

Rod put down his drink, stood quickly.

'Come over here a minute, Pedro. I'll explain what's what.'

Rod walked over to the lobster tank, a big beauty, maybe ten feet across, back-lit to show off the Maine lobsters, flown in fresh every other day. There were seven big lobsters in the tank, their meaty pincers locked tight with thick rubber bands. They had learned to fear humans during their short stay in the tank. They didn't know _why_ they feared us, it was just some kind of animal instinct told them that it wasn't good to leave the tank whenever a human stuck his hand in.

'Look at these guys,' said Rod, glancing towards the kitchen, happy that nobody was watching. 'Just waiting, but they don't know what they're waiting for. A lot like us, really.'

'Chef, I -'

Rod didn't give him time to finish his sentence, grabbing him hard by the chin and under the crotch. Then Pedro's light frame was hoisted up, up and over the edge of the lobster tank. His face went into the water, the lobsters scuttling to the corners, and Rod held him there for a good twenty seconds. Pedro splashed and grunted but the cleaners were playing Nirvana on their iPod boombox so they didn't hear. Besides, they were high, always high.

Rod eased the pressure and let Pedro drop to the floor, panting and coughing.

'What the fuck, man? What the fuck?'

'You didn't see anything unusual tonight, you understand me?'

'Okay, okay. Jesus!'

'This never happened,' gesturing to the lobster tank. They were still cowering in there. 'And I'm going to talk to Sophie when she gets back, see about getting you a raise. How does an extra hundred a week sound?'

'That sounds good, chef.'

'Good, you deserve it,' said Rod, offering his hand.

'Okay, thanks,' taking the hand, getting back on his feet.

'Now, a couple of things. Stick to your job in future and don't worry about me, yeah? And two, go take a shower,' a thumb jerked towards the tank, 'these little fuckers are full of disease, the ozone bubbles just keep it in check.'

Rod sterilised his hands at a sink in the kitchen. Then he made a fresh drink, sat in his office and made a few calls.

Saturday's lunch service was only eleven hours away.

TEN

The old man's eyes glowed when the congressman entered his space. _You shouldn't be alive_ , thought Walsh. _God only knows what they're feeding you._ Julia sat in the nurse's chair. She smiled her cool smile.

'Sit,' he commanded, patting the bed.

The congressman sat.

'Here is my plan. I call it the Domino Plan. It will work. It all starts with the destruction of the Vierte art collection.'

'Everything?'

'All of it. It must be revalued, at the highest values possible.' He coughed then and Julia brought his glass of water to him. He sipped through a straw.

Down on 1st Avenue, Bellevue Hospital had the best accident and emergency department in Manhattan, so it was always busy, home to the broken and the beaten and the bewildered. And, today, half of New York's media. The congressman's daughter had a private room and seemed to be stable after her surgery. Fluids and antibiotics were flowing into her, pink and blue. Two nurses fussed over the sleeping form, monitoring the busy flat screen display that connected to her in a dozen different ways.

The tension surrounding the girl was marked by the number of guns in her vicinity.

The congressman put down his Ayn Rand book, paced in the corridor outside, his head buzzing with the plan that would destroy the old, corrupt United States of America and allow Vierte Corporation to take over the country. And other ideas took shape, congealed.

Two Homeland Security agents spoke with the surgeon who'd explored and then properly closed his daughter's injuries. They were eager to talk to her but the sedation would keep her out of the loop for maybe twenty-four hours.

'No exception,' said the surgeon, a tall and thin African American. He worried that he wouldn't be playing golf on Long Island that afternoon.

One of the agents held out a profile sheet. 'There's a chance that she was attacked by this man, an al-Qaeda operative. There has been chatter about a plot targeting New York politicians. And there are other events on our radar. We _need_ her to see this picture.'

The photo, titled _Most Wanted_ , was a blurry image of a bearded man in Yemeni tribal dress.

_They all look the same to me,_ thought the surgeon.

'I'm sorry, gentlemen. I need her to be utterly still for at least another twelve hours for the stitches to hold. She's in an induced coma, just an inch from death. This is a critical time.'

The agents were clearly disappointed. The girl's clothes were being analysed for all DNA traces and the scene of crime was under Federal control now. But they needed an ID.

'We'll wait.'

The agent with the profile sheet nodded to his companion, who went out to the congressman.

'Mr Speaker? Sir?'

God, these guys are insufferable. And I can't just tell him to take a hike. Did he have to cut her up so severely?

'Yes? My god! Is she awake?' he said, glancing over the agent's shoulder to his daughter, his poor, poor baby.

'No sir. It could be twelve hours before we can talk to her. She's in good hands, don't worry.'

'I just feel so bad about this,' said the congressman, with a grain of truth.

He looked ragged, suit creased, red wine splashed across his white shirt, stubble. Twenty-four hours in the hospital now, no food since the restaurant. A deliberate tactic.

The machines beeped and the nurses fussed and the other agent just stood and stared. The congressman's mind processed quickly. He imagined a phone call to the White House, and the President and Vice President attending the art feast. He saw the feast being held in the banqueting suite on top of Vierte's Wall Street trading office. Raise security issues, move the most valuable works from Central Park.

So the nuclear reactor melts down.

So all the obstacles are removed, and all the incriminating stuff is erased, in one beautiful mushroom cloud.

Then I'm free.

Forget about your dominos, Doctor, I will kill the President, destroy Wall Street and become the King of Everything in one tragic night. But first, you will have to die.

'Sir, would you like to go get a coffee? I'd like to clarify a couple of issues.'

Oh Christ. Not now.

'Fine. I think they've got a Starbuck's downstairs.'

'Yes sir. I'll lead the way.'

They left the ICU and walked along a bright, yellow corridor towards the public waiting area. Then the congressman spotted the TV cameras and collapsed heavily in a crumpled heap.

ELEVEN

Sophie's place was neat but cold. Jacob kind of hugged himself and complained gently about his arthritis. Sophie turned on the gas central heating.

The dog was on the couch. Jacob sneezed.

'Sorry.' Then, 'C'mon pooch, out.' And out onto the patio he went, without complaint.

Sophie followed him, for a cigarette, glanced at a window opposite, one where she'd seen an interesting-looking guy work out. She'd seen him twelve times do that, wondered if he knew she watched. She worked out mostly after work, on her cold sheets.

He wasn't on.

As the tobacco caught fire, Jacob was at her shoulder.

'Mind if I join you?'

A police car was parked down below, the cops sitting against the hood, also smoking Marlboro Gold.

Jacob inhaled.

The cigarette tasted of burnt cinder toffee, pistachio nuts and Central Park in the Fall. With just a hint of death and ashes.

The cops got in their car and drove away to an armed robbery at a corner store three blocks away. Nobody was hurt.

'Mind if I use your laptop?'

'Of course,' worried that she hadn't cleared her browsing history.

She turned the machine on, asked Jacob to open a bottle of wine, launched Firefox and pressed Control+Shift+Delete.

He poured two glasses. She sat on the couch and thought. He tapped in the magazine's Gmail domain, his username and password, Gamain89. A scan of the inbox turned up little of interest, so he clicked on Apps, Drive, Create, Document. He named it _Cover Story - China - Jacob_ , immediately clicked on Share and shared it with Jack, the production manager and designer back in the office. So, from the first characters he typed, Jack would be able to access the document and lift the words.

Words of pure gold, in Jacob's mindspace.

He swigged his wine, was alerted to his fading sobriety, placed the glass at the far end of the little wooden IKEA writing desk, just at the limit of his reach.

Sophie switched on the TV, a late movie, _The Wizard of Oz_.

'Damn,' said Jacob. 'Don't put that on. I want to see it.'

'Sorry,' she said. 'Criminal Minds okay?'

_Christ._ 'Fine. I'm sorry. It's just that I read somewhere that it's an allegory for the gold-backed dollar. Follow the yellow brick road, stick with gold. And the fake and shallow Emerald City represents paper money. I just wanted to see if it adds up.'

'Don't worry about it.' _Dick, with your cultural references for every damned thing._

All of a sudden it was like back when they were together and everything was a hassle, an argument. Like they were married. She breathed more deeply and drank some wine. _Maybe being aware of your stupid, stupid childishness is part of the solution?_ The beginning of the solution.

'I'll TiVo the Wizard,' she said. 'We can watch it when you're done.'

'This could take a while.'

She shrugged, as expected, while he tapped away at the worn grey keys with just his two index fingers. The letters blurred but the words flowed easily.

Sophie picked up her cherished cookbook, _Larousse Gastronomique_ , caressed its worn dust jacket, melted into a snug corner on the couch, thumbed through the classic recipes.

Jacob eased into the writing zone and time melted as he crafted witty and interesting paragraphs about the Chinese obsession with curves, their early mastering of bronze castings and the evolution of landscape painting by the masters of the eleventh century. Chinese paintings, ink on scrolls, were influenced by Buddhism but not, as Christian art, to be holy icons, but to aid contemplation and meditation. Their timeless qualities made them retain their grace and beauty a thousand years later. These were not tacky images for the manipulation of peasants, but reflections of intrinsic beauty. Finally, he tackled the one aspect of Chinese art that everybody thought that they knew about. But what did they _really_ know about Ming vases, now a comedy trope, an overused device: if there is a Ming vase, it will be broken. Jacob gave the simple, stunning reason for their crazy valuations: precisely their delicacy. Then the new numbers: the growth in the market for old school Chinese art was a given, that's where the money is, and the moneyed communists buying international respectability through the purchase of western classics, that's what's driving the global art market. But the impending explosion in Chinese _modern_ art, that would merit an article of its own. _Funny how a crazy dictatorship is driving the art world. What would Picasso have made of that? He would've painted something amazing._

And when they kick out the dictators? Goodbye Picasso. Hello Ai Weiwei. President of a democratic China? Maybe.

Probably.

Dead Sichuan schoolkids will make that happen. Then let the corrupt, dead-eyed West shudder. For they will wipe the floor with us.

In.

Every.

Good.

Way.

Jacob referenced some images that could be used to complement the words, made doubly sure that there were no political references hiding within his words, for the paymasters always watched, decided to take a break before proofing.

Autosave, every two seconds, brilliant.

He pushed his shoulders back, stretched his spine. Enough. Tagged on a little note: _Please proof, Jack. I am done. J._

Sophie read her iPad, raised her eyebrows.

'That's interesting.'

'Hnnh?'

'An article in _Flavour_ journal. It's all peer-reviewed scientific and psychological research on flavour. Very elBulli. I've just sent it to you. You like Kandinsky, don't you?'

'Ah? Yes?' jokily sarcastic.

'This chef, Michel, made a beetroot and mushroom salad three ways. Tossed. Separate components. And made to look like Kandinsky's Painting #201.'

'Go on.'

'Everyone thought the Kandinsky salad tasted better. _Diners were able to recognise an artistic pattern in the food intuitively_.'

'Got it. _Reward centres in the brain are activated in people looking at art and processing complex visual stimuli._ Fascinating. There's something here, Sophie. Something important.'

'We eat first with our eyes.'

'Where can we take this? I wonder.'

'To the kitchen, for starters. Hungry?'

'God, I wouldn't have thought it possible after that meal. But yeah. I'd eat.'

Sophie put out a bowl of toasted sunflower seeds, then cooked up some fried ham and cheese sandwiches, their smell filling the space with anticipation. _What is it about the smell of cooking cheese? Pheromones?_

'I'm too tired to make your sandwich look like the _Mona Lisa_ , if that's okay.'

'To me, this looks better. I'll eat, then sleep. If that's okay, Sophie. The day I've had. I'm not kidding. I'm a crock, Madame.'

He was dazed, in a mental and physical stupor, sleep quietly sneaking up his spine. His exhausted reverie was broken by the cruel buzzer.

'Who's that?'

'I'm not expecting anybody.'

Jacob said 'Hello.'

A man's face on the fuzzy screen. He looked okay, not obviously insane. _Familiar?_

'Jacob, I need to talk to you.'

'Who is this?'

'I saw you at Vierte today. You must know the truth about them.'

'I'm sorry. It's very late.'

'But you need to know that they are Nazis.'

Jacob dropped his hand from the intercom, looked to Sophie, who was drying her hands on her apron.

'Jesus,' he said.

'Some day you're having,' she said.

'What do we do?' He genuinely didn't know the answer. This was too much. This. _Is this what they mean by the edge of reason?_

'Could he be telling the truth?' she asked.

'Of course he could. A mega-rich corporation with a hand in dodgy deals in the art world? That's got Nazi written all over it. But I thought Vierte were Freemasons.'

'And then the killing today.'

'The killing today...'

Jacob held up a finger, then used it to prod the intercom.

'What is the relevance of Arnold Böcklin?' he asked. _That's the name, the unicorn at Vierte!_

'He was Hitler's favourite painter. Why do you ask?'

And, yes, now I remember. The moonlit sea scene - 'Maritime Nocturno' by failed artist Adolf Hitler.

'Are you a Nazi?'

'No,' he said calmly. 'I want to destroy them.'

Jacob turned off the man's face again, told Sophie about the paintings he'd seen in Vierte that day.

'It struck me as very odd, though I didn't know why. That's all.'

Sophie said 'As a Jew, however lapsed, it's in my genetic memory to want Nazis punished.'

'I'll go down to him and talk to him at the door. I'll only bring him up if he seems credible. That okay?'

'Okay. Be careful.'

Jacob smiled as he thumbed the buzzer and said he'd be right down.

Sophie waited, lighting a cigarette and on the balcony, looking down at the street for idling cars, surveillance vans, lurking assassins.

Time moved deliberately. Slowly. Her mind again filled with the horror of the Holocaust stories she'd heard all her life.

Then the door opened and Jacob came back, the stranger behind him. Sophie's nervous smile driven away by Jacob's awkwardness and the gun the stranger held to his side.

'Sit, both of you,' he said.

They sat, side by side on the red leather couch.

Jacob couldn't speak. Sophie chose not to, her heart screaming painfully in her throat, a sensation she'd never felt before.

The stranger stood before them, the gun held casually at his side. Sophie couldn't take her eyes off it.

'I don't mean to scare you,' he said, gesturing at the gun. 'Look.' With his left hand, he took an identification card from his coat pocket and passed it to Jacob.

Jacob saw MOSSAD and the man's photo and writing in Hebrew and English. He appeared shabby, crumpled, tired. _Deliberately so?_

'You're with the Israeli secret service, Daniel?'

He nodded. 'I have been working to uncover Vierte for two years. Black operation, the Americans didn't want to know. When I confirmed that Peter Egner was here in New York, my orders were to kill him.'

'The old man?'

'Yes. He was deeply involved in the killing of over 17,000 people in Serbia.'

'So why are you telling _us_?'

'There is an even greater prize hidden in Vierte. You know of Dr Death, Sophie?'

She shuddered at the mention of the name. 'Of course.'

'Jacob, let me tell you briefly of Dr Aribert Heim. He served the Nazi regime at Mauthausen concentration camp. He experimented on many prisoners, injecting various substances directly into their hearts to see how they would die. He removed organs without the use of anaesthetics. He did things that no human being should be capable of.'

Sophie was pale like a January morning. She'd heard all the stories about Dr Death. _The Ultimate Nazi, a complete break between humanity and twisted ideology._

'Can I put the gun away?' asked Daniel.

'Yes,' said Sophie. 'Welcome to my home. Coffee?' _Breakfast?_

So they drank good coffee and learned about how the American Army had rounded up Germany's top scientists - the rocket makers, the atomic bomb designers, the jet fighter engineers - and flown them to the States from under the Soviets' noses. Most were taken to Los Alamos and other secret facilities out west, but some stayed in New York. 'Probably bribed some penpusher, likely with stolen art.' And so Vierte was formed, its mission to build a Fourth Reich, finish Hitler's schemes. Vierte. _Fourth_. Almost audible clicking from Jacob's tired brain as everything slotted neatly into place. 'What their plot is, we don't know. But these are good times for them. Their financial holdings, including lots of gold, have never been stronger. The global financial system is still on life support. Wouldn't take much to knock us all back into the Dark Ages. The Wall St Crash created the conditions that brought Hitler to power. Dr Death is the key. Kill him and we might just kill the plan.'

And now the Simon Wiesenthal Centre believed that Dr Death was hiding at its rotten heart. The realisation slowly dawned on Jacob that the story was just beginning. _The day I've had! What could possibly come next?_

'I need your help, Jacob. I need you to locate Dr Death so that I can kill him.'

Oh. Is that all?

'Oh.'

'I don't believe that he's in Vierte. He'd need a full medical set-up, probably a life support machine, even. There's got to be a clinic somewhere, a retirement home with the best medics on hand.'

'Where old Nazis go to die.'

'What do you think? Any ideas?'

'I'm not like you, Daniel. I can't just walk back in there like this never happened. Like I don't know about Dr Death.'

Daniel sat back in the chair, smiled. Sophie gave Jacob a pleading look. Please.

'We hide the truth every day, Jacob,' said Daniel. 'That's part of being human. We all have secrets we'd rather not share...'

'Dark secrets.'

'Exactly. I know this will be hard. But you can do it.' He stood then. 'I must go. Jacob, you need some rest. Can I call you in the morning?'

'Sure, yeah. Let me give you my number.' Daniel raised an eyebrow. 'You have it. Of course you do.'

And he was gone.

'Guy moves like a cat,' said Sophie.

'A lethal fucker of a cat. I've seen him in action.' A yawn, a really big one.

'You're in the spare room, fresh sheets in there.'

'A bitchin' end to a bitchin' day.'

He was asleep in seconds, slow motion dreams of tigers pacing inside enormous vases that could hold the world.

Sophie did some tidying and worked through some notes on the specials for the rest of the week. She sat on the balcony and enjoyed the night city and wondered about Rod. Part of her wanted to take more time off, maybe help Jacob with this big story he was getting into.

Sometimes, the different things that drive a person forward, sometimes they break, stop working. So sometimes you need new motivators. This is what late night TV is for. Redemption and salvation at the end of the phone.

Sophie sat on the couch as the endless infomercials rolled over her. She'd taken the ashtray in from the balcony, sat it on the coffee table. Screw the rules. Anyway, they were _her_ rules.

Jacob's snoring came in waves. She increased the TV volume, actually picked up her phone to call for an oil painting set. _Unleash your inner artist for just $29.99 plus postage!_

'Who am I kidding?' she said as she turned the damned thing off. 'Never worked for Adolf.'

In her quest for new motivation, she browsed her CD collection which, having replaced her scratchy vinyl, had stalled in about 2007. She smiled at the Dead Kennedys' _Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables_ , found _Ramones_ by The Ramones from 1976, the very first punk album. A genuine artefact. _I was nine years old, just about tiring of my Holly Hobbie rag doll._

Played loud, it killed the buzz saw of Jacob's snores.

But she couldn't help wondering about Rod. There was something just not right. She didn't know what. Could've been something she saw, something she smelled, something she sensed. She tried to work out what but in the end gave up and collapsed onto her bed. She was woken by her phone at 7.30, still in her clothes.

She made fresh coffee, smoked and showered. She checked in on Jacob, had to wait and watch for a few seconds to make sure his chest was rising.

'Alive, but dead to the world,' she said, quietly.

It was like checking on a baby.

She had an idea to go and visit her mom out in Maspeth, then jump on the Q53 bus to Rockaway Beach, just hang out by the sea for the day, watch the surfers, drink some screwdrivers. Then she remembered that her mother was dead.

So she decided to leave him there, scrawled a note on the refrigerator blackboard, got out into the bright day, wondered what it could possibly bring, hoped for something good, something better.

It's not hard, not far to reach.

A life spent reaching.

TWELVE

Morning's light gently washed over the carved-up beauty in his bathtub and he collapsed, exhausted, onto his knees.

Delirious when he finally left the restaurant to the night cleaners - the meth heads - and the armed security guard (an ex-cop with 'alcohol issues' whose main job was to make sure the cleaners didn't burn the place down while cleaning out the fryer oil or let their friends in while the early morning deliveries came to the back door), Rod took a cab uptown and spent an hour in his apartment doing cocaine and showering and remembering each and every dish he'd sent out with human meat in it.

And, Christ, how they'd loved it! The delicious whispers: _You're better than Sophie, Rod. Just don't tell her I said that!_ And the praise from tedious customers who he'd gladly chuck into the next day's tartare actually made him smile inside. Something clicked inside him. Something turned. Now he knew that the way to save Oral Pleasures from the banks was to get human fat into every damned dish, hike up the prices and they'd still be begging for tables, seven nights a week. Tonight proved that.

So, on to the club.

One of a dozen moths in the fast-burning flame of hangouts for New York's richest to spend their dirty fortunes on over-priced Champagne and crazy delicacies, Verboten was _club du jour_ for Rod's circle.

Verboten hugged the East River, where the Lenape built their fishing camps, at the edge of dense forests, trapping the plentiful bass, bluefish, stripers, snappers and flounders, gathering clams, mussels and oysters from the pristine waters. Now, the Upper East Side was home to the Gilded Generations, was so since the city became a city. And the ghost of Holden Caulfield still hung around there, smirking on street corners.

A line of people waited outside the grungy, neo-urban facade. Rod ignored their stares and was greeted by the doorman, to whom he gave twenty dollars. This is how we play.

The music was 80s electronica, Kraftwerk mainly, and he found himself surrounded by his friends within minutes, a chilled glass in his hand, a magnum of Dom doing the rounds.

'Hungry, Rod?' asked Joshua, whose family once owned the entire block.

'I could eat. What's on tonight?'

'Ortolan!'

'Perfect! I feel like hiding from God.'

Rod savoured the crisp taste of the Champagne as his eyes wandered over the women in the club. She'd have to be beautiful, obviously. Well-maintained so her flesh would be supple and lean. Most importantly, she'd have to be anonymous, not a member of the wealthy families that genuinely mattered, in the eyes of police or media or anyone else. She would be his little Ortolan, that he could devour in secret, like the little European bird that was trapped alive, then kept in a cage with its eyes poked out, force-fed grains and figs until it swelled up to four times its natural size and finally drowned in brandy and roasted whole, to be eaten in one rich mouthful of flesh and guts and crunching bones.

Where are you, my little bird?

The waitress came to them and asked for participants in the Forbidden Feast. Six was the number of birds available and two hundred dollars per diner the fee. The chef was risking his license to cook an illegal meal with the endangered birds, who lolled in cages in the private dining room's kitchen, aware of the smell of Armagnac from the vat nearby, but unaware of its meaning.

Rod eyed the waitress discretely. _Yes_.

'Yes please. I've never tried Ortolan. Sorry, what's your name?'

'Katy. Yours, sir?

'Rod. When's dinner?'

'2am.'

'We're all in. My treat.' _And my tip will get you back to my apartment, my lovely, juicy dish._

They drank and danced with all the other lovely things. Then it was time to eat.

The chef didn't make the diners experience the drowning, so they all sat and drank and waited, linen napkins ready. The birds were presented, their feathers scorched off from the intense heat of the fan oven, plump lumps, swimming in scalding brandy. When every diner had been served by Katy, she asked that they place their napkins over their heads, to mask their shame and also to savour the aroma. The bizarre scene, six grown adults hiding from God with squares of linen, was seen by none, man or deity.

'You may begin.'

Rod bit hungrily into his bird, almost overpowered by the rich, smokiness of the roasted brandy, the cloying fat of the engorged bird, the bitterness of its part-digested figs and the crunchiness of its fine bones as they tore the insides of his cheeks and made his gums bleed. The salty blood taste was beautiful, as it cut through the Ortolan and the swirling intensity of the flavour and the excitement and the hard-on and the woman now, lying across his glass dining table, legs spread, sushi on her thighs as a late night snack game that he loved to play with his bitches and then the single, deep incision into her heart when she least expected it so that she died quickly and without spilling so much blood and then it was all over and Rod had his hundred and thirty pounds of sweet, young meat and, oh, it was good.

So he spent the rest of the night at work in the bathroom, extracting fat, cutting out the choicest pieces of lean meat for mincing, bagging up the Atlas bone, the heart, the vulva, the pieces that his muti witchdoctor friend from central Africa would sell for maybe a hundred grand, for use in assorted ceremonies to boost the sexual prowess of his rich clients. _You will perform!_

Morning came, with its deliveries and collections. Fresh orange juice, squeezed on an overnight juice truck from Florida. Creamy milk from Jersey cows in Westchester County. The _New York Times_.

And collections. His muti friend came, dressed in the friendly, professional uniform of the mailman, oversized bag on a wheeled trolley. Special.

He worked quickly and efficiently, placing the bones and unusable organs of the waitress into a double-walled polythene bag, which was then ziplocked and clamped to keep all the odours and fluids inside.

'If the air don't get out, Rod, no smell goin' get out. Science, yeah?'

This went into a two foot by two foot box fairly handily. A shipping address label was in situ and the box was taped up and back into the delivery bag. Same procedure for the muti parts. Rod already had his precious meats in the fridge. Amazing how a human being can be condensed.

The mailman gave Rod a genuinely-addressed and franked special delivery envelope, just so everything added up. Rod opened the envelope and the mailman put thirty thousand dollars in cash inside. He kept the other twenty purchase value for the disposal fee. The mailman sensed the change in Rod.

'I do this for you any time, Rod. Thirty k, no mess for you, hear? A kid, a good, clean kid about ten years old, maybe forty k, yeah?'

Rod didn't like the idea of butchering children. But he was in a new place now. So who knew?

'I hear you.'

'You need antin' else, mon? Some buds, some coke?'

'Maybe later. I'll call you.'

'Peace, brudda.'

The mailman left, whistling down the plush corridor, full of thoughts of muti ceremonies in plush 5th Avenue penthouses, while the bass and the bluefish in the East River had fish dreams of the human remains that would soon be theirs.

People never notice anything.

Rod cleaned up. _Jesus, blood is such a frikkin' pain!_ He resolved to pick up a lease on a food unit somewhere if he was going to get into this on any kind of a scale. A little slaughterhouse would be ideal.

Then he showered and filled his rucksack and made his way to the restaurant so he could make some mince for the one hundred percent human meatballs that would feature on Saturday's lunch menu. He just wasn't expecting Sophie to be there before him.

THIRTEEN

Jacob's phone purred. He'd been in the middle of that Similar damned dream that always hijacked his deepest sleeps.

Paralysed from the waist down, clawing across a dusty plain, something in pursuit. But what?

'Jacob?'

'Yeah.' _Move your legs, dammit._ 'Daniel?'

'Can we meet up?'

Jacob glanced at his watch, but it was like a Dalí painting.

'What time is it?'

'Ten after nine.'

'Jesus, Daniel. I was working half-through the night.'

'Sorry. It's important.'

A pigeon made a fuss of landing on the balcony, doors wide open, breeze blowing. _I'm in Sophie's._

'Let me call you later, yeah?'

Daniel wasn't happy. 'It's just really important that we talk before you meet your Vierte contact. Somebody you know is connected. Understand?'

'Fine. Bye.' _Christ, what am I going to do about this guy? A freaking Nazi-hunting hitman who wants me to be his assistant._

Jacob tried to get back to his dream, unsettling as it was, but his brain had snapped back to wide-awake-shitty-reality-mode.

So he got up.

'Soph?'

He found the note. _But you're supposed to be taking the weekend off?_

The pigeon was pecking at crumbs on the little table. Jacob shooed it away and looked over the balcony at the weekend city. But his eyes were tired of the postcard scene. He made coffee and sat before the computer. He accessed his bank account, just to confirm the hole that had been made in it by the Nostradamus buy. _What were you thinking, Jacob?_ The hole was bad, yes, but a lodgement of twenty-five thousand had helped lessen the pain.

'So I'm on Vierte's payroll already. A bunch of _fucking_ Nazis. What are the odds?'

But no turning back now. Blame the economy. _Is this what it was like in Nazi Germany, why everyone pretty much just went along with Hitler? Place these uncomfortable thoughts in a drawer, Jacob. You can't afford them._

So she called. Of course.

'Good morning, Jacob. I've made a payment into your account. An act of good faith.'

'I saw that. Thank you.'

'Besides the auction, I have another contract for you. But it must be completed immediately. The fee for successful conclusion will be two hundred thousand dollars.'

'Again, you have my complete attention.'

'I'll see you at the Guggenheim. Eleven, by Kandinsky?'

The first artist to exhibit non-representational art. Not paintings of anything, more a visual music.

A cockroach scuttled across the kitchen counter. Jacob wondered what that might symbolise, considered using his surprising, imminent wealth to bump up his patron status at the Gugg as he reached for the roach spray.

'Perfect.'

Sophie arrived at the restaurant just as the cleaners were leaving, eyes red like tail-lights, mumbling at her in Spanish - _malditos langostas_ \- aiming for the A train to 110 St, join the line for some meth, the beautiful blue like in _Breaking Bad_.

The security guy would hold on until the cash van arrived for last night's takings, then he'd amble down to a strip bar near Times Square, the one that did the midget show at weekends, and party 'til noon.

People are funny.

Sophie imagined the gilded finger, just over there, realised she'd made a mistake, had turned up on autopilot. _Or was it just to get some space between Jacob and my freedom? But how do I define freedom? Here? Tied to this business, locked up in mortgages, 'til death do us part._

Coffee.

As she made a bitter double espresso, she didn't see that Rod had frozen, just as his hand touched the glass of the main door.

She inhaled, felt the heat, drank in the sharp, edgy, earthiness of a sun-baked valley in Ethiopia, was transported there for a second. Her phone pulled her back.

'Rod. Good morning.'

'Hey Sophie, How are you feeling?'

'A bit - , I don't know. I'm at work.'

'Awww, Sophie. Are you for real? I'm running things today. You promised.' Got to get this meat into the refrigerator. 'You don't want to be at home. Is that it?'

'That's part of it, yeah.'

She prepared to press out another strong coffee.

'Hey, why not take in an exhibition or something? You've got that PUNK show in the Metropolitan and there's the food and culture exhibition at the Museum of Natural History. Tell me you wouldn't love that?'

The steam pressure forced the 200 degree Fahrenheit water through the ground coffee.

'Maybe do the two?' She had wanted to, but work always got in the way. 'Take in some lunch and amble across Central Park?'

'Sounds like a good day, Soph. Why don't you call in for dinner later? I loved cooking for you.'

'You're on. I'll be out of here in five.'

'Good, that's good. I'll hold a table. Enjoy.'

Jacob took a yellow cab to the Guggenheim, chugging north on Madison Avenue, hanging left onto 89th St and to the museum on Fifth, facing the Park, arriving exactly when Sophie's long walk brought her to the neoclassical monster that is the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Just seven blocks south of Jacob.

It was seven minutes before eleven.

Jacob stopped on the sidewalk, joined the gaggles of dumb-struck tourists, stared up at Frank Lloyd Wright's winding, organic, sinuous masterpiece as it glowed in the hot sun. He was entranced, as always when confronted with aesthetic truth. This great thing, this curvy wonder in a landscape of sensible geometry, capturing every gaze like a beautifully-proportioned woman lounging before an array of cold and dead machines. The Solomon R Guggenheim Museum was the purest essence of art and design as distilled by a genius architect, the whole design dictated by the human requirements of the internal space. Always the mental image of Dennis Stock's grainy opening day photo. And it was all the better for meeting that human need. And she _was_.

Then many things happen at once, the whole _tense_ of the moment shifts.

Jacob looks over his shoulder, down towards the Met, his instinct drawn.

He looks back towards the Gugg, notices a stall full of Banksy art. _That's interesting._

A fast-moving shadow on the Guggenheim roof.

A low-flying jet screams overhead, startling an eighty-year-old jogger with her poodle in a harness.

The dog yelps.

The shadow falls, becomes a man, splashes like a Pollock - _yes!_ \- on the sidewalk, the eighth Red. More blood sprays across the canvasses on the art stalls, unwanted intervention, even the original Banksys, on sale for just a couple of hundred apiece as a publicity stunt. The tourists lounging on the low wall start to scream and wave their arms. One collapses heavily to the sidewalk.

The poodle lady is painted. Gasps. Collapses.

Jacob turns back, sees the mess before him.

Jacob slowly recognises his Nazi-hunter. He sees the essence of Daniel.

His elbow is touched.

Julia.

'Oh my God,' she says. 'Another suicide,' into his ear. 'How awful. Well, we can't just step over him and go in there. Kandinsky will have to wait. A walk in the park?'

'Yes - , I - . A walk. No. A drink.'

'You need a martini. Let's get to Bemelmans.'

So she stopped a yellow cab and they drove, past the Neue Galerie, past Sophie, to the Carlyle Hotel on 76th St and Park Avenue, where an Irish bartender mixed their twenty dollar drinks, and she sipped and he swallowed and asked for another. Then the shock began to ebb. Then a creeping realisation.

She knows. Daniel was a message to me.

Her hand was on the back of his neck, rubbing him there.

'Are you okay to talk business now, Jacob?'

'Talk. Please.' The martinis had worked their magic.

'We have probably the greatest private art collection in the world, Jacob. I want you to see it. Soon. And I need you to value it.'

'You need three -'

'Yes, we need three independent valuations to meet our insurers' requirements. Two have been completed. You're our third. Naturally, the market is so buoyant, we're aiming for the maximum possible values so that, in the event of a disaster, well, we wouldn't be left wanting.'

'What's the total valuation?'

'Both our valuers have agreed on a figure over ten billion.'

Jacob called for another pair of martinis, hoped that more alcohol would save him from the abyss.

'Ten billion? That's enough to bankrupt your insurance company.'

'Perhaps.'

'And what if I can't do it.'

'Oh? You can. Don't worry. Look, finish your drink.' She hung her handbag over a shoulder. 'We can't talk here.'

She called the barman and requested that a bottle of Krug be delivered to Room 612 in thirty minutes.

Jacob stirred, Sophie flashing across his brain, his heart picking up rapidly, fighting the deadening effect of the martinis.

'Shall we?'

He rose unsteadily, followed her to the elevator. No need to check in, it's all planned.

He watched her legs, followed their curves to the Chanel houndstooth, monochrome tweed skirt, which began just over her knees, hugging the perfect proportions of her perfect arse.

She pressed the button.

Inside the moving box, she pressed herself hard against him, her hands on his hips, pinching hard.

Her lips on his, the nude lipstick, the taste of her - _so fresh!_ \- and the thoughts baser now, she the nude Nazi dominatrix, clad in nothing but a swastika armband and he - the _oh-so-liberal_ him! - tied to a huge, looted Francis Bacon and loving it, absolutely God-damned _loving_ it.

Lovely, beautiful, blessed martinis.

Then he was on the bed, the cool linen on his back as she undressed him, his attention transfixed - oddly, given the circumstances - on an original print, from Audubon's _Birds of America_ , of a great white heron with a little, pink fish in its beak.

Then they were both naked, his mind having apparently slowed to a near-stop, she sitting on him, facing his feet. I know this, I've heard of this position!

He wondered if he'd been drugged by something more than premium vodka as he watched her sleek back, her hair rippling with her shoulders and the delicious crack of her arse as she slowly rocked him to the edge of reason.

Then he tried to reach her, to grab her flesh, more contact, more touch, but she felt his angle change and pushed him back down, without even turning to look.

So he called to all the gods and she kept rocking, needed just that little more, then she called to her gods, but silently.

And she lay beside him on the bed then, looking at him as he lay a heavy hand on her flowing hip and fixed his gaze on her mound of Venus, wondered if she actually _was_ Venus, pondered what Botticelli would have made of her, felt the heat of her, all thirty-seven degrees C of her, just two shy of the hottest temperature ever recorded in the city, July sixty-six, amazed that we are such _hot_ creatures.

'I needed that,' she said then.

'I hope -'

She put a finger to his lips. 'You were wonderful. Now get some rest. The auction is tonight. We must have that Champagne.' A knock at the door. 'Ah. Perfect.'

The Krug came on a silver tray. Two glasses were filled.

'Cheers.'

'Prost. This will do for now. So, the others will meet you, right here, at one. You'll have lunch and agree on strategy. All costs are covered, so stay as long as you need to. Just check out when the police give back your apartment.'

'Thanks.' _I'd forgotten that I was homeless._

She got out of bed, hung his suit in the wardrobe. Then she began to dress, Jacob enjoying the view of her. But the gnawing feeling that he was being played, used.

'How did you get into this, Jacob?'

'Art? I think I can trace it back to my grandfather. I never got to meet him. He fought in Europe in World War Two, very brave man, by all accounts. He brought back a little painting. I don't know how he got it, but he had it framed, hung it in his living room, down in Florida. Then, one night, he died. Drowned. An accident, everyone said. That night, his house was broken into. My grandmother was killed and the painting was stolen.'

'How awful.'

'My father was asleep in the next room. He was ten years old. He never got over it. He was sent to my aunt's, down in the Everglades.'

'Where you grew up too?'

'Yes. When I was a kid, my dad was obsessed with what had happened to his father. He kept going over the old war diaries, researching the Third Reich. He learned German, made me take it at school too.'

'Curious.'

'My father was dead at forty. Alzheimer's. So I studied art history at NYU because I didn't know what else to do. I had a photo of my grandfather's painting and identified it as a work by Cézanne. Value in today's market? Maybe twenty million. I was sickened by the fact that he didn't know what he had. How different life would have been for him, for my father. For me. So I vowed to help others avoid the same - _I don't know_ \- mistake? Tragedy?'

She tutted. 'Your favourite period?'

'It's down to my dad, twentieth century German art. Late nineteenth century France, yeah, that's pretty amazing, the source of what we call modern art, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Cézanne, everyone specialises in those guys. But Germany? There's an extra depth, another layer. I love the variety, the politicisation of art and its influence to this day. From the early period, the progressive groups like The Bridge and The Blue Rider, with people like Kandinsky coming over from Russia. Klee, Marc and Nolde. Looking for Utopia and giving us Expressionism. The influence of gestalt theory from the Berlin School, that the whole is _other_ than the sum of its parts, the power of the human mind to join the dots, surely this is the essence of all art?

'Then the whole Weimar Republic, _Cabaret_ , Grosz, Dix and Beckmann, perhaps Europe's Golden Age of that entire century. The closest we've come to artistic Utopia.

'Bauhaus and Walter Gropius. They gave us the design blueprint for the modern world.

'Even Hitler, what about his preferred career as an artist? He was drawn to Germany, to the artist buzz. He said he wanted to end his life as a painter, once he'd conquered the world. Funny how most of his buyers were Jewish. If only he'd sold enough art to make a living.

'But he didn't. So then came the whole degeneracy episode, so extreme, the flight of great art from Europe, the destruction of wonders. The destruction of everything, followed by Germany finding its feet, making sense of the world through Conceptualisation, people like Joseph Beuys, who I consider a hero. Provoking a reaction, any reaction. Is that the _essence_ of art?'

'I wonder. You're very passionate about your subject, Jacob. That's why I chose you.'

'Thank you.'

'Did you know that the US Government still holds most of Hitler's paintings in storage?'

'Yes, it's an odd little situation. Like they fear the power of his art.'

He watched her closely, considering again the mysterious aesthetic of human beauty. _Your face, it stuns me to my sexual core. And what is it, but a collection of sense organs, positioned close to your brain for faster reaction to danger? Why do I find your particular facial proportions so attractive? Conditioning by art since the Greeks? And your body, your killer body, nature's perfect design for bearing and raising children, loveheart pelvis for delivery, perfect breasts for feeding. Yet neither of us has any interest in that functionality. Form following function. Is it that nature knows we don't want the complication of kids? She's trying to catch us out? Then DNA, the fucker, has a chemical attraction to alcohol. Drunkenness begets kids._

Jacob was having thoughts. He looked at his glass, then put it down.

'So I need you at Vierte tomorrow morning,' she said, 'let's say ten. The valuations must be completed this week.'

'Hnnh? Will I end up falling from the Guggenheim's roof when this is done?' _Did I think that or say it?_

'What do you mean?' she asked, checking herself in the full-length mirror in the corner.

Shit!

'I don't know,' he mumbled, 'it's all a bit weird, this past week. I don't know what to think.'

She finished adjusting her hair, then applied a fresh layer of coloured wax, London postbox red, to her lips. She turned to him, took her handbag from the table, opened it and handed him an envelope. 'You don't need to think, Jacob. You just need to do as I tell you and you won't come to any harm.'

'What's this?'

'Insurance. Remember the other night, after the Nostradamus auction?'

'Just about,' as he lifted the flap and saw that there were photographs.

'You got lucky with that intern from the magazine. And her friend.'

The pictures. _Oh Christ._

She stood at the door. 'Her seventeen-year-old friend.'

Everything is made up of so many unique particulars that cannot be foreseen.

The door closed, gently.

But its click may as well have been made by the safety catch of a cold and heavy gun held to the back of his head, its hardness pressing into the jangly, nervy scalp there, causing a rippling shock to dance up his spine and into his dreams, where he expected it to lodge until his last breath.

Sophie stood in a line outside the Met, vaguely heard the sirens as she listened to Sex Pistols through Dre phones.

She paid her admission, joined another line as Jacob had his first taste of martini. So she got visually and aurally assaulted with, of course, The Ramones. That album cover outside CBGB, then the recreated bathroom from the iconic club, down on Bowery and Bleecker Street, where Sophie tasted, learned and lived punk. _Timing is everything, when you reach that certain age, turning on to the world and what you experience then forms you for life. Her experience was The Ramones, Blondie, Talking Heads, Television and The Cramps. Gone now, a fashion store or something. The moneymen have taken Manhattan. Was it ever any other way? Was punk and anything of cultural merit that belonged to the masses ever just a blip? And what will form today's generations on the cusp of adulthood? Antisocial media? Envy TV? Misogynistic rap music?_

She shuddered, then gave herself up to the experience. Sophie's head beat to the memories and the ideas while her heart beat to the unforgettable rhythm of the memories of what made her.

Then the clothes. Leather, zips, tartan, all so mixed up and crazy and _loud_ at the time, but now part of the fabulous, fizzy fabric of humanity. So the people that punk hated most now own it. _Chaos to Couture_ really summed it up. The music made Sophie dizzy, the Sid Vicious and the Clash and _Hey ho! Let's go!_

So she went upstairs for a perfect, bitter Ethiopian espresso in the roof garden. Sipping her coffee, she noticed a strikingly beautiful, thin, blond woman at the table beside her. She drank green tea. She was Deborah Harry. Sophie gushed. Blondie was perfectly sweet, interesting, happy to talk about the punk days for a time. Sophie excused herself before it got weird. Then into the Park.

She realised that she would open her own restaurant, call it Punk Food, shake up the New York food scene, break stuff, offend people who need to be offended. She'd embrace the original punk ideals, be anti-establishment, rebellious, nihilistic, loud, fast. And bring in the elBulli language of cooking at ground level, build from there, use food to express creativity, poetry, beauty, culture, humour, provocation, harmony, happiness, complexity, magic. _Cooking as provocation_. God this navel-gazing, politically-correct city needs it. We're energetic, liberal, open-minded and progressive. _But we're not the shining beacon of hope that we think we are._

'What will Rod think?'

So Rod called. She sat on a weathered bench by a dry softball pitch and she told him.

'I love it. It works. It's so Anglo-American, people will love it. I'll lead an investment panel, no problem getting funding. But what about here? Who'll fill your shoes?'

'I think you, Rod. You're more of a front man anyway, cooking as theatre. Push any of the sous guys up to be your stand-in. Carl's as good as you or I. And young. Or there's Jesus. You know they can do it and you don't want to be stuck in there every weekend night, you know that.'

'It could work, yeah. Listen, Soph, reason I called, need a big favour.'

'Anything.'

'I need you to cook with me. You know the guys up in my club?'

'That place on the west side?' She squinted, gazed towards the sun. 'I'm probably looking at it.'

'Yeah, well we're organising a big dinner for next week, something really special. Elaborate menu, best of the best.'

'Has the menu been created?'

'Yeah, I've just emailed it to you. Let me know what you think.'

'So it's your show. How many people?'

'Forty.'

'Fine. Make sure Carl's rostered in and I'll talk to you about it tomorrow.'

She bought a French Vanilla Dove Bar from a guy on a bike and started thinking about the food at her new restaurant. London staples with a New York twist, certainly bacon sandwiches, pies, fish and chips, but also some new, radical thinking.

Deconstruct everything? _The big idea? Nail that and everything follows. What is punk?_

Then she read Rod's menu, read it out loud.

'Ballotine of pheasant. _The boned thigh, stuffed with a ground meat, served hot or cold._

'Oysters. _Thinking about the hotel feast._

'Chestnut soup. _Okay._

Scallops. _The mollusc associated with female fertility because the shell looks like a vulva. As seen in Botticelli's Birth of Venus. Thank you for that little nugget, Jacob._

'Wild duck. _Not some poor, farmed creature that's never been wet._

'Wild salmon. _The king of fish, enjoy it while you can - mutant, inbred farmed salmon will wipe out the wild stocks before we know it._

'Slow roasted pork. _Crispy skin essential, Jews don't know what they're missing._

'Salad with gold leaf. _Why?_

'Iced cheese.' _Now what can we do with that?_

Sophie wondered. _Very 1700, Rod. Salad with gold leaf, now that's interesting. What was it that Gary Oldman said in that last Batman movie? To be a detective, you have to stop believing in coincidences._

And another question. _Why hasn't the congressman called?_

FOURTEEN

After Jacob threw up in the bathroom, he showered and dressed.

When the room phone chirped, he jumped.

'Good afternoon, sir. You have visitors. Shall I have them escorted to your room?'

For a slow second, Jacob feared a hit squad. No, the bidding ring.

'Please. And some coffee.'

'Of course. And just call when you're ready to place your lunch order. If I might let you know, today's special is grilled Maine lobster, with a starter of oysters, served with a remarkable Muscadet.'

'Okay. Coffee for now.'

He went to the window and waited, wondered if there would be any familiar faces.

No.

Three men, each in his fifties, wearing an expensive grey suit, possessing a neutral face and a hard edge.

They introduced themselves, first names only, to Jacob and the coffee arrived.

The leader of the ring was a man called Richard.

'The single most important requirement is that we are not identified together at the auction,' he said. 'It's risky enough being seen all in one place,' he gestured at the room, 'but I'm banking on the hotel's reputation for discretion. Tonight, not even a nod, understood? Good. Now we're not a typical ring in that this is not about us taking possession of the item and then having our own knockout bids later to see who gets to take it home. We're all aiming for one outcome, which is delivery of the Champagne to Vierte. End of. There are thirteen lots. Twelve individual bottles of Veuve Clicquot and one case of twelve. Our main objective is the case, but I feel that we should pick up an individual bottle or two also.'

'Will the buyer of the first bottle be offered all the individual bottles at the bid price?'

'Good question. No. The normal rules do not apply in this situation.'

'Any idea of guide price?' asked Jacob.

'The auctioneer reckons about seventy grand a bottle. The case making maybe six-fifty. We'll be paying twenty-five percent on top, of course. By the way, the man with the hammer is in our pocket. There will be no phantom bids. So, what are our potential obstacles?'

'Somebody with more money,' said Jacob.

'Good. Nobody has more money than us. But we must beware somebody with a lot of money and some particular obsession with the lots. They will be our greatest threat.'

He nodded to one of the other men.

'I have accessed the expressions of interest folder on the auctioneer's secure network,' he began, opening a laptop and launching a spreadsheet. 'Most of these are small timers, but I have identified two potential risks. They both have deep pockets and an obsession with pre-Revolutionary France, Louis XVI in particular.'

The ringleader addressed the group. 'We've been monitoring these individuals for the past week. The first will be intercepted before he enters the auction house and will be shown some photographs. He will not proceed.' _Of course he won't,_ thought Jacob. _Do they know about me?_ 'The second threat we don't have such easy leverage over. She will be drugged before the bidding begins. Nothing too strong, just enough to send her to the ladies' room for an hour. Jacob, we three will focus on heading off any other unexpected threats. It is your task to deliver the winning bid. As a respected bidding representative, you are perfect for this. There can be no attention on us, so we will only bid if you are outnumbered. Are you confident that you can do this?'

'You appear to have done your homework,' said Jacob. 'I'm confident, yes.'

'Excellent. Here is the debit card that you will use to complete the transaction, the PIN is 1-9-4-1. It has no limit.' He laughed. 'You can return it to your contact when you see her next. Meanwhile, you are authorised to use it for your living costs. Now let's order some lunch and monitor the online chatter about the auction, see if there are any unknowns swimming into focus.'

The clatter of plates and the crunch of lobster shells brought Sophie into Jacob's mind. He found it difficult to swallow the rich, white meat, feeling like white meat himself, unable to escape the black, gnawing sensation that he was enduring his last meal.

The congressman had escaped the agents' relentlessly tedious questions and made his way back to his oasis, to people of like mind, to art, to a level - physically and psychologically - above the boring plebs. To Vierte.

So he sat by the window with a glass of steely, flinty Chablis, its purity and cleanliness cutting through his funk.

Later, when Sophie arrived with Rod, everything seemed to have found its place. She pleaded information about his daughter, that whole finger thing, Rod looking suitably concerned. So he feigned sorrow, with a dash of joy that she was alive. She didn't mention her visit to Jacob's apartment with the police. That was interesting.

'So, what do you think of this place, Sophie?'

She looked around, sniffed the air.

'I smell truffles.'

'Of course you do. Here,' he said, offering a menu, 'please choose something.'

She saw an opportunity to test the level of cuisine that would be expected of her for the feast. And also an opportunity to feed some cravings. The list of food was interesting. Old school, like the feast menu, but in a good way. Quail, pigeon, lots of pork, plates of Italian delicacies, some German stuff, but she was drawn to the fungus.

'I'd like to try the buttered pasta with white truffle shavings, please.'

'Good choice,' said Rod. 'The pasta's made in-house, the butter's Irish and the white truffles are genuine.'

'It's amazing that most people aren't aware that their so-called truffle oil doesn't contain anything from outside a lab.'

'2-4, dithiapentane doesn't have quite the sexy ring to it.'

'To drink, might I suggest an old Bordeaux, perhaps an '82 Saint Emilion?'

'Perfect.'

The order was taken, the wine delivered. Sophie sipped from her glass of Chateau Cheval Blanc, imagining a great white horse thundering through across the meadows as the Park took on its afternoon hues. She felt somehow special, up here, above the city, sipping on expensive wine as the sunshine slanted between the sentinels behind her, bathing the oaks and elms and horse chestnuts and maples and birches. She felt like she did when her mother brought her to see a musical for her eighth birthday, white ankle socks and lollipops. _The Wiz._

I heart NY.

'So, Soph', said Rod, snapping her from an uneasy reverie, 'what do you think of the menu?'

'Interesting, yes. What's the occasion?'

'If I might?' said the congressman. A nod. 'This foundation has been involved with the arts since the War. We have one of the world's greatest modern art collections. You name it. Much of our work has been out on loan, but it's all been brought home for a member show next weekend. It's to be held right here. It will likely be the greatest art show in modern history. And it's exclusive. It's special.' His eyes glowed with an unfamiliar energy. 'And to marry with the art, we will present the greatest feast since Louis XVI lost his head. Rod?'

'Thank you, Sam. Sophie, we are on a journey here. As the world Drops to pieces around us, we have been given a gift. We're looking at a fusion of great art and great food. I know you, Soph. You probably saw the menu and thought 18th century. Am I right?'

'Pretty much.'

'Well, you're right. We're taking the dinner menu that was enjoyed by the Sun King, Louis XIV, most every night. This was the greatest monarch in history. He was militarily all-conquering. He was loved by his people. He was socially advanced, he wanted to fix his kingdom.'

Rod opened his palms, like this was enough.

'You know I'm not a big monarchist, Rod,' she said, smiling a Diana smile. 'But yeah, I can see where you're coming from. The Sun King. I get it. I get how some people would adore the concept.'

'So, the food, we'll take the very best ingredients, locally sourced and organic, exactly as they would have been for Louis, and introduce the most modern techniques. I'm talking ElBulli here, make the dishes utterly unique, magnificent, unforgettable.'

Sophie nodded, getting it now, just as her pasta with white truffles arrived.

'Tell you what,' she said. 'If this dish wins me, I'm with you.'

She dipped a fork, then filled her mouth with a wonderfully pungent, rich and buttery juxtaposition. Textures clashed, then fell in love, flavours actually _made_ love, climaxing right there on her tongue, as if rolling around on the soft, autumnal, Tuscan forest floor, among the beech trees and the oaks, panting, skin clammy, eyelids heavy. _So this is what sex tastes like._

'I'm in.'

'Nice,' said Rod. 'The staff here is excellent. They just need guidance to explore new ideas and a firm hand to get the dishes out on time. So tell me about your dish.'

'I love how the pasta is cooked to perfection, al dente, smothered in the best butter in the world, seasoned, then garnished with these utterly fucking wonderful white truffles, perfectly proportioned. And this wine? My word.'

'Great. Look, I just need to grab a menu printout and a document with some of my wine ideas. You okay to talk about it now?'

'As long as I can eat this first?'

'Deal. Back in a sec.'

As Rod's back receded. Sophie rested her fork, turned to her paramour, willing to give him another chance. For the sake of love.

'How are you?'

'I'm okay,' he said, draining his glass, calling the waiter for a top-up. 'I'm just sickened, what a fucked-up world we live in.'

'Do the police have any leads?'

'Your ex was pulled in. Bizarre coincidence that she was found in his apartment.'

_There are no coincidences._ 'They brought me down there, yesterday. Apparently this monster thinks he's a chef.'

'And is he?'

'Yes. That eliminates Jacob, far as I'm concerned. He can barely make coffee.'

'I wonder...'

'Hnnnh?'

'I just wonder why this animal would choose Jacob's place.'

'Doesn't add up.'

The waiter returned with two bottles, topped up her Saint Emilion red and his pale green Chablis.

Sophie took in her surroundings, began to truly size up their relationship. 'How's Washington?'

'Christ, what a mess. Everything's gridlocked, that damned Tea Party. The debt ceiling's coming up fast – again - and I honestly don't know if we can fix things in time.'

The debt ceiling was one of those political topics that made most people's eyes glaze over, Sophie's included.

'And what if we can't fix it? The debt ceiling?'

'Everything falls apart. And fast. We would default on the national debt which means that the Chinese would stop lending to us. Government workers would stop getting paid, another shutdown, the whole show would come off the rails.'

'Are we talking the Apocalypse?'

'Pretty much.'

She took a long drink.

'And how's your wife?'

'Sedated. I like her best that way,' he laughed, as Rod returned to their uneasiness.

A birthday cake wafted by, candles lit. The birthday song at a nearby table. They joined in the clapping.

'Now,' said Rod, 'I've tried to pair a wine with each course, but -'

'Sorry to butt in,' said Sam, standing, 'but do you mind if I leave you to it?' He glanced at Rod, 'I have some business.'

'Of course,' said Rod.

Sophie smiled, thinking _I don't know if I ever want to see your face again._

'As I was saying, we're going to have something very special. Like how special? Go on. Ask me.'

'How special?'

'Veuve Clicquot. 1786.'

'My God! Are you serious? I've heard that it's the most amazing taste in history.'

'I believe so too. Notes of tobacco and honey and oak, the golden sweet sunshine captured and preserved from the peak, the zenith, of the French monarchy. Now, how would we drink it? At the beginning with delicate canapés? At the end?'

'Or as a course all its own?' she thought aloud, her eyes glancing over the menu. 'It could work with the oysters, maybe the scallops, maybe the salmon. But this, I don't know. This is something once in a lifetime. I think we need to separate it from the food. Yes. Do it first. How much do we have?'

'We don't have it yet. Jacob is looking after it for us,' he checked his watch, 'around about now, actually.'

Jacob arrived at the auction house in a cab, outwardly confident, a wreck inside.

He registered smoothly, read the details of the finding of the Champagne, some backstory on Louis XVI and the lucky diver, a guy called Mikael. The auction room was filling fast, but Jacob had the sense that much of the crowd was media: this was the perfect, global, good news story. The other members of the ring were in place. A shocking thought: could there be another ring? Is there an organisation that wants the Champagne more than Vierte? Is there anyone more ruthless?

Unlikely.

We will soon find out.

Jacob grabbed an espresso, spotted one of the ring guys lounging by the bar, was surprised - though he shouldn't have been so - to meet Sarah from the magazine. Oh fuck.

'Jacob! I didn't know you had this assignment too.'

'No. I should have realised this would be a big deal for the magazine. I've been out of the loop the past couple of days.'

'So why are you here?'

'I'm representing a client.'

'You're going to buy the stuff,' her eyes widening, her smile too.

He couldn't put it off. 'Listen, Sarah. I don't appreciate the pickle you put me in. With your friend.' _Pickle?_

'That was some night, Jacob. It's true what they say, eh?' A nudge.

'Eh?'

'You _can_ teach an old dog new tricks.'

'Well, turns out she's only seventeen and somebody found out and now I'm being blackmailed.'

'Blackmail? That's not good. Look, here we go.'

The mood music died, Sarah disappeared, the auctioneer took the podium and the screens blinked from a holding message to a live shot of Champagne bottles in a refrigerator.

'Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to our sale today, a truly unique and remarkable opportunity...'

Everything went ultra-slow-mo for Jacob as the bidding began on the first bottle. From fifty to seventy to eighty-five in the blink of an eye.

Then Jacob forgot why he was there. It was a feeling of being lost. _Where am I? Why am I?_ It was deeply, tragically unsettling. He decided that he should just go, leave the place. He turned on his heel, looked to the exit, when a linen-suited man he didn't know stepped forward and blocked his path. The man shook his head, _No_ , then nodded towards the man with the hammer.

'Ninety? Do I hear ninety thousand?'

Bang! He was back.

Jacob held up his bidding card. In. Sold.

The linen-suited man stepped back.

He took the fourth bottle for eighty-five and the eighth for eighty-two. There was no discernible pattern to the bidding and he was only vaguely aware of a woman fainting somewhere off to his left. She was carried from the room and the bidding didn't miss a beat.

Jacob took the last two bottles at eighty-six apiece.

Now for the real show.

Eight hundred thousand. Eight fifty. Sixty. Nine hundred. He jumped in, took the case at nine seventy. _Christ, a million bucks plus for a case of booze._

People pumped his hand, squeezed his shoulder, babbled at him, hoping for a rub of his luck, power, wealth. _If only you knew._

He heard a whisper that the woman who'd fainted had died. The room swayed.

He pushed through the grinning crowd and paid for the goods with the card. He arranged for delivery, in their refrigerated cases, to Vierte next morning. They would remain in the auction house overnight, under armed guard. Safer that way.

Jacob now believed that the drink was poison, the thought of drinking it like drowning in the cold Baltic. He escaped to the street, where the ringleader was waiting. A trace of a smile and a slight nod. Happy.

Jacob started for home, remembered that he'd be staying in the hotel, a prisoner of Vierte.

He walked the twenty-two blocks.

FIFTEEN

The night was filled with a black horror, the awfulness of not knowing.

He sensed that he was passing beneath a sign, its letters carved in fire. _Abandon all hope, ye who enter here._

A chirping noise, insistent. Light, shapes. His phone on the bedside table.

'Oh Sophie, thank God you called.'

'You okay, Jacob?'

'I don't know where I was.'

The hotel room took shape, shadows like monsters, back to when he was ten years old and dad was dying in the next room and he tried to block out the noises with his pillow but there were other things in there, maybe worse things.

'You want me to come over?'

'Yes.'

'Where are you?'

'I'm staying at the Carlyle. Feel like ordering some room service?'

Outwardly, Vierte was quiet, just a few armed guards waiting while the Directorate met, deep in the hidden zone.

Dr Heim sat up in his bed. His cheeks had a flush of colour as he pointed to the screens. The congressman, soon to be Heim's anointed successor, sat by the bed, along with Julia, Rod, Hester, the head of security and Salem, the director of finance.

'You see? The metrics have never been like this before, never better.'

'Agreed,' said the congressman. 'This is the time to act. Let's run through it. All is set for the Grand Divertissement Royal on Saturday night. In advance of this, the final valuation will be carried out on our collection. Correct, Julia?'

'Starting tomorrow morning, completed by Wednesday, all documents lodged with our insurers by close of business.'

'Good. So after the feast, a kitchen incident will cause a fire. The fire will destroy the entire art collection before it is discovered and contained to this floor of the building. An insurance claim will be filed immediately. As we can see from our screens, the insurer has zero liquidity, will be unable to meet our demands and will have to seek help from the Federal Government.'

'Sad,' said Heim, 'to lose the art.' _And we would have had the Mona Lisa if not for Jacques Jaujard_.

'Quite. So, while the President is considering this request, a further sequence of demands will be made. The market has passed seventeen thousand for the first time in history. The house of cards has never been higher. The desperate pleas for help will mount and the President will see the board of dominoes taking shape,' said the accountant. 'The Federal Reserve will be contacted for additional funds. But the printing presses have reached the point of no return. Thanks to quantitative easing and the eighty-five billion dollars plus that's been pumped into the bond markets every month for the past few years, the Fed will simply not be able to generate an additional half a trillion. Then we launch our strike. The most recent crash we engineered was a key element of the plan, in tripling the value of our key asset. So we will offer the President the trillion dollars in gold that we have amassed since the Second World War, in return for immediate and complete control over the Federal Reserve and the return to a gold-backed US dollar. When the President approves, we will control the dollar and, thus, the planet. We will pile debt on every consumer in the world and then we will own them. The Doctor is correct, this is the time. We must remember that the Nazi Party was a tiny force, on the fringes of German politics, until the effects of the Wall Street Crash hit Germany. Can the same approach work again? Of course. Our associates in the Tea Party have done a wonderful job of destabilising the system. It cannot absorb the shock we are about to deliver. We have the full support of China in this. As the biggest debtor of the US, they need stability. So we have access to their gold and debt instruments in return for our dropping security guarantees for Taiwan and Japan.'

Dr Death coughed. His mind was taken by the thought of the grand French fest, his fantasies of Marie Antoinette. _I would have been her Sun King. Perhaps I truly was. Perhaps..._

'Israel, of course, loses its security guarantee. That's a given. Then her neighbours will devour her.'

'And if the President doesn't comply,' said Hester, 'we kill him. And the Vice President. And then, congressman, as Speaker of the House of Representatives, you are next in the chain of command.'

The congressman smiled. He wanted to be president.

'It's perfect,' said Rod. 'But the part I'm looking forward to is the feast. Cooking up our valuer Jacob for the signature slow-roasted pork dish, then planting his remains so the fire gets pinned on him, and Sophie too. Delicious symmetry.'

Hester opened a briefcase. Inside were six padded envelopes, a name written on each. He opened them and took out sleek matt black cellphones. He handed a device to each member of the Directorate.

'Our tech guys have developed these Darkphones. You can make encrypted calls, send texts that can't be intercepted. Your web access leaves no trace and, best of all, your location can't be tracked. Your phone uses your existing number and each of our contacts is included. If you would each please turn on your phone, that button at the top, then look straight at the red light that appears.' All six stared at their phones. After a second, the phone screens came to life. 'The phone has scanned your retina and will now activate only for you. The unit is sealed, battery good for a month. That should be more than enough time. Any attempt to open the casing will result in a small but powerful explosion. You do not want to be near it. Finally, the phone contains a Taser-like shock app. Just choose the app icon with the capital T, then touch the target with the top end of the device, where the red light lives. Any questions?'

'It's very sexy,' said Julia. 'Can we sell these?'

'Maybe in the future. Mr Speaker?'

The congressman paused. It was time to get his plan moving. He turned to the man in the bed, the one lying uneasily between two worlds. 'Doctor, your health is failing. I hope that you will live to witness the bright new dawn but I worry for our leadership if -'

'If I die?' he croaked. _And travel to my Marie?_

'I don't like to think about it. But it would be smarter if you chose your successor. Now. Before all of us here.'

Heim slumped back on his pillows, gasping for air. Then he raised his arm, pointed a skinny finger at the congressman.

'It is you. _Wait!_ And after you, Julia.'

The congressman smiled, accepted the Directorate's congratulations with modesty, quietly said 'Come join me for some Champagne.'

As they were leaving, Heim croaked, called Julia back to his bedside.

'Julia, my Julia. Any news on my elixir?'

'The alchemists' Elixir of Life?' _The drink to keep you alive for another thousand years? I think not._ 'No, Doctor. I'm still searching the ancient texts.'

'The Jews. You must focus on the Jews for it. Their love of alchemy. Kabbalah. They claim to have had the elixir for centuries now.' He coughed. A long, dry cough. The smell of his breath, it was like death. 'My time is running out.'

'I will keep searching.'

'This Nostradamus. I saw a documentary on the History Channel earlier, in between Nazi stories. It said that he had a recipe for the elixir, hidden in one of his books. He was a Jew, you know? And a doctor. This I have said before.'

Julia smiled an ice smile, thinking about what an elixir of life could do. Not for humanity, but for her. _Surely stem cells are the elixir in the same way that nuclear reactors actually will make gold and so all the Middle Ages fantasies were simple delusions? But what if? What if that book that Jacob had bought contained, somewhere in its ancient pages, the formula for the Elixir of Life?_

She caught her reflection in the mirrored meds cabinet. The overall picture of perfectly-defined, classical beauty, yes. _But, see that almost imperceptible sag? See this fine line?_

The horror of age. Middle. Age. _I need that book, Jacob._

And you're going to give it to me.

She turned to leave, hesitated. 'Why didn't you name me your successor?'

'You are a woman, my child. Too weak.'

'Times have changed. This is the twenty-first century.'

'No. Nothing has changed. You have something in you that I fear. C _ompassion?_ Perhaps. But your brother? He's more twisted than I ever was. He will see this through. I know this.'

Then he laughed, a painful cackle. And her mind was set.

The room phone chirped.

'Mr Johnson, there's a, ah, _lady_ here to see you.'

_She's no hooker, you condescending fuck._ 'Okay. Can you walk her up or should I come down?'

'I'd be glad to escort her to your room, sir.'

So he gave the guy a twenty, decided not to come down on him. How was he to know?

When he closed the door, he embraced her and felt her and kissed her. She kissed back.

Then they consulted the room service menu, ordered jumbo shrimp cocktails, crab cakes, Caesar salad with lobster, cobb salad, some grilled asparagus, crispy onion rings and a bottle of Dom.

They lay on the bed, watched TV, _Breaking Bad_ , which neither of them had seen before, until the food came on a trolley.

'A lot of food,' she said.

'Fuck it,' he said. 'The Nazis are paying.'

'Maybe they're trying to fatten you up, Hansel.'

'Ha.' He picked up the lobster shell, made a Dalí call in a German accent. 'Send me some chicken bones, for Gott's sake!'

'The importance of every meal,' began Sophie, 'it's really hitting me as I get older.'

'Hnnh?'

'If you take the fifty years between getting old enough to care about anything and being fed through a tube and, say, a thousand meals a year, that's fifty thousand opportunities to be wowed. It's not _that_ many.'

'Make every one count,' agreed Jacob. 'I can see that. Hey. Come on,' he smiled, 'it's not like it's the last supper.'

But it did feel a little like a last supper. They sat on the bed and ate without speaking.

Eventually, Jacob said 'Damn fine shrimp' and Sophie said 'Better order some oysters, 'cos I want you for dessert.'

He picked up the real phone.

So they almost had fast sex on the bed. Clothes on. Just pulled down, across, making gaps of a few square inches, all it takes, that connection, that giddiness, that hint of it. But, for once, it was Sophie that suddenly faded. Events.

Too Drunk to Fuck.

And, as she dozed, her arm across his chest, the oysters' melting bed of crushed ice defining entropy, Jacob thought back to their first fling, their time of young lust and freedom and, yes, excitement. Before the boredom of life and the tedium of the human condition.

There. There was a time.

Corona Park, Flushing Meadows, the Fourth of July, '87. The Ramones played for free and then he saw her shaking her hair and laughing and fell in love right away. After Joey Ramone fell off the stage and the fireworks blasted the moon, the young Jacob spoke to her, offered her his joint. They walked to the Long Island Expressway and sat on a pedestrian bridge, watched the night traffic streaming towards the towers of Oz in the middle distance. Then they found a little park and made love on the grass at three in the morning.

The next weekend, they took a bus to Pennsylvania, to her parents' log cabin by Lake Wallenpaupack, where they walked in the forest, toasted marshmallows over a campfire, snuck into a glorious little tied-up sailboat and made love in time with the rolling waves.

Then they fell out of love as Sophie pursued her dream of becoming the most famous chef in the world and he travelled to Italy to see all the good stuff at first hand. Manhattan, as outsiders might not suspect, is quite a small chunk of real estate so their paths inevitably crossed again. There was a fling a few years later.

Jacob had become insufferable, full of art this and art that. He could see this now. Sophie worked every night, so it fizzled out. Then, just a year before the now, an effort to see if they had each settled into a form that could accommodate another. She'd even moved in with him, into his swanky apartment with his Picasso and his view. But the horror of bodily functions and proximity to the gases, wastes and noises of another proved too much for her. Of course she'd not let go of her own place, not for such a long shot as Jacob, and she was back home within a month. He didn't mind.

_She never returned my keys_.

He gazed at her.

As long as she's stuck with her restaurant and I'm living from commission to commission, we're screwed. Not to mention the congressman's daughter, the statutory rape and the goddamn Nazis. Fuck it, Jacob, you couldn't make this mess up.

_This can't work_ , he concluded. _Not like this. Not now._

So he slept, on a flat and dusty white plain. The moon was frozen in an azure sky. A ruined city in the distance, like it had dropped from that sky. A boat, too. How did _that_ get here? A dog approached, a man following behind. Jacob's head, supported by crutches, lolled, his mouth open. The sleep of the dead.

Rod left the Directorate meeting and went hunting.

The city was his, there in the small hours, the period between bars closing at four and the early risers at six, that was his golden time.

Central Park was perfect, just off West Drive, so many places to hide in the shadows, waiting for the desperate fool teetering drunk in her high heels. Or the smitten young couple who wanted to just get lost in their passion in the fresh night air with the slumbering city behind. Or the jogger with her headphones, lost in the Lana del Ray soundtrack to her lonely life.

How many was it now?

Seventeen.

He patted his pockets for his in-ears, clicked them into his smartphone, found the track and tapped play.

So he paced the park, listening to the recordings he'd made of each killing. The gasps and cries and begging made him want more and more and more. He often listened to his soundtrack on the subway or as he walked to work or as he sat on a bench in the sunshine, watching kids feeding ducks.

'No, please, I'll do anything.'

A jogger. Alone at this hour? People are crazy.

'Why are you doing this? What's wrong with you?'

Blonde hair swinging.

'Stop. Why don't you stop?'

Here she comes.

'I want my daddy.'

Behind this tree.

'Why?'

Just a few steps away. No time to record. _This time I just listen._

'Oh my God.'

She's panting. Hard. He loved listening to women jogging, making their little sex sounds, just like they were getting fucked. This one's a grunter, best of all.

'Please.'

He jumps forward, grabs her shins, a rugby tackle. She falls heavily, grunting.

'I'll do anything you want.'

He puts his hand over her mouth, starts fumbling at his belt.

'Don't you think I'm sexy?'

But she pushes back, there is a hidden strength. Training. Footsteps nearby, running. He glances up. _Police!_

'You're an evil bastard! I hate you!'

A trap. She's broken his grip, has an elbow at his throat now, crushing his windpipe. It is time to escape. But maybe he's left it too late.

'I hope you die.'

He struggles, but the undercover policewoman isn't letting go. He sees something in her eyes, something familiar. He sees a killer.

Sophie woke to a Champagne headache, rain slapping against the window of an unfamiliar room, Jacob's deep snores and her phone insisting shrilly that she pick it up.

It was work. 8:04am.

'Jesus, can't you guys get by without me for a couple of hours?' Funny how the simple making of a decision can put such distance between people and places that were so connected just twenty-four hours before. Punk Food owned her now. Swipe the green square. Take the red pill. 'Hello, Carl.'

'Sophie, Jesus. Sorry, hi. Have you heard? Fuck.'

'Christ, Carl. Calm down. What's up?'

'It's Rod. He's dead, boss. Killed resisting arrest.'

'Resisting?'

If she'd had a glass in her hand, right then it would've fallen to the ground, shattered into a million pieces.

'Turns out he's a serial killer or something. There's about a hundred cops here right now, they've shut the restaurant down. They're not saying much but it looks like they searched his apartment and that led them here.'

Then she'd have walked onto the broken glass in her bare feet, felt the burn of the cut.

'I better get down there.'

She would've felt the blood ooze then.

'You better.'

Sophie found some prescription painkillers in her pocketbook, washed them down with a glass of flat Champagne.

The fog had lifted but the chill remained. The cargo ship, a ULCV - ultra large container vessel - twelve hundred feet long with fourteen thousand twenty-foot equivalent unit (TEU) containers on board, quietly set off from Baltimore. In among the containers of aircraft parts, bus engines, computers and corn was a Vierte shipment, a well-shielded nuclear device. Plutonium balls with explosive charges, waiting on a text message to achieve critical mass.

The ship crossed the Atlantic, passed through the Straits of Gibraltar, enjoyed the warmth of the Mediterranean, transited the Suez Canal and skirted the Arabian Peninsula to reach the port of Jebel Ali in the United Arab Emirates, the busiest port in the Middle East. There it unloaded its cargo and took on more containers, including a vast shipment of Syrian and Iraqi archaeological and artistic wonders, looted by Vierte's partners, ISIS, treasures from the actual origin of human civilisation.

And so the ship quickly left behind the US Navy's most-frequently-visited location outside the United States. And there, by the semi-permanent liberty facilities called The Sandbox, a place for boozing and womanising and hypocrisy in a strictly Islamic state, lurked the most powerful ship of the most powerful navy in the history of the world. Supercarrier CVN-68, the USS Nimitz.

SIXTEEN

Detective Tori Taylor could not believe her luck.

She'd been hunting the Upper East Side Killer for over a year. Lack of progress caused her to put on her tightest jogging Lycra and run the Park circuit in the crazy hours. The UESK was a Department secret. Dots had been joined and a pattern discerned. At least a dozen deaths and mysterious disappearances over four years. The center of gravity lodged squarely in the heart of Manhattan's most fashionable and wealthy district and that's exactly why the media couldn't know. Murders and abductions were everyday occurrences. Serial killers were not.

The Long Island Serial Killer was still at large. But he was way out _there_ and killed mainly meth-addled prostitutes. Detective Taylor's quarry was very much _here_ and liked rich young women from well-connected families. This caused phonecalls. The Commissioner didn't like phonecalls.

When he jumped her, she knew she had her man, she could smell it. And she let the switch trip in her head and crushed his neck, so he was dead before her backup reached her.

'He, he tried to kill me. I had to...'

'It's okay, Tori. You okay?'

'I'll be fine.'

'You think this is our guy?'

'I sure fucking hope so,' she laughed. 'Get some ID and we'll go knock on some doors. I'll call the judge for some paper.'

A plain clothes detective went through Rod's pockets, found his wallet, his keys, a syringe, a vial of propofol, a pair of latex gloves and a pair of handcuffs. He used his pocket torch to light up the vial. Another detective took Rod's headphones and heard the screams. Together, they said 'This is him.'

They went to Rod's apartment. The concierge was shocked that Rod was dead, 'Such a nice man,' didn't even look at the warrant, let the team into the apartment.

'This is a crime scene,' said Detective Taylor, her nose twitching at a vague smell. 'Keep your gloves on. Jim, take notes starting with all our names and watch the door. What we're looking for primarily is anything to link this guy to any of our open cases. Beyond that, well, let's just see.'

On the surface, all was normal. Normal Manhattan rich: expensive, white leather furniture, a stunning view over Central Park, collectable art, a rarely-used kitchen, a wine rack with a dozen hundred dollar bottles, a mirror with traces of cocaine. They checked some drawers, found his chef's whites, connected him to Oral Pleasures. They turned on the Apple MacBook Air, then looked in his fridge.

The smell. Even a couple of molecules per million was enough to identify the residual smell of death. It was an instinctive thing for a detective who'd smelt that smell a dozen times. Then, the visual confirmation.

'Body parts,' she said. 'Looks like bodily fluids, too.'

'Detective!' called one of the crew. 'Looks like we got keys to Jacob Johnson's place.' He dangled keys on a Hello Kitty chain with a brass plate, Jacob's apartment building name engraved there. 'The Leinster.'

'So you did the congressman's daughter, Rod. You dirty bastard.' She instantly regretted killing him, worried that too many secrets might have slipped into his grave, to live quietly beside him in the dark, wet earth, with the nightmares and the worms and the demons. 'At least this clears Johnson. I didn't think he looked the type. This just keeps getting better.' I _like it when instinct proves to be correct. And I can safely like you now, Jacob._

Then Detective Taylor called the Commissioner. She arrived within thirty minutes, trailing media. The key newspapers and TV had agreed to keep the killings and disappearances unlinked and well below the typical hysteria levels in return for first look at the killer. The reporters were corralled outside the main entrance and a statement promised.

'That's a fine bruise on your neck, Tori.'

'Oh, I didn't realise.'

'It's going to look great on TV,' said the commissioner, patting her arm. 'You did great. No, don't shrug it off. You were one-on-one with a serial killer for a few, long seconds. That's all it takes. You're a hero. And you make me look good. Now, fill me in on what you've got so far so we can get the DNA teams in here and I can let the media run their stories. And it's all over.'

'Not quite, commissioner. We've still got the restaurant connection. This could upset a lot of people.'

Sophie arrived to a CSI truck, five police cars, yellow tape and media. A uniform lifted the tape for her and a detective brought her inside. Then, as she took in the scene, he caught her as she fainted, lay her on a leather booth seat and fetched a glass of water.

'Sorry, I, I don't know what came over me.'

'It's okay. Happens all the time. This is not what any restaurant owner wants to see.'

'If Rod's in trouble, I don't see...'

'Drink some water. It gets worse than that, I'm afraid. The CSI guys are taking some DNA samples from your kitchen. We'll have the results back from CODIS later today. Probably you will not be happy.'

'I don't get it.'

'We believe that your business partner has been serving human meat to your clientele.'

'Fuck.'

'Yes. Fuck. This is bad on so many levels. We've shut you down, probable cause.'

'For how long?'

He laughed. Not a cruel laugh, more in surprise. 'If it's proven that your chef's been serving the locals _to_ the locals, well I don't know. Seems to me you'll be attracting every skell in the five boroughs.'

'Skell?'

'You don't want these people in your restaurant.'

'I guess not. It's finished then isn't it?' Sophie said, gesturing with a dead hand.

The detective was called to the kitchen by a woman in a white evidence suit. So Sophie sat, closed her eyes, listened, thought.

The clattering pans. The clicking cameras. _I was so close to my dream._ Rustling plastic. Murmuring voices, like they didn't want her to hear. _But it was all revolving around a psychopath._ A slamming door, the flapping wings of birds outside. The low, growling sound of a crowd. _But shouldn't I be grateful that I wasn't served up in some kind of freakish pie?_ The bubbling of the lobster tank. The beeping from the unanswered phone. _Shit, there's that meal I was to cook with Rod, that feast thing. Shit._ The dark, rusty colour inside closed eyes. _A nuclear error, but I have no fear._ The secret fireworks when she rubbed them hard. _Ca plane pour moi._ Punk. Is. Freedom.

The squeezing of her shoulder.

'Hi, Sophie.'

A familiar face, thank God. 'Danny. Is the congressman here?'

'No. I'm taking a look at your business partner because it looks like he's responsible for the finger thing. Look familiar?'

He dangled the keys to Jacob's apartment. The ones that she'd forgotten to return. The ones that Rod had taken from their office.

' _Shit!_ Oh fuck. I put Jacob through so much. Stupid bitch.'

'Not your fault, okay?' He sat beside her. 'It's really rare for someone to work with a psycho and _know_. I think Jacob will just be happy he's in the clear.'

Missing Sophie, wondering, Jacob had a shower so hot his skin roared red and he had to wipe patches through the mirror condensation to shave, every stroke.

The morning news was full of a breaking story that made Jacob's heart stop. He ordered breakfast and sat on the edge of the bed in a heavy bathrobe, mechanically munching scrambled eggs with smoked salmon as the Nazi art horde discovery emerged.

It was an almost audible everything-clicking-into-place moment. The news commentary and discussion merged with Jacob's own thoughts.

Munich. 1,600 pieces of 'degenerate' art. It's believed that the Nazis seized about 16,000 pieces of art from Jewish owners and art galleries as they conquered Europe. It is truly ironic that the Nazis labelled much the art 'degenerate' - art by greats like Picasso, Chagall, Dix and Beckmann - seizing and hiding it so as to protect public morals while Hitler and his cronies set about dismantling the very concept of morals, classifying certain types of people as animals and foisting the ultimate horror on Europe. How many art galleries built their collections on the Nazis' spoils? How many art dealers built their fortunes on the misery - and extermination - of others? Do we still consider Nazi ideas of degeneracy to be valid when considering 'modern art'?

Maybe it's time, given the scale of the crimes against humanity and art committed by the Nazis, for a genuine re-examination of what values modern art holds? Can we continue merrily along the Nazi-defined path and consider what emerges from Munich as simply filling in the gaps in art history? Or must we start asking deeper questions?

Who, exactly, are the degenerates?

Jacob expected the phone to ring or jackboots to kick down the door. But the story continued, ticking almost every box that an interesting news story required, while New York woke up and got going as normal.

The Nazis never went away.

Then his cell phone did ring. The magazine office.

'Yes, it's the story of the year. Yes, cover story. Can't do it today. Or tomorrow. I'm contracted.' _If only you knew._ 'Get someone else to write up what's known for now. In a couple of days when the dust has settled, I'll tackle it. Yeah. Oh, one thing: get an intern to write up bios on every significant artist in the haul along with their treatment under the Nazis. Just a couple of hundred words apiece. We'll be pulling in plenty of first-timers from Google, so we need to sell them on the big picture. Yes, it's very exciting. Who knew?'

So Jacob left the hotel, joined the morning rush and made his way on foot to Vierte, across to the Park, into the glory of the most inspired piece of city planning, thanking the editor of the _New York Post_ for getting the ball rolling back in the 1840s.

A song thrush skipped ahead of him, glancing back every other leap. She found a fat worm and Jacob smiled as the thrush cut the helpless invertebrate to frantic, wriggling pieces.

They came in the night, shouting and breaking things and stomping heavy boots. Her mother pulled her from bed, dragged her wintercoat around her nightdress, her best shoes onto her cold feet as she clung to her threadbare teddy.

The family joined the others on the street, occasional flakes of white drifting down, breaths like ghosts in the still night. When every Jew in the neighbourhood was there, shivering, they were marched for an hour to a military barracks and into a huge wooden billet, a single weak bulb hanging from the roof trusses. As dawn broke, a train arrived, shaking the ground, its whistle shocking. They were loaded on, the guards kicking and hitting with rifle butts. _At least we are all together._ A hundred to a car. _Yes, mama._

The train carried them away, for a day and a night, stopping only to take on water and coal. She could see mountains through gaps in the carriage wall, snow-capped peaks glowing in the moonlight.

When the train stopped for the last time, they fell to the hard ground, limbs in shock. They were separated then. Men. Women. Boys. Girls. They cried.

She was taken with the girls, still crying, to a dormitory of metal-framed beds and the smell of a hospital.

A meal of boiled potatoes, some hard bread and a metal cup of milk made her feel a little better. But she still cried.

A man in a white coat came then, the girls standing at the end of their beds. He looked each girl over before choosing her. He told her that he had something special in mind for her and that she would be rewarded. _You do understand, don't you?_ His eyes seemed friendly. _Of course I understand. I'm German. Like you._

So she followed him to a kind of doctor's room, a nurse there, trays of medical instruments, a bright light. She was nervous. _It's okay, little one. You can take that coat off. Sit here. I just want to check that you're healthy._ So she sat on the black leather chair and the nurse came from behind and snapped rings around her wrists so she couldn't move her arms. Then she snapped more rings around her ankles and another big one across her lap and forced a rubber ball into her mouth so she couldn't move at all or talk or scream.

Then the man in the white coat chose a knife with a curved blade from the tray as the nurse cut a hole in her nightdress, right across the middle. _Mama will kill me._ He decided where her left kidney should be and began to make the incision.

Later, much later, he smiled at this memory, reliving the procedure as if the hot, young blood was still on his hands, squirting onto his face. He licked his lips.

'Doctor?'

_Oh, go away._ 'What is it now? Can't you see I'm resting?'

'The valuer is here. Mr Johnson.'

'Ah. Good. Tell Julia to keep me informed.'

He looked up at the screens, saw how the Asian markets had played along with his plan. But his mind strayed back to Mauthausen.

As it always did.

Sophie drank cup after cup of thick, black coffee with Danny as other detectives came and went and word kept coming through about discoveries at his apartment. Sophie wanted to throw up but she'd reached saturation there.

The whole thing was worse than she'd feared.

The DNA tests from the restaurant were the final insult.

'He's been serving human flesh to your customers. I'm sorry, Sophie.'

'We're finished.'

'It doesn't look good, does it? Hey, listen. People have short memories. That's how politicians get re-elected.'

'This is different, Danny. This is notoriety. This is something that's never going away. The Freak Tour of New York, or whatever they call it, that's going to stop outside the door.' She cried then. 'Jesus, I feel so bad for the staff. Fifty people tainted. How are they going to get hired anywhere with the fear of complicity? Why did that bastard have to die?'

An investigating detective she'd seen at Jacob's on that morning called Danny away, out of earshot. They both glanced at Sophie and she knew what was coming next.

'I need to take you in for questioning.'

SEVENTEEN

Jacob spent that first morning comparing the catalogue with the works. His head was jelly from the direct contact with such a vast selection of the greatest art that humanity, over forty millennia, had yet produced. The room was long and artificially-lit in the ideal wavelength, the paintings and drawings and prints arranged in drawers, by artist, individual works in plastic cases, some key display pieces brought in from the social areas and mounted on the walls for the occasion.

Homo sapiens sapiens. You waited 160,000 years to begin producing art for us to enjoy today. I wonder why? Yet look, look at these marvels. It's like the greatest artists, in their frantic productivity, they're making up for lost time.

He worked alone, but the head of security was always in the room, loitering out of line of sight, and the cameras watched too.

He went through everything, list by list by list, everything laid out in Excel spreadsheets, by artist, links to complete histories and ownership details. There were valuations entered by two previous valuers, both known to Jacob and a column waiting for his inputs. It was all there. 1,344 works. _Time for lunch. Christ, it's after four._

She waited for him, at the best table, the afternoon sunlight framing her from behind, as an angel in one of those idealised, representational works that Hitler was so fond of.

'Jacob,' she smiled, putting down her _Wall Street Journal_. 'How goes it?'

'Well, really well,' sitting across from her on green leather. 'It's a wonderful collection.'

'What's your favourite?' pouring his glass of Chateau Mouton-Rothschild.

'My god! Is this a 1945? Jesus,' he inhaled the claret, _the smell of France, as and when she was delivered from -_ 'I'd have to say, just from quick glances, mind you, so far there's a dozen masterful Cézannes - _a dozen!_ \- a Klimt to die for and a Dalí I've never seen. It's like _The Persistence of Memory_ , but an altogether new take on the melting clock. It could be an undiscovered piece. But the Cézannes - you are aware that the most expensive painting yet sold is a Cézanne?'

' _The Card Players_. Two-fifty plus.'

'Two hundred and fifty-nine million dollars. And just a couple of years ago. Beautiful piece.'

'I know. It was ours.'

'Jesus. But the value that puts on your other Cézannes. It's mind-melting.'

She smiled. 'That's how the market operates. Same rules apply for all commodities. The old supply and demand.'

'So you've been boosting the value.'

'Value? No. Drink first. It's been breathing.'

So he drank and filled his mouth with magic. As his tongue tingled, he was struck by the flavours and had a revelation.

'Wow. That is good. I think I've come up with a definition, what makes a great wine.'

'Do tell,' she said, sipping.

'We have four different tasting areas on our tongues. For sour, sweet, salty and bitter. A great wine, like a great dish, impacts on all areas at once, as well as the secret fifth. Umami, Japanese for deliciousness. And it lingers. I can still taste that sip, all over.'

Julia savoured the taste, nodded, swallowed. _Let him have it._ 'I agree.'

'Could be that this works for all food and drink.'

'What about art?'

'Interesting. Could there be a bunch of different emotional responses, areas in the brain, even, and if a piece of art triggers something across them -'

'You could map responses in an MRI scanner.'

'That could be really, really useful.'

'This sounds like a piece of research the Foundation could support. Would support. We have the art, we have the scanning technology. We'd just need a proper, scientific plan. You've got your hypothesis, it should be fairly straightforward to evaluate it. Once we get through the valuation and the feast, I can help you get it done. And that's a promise. This could make your name worldwide, Jacob. I would want you so badly, I can feel the itch already.'

Bitch. You just blackmailed me with the threat of twenty years in jail. Plus, I know you're a card-carrying Nazi. And now you're making me love you again. Making me want you in every other waking moment.

'Okay.'

'I'm going to have to leave you with it for a couple of days. I've been ordered to Beijing. Investors need reassuring.'

'Ordered?' _Shit, I'll miss your presence, your steely, heart-quickening, ylang-ylang sandalwood jasmine-scented, immaculate, shimmering, murderous, desperate heat. I must be experiencing Stockholm Syndrome or something._

'Won't take long. You'll be so busy, you won't even notice.' She leaned closer to Jacob. 'And when I get back, I'm taking you to dinner. The best dinner you'll ever experience.'

Jacob had visions. 'Okay.'

'Enjoy your lunch. I recommend the mushroom risotto.' She stood and he half-rose. 'Oh, Jacob, I meant to ask. Remember that night we met in the auction room?'

He pointed to his temple. 'Indelibly.'

'That Nostradamus book you bought. Did you sell that on?'

'I gave it to Sophie. A gift.'

She raised her eyebrows, nodded, turned away. No goodbyes. His eyes followed her until she left the room.

So he ordered the risotto, drank the exquisite claret. But he was giddy, actually giddy, with the anticipation of what other treasures might be waiting for his eyes, so he quickly ate the lush rice, with the porcini and Chanterelle mushrooms and the leek and the butter.

'On another day, I'd have made love to you for many hours,' he said to his wine glass, quietly. Then he gulped it down.

Then he went and made love to Klimts, Pollocks, Van Goghs and Picassos.

It was dark outside, but Jacob wasn't aware. Sophie called.

'I need you, Jacob,' an unfamiliar urgency in her voice.

'You okay, Soph?'

'No. I've been interrogated by cops all afternoon.'

'Jesus! What for?'

'Don't you know?' sounding exasperated. _How could you not know?_

'Sorry, I've been away from the news. _In a much better place, with the timeless things that actually matter._

'Big shit with the restaurant. Turns out Rod was serving people. To people.'

There was a five second silence while Jacob processed that.

'Oh. Oh. What time is it?' glancing at his watch. 'Nine? Christ. Okay, I'll be with you in twenty. What you doing?'

'Cooking.'

'Hnnh?'

'Potato latkes, chopped liver, kreplach soup. Comfort food.'

His stomach churned, said _Give me some of that Jewish goodness_. 'Fab.'

He was escorted to the lobby by an armed security guard. The guy was of the silent type. The guard at the lobby desk wishes Jacob a good night. 'See you in the morning, sir?'

'Yes. I'll be here early. What time you open?'

'We're open twenty-four seven, sir.'

Inside a cab within seconds, hurtling downtown through the going-out traffic, the theatre crowds, the late hungry, the all-day drunks who were approaching threshold, the cops and the robbers, the tourists, clicking, snapping, selfie-ing, taking it all in, making it all. Being New York.

And into the Village, the hothouse of music and pop culture. And Sophie.

'Why don't you move up here?' she asked, as they walked up the stairs to her place. 'The Village is _you_ , Jacob.'

A young couple passed, heading downstairs into the night, laughing. Jacob glanced after them.

'I don't know. I like it downtown. The edge. The water. It's quiet at night.'

'Yeah, but what about the stink of Wall Street by day?' _Don't mention 9/11._

'Maybe you're right.'

'Look, until the cops give your place back to you, you can stay here. Okay?'

'Thanks, Soph. How are you doing?' He sniffed, saw the pair of lit candles, the dozen gorgeous sunflowers in the perfect, two-toned yellow earthenware vase. 'My God, something smells amazing.' Gribenes, he knew the smell, rendered chicken fat, fried with onions, crispy chicken skin on top, served with latkes and used in Sophie's chopped liver recipe. He saw that the meat grinder was out, noted its dull metal presence clamped to the kitchen counter.

'It feels like Shabbos. Sabbath. I just had to, you know?'

'The comfort of ages. I get it. L'chayim.' _To life._

Jacob declined the offer of Sophie's kosher Manischewitz wine, 'Too sweet for me,' instead drank a glass of good, dark, bitter, spicy, acidy, cherry, plummy Chianti riserva, the pure Sangiovese grape with the cinnamon bouquet, the Bordeaux of Italy, as he surveyed the table, covered with plates and bowls of kosher - fit for consumption - delights.

'You'll love these potato latkes, Jacob. Shredded potato and onion cakes, fried in olive oil. They're the best I've ever made.'

Jacob bit into one, ate it in one go. Oil dripped down his chin. Sophie had a napkin ready.

'Nnnh.'

'My chopped liver you know, complete with grated egg yolk. And here, my kreplach. Chicken soup with beef dumplings.'

They sat and ate and Sophie talked about her grilling. Jacob was happy to sit back and eat and drink and listen, while he secretly thought about Vierte's art and what he might see in the morning. Every so often, he threw out a comment or a question.

'How could they think you were involved?'

'Lord knows. Lord only knows.'

'What a load of garbage.'

'Dreck, Jacob. Dreck.'

'Did I ever tell you my theory on why Jews and Muslims both dislike pork?'

She emptied her glass, switched to the Chianti. 'Go on.'

'Are you sure? Shit, I don't know my brain these days. It's like I have a fear of repeating myself to people, so I just clam up. Anyway, we know that the Jewish tribes were the first to dominate the Arabian Peninsula after the fall of Rome. Abraham was the father of Judaism, as he was the father of Christianity and, later, Islam.'

'Funny how all three came from the one source, they all believe in a single god, yet they all want to destroy each other.'

'Ha. So after the end of Rome, through the rise of Christianity and on to the birth of Islam, up to the seventh century AD, all these tribes were going nuts, the heat driving them crazy, _My god is best_ , constant war and, guess what?'

'What?'

'They practiced cannibalism after battles, the whole "eating my foe to take his strength" kind of thing,' he used air quotes for that, 'and human meat probably tastes better than camel. So I put it to you that human flesh was getting passed off as pork, much as it is in parts of Africa today, and the holy men had to take a stand against it. They had to. And here we are, eating latkes.'

'The past is an awful place.'

EIGHTEEN

They left in six canoes, before dawn had even thought about being. The cold waters lapped the boats and the men shivered.

A musket barrel rang as it clattered off a buckle.

Captain van Rijk looked around and glowered. He saw the campfires of Hoboken fade, Governor Kieft still standing on the jetty there, as the mist enveloped the little flotilla. _Hoboken, the pipe of peace, named by the Lenape Indians for the deal they made with us. Trust. But that was then. This is 1630 and Hoboken is not enough._ Then he turned back towards their destination, the prize: Manhattan island.

The paddlers made sure to slice into the river, twist, propel, then carefully ease out. It was harder work, but it made for silent progress. It was a trick they'd learned from the Indians.

They got to the middle of the river, then allowed the current to take them south, past dense forests, and the three miles to the cleared lower tip of the island. To where the Indians lay asleep in their tents. The captain sighted the camp against the pinkening sky, exactly as he'd planned. With his left arm, he indicated their destination and the paddlers fought the currents to bring them to land.

The Lenape were taken completely by surprise. The Dutch started with swords and knives, going from tent to tent. Men, women, children: each was slaughtered in their turn. Van Rijk led by example, sticking a sleeping woman, then her babe with his cutlass.

There was a shout from across the field, just as the sun touched the sky to the east.

'Vuren!' he cried, and the muskets roared.

Some of the braves had assembled to the north of the camp, at the treeline. They were attempting to flank the Dutch raiders. Van Rijk saw them and their bows. He ordered his musketeers to focus their fire on the group as he led the swordsmen into the heart of the camp. Flying lead balls cut the men down, shattered tree trunks, whistled into the blackness.

A formation of seagulls came low, on their way from the flats fringing the Atlantic on the long island, to the freshwater lakes of Nieuw Nederland. The gulls scattered, scared by the blasts and the smoke and the crying and the rich, shocking smell of blood.

Van Rijk's vision was coloured red as he hacked and chopped and killed. Until there were no more Indians. He was at the furthest reach of the camp. He looked around, saw the tents blazing, the three hundred bodies. His lieutenants saw this too and smiled.

'Gedaan. Nu de dapperen.' _Done. Now the braves._

Muskets fired in volleys and Indian war cries faded, replaced by screams and death groans. Van Rijk led his men back across the camp, running, adrenaline flooding. But it was done. The braves were done.

One survived, a musket ball having shattered his right shoulder, laying on the red grass, saying _Hoboken, Hoboken._

The captain cut his throat.

'Zege!'

Victory.

The Dutch rejoiced. The land was theirs. Nieuw Amsterdam was born, baptised by a flood of native blood. The captain called his men to prayer. He thanked God for their victory, promised to build a shining city in His name. The Lenape would be remembered, but only in passing, a Brooklyn playground carrying the name of Manhattan's first owners.

So development proceeded in earnest. Within a few years, a major fortification had been erected along the treeline to keep Indian raiding parties out. Some had come looking for revenge. But what did they know? This was progress. This was civilisation. This was the creation of real estate, value, wealth. The wall rose to twelve feet and, with its snipers and patrols, allowed the Dutch colony of New Amsterdam to flourish under its protection.

Later, the city's first official slave market, where natives and negroes were sold and rented, was here, here on de Waal Straat.

Today, the business of slavery continues, the manufacturing of debt for the little people, while the great and good spin their billions into further billions. Much of their wealth having originated in the sale of slaves right here. On Wall Street.

On the north side of Wall Street, among the flag-laden office blocks and trading houses, is an inconspicuous building, designed in the classical Art Deco style. It houses thirty floors of stock and bond salesmen and investment managers. Gamblers. And high frequency traders, who used the world's first quantum computers to jump ahead of purchase orders and buy cheap. These market alchemists circled in the dark pool. And the hedge fund gurus, the biggest racketeers of all, two and twenty, percent commission on funds managed and returns earned, and a shit return at that, rich men's playthings. _Nice fucking work if you can get it_. Many undercurrents. Many signals not visible to anyone on the outside. _Herrenvolk_. The master race.

On a typical trading day, one hundred billion dollars - virtual dollars - flow in and out of these walls. Whether the trades make money or lose money, the expensively-dressed men make their commission. It's often like turning lead into gold. Just do it on a big enough scale and enormous riches are assured.

And deep below the trading floors, down in the blood-soaked earth, between the subway tunnels and the steam pipes, is a secret treasure. A device that converts actual lead into actual gold.

Vierte's nuclear reactor was assembled in the 1950s, built according to the blueprints that Dr Heim had smuggled out of Germany. The parts and the uranium were sidelined from the American nuclear facilities by the same ex-Nazis that designed Hitler's atomic programme and then gave America the power to rule the world. Then rental trucks shipped them from the western deserts and into the beating heart of the New York financial system. A steel pipe here, a chunk of uranium there.

Hitler's love of the occult and the bizarre was well-known. One of his pet projects was alchemy: turning lead into gold. His scientists told him that, using nuclear technology, there was no reason why this should not be achieved. Ernest Rutherford had first achieved transmutation in 1919, when he fired alpha particles at nitrogen to make oxygen. He literally changed one element into another.

On the periodic table of the elements, lead and gold are very close. Forget about the electrons, the buzzing, negatively-charged particles that orbit the nucleus and give us electricity and chemical reactions, let's dive into the nucleus, the heart of matter. Inside the nucleus are positively-charged protons and neutral neutrons. It is the number of protons inside a nucleus that determines what element the atom actually is. The old alchemists, with their chemical reactions, could never touch the nucleus. They didn't have a chance. But the dawn of the nuclear age, the splitting of the atom? This made transmutation - the dream of the ages - real. Many believed that Nostradamus had the secret of transmutation, hidden within his quatrains. But his dreams were as lead.

Lead, the dull, inert heavy metal, Pb after the Roman name plumbum. The Romans used it to make water pipes, so that's why we call plumbers plumbers. But lead is a neurotoxin, a brain poison. Some say that the Roman Empire collapsed because the lead leaching from the water pipes drove them all mad. Today, it's mainly used for bullets. Dive into its nucleus and you will find eighty-two protons locked together, each a shimmering energy field. Then look to lead's neighbour, gold. Seventy-nine protons in there, creating the dazzling purity of beauty that makes men insane, that has gripped their imaginations since the dawn of humankind. Just three neutrons separating lead and gold.

So the German scientists found that by targeting lead with a stream of neutrons - uranium was the perfect source - they could knock neutrons out of the lead nuclei. Over time, the lead that enveloped the neutron source became gold. It was a tricky process to get right. A delicate spindle mechanism slowly brought a thin sheet of lead around the core, gently winding onto a spool of fine gold leaf at the far side. Gold leaf perfect for melting down into bars. Or for wrapping around roasted fingers.

So went the magic of converting poisonous lead into the 24 karat gift of the kings to the son of a God.

But it was far less troublesome to turn gold into lead, sticking three extra neutrons into the atom's nucleus.

Two blocks away from Vierte's gold machine, up on Liberty Street, is the Federal Reserve Bank of New York, home of the world's largest reserve of gold bars. Seven thousand tonnes of seventy-nine neutron goodness, held in trust for half the world's economies, underpinning their currencies, giving some faith to the financial instrument alchemists on the world's trading floors. Imagine turning all that into lead?

And the final blow, the killer, the ultimate gift of breeder nuclear reactors - the conversion of the uranium (brought down from Canada) that drives the reaction, with ninety-two neutrons in its nucleus, its conversion into plutonium by adding just two neutrons, so easy you can't _not_ do it, and you have the stuff of nuclear bombs. This is the main function of all the world's nuclear 'power stations'. This is the function of Vierte's reactor.

The seer sat alone in a tiny room, dark save for the glow from a little fire under the tripod, from which dangled a brass bowl on chains. Water in the bowl - sacred water - pulsed from the heat, ripples gently boiling across the surface, starlight dancing. The seer's mind danced too, chemicals coursing, neurons tingling. The mescaline powder, isolated from a Mexican peyote cactus, had opened his doors of perception.

His mouth tasted of dry compost.

He felt his spirit animal stirring deep within his spine, and he fought to restrain it. Not now, not yet. He consulted his astrology logs once more, glanced at Polaris, the north star. Then he focused on the water, allowed his mind to empty. And so the images began to form.

There were scenes of events that had not yet occurred. Great deeds, grand falls, yes, but also minutiae, the seemingly inconsequential occurrences. Images of the future and of the past and of some unknowable time also. So he concentrated, lost his mind entirely to the visions and allowed the most important predictions to occupy the sacred central space.

At last, the image solidified, commanded his attention. He calmly unravelled its subtleties of meaning and, once all was clear, he took his writing paper and committed the quatrain to words, words which could be shared so that others might believe.

The exuberant nectar of the vine,

Brings joy to the King of the North.

Those who take it from the amber sea,

Shall taste the victory of immortality.

\- Century XV, Quatrain 4.

NINETEEN

_Jesus wept, what a night._ When day came, two were dead, gold and art were trading places and the world as we know it was about to end.

It began with a visit to Bellevue hospital, a private room. His daughter was sitting up in bed as he entered the room, tapping away on her iPhone, Snapchatting or WhatsApping or whatever the hell kids do these days.

'Hey,' he said. 'How you feeling?'

She looked up from her device. 'What the _fuck_ are you doing here?'

'Show some respect, young lady,' closing the door gently behind him, confirming that she wasn't connected to any monitors or alarms, just the IV drip going into her arm. 'And keep your voice down.'

'Why the fuck should I, you dirty old bastard.'

'Now wait a second, young lady. I don't know what drugs you're on, but -'

'But shit. The only drug I'm on is clarity. Some lunatic drugs me in a club, kidnaps me, cuts me up. All I'm thinking is _Daddy, come save me_ and then the drugs wear off and then I know. It was you. He was your friend. He came to our house one night when it was just you and me. And -'

'You're delusional, darling,' he said, coldly.

She pulled the sheets up to her chin as thin tears streamed down her still-pale face.

'Bastard. I'm going to tell.'

'Oh? So did you tell the police? The agents?'

'Not yet. But they'll be back in the morning. They always come in the morning.'

I'm so sorry, daughter. But you won't see the morning. You gave me some great press, but the kind of stories you're talking about now won't do me much good. Presidential incest? Nah.

With a finger, he pushed down a venetian blind and peeked up and down the hallway outside. Dead. The guards had been pulled immediately Rod was identified as her perp. Then he went to her.

'Here honey, let me fix your pillows.'

He left the hospital, smiling. His police driver was waiting for him with the town car.

'How is she, sir?'

'She's good, Danny. Really good. I think she's going to pull through this.'

'Did you tell her they got the guy?'

'Hnnh? Oh. Yeah. Of course. She was delighted. She doesn't have to worry any more. Listen Danny, you get home. I feel like a walk.'

'You sure, sir?'

'Yeah, go on. I'll see you tomorrow. Lots of prepping to do. Looks like the President's going to be paying us a visit.'

'Wow. Okay. See you in the morning. Please be careful, sir.'

So he walked a block north of the hospital, then took a cab to his dealer's turf, to the Upper East Side, where the old money and the models and the admen and the one percenters hung out. Heading north on FDR Drive, he called from the cab, on his second phone, used code.

'Hey, any sign of that white bitch? Good. Okay. I'll be there in, ah,' he looked outside, saw the Queensboro Bridge looming, 'ten minutes.'

He was buzzed through the main door and the secondary door and then whooshed up the elevator to the expensive apartment where he'd enjoyed many nights with Rod and cocaine and prostitutes and many more illegal pleasures.

'Sorry to hear about Rod, mon,' said the Jamaican, who was known as mailman. 'Come in and rest yourself.'

'Yeah. It was a shock for sure. I don't know how he was so stupid to get caught in a police trap.' Classical music played loud, Wagner's _Ride of the Valkyries_ and the air conditioner hummed, scrubbing the air.

'Bad shit. Here,' he said, passing a joint.

The congressman inhaled deeply and felt a tingling in his legs, a sudden, heavy fatigue. The mailman went to an antique chest of drawers and found a metal box that looked like it was for expensive camera lenses. He opened it, lifted out a polyurethane foam tray which had some anonymous electronic objects inlaid, took two plastic bags from below.

'This is all de good stuff. This is mine,' he said, holding up a half-empty bag of white powder. 'This is for you. Try it, you'll see. Then you can taste mine. All de same.'

He poured some of the cocaine onto a small mirror on the Mexican style coffee table, then used an old-school razor blade to chop out the lumps and ease it into four thin lines, each about an inch long.

The congressman took out his wallet, got a fifty dollar bill, rolled it into a tube.

'Hang on, boss. You want to stay up all night?' The congressman nodded. 'All right, mon. Go. Go on.'

The congressman snorted a line into each nostril, felt the burning, then the almost instant rush, starting in his sinuses, then into his eyes, his brain, every cell in his body. _I just killed my daughter._ He smiled as his pupils became black pinpricks and the mailman inhaled the other lines. The congressman closed his eyes and flew with the music, imagining himself piloting an attack helicopter south, through the geometric canyons of Manhattan. He passed the gaping holes where the Twin Towers once stood, saluted the fallen, then raced over Zucotti Park and down Broadway. Suits, suits everywhere. They gape up at him and he strafes them with machine gun fire. Wait! Can't miss that! He pulls back on the cyclic control stick, stops his forward momentum, pushes down on the rudder pedal to swing the nose right. Quick rocket tally. All good. Two Hydra-70 Mark 66 rockets screamed from their pods and blew Trinity Church to smoking pieces. _See you in hell, motherfuckers!_ Forward again on the cyclic, shuddering through the ETL. His stomach groans as he pulls a hard left onto Wall Street, then stops, hovering, at the corner of New Street. Fire! A rocket streaks towards the New York Stock Exchange. And another. He pushes the button on the steering column and tracer rounds tear into the stockbrokers and day traders on Wall Street. The rockets explode with a shower of beautiful noise and colour. The facade crumbles and falls onto the terrified fools below. His mouth is dry and there's a taste of blood. He sends in another rocket for good measure. _Charlie don't surf!_ Then he pulls a tight left turn, up the three blocks to Liberty Street, where the Fed men are standing in the street, crying like babies, holding ingots of lead. _I'll put you out of your misery, motherfuckers!_ Rocket after rocket leaps from the chopper pounding the Fed bankers and their lead into a dull, silvery grey mincemeat. _We've got Congress, the Senate and now the White House, you sorry plebs._

'You okay there, mon?' a hand gripping his shoulder.

His eyes pop open. 'That is really good shit, mailman.'

'Finest. Hey, you want me to call some bitches up? Party?'

He loved the idea of that. A night of drugs and sex and loud music and utter fucking madness, maybe take a quick trip to one of the clubs up the block that never closed, drink expensive Champagne, then take in the sunrise and snort some lines of cocaine from the skin of a beautiful belly. _Stop giggling, it's going into your pubes. I can't snort that, I'll have your hairs stuck in the back of my throat for days!_ She's laughing harder now and it's rolling, tumbling...

'Yeah. No. No, I have to work. Maybe tomorrow night? Too much going on tonight. How much I owe you?'

'Five hundred, mon. Let me get a couple of lines together for the road.'

As the mailman cut out the lines, that fine chopchopchopping noise, the congressman was captured by a feeling of black dread, of imminent chaos, of the end of things. He would leave this place and put the final elements of his plan into motion. Just a couple of unknowables there at the end, at meltdown. Listen to your gut.

And this whole thing, this entire adventure would end with his becoming Mr President, the most powerful man in the history of the world, the man who would finish what the Fuhrer had started. It would end with that or death. But either way, Manhattan would be changed forever.

To live or to die.

To be or not to be.

This is truly the edge of things, where I'm sitting now. These could be my last days on Earth. I might be remembered as the greatest hero this great nation has ever produced. Or the greatest mass murderer in human history.

What _will_ people think?

A wide grin crept across his face as he attained a great freedom, the realisation that he _just didn't care_.

He walked across Central Park to Vierte, passing the place where Rod died, not a sign of the event remaining. The drug had given him a superhuman confidence.

'I am the Übermensch!' he said. And he believed it.

He went through security and straight to Dr Heim's inner sanctum. I hate hospitals. Heim was unconscious, his nurse sitting in the armchair, reading a trashy gossip magazine.

'Is he drugged?'

'Yes, sir. Morphine. He was in a lot of pain earlier. His lungs.'

'Good. He won't feel a thing.' He glanced at the pillows. 'Can you give me some morphine, please? A two hundred milligram syringe.'

The nurse stirred, began to sit up. 'But that will kill him, sir.'

'That's the idea. Now, I need you to tell me how to switch off this damned beeping.'

She saw the congressman's eyes then, saw the wild animal inside. She flinched. Froze.

'Look, I'll make it easy for you. When he's dead, I'm the boss,' he gestured to the room and beyond,' the boss of all this. One trillion dollars plus in assets. In a month, I'll be president. Now. You. Where are you from?'

'Honduras, sir.'

'Sorry for our history. We fucked your country up. Battalion 316? All that. So you're here now, saving what you can, sending some money home to your extended family, yes?'

'Yes, sir.'

'But your dream of saving up enough to go home and look after everyone. That's not going to happen, is it?'

'No, sir. The cost of living, it's bad now.'

He had her. 'So, what business were you hoping to start when you get back?'

'A medical clinic, sir.'

'Oh!' he exclaimed, 'That's just perfect! I love it!' He took her hands in his. Easy. 'So here's the deal. Do what I say and you can go home any time you want, tomorrow even, with one hundred thousand dollars.'

She stood and went to the medicine trolley. She found a suitable syringe and filled it with two hundred and twenty-five milligrams of morphine solution. She handed the syringe to the congressman, then went to the beeping monitor. The sound ended, the trace of the weak heartbeat silently meandering across the screen then.

She pointed to Heim's forearm, where the taped-down catheter was stuck in his vein. The congressman went close, clenched the syringe tightly, aiming for the catheter's connecting hub. He shook, couldn't control his hands.

The nurse tutted, gently took the syringe and inserted it. She smoothly pushed the plunger home, removed the syringe and watched the trace.

Within seconds, the heartbeat slowed to once every five seconds. In half a minute, Dr Aribert Heim was dead, the only sign being the gentle deflation of his chest as his life force, his vril, dissipated.

'Thank you,' said the congressman. 'I appreciate it.'

Isabela smiled. 'I would have done it for free.'

The congressman grinned. 'You can do what you need to do now, you have the protocol? Good. Then go home. Come see me here tomorrow. I'll have your money.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'And can you gather all his bits and pieces? I'll have a crate sent down. Leave the paintings, they'll have to be brought up to the valuer.'

She went to the heart monitor and switched the audio back on. There was a low whine. She took Heim's chart and made notes of the readings from the display.

I'm in charge. Now, two phonecalls, two fat lines of cocaine and one bottle of wonderful wine. I need to be suitably wasted when the news hits in the morning.

He fumbled in his jacket pocket, found his phone. He called Julia.

'Julia, how are you? Good. Listen, I'm afraid I have some very bad news. It's your grandfather. He's passed on.'

The dining room was deserted, all staff long gone. He found the keys to the wine room and selected a bottle of burgundy, a Domaine Romanée-Conti from 1967, the Summer of Love. Then he uncorked it at a table by the window that looked out on the Park.

As the wine breathed, he made a call to Vierte's director of security, again on his unlisted phone.

'Phoenix here. I'm afraid the doctor has passed. Yes. Yes. Operational changes, effective immediately. Art to go downtown. All of it. And all the doctor's personal effects. Yes. The feast will be held there. Production is to be stopped and all our heavy assets are to be moved uptown. Yes. I'm sure you can make effective use of our transport assets. I need everything in place by noon. Good night.'

He poured a glass of exquisite, ruby sunshine and put his feet up on the glass table. He inhaled deeply, the delicate scents of spring flowers, drank deeper, the flinty, earthy, plummy, seaside taste. As the flavours danced around his mouth, he used a credit card to clumsily chop out lines of cocaine on the table. He used a note to become superman again. No more sitting down, he walked the length of the window wall, glass in hand, gazing down at the little people, master of the universe, the one to rule them all.

Sophie slept, balled up on the couch. Jacob found a blanket to put over her. The food had done its job. It had comforted. She told Jacob everything, full of indignation. There were tears. _What if I'm arrested? What if they try to frame me for what Rod did?_ He calmed her with mention of her congressman and a complete absence of evidence. _Could Rod have set anything up?_

'They let you walk, Soph. Just like me. They have to be seen to go through the motions. That's all.'

'The filth of the place, and that was the police station!'

'You'd be okay on Rikers Island, get a cushy job in the kitchen. I'm too pretty for prison.'

Jacob enjoyed listening to her, clearing the mountain of food, drinking a good Chilean red. But he was pleased when she yawned and chose to lay down with the remote and the old movies she loved.

Hitchcock's _Spellbound_.

She lapped up Ingrid Bergman and Gregory Peck.

'You know Dalí designed the dream sequence? Guy was a certifiable genius. Sophie?'

A gentle snore.

Jacob found his briefcase, opened his laptop and notebook and went hunting for valuations. He'd kept track of every item through the day, but his notes pointed out the need for some deeper digging.

At 3am, he hit a wall of fatigue, switched off the electronics and found the spare bed and blackness.

Eyes filled the room then and a vision of a man falling from a tall building. Jacob's skin crawled when he saw the faceless man sitting on the end of the bed.

The faceless man smelled of jetfuel and was covered in a coating of fine, white dust.

'Do you remember me, Jacob?'

'How could I forget you?'

The faceless man laughed a dry, humourless croak.

'Tell me.'

'You were piloting the second plane. United 175. You delivered the death blow. It could've been an accident, just a damned accident, before you. A shocking, dramatic, horrible accident but the city could've cleaned up, shrugged its shoulders, said _Meh_ , got on.'

'Go on.'

'I'd had a nightmare of a night, a complete and utter fuck-up. Sophie. We'd just started seeing each other, been out to dinner. Monday. She worked at a pretty cool place in the Village, but she was off that night. Go anywhere in the world on a Monday night and you'll find chefs partying. So we went to a fancy restaurant uptown. I drank too much, tipped too little, laughed at her ugly shoes and her ugly little feet. I was a lot more of a prick in those days. A big scene in the middle of the fucking street. _I hate you. I don't want to see you again._ All that kind of stuff. So I went home alone, completely done with Sophie. Forever. And I hit the bottle. The Jack Daniel's bottle. I did a little bit of coke, flirted with a coronary, considered calling 911. But that faded, so I collapsed in a heap. I don't know when.'

'Go on.'

'I can't. I just can't.'

The faceless man laughed again.

He woke with a start at 8:46am. A shudder had worked its way across Lower Manhattan and into Jacob's sunny loft apartment. He was crucified, stuck to his wet sheets, arms out, a crown of thorns wrapped around his head. He opened his eyes. Dazzling beams of morning sunshine drove the thorns deeper, so he closed them again. Seagulls were nearby, squawking like devils.

A few minutes later, another shudder and a low, menacing boom. He woke again, thinking that his heart attack had come. It was 9:03am on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, and Jacob was less than half a mile from the World Trade Center. _What the fuck was that? Earthquake? Has there ever been a quake here?_ (Yes. 1884.) _Oh Christ, my head._

He found a pack of oxycodone and swallowed two with a bottle of Sanpellegrino still water. Then he took the last of the cocaine in two thin lines. He made a cafetiere of Green Mountain Nantucket blend, threw open the balcony doors and sat back on his reproduction Eames chair, naked, waiting for the drugs to kick in and the coffee to brew.

So he poured a big mug, added white powder, this time Sweet'n Low, and melted back into the chair. There was a nice bit of heat from the September sun, even that early, and its rays made the skin on his groin tingle. Sirens wailed nearby. More of them. And more of them. A couple of police helicopters whined by, heading west. There was a kind of haze, a fuzziness to the air. Then he smelled the burn.

A rolling thunder then, two fierce black shadows from Long Island, scratching through the sky like fighting cats. F-15s out of Otis had finally made it on scene. But late, too late. _Fighter jets? What in God's name?_

It was 9:25am. The drugs had kicked in and Jacob felt fabulous. _Got to see this. Whatever this is._

He showered quickly, the water like lovely needles, pricking his skin to life, glorious life. He towel-dried back by the window, the emergency vehicle sirens now forming a crazed orchestra. He dressed quickly, white shirt, Abercrombie jeans and a tan corduroy sport coat. He found his cellphone and his trusty Canon EOS camera. The goddess of the dawn.

Feeling good, he took the elevator down to the lobby and got onto the street. That's when everything changed. People were running east, down Maiden Lane and towards the South Street Seaport. Jacob looked west and saw the two towers, standing like two terrible candles, so much smoke. _Both of them?_ He couldn't believe it. _Oh my God_ , called the people racing by. The cocaine was coursing through his veins but this, this reality, made his heart pound like a 2 train coming in from Brooklyn. he took a couple of photos, not believing the what the viewfinder told him was happening. He carried on, towards Broadway, the awful scene filling the sky ahead. There was a dozen or so police cars at the junction of Broadway and Cortland Street. Cops were running back and forth, some putting up barriers, others on their phones, others just standing and gawping. Fire trucks converged on the junction and barriers were moved. Engine 9, Engine 28, Engine 33, all passed through, into the heart of darkness.

Jacob found a safe place by a street corner and took some more pictures. There, through the viewfinder, a shadow falling down the face of the south tower. A person. And another. He put down the camera. And just watched.

A couple of cops came and stood near him, one listening to his phone, eyes wide. _They've just hit the Pentagon!_ And _World War Goddamned Three._

Suddenly weary, Jacob slumped back against the wall and slid to the sidewalk.

The police officers came to him, took an elbow each. _Sir, we're going to need you to move. East. Get to the Brooklyn Bridge. Understand?_ On his feet, Jacob nodded. he took one last look at the end of everything and started back the way he'd come, joining the flow of the crying, the cursing, the bewildered and the broken. He turned his head back every few paces, stopping to take a picture, sometimes of the towers, mostly of people.

He passed through the William Street junction at 9:59am, just as a groan from hell shook Lower Manhattan. He turned to see the south tower collapse in a shock of dust. _This is the end._

He ran then, as the ground rumbled, threatening to just drop the whole dumb island into the water and be done with it. As the tower, all one hundred and ten floors of it, returned to the earth like Icarus, the ground screamed in thanks. A dense cloud of ash and dust raced from the impact in every direction, as vicious as a sandstorm. Jacob saw the racing cloud and sensed death. Ashes to ashes.

Running faster, he spotted the red front of Brady's, the Irish pub that had barred him from ever darkening its doors again. Kind of. A barman, white shirt, black tie, white face, stood inside the closed door. Jacob stopped and made a pleading gesture with his hands. The door opened. A hand grabbed his shoulder and the door shut behind him, just a second before a white feather was pushed against the glass and the whole world went black.

A few people were in there. Some early drinkers, but most had run in after the attack began, fearing for their lives, thinking _One last drink before I go_. The hush was eerie, just a very low rumbling outside, like the sound from a distant highway. The sun was gone, devoured. People used to think an eclipse was actually a dragon eating our star. It felt just like that.

'What'll ye have, Jacob?' asked the barman, his Donegal accent calm and melodic.

'Jameson, please. Straight up.'

So he drank a long whiskey and fixed his eyes on the TV, watching the live feed from the news choppers as the cloud of death engulfed Lower Manhattan, rushing past the door, just yards away.

It was 10:15am on the longest day.

Jacob gulped back the whiskey, burning his throat, the pain an immediate reminder of his life, his mortality. But he couldn't shake the image of the faceless falling man.

He seemed to go into a spasm, opened his eyes to see the faceless man, his hands on Jacob's shoulders, shaking, shaking, the blank face distorted, shifting, features slowly emerging.

She was shaking him then.

'Sophie. God. What a dream.'

'You okay? You're pouring with sweat. And you were mumbling in your sleep like a little girl.'

'Jesus. Christ.' He smelled the coffee then. A cup and one of Sophie's cigarettes helped ease the shakes. 'I hope that dream didn't mean anything. Because if it did, I'm fucked.'

TWENTY

Two armoured trucks had been driving through the night. Each carried a driver and two armed guards and could withstand a rocket-propelled grenade.

Two jeeps, four heavily-armed security contractors in each, drove up and down the assigned route, sometimes driving behind the trucks, sometimes waiting at either end, watching GPS pings on rugged, military-issue laptops.

As Monday's dawn broke, a truck cruised down Broadway, tailed by one of the jeeps, through Midtown, where the night was still alive, in the neon and the drunks and the sex for sale and the strip clubs and the tired and the bewildered and the buttoned-down commuters, avoiding eye contact, sneering inside. Been a long one.

Head of Security Jorg Hester rode in the back, accompanying three hundred artworks, the Cézannes and the Picassos and the Warhols and the Beckmanns and the Klimts. And the body of Dr Heim, wrapped up in a linen shroud, along with a crate of his personal possessions. This was the last trip down to Wall Street. They would unload, take the last shipment back up to Central Park West and the task was complete. Then coffee.

The corpse was decaying, _O, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt_ , full of drugs and the pain of age, synapses shuddering, nerve endings tingling with the memory, the horror, the feeling of what once was, bacteria deep in its bowels and all over its grey, wrinkled skin reproducing out of control, rot taking hold, the stench of death common to every living thing.

Hester wore his usual grey suit, starched shirt, red tie. As he held the roof bar, rolling with the truck, his sleeve rod down his arm, exposing some of his tattoos. An Othala Rune. A Death's Head. A swastika. Hester's unit was built over many years, alpha males selected from prisons and forest outposts and biker gangs, with the promise of blood and riches and, yes, truly, the coming of the Fourth Reich. To them, the Death's Head indicated that the wearer had murdered one of the movement's enemies.

Hester's top lieutenant, Grey, had three Death's Head tattoos, a veteran of Afghanistan and Iraq, a man with a deep hatred of all non-Aryans. Grey swayed by Hester, smiled and nodded.

The truck pulled up outside Vierte's Wall Street offices and the driver called security. After some checks were made, the order to approach the side entrance was given. The truck moved back into the light, early traffic and pulled a left, stopping at an anonymous grille. The grille rattled upwards and the truck went in and down a steep ramp, into the bowels of Lower Manhattan.

Armed guards watched as the truck and the jeep entered the bay two stories below street level, away from the morning sun.

The spirits lived down here.

The body was removed first, carried easily by two men. Heim was but a husk, a thin shell with a rotten yolk at its centre. The security detail stood to attention, gave the Nazi salute. _Funny how the salute always makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up_ , thought Hester. And Heim was taken away, through a door with lots of warning signs and its own, dedicated guard.

Hester oversaw the removal of the artworks, as they were loaded onto a trolley and brought to an elevator, then straight to the top floor for valuation and display and destruction.

With the art removed, the gold was brought out from the vault, towed in a trailer by a golf cart on steroids. The men who lifted each kilobar, a manageable thousand grams apiece, wore boots with steel toecaps. They loaded the bars into plastic containers, ten kilos apiece, then the containers went into the truck. A supervisor monitored every single transfer, noted the amounts in a ledger, watched the weight measurements from the scale that the tuck rested on.

The gold was pure, gleaming. Some of it had been melted down a dozen times. That was its beauty, once you had possession, you could reform it and it was born again. See it? There, gold teeth from a million Jews, smashed from dead mouths by slaves with little hammers, then sent to Switzerland as collateral for the loans that financed the Nazi war machine. There, gold from South Africa's apartheid regime that kept the whites in power for decades and even funded a nuclear weapons programme. There, gold from the conflicts of central Africa, children killing children and warlord Kony laughing as his gold is bought up by the traders, bankers and commodity brokers of New York, London, Zurich and Hong Kong.

And there, the gold that was made from lead just a couple of floors below, the giant neutron machine, the nuclear reactor, winding down from the task it had loved for sixty years. Everyone was at it, of course, all the nuclear powers, but none had perfected the process like Vierte. And none of the powers would let the Iranians build nuclear reactors, not for the bombs, but for the destabilising effect on the gold market.

With the containers of gold loaded and the weight checked, the security team assembled, saluted Hester.

'Last trip, ja?'

'Sir.'

'When all is secure, report to me, then get some rest. You must be in prime condition on Saturday. This is it, gentlemen. The destruction of Jewish Wall Street, the death of our Jew-loving President and the true beginning of the New World Order. Blood will be spilled. Are you ready for sacrifice?'

'Sir! _Yes, sir!_ '

They were prepared to die. You could see it their smiling eyes.

'That is all.'

The truck left with a smoky growl, tailed by the jeep, taking a different route up to Central Park West, up the Bowery, and Madison, past the icons of Midtown, the mighty Empire State Building, the gothic Chrysler Building, St Patrick's Cathedral, Grand Central Station, the Rockefeller Center, then across 53rd, past the slab of MoMA to 8th Avenue and Vierte's uptown safe house.

Hester went up the stairs to ground level to wait for the congressman.

The lobby area was busy, early traders arriving with the gleam in their eye for the score, the big deal, the wonder of the market. Others arrived with an air of desperation. Vierte's traders wouldn't arrive until a little later, for their work was less stressful, less tragic. Hester went to the coffee concession and took a seat with clear view of the revolving doors.

A little before eight, the congressman arrived. There was a fire in his eyes.

'Hester, good morning,' he said, then whispered, 'now commiserate with me. You've heard the awful news.'

'I - , I'm so sorry,' putting both his hands around the congressman's, looking deeply into his eyes, allowing his shoulders to sag.

'It's a terrible, terrible time. Now can we get this over with? I need to grieve with my family.'

'Of course, sir. This way, please.'

Hester led the way through the lobby, as passing eyes followed the congressman, noted the grief on his face. They entered a service elevator and Hester used his key, then tapped in a five digit code on a keypad. Then they descended. The doors slid back to reveal a small, very bright room, like an antechamber before a tomb. Cameras watched. There was a hum. Hester opened a steel closet and took out a small, flat electronic device which he clipped onto the congressman's suit jacket collar. A green LED blinked. Hester was already wearing one.

Hester entered another code into the door at the far end of the chamber and the door hissed open.

They walked down a clanging, steel stairwell. The air smelled odd. They'd both been down there many times, but every occasion was like the first. A certain giddiness. What lay ahead.

They emerged into an open space. Around the perimeter were banks of computer screens, exactly as would be expected for the control room of a nuclear reactor. In the centre was an open pit. And down there was where uranium spat neutrons with the power of a star.

A man stood by the pit, Dr Heim's shrouded corpse on a trolley. The man, a Catholic priest, of the Society of St Pius X, stood with a bible in his hand and some religious tools on a little table. The congressman and Hester stood, their hands clasped, and the priest began. He performed the absolution rite, asked God for clemency for Dr Heim. Then he anointed the shroud with holy oil, chrism. Finally he blessed the dead and the living with holy water.

The congressman thanked the priest and he was escorted back to street level.

Heim's body was rolled to one side of the pit by a pair of technicians. An access hatch opened and, soon, a platform rose from the ground. On the platform was a spool of freshly-made gold. About a foot high, it looked like an old camera film spool, but with a paper thin sheet of gold protruding.

'That's the final conversion,' said Hester. 'Now Dr Heim becomes his constituent atoms once more.'

'Will his body affect the reaction in any way?' _I'd like to see him burn._

'It will not even register. I give him thirty seconds, even though the moderator is in place so the reaction is much calmed. The biconcave cylindrical lenses will be fitted later today. They will direct much of the neutron blast at the Federal Reserve.' He gestured to his right, to the seven thousand tonnes of gold exactly two blocks away. As the neutron flies. 'A brilliant idea, sir. Utterly brilliant. But everything is calm now. Until you give the order.'

'And then?'

'Then we have thirty minutes.'

Jacob ended the call, his face vague.

'That was the congressman,' he said to Sophie, who was on her balcony with the dog and the morning. Being free, free from work and not in a police cell, made her feel more newly alive than she thought possible. She kept on saying so.

'Oh?' She came into the room, her eye drawn to the scrolling news on the muted TV.

'All the art's been transported downtown. Wall Street. Something to do with insurance. So that's where I'll be going.'

'Into the lion's den.'

'Deluded egomaniacs' den more like. Did you see _Wolf of Wall Street_?'

'Not my scene.'

'Well, he said to tell you that you'll be cooking your feast there too. I wonder why they shifted that. What time you going in?'

'I may as well go with you, get a look at the kitchens, get planning. I've nothing else on. How did Sam sound, Jacob?'

'Hnnh? I don't know. Normal? Why?'

'Because his daughter's just died.' She pointed at the TV. 'Shit.'

'Shit is right.'

They turned the volume up, listened in silence for a few minutes. _Passed away peacefully... attacker, a suspected serial killer, killed resisting arrest... Midtown restaurant he co-owned now under a cloud._

'Fucking bastard, Rod,' said Sophie, lighting another cigarette.

'This is actually all too much. And he had to go and cook her damned kidney up in my apartment. Christ. You couldn't make it up.'

Congressman is frontrunner for the next Republican Presidential nomination... ratings are up lately.

'Is that what this is all about?'

'What do you mean, Soph?'

'Ah, forget it.'

'No, go on.'

'Is it all just coincidence? All this shit going on and he's looking to become President?'

'You know him. _You tell me._ Is he capable of having his own kid killed to become the most powerful man in the world?'

'When you put it like that? Yes.'

Julia flew US Airways, non-stop to Beijing from JFK. Thirteen hours and twenty-five minutes of time travel, made bearable by business class Ballygowan water, a selection of remarkable cheeses, chiefly a Camembert and a Danish Blue, Lana Del Rey on Sennheiser and wifi.

She passed the time reading up on Jacob, loving his latest piece on Chinese art. Her hosts wouldn't appreciate its political undertones: _June 4, 1989. Amazing how they can erase a date from history. What was it that Orwell said in Nineteen Eighty-four? "The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history." Perfect. And the perfect landscape for art to reinvent itself. Away from history._

While she was in the air, over the North Pole, the story about the US Airways tweet reached them, as it rippled across the web. That helped to pass the time. You could even hear laughter coming from coach. The St Martin Reserve chardonnay also helped.

Then she slept, waking as the plane began its descent into early evening at what would soon be the world's largest airport. Arriving in China was still a culture shock for Julia, even after so many trips. Sure, the airport hustle and bustle was universal, the shiny surfaces, the signs, the brands, the polished travellers, the smug aircrew, all the icons of air travel. Staff were helpful, scarily so, and the smell was different. But customs: that was the first realisation that you were entering a totalitarian dictatorship. _Just smile._

Her passport was scanned, the customs official eyeing Julia's suit. _Was that envy? Pretty girl, just lose the pistol and the starched shirt._ A note appeared on her screen, alerted her to Julia's status, her connection to the regime at the highest level.

'Welcome to China,' a delicious smile. 'Enjoy your visit.'

'I intend to. Thank you.'

A man in a suit waited at the arrivals gate, her name printed in Garamond on a sheet of card.

He drove her south, into the city, at 120kph along the Airport Expressway. They hit some traffic as they approached the city, but Julia arrived at her hotel, The Opposite House, in under an hour. As he opened her door, the driver finally spoke.

'Politburo Member Chin kindly requests that you meet him this evening.'

'Of course. I need to freshen up.'

'I will wait. One hour?'

'That will be fine.'

She took her only bag, an overnighter, met Vierte's Beijing bureau chief and her _hmmh, yes, dashing_ young assistant in the lobby, checked into her sleek, minimalist room, found her cocktail dress and tomorrow's suit waiting. As Ms Goodall, a fairly frumpy analyst, brought her up to speed on Beijing politics, Julia stripped. Her clothes fell to the floor and the assistant - Harry - had to turn away to hide his rush of blood. _Good._ She showered quickly.

The driver took them through the night, past dragons and markets and tourists and policemen to the Capital M on Qianmen Street, walking her to the terrace, to the breathtaking view of the Forbidden City, lit up in heavenly white against the indigo western sky.

She came in red. A startling cheongsam dress. Red, with tiny dragons. Classic Chinese. Iconic. And they loved her for it.

The space was crowded with perhaps a hundred diners, thirty staff, thirty at the bar, including some Chinese Secret Police officers, trying too hard to look like their wives would actually let them come to a place like this without them. And the smell, roasting meats, fruity sauces, the residual heat of the day and the smell of the night air.

Mr Chin stood as she approached. Member of the Politburo Standing Committee, he was one of the seven most powerful men in a nation of 1.35 billion. Goodall and Harry were led to a large table and welcomed by Chin's assistants. Chin let the nervous waiter help her into her seat, then sat back down.

'You like the table, Julia?'

'Best view in the city, Wei.'

'No, please forgive me, but _you_ are the best view in the city.'

She laughed it off.

They ordered crispy suckling pig to share for starters, to be followed by salt-encased leg of lamb. A 2009 Wolf Blass Cabernet Shiraz was ideal company. After the waiter poured, Mr Chin got straight to business.

'You think you have everything under control, eh Julia?'

'As much as it is possible to control everything. Yes.'

He smiled, 'Always something unexpected. Always.'

She drank. 'I want to talk to you about your gold in the Federal Reserve in Manhattan.' He nodded. 'How much do you have there?'

'Twenty tonnes. A little under two percent of our reserves. Our _reported_ reserves.'

'I see. That comes in at under a billion dollars. We can handle that.'

'Handle it?'

'We can handle repaying you after we turn your gold to lead.'

Mr Chin's face locked into a humourless expression for a long five seconds. Then a grin spread from the corners of his mouth to his eyes and he laughed out loud. He raised his glass.

'Brilliant. I salute you. A toast to you, Julia.'

They clinked glasses. The assistants at the other table saw this and the apprehension was gone. Even the waiter, hovering near the kitchen door, waiting for the whole, crispy piglet, relaxed a fraction.

'But there's more,' she added. 'We need you, as the entity that holds most US debt, to be on side. You stand to lose? How much?'

'One point three one seven. Trillion.'

'And your GDP?'

'Eight point three.'

So it would hurt, America's default. Or worse.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Worse?'

'Upon declaration of war, first shot is cancellation of debt owed to enemy.'

'There won't be war.'

'Not now. No. But -'

The crispy piglet arrived, a platter of pork and crackling and juices and crispiness and tenderness and finger licking. _They love their pork._

'I understand you,' he said, eventually. 'So what's your offer?'

'Play along and your debt will certainly not be affected in any way. It will actually increase in value on the bond markets when the currency is revalued to our gold standard. Tiny deflationary adjustment. No, what we can offer is an outcome that's much more important, history book stuff. Something that only the President of the United States of America can deliver.'

He nodded, 'Hnnh?'

'Our focus in power will be the Middle East. It will involve massive interventions and lead to the true Final Solution. There will be no pivot.'

She let that sink in, until he knew what was coming next.

'No pivot.'

'We'll let you take Taiwan. And you can punish Japan.'

He drank the end of the bottle and called for a Chateau Mouton Rothschild, specifically the cheapest vintage in stock, for he is but a peasant representing fellow peasants, haha. _Some animals are more equal than others._

He sat in silence until the wine had been brought to table, uncorked, rested for a few minutes. Thinking. Thinking about his countrymen's simmering hatred of the Japanese. That big and beaten old clay pot, on the stove in the back kitchen, bubbling and hissing away forever. Sometimes it was peripheral, sometimes central. But never forgotten. The Occupation, starting 1937. Twenty million civilians killed. The Unspeakable Nanking. Comfort women. Torture. Chemical weapons. Human experimentation. What every Chinese child learned in their history lesson. _He who controls the past controls the future. He who controls the present controls the past._ Thank you, Mr Orwell. And for Japan to lose her guarantee of American protection? Priceless. Patrol boats clash off the Daioyu Islands. Escalation. Force them to strike hard. And then smash them with drones and missiles until they sue for peace. And if our friends in the North have a nuclear ballistic missile ready to fly by then? Revenge, and done in such a way as to make heroes of all who lead the calls for blood. And before the Imperial revisionists manage to convince themselves that it wasn't so bad. It must be soon. They must know _why_. Besides, Hitler grasped the truth of totalitarian control: _The masses are feminine and stupid. Only emotion and hatred can keep them under control._

'Did you know, Julia, they've only now decided to criminalise child pornography? _Only now_.'

'But manga and anime depictions will remain legal. They call that art.'

'Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Fukushima, these were just the start. We must finish the job.'

'They are an odd race.'

When the waiter had left, she opened her handbag and took out a few pages of photocopy, folded twice. She handed them across the table. The top page read _Department of Defence, Battle Plan Japan_ , with a row of official logos, mainly angry-looking eagles. Mr Chin quickly read the text, his eyebrows floating. Then he looked at her.

'That's just been reviewed. Check the date.'

'The Administration would risk so much to protect Japan?'

'The current Administration, yes. The new Administration will take a more practical approach to world affairs.'

'Wine?'

'Yes. So. Is China with us?'

Then he poured, saying _Yes, yes, of course yes. When?_

'It all begins in exactly six days. 7.30pm, Saturday, New York time. Louis XVI's Champagne, a banquet fit for a queen, the best art show in the history of humankind, and the President our guest. The Grand Divertissement - the great diversion. It will be very lovely. Until -'

Chin Wei was her captive in every way. He so badly wanted to fly on to Delhi with her, to Moscow and Berlin, then across the Atlantic, on leather seats with the whole world captured in his glass of Pinot Grigio. _What would my mother say?_

'Here comes the lamb.'

TWENTY-ONE

The freedom of being together in that great, hot city, no clock calling. She wanted to head up to East 9th Street, check out Hasaki Sushi, Joey Ramone's favourite sushi joint. He wanted to go to his alma mater, NYU, sneak in to the students' bar for an early beer. So they compromised on a kefir \- fermented milk - parfait with balsamic strawberries from Treat Petite on Grove St. Then they agreed to stroll downtown.

The brilliant blue sky made Jacob nervous, walking down the Bowery from the Village. Sophie wanted to explore Chinatown along the way, look at the fish outside the stores on Canal Street, smell stuff.

The live fish freaked him out, so he forced his eyes to look at the ground as his brain filled with the art that awaited his gaze downtown, as well as the shows he had to catch. Ai Wei Wei's _According to What_ out in the Brooklyn Museum, seen it before, so see it again, and, oh, the sweetest of ironies, the Degenerate show up in the Neue Galerie on 86th and 5th, celebrating the artists that the Nazis tried to shame in 1937. _Is it just me or is everything coalescing?_

He caught a plasma screen as images of Andy Warhol's Amiga computer art from 1985 flashed in brazen colours. _I like that digital soup can._

There was that sour smell of hot morning. Jacob pleaded for solace so she let him bring her into a tiny Italian coffee shop, where they had Lavazza double espressos with lemon peel and spoke in movie Italian accents, _Why you can't get a decent cup of coffee in this town? Cah-PEESH?_ , until the waiter overheard them and stared filthy stares.

They laughed down the street like, like none of the bad stuff had even happened. _Had it?_ Jacob fought to dig up memories of contact dread and crushing insecurity. They crossed Delancey Street and reached the Chinese strip from Elizabeth Street.

She took his hand and led him. He didn't mind.

They left Canal Street, turned left onto Broadway downtown, smelled the Potbelly sandwich shop, reached City Hall, when Jacob took her elbow and led her into a cab.

They got out at Trinity Church and walked to the corner of Wall Street. Sophie liked the buzz of the place. Jacob wanted to choke.

A guy in a sharp suit hails a yellow cab, arm pointing, whistling. As he gets in he says 'Let's go, asshole,'

This kind of person, this kind of animal, this was his life, his future. The art market was up every day, better returns than property or stocks or bonds. And the tens of millions of dollars that propped up every big art sale passed through these trading houses, or were magicked into existence, as debt, around the corner in the Fed. It had become increasingly clear to Jacob that the only way was up, for the artists who peaked for the hundred years from the late nineteenth century. Computers announced the death of painting, the two media are mutually exclusive - _they cannot genuinely coexist_. More and more rich philistines after fewer and fewer pieces of true, indisputable art. Oil, oil with pigments, we've already passed peak. This depressed Jacob so much.

'Is this us?' said Sophie, pointing with her thumb at the monstrous, Brutalist office building before them.

Jacob squinted at a sign by the revolving door.

'Yep. Vierte Trading. Looks like they're into all the stock market bullshit. It explains Rod's wealth. And maybe his craziness.'

They passed through the lobby area, many blazered security men standing around, a steady buzz of suits coming and going through airport-style metal detectors before the elevators.

Jacob gave their names to a woman at a desk. She picked up a phone and asked them to take a seat. They waited a couple of minutes until a sharply-dressed man came to them. He didn't look like he'd been up all night.

'I'm Frank Hester, head of security.' He shook their hands, gave them a business card each, 'That's my cell number. Please call me at any time, twenty-four seven. You both have critically important tasks. And things may get even more complicated. We'll know today.' Sophie and Jacob exchanged glances, just like back in the day. He brought them to the desk for fresh security passes. 'We operate a separate guest security system here. I'm sure you understand.' Biometric data processed, badges printed, Hester took them through to the elevators and the top floor.

A floor-to-ceiling window followed the entire perimeter of the space. The elevator was in the central block, with all the supporting structure, from which the concrete floors hung.

'Jesus,' said Jacob, walking to the window. 'One World Trade Center looks great from here. _But I don't know if I'd be happy to work there. Could I ever really relax, without keeping one eye on the sky?_ What floor are we on here?'

'We're at fifty here. The highest building on Wall Street, Trump's, stands at seventy-one, just behind us.' He jerked a thumb towards his shoulder.

Jacob turned away from the window, saw the task taking shape. A row of large trestle tables filled the north side of the space, away from direct sunlight. Trolleys were arranged beside the tables, holding the artworks like magazines in a rack, each painting or drawing protected inside an acid-free card envelope with a transparent plastic front panel. Three guys in overalls were checking the artworks against clipboard lists.

'Is this okay for you?' asked Hester.

'Perfect. Should be no problem getting through this by?'

'Wednesday, 4pm. We need to have the valuations lodged with our insurer by close of business.'

_What's your hurry?_ 'Fine. I'm halfway there and the other valuers have done a pretty good job.'

'We need to start setting up the art from Thursday. The dinner will be held right here. Should be quite the feast. Sophie, your kitchen is down a level, food coming up the service elevator round back. Would you like to get started?'

'Let's go. See you for lunch, Jacob?'

'But everything round here's overpriced and lacking depth. Including the food.'

'No. I'm cooking. I need a guinea pig.'

The congressman met his detective escort in a Chipotle. Danny was eating a chili tortilla for breakfast.

'I'm sorry, sir.' He shrugged. 'I don't know what to say.'

'Thank you Danny. Now I don't want to hear any more, understood? We've a tough couple of days to get through but the weekend should make up for it.' His phone chirped. 'Ah, perfect timing,' as he saw the incoming caller ID. 'Mr President, good morning.'

They talked while Danny finished his food, nursed his hangover, amazed at how the congressman managed to maintain such a professional front after his devastating loss. _His kid._ The call ended.

'The President?'

'Yes. He heard the news. Good of him to call. Turns out he couldn't refuse my invitation, under the circumstances. He's going to attend our dinner on Saturday. You'll be liaising with Secret Service. Hester too. Shouldn't be too big a deal as we're within the secure zone.'

'Some news on that. Coffee, sir?'

The congressman's heartbeat had slowed dramatically, the cocaine almost out of his system now. The buzz had been replaced by a hidden horror, like there was a giant rat inside him, squirming around his guts, gnawing at his spine.

'Coffee? Yes. Black. Thank you.'

The congressman slumped into a chair, unaware of the glances from the queuing customers. Most Americans knew just a handful of politicians by face and name. The congressman was almost in that gilded clique.

Danny brought two coffees, sat back at the little birch plywood-topped table. 'News. The guy who brought your daughter's finger into the restaurant? He identified our man for the job. So that's all tidy. Reduced threat of terrorism, both for you and, now, the President. The DA's not pressing charges either, diminished responsibility.'

'That is good news. And those Homeland Security guys?'

'I'm sure I'll be dealing with them on the security for the event. They'll be good. No loose ends.'

'Just like cops.'

'Exactly. So, how are you?'

The congressman rubbed his eyes. 'I need a smoke. You got one?'

Out on the sidewalk, in the startling early sun, they smoked and the congressman told Danny about the shock of loss.

He was very convincing, really getting into the act.

They went to the congressman's office then, where he cleared his schedule for the rest of the week. Then he asked Danny to drive him home, so he could be with his wife, in mourning. The bag of cocaine waited in his suit's inside pocket, to help get through it all.

'I won't need you until tomorrow, Danny. The funeral. You can take the day planning security downtown.'

Danny drove to the 1st Precinct offices, down on Ericsson Place, near Canal Street. Wall Street belonged to the 1st, so the presidential visit was to be coordinated from there, even though Police Headquarters was much closer.

The control room was buzzing when Danny arrived, the daily chores relegated to a couple of the big screens at the far end, every other asset focussed on ensuring the President got in and out in one piece. The commissioner was at the control desk, chatting to the Homeland Security guys. She spotted Danny, excused herself, took him by the arm to a couple of chairs.

'How is he?'

'As well as can be expected, ma'am.'

'Good. It's important, no, it's critical that the congressman stays safe through all this. That will be your specific responsibility. Grab yourself a coffee. We're having a run-through in the briefing room in ten.'

That's when he saw her. The detective who'd solved the case and finished the job, killed the piece of shit and saved the City a few million in legal and prison costs. The commissioner saw that his attention was compromised, looked around, saw Detective Taylor enter the space. Her media profile, with the talkshows fawning over her, the men's magazines begging for photo spreads, the glamour mags demanding haircare tips, as well as no small amount of political pressure, meant that she _had to be_ seconded to 1st for the visit. _Run. Join the circus._

'Sorry?'

'Ha. It's your lucky day, Danny. Here comes your partner on this task.'

The commissioner made the introductions, then made her way to the briefing room to get organised. Danny mad cop smalltalk, held himself back a little. _Just don't say anything too dumb, for Chrissakes._

'Good kill. Congratulations.'

'Thanks,' she said, blowing on her coffee. _Those lips!_

'What'd you get in his apartment?'

'Plenty of body parts, but not too much else. He managed to keep a really clean online record, and with his cellphone. That worries me.'

'How so?'

'If he could cover his digital tracks so... completely, I worry that we're not just dealing with a lone wolf. Could he be part of something bigger? Something with military-grade technological expertise?'

The commissioner's assistant called from the conference room door and the working group gathered inside. The Presidential security detail, the Secret Service, was represented, along with four agents from Homeland Security. The meeting was led by the commissioner and attended by local detectives, the top brass from the 1st, Danny representing the congressman and the host building's head of security, Hester.

The commissioner talked about the local area, pointing to key locations on a giant digital map. Then she spoke about threat levels generally, passed over to HS. They had nothing specific to bring to the party. No terrorist chatter, al-Qaeda or home-grown, no reason to expect anything. The threat matrix, displayed on the screen, showed all the usual suspects, including homegrown jihadis back from Syria or Pakistan, neo-Nazi activists, anti-Government leaders. Every one of them was being monitored twentyfourseven, mostly digitally, but the most dangerous threats had human contact.

'But I stress that we have no intelligence, direct or indirect, of anything in the pipeline. Few people outside this room even know that the President is coming. The visit won't be announced to the press until he's in the air.'

Tori turned to Danny, 'Suspiciously quiet, I'd say.'

Then Hester, rose and spoke. He called up a 3D map of the building, rotating and zooming the image as he briefed the meeting on access points, elevators, stairwells, the location of the event, the roof.

'The building is quite tough,' said Hester. 'It was designed shortly after the War, by engineers with extensive military experience. The central core is very strong and the structure will withstand anything up to a nuclear explosion.' He had to consciously suppress a smile.

'What about a secure zone, in the event of an emergency situation?' asked an impeccably-dressed secret service agent.

'Yes,' answered Hester, fidgeting with his mouse to bring the lower levels up on screen, 'here, in the basement. The first basement level is used for storage and parking. There will be no vehicles permitted on the night of the event. Below that is the safest place in the building. It used to hold the mainframe computers, but they're all offsite now. We've fitted it out as a lounge, in case of another 9/11-type event. It has its own dedicated elevator. The President could be brought here in sixty seconds. If required.'

'Anything below that?'

'Just bedrock. No surprises possible.'

As the plane's tyres screeched on runway 4R-22L at JFK, Julia felt physically and emotionally crumpled. _It might be lunchtime, but I'm going straight to bed._ The congressman had been fully briefed on all developments across Asia and Europe. And he was occupied, stuck at home with his miserable wife. Marry for connections, repent in power.

A successful trip, yes, but why the feeling of dread in her guts, down in the dark places? _Just jet lag._

As she walked through Terminal 4, she pulled up a town car on Uber, as you never know who's driving those filthy cabs. She inhaled the airport buzz, the one smell the world over, musing about how all this would be changed in just a few days. _Will all flights be grounded again? Or will everything just carry on during the transition? Impossible._

She declined an offer to have her shoes shined, noticed more armed police and TSA officers than usual, smiled at the long lines at the immigration desks for non-US travellers.

Her car was waiting at the pick-up zone, the driver a smartly-dressed woman. She waved and opened the door for Julia, who fell into a cool, calm, air-conditioned leather embrace.

The car raced towards Manhattan, Julia drinking in the view of the gleaming, ever-reaching city. So pretty from here, so clean.

Within an hour, she was in her apartment, sitting on Marie Antoinette's favourite chaise longue, sipping a perfect Pinot Grigio, wondering whether to get straight to sleep or to give Jacob a call, see how he was getting on. Curiously, while she'd been talking and flirting and drinking with some of the world's most powerful men, she'd found herself thinking of her art expert patsy. She almost felt sorry for him. _Almost._

After Beijing, Delhi was unbearably hot, but also colourful and dynamic. The Indians had learned from China to play the waiting game. Let the West choke itself and Asia will rule the world. They questioned Julia on the new regime's attitude towards Pakistan, which would be pleasingly icy, then presented her with a silver swastika pendant. _It was ours first. It means well-being._

Moscow was cold. The Russians enjoyed Schadenfreude, harm-joy, from America's decline and impotence in places like Ukraine and Afghanistan. While in no hurry to see the final collapse, their reactors had been making gold for decades so there was little fear of the new economy. Gold, gas and guns would see Russia through.

Berlin? Better. German politicians positively welcomed the idea of a solid US dollar and an end to fractional reserve lending, derivatives and short-selling. Short-selling was all about hoping for financial failure, and not very German at all. The awkward root of Vierte, 1933-1945, wasn't mentioned: this was the _New_ New World. Later, a tertiary representative of the Bundesbank met Julia for cocktails in Kreuzberg. He listened, nodded, drank his mojito, wished Julia a safe journey across the Atlantic, then melted into the night.

Julia went straight to Tegel Airport, the plain where Wernher von Braun tested rockets in the thirties, leading directly to the Nazi terror weapon, the V2 and, finally, NASA's Saturn V which took men to the moon.

And now, in New York, it all finally coalesced. The plan, the sheer gravity of it all. _What will the world be like next week? Are we doing the right thing?_

Julia rarely doubted herself. She didn't enjoy the sensation.

Jacob met Sophie just after one o'clock. There was a small dining room just off the kitchen, set for two.

A waiter stood by and poured Jacob a glass of excellent Bordeaux. Sophie appeared, carrying two steaming bowls and a clipboard tucked under her elbow.

'Beef consommé, with gold leaf decorations.'

'Waiter, there's gold in my soup.'

'There's no shortage of gold leaf back there,' said Sophie. 'Very strange. Eat. I'm trying to improve the menu while sticking with the spirit. Food orders need to go out today.'

'This is very good. But no taste from the gold. I was expecting something metallic.'

'Gold's an unreactive metal. That's why it's so valuable.'

'Then why did they bother eating it?'

'Because they could.'

The waiter left and returned with the second soup, a chestnut and truffle. Then there was hare, salted salmon and iced cheese for dessert.

Sophie talked about the food, about how the challenge would be serving all the guests on time and with the dishes at the correct temperature.

'I just want to taste that Champagne,' said Jacob.

Then the head of security came by, Hester.

'I'm sorry to interrupt.' He turned to Jacob. 'There's a call for you, sir. Would you like to take it in my office.'

'Of course. Excuse me, Sophie. Will I see you later?'

'Venison at six?'

He smiled at that, ready to burst through his chinos, then followed Hester along a corridor and into the security office. It was a low-ceilinged room, which smelled of electronics, that hot, stale hum, and body odour.

Two men sat watching a bank of screens. Jacob saw Sophie, still sitting at the table, sipping her wine, writing notes. An odd sensation, witnessing the watching, the surveillance of everyone, everywhere, all the time.

A few screens showed Jacob's working area on the top floor, the guys setting up the banquet space, the armed guards on their constant circuits.

Jacob took the phone. _It can only be Julia, calling on the landline to get me away from Sophie._

'Hello, handsome,' her voice warm, a vague slur.

'Hi Julia. Welcome back. Good trip?'

'Oh, marvellous. I picked you up a little something. Would you like to see it later?'

_What happened to you, Julia? Where's the Nazi ice goddess, the Aryan pin-up with the submachine gun in her arms and the blood of children on her cheeks?_ 'I don't know how late I'll be here.'

Silence. The distant glugging of liquid being poured into a glass, half of Manhattan away. 'Fine. Well I'm going to bed now. I've flown halfway across this damned planet and I need some sleep. If you care to join me when your work is done, let Hester know.'

'He's hardly going to just give me your address.'

'I've already briefed him.'

Jacob looked to Hester, got a raised eyebrow and a smile in return.

'Oh,' said Jacob, the feeling jumping from his stomach to the back of his throat, choking his breathing, the feeling that he was a mouse in a maze, going this way and that, bumping his head against every wall, watched and prodded by distant entities, forms that he could not fully comprehend.

'One more thing, Jacob. About the event on Saturday? Special guest of honour for you to meet?'

'Who's that?'

'The President himself. Should be a memorable evening. Now back to work.'

He watched Sophie on the screen, handed the phone to Hester.

TWENTY-TWO

Washington was winding down. The President of the United States of America sat alone in the Oval Office. Thomas Piketty's _Capitalism in the Twenty-First Century_ waited on his desk. _Too much of it._ He played solitaire with a deck of Official White House Playing Cards and drank a bottle of Budweiser. For a few fleeting minutes, he was happy. _When this is all over, I'm going fishing. For about a year. Ireland, Scotland maybe. Catch me a big old salmon. That's if the fuckers who pull the strings let me go. Maybe I know too much to ever leave their sphere of influence?_

He was counting the days.

Then work came back. _It just never stops._

The desk phone buzzed. He waved a hand.

'Yes?'

'Mr President, the Treasury Secretary is waiting to see you.'

'I'll be just a couple of minutes. He can wait.' He was down to the last few cards, wanted the three of clubs or the two of spades. They didn't come, no matter how many times he cycled through the cards, three at a time. So he shuffled his remaining cards, got that three, finished the game. _I might be the President, but I'm only human._

He smiled, finished the beer, put the bottle into the recycling bin.

'Okay. Let him in.'

The man in charge of keeping the American economy afloat, raced into the room, a wiry bundle of nervous energy. He looked even more agitated than was usual for the guy charged with managing an economy worth seventeen trillion dollars and with a public and private debt level of fifty trillion dollars. Fifty million million dollar bills. That's a shitload of cash, no need for stacks-reaching-the-moon analogies.

'Mr President, thanks for seeing me.'

'Can't this wait 'til morning, Bill?'

'I'm sorry, Ted. It's the graphs. We're there.'

'So, with all the wars we're currently up to our necks in, all the macho superpower jostling, backed up with nukes in silos running on DOS-based five-and-a-quarter inch floppies, seven thousand city killers deployed globally, terrorists left and right who'd love to pop a nuke in through that window,' he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, 'not to mention the decline of America, as illustrated by kids going to school with automatic weapons to kill everybody, like everybody, and they've got a _right_ to bear arms, and once-great cities like Detroit literally collapsing before our eyes. I've got nearly ten million people looking for work, in an economy where the web is replacing decent jobs faster than coffee shops and burger joints and discount stores can open up to create minimum wage positions. Inequality is worse now than it was a hundred years ago. Our spies have constructed a paranoid society that even George Orwell would've considered far-fetched. And the climate, Bill. The climate is changed because every damned redneck simply _must_ own a giant fucking truck to haul all his guns around in. And now they're modifying the trucks to pump out extra black smoke. What's _wrong_ with us, Bill? So, when the sea levels start to rise, as they most surely will, we're all going to be fighting over mountains. With all this, Bill, you're telling me that things are about to get _worse_?'

'We can make it better, Teddy. We must.'

'Yes we can?' he laughed. 'No we _fucking_ can't.'

The President sighed, got up from his desk, went to the cooler in the side cabinet. He popped open two beers, gave one to - he hoped - the man with the plan, dropped back into his leather seat.

'Shoot.'

'Okay. So the cause of the Global Financial Crisis was the bursting of the housing bubble, which had been created by too much easy credit being manufactured by banks and handed out to people who were credit risks. And those sub-prime mortgages were tied up in complex debt bundles and everything got tangled so the whole damned house of cards almost came tumbling down.'

'I'm with you, Bill. But I don't know for how much longer.'

'This is the money shot, Mr President. The credit and debt bubble has expanded again. We're actually beyond the metrics that applied in 2007 when the shit hit the fan. If there's a single massive shock to the system before we can get tangible growth in the global economy, by that I mean in productive, _real_ things, not magicked debt, then the entire system collapses.'

'What will that mean?' He drank deeply, then lit a cigarette.

'The Chinese will stop buying our bonds, our Government debt paper. So we won't be able to keep running things on IOUs. federal employees will stop getting paid, and not just temporarily. We won't be able to keep funding the military and the spies.'

'Hnh.'

'The banks will fail and we won't be able to bail them out again.'

'There would be a revolution, a real one, if we tried that trick again, Bill.'

'So there'd be no cash in the ATMs and the banks would likely grab a fair chunk of deposits to recapitalise.'

'Like in Cyprus.'

'Exactly.'

'I get it. We're talking about the end of American civilisation as we know it. So how _do_ we deal with this?'

'We avoid any shocks to the system. That's key. And we stay on good terms with the Chinese. That'll keep us above water for now.'

'Until the end of my term?'

'Theoretically, yes.'

Two more beers. The early evening sun painted the crabapple trees in the Rose Garden pink and gold.

'But what if a shock occurs?'

'A return to the gold standard might be the only thing to give confidence to the markets. If the shit hits, I really don't see any other way of saving the dollar, or of saving you from baying mobs. My people have been outlining plans of action.'

The President looked towards the walnut cabinet, the one with the bottles of Jameson Rarest Vintage Reserve.

Jacob looked up from his work and saw that night had fallen. _Oh_. Sophie appeared then, a hulking security guard walking behind her.

'Say hello to my little friend.'

'I didn't realise it was so late.'

'It seems that after six, everybody gets an escort. Hungry?'

Lower Manhattan twinkled, the red sky framing 1 WTC to the west.

'What treats from the House of Bourbon do you have in store?'

'Venison. Cooked two ways and with different sides options. And a glass of fabulous red, perhaps?'

'Sold.'

'Come on down to the kitchen. I've got a table set up.'

They went downstairs, followed by the guard. Jacob was surprised to find a vast, modern kitchen, built for entertaining large numbers of guests to the highest standards. Some of Sophie's assistant chefs had stayed back to finish and plate the dishes. They worked on, chopping, sautéeing, tasting, sniffing, while Jacob and Sophie sat at a little stainless steel table, which had been dressed with white linen napkins, elaborate silverware and crystal glasses.

'You going home tonight?' she asked.

'I guess I'd better, since it's just around the corner. It's going to feel weird.'

'You want me to come over?'

'Would you? That'd be great.'

'Just promise not to cook me.'

The venison was really good and Sophie made her decision. It would be seared and roasted, rested, sliced, served rare with a balsamic and blueberry reduction sauce and accompanied with braised shallots, roasted beetroot and a celeriac puree. The security guy had the deer, seated alone by the door. He said it was the best food he'd eaten in his life and that he liked his food.

Jacob finished the wine while Sophie instructed the chefs on the next morning's activities and the kitchen porter cleaned up. She went to a changing room at the far end and came out a few minutes later in her Ramones t-shirt and jeans. She looked hot.

'Ready to rock?'

'Hey ho, let's go.'

They were escorted down in the lift, to a low-lit lobby, still some activity, a few men in suits arriving for the night shift. Money never sleeps.

They walked to Jacob's in ten minutes, in the fresh night air and quiet. Jacob loved living down in the financial district because it was so quiet at night. Times Square would drive him crazy, any kind of regular proximity to that wild, dangerous tempo of night.

Sophie's phone called to her, played Blondie's _Call Me_. She sang as she checked the display.

'Oh, it's the restaurant's accountant. Salem. _Fuuuck._ ' Cooking, the purity of the creation of wonderful food, had taken Sophie away from the crushing reality of what Rod had done to their business. 'Better talk to him.'

'Let's take a seat,' said Jacob, gesturing to an angular bench in the Bauhaus style.

Sophie sat and talked and Jacob went to a nearby coffee cart for an espresso. He made the cup-to-mouth gesture, pinkie raised, to Sophie but she shook her head, _No_.

The coffee was good and he mused over whether good coffee tasted better in the fresh night air. In the end, looking up at the blackness, he figured _Yes_.

Sophie tapped her screen repeatedly, eager to end the call.

'I need a coffee now,' she said. 'A double, please.'

Sipping her coffee, a bitter Kenyan blend, she told Jacob what the accountant had to say.

'How bad?'

'I'm fucked. The debts are huge. Even though we had a high turnover, every cent was spent before it hit the till. Our game plan was to build value, then sell. Who's going to buy a restaurant that's been serving people? Five years of my life down the fucking toilet.'

'At least you won't be doing five to ten in prison,' he smiled.

'True.'

She laughed then and he took her elbow, led her to his apartment.

'Your accountant, is he any good?'

'He better be. My apartment is down as collateral for the financing.'

'Shit.' He fished for his keys, opened the front door of the building.

'He's going to spend a few days going over the books, work at keeping the banks at arm's length until I come up with a plan.'

'Come on.' Into a deserted lobby, thankfully no neighbours around.

Jacob glanced at his mailbox, saw all the bills waiting. _No escape._

In the elevator, she leaned her head against his shoulder. He enjoyed her smell. The hallway was as he'd remembered, thankfully no police crime scene tape across his apartment door, no signs of what had happened. As he put the key in the door, Sophie felt another pang of guilt. _I helped make this happen. Why? I trusted Rod. Trust, what a killer._

He turned on the lights and got that horrible feeling like when you come home to a burgled house. _People have been here, uninvited people. Police, yes, but they are just people after all._

'I need a drink,' he said. 'Join me?'

She nodded, opened the windows to let some night air in. Suddenly exhausted, she sat in a chair there, looked out at Downtown. Jacob got his bottle of Stolichnaya, found half a large Coke in the fridge, rinsed two tumblers under the tap.

He drank his vodka straight up, she took a little Coke.

They sat without talking.

Then she said 'Why did we get a divorce, Jacob? Why didn't we just hang on in there?'

The question surprised him. He had been in a place that most couples know, the place where some things were just left unsaid. 'It was all me,' he admitted. 'I couldn't take your work hours. I'm sorry. And I expected you to cook amazing meals for me every night. I can see now that was the last thing you'd want to do.'

'It was me, too. I thought I was changing the world, one plate at a time, getting rich in the process. Now I see that it's just food. And I am potentially bankrupt and homeless.'

'You can always stay here.'

With that, she leaned over and kissed him.

TWENTY-THREE

Hester dropped through the building's core at five hundred feet per second, the elevator slowing to a stop as it reached the end of the official line, the floor which would be used as sanctuary by the President in the event of anything unusual happening, inside the building or in the big, bad world beyond. He inserted his key into the control panel, twisted it, entered a PIN on the keypad, had his retina scanned. The elevator shuddered, then dropped down two floors. Hester took a radiation meter, clipped it to his lapel. And he went out.

To the reactor.

The black heart of Vierte.

It was hot, always steaming in this hell on Earth. The technicians wore lead-lined orange jumpsuits with lightning logos - two silver bolts on a black field \- on their shoulders.

'Where's Salem?'

The head technician, Hugo, answered 'He went up to the library, sir, just a couple of minutes ago.

_This can't end well._ 'Is his research done?'

Hugo consulted a screen, one with a marching graph, red arrows appearing and disappearing as they drew his attention to neutron levels, thermal outputs and risk of meltdown. He checked that data against notes on his clipboard.

'Almost. I believe that he has sufficient data for his research. It will likely take weeks to analyse, even on our supercomputer uptown. But he will probably want to collect as much additional quantum data as possible before we go...'

'Before we go bang. Talk me through the mechanics of that. One more time.'

'Of course, sir. Consider the moderator, graphite. It is essentially the very substance as we use in pencils, the carbon that makes all living things function, the stuff of coal and diamonds. The graphite slows down the neutrons as they speed out from the uranium to react with nuclei and cause fission, the creation of new nuclei. Barium, plutonium, what have you. The process was discovered by Meitner, Strassman and Hahn back in Germany in 1938.'

'German innovation. Of course.'

'Yes, and this is how reactors have worked since the very first, Chicago Pile-1 back in 1942. Water is the most common moderator today. But you can't beat carbon.'

'Go on. Please.'

'Once we withdraw the fuel rods, pure uranium, from the moderator, then we have another Chernobyl, another Fukushima. But this time right here, directly under Wall Street, Manhattan.'

'How long?'

'The process will take some time to make ready, sir. We have already begun making arrangements following the order from the Leader. The process is happening, but slowly, and reversible. On receipt of the final command, the moderator will be fully removed and it will be thirty minutes to chain reaction. Meltdown. Irreversible.'

'Will you have enough time to escape?'

'No, sir. I will remain here to ensure completion.'

_You're mad!_ 'Very good. Keep it up. I must see Salem now.' _I must ensure that I have that thirty minute warning. Stay close to the congressman on Saturday night!_

He left the technicians and their fiery insanity and entered the elevator. _From hell to heaven_.

The library was a place that Hester didn't visit often. Not more than once a week, anyway. It wasn't to his 'taste'.

But Salem the accountant loved it there. All the Vierte moneymen and traders did. After a hard day spent making millions in commission by shoving rich men's money around rigging interbank Libor rates and repo rates and fixing gold prices and crushing small investors, after all that, they liked to spend some money, touch the edge.

The main room was an immense library, walls of books on polished oak shelves, first editions of all the greatest stories, from Gutenberg's first bible to Shakespeare, Hemingway and Orwell, around a central area filled with leather couches and a circular bar. Lighting was subdued and dance music - Daft Punk - filled the air. Maybe twenty customers tonight, bottles of Jack or Grey Goose or Krug, lines of cocaine on glass tables, and fish, escorts. Manhattan's most expensive. Some of the women danced, some drank, some exposed breasts and giggled. All had happy faces on but there was a melancholy about them. The men were the big swinging dicks, the kings of the trading floors, buying size, hunting elephants all day. They were at play now, junked up, no downside. There were some male playthings too, the well-toned guys who graduated from Abercrombie, laughing too loud at the female traders' jokes.

Glasses clinked.

The mailman, wearing his finest pinstripe suit, did a meander around the room, taking orders, building a book. _Put an ounce of Colombia's finest on the tape_ , they said. _Okay_ , he said. After finishing his circuit, he made a call on his Darkphone.

At the far end of the space was a large statue from India, a Kama Sutra scene of a man intertwined with three women so it was impossible to tell where one began and another ended.

Behind the statue was a door with a security guard. Beyond that were the unspeakable rooms.

Hester shuddered, then saw Salem, sitting at the bar counter with a laughing, dark-haired woman who rubbed his bald head. He stood and stared until Salem sensed his gaze, turned, whispered to the woman so she left. Hester joined him at the bar, ordered a sparkling water.

'You won't have a drink?'

'Not until everything is done. Maybe Sunday. I need to talk to you about your research.'

'When do I need to shut it down?'

'You have until tomorrow. The building will be crawling with agents the rest of the week and we don't want any nuclear spikes registering.'

'Won't they read the reactor anyway?'

'No, it's well-shielded and if they detect any stray neutrons, they'll put it down to Big Bill, the federal reactor under Battery Park, the one that powers all the Government facilities in New York, the one that so nearly went _Bang!_ on 9/11. So, do you have enough data?'

'I think so. It'll take months to crunch the numbers, but I'm confident that we can develop a quantum model of economics. I've been observing neutrons and quantum particles popping in and out of existence for months now and collating their duality with stock market fluctuations, currencies and commodity prices.'

Hester decided that he did need a drink after all, ordered a vodka martini, dirty with some olive water. He held a hand up to Salem, waited for his drink and took a long taste.

'That's better. Now, you've lost me. What does all this mean?'

'You know of Schrödinger's cat?'

'Vaguely.'

'Erwin Schrödinger, back in 1935, created a paradox to try to explain how two events can coexist at the quantum level. Cat in a box with a vial of poison. The poison may or may not be released by a quantum event, a radioactive decay occurring. Until the box is opened to the observer, the cat is simultaneously alive and dead.'

Hester finished his drink, called for another.

'And what does all this have to do with economics?'

'That's the fascinating part. A real world example is the gambler. Until the last race is over or the final card is turned, the gambler exists in both possible worlds, gain and loss. What we're doing here is all very experimental, but we're aiming for an economic model where boom and bust can coexist, permanently. Profit and loss become one. No more cycles, collapses, depressions. Even better, we're also examining the Heisenberg uncertainty principle and how it applies to the stock market. Basically, we can't know both position and momentum at the one, specific time and by simply observing an event, we alter it. If we combine, Heisenberg with Schrödinger, well...'

'Well, what?'

'Well we're looking at an economy that is both boom and bust but no observer can tell which. Only we and our friends will know. It's what the markets have been waiting for.'

Salem talked on as Hester felt the alcohol radiate across his nervous system. This is insanity, quite clearly madness. But Sam is utterly committed to the project. What does that say?

'Off. Tomorrow.' He glanced at his watch. 'Today, 10am.'

'Yes, thank you. Now, one more thing?'

'Go ahead.'

'Ah, we have had a special delivery this evening,' he nodded towards the door to the private area, inner circle only. 'Some virgins are waiting back there. They are, hmm, most beautiful, perfect. Maybe you might, em, relax? Prepare for the events ahead?'

Hester ordered a third martini.

Morning came. Sophie was long gone when Jacob woke, a note on the kitchen counter, Gone fishing. Jacob felt a little disoriented in his own home, so he left early, enjoyed being alone as he walked to Wall Street. Crazy times. But he went the long way, west towards the Brooklyn Bridge for a coffee at the Seaport, so many of the buildings here covered in scaffolding and boards at ground level, fixing up after Hurricane Sandy. He bought a pack of cigarettes, smoked two in the clean morning air, liking the sensation of just sitting there, watching the ferries come in from Staten Island and Brooklyn, the gulls wheeling by, the glimpses of Ellis Island and Lady Liberty over towards Jersey. Then he strolled south along the water before joining the flow of upside dreamers, flocking to the temples of Mammon, prince of hell.

Jacob continued his valuations, made excellent progress. His only cause for delay was taking time to savour the wonders. He would never have the opportunity again, though Julia had assured him that, after the valuation was complete, Vierte would put the best works on show.

He finished the twentieth century collection, the lion's share. Then he started on the late nineteenth century works. As he leafed through the folders, getting a quick appraisal of the breadth of the art, he stopped at a little painting. It was perfect, a masterwork. It was familiar.

He remembered then, and his heart paused for long enough to make his blood boil from lack of oxygen. His brain pounded with an instant, dreadful migraine. His world was torn.

He stepped back, found his phone and called his mother. She lived up in Westchester, away from the grind, with the trees and the squirrels and the _Columbo_ reruns. No answer. End call. Try again. It double-buzzed again and again and again. There was no active voicemail, as she couldn't grasp the concept.

So he put his phone aside and went back to his work. His hands shook, so he breathed deeply, practised mindfulness techniques, slowed the jitters.

Sophie didn't call about lunch, so he left the building and went to Chipotle, where he joined a line and wondered whether he should go back or just run. _They'll hunt me down._ He got a burrito bowl with chicken, brown rice, black beans and green salsa and took it over to Zuccotti Park, where he picked at it. He tried calling his mother again, still no answer. He got worried and had the feeling of being watched.

He plodded back to Vierte. Afternoon stretched towards evening and he got through the art, everything valued. All good. He went to the window and stretched, called mom again.

'Hello? Jacob?'

'Mom, thank God. I was worried.'

'I was out with the girls, forgot my phone. I forget so many things these days, I think the phone radiation is affecting me, I -'

'Mom, sorry, I need a favour.'

'You need another loan?'

'No, look, just listen for a minute, please. You know that painting that grandpa had? The one he brought back from the war?'

'Yes. Your father never stopped talking about it. I'd love to have seen it.'

'But there's an old photo, grandpa's living room, he and grandma are posing and the painting is behind them, really clear. Can you find it? Please?'

'Well, I'm pretty sure it's in that old shoebox with all the others. You said you were going to scan them all for me. When can you do that?'

_I love you, mom. Don't make me want to kill you._ 'Soon. Listen, can you find the photo and take a picture on your phone and send it to me? Right away?'

'Oh, Jacob. _The Rockford Files_ is about to start. You know I like that show.'

'Mom, you've seen it a million times.'

'But I keep forgetting the plot.'

'Mom,' his voice angry now, 'just find the _goddamned_ picture and send it to me. It's really important.'

'You don't have to shout, Jacob. Fine. I'll find it.'

'Thank you.'

So he paced by the window, the gathering gloom matching his mood, until his phone pinged.

She'd found it. The photo was good. It was true, real. The painting that his grandfather had once owned was now in the possession of Vierte. He stared at his phone screen, zoomed in on the detail, wondering what exactly this meant. He felt something cold and smooth against the back his neck. As he turned his head, to glimpse a face, fifty thousand volts of electrical charge passed through his body and he collapsed in a sorry heap.

The funeral went as funerals go. Tears, prayers, cold earth, the unavoidable bitterness of death and how it affects the living.

Riverside Drive, the Church of the Intercession, the only functioning cemetery in Manhattan - the island's real estate just too damned precious to be wasted on the dead. Only a church catering to the one percent could afford the luxury.

The congressman's wife was inconsolable. _My baby! Cathy! Oh Sam, what will we do?_ He watched her mascara run, black streaks, felt disgusted by her. But she was meeting requirements: her anguish was necessarily public. _Perfect. You're my alibi to get out of Vierte before the place goes pop. Your suicide will be a shocking tragedy. When I rush home and find you there on your bed, overdosed, sick, a sleeping beauty who just couldn't take the world's cruelty any more. Everyone will feel so sorry for me. Or maybe you'll die? And Julia will offer me some comfort, perfect first lady material. Who'd guess she was my sister, is that what makes the sex so mindblowing, the dirty little secret? I'll have Julia by my side. And I'll be ready then, ready to eat the world. Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds._

'Mr Speaker. Sir!' Detective O'Brien was at his shoulder.

The group of mourners, about twenty people plus security, drew closer to the open grave as the coffin was lowered into the earth. A lone blackbird sang from a nearby cedar tree.

'Oh, sorry Danny. I was in a different place.'

'Can't blame you, sir,' he whispered. 'Some disturbing news from downtown.'

'Oh?' _I don't need this._

'The Homeland Security teams have been arriving and they're scanning the area for nuclear, chemical and biological threats.'

_Oh, that's all it is._ 'Go on.'

'Sir, a nuclear spike has been detected in the vicinity. We don't know any more at this time. I thought you should know.'

'Thank you.' Goddamned Salem and his Schrödinger economy. Let it go up the chain of command and then there will have to be disclosure of the federal reactor. Could we pin everything on that? I wonder.

He turned back to the grave, moved closer as his wife threw a red rose in after the coffin, picked up a handful of dry brown dirt. She went to jump in, but he grabbed her arm in time. She fell down, but he had her, Danny and some others coming to his aid. She looked at him through tear-reddened, puffy eyes and in there, in among the pain and grief and bewilderment, there was a look.

You think I did this? Baby, you have so got to go.

Sophie was shattered after a long morning at the food markets, followed by a longer afternoon at the stove. Her day started with a 6am trip to New Fulton Fish Market, not at its convenient longtime location of Fulton Street, just a couple of blocks away, but to its new location way up in the Bronx. Like any Manhattanite, she was a little scared about leaving the island, if only for a couple of hours. Rod normally did the buying, back - back in the past.

The day before, Hester had assigned her a driver and town car, _He'll make sure you're okay up there_ , a Vierte debit card for purchases and told her that he couldn't wait for Saturday night, with the President coming down, and the Vice President, and they're _both_ big gourmets and art lovers, apparently, _No pressure, so_. She laughed, took the two best sous chefs with her.

'I like the city at this hour,' she said.

The purple sky, the fresh chill.

In the market, she got her old mojo back, forgot how much she loved the sourcing side of the restaurant business. _This is important_. She saw some familiar faces, a couple of Manhattan's top chefs and restaurant managers. They didn't see her. _Bastards_.

They spent their time walking the aisles, taking notes on what they wanted and where they would get it, planning to come back and make purchases Friday morning, marvelling as chefs do at every possible Atlantic fish species, plus a few from inland fisheries, the Caribbean and even farther away.

Lined up on icy beds were barracuda, barramundi, black grouper, blue marlin, bluefish, bronzini, carp, catfish , clams, cockles, cod , conch, crab, crawfish, Dover sole, eel, flounder, fluke, grouper, halibut, John Dory, king crab, king salmon, soft shell crabs, lobster, mahi mahi, marlin, monkfish, mullet, octopus, orata, oysters, parrot fish, perch, pike, pollock, pompano, red grouper, red snapper, shark, shrimp, skate, sea bass, snapper, sole, squid, sturgeon, swordfish, tilapia, trout, tuna, wahoo, whitefish, whiting.

Sophie and her team tried some oysters with a squeeze of lemon from every supplier before making a collective decision. She put in an order for fifty dozen, to be confirmed on Friday, delivered to Vierte Saturday morning. Price agreed, she used her card to pay fifty percent deposit. Her driver took the oysterman's ID details in a little notebook. She took a couple of dozen to work on presentation and serving.

She treated the team to breakfast at a little stand that sold fried cod in batter with chunky chips, malt vinegar and sea salt. It was amazing, the crispy batter giving way to the firm white meat inside, the chips just perfectly soggy, soaking up the brown vinegar off the newsprint paper, London-style.

Then they chose the wild Atlantic salmon supplier, put in an order there for Friday's best of the catch. An expensive commodity, when compared to the farmed version, but the difference in natural colour - _You know that farmed salmon are fed with cancer-causing artificial colour in their pellets? There doesn't tend to be much krill in their shit-choked estuaries_ \- texture and, above all, flavour was worth every cent.

Finally, they sourced the most tender scallops that Sophie had ever tasted, straight out of Venus, like little lumps of salty butter, melting on the tongue. The guy at the stand was from Massachusetts, _Provincetown_ , he said, _right up at the tip of Cape Cod_. Had a little frying pan, fried up samples on a gas stove with a big smile on his face. He got his order.

The left New Fulton and walked across to Hunts Point meat market, the world's largest food distribution centre. This was meat heaven, the chilled smell of blood and flesh, something primeval. And you could see it in the faces of the men and women who worked here. _We have the meat, we are the leaders of the tribe._ All that was missing was a big fire in the middle of every endless aisle, some guys in white coats dancing around it. Seemingly endless rows of pig carcasses, lamb, beef cuts, hanging turkeys, boxed chickens, duck, veal sides, kosher this, halal that and every kind of offal and by-product imaginable.

They decided on their venison, farmed in Kansas and found a supplier of wild duck, bought up all his stock. Sophie chose some excellent pork, Berkshire hogs from Minnesota, their marbled meat just like the Japanese Kobe beef. They tried a little pulled pork in a soft roll, just some salt for flavour. Perfect.

'We want to achieve this tenderness, guys, but without the sugar. We'll have salt, pepper and a little sage. And time. We've got nice marbling in this pork. Can we push it to twenty-four hours in the oven?'

Finally they picked their pheasants. They'd already been hanging for three days, so they'd be perfect by Saturday.

All the meat was paid for and would be delivered that day. Prepping could be done on Thursday and Friday, along with some of the vegetables, allowing plenty of time Saturday to focus on the seafood and presentation.

They were back to Wall Street by eleven, after fighting the mid-morning traffic the full length of Manhattan, samples of the seafish in the trunk. And they got to work, shucking oysters, arranging the open shells on plates of crushed ice, introducing fancily-sliced lemon, increasing the room temperature to reflect fifty extra human bodies, seeing how long the ice lasted. Sophie brought in the head waiter and a couple of his best workers and they talked about the course of business, the presentation, all the tiny details. He knew what he was doing, a formal East European type, trained in Vienna. Her team worked on the salmon and scallops.

She tried calling Jacob to see if he wanted to join them for lunch, but his phone was off the grid. She shrugged and ate with the waiters. Much later, as she planned out the next three days, hour by hour until Saturday evening, the security guy, Hester, came round with a message.

'Mr Johnson asked me to let you know that his phone is malfunctioning.'

'Oh,' said a tired Sophie. 'That figures.'

'And also to let you know that he's left the building. With Julia. Some business uptown.'

'Oh. Okay. Thanks.' _Jesus, Jacob, what was I thinking?_

Hester left her there, alone with her notes. She wrote something, not sure what, just to do something. The ink ran out.

'For _fuck's_ sake!'

TWENTY-FOUR

Blackness, but life. _Or is it? Am I dead and in purgatory? Or hell?_ Pressure on his face, a tingling, rough, chemical-smelling texture. Shooting pains in every limb, tortured muscles, twitches. Dancing with St Vitus.

A vision filled his head, flickering torch flames, light dancing across the limestone walls of the cave. And the animals appeared, herds of bison, bulls, antelopes, rendered with such skill that the artists would inspire Picasso. The oldest art in the world. Art about hunting. Art about food. _This is important._ Is this the true origin of art? The communication from one human to another about the source of what we need to survive? Is this why every child is born an artist until the system, the murder machine, knocks it out of them? See the texture of the bison's shaggy coat. Watch the layer upon layer of Paleolithic animals, their human hunters gathering, the stars looking down, gods. On the ground, in the dark earth, little figures, the very first sculptures created by human hands. Voluptuous women, fertility symbols. Sex objects, their effect tangible. _Is this what art truly is?_ Textures and layers and the communication, the shared acknowledgement of our base needs. The ideas flooded his mind, then faded as quickly. Lost to him.

He lay on his left side, his face in the carpet, inhaling fluff, his right knee forward. In the recovery position. He thought about how he needed to take a piss.

His eyes were locked shut and it took a long minute to force them open. Beige. Needles danced across his chest.

If I'm not dead, then why can't I move? I must've had a heart attack. Or a stroke.

Then a startling idea.

I don't know where I am or how I got here.

His mind was wiped, like the power surge from the Darkphone taser had shorted his memory. This was his worst fear.

He grunted to his knees, grabbed the edge of a desk and got to his feet so he could slump into a swivel chair. His vision was cloudy, just hazy blobs, his mouth dry and rough and with a vague taste of blood. He blinked hard and rubbed his eyes until the scene became clear.

He was in a nondescript office, magnolia-painted walls, no windows, a square room, twenty feet on a side. A door here. A door down there with the toilet symbol on it. He sat beside a wooden desk, not an MDF job, but good, carved oak. Old. _Why do I know this?_ On the desk was a big bottle of mineral water, a bottle of red wine, a couple of glasses and a corkscrew. There was also a baguette and a pack of cheddar cheese slices.

The smell of bread reached his consciousness.

What's going on?

_Am I at home? No. That carpet. Is this work? Yes, this must be work._ Some paper on the desk, blank. _What's my job?_

A clock on the wall. 8.25. Morning or evening? _What day? I need help._

No phone. He felt his pockets. No cellphone there. Then he realised that something unusual must have happened as he always had a phone.

'What's your name?' he said aloud.

He couldn't answer. The clock ticked, suddenly loud, suddenly invading his mind.

His shaking hand poured a glass of water. He gulped it, thought it tasted a little salty, then opened the wine, which tasted sour, but, as a heat radiated across his chest, he felt better. He poured some more.

He wondered why he didn't try to leave. He went to the door, twisted the handle, heard a click, felt the door push towards him. He stepped back, awkwardly, and a woman came into the room.

A glimpse of dimly-lit corridor outside the door, the subdued noise of heavy construction, or maybe dance music.

'How are you?'

'Fine, I -. I don't know my name.'

'Oh you poor thing. Sit down, come on.'

She closed the door behind her, then took his arm and led him back to the chair. She sat on the desk beside him, put down her little black handbag, poured herself a glass of wine. She had long, well-tanned legs, bare, and wore an expensive suit, all in red, her skirt so short that he could see her white panties.

'Drink,' she said, putting his glass into his hand.

He drank and felt dizzy, the needle pains still shooting across his shoulders and the back of his neck, the hairs tingling there.

She kicked off her heels, slowly opened the buttons of her jacket. She was wearing just a white bra inside, brilliantly bright lace, so fine that he could see the dark discs of her areolas and the bullseyes of her nipples.

He thought about YouTube and the video he saw that explained the reason men have nipples, because for the first few weeks in the womb, we are all female, all female, so the nipples form and the ovaries and the vagina and the clitoris, then, and only then, if the DNA of the new human has been determined to be male, the ovaries drop out of the vagina to become testicles and a fold of skin forms to create a scrotum and to cover the extended clitoris and make a penis. That's why men have a dark line from crack to sack to underside of dick, it's where the fold of skin joined up.

The nipples just stayed nipples.

Hers were erect. She watched him.

Men, women, we are all the same.

'Do you know my name?'

'Only one name matters,' she said, removing her jacket, folding it neatly onto the desk.

She got off the table, sat on his lap, her hand on his chest. He looked into her eyes, saw the cold blue of the northern ocean there, surrounding dark pools that held his reflection. Her face was like a painting he saw once, he couldn't remember which, framed by perfect golden blonde hair. He wanted to ask which name mattered. _Why am I afraid of her?_

Jacob looked at his wine glass, wondered. _But she's drinking too._ He looked at the water bottle.

Then her hand was behind his head and her mouth was on his, her hard tongue pushing between his teeth, her lips soft and tasting of roses. Her breath was inside him, fast and shallow. She murmured something, but it was as if she was talking another language. She shifted herself, made room for her other hand to slip between his thighs.

His cock was hard, so thick with blood it hurt.

'I can't do this,' he whispered weakly. Who are you?

'Hush,' she said, both hands on his belt now, pulling it back, releasing it, opening his chino button and his fly. The pressure release was a deliverance, his erection now held back just by his shorts. God, let it out, let it free.

She got off him then, grabbed his shorts and trousers at the waist and pulled them sharply, down to his knees. She looked at his cock, its thick, pulsating purple veins, its glistening head, gave a nod and got on her knees.

Then she took him inside her mouth, her tongue flicking around and around his head, which felt close to exploding. There were no strokes, just a relentless massage. His lifeforce pulsed through his penis and he grunted. 'Stop.' He watched her as she gorged on him, using one hand to tug her knickers down. She took his penis in her hand, lifted him by it. To the desk. She turned and raised her skirt and bent over the desk, one hand on the old polished oak, lace in rings around her knees, her other hand taking his dick and guiding it towards her smooth, round, ass, her gluteus maximus, the largest muscle in the human body. _Why am I thinking that? Why is it that it turns me on, that it turns all men on?_ As he wondered why, why, always why, she took him into her cool, dark place, caressing his length. He thrusted, almost against his will at first, gently, slowly, her salty smell of the freshness of forests and the sea and life itself drifting up to his nostrils.

She reached back with her hand and pulled him out of her vagina, rubbing him against her now, down to her clitoris, her own little penis, and into her coiffed pubic hair. The sudden friction made him gasp and the head of his penis bulged as every nerve ending there cried. She grabbed his balls then, squeezed them hard so that her fingernails dug into his scrotum. He gasped again.

Then she tilted her hips forward and guided him into her other hole, her heart of darkness. She pushed back against him, took his cock deep into her anus, her sphincter tight against him, less natural lubricant there, more good friction. She grunted, a calm, measured sound. New, earthy smells reached him as she reached around and grabbed a buttock in each of her hands, spread them apart so he could go truly balls deep. Then she moved a hand around to her clitoris, rubbed it vigorously. He felt her body's little trembles, moved his right hand around to join hers, massaging her beautiful little dick and loving her skin.

Her panting got faster and she suddenly twitched forward, his penis once more exposed. So she took hold of it again and guided it back into her warm and wet and swollen vagina, flooded with her natural mucous, her squalene and pyridine and urea and acetic acid and lactic acid and alcohols and glycols and ketones and aldehydes - what a chemistry set is a human \- where he felt like he was home, sweet home and she screamed quietly, her entire body rocking and he came in an anxious flood, not really knowing who, what, where or why.

A firm hand pushed him back onto his chair, a sogging, sticky mess of a man. She found a little pack of wipes in her handbag, cleared away some of his semen from her, tossed it in a little waste paper basket. She took another wipe, handed it to him.

She dressed quickly, went to the bathroom.

He tried the door she came in, but it was locked.

She emerged from the bathroom, perfectly made up, like she'd never fucked the life out of him just minutes previously.

'I need to go,' she said. 'The guests will be arriving any time.'

'Guests?'

'The Grand Divertissement Royal. Food, art, King Louis Sixteen's Champagne. The President is due to arrive in an hour. Should be a _real_ blast. Don't worry, I'll have some food sent down to you. Sophie's cooking up a storm.'

She knocked on the door. There was a click and it opened from outside. She left, glancing back at Jacob, the look in her eyes almost saying _Sorry_.

The door closed, and was locked.

Jacob sank into his chair. The mention of Sophie had brought everything back.

'Jesus fucking god,' he said.

He finished the wine.

Then he got up and paced the room. There was nothing really to see. The desk drawers had been cleared, just held some notepads and blank envelopes. There was a couple of leads plugged into the wall by a little shelf unit, along with USB lead and outlines in light dust that showed the recent removal of a computer and printer. Some user manuals for accounting software - _QuickBooks_ \- and a copy of _CRM for Dummies_. A calendar on the wall, a drinks supplier, pictures of women in bikinis with huge bottles of spirits. July was a curvy brunette in stars and stripes with a gigantic bottle of bourbon. _Classy_. So it was an administrator's office, somebody who dealt with stock and orders and accounts for a bar or a restaurant, a small operation. Or a _separate_ operation?

Jacob used the bathroom, which was small and clean. A little bottle of aftershave there. Curious. Chanel Pour Homme.

He paced the office room again, examined a pile of junk in a corner. Some old flipcharts with business mumbo jumbo on them, piles of the really old school printouts on the big concertina sheets with the holes down the side. Looked like daily sales reports. And then, a box. One of those big, heavy duty cardboard moving boxes.

He lifted the lid and smelled time, age.

'Interesting.'

He took it to the desk. Heavy.

It was a box of somebody's most personal possessions, like their death room had been cleared out. Quickly.

A leather diary, very old. German text on the cover, gold foil embossed.

A couple of bound printout journals.

A worn crucifix, brass Jesus, wooden cross, wall mount.

An ancient stethoscope.

A small portfolio folder. Inside, some drawings, in pencil and charcoal and Conté crayon. A thighbone. A mandolin. A hare. 'These are stunning.' The signatures would have meant nothing to most people. But Jacob knew them to belong to Leonardo da Vinci, Pablo Picasso and Albrecht Dürer, the greatest German artist of the Renaissance.

Some old posters, rolled up, with beautiful blonde women in white shirts with black ties, golden sunshine and swastikas. 'Been there.'

Some gold rings.

Some family photos, black and white, mom and dad and an old man and a boy and a girl.

Under the photos was a foot-long, heavy object wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped it to find an SS dagger, an evil object. Drawn from its scabbard, a dull and deadly glint, an inscription on the hilt, _Death to All Sub-humans_ , flakes of rust along its edge. Or dried blood.

'Fucking hell.'

Hands shaking, he was drawn back to the leather diary. He read the gold cover text and his heart turned to stone.

Meine Glorreichen Kampf. _My glorious struggle_.

He opened the book and saw the handwritten German text. He began to read. He stumbled, but took the meaning.

My Glorious Struggle, Book III

I am bitter. We have received orders to pack up, to disperse. The prisoners are to be executed, the camp commander says that once all pure Germans are at the surface, all exits will be sealed with concrete and explosive charges dropped down. Or we could just leave them to starve to death. But he wants to be sure. We must be sure.

I will destroy all my research notes and lab equipment. I am disgusted at having to abandon my work. I had made progress, much progress. But all the most important findings have been seared into my mind. And any of my experiments can be repeated at a future time.

I fear that the War is lost. Allied bombers fly over in swarms every day, all headed towards the Fatherland. I rarely see any of our own fighters. Last night, we too were targeted. The raid lasted an hour, heavy bombs pounded the entire sector. But only one or two hits on our fortified factory, a few slaves dead. No matter.

My work is done. All documents, organ samples, drugs, equipment and my Waffen-SS Captain's uniform were loaded onto trolleys and taken by workers to the surface. They were placed in a pit with much of the camp records. Petrol is too scarce, so I made up white phosphorus solutions in glass bottles. When thrown onto the material, the glass broke and the phosphorus burned with the light of the sun. The workers were then machine-gunned and tossed onto the embers.

Our last officers' supper at Mauthausen was about as fine as could be. Trout as a starter, venison from the forest, apple pie and the last of our wine. We toasted the Führer and the Reich and made our plans. I have built a fine collection of art and will use this as my ticket to the next Reich. Our commander announced that the chain of command with Berlin was broken and that the morning would bring the end. It rained heavily all night.

I'm wearing a fine grey suit, for the clothes make the man, driving north, towards the original border with Germany, in an unmarked car with a commander from the labour camp. I carry a case full of art and jewellery, a new ID and a complete file which talked at length about my illustrious career as a project manager in the rocket force. The crackling of explosives reaches us, the end of Mauthausen. Farewell to the Stairway of Death, to thirty thousand Polish animals, to my hundreds of patients. The closing of a chapter.

My companion, Erich, is a personable character and makes good conversation. We crossed into the Fatherland as night fell, no checkpoints, just some peasants hanging around, fear in their eyes. Erich has brought a basket of provisions, enough sausage and wine to keep us going for a few days. We will need to find petrol and bread soon.

We are in a forest clearing. Erich sleeps and I look up at the night sky. The stars are bright but there is the constant sound of distant bombing. Just as one shouts into the forest, so it echoes back.

We are travelling west, towards Holland. Erich is convinced that we must find the Americans. The British will hate him for his work on the destruction of their cities. The Russians will simply torture and kill us. And I have no desire to be tortured.

Erich carries plans for the rockets and believes that he can use them to buy our escape across the Atlantic. He's excited like a little boy when he talks about America. A new beginning. Perhaps that is the best thing for us. Europe is in ruins, a failed experiment. I agree that a new start is what is needed. The start of a new Reich, the Fourth Reich.

But Erich doesn't make it, so all is left to me.

I fly over England, but not in a bomber! I travel with a group of scientists and engineers from all fields, mainly rockets and jets, and we are being taken to America, to a new life. This flight cost me a string of pearls and one of my favourite paintings, which I will retrieve one day.

The aircrew like to keep reminding us that Herr Hitler is dead, killed by the Russians in his Berlin bunker. They say that he was cowering like a scared dog when they shot him. Besides that, they treat us well. We have been given chocolate and chewing gum.

Our plane, a Dakota, flew us to so nearly-fascist Ireland, where we boarded a Liberator for the eight hour flight over the merciless Atlantic. Our own Amerika Bomber programme was beginning to bear fruit, Erich had told me, with proving successful on a long-range plane that could fly to New York, drop its bombs and return safely to base. But aircraft like the one we rode in put an end to that.

I try to sleep, but that temporary escape evades me.

My inner ears scream as we drop from the sky. The aircraft banks towards, we are told, Long Island. We stare through the windows at the clouds until, finally, we pass through them and there it is. New York. While I am proud of my accomplishments and what the Reich managed to achieve in just a dozen years, I am impressed at the sight of this new city. It is a fitting place to continue my journey.

We land at a military airfield and are interviewed individually. It costs me much of my gold, the teeth and wedding rings of a thousand Jews, to get my freedom. On the great island of Manhattan at last, I make my way to our safe house to the south, in the financial district, where I am made welcome. And so my German past ends. The Fourth Reich begins.

Jacob closed the diary, glanced at the books of bound, printed pages. Book IV. _In English, thank God_. But not yet. His head was pounding, he needed to get out. He took the dagger, held it behind his back, went to the door.

'Help,' he called, his voice breaking.

A second passed, footsteps outside. 'Yes?'

'I need to see the congressman. It's very important.'

A long pause. 'He's busy.'

'Just call him.'

'Wait. Quiet.'

A chance? He decided that he would stick the knife into whoever opened the door, no matter what might be waiting outside. He picked up the next instalment of the memoir.

The art market is exploding. The Jews are my best buyers, with their cursed, perpetual wealth. New York is a home for many of the artists who fled Europe and I have made it my business to seek them out, encourage them, represent them to the Jews. I am building a fine collection, adding many works by the New York abstract expressionists and the Eurotrash, Mondrian, Ernst, Chagall and Duchamp. As I sell one piece, I buy two.

The profits are building well and I am now in a circle of German industrialists who have vast holdings in the city. A site on Wall Street has been donated to the cause. I will soon be in a position to commence construction of the reactor and begin to turn lead into gold.

I discovered a fine American artist, Edward Hopper. His paintings ring true to me, their air of melancholy, separateness. It is easy to feel lonely in this city of four millions. I must find a wife. The safe house has expanded into a wide social network, many hundreds of our number now constructing a new future in New York.

Manhattan takes its name from the Indian island of many hills. Today, the hills are made of concrete and steel and blood and money.

I am married. Again. This time to an American. But still I dream of Eva.

Construction is under way! I found a scientist, Bruno, from our nuclear program, the Uranium Club, at Göttingen. He'd been brought over in Operation Paperclip, spent a couple of years out in the godforsaken desert of New Mexico, White Sands. He slipped away during a research trip to Nevada, hitchhiked his way across the continent and found us. I know that the god Woden is watching over me, because I met him on a Wednesday. I showed him the blueprints that I had brought with me and he immediately set to work improving the design based on what he had learned in the desert.

I am responsible for finding the uranium that is required, as well as certain metals. I shall make contact with Bruno's associates at White Sands. Their loyalty is to be expected.

The building is reaching for the sky, a secret basement, with many false walls, hidden stairways and radiation shielding is built. Now for the reactor. My first child is born, a son. In truth, I do not care for the boy, I am more concerned with giving birth to a great machine, one that will power the Fourth Reich towards our great, unquenchable dream and the final exposure of the ultimate truth, that -

Noise outside.

Jacob moved to the door, the side away from the opening, the dagger held tensely. _How many has this murdered?_ His hands sweated. _I've never killed anyone before. But I want to, need to. This must be Darwinism in action._

The lock clicked.

The door opened.

He lunged.

TWENTY-FIVE

A sea breeze kissed Congressman Sam Walsh. He stood on the roof of Vierte, calm, relaxed, exuding something - _power?_ \- in his dark grey suit, stars and stripes pin on lapel, white button-down shirt and royal blue tie, pattern of gold fleurs-de-lis, the lily flower emblem of the French royal family. But his hands trembled.

Beside him, Hester. Half a dozen secret service agents waited around the perimeter, scanned the skies. At least two FIM-92 Stinger missile packs were visible to Hester, each capable of delivering six-and-a-half pounds of high explosive to any jet or chopper up to three miles away, at sixteen hundred miles an hour. Two police snipers lay at opposing corners, other snipers breaking the geometric lines on surrounding buildings.

Out in the warm evening sky, two shiny new police Bell 429 helicopters lazily circled the hot zone, feeding digital images to the control centre. Five miles west of Rockaway Beach, a nuclear submarine lurked, two hundred feet below the surface, city-killing nuclear missiles on standby, yes, but the crew focused on their dozen Patriot anti-missile missiles ready to fly at five seconds' notice. Over in New Jersey, two fully-armed Apache gunships sat on the dock, engines idling, awaiting any hint of trouble. High up, a pair of Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptors - three hundred and sixty-one million bucks a pop, plenty enough juice to keep the military-industrial complex greased - streaked at supercruise speed, twelve-hundred miles an hour, back-and-forth between New York and Washington, until they hooked up with the President's three helicopter flight. And finally, high above them all, an airborne early warning system, the Boeing E-3 Sentry, scanned all that happened below, a god itching to designate thunderbolt strikes.

'Very calm evening. What's their ETA?'

'Five minutes, sir,' answered Hester, checking his Darkphone.

Lowering his voice, 'Is everything in place?'

'Yes, sir. We'll start serving Louis XVI's Champagne as soon as the Presidential party arrives. That should make for a nice surprise. All food is ready to go, Sophie's done an excellent job. All waiting staff are present. Once everybody's seated, you'll make your speech and let the feast proper begin.'

'I'm thinking of another surprise. Once the first course is served, how long in total until the cheese?'

'Two hours to dessert. There was a staff rehearsal this morning. That will make it 10pm.'

'6am tomorrow over there. Perfect. How long until news reaches us about the event? Ten minutes?'

'Maximum, we figure.'

_Jesus, this is really happening. So close now. He felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, sore from expectation. Yet he knew what his present was going to be._ 'And his people are ready downstairs, in the secure location?'

'Yes. So, you make the call for the final activation below. That would need to be immediately after you send the text.'

'Then we need to get out of here. I'll be hearing from my wife. Poor thing.'

'And the rest of the board of Vierte? Have you decided how many of them you're going to alert?'

'None of them. We can't take any chances.'

'Very good.'

'And our men?'

'On the Library and reactor levels. They're under orders to defend the controls to the death. There will be no emergency shutdown.'

The heavy thrum of three approaching helicopters, flashing lights in the dusky sky over the Hudson. The big yellow H gleamed.

The President beamed as he entered the dining area. The First Lady glowed. The Vice President was immediately drawn to the art while his boss worked the room. That's why he was the boss.

A small, perfect, classical ensemble, string quartet with piano, played Bach's _Air on a G String_. The air trembled.

A Secret Service agent carried the Nuclear Football, a black briefcase that acted as a communications hub between the President and his nuclear forces while away from fixed command centres. The agent was especially nervous, aware that the three people in line of succession were in the one room.

This fact made everybody nervous, except for Sam Walsh, who wondered where the backup briefcase was. _Assuming this one goes up in a mushroom cloud with the President, what am I going to do if I want to launch a retaliatory strike for the attack on the Nimitz? Those bastards in Tehran will have to answer for such a brazen act. And if they take revenge on Israel? That's a price I'm more than willing to pay. And I am a man of action, that's why America needs me._

'You okay, Mr Speaker?'

'Oh? Yes, sir. Just worried about my wife. Sorry.'

'No. I'm sorry for your loss.'

'I'm so glad you could make it.'

'It's my pleasure, Sam,' said the President, squeezing his shoulder. 'You've got a lot on your plate. Just hang tough. Hey, I'm looking forward to seeing what's on my plate tonight. Christ, I needed a break from DC.'

His wife appeared, in a long, golden dress that showed off her figure. The congressman wondered, looking then at that police detective who stood nearby with Danny. _You took down Rod? I'd like to take you down. Down to the Library. Show you some of my moves._

'Are you going to show us some of this art, Sam?'

'Of course. Julia will give you the grand tour. She's far more knowledgeable. But first, a drink?'

Julia was there then, in a short, red cocktail dress. The President couldn't decide whether it was perfectly elegant or elegantly slutty. She was followed by two formally-dressed wine waiters, who wheeled a heavy mahogany serving trolley.

'Mr President, Mr Vice President, ladies and gentlemen,' called Julia, and a hush fell on the room. 'In the year 1786, a ship left King Louis Sixteen's France and made its way to the Baltic Sea, with a precious cargo for the Russian Court. But a calamity befell the ship and she fell to the bottom of the sea. All hands were lost. Now, they say that every storm cloud has a silver lining,' the room was hers, every ear, every eye, 'and in this particular case,' she patted the wooden box, 'that old adage is completely correct.' She gestured and the waiters threw back the doors, revealing the temperature-controlled interior, the bottles within. 'I give you the most unique drink in the world, courtesy of our congressman and the trustees of Vierte Corporation. I give you King Louis's finest Champagne.'

A burst of giddy applause, gasps and a tangible air of expectation.

As the wine waiters took a bottle each, into shaking, white-gloved hands, a jangling trolley was wheeled out, rows of the finest Waterford flutes.

_Don't spill a drop!_ The waiter removed the foil, wiped the cork, eased off the wire frame around the cork, then eased out the cork itself, but over a crystal punchbowl that had been placed on top of the cabinet. Just in case.

A gentle pop. Glasses were poured, all in a row. Another pop and everything was going well. More waiters appeared, white coats and silver trays. Glasses were quickly distributed, first to the honoured guests and Vierte directors, then to everyone in the room. Every bottle was opened, save the one that the congressman had sent to Central Park West. That was for the celebration later. The President nodded to Julia, cleared his throat.

'I would like to propose a toast to our hosts this evening,' he said, as everyone held their glass to their nose, inhaled the ancient vapours, the toffee and honey and vanilla and wet grass, 'I really think tonight's going to go with a bang.'

He held his glass up to the light and they all enjoyed the amber depths, the ancient carbon dioxide bubbles.

Then, the taste, the shock of honey, of liquid sunshine from the frigid depths, from an utterly different world, the taste of royal, sweet grapes, the rich soil of Champagne, the sugars layered upon layer, the complexity astonishing. _What chemical reactions have taken place in these bottles over two centuries._ The long, syrupy sweetness gave way to the sharp edge of plums and grapefruit and cinnamon. That one sip lasted an age.

'Oh. My.'

A spontaneous burst of laughter filled the room as the guests realised the truth of what they had tasted. The finest wine ever tasted.

Julia beamed.

The congressman felt a little dizzy, the alcohol rushing into his cocaine-addled veins. _Keep it together. You're almost home._

'This is the perfect time to enjoy the art,' said Julia, her arm stretched towards the first piece, a golden, shimmering Klimt, the stare of a beautiful woman in a patchwork dress, one delicious breast exposed, she merging with the background so that only her eyes truly mattered.

The art was arranged on heavy easels, a dozen on either side of the long banquet table, with its perfect linen tablecloths, sparkling silver, fine china, smaller artworks hiding among the flower arrangements. Quite the sight, the ornate picture frames seeming to float, the view of the glistening downtown skyline beyond, helicopter gunships sweeping by, Venus sparkling in the solar afterglow and, here, on Earth, within the frames, the greatest art created by the human mind in its desperate search for beauty, for understanding, for meaning.

Julia noticed the planet, remembered how Jacob called her his Venus, wondered.

She led her little group from masterpiece to stunning masterpiece. Van Gogh. Dalí. Cézanne. Picasso. Monet. Matisse. Mondrian. Gauguin. Pollock. Warhol.

'Could this be the single greatest collection of art in human history?' asked the Vice President, his jaw hanging.

'Probably.' _Is it right to destroy it?_

The congressman's eye was caught by the head waiter. 'Anybody hungry?'

They took their seats. Glasses were filled with the very best wines from the Vierte cellars.

Congressman Walsh stood, raised his glass of fine red, a 2010 Château Mouton Rothschild. He glanced again at the striking label by pop artist Jeff Koons, Venus of Pompeii, the promise of a voyage. A thing of beauty.

The wine was on the cool side, so the aromas could be released as it warmed up.

He did all the required pleasantries, a sad smile on his face. But very interesting to every single representative of power, greed, need, fear, delusion and madness in the room. They loved him because he was _of_ them.

_Two hours_ , said his watch.

'Two hundred and twenty-five years ago, almost to the day, to the second. The Bastille was stormed and the rest, as they say, is history. Some say that our broken world can be traced back to that day, that event. That challenge to the twin foundations of civilisation: monarchy and religion.' He paused, emotionally hurt by the idea of peasant revolution. 'So here we are, the strongest nation in the world, under attack from all sides, but still believers. We truly believe in a better planet. One where every consumer is treated equally, where every market is open to our corporations and utility builders. One where the average global wage climbs from its present eighteen thousand dollars a year and where every decent worker has easy access to credit. Credit to build, to consume, to grow.' He held his glass higher. 'So we salute the genius in this room tonight. We salute our President and all those who work to defend us. We salute the Vierte trustees and the business people who have saved us from the malaise that has gripped entire nations. We salute the great and talented artists whose work graces this room tonight. We salute this great city, this New York. And, most importantly, we salute those that have come before. And we pray for those that will come after.'

He raised his glass to the President. There was a clamour of congratulation.

They drank, a communion of sorts. He tasted the sunny blood of the earth.

The first course was quickly served.

The congressman placed his Darkphone on the table before him, savoured the moment as his back was slapped, ready to send the text that would end _this_ world.

I hate you all. Every one.

A single character would trigger the device, but he wanted to send more. A message. Just for his own amusement.

He would decide over dinner.

Jacob was frantic, that feeling when time slows down, even his drowning heart ready to stop. _Breathe!_

The door opened and the dagger smelled another kill.

Jacob smelled food.

A waiter was there, a silver tray before him with a plate cover, silver and a linen napkin.

The waiter looked at Jacob, so Jacob put the knife behind his back, stepped away. The tray was placed on the desk and a busboy brought a bottle of red wine with a glass. Jacob saw a man wait just outside the door. It wasn't anyone he'd seen before, a tall guy with a shaven head, military fatigues. A submachine gun? Fuck!

'The congressman sends his regards,' said the waiter, a bead of sweat on his upper lip.

He knew something was going down, he sensed it.

'Thank you,' said Jacob. _Wait, this is a chance._ 'And can you please give him a message for me? It's very important.'

The waiter glanced at the guard, who nodded.

Jacob got a blank sheet of paper and a pen.

That blank page terrified him.

What to write?

Then he knew.

He wrote.

He folded the page and gave it to the waiter.

'Thanks. I'd tip you but I seem to have misplaced my wallet.'

The waiter laughed quickly and Jacob was alone again.

He lifted the cover and found a plate piled high, a little of every course. The presentation wasn't great, but the rich smells had him salivating like Pavlov's dog. Though it was likely the sight of the waiter's uniform that did that. He was suddenly struck by that giddy dizziness that comes when low blood sugar and stress crash into one another.

He slumped into the chair, poured a glass of wine. A long slug, then a stab at dinner.

Hot ballotine of pheasant. Smoked duck. Three perfect, seared scallops. A fillet of salmon, glistening pink. Two slices of butter-soft pork. Some asparagus, carrots and a fondant potato, roasted in a bath of stock until it was fondant, literally melting.

On the side of the plate, a perfect little aluminium foil parcel. _I know that fold._ With a mouth full of duck, he opened it, found three oysters on the half shell, a wedge of lemon too.

'Sophie.' _Nobody else would be so thoughtful._

He glugged the oysters, realised that there would be something more. he examined the foil, looked at the plate and how the food was arranged. There was no clear message in the order of anything. He prodded the food with the fork, carefully chewed mouthfuls, drank.

He checked the plate cover, lifted it to look underneath, saw the note taped there.

He found the end of the tape, picked it free.

It was Sophie's handwriting. He knew it from the specials board. The way she did her _R_.

THERE'S A VEGAS PARTY IN THE BASEMENT!

He muttered between gritted teeth, 'What the fuck?'

ALL CAPITALS, shouting. Her code for that really bad night they'd spent, the one that broke them, the horrendous wreck of coincidence and shemales and bad timing. And things getting real messy. The potential for sudden death that shakes you alive. The Vegas Trip. Fear and self-loathing. _Jesus! She knows I'm here? That I've been drugged, used, then drugged again? What am I supposed to do? Eat. God, that pork would turn a prophet._

He ate.

_She fears I'm this stuck. But she still thinks things are bad enough that I'm expected, compelled even, to do something?_ His mind fizzed across some of the infinite possibilities of what the message meant. In the end, he had nothing.

Venison. Please help.

She'd shown him how she cooked the meat in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag for a very long time in hot water, sous-vide, _under vacuum_ , so that all the muscle and tendons were broken down, the fresh fruits and herbs of the forest marinating the meat, penetrating into its very being. This odd process was followed by a fast roast, or a searing on a very hot pan, to caramelise, to bring colour and an extra depth of flavour. It was very scifi. Then again, it was invented by NASA to feed astronauts.

'Just incredible, dear. Just incredible how _fucked_ I am.'

He drank.

A creeping fear, his spine suddenly dripping, some primal thing. Picture the silent agony of _The Scream._

What if this is the basement?

He went back to the box of surprise, eager for another diversion.

He found a book, very old. An English translation of a French journal. Reputable publishers. A valuable piece.

Versailles, France - 1789

I arrived early to work, across dew-laden lawns and crunchy paths, thinking about a beautiful lock and the simple, exquisite pleasure to be had in its completion. At the main courtyard, the guards nodded blearily, thankful that their shift was almost over. The sun topped the treeline then, throwing a gorgeous pink glow over the building ahead. Somehow, at this time of day, nothing seemed to be wrong with the world. It was as if a fresh start could be made, a new blueprint for a new design. But this optimism quickly faded from me, to be replaced by the melancholy of gilded existence and fear of the dreadful anger that was building outside the walls.

But the project was all that mattered and I allowed his mind to dwell there, pausing by the ordered garden. Perfectly coiffed bushes formed geometric patterns, in the English style, across the lime green lawn. Two gardeners worked carefully on the borders and I took solace from their efforts for, if they could tame nature, couldn't I tame a man's ambitions? I reached the inner courtyard then, more guards. They searched my leather satchel. I walked through the great hall, servants busily removing the leftovers from the night just gone. The sleepers were allowed to slumber, they were stepped over, swept around. Great beams of sunlight filled the high-ceilinged air, lit the ornate plasterwork with its cupids and flowers. The place smelled of candle wax and body reek. A lone violinist sat on a platform, his hair wild, his fingers almost numb. Yet his plaintive air brought a lone tear from my eye. _Is music God's own art?_

When I reached the workshop - in truth a parlour of velvet and paintings with gilded frames and standing servants, with an oak bench before the great window - I was met by an aide, the fop from Lyons.

'His Majesty is indisposed at present and would be grateful if you could breakfast in the luncheon room.'

'Of course. Is His Majesty in good health?'

The aide coughed delicately, the back of his hand to his mouth.

'Yes, he is merely overseeing the final selection of some gifts for the Royals of Russia. I shall find you when His Majesty requires.'

I bowed my head and, in keeping with the Versailles code, waited for the King's aide to retreat. For what else can one do when Louis XVI, King of France and Navarre, requires one to wait, but wait?

I found the luncheon room, a kind of holding area for lesser aristocrats and higher commoners. The room was no less ornate than the grand banqueting hall, just smaller and less bright. Some two dozen there, mostly asleep on benches or on the floor, their robes over their eyes, their inappropriate liaisons and drunken exclamations temporarily forgotten.

A minor noble, his first time at the Court of Versailles, managed to lift himself to sitting position. He fumbled with his over-complicated, dated clothes then urinated into an ornate silver soup bowl, sighing with relief as the bitter stream of orange piss rang out, echoing. I wryly noted that the bowl was of the old style, from the reign of the King's grandfather. Reduced now to a pisspot. Such is life. Such is time.

A smile, then.

I found a clean seat near the kitchens and managed to catch the eye of a maid who looked familiar to me.

'Monsieur Gamain?' she curtsied.

She was a fine one, lips red as strawberries, hair black as the King's favourite stallion.

'Francois, please. I await the King's pleasure,' I said. 'Could I trouble madam for a pitcher of something red?'

'I'm no lady, sir,' she said. 'Just a poor girl from Paris. Would sir also like a taste of pistou soup, perhaps? Pistou from Provence? The King was forceful in his praise last night.'

'A poor girl in the palace of the King of France. No bad thing,' I smiled. 'Yes, I would be most grateful for some pistou soup. I can taste the richness of the basil at the mere suggestion. And the potato dish that was prepared yesterday? Was that to the King's pleasure?'

'His Majesty has named it Dauphinoise Potato as it is as delicate and beautiful as Prince Louis-Charles himself. I regret that I cannot offer sir a taste.'

'And how is the Dauphin? Is his strength back?'

'He seemed in better form at dinner. His mother put him to rest early.'

My pulse waltzed shamelessly at the mention of her.

She curtsied again and asked me to follow her to the kitchens. Her face was somewhat brighter now, though the room was still dim, needed the windows thrown open. As we passed the silver pisspot, the ignoble struggled to his knees and vomited a foul amber liquid into the tureen.

'Better out than in,' said I.

I sat at a bright table by the kitchen window. I soaked chunks of crusty, yeasty bread in the snot green pistou soup, then relished the garlicky, basilly greenness of it. A jug of new red wine from Bordeaux made a pleasant accompaniment, all cherry fruits and blackcurrants and sunshine. The maids scrubbed the floor and began preparing chickens and fresh bread for the King's lunch. There was a high level of gossip and chit-chat, an abnormal air of - hard to put one's finger on it - fear? I summoned the maid, asked if there was something untoward.

'Murder, sir. There was a murder in the palace last night. I can't say.'

And she was away and I was back to my pistou and my now scattered thoughts.

A stirring.

I looked up from the soup bowl and found Her Majesty there. Marie Antoinette, and her daughter, Marie Thérèse Charlotte, at her side as always. A ten-year-old woman. I jumped to my feet, my head bowing, the soup spilling, the greenness leaching into my breeches. The Queen, silken kerchief always in hand, leaned forward and gently dabbed at the soup, there on my thigh. Her mouth was by my ear.

She whispered. 'I would like for you to insert your key into my lock, sir.'

I looked to the room. All the maids were on their knees, chins on chests, no eyes seeing. So I brushed my trembling, wet lips against her hot, powdered cheek, ready at last to say -

A cough from the doorway. The King's aide, Buisson.

'Your Majesty,' he said, bowing his head almost to waist level, his right hand and right foot extended. 'His Majesty awaits Gamain.'

'Very good,' said Marie Antoinette, smiling at her daughter. 'We shall join you two today, locksmith. We want to see what all this lock-making fuss is about.'

My cheeks reddened. _Another game?_

'I am fascinated by keys,' said the woman-child.

Buisson led the way through golden halls, I was taken by the Queen, my hand in hers, Marie Thérèse Charlotte marching solemnly behind. The Queen chatted, gaily at first, then her tone lowering as she told about how the King had become infatuated with the predictions of a seer from the south, a writer of beauty potions and jam recipes who had also written verses pertaining to the future. And all this two centuries in the past!

'Michel de Nostradame, you know of him?'

'No, Majesty. I prefer mechanics and science to religion and superstition. And have these predictions affected the King's behaviour?'

'Only inasmuch as he truly believes himself to be a God,' she smiled, adding with some bitterness, 'a God who must create as many progeny as his loins will allow.'

I understood from the palace gossip that the Queen had been usurped from the royal bedchamber. We strolled on past the portraits of kings past and his mind began to fantasise. _To bed a Queen, would that be worth one's life?_ I glanced at her, her Saint-Cloud porcelain skin and Bordeaux lips and Provencal blue eyes. And the rumours, were they true? Did the Queen host orgies? Did she enjoy lesbian trysts? Did she bed her own son? I found the gossip distasteful and, in truth, felt that it was easy for everyone from the bitter minor royals to the hungry peasants to blame all France's ills on the Austrian, instead of the King's fruitless wars, his advisers' economic incompetence and a nobility unwilling to accept the higher taxes that France so desperately needed. Above all, the King's support for the revolutionaries in America would, it was feared by the Chancellor, eventually bankrupt France.

'And what of the murder in the palace last night?'

'A chambermaid was strangled. She has been buried this morning. I suspect His Majesty will want to discuss the incident with you today.'

An officer approached her then, a captain of the palace's Swiss Guard. He explained that a mob of peasants had gathered at the front gates, begging for bread. She understood that prices had risen sharply since the bitter winter and now, after a wet and feeble spring, there was no respite in sight. She told the captain that under no circumstances was violence to be used on her people and to order the kitchens to produce an extra five hundred loaves of brioche for distribution to them _so that their children will see the harvest._ Brioche, the sweetened bread. Cake.

The child said 'I should like some brioche too, mama.'

I loved Marie Antoinette then and decided that, yes, I would risk my life for her embrace.

The King was distracted, impatient. I watched him complete his warded lock mechanism, a design little changed in six hundred years. The King would finish his masterpiece lock, perhaps within the year, and my Guild would then award him Master Craftsman status.

'I enjoy our work together, Gamin,' he said, glancing at his Queen, who sat by the window, whispering to her lady-in-waiting, already bored by the King's pursuit. 'It gives my mind a fresh perspective, the act of creating something so beautiful and practical.' He had her attention. 'I tire of the mundane realities of position.'

She looked away.

'Your Majesty is certainly worthy of Master status. May I?'

'No, Gamain. I will finish my lock, even if it's the last thing that I do.'

'Your Majesty is certainly dedicated.'

'Now tell me again about this new lock from England.'

'Yes,' said I, excitedly. 'A Robert Barron has patented what he describes as a double-action lever-tumbler lock. The lock has two interior tumblers held by a spring, from what I hear. The tumblers have notches that hook over the bolt to keep it locked in place. The key has notches which correspond to the notches on the tumblers. Only the correct key will lift both tumblers so the bolt can be drawn. Theoretically, any number of tumblers could be used. This certainly appears a most advantageous development.'

'And the drawings?'

'I have asked our ambassador to procure a set from the London Patents Office.'

'I should like to build this double-action lock, Gamain.'

Marie Antoinette stood, yawning. 'I suggest that you finish this one first, Majesty. The inability to complete a task is not an admirable quality.'

The King smiled at this, opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. He looked at me, eyebrows raised. 'I need a drink. Lunch, sir?'

I bowed, picked up a silk and offered it to the King.

'I can't join you,' said the Queen. 'I must meet with my gardeners and I await a report on the peasants. Apparently they can't afford to buy bread.'

'The economics of peasantry?' exclaimed the King. 'Why do you concern yourself with such distasteful pursuits?'

And that was the end of it. The Queen curtsied and left the room, a quick glance at me.

The King fidgeted with the lock for a few moments, then beckoned me to the corner of the room furthest from the door.

'Gamain, I need you to examine the lock.'

'The lock, Majesty?' said I. But he knew.

'The lock in the door to the dead woman's room. It is broken somehow.'

'Of course. Now?'

'Yes, now. And bring a replacement mechanism.'

I gathered some tools into a cloth bag as the King looked out the window, watching his wife as she walked down the path, her ladies tittering behind her, the gardeners standing by their work, nervously fidgeting.

'She is very much the Queen, eh Gamain?'

'Very much,' said I as he opened and closed drawers until he found a mechanism, one which had inexplicably jammed some months before. Fixed now.

'See, she has brought the sun back, at last.'

Everything ready, I waited, watched the sunbeams dance across the King's golden suit, even the dust motes shining brilliantly in his presence. But this was no Sun King. He turned on his heel, his eyes alight.

'Come. To work. The magistrate will be along soon.'

I followed the King at a trot, a small part of my brain concerned at the impending arrival of an investigator, the larger part imagining a glistening chicken, perfectly-roasted in rich butter and accompanied, perhaps, by a chilled rosé and some of that fine bread.

We passed through the hall of trompe l'oeil, not because it was necessarily the shortest route, but because the King loved the room so. The floor was a mosaic of tiny painted tiles, a charming fish pool, golden carp resting at the surface of shimmering turquoise water. Walking across it always gave me the feeling of being Jesus Christ. The walls held paintings, mainly from Italy, many without frames and with white backgrounds to merge with the white walls, their subjects startlingly realistic. And the vaulted ceiling was crowned by skylights, leading to the overhanging firmament. _Or was it?_

Another corridor and we reached the room. A courtier stood at the door, which was slightly ajar, enough to put a hand through. The King dismissed the courtier with a wave of his hand and, as the young man hurried off, the King called after him.

'None shall enter this area.'

The courtier stopped, turned, bowed. 'Yes, Majesty.'

They entered the room, the bed already stripped, shutters open. I opened my tool bag, found a magnifying glass. The King stood at the window, feigned disinterest well.

'Ah,' I said. 'The lock has been forced, Majesty. And by one with a knowledge of its workings. See?'

The King stayed by the window. 'Just change it. And quickly. The magistrate approaches.'

I removed the broken mechanism and put it into my bag. I noted the King's mark. I quickly fitted the replacement, securing it with brass pins, testing the key. Perfect.

'Good,' said the King. 'Now, away. Destroy that lock.'

I wondered if the King wanted to be rid of evidence of murder or evidence of his own poor workmanship.

We dined in the King's chambers, the buttered chicken as delicious as I had hoped. But I found the food unpalatable. The whiff of death did something to a man's appetite. The whiff of murder did something to my soul. And the complicity ate me up inside.

A courtier knocked and announced that the magistrate was finished with his investigations \- natural causes - but enquired as to whether His Majesty wished to make a statement. The King told him _No_ , ordered that Père Ricard should prepare to hear the Royal Confession after lunch, _It's good to cleanse one's soul, eh Gamain? I do so love being a Catholic._ Then he twittered about his blasted lock and whether he should put it aside and instead focus on the new English design.

'What would the Guild make of that, eh?'

_This is the end_ , I decided.

Jacob was taken away by the journal, able to smell the Royal Court, to taste the bread. He was lost, barely aware of his surroundings.

He snapped from his trance when the lock clicked.

_One, two, three, four!_ Sophie was at full throttle, the mains flying out, venison, salmon, pork, all the vegetables, the sauces, critically the sauces, a skilled production line, the quality of everything just perfect, no industrial ingredients, everything _fait maison_.

Her sous chefs worked in pairs, going from plate to plate, completing six servings at a time. Then the waiters, two plates in one hand, using the thumb. Sophie smelled everything, tasted every dish.

Sam had come through to the kitchen, talking quietly into his phone. _His wife_ , she assumed. And _Bitch_.

She'd glance at him every few seconds, as she plated the roasted beetroot or painted a plate with red wine reduction.

Then Hester, the creepy security guy appeared, tucked in behind a waiter, went to the congressman, handed him a piece of paper. Sam read it, a puzzled expression flashed across his face, but only for half a second. He was good.

He threw the paper into the kitchen garbage, said something to Hester and they both left.

Not even a vague awareness of Sophie. _Bastard._

Plates away, the last of the mains. Already? _We started about ten minutes ago._ A minute to catch her breath. _Time?_ A quarter before ten. _Tommy Ramone died today._ For Sophie, that meant the end of something. An era. A time and place. A possibility. _Now to check that note. Something there._

She found it easily.

Jacob! You're here.

'What's up, darlin'?' asked a deep voice with an Irish twang.

She handed the note to Danny, that pouty female detective at his side.

'What does this mean, Sophie?' But he knew. The detective gut.

'They've got Jacob. Somewhere in the building. We've got to get after them. I fucking _knew_ it.'

'What about all this?' a gesture at the twenty people at work in the kitchen.

'We're done.' She called the best sous. 'Mike! Take over for me. Clockwork, yeah?'

'Yes, chef.'

They went into the dining area. A calm had fallen, the sublime food reducing the chatter to a murmur. They passed through quietly, made for the elevator hall.

'Did the congressman come this way?'

'Just took an elevator, sir' answered a uniformed officer.

At the elevators, 'No external floor display. We don't know where they're going.'

'Hang on,' said Detective Taylor. 'Isn't the security office down here?'

'Let's take a look.'

They came to a reinforced door, camera LEDs blinking. She pressed the buzzer.

'Yes,' a crackling voice.

'Police,' holding her ID to the camera. 'Open up.'

A long second. Detective O'Brien's right hand moved towards his holstered Glock.

Sliding and clicking sounds. The door opened, but just a few inches.

'What do you need?' asked the Secret Service agent.

'The congressman just took an elevator. We need to know where to.'

'Wait here.'

'What are we like?' said Sophie, she in her crumpled chef's whites, the stains of service across her middle and up her sleeves.

The agent returned and said 'Ground floor.'

'Thank you.'

They dropped towards ground, wondering.

'The President's safe room is just below ground,' said Danny. 'There's a stairwell down to it, well-protected. I don't see them going down there.'

'I'm not sure I like this,' said Detective Taylor. 'Sophie, why could they possibly want to have taken Jacob captive and what could he know?'

'He was valuing their art collection. It was his dream job. He was coming to the end of it the other day, then he disappeared. I figured he'd gone off with that Julia, she'd had her eye on him.' Danny nodded. He'd noticed Julia. 'Earlier, I overheard a conversation between that Hester guy and one of his goons. They talked about locking up the merchandise in the library. I thought it was books, until they mentioned a new shipment coming in from Brazil next week. _Fresh pussy_ , they said. _Time to make some space_ , they said. _Chop-chop_ , they laughed. I got goosebumps. Then I was asked to prepare a tray of food for a guest downstairs. I guessed it was Jacob, so I taped a note under the plate.'

'What'd it say?'

'That something bad was going on.'

Detective Taylor smelled a connection with Rod, her _bête noire_. Chop-chop. Cannibalism.

'We're here.'

The ground floor lobby was full of agents, police officers and Vierte's own security on the desk. As the Presidential visit was drawing to its scheduled conclusion, there was a lot of activity outside. The Beast waited outside on a closed Wall Street. The President would drive up to the Peninsula Hotel on 5th after dinner, to schmooze with the local Democrat kingmakers and moneymen and corporate lobbyists.

Jacob lay on a heavy duty stretcher, the kind they use in mental hospitals. He was tied up tight, no resistance, an ugly gun pointed in his face.

They hadn't gagged him, so he talked, talked to save his life.

'Guys. Listen. I'm filthy. You don't want me in your ceremony. You wouldn't believe what I got up to last week. I probably have AIDS. I like it up the ass. From guys I never met.' His voice cracked as he said 'I cruise down in Grand Central, the bathroom. With the homeless.'

The congressman and the mailman exchanged glances, smiled. This was typical. Once the victims saw the room, with its cutting implements, its horrifying African imagery, its body parts in jars, skulls, colours, sounds, smells. You could actually _taste_ the horror, history, pain. If walls had ears? Some walls do, they absorb emotion, let it seep into the plaster, life's energy radiating deep into the chemical essence. This explains ghosts. This explains why certain places give you the shivers. At an emotional level, everything is chemical.

The congressman ignored Jacob, took his cellphone from his inside jacket pocket.

'Nobody can hear you,' said the African American man, who wore a white plastic apron, all the way to his neck. 'We are deep underground. In a soundproofed room. Just relax. You make the muti better dat way.'

The congressman put his phone down on a gleaming stainless steel table. Then he chopped out two fat lines of cocaine from a receptacle made from a human skull, the top just lifted right off.

Jacob was horrified, genuinely frozen.

The congressman snorted a line through a hundred dollar bill tube, half in each nostril.

'Hey mailman,' he called. 'Special delivery over here.'

Then he turned to his phone and sent a text message.

The words were converted to a tiny digital signal:

01110100011011110010000001100101011000010111010000100000011101000110100001100101001000000111011101101111011100100110110001100100

The signal passed along the control channel until it entered the short message service centre, then bounced off a geostationary satellite, high over the Atlantic, meeting the target in the Persian Gulf.

Then hell came to Earth.

The sailors partied, as if there was no tomorrow. Hamas rockets lit up the cobalt blue summer morning sky over Israel, while Israeli Hellfire missiles and thousand pound bombs shattered Gaza.

To the north, the Islamic State, formerly ISIS, controlled western Iraq, whose political dysfunction made the overlords in America and Britain look positively wonderful, and Syria, whose horror had long since receded from the front pages of the western media, the publishers looking to where their political partners ordered. Try Africa! ISIS's menacing eye looked west, planning an event in Washington or, dread it, New York that would eclipse 9/11. Afghanistan was winding down, the Taliban waiting in the wings. Meanwhile, Iran quietly assembled its nuclear warheads and the missiles that would carry them to Tel Aviv and Riyadh.

The entire region was, in diplomatic terms, truly fucked up.

So why not party? For tomorrow we may die.

But it was already tomorrow.

Critical mass was attained.

The avalanche of neutrons flashed out from the shipping container at faster than the speed of light, quantum time. A bubble, expanding, taking matter and converting it into its base constituents, the subatomic quarks, Higgs-Bosons and exotic particles that hadn't yet been identified by Homo sapiens, let alone named.

Heat.

Light.

Unknowable power.

There are over sixteen thousand known nuclear warheads in the world, lurking in underground silos where your grass-fed steaks are made, or waiting in subs deep beneath the lapping waves, out there, just over the horizon as you lie on the beach sipping on a margarita, or in the bellies of bombers flying over your head at forty thousand feet, there goes one now, see the blinking light?

That is death.

That humans prefer not to confront the nuclear annihilation that surround them every day says much about why the species is doomed.

I didn't know.

I just went with the flow.

I did as I was told.

I was only following orders.

I didn't know what went on in the camps.

Pass me another beer.

Who cares, anyway?

Turn on Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

The congressman turned to Jacob, an odd smile on him. He checked his watch.

'Let's go, mailman. The shit's about to hit.'

He finished his line of benzoylmethylecgonine, rubbed his nose roughly, said _Oy_ , went to the knives. He chose a long surgical scalpel.

'We're going to take your heart, mon. That is where your power comes from. Best to take it while it beats. Then we flip you over, take your atlas bone,' he touched the back of Jacob's neck with a hand cold as a tomb, 'your first cervical vertebra. That's a powerful talisman. Mr President here, he needs all the powers if he's to change the world, yeah?'

Jacob wanted to beg some more. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. _Sophie_ , he thought, trying to connect with ESP, sixth sense, anything, _what the hell is keeping you?_

'Oh yes, Jacob. In answer to the question in your note,' said the congressman, 'your grandfather was murdered by _my_ grandfather, a great man who's just been lost to this world. And I carry on his legacy. An interesting symmetry, don't you think? And all for art.'

Sophie and the detectives wondered what the hell was going on. Then Hester appeared at a maintenance door, just behind them, just out of view of the spyhole. He glanced out, saw them, skulked back as he closed the door carefully. But Detective Taylor saw him, peripherally.

She lunged and got a foot in the door. Then her shoulder brought her full weight to bear and Newtonian physics took over.

Hester was on the floor, a Glock in his face, a dimly-lit hallway behind.

'What the fuck is this?' asked Danny.

'Where's Jacob?' shouted Sophie.

Hester calculated quickly, came to the conclusion that the police were only yards from the library. They _will_ find it. They _will_ catch the congressman in the act. They _will_ finish this, all of this.

'We need to take that elevator,' said Hester, jerking his head towards a steel sliding door.

'Get up,' said Tori, quietly closing the door behind them. 'And don't be stupid.'

Hester punched a code into the digital pad by the elevator, inserted a key, twisted. The door slid open, revealed a small, stainless steel box. He used his key to activate the system, hit the middle of three buttons.

A judder and a short drop.

The door opened onto an atrium with an unmanned security desk. A wide hall, leather couches on each side, led to what looked like a library, bookshelves barely visible, lights off. Doors, a lot of doors around the atrium. Hester took them towards the one to the immediate left of the elevator. There was a keypad by the handle.

'One-nine-three-three,' he said. 'Each one goes up a year.'

_A year?_ wondered Tori as Hester opened the steel door.

'Down there,' said Hester. 'Room number eight. _Hurry!_ '

Tori snapped handcuffs on Hester, arms behind his back, pushed him onto his belly.

'Don't you _fucking_ move.'

They went down the corridor, Danny in front, his pistol ready, waiting for something, anything to pop out. Tori was close behind him, scanning every direction, taking the time to check on Sophie, watch their rear.

They reached the first of the doors, a whimpering there. Sophie could see the tension on Danny's face. It's only number one, but Jesus! He touched the handle as Tori took up a position behind him. He nodded to her and opened the door.

The smell of candy and sex and tears and children.

No immediate threat, so Danny turned back, his eyes red.

Sophie shrivelled up inside.

'Let's get to eight,' he said.

At eight, they kept Sophie well back, against the wall, and took up combat positions.

No lock. Danny opened the door and marched in low, Tori right behind him.

The mailman had his knife in Jacob's chest, the incision made, the blood flowing, coming out in beads, no artery yet reached. Danny shot the hand, then the head, the mailman's blood mixing with Jacob's. Tori saw the figure at the far side of the room. He was naked, some kind of symbol daubed on his chest in blood. _Jacob's blood_. The congressman lunged for his phone, which was on a metal table beside a pile of cocaine.

She knew it was a phone.

But still she fired.

I never liked you anyway.

Jacob's ears buzzed from the three shots, the thunder banging around inside his skull, the sour smell of propellant adding to his shock, bringing on waves of nausea.

Foam began to pour from the congressman's mouth.

Detective O'Brien stood. Just breathing fast. His boss, his friend these past four years. Dead.

'Jesus Christ,' said Taylor. 'Has he just cracked a cyanide capsule?' She bent down close to the body, sniffed the bitter almond smell, nodded. She got up and found some cotton towels by the surgical gear. She pressed them down on Jacob's chest, the pressure easing the bleeding. 'Can this get any weirder?'

Sophie came into the room, said 'History would say _yes_ '.

TWENTY-SIX

Danny's earpiece vibrated. He raised an eyebrow, listened intently. Tori taped up Jacob's cut. He enjoyed the feeling of her hands on his chest. Then she cut the tape that held him down.

'Up you get, big boy. What is it Danny?'

'Really bad. There's been a damned nuke attack on one of our carriers in the Middle East. We don't know if it was Iran or al-Qaeda. The President is being moved downstairs to the safe room now.'

'Christ. Where is that? In relation to here?'

'Hester,' said Jacob. 'He'll know what's going on.' He glanced at the congressman's body, felt sure that Vierte was somehow involved in the blast.

'You stay here,' said Tori to Danny. 'I'll go get him.'

She left, wondering. _Where's all this leading? There's something we don't know._ She found Hester dead, the same sick froth around his mouth, his eyes bulging, his face locked in a silent scream. When she found him she panicked a little. But she kept it together enough to find his key.

'Where is he?'

'He's dead. Cyanide.'

'This is all very World War Two,' said Jacob.

'Hang on,' said Tori. 'When we took the elevator down here, there was another button under ours.'

'So there must be another floor down there,' said Danny, pointing at the floor.

Jacob sat up, said 'What the _fuck_ could they be hiding that's worse than all _this_?'

Hugo sweated. Operating the whole system alone was, essentially, impossible. But he'd ordered his team not to show up for the shift. _Just don't come to work. Clear?_ None noticed, or cared, that something unusual was going on, each one too self-absorbed.

The temperature in the reactor control room was rising, but his forehead was cold. The uranium fuel rods were almost completely removed from the graphite moderator. He checked his phone again. No message from the Leader. _He means for us to go through with this!_

'He means for us to go through with this,' he said to the armed man beside him.

'Good. We need to end the regime.'

The technician checked his screens, reviewed all the flashing warnings, the audio alarms long silenced. _How many skulls and crossbones and exclamation marks can you fit on a computer screen?_ This many. He adjusted the withdrawal speed, slowed it down a tad. The gamma radiation levels had increased dramatically.

'Their detectors will spot us soon. But there's still time to stop it. Have _you_ heard anything from the Leader?'

Grey shook his head. 'Nothing.' He found his phone in his breast pocket, checked it, shook his head again. 'How long do we have?'

'Probably twenty minutes. Just five to stop it.'

'Okay. At five, we're leaving. Got that?' He checked his watch. The numbers swam as his heart vibrated faster, faster still, but he figured to start counting, deep in the back of his brain, look for three hundred.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

We're going to kill the awful bore.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Then we're gonna spread the hate.

'I've got something on the CCTV,' said the technician. 'People outside.'

Grey cocked his MP5 submachine gun, leaned in towards the HD screen.

'Cops. Can they get in?'

'Only if they know the code. But how did they get this far?'

Grey watched the figures as they entered the long hall that led to the reactor control room.

'Two obvious cops, a man and a _hot_ woman, and two civilians picking up the rear,' said Hugo. _I know that face._

'Men!' shouted Grey. 'Contact!'

Three more of Vierte's stormtroopers emerged from the sweating, flashing shadows, the warning lights gaily painting their unpleasant faces.

Four submachine guns were trained on the door.

Grey turned to Hugo. 'So, is there no way to stop it after five minutes?'

'See this switch here?' pointing to a little black button, 'Fail-safe can minimise the effect of the meltdown. Maybe. It pushes the rods back into the moderator an half a second.' _Sicher nicht._

'Okay. I think we're done here.'

Then Grey took his Glock Model 17 polymer handgun from its holster and fired a 9mm round into Hugo's chest.

Sixty-five.

Sixty-six.

The President, his wife, his immediate security party and some of the house security emerged into the safe area, below ground level.

It was an open plan room, desks and chairs, some art on the walls, couches at the far end, a little kitchen to one side, a bar, big screens showing news channels. The first live feeds from the scene. Sunrise.

'Get me a whiskey.'

'Coming up, Mr President.'

'Bring the Briefcase. Set it up.'

It was placed before him, on a desk. The case was unlocked. The original Pandora's box was actually a jar which, when opened, released all the evils in the world. The President's briefcase was more of a world destroyer, capable of unleashing five thousand city killers upon the Earth.

The aide activated the case, asking the President to allow his thumb and retina to be scanned. The Vice President stood by, at his shoulder.

'Are you sure?'

'Until I know for sure that we don't have any missiles heading our way, I'm prepared to nuke Iran. Key up Attack Plan Six, please. That's an order. Now get me some data.'

More briefcases had been activated, pulling in real-time status feeds from the Pentagon, plus raw data from satellites, spy planes, drones, social media and boots on the ground, building up a picture, deciphering the situation.

Is this the end?

Or?

'No launches reported, sir.'

'The detonation was not caused by a missile. Seems to be a rogue device.'

'What's base telling us? Come on, people!'

'We lost the Old Salt, sir. Six thousand souls.'

'Damn it all. To hell and back.'

'Was that a shot?' asked Tori.

'What an odd place,' said Sophie. 'Look, Jacob. What do the German words on these doors mean?'

'Emergency exit. Staff quarters. Another exit. Control room.'

'Interesting,' said Danny. 'Must be something big down here. And we're being watched. Where _are_ the watchers? Control room?'

'As good a place as any,' said Tori. 'You guys better pick up the rear. Let's go, Danny. I'm going to go with one-nine-four-five. End of the Third.' The handle turned and clicked.

One hundred and four.

One hundred and five.

She pushed the door open and met an eight-hundred mile an hour hail of steel-coated lead.

The noise shocked, the smell of cordite burnt.

She took a bullet in her left shoulder, the force throwing her like she was dancing the twist or something.

Danny was at her right before she had her gun on target, dark shapes in a dim room.

They fired together.

The door slammed closed, the bullets helping now.

Tori fell to the floor, her shoulder shredded.

Danny had a red hole in his thigh.

He took off his jacket and pressed it down on Tori's shoulder. _Nicked an artery. Bad._ 'You'll be fine, Tori. Just hang in there. Jacob, Sophie, can you call 911, get an ambulance. Or two.' The intense pain of a shattered femur suddenly hit. 'And you have to get to the President, tell him to get the _fuck_ out of Dodge.'

He passed out.

Jacob looked at Sophie, said 'Well I don't have a phone.'

'Oh _shit_!'

Julia tilted an empty Champagne bottle. And another.

Then she found one with a good glass left in it.

She drank it and wanted more.

The room was quiet. The waiting staff cleared up. Most of the guests had gone, in a mild panic, the Presidential party exiting the vulnerable location at the first hint of war. And this would mean war. Just _how much war_ was the question.

At the bar, she ordered a Martini.

She tipped the barman with a hundred dollar bill, checked the time on the phone in her purse. _I don't know what time he left, the bastard. I was enjoying the Champagne too bloody much._

She decided that the reactor could go off at any second. Or not at all.

The situation seemed to add an extra intensity of flavour to the drink. _Surely our own chemical composition makes every sensory event subjective? And unique. There's one for Jacob. Now what to do?_

' _Jacob_ ,' she said aloud.

'Sorry?' said Salem, beside her at the bar.

'Nothing. Are you leaving?'

'I'm having one for the road. Will you join me?'

'A drink, yes. The road, no.' She took his elbow, led him to the window. A decision. 'I'm going to find my brother. Try and reason with him. We can make the deal. It doesn't have to be like this.'

Salem watched her, drank his Bordeaux, smiled involuntarily. He worried about the Library. Better to let it blow, destroy the lot. Can she stop him?

'Julia, you can't.'

'I can't let this art go up in smoke, Salem. Look, that Van Gogh!' She put her glass down, stared into a little mirror.

'Then let me go with you. _Please_.'

'Fine. Thank you.'

The displays raced further into the red.

Two hundred and thirty-six.

Two hundred and thirty-seven.

'Nearly there. In one minute we can evac. Jack, Will, take a look outside.'

A gunman opened the door, looked out into the hallway. The two cops lay on the ground, the guy on the woman. Dead, maybe. Lot of blood.

No sign of the other two. They walked out carefully, guns moving, pointing in every direction.

They stepped over the cops.

Then one of the cops moved, the woman.

Tori shot them one in the head, no point in a torso shot with all that Kevlar. He dropped. The other turned, started to turn. He was hit in the thigh. He slumped to his knees, took one in the head.

Two more arrived at the door, the boss and the last. Tori was facing the wrong way.

Then Sophie appeared from the end of the hall. She had Danny's gun, cocked for her by Tori, safety off.

Two hundred and sixty-two.

She shot. She shot. She shot. Then she hit Grey in the face with her fourth bullet.

Tori had time to turn, hitting the other just as he loosed a burst towards Sophie.

In the control room, Hugo twitched.

The firing had triggered something in his hypothalamus, flooding his body with adrenalin. Grey's round had bounced off his breast bone. It was broken, for sure, but his heart and other critical, mysterious organs - who truly _understands_ their spleen? - were intact. He'd live.

But the pain was crucifying. He could not move.

He couldn't see the control desk from the floor, just the tops of some monitors. He didn't really need to see them.

Three hundred.

New alarms sounded.

There was no way of stopping meltdown. Only fail-safe could make a difference.

He tried to talk. To call someone.

Julia and Salem reached the lobby, the elevator full of jumpy guests. _But everything had gone so well_ , they said to her. She was pleased, tipsy.

In the lobby, Julia met one of the mysterious people that protect the President twenty-four seven.

'Is it possible to see the President? Please?'

'He's gone. The Vice President is exiting now.'

Julia glanced at Salem. _One more chance._

The Vice President came out of a stairwell, smiled when he saw Julia.

'Hi Julia. No news yet. But it doesn't look like World War Three. Which is good.'

'Which is very good. Bill. Listen. Would it be possible to talk to you about a new gold-backed currency and debt write-off? We can fund it.'

'Debt write-off sounds good. This incident may push us over the tipping point. But I don't want to sell out.'

Julia gave him her big eyes. 'Bill, we can fund _all_ of it.'

'I am intrigued. But I have to go.'

'I could meet you anywhere, anytime.' She let that sink in. 'And my economic associate Salem has all the numbers well-crunched. Can I arrange for him to talk to your people?'

'Yes,' and he turned and was gone.

'Congratulations, Julia,' said Salem. 'But what will Sam say?' He leaned towards the exit. 'I'm leaving. You should do the same. Good night.'

'Good night,' to his back.

Sophie stopped, took a deep breath.

Then she opened the door to the control room. Expecting? She didn't know what. Jacob had been shot, just a graze on his forehead. More blood on him.

The flashing lights, the waves of heat, the booming alarm, the evil smells – _is this hell_? _Am I dead?_ And _what the fuck is that_?

She saw a man on the floor. He looked pale, dead. _No, wait, he's saying something._ She went to him.

'You've been shot.'

More usefully, she took off her apron, found the clean bit and pressed it against his chest, easing off when he screamed like a banshee.

'Sicher nicht,' he said.

'Sicker what? Oh my Jesus. Jacob!' She turned to Hugo. 'Wait. My friend speaks German.'

She retraced her steps, found Jacob in the hallway outside. He had Danny's phone but he couldn't get the damned pattern code working, didn't realise that he could make an emergency call anyway and then Tori shouted at him and he got through, but couldn't understand what they were saying and was talking anyway saying _Help!_ and Tori was shouting _Give me the phone!_ and then Sophie appears shouting _Jacob! Sicker nicked! What in God's name is it?_

'Fail-safe.'

Time to save Wall St. Or?

So Sophie found the switch.

She saw Hugo smile, knew that she could get out.

'Jacob, you stay here with Tori. I'm going for help.'

She went to the door marked _Ausgang_ and pushed down the release bar, Schrödinger's cat opening her box.

Life?

Death?

The door opened onto a stairwell. She clanged and pulled her way to the top, where another door opened onto an alley. A stinking, dirty, glorious, beautiful New York alley.

She inhaled the night and the ground trembled.

THE END

UNITED HATES

By Gary J Byrnes, 2014-2018

 http://www.roubaixinteractive.com/PlayGround/Binary_Conversion/Binary_To_Text.asp

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**About the Author**

GARY J BYRNES lives in Dublin, Ireland and likes to write edgy, controversial page-turners. Nominated for the Crime Writers' Association Debut Dagger Award with acclaimed Limerick crime thriller PURE MAD, published in 2009. Has also published conspiracy thriller THE GOD VIRUS (2011), THE DEATH OF OSAMA BIN LADEN - AN ALTERNATIVE HISTORY (2012) and THE WRITER AND OTHER STORIES shorts collection (2013). Has also written a series of kids' thrillers about witches and magic in Ireland, WITCH GRANNIES. VAMPIRE STORY is his debut short film, as writer and director. THRILLER BOX SET (2014) includes Pure Mad, God Virus and Bin Laden.

UNITED HATES is Gary's most ambitious novel yet. If you like it, please share the love!

Interview here: <https://www.smashwords.com/interview/garyjbyrnes>

Discover other titles by Gary J Byrnes

Thriller Box Set

9/11 Trilogy

Ireland Trilogy

History Trilogy

Pure Mad

The God Virus

The Death of Osama bin Laden - An Alternative History

The Writer and Other Stories

Connect with Gary

Message me on Facebook: <http://facebook.com/GaryJByrnesThrillerWriter>

Look me up on Twitter: <http://twitter.com/GaryJByrnes>

Love my blog: www.readathriller.com

Favourite me at Smashwords: <https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/garyjbyrnes>

Visit my website: www.readathriller.com

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