Chapter 38: "no one saw this coming"; You are blessed today; "they're in trouble"
Manhattan, December, 2014
"I assure you, Dr. Bruzzese, this will be a very long night for you. If you remain silent, it will go badly for you," Greer said, leaning forward on his chair toward Marco. Still no response from him, his head bent forward, his long dark hair hanging down.
The heat was worse now, and beads of sweat had made trails down his face, over-running the dried blood-trails, and mixing, lifting into red stains and hurrying them along like tiny rivulets along the curves of his face, dripping to his shirt below.
At Greer's command, one of them had swung his head up with a grab of Marco's hair, but he stayed silent, defiant, giving nothing to Greer. But Greer would not be dissuaded, and continued on, as though conversing with him, over coffees.
"Our associates in the Middle East need answers, Dr. Bruzzese. You've reported on the progress of these experiments more than anyone else. You were the first to publish your theory of how this could revolutionize energy production. You have contacts with the primary researchers in Italy. What we need to know, Dr. Bruzzese, is how close they are to a prototype, and where it is being assembled. And the key question, the most important question, is does this process actually work? I'm certain I don't need to tell you that no one, no one, saw this coming."
Marco let him keep talking, but he didn't focus on what he said. It was the same thing every time. They always wanted to know about the prototype; how far along they were, who was building it, and most importantly, did the process really work.
It was a stunning revelation when an Italian nobody, working alone in his garage, made a discovery that would change the course of humanity. For a pittance a year, energy to run the whole house, the factory, the office building. Clean, smokeless, cheap energy that would make coal, oil, and nuclear power obsolete. Practically overnight.
None of them who had worked on it had realized the risk, the personal risk, they would face once the idea had gone public. Some people would stop at nothing to stop it.
Marco could hear doors opening nearby, and then a rush of cool air flowed in from the open door. He shivered with the cool air on his wet, hot skin. He heard the chair leg scrape on the floor, and he could tell that Greer had changed position. He was up attending to the situation at the door. Voices. He heard voices speaking low and clipped, like army-talk, and then Marco lifted his head toward the voices. Two women walked by, on the other side of the glass, a blonde pushing the other, brunette, ahead of her. She stumbled and frowned, lifting her head, then catching his eye. She stared at him, recognition in her eyes, but he didn't know her.
In the hallway, the two women turned right, and Martine pushed Root ahead again. Root's hands were zip-tied at her back.
This was an old building, elegant in its day, with marble floors, and heavy frames around the dark wooden doors, and gold numbers carefully centered on each one.
Their steps echoed in the hallway, and Root scanned it, looking for something near the ceiling. Way down, far away, she found one. They moved forward down the hall. Steps echoing. She wanted to strike up conversation with Martine, to keep her busy, distract her from her plan, but Martine made Sameen look chatty – not much hope of girl-talk here.
Martine shoved her to the right, again, into another hallway. Damn, missed her chance – not close enough to the camera at the ceiling back there in the main hall. But then, she smiled. Right there, on the right, a camera overhead, red light blinking at her. She raised her eyes and mouthed the words slowly to its eye: "Marco is here."
Manhattan, December, 2014
Harold rummaged through desks, looking for passwords. On each desk, a desktop computer. Plenty of machines. Everywhere. He just needed to get into one for a few minutes. And there, on a desk with a family photo, husband, wife, and three strapping boys – there in the desk drawer, he found a purple card with a cross and the words: You Are Blessed Today. Let's hope so, he thought, and turned over the card. PW Angel, written on the back. He pulled the chair out from the desk and sat down, then powered the machine. When it asked for the password, he typed Angel, and clicked Enter.
Processing. Success. He waited for the desktop to appear, then navigated to his browser. In minutes he was staring into the camera of the monitor, waiting. Then, the Machine sent him this message:
Operative captured. Video follows...
Harold watched CCTV footage from the lobby across the street, forwarded by the Machine from a short time ago. He saw the crowd at the elevator doors, and watched them rush Miss Groves as the doors opened. And then he saw a woman, tall, blonde, with her back to the camera in the lobby, and Miss Groves speaking something, then taken prisoner by the group. He hadn't seen Greer anywhere among them. His underlings were there, instead. And then, the blonde turned around with Miss Groves at her side. Martine. Harold recognized Martine.
Then there was footage outside, getting into cars, and driving off. Choppy footage, quick, brief glimpses of the cars on City streets, images culled from cameras along the route and strung together by the Machine for him to see.
Then, fuzzy video of two figures approaching down a long, long hallway. Hard to tell it was them. He could just make out Martine, reaching out and pushing Miss Groves to one side.
And then, big and bold, clear as day, Miss Groves staring straight into the camera, a close-up. And she was saying something right to the camera. He tried to read her lips. Something about Marco.
"Play Miss Groves speaking again, please," Harold said to the camera above the monitor. The video cut out and then restarted with the push. Harold watched her lips...Marco...something...here. He looked up, thinking for a moment. Is.
Marco is here. But where?
"Show me the current location of Miss Groves, please."
A street map popped up on the screen with a green dot flashing. Not far. He knew the building. Harold needed help with this. His team was in Queens, looking for Marco, but Marco wasn't there. He was in Manhattan with Miss Groves, captured. But the team was going after the gang, the Zheng, at the hair salon in Queens. Elias had sent his men to help, too, and there could be a gun battle, or worse, going on there right now. Best not to call directly. Reach out with a message, and see what happens. Harold lifted his phone and sent a message to Reese: need u – H.
And, in case he could reach her before something terrible happened, he sent a message to Miss Shaw, as well: found Marco – H.
Queens, New York, December, 2014
"Who is this guy?" Fusco said out loud. Shaw wandered, taking in the clues left behind in the small room. Single bed, one pillow, rumpled cover in the middle, and a sag in the mattress like someone heavy had been sleeping there. Under the bed, there were shoes, shoes like her sifu would wear during practice. And a pair of sneakers, knock-arounds to wear out on the street. She lifted the sneakers and looked more closely at the tops, then turned them over to look at the soles. They looked new on the top, still white around the eyes for the laces, and the fabric mesh was still clean and bright. But the soles were worn, more on the right, though, like the wearer was heavy and walked with a limp.
She walked to the backpack and knelt down beside it. Full of clothes, thin paper tickets with Chinese pictographs on them, empty wrappers from some fast food shops, and a key. And, then, there was the photo of Reese, too, that Fusco had found. This guy had traveled here from out west. The fast food shops weren't ones around here, in New York. The key was not a car key. It was smaller, like a house or apartment key. She turned it over to look for markings.
A soft buzz went off in her pocket at her waist, and Shaw reached for her cellphone there. A message from Harold, and her pulse quickened.
She clicked Harold's number and he answered right away.
"Miss Shaw, I have news from Miss Groves. She has located Marco in a building in Manhattan. He's not in Queens, Miss Shaw." She interrupted.
"We know, Harold. We're here inside the hair salon, and Marco wasn't here. Where is he, Harold?" He told her which building, and then he heard her pause.
"Is he alright?"
"Miss Shaw, they're in trouble. Greer and his people have them."
"We'll be there in twenty minutes, Harold. Where are you?"