Fire with Fire(88)
The hand Caine was holding went limp. Nolan’s body was still; there was no sign of respiration. The surrounding din of frenetic activity either stopped or Caine became deaf to it.
Caine choked back nausea, surprised by the rush of emotion that went through him: Why Nolan? Why now? Why not Downing, that bastard? Nolan—liked me. In a world where no one knows me anymore, he liked me.
The circle around Caine and Nolan had grown still. Somewhere, beyond the ring of witnesses who would soon be mourners, clipped, urgent orders were being given by the security entourage in the ongoing attempt to save a life that was now beyond saving.
Caine looked at the surrounding faces without seeing them. “He’s gone.”
He laid Nolan’s hand down, and withdrew his own.
CIRCE
He withdrew his two fingers from the box, closed it, caught it up and dropped it in the open container of acid. A gout of steamy, acrid vapor shot straight up, accompanied by an agitated hissing and a short, rising squeal that clipped off abruptly—not unlike a small animal being killed sharply, painfully.
Using the two fingers that had been in the box—which were now mottled red, as if they had been scalded—he produced a final olive from his shirt pocket and popped it in his mouth.
His other hand had already uncoupled the binoculars from the tripod. Carefully, leaning away from the container, he dumped these two components—one after the other—into the jar. A slower, roiling bubbling and guttering brewed up out of the container. He waited for it to subside, making sure that there was not much more gas being produced by the reaction, and then recapped the jar. He looked out over the blue Aegean and, smiling broadly, spat out the olive pit in the direction of the Temple of Poseidon.
He turned and headed for the stairway that led down and out of the duplex.
MENTOR
The rough stairs that led down and away from the Temple of Poseidon were a writhing Brueghel tapestry of chaos, panic, and counterproductive activity. Emergency workers rushed up, rushed down again to get additional gear from their ambulances. Security types spiraled out, produced guns, stood uncertainly, called for further instructions, reholstered their weapons, cycled back inward. Several of the delegates were trying to get away quickly; several realized that help was no longer possible and were trying to stay out of the way; others who had held back from the first saw that the crisis had resolved and were now putting on the face-saving skit of attempting to offer assistance.
Downing looked at Nolan and couldn’t move, could only think: How could this happen, here, now? Nolan, this was your triumph. This was what you had lived for and had put aside your loves in order to accomplish. And now this? This is the reward for good and true service, for the countless missed dinners, Christmas pageants, baseball games? For the smiles you were not there to receive, the hugs you were not there to elicit, the “I love you’s” that were not said because you were not there to hear them?
“Downing.”
Richard looked up, hearing hostility in the tone. Caine was facing him across Nolan’s body. But Riordan must have seen something in Richard’s face, because his own became less rigid, his eyes less accusing. “Richard,” he revised, more neutral.
“Yes?”
“This may not be a simple heart attack. But either way—orders?”
At first, Downing didn’t understand. Then he realized that Riordan was already thinking again: Nolan’s death needed investigating—and quickly. And then the real blow hit him: he was in charge of IRIS, now.
Whether he liked it or not.
Chapter Twenty-Six
MENTOR
The tilt-rotor banked steeply as it angled toward the city center vertipad. Downing turned his head, caught a glimpse of the Reflecting Pool as it swept behind them. The sun winked briefly off the dark bar of water; almost noon. Not enough time for the government car to get him to the Capitol Building on time. But Tarasenko would be running late, too—and after all, it was Downing who was in charge now, who was the unofficial heir-apparent to IRIS.
But like a monarch dying intestate, Nolan had left behind no definitive instructions as to how, and by whom, succession was to be effected. It was possible, even likely, that Tarasenko had the complete blueprint for how to proceed—but if so, that put him in position to take control of IRIS himself, to falsify or withhold postmortem directives—
Downing started: he wasn’t sure whether it was at the slightly off-center landing of the tilt-rotor, or at his own cynicism. Good grief, man, you’ve worked with Arvid Tarasenko for over twenty years: he’s a good man. But losing Nolan so suddenly had Downing running from pillar to post, trying to pick up the pieces, even wondering who could be trusted and who couldn’t. So I wind up suspecting everybody.