The Oracle Year(104)

She tapped the cover of the notebook with one fingernail.

“But this . . . this is all big picture, isn’t it? This is The Big Picture, you might say.”

“Yeah,” Will said. “It is.”

“Mm,” the Coach said. “It pushes plausibility to suggest that you prepared this on the off chance you might run into me. I just skimmed, but it seems to strongly suggest that something very bad will happen unless you, personally, stop it.”

“That is exactly what I have been trying to say.”

“Fine, fine,” the Coach said, her tone irritated. “But you have to understand—it is a very big deal for me not to follow through on an assignment. Getting things done is my entire brand. So, if I am going to consider not killing you, then I will need a very good reason.”

She held up the notebook.

“This—” she said, “how bad are we talking?”

“End of the world,” Will said. “And we have no time.”

“About what I thought,” the Coach said. “So saving you means I’m saving myself, and my husband, and my children and grandchildren, just as the lovely Ms. Shore suggested.”

She looked out the window, toward the waterfall visible through the slightly warped, imperfect panes, and tapped her fingers against her lips.

“Okay,” she said, turning back to Will and holding out the notebook. “Do what you have to do.”

Feeling a bit dazed, Will took the notebook.

“But please, don’t forget that I came here to kill you,” she went on. “I am not your friend. Bluffs, trickery, or chicanery of any kind will result in . . .”

The Coach gestured at Grunfeld, who lifted his gun in a mildly threatening way.

“I’m sure it won’t come to that, though,” she said, smiling. “Now, where are we going?”

Will stared at the Coach, trying to think of any ruse, any bluff that could get them away. He looked at Leigh, the woman who had, without any doubt, just saved his life. Her eyes were wide, clearly hoping he would return the favor.

“Denver,” he said.





Chapter 42




“We believe the Chinese incursion into Pakistan’s airspace was entirely intentional, Mr. President.”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Ira Blackman, pointed with his pen to the large screen taking up most of the far wall of the Situation Room. It was currently showing a satellite image of the Pakistan/China border, with various air-and land-based military units from both sides overlaid on the map as graphic chits—China in red, Pakistan in yellow.

The scans are all clean, Daniel Green thought, but the doctors made it clear that doesn’t mean anything. Lymphatic cancer comes on quickly. I could be clean one week and have one foot in the grave the next.

“A display of power in the wake of the Oracle’s prediction about the revolution in a few years. They want to show they’re as strong as ever,” the national security adviser added.

Green reached for a cup of coffee in front of him—full, black—and took a sip. It was hot, and perfect. The world was ending, but God forbid they let the president’s coffee get cold.

“But they turned around, right?” Green asked, sending the question out to the twenty or so uniformed military advisers crowded into the room. “It wasn’t an actual attack?”

“Correct, Mr. President. The Pakistanis scrambled fighters to intercept, and the Chinese returned across their own border,” the chairman said.

“Do we think they will attack?” Green said.

A long, not entirely reassuring glance between the national security adviser and the chairman.

“Not without provocation, sir.”

“Define provocation,” Green said, almost—almost—wishing he hadn’t sent Tony Leuchten away. He was better at dealing with the military.

“Almost anything. A misunderstood order from home, an itchy trigger finger . . . but the most likely cause would be T?r?kul launching his nuclear weapon at the city of Uth,” the national security adviser replied.

“The Sword of God,” Green said.

“Correct.”

“And we still can’t find the goddamned thing?”

“Not yet, sir. We have drones scanning the region looking for radiation signatures, but the terrain makes it extremely challenging. If he’s got it stashed in a cave, or a deep valley, we might never—”

The door to the Situation Room opened—in itself an unusual enough situation that every head in the room turned to look. Green’s secretary, a formidable woman named Meredith, entered and walked over to him. She leaned down and spoke quietly into his ear.

“Telephone call, Mr. President.”

“I presume it’s extraordinarily important, or you wouldn’t be telling me about it,” Green said.

Meredith nodded.

“It’s a Major Carter Grunfeld, Mr. President. He used an authorization code I wasn’t familiar with: Sundown. Do you want to speak to him?”

Green’s mouth quirked upward.

“Sundown,” he said. “Yes. Put him through.”

“Very good, sir,” Meredith said.

She lifted the handset for his secure phone, tapped a few buttons on its face, and handed it to him.