The Oracle Year(49)

“Don’t you think it’s just a coincidence?” she said. “No one knew about your deal with TransPipe—you told me all those clients paid most of their money to you to keep the predictions secret. No one could have known that the prediction about the actor would end up with martial law in Uruguay. Coincidence.”

Hamza repeated his routine of looking everywhere in the room but at her, then finally took back the notepad and flipped it to the next densely covered page, tapping his pencil against the yellow paper.

“I don’t know, Meeks,” he said. “Even if TransPipe doesn’t completely collapse, this has thrown a ton of instability into the markets. No one knows what Uruguay will do with that oil, if anything. Gas prices are starting to spike. It’s getting all wibbly-wobbly out there. Globally.”

“So?” Miko said. “This is like the thousandth time you’ve told me a story about the market falling, or rising, or hedging, or calling. Why is this different?”

“Because it kind of feels to me like maybe someone planned it.”

“You mean Will did this?” Miko asked. “Why would he—?”

Hamza laughed—bleak, worrisome.

“Will couldn’t have done this. Not in a million years. He doesn’t know anything about the way global financial markets work, and planning something like this . . . you’d need a thorough understanding of all the pieces. Not just oil, but old political stuff in Uruguay, the way their society works . . . Will’s smart, but he’s . . . he’s a musician, you know?”

“Okay, then. Like I said, it’s a coincidence,” Miko said. “No one could know all that.”

“They could . . .” Hamza said, absently doodling on the notepad, his gaze distant, “. . . with hindsight.”

“I thought the predictions don’t mean anything, Hamza. There’s no big plan . . . no purpose behind it all.”

Hamza’s eyes snapped back to meet hers. He looked . . . afraid.

“Miko . . . what if I’m wrong?”

Miko considered. Part of her wanted to run as far as she could from anything connected to the Oracle or Will Dando—but another part, apparently larger, wasn’t sure that would do any damn good.

“You need to tell this to Will,” she said. “Talk to him in person. You both need it.”

“How?” Hamza said, spreading his arms in frustration. “I don’t know where the fuck he is!”

Miko reached down to her purse. She pulled out the envelope and tossed it down on the table, where it landed between them with a muffled slap.

“Now you do,” she said.

“What?” Hamza said, confused, looking at the envelope.

“Uruguay,” Miko said. “Will’s in Uruguay.”

Hamza let out a long sigh.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course he is.”





Chapter 20




A sign hung on the door to room 918: por favor, no molestar, with the English equivalent printed below it.

“Uh-huh,” Hamza said.

Hamza rapped his knuckles against the door, hard enough to hurt a little, making a sharp noise in the otherwise empty hallway.

“Can you come back later?” came Will’s voice through the door, muffled.

“No, Will, I can’t,” Hamza said, loud. “Open the goddamn door.”

A long pause, and then the sound of latches releasing, deadbolts chocking back, and a low creak as the door opened, revealing Will Dando’s very surprised face.

He looked like he’d just woken up—hair sticking up in greasy clumps, an overall vibe of groggy unwashedness.

“Hamza?” he said. “How the hell did you find me?”

“I didn’t,” Hamza answered.

He turned and pointed back down the hallway.

“She did.”

Will moved forward, looking in the direction Hamza indicated, to see a slim, lovely woman whose belly showed the faintest curve, nothing that anyone but her husband would ever notice.

“Hi, Will,” Miko said.

Will’s head turned, slowly, to look at Hamza. His face was almost blank.

“Does . . . does she . . .”

“Yeah,” Hamza said. “Everything.”

Will looked down, his fists slowly clenching, his forearms trembling with the strain.

“I can’t believe you fucking told her,” he said, then turned and stepped back into his room, leaving the door open.

Hamza opened his mouth to shout out a reply, then felt a hand on his arm. He looked and saw that it was Miko, her face pale but composed.

“We don’t know,” she said. “We don’t know what he’s been dealing with. It’s all right. Let’s just talk to him.”

Hamza nodded and entered the hotel room where Will had been living. He stopped, shocked. It was a sty. Unmade bed, half-eaten trays of room service, empty beer cans and bottles, towels and papers scattered across every surface.

Behind him, he heard Miko follow him in and close the door. Will was waiting, staring at him, his face dark.

“Jesus, Will,” Hamza said. “This is a hotel. They’ll clean up for you. This is . . . this is just filthy.”

Will glanced around the room. He shrugged.