The Oracle Year(51)

“I had a system for this,” he muttered.

He pulled out a sheet of paper, then discarded it.

“I’ve been trying to understand why the Site’s doing what it’s doing,” Will went on. “What it wants. I don’t have all the pieces yet. I’m not really built for this. It’s all over the place. Economics, politics . . . all kinds of things. But I think I see some of it. None of this is random. I didn’t get the predictions just so you and I could get rich. Something else is happening.”

Hamza took a deep breath. He thought about men with guns, and the sandbagged checkpoint he’d had to cross to get into the hotel, and riots at the Oracle rallies, and the near-constant attacks on the Site from governments all over the world, and the Lucky Corner, and several billion dollars, and Miko, and his child.

He held his breath, not sure that Will was ready for what he was about to tell him. Not sure that he was ready to know it.

“Tell him, Hamza,” Miko said.

Will looked at him, curious.

“Tell me what?”

Hamza exhaled.

“I know what it wants,” he said.

Will paused his paper shuffling and looked up at him.

“Please, Hamza—don’t tell me there’s nothing here. Don’t tell me I’m too worked up about this or some bullshit like that. I’m not. This is real.”

Hamza reached out and put his hand on Will’s shoulder.

“I know,” he said. “Just listen.”

He spoke. He described the connection he’d found between Pittaluga’s death and martial law in Uruguay and the nationalization of the TransPipe offshore operation. He talked about the way these things had affected the global economy, the precision and foresight needed to engineer such a chain of events, and his strong belief that it almost had to be intentional.

Will went very still.

“Well,” he said.

“It’s all true,” Hamza said. “I know it sounds impossible, but I think that’s what the Site was doing, this whole time. I don’t understand why, but—”

“Heh,” Will said. “TransPipe. I missed that one.”

Hamza narrowed his eyes.

“What?” he said.

“Right in front of me,” Will said. “Right out the damn window. Should have seen it.”

He bent back to the pile of papers and pulled out a single sheet—something that looked like a heavily annotated list. He folded it and shoved it in his pocket, then stood up. He turned and walked to the door, slipping his feet into a pair of sandals.

“Come on,” he said, and left the room.

Hamza and Miko looked at each other, but there wasn’t really anything to be said.

The elevator ride was silent. Miko reached out and took Hamza’s hand, and they rode down all ten floors that way, with Hamza regretting involving Miko more with each floor they passed.

The doors opened, and they stepped out into the Hotel Carrasco’s ornate, nearly empty lobby. Will headed for the hotel’s exit, avoiding eye contact with the many security guards stationed strategically throughout the huge, open space—guards armed with automatic rifles, in uniforms that were one flag patch away from full-on military fatigues.

A few members of the staff milled around, attempting to look like they had something to do in a city that had been depleted of luxurious travelers by a declaration of martial law. A lovely young woman at the concierge desk looked up, hopeful, but dropped her eyes as soon as she saw Will. Hamza wondered fleetingly if Will had somehow taken her to the Pittaluga thing.

Will pushed through the revolving doors and out into the plaza beyond.

Miko tugged Hamza’s hand, pulling him to a stop.

“How is he?” she asked. “Because he seems bad.”

“I . . . yeah,” he said, feeling entirely helpless.

Miko gestured at the revolving doors.

“Let’s go.”

Will stood on the wide plaza in front of the hotel near a large, sparkling fountain. The white sand of the Playa Carrasco was visible past the heavy traffic on the double-lane road between the hotel and the beach, the Rambla Républica de México, and the dark, sun-dappled sea beyond. The fountain provided a light, tinkling accompaniment to the breeze coming in off the beach. It was all very inviting, if you ignored the military emplacements.

“Before I say anything,” Will said, “especially because of that . . .”

He pointed at Miko’s belly.

“. . . I want you to know that I think you both should get as far away from me, and the Site, as you can. Stay out of it. This isn’t your problem. It’s mine. You’ve already done so much for me, and if you want to go, this is the right time to do it. I won’t be angry.”

Will folded his arms and looked back out at the sea.

“You’re better off in the dark,” he said. “I mean it.”

Hamza turned to look at his wife. A long moment, and then Miko gave a little nod.

“Tell us,” Hamza said.

Will sighed.

“Okay. There’s something happening with the Site,” he began. “It’s not just TransPipe and that one prediction about Pittaluga. It’s all of them. The predictions are connecting. They’re . . .”

Will stopped and took a breath.