The Oracle Year(61)

Hamza took a deep breath, then released it slowly.

“Okay. I’m not trying to be a dick, Will. I’m just . . . trying to figure all of this out. I just think that should be the priority. We can put this together, I know it.”

“Yeah,” Will answered, turning and walking up the street toward the corner. “That’s why we’re down here tonight, isn’t it? And tell you what. If we learn something tonight that cracks the case, then I’ll cancel the interview.”

“Wait, what?” Hamza said. “You’re still going to do it? But you just said—”

“I’ll do it. I just won’t talk about what the Site’s doing. I think I need to get out there. Change some minds about the Oracle. Let them know I’m not a monster. I need this, Hamza. I know we can do it safely. You’ll make sure.”

Hamza kicked at a piece of trash on the sidewalk, trying to decide if it was worth pushing back, visualizing Will in front of a reporter and feeling panic rising along his spine.

No. Let it go for now. Take the half victory and see what tomorrow might bring. Or tonight, even. After all, there was a chance this whole Aberdeen thing could actually pan out. Maybe they’d break it wide open, figure out what the Site was doing—if they could just find the damn bar.

Will pointed up the block.

“Look. There it is. MacAvoy’s.”

Halfway up the block, several clusters of people in identical dark coats stood smoking outside a bar with two huge bay windows that projected slightly over the sidewalk. A sign hanging above the door swung in the wind, a wood panel carved with an overflowing pint glass and the name of the bar.

The smokers all wore small, round white caps. As Will and Hamza drew closer, they could make out a dark stripe around the crown of the hats and could see that their jackets were classic navy peacoats.

“See?” Will said. “Those sure look like sailors to me.”

“Hey, I would never doubt the Oracle,” Hamza said. “I just questioned your intimate familiarity with the location of the sailor bar.”

They stopped across the street from MacAvoy’s. The sailors were now producing a chorus of low, raucous laughter.

“You’re sure they’re the ones we want?” Hamza said.

“Only one way to find out,” Will answered.

Hamza watched as Will crossed the street and approached the group. He said something—Hamza couldn’t quite make it out—and as one, the sailors’ heads swiveled to look at him.

They seemed amiable enough, but somehow still projected an undercurrent of chaos, like they were just killing time waiting for their evening to truly start, full of shouted imprecations, smashed bottles, and smashed heads.

The conversation seemed to draw to a close, and Will turned around and crossed the street to rejoin Hamza.

“Did you get the sense that you almost got your ass kicked there?” Hamza said. “Because I did.”

“I’m sure it’s just those guys. Smokers, you know. The ones inside will be friendlier,” Will said.

“That makes zero sense,” Hamza said. “Are they at least from the right ship?”

“Yeah,” Will said. “HMS Aberdeen. They wouldn’t tell me anything else, and I didn’t want to push it.”

“Oh man,” Hamza said. “There’s no way this doesn’t end with us both getting punched in the face.”

“We have to try. This is the first time we’ve seen a ripple hit New York since we started working on the Site’s plan. This is a chance to get ahead of it, for once. We might never get another opportunity like this.”

Hamza looked across the street at the bar, a spiked ball of nerves spinning in his stomach, counterbalanced by the fact that he knew Will was right.

MacAvoy’s was a dark-paneled enclave with all but a few square inches of wall space covered with photographs and framed newspaper articles from various points in the bar’s hundred-and-fifty-year history. The space was narrow up front by the bar, but widened in the back to a room with a few thickly constructed tables and chairs. Both sections were packed nearly wall to wall with men in dark blue uniforms, women to whom they were paying a great deal of attention, and pints.

Will and Hamza fought their way through the crowd and found a spot in a corner near the back.

“Okay, game plan?” Hamza said.

“Well, we know that the Aberdeen wasn’t due to dock in New York for months,” Will said. “It’s supposed to be part of that big NATO war game exercise in the North Atlantic, according to the articles we read. But it’s not there—it’s here, and we know that’s because of ripples from the Site. The connections are pretty clear.”

“‘Clear’ is relative when it comes to this stuff,” Hamza said, “but for the sake of argument, sure.”

“So it has to be one of two things,” Will continued. “Either the Site wants the Aberdeen here, or the Site doesn’t want it wherever it was originally supposed to go once the war games ended. What we really need to know is the ship’s mission. Until we figure that out, we don’t know what the Site is trying to accomplish.”

Hamza scanned the room.

“And even if we do, then what? Stop it? I hate to bring this up, but it didn’t work very well with the Lucky Corner.”