The Oracle Year(66)

“Don’t be an idiot,” Hamza said.

“All right, good,” Will said. “I’ll take you up on that. Feels like a weird night to be solo. I’m sure the lights will be back on in an hour, but you know.”

“I do.”

They headed north, hunching their shoulders against the cold. After a few minutes, Will spoke.

“Thanks for trying to help back there. You sort of did a crap job, but thank you.”

“Just pray life never puts me in that situation again,” Hamza said. “I don’t like being forced to hurt people.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you actually get anything from those guys before they decided to kill you? What did you say to get them so riled up?”

“I asked them if they were in New York for some kind of leave, and they said no, they were supposed to be carrying a bunch of soldiers from a base in Northern Ireland to somewhere in Asia, one of the ’Stans, I think. It was hard to understand them—they were Welsh. But then their boat got diverted, and they put in here instead.”

“Huh,” Hamza said, considering.

“That’s about it. I tried to ask them what the soldiers were going to do over there, and that’s when it fell apart. I guess I pushed too hard.”

“I guess so.”

“So what we get from that is this: either the Site doesn’t want soldiers in that ’Stan or does want them here. But why? I have no idea.”

“And so here we are, out in the cold, having learned essentially nothing. Great night out, Will.”

“Mmm.”

“And so I suppose you still want to do that interview.”

“Suppose so. But I’ll stick to what I said. No crowdsourcing.”

“It’s a start,” Hamza said.

They trudged along Lafayette Street in silence for a few moments, both taking in how dark the streets were, even with the lights from traffic.

“You know,” Hamza said. “The walk uptown will take us through Union Square. I don’t think I’ve been back there since the riot.”

“Me neither,” Will said, his voice tight.

“You remember that woman who interviewed us for a minute that day? The hot one?”

Will stopped. He turned his head, meeting Hamza’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he said.

Will looked away.

“Thought so,” Hamza said. “I looked her up. Leigh Shore. I don’t even know why you told me her name. You didn’t think I’d look her up? Why her, Will?”

“I’ve read her work. She’s actually written about the Oracle before, and she’s good. Maybe I thought I’d give the interview to someone who could actually use the break,” Will said. “Or maybe it’s because she wasn’t afraid. You saw her, man—even when those riots started, she wanted to rush right in. If I’m going to do this, I want to talk to someone who isn’t afraid.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you tell yourself, just remember that she’s seen you before. She’s talked to you. You don’t think she could make the connection? I know you want to do this in disguise, but still. It just seems . . .”

“What does it seem like? What?” Will said, shouting.

“It seems like . . . you’re walking into traffic again,” Hamza said, his voice quiet.

Will looked out at the dark city, the streets lit only by headlights, shadows trudging along the sidewalks. Sirens from every direction.

“Maybe I am,” he said.

He put his hand on Hamza’s shoulder.

“Guess you’ll have to make sure I don’t get hit.”

He turned and walked north, Hamza following a moment later.

Fifty blocks and twenty-three flights of stairs later, Will pulled open the thick steel fire door leading out to Hamza’s floor. He paused to look back down the stairwell, where flashlight beams sliced through the pitch black, weaving through the shadows. Snatches of echoed conversation bounced off the concrete walls.

Out in the hall, Hamza pulled his keys from his pocket and inserted them in the lock. The handle turned before he had a chance to touch it, and the door opened, pulling the key ring out of his hand.

Miko stood framed in the doorway by candlelight spilling out from the apartment, wearing a long coat.

“Oh thank God,” she said, and immediately wrapped her arms around Hamza.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Hamza said, stroking her hair. “It’s just a blackout.”

Will looked away. This seemed very much a husband-wife moment.

Miko let Hamza go, sniffling slightly and laughing at herself.

“Not really,” she said. “Hey, Will.”

“Hey, Miko.”

“Will’s going to crash here, if that’s okay,” Hamza said.

“Of course,” Miko said. “Come in, both of you. The stove’s gas—it still works. I made coffee.”

They entered the apartment, pleasantly illuminated by twenty or thirty candles in all sorts of holders—candelabras, glasses, empty jam jars. Will and Hamza unbuttoned their coats but kept them on. It wasn’t anywhere near as cold inside as it was on the street, but the building had a modern central heating system. It didn’t work without power, and the warmth they had generated by walking up twenty-plus floors was rapidly dissipating.