Katonah, New York
Belknap pulled over at a distance from the drive to the Bancroft Foundation, climbed over a stone wall, and made his way toward the headquarters in the dim light of early evening. It was like encountering a camouflaged jumbo jet in the forest: At first he saw nothing, and then he saw something so large he wondered how he could ever have missed it. It was after hours on a Sunday. Officially the place was no doubt uninhabited. But he couldn’t assume that. And where was Andrea? Was she somehow being held captive on these very grounds?
On the side of the drive, by an ancient linden tree about thirty yards from the office building, he crouched down, checked his watch, and then opened the wireless notebook-sized PC that the computer scientist had given him. Following Sachs’s instructions, he keyed his way into the chatroom, a virtual space for real-time communication. Sachs had done what he’d asked him to do; and Genesis, prodded by what appeared to be a senatorial request, had agreed to communicate in the chatroom, albeit via an opaquing system. Now it was the appointed time. The wireless computer seemed sluggish, but it did its job.
“Questions have arisen about your relation with Bancroft,” Belknap typed.
A quiet ping, and a string of words appeared in a box underneath.
Your job, Senator, is to “identify the rot and remove it,” in your words. I can only point you in the right direction.
Belknap typed “I must know whether your information is tainted by the method by which you acquired it.”
A rejoinder appeared seconds later.
The “fruit of the poisoned tree” is a legal doctrine. The evidence I have supplied you is for you to use to guide your investigations. You must prepare your own evidentiary exhibitions.
“But what is your interest in this?” Belknap typed, and then scrambled further down the drive.
My interest is in bringing a monstrous conspiracy to an end. Only you have the ability to stop it.
Another sprint, and then he typed: “Yet your name inspires terror across the world.”
My name, yes. But then my renown resides in the fact that I do not exist.
Belknap’s heart began to thud as he approached the main door of the foundation’s headquarters, still carrying the wireless notebook. He peered through the door’s leaded glass. It was unlocked, and as he entered the darkened, empty entrance hall he smelled lemon oil and old wood. He also grew aware of music, playing softly. String instruments, an organ, voices—something baroque. He typed and transmitted another question, and then crept silently in the direction of the music. The perfectly mitered floorboards did not squeak or groan beneath the Persian runners. The door was ajar to the small office from where the music was emanating. He saw the back of a high chair, silhouetted by the glow of a larger computer screen.
Belknap could almost imagine that his pounding heart was audible throughout the mansion.
A soft tap-tap-tap of keys, and, on Belknap’s own computer a few seconds later, another line of script appeared.
The commonweal can only be served one at a time. For each is as precious as all.
The hairs on Belknap’s nape stood up. He was in this room with Genesis.
The mastermind—the puppet master—was seated just twenty feet away from him.
From a CD player on a bookshelf, recorders piped, then a rich mezzo sang sad liturgical music. Bach, Belknap decided. One of the masses? Dimly he associated it with an Easter service he had attended, and the name came to him. “St. Matthew’s Passion.” He put the computer aside and pulled a handgun soundlessly from his jacket.
Finally Belknap spoke. “They say that everyone who sees you dies.” He trained a gun at the back of the tall office chair. “I’d like to test that hypothesis.”
“That’s kids’ stuff,” replied Genesis. The voice was—not that of a man. “Fairy tales. You’re too old for that.” The person in the chair slowly revolved to face him.
It was a boy. Straw-colored hair that formed a heap of curls, apple cheeks. He was slender in his T-shirt and shorts, his legs and arms almost hairless.
A boy. Twelve, thirteen?
“You’re Genesis?” Belknap’s voice was hushed in astonishment.
The boy smiled. “Don’t tell my dad. I mean it.”
“You’re Genesis.” A statement this time. The room seemed to spin slowly, like a platform at an amusement park.
“Genesis is my avatar, yeah.” His voice was not a child’s soprano, but it wasn’t an adult’s baritone, either. “I’m guessing you’re Todd Belknap.”
Belknap nodded, speechless. He grew aware of his slack jaw, struggled to remember to breathe.
“Call me Brandon.”
Brandon Bancroft. Not the father. The son.
“Want some Sprite?” the boy asked. “No? I was gonna have some.”