"He's going to pick up the envelope."
His informant on the other end of the line sounded certain. In response, David pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
"Very well. Keep working and focus on the other targets," he finally replied before hanging up. It was his first and last call of the day; the other two matters had already been handled by his informants on their own initiative.
The wall in front of his desk was covered with thousands of portraits of people he had never met but had to eliminate—men and women of every ethnicity and profession from all across the United States. Once only one portrait remained, he would have found his quarry.
Yet David wasn't fooled.
He had never managed to unmask his predecessor and, practically speaking, had little chance of finding his successor—even if the present moment might be the best opportunity he would ever get.
To clear his head, David rose from his chair and walked to the back of the room. The entire wall was gridded with mismatched panels and portraits, each one tied to a different simulation. There was no window or opening to the outside; the only light came from a single white bulb.
To an untrained eye, David stood before an ordinary investigation board. The only difference was that the photograph pinned at its center was blurry, probably taken by a security camera years before.
"What are last night's simulation results?" David asked.
His voice echoed off the walls. He was alone, as usual, but a woman's voice answered a few seconds later.
"I have a probability of 71.2 % for simulation 46502 and 98.9 % for simulation 47604."
"Seventy-one point two?"
"You know perfectly well we're missing a crucial piece of information. It's very hard for me to move forward while keeping the number of conjectures—and the butterfly effect—in check."
David knew it and merely nodded. After so many years at the same job, he was the first to accept that he would never reach absolute truth. One hundred percent—or even 99.9—was impossible in their world, where lying and manipulation were more natural than breathing. Even so, one point still surprised him.
"I thought we were stuck around seventy-four percent. Did Alex Reddick raise uncertainty instead of lowering it?"
"The probability that he accepted a bribe in exchange for the room number now stands at 99.2 %. I traced the money to an account used by the yakuza, yet the likelihood that John died by their hand is still negligible. Two shots were fired before John fell from the first-floor window and the third rang out. The problem is, we don't know whether he's dead. Serge arrived first on the scene, and no one has been able to get within a hundred meters of it. It's doubly problematic: we have no direct witness, and uncertainty is still maximal because of Serge."
David took several seconds to think before concluding, "The old man's a pain in the ass."
He hated every simulation in which uncertainty topped 50 %—which happened in every event even remotely linked to Serge. The problem wasn't a lack of informants; it was the lunatic's sheer unpredictability. The old madman had been far too quiet for thirty years for David not to be suspicious.
"What about the results for simulation 46502?" he asked to change the subject.
Alex Reddick was going to die for sure. The question had always been when, how, and how his father would react.
"There are two predominant outcomes in that scenario, depending solely on the time of death. In nearly ninety percent of cases he's shot at the end of the ceremony, after you've left the cemetery. In his rage Bernard Reddick then goes after one of the princes he blames. But Amanda or Ethan must not die if we want to keep fluctuations in other simulations to a minimum."
"Have you found an effective way to keep them alive?"
"It all depends on the target. According to my data—out of gallantry or sexism—there's a higher chance the old man will aim at Ethan rather than Amanda. In those scenarios, Serge's interference clouds the results again. If he doesn't intervene, a bit of pressure on Jo Reagan should prompt him to act at the right moment."
David glanced at Bernard's photo on the wall.
"Are there scenarios where I'm his target?"
"There are 103 in total out of several hundred million samples—seventy-one during the ceremony, when you'll be separated from your bodyguards. In all of them, Jo shoots him without hesitation to save his own life. I checked those scenarios to the end in spite of their abyssal probability because I knew you'd ask."
That was the advantage of working with a super-computer this powerful: whatever happened, he could always react optimally and maximise his chances.
"'The best is the enemy of the good,' said Voltaire. I doubt he imagined a world where algorithms anticipate human emotions better than we do."
The voice broke his reverie.
"Your helicopter is ready for take-off."
That was his cue to leave. He turned from John's blurred portrait, returned to his desk and grabbed his suit jacket. It smelled of oranges and warm macarons—his two favorite scents.
The armored door—like a bank vault's—took several seconds to rumble open and shut once he'd left the room. The rest of the apartment resembled a classic penthouse: broad picture windows, white walls striped with black bands, a sleek modern feel. The only difference was the total absence of staff. He hadn't left the place since moving in nearly thirty years ago and needed no cooks, cleaners or bodyguards. All he needed was information—always more information.
Beyond the glass he'd never opened waited a black helicopter trimmed with gold. Two men wearing tinted glasses and earpieces—bodyguards sent by Serge—stood aboard.
"Those two men have served him for over a decade, just as we predicted. I'll finish checking the simulations in seven seconds."
David climbed in after savoring the fresh air for a moment. They were high enough that he couldn't smell exhaust fumes or hear traffic horns.
"No change expected on the horizon."
That was the kind of sentence David liked. He turned to the two men who would serve as his bodyguards for the next few hours.
"I'm counting on you," he said with a smile.
They would be of no use to him, and they seemed to know it, merely nodding in silence. Like the Swiss Guards at the Vatican, Serge had sent them purely for show. That madman had always cared more for his organization's prestige and rules than anything else on Earth.
"Not that it bothers me."
The more the name Promise echoed around the world, the greater his own power grew. Of course it brought betrayals and manipulations of every kind, often foreseen by his super-computer. He could then replace failing informants, read their reports backward, or recruit more personnel to cross-check sources.
"Mako Fujiwara has just left her building for the cemetery."
David still couldn't understand why she would walk toward her own death.
"Those foreigners really don't know what they're dealing with," he muttered.
The rotor's roar drowned his words to the two men a few steps away.
"Their greed and arrogance have always been in the database, David. I'll have finished checking the simulations in four seconds—just in time for the helicopter to land."
Like an oracle, the helicopter touched down at the predicted second, the rotors stopping in sync with the confirmation David wanted to hear: "No change expected on the horizon."
He stepped out, closely trailed by his two rented mountains. The helicopter had landed ten meters from the gates; it took off again in a swirl of orange leaves. Four of the eight guests had arrived already, along with the undertaker. George was chatting with Mr Smith, Jo was likely plotting quietly with Bernard, and Alex waited for the ceremony to begin, smoking a cigarette.
In his ear the super-computer kept checking.
"No change expected on the horizon."
David walked to a secluded corner and took a bite of a warm macaron. He had to involve himself as little as possible to minimize his influence on the butterfly effect.
"Even though I'll have to talk to Jo," he thought.
That would be his only personal involvement today. After that, he would simply watch events unfold from a distance.
Eye of the cyclone or not, the gusts could not be allowed to bring him down.
That was no longer true, however, for the person in the middle of the motorcade that had just arrived. The line of cars seemed to stretch the length of the street—by extension, the whole town—spewing an unbroken stream of bodyguards. Mako Fujiwara stepped out of her Rolls-Royce only after the miniature army had taken up its positions.
David had to admit she was even more beautiful in person than in the photographs, yet neither her looks nor her escorts would protect her today.
Without realizing it she had broken Promesse's cardinal rule: no blood may be spilled on the ground of one of its hotels—and she would pay for her ignorance the moment she crossed the cemetery's heavy gates.
The cemetery was the Director's domain. He alone chose who entered and who left. Many members of the organization would have loved to come uninvited, and no bodyguard was admitted without an invitation.
Alex and Bernard Reddick, by every logical projection, would die outside the cemetery; David's calculations showed the young Fujiwara dying inside the railings once she was separated from her protectors.
"Ignorance is the root of arrogance," he muttered as a greeting to the young woman.
He searched her for a weapon, unconcerned by her furious glare.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Mako sounded livid, and that made him smile.
"That's what I should be asking you. Strolling in without a weapon on your person. I do hope you have one in your handbag at least."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugged, taking his time to clean his glasses.
"The probability she's carrying a firearm in her purse is negligible. No change expected on the horizon."
He liked to be thorough.
"Your father must have warned you how dangerous it was to come here today. All you can hope for now is to leave the country before the organization gets hold of your traitor. Otherwise I doubt you can run away in one piece."
"And why do you think you'll manage to catch me? You underestimate the yakuza clan, Mr Prince."
She's fishing for information. At least her intelligence is not inversely proportional to her beauty, he thought appreciatively.
It had been a long time since anyone spoke to him so confidently while ignoring the reach of his network, and he had to admit it was refreshing.
"I underestimate no one, Miss Fujiwara, not even the homeless men sleeping under a warehouse roof. A life is too fragile to allow the slightest uncertainty. A bullet fired by a child who stole his father's rifle or by an exceptional killer like John is still a bullet that can take your life. You may not care about yours, Miss Fujiwara, but I care deeply about mine."
Mako let out a crystalline laugh that pleased his ears.
"I don't care about my life? You seem to know me inside out and to think I'm dying to end it all."
He put his glasses back on.
"I don't claim to know you, but I know everything you've done in this city over the past months."
"Prince of Information, I presume?"
"The one and only. So you also know what status John held, and why you were playing with fire."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Mako answered without a blink, her face a perfect mask of indifference. David had never been a professional at reading emotions or lies, nor did he care; 99.2 percent was ample proof of her involvement.
"Her indifference just bumped the probability to 99.4. Checking fallout on the other simulations."
He could only chuckle softly at the confirmation.
"Denying it is useless; the truth will come out soon enough. For my part, I don't care what happened to him or what happens to you."
He paused to catch his breath, winded by his own laughter.
"I'm merely a spectator in everything that is happening and will happen, Miss Fujiwara. You, on the other hand, played with fire, so it's only a matter of time before you get burned. You tried to assassinate him and you'll pay—even if you failed."
"I find it hard to believe someone in your position, with your power, can just stay passive," she replied, eyes narrowing.
He shrugged again, offering no real explanation.
"I've never been interested in the title of Prince of War. I don't care what befell him or who takes his place. The other factions, though... instability means opportunity, and they won't miss it. It'll be up to Amanda to defend her power, not me. In fact, here they come."
Ethan looked lost in thought while Amanda, stunning in her scarlet dress, was the killer—perhaps the most beautiful killer of them all.
"Who are they?" Mako asked.
"Those two? You ought to know."
There weren't many options, especially after he'd admitted to being the Prince of Information. Ethan could be either the Director or the Prince of Logistics—one rather less likely than the other.
"The woman on the right is Amanda, the young man on the left is Ethan. You know their roles in our organization and therefore their rank. I realize they could be helpful in whatever you're trying to do, yet I advise you to give it up."
"And why is that?" Mako turned toward him.
"They were close to John. I shouldn't need to say more for you to grasp the problem."
She must be hoping to use one of the princes to gain a new powerful ally, but she would have done better to save her breath.
Seeing she was mulling his advice over, he slipped away to join Jo.
The man wore a warm smile, even though three-quarters of the simulations agreed he hated David. David could understand: given how many dossiers he had on him, the contradiction was that—despite the hatred—Jo was perhaps the person least eager to see him dead.
"The weather's really dreadful today, don't you think, Mr Reagan?"
"Indeed, Mr Anderson—alerts say a storm will hit the city within an hour."
David kept walking toward the cemetery gate, forcing Jo to match his pace.
"I don't believe it will take that long, Mr Reagan. You see, the season of storms has arrived."
He explained no further, keeping a mysterious, aggravating smile on his lips.
That should do, he thought, and headed for Serge.
He shook the old man's hand; Serge, too, wore a faint smile. David knew that the day the Director brought out his cigar case would be a bloody day. The rest was uncertain.
He passed through the gates without a word, Jo at his heels.
"I recalculated the simulations. You need to be more direct if you want Jo useful at the critical moment."
He turned to Jo, still wearing that same warm grin.
"You'll kill Bernard when the time comes?"
That ought to suffice, and the super-computer seemed to agree.
"What do you mean by that?"
Jo spat the question with hostility, but it didn't soften David.
A shrug was his only answer.
My job is done. Now I just have to enjoy the show.
He watched Jo quicken his step and move away. Bernard was unlikely to survive his son's death, but it was admirable that Jo tried to save him.
David pulled an orange macaron from his pocket, popped it into his mouth in one bite, and resumed walking.
"No change expected on the horizon."
He reached John's grave.
Nihil nisi negotium, nihil personale.
His super-computer translated in a fraction of a second:
"The Latin phrase can be rendered 'Nothing personal, just business'. This is odd. It can't have been spoken or heard by John since he was deaf and mute. Perhaps Amanda said it? Impossible to reconcile the phrase in the simulation. We're entering a zone of uncertainty. Caution advised, David."
He nodded absently, refocusing on the undertaker's speech.
"Thank you all for coming today to honor him. May he rest in peace."
Biggest lie he'd heard all day. Only one person had come to pay respects—two if you counted that Washington lunatic—while the rest were glad he was dead. The List had that fascinating power, turning everyone against you.
David and his super-computer had been stunned when they learned the news. They hadn't believed Serge would take the risk.
Speak of the devil...
"You have an incoming call from Serge. Ignore it?"
The other guests seemed to have received a call as well.
"No—put him through. I'm curious what he has to say."
Serge's voice filled his ear.
"A helicopter will pick you up in a few minutes."
David needed no further explanation, and Serge hung up. The Director probably knew David better than anyone else in the organization.
He knew David would remain a spectator during the next few minutes.
BANG
A sniper's bullet ended young Reddick's life.
"We're veering off the main path. Recalculating simulations."
Father Reddick erupted in murderous frenzy.
"IT'S BECAUSE OF YOU AND YOUR SCHEMES THAT HE'S DEAD!"
David frowned at the barrel aimed at him.
One hundred and three out of several hundred million possibilities—about 0.0001 percent. Good thing I have a safety net, he thought, finding calm.
BANG
Jo had proved useful. The bullet speared Bernard's head, the violence of the impact drowned by the deafening report. The former hitman's body dropped like a stone into a lake, striking the ground hard and kicking dead leaves meters away. George wiped away a splatter of blood with the back of his hand, drew a gun, and ran off to confront the shooter—and probably die a little farther on.
David sat behind a tombstone. His back hurt and needed support. Once settled, he surveyed the others' reactions.
Mako seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown at the prospect of dying. Ethan's face still hadn't shown the slightest emotion while Amanda kept talking to him in a low voice, the topic beyond David's hearing.
"I've finished checking the simulations. Serge is probably blocking the cemetery gates from the outside to stop the targets escaping. But he'll be forced to open them when Amanda's group reaches him."
No surprise, given she commanded the organization's main armed force.
"Should we tell her about the yakuza assassins to speed things up?" he murmured, masked by another sniper shot.
"No need. Serge should have knowledge as detailed as ours after his own investigation. It's only a matter of minutes before he starts acting."
David ate a macaron and took a swig of whisky.
Mako was the first to speak after several long minutes of silence.
"What do we do?"
He finished the macaron before replying.
"That's for you to ask yourself."
"What do you mean?"
He carefully wiped the corner of his mouth.
"You're the targets, so you're the ones who should worry. Best decision is to stay hidden until your men arrive. You've dodged the wall of the storm; it would be a shame to be swept away now."
Too late for her, but a little hope wouldn't hurt.
"We've got a problem. Serge is blocking the gate."
Jo again.
"I'd have been surprised if he wasn't."
David turned to the other two princes.
"My helicopter should be here shortly. Need a ride?"
"No," Amanda answered curtly. "I don't know what he's thinking and I don't want to. If he believes he can get away unscathed, even the asylum can't help him."
Her voice was just a bit too cold for comfort.
Amanda's phone rang.
Cue for the grand finale, he thought as she faced him.
"Since when did you know?"
He merely raised his eyebrows—a technique he'd patented when dealing with Jo.
"Could you be more specific?"
Amanda's gaze switched to Mako.
"That this bitch ordered the hit."
What acting!
So refreshing to watch the action unfold from the front row.
Amanda stood before Mako could answer. With a flick of her hand she asked Jo for one of his guns.
"Wait, ma'am! I had nothing to do with your husband's death."
BANG
BANG BANG
Three shots, a faint whiff of sulfur—the matter settled like a western.
After a few more minutes, it was time for David to leave. The black helicopter with gold trim appeared above the cemetery walls, braving the squalls to land in a clear spot a few meters away.
"There's my taxi," he announced, standing and brushing a few leaves from his suit.
"We'll chat about all this tonight once everything's resolved."
He boarded only after the confirmation:
"Same men as on the way in. No change expected on the horizon."
The pilot managed to lift off only after several seconds—the winds too strong for precision. The helicopter rocked back and forth, slowly but surely gaining altitude to clear the cemetery walls.
"You have another call from Serge."
The wind and rotor noise made it hard to hear his own voice.
"Put him through."
Barely fractions of a second later, Serge's voice filled the earpiece.
"Do you remember that vote thirty years ago, my dear David?"
Before he could answer:
"I never forgot what happened that day."
Every alarm in his head began to scream.
"Major divergence detected! The Director has taken out his cigar case. Re-evaluating outcomes. Time remaining: four minutes and thirty-two seconds."
Serge's voice crushed his hopes.
"He should be reassessing the situation. Don't worry—he won't finish his calculations in time."
David had no chance to speak.
"Serge has produced a rocket launcher. Re-evaluating outcomes. Time remaining: twenty-three minutes and eleven seconds."
David rose from his seat. Despite the storm and deafening noise, he watched the rocket come.
The blast shredded his eardrums; the shock wave hurled him to the floor among the debris.
His eyes refused to open. What remained of his body refused to move.
So the grand finale is only just beginning.
Even if his internal earpiece had been reduced to ash in the explosion, he had programmed the doomsday scenario in advance.
His information would be released to every assassin, and only blood could quench their fury