IF YOU EVER wondered what it was like to ride down a New York City street in the backseat of a taxi whose driver is whimpering “We are going to die, we are going to die, we are going to die,” I’ll tell you: it’s not fun.
He was careening from side to side. He sideswiped a parked minivan, then cut across two lanes and nearly collided head-on with a baby-supplies truck driver with a potty mouth.
The car screeched to a halt at a red light on Columbus Avenue. “I said go, not kill your passengers,” said the man in the leather jacket. He was holding a leather wallet, which he had just pulled from his jacket pocket. “If you expect a tip, I recommend you drive in a sane manner and deposit us alive at Riverside Drive.”
The driver looked warily over his shoulder. “This is not a stickup?”
“What? Of course it’s not.” The man sighed and sat back, removing his hat and then his sunglasses. His hair was silver and thick, swept straight back like a marble sculpture. His eyes were a cold blue-gray, set into a rocklike face that was tanned and deeply cragged.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“Your dream come true,” he said. “Dr. Bradley did well. By calling a Code Red, she was following KI protocol for emergencies.”
“You’re a part of the KI?” Cass said. “But the KI was destroyed!”
“Correction—the island was occupied,” the man said, “but the Karai Institute still exists. For reasons of security, the leader of the KI is never on-island. All Code Red messages go directly to the central office. We have satellites in many places, one of them here.”
Number One.
Omphalos.
Professor Bhegad had told us about a Karai leader, someone who he took orders from. But not much. Not even a name. “Is that who Aly is seeing?” I said. “Bhegad’s boss?”
“Your friend is in very good hands.” The man leaned forward. “Driver, let us off at the far corner, end of this block.”
We climbed out on Riverside Drive, at the entrance to a park. Just beyond the jogging path flowed a wide, silver-blue river. “The Hudson,” Cass said. “And that’s New Jersey on the other side —”
“Quickly,” the man said, ushering us past a low stone gate. He was shorter and older than my dad. Under his leather jacket was a white turtleneck shirt that revealed a little paunch. “You were followed to New York.”
“We couldn’t have been,” Dad said. “We were in Turkey. And before that—”
“Mongolia, yes, we know this.” Reaching into an inner pocket, he took out two thin, silvery bracelets. “Put these on. Iridium bracelets. Aly has one, too.”
I took one and turned it over in my hand. Iridium. These bracelets were replicas of the ones given to us at Massa headquarters in Egypt.
“This is the only substance that blocks our trackers—the ones you implanted in our bodies on the island,” I said.
“Why do we have to wear them now?” Cass asked.
The man looked at Cass stonily. “The Massa are on high alert. They have access to your trackers—which means we have just led them here, away from your friend Aly. Once you put yours on, the signal becomes a dead end.”
I shook my head, remembering Aly’s antics in Building D. “No. Aly disabled the KI’s tracking machines. Fried them with an overload of electricity.”
The man’s rocklike expression twitched.
“You . . . have this much confidence in her ability?” he said.
“If you knew her, you would, too,” I said.
The man nodded. “So if they’re not tracking, how did they find you?”
Cass and I exchanged a look and shrugged.
The man took our arms. He pulled us toward Seventy-Second Street, back the way we’d come. “Tell me who exactly you met in Turkey.”
“What do you mean they hacked you, Canavar?” I barked into the speakerphone.
We were back in the KI meeting room in the New York City headquarters, in a sprawling corner apartment in the castlelike building. Dad was glaring at the silver-haired man, still upset about the way he’d hijacked the taxi.
Canavar’s reply squeaked through the tiny speaker. “Perhaps I have not used the proper terminology. It appears that early this morning thy dreaded nemesis the Massa made several phone calls. They reached out to each vicinity that is home to one of the Seven Wonders—including our museum at Bodrum. My employer. Naturally by that time, I had, well, mentioned our exploits to a discreet friend or two . . .”
The back of my head hit the seat’s leather headrest. “That’s not hacking, Canavar,” I said. “That’s a big mouth. You weren’t supposed to say anything!”
“But . . . an experience so momentous!” Canavar said, “of such singular archaeological interest!”
“Canavar, did you tell them where we were headed?” Cass demanded.
The phone stayed silent for a long moment. Then a tiny, “Mea culpa.”
The gray-haired man pressed the off button. “That’s Latin for ‘my fault.’ We have our answer.”
He sat back in his thick leather seat, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers to his temples. The room fell into a tense silence. Cass gave me a kick under the table. His hands still in his lap, he pointed to our companion.
Omphalos, he mouthed.
I don’t know if it was a question or a statement. But I felt a shiver up my spine.
Was it possible?
The man was no-nonsense. Steely. Smart. Cagey. Hadn’t answered when we’d asked his name. He kept his cool, said exactly what he meant and no more, and understood Latin. He didn’t draw attention, yet he could strike fear with a glance or a gesture. The perfect profile for a leader.
And this realization made my heart sink.
Because he was no longer the KI’s best-kept secret. He was here with us, on the ground. Pulling antics in a cab. Totally misunderstanding how we were tracked. Taking unnecessary risks. Revealing his weaknesses. To me, it was a sign. This centuries-old organization, the KI, was on its last legs.
The Massa were out there. Somewhere. Stronger than ever. About to win the game.
I gazed through the window. Below us, tourists wearing green-foam Statue of Liberty crowns were heading into Central Park. Some of them were tossing flowers onto a colorful mosaic that spelled out one word:
IMAGINE.
I turned away.
I didn’t want to.