I’M ALMOST BACK AT THE STAGE WHEN I HEAR GIBSON’S VOICE IN my ear. ‘Agent Hart, we have the data.’
I have difficulty spotting Hetta over the heads of the audience. She’s stopped, head bent forward, one hand pressed to her ear.
‘Matthew Voss was the ops team marksman. And Axel Lydon is listed as a cyber-security specialist. Strictly backroom.’
‘And he’s here on whose authority?’
‘Approval came through in the past hour. From the White House.’
My heart stops.
I see Gapes in the tower. Hear his words from behind the mask. There’s a plot to kill the President. It is well planned, advanced, and will be well executed, unless you move to stop it.
Gapes was shot by a sniper from the window he’d sketched on the crazy wall. He hadn’t just seen the future, he’d shaped it.
An act of self-sacrifice.
His final clue.
I look up.
Right at the back. Above Hetta’s head. In the rear wall. Two tiers of windows. For stage lights. Projectors. Christ knows.
An upper and a lower tier.
Hetta sees them too, and bolts through the emergency exit.
I hear her breath sharp in my ear as the adrenaline kicks in. She’s crashing up steps. A door bangs open.
‘What’s he waiting for, Josh?’
I don’t know.
The crowd is on its feet. I can’t see the President. He’s lost in a sea of heads and hands. The noise is deafening.
I dip my head toward my lapel mike.
‘Where are you?’
‘Second level. A hallway, doors leading off.’
Thompson appears on one of the giant screens. He’s shaking hands with the Pope and the Russian President. Still the huckster from Texas with the people, acknowledging their response. Good and bad, he doesn’t care.
In my earpiece, Hetta catches her breath. ‘Is he on this floor or the floor above?’
I glance at the two tiers of windows.
The only view I have of Thompson is still onscreen.
And if I can’t see him, nor can the Special Ops marksman.
‘Hetta, he doesn’t have line-of-sight.’
‘What?’
‘Voss. He can’t see the target. He must be on the lower tier.’
I hear her crash down the steps and throw open a door.
‘Hallway, same as the floor above. Doors off.’
A bang as she kicks the first of them in.
‘A storeroom. Clear.’
I turn.
Thompson is getting to his feet.
I pull my radio from my pocket, switch channels.
‘Graham, this is Cain. Get Thompson to sit the fuck down!’
I’m met by a wall of static.
The President steps back onto the podium. He looks up from the lectern. Sees something.
I turn to my right.
A man on his feet. Tall and dark. Short hair. I can’t see his face, but I’d recognize my companion from the tower anywhere, from any angle. He’s wearing a suit. A loose-fitting jacket. No tie. He takes a step down toward the stage. Then another.
Three members of the Presidential Protection team see him too. Graham, making his appearance from the wings, is one of them.
Thompson reaches for his glass of water. His hand is shaking.
‘Hey!’ Graham shouts. ‘You! Back in your seat!’
The Engineer keeps on going.
Graham doesn’t know who he is. Nobody does.
In my earpiece, I hear Hetta kick in another door.
‘Clear! What’s happening?’
‘It’s the dream,’ I murmur.
‘Say again.’
‘It’s the President’s dream.’
I start moving again, also toward the stage. Some people are still on their feet; others have sat back down as it becomes clear Thompson isn’t leaving the Plenary.
I push past a group of priests, who are standing in the aisle arguing about what’s just been said. I’m still three rows back.
‘Hey!’ Graham yells again. He moves forward, placing himself between his boss and the Engineer.
Graham slips his hand inside his jacket. ‘I said—’
Thompson steps out from behind the lectern. Two Secret Service agents move too slowly toward him from the wings.
‘It’s all right,’ Thompson’s voice booms over the PA. ‘Let him come.’
All eyes turn to the intruder. His hands appear to be clenched, but I can’t see if he’s holding any kind of weapon. An unearthly light seems to shine from his eyes – the look that I’d seen in the tower. He’s an automaton. Unstoppable.
I push past a cardinal and attempt to vault the front two rows. I almost make it, but my foot catches a backrest and I sprawl between them.
I look up as the next part of the story unfolds, exactly as Thompson said it would.
One of the agents attempts to pull him to safety. Thompson resists. The Engineer reaches the stage. They look at each other.
The Engineer opens his jacket, reaches inside it.
Graham raises his weapon.
A crash in my ear.
Hetta, kicking in another door.
A shot.
The high-powered bullet punches through Graham’s upper body. Blood sprays across the screen behind him.
A scream from the crowd, then: ‘Hey, you!’
Hetta in my ear.
The Engineer steps to his right, in front of Thompson.
He turns, sees me. Then looks up at the back of the auditorium. His eyes close. He spreads his arms wide.
Two shots, so close together the second sounds like an echo.
Hetta’s voice in my ear: ‘Nailed him, Josh. But not before he fired. The President, is he …?’
I don’t hear any more. My earpiece falls to the floor as I get to my feet and rush for the stage.
The Engineer’s lying face up, taking short, sharp breaths. I pull back his jacket. The entry wound is tiny, but the damage is irreparable. A crimson flower blooms from his punctured heart.
‘Stand away, Colonel.’
An agent’s voice, somewhere behind me.
‘Stand away! He may be wearing a belt.’
I ignore him.
As I touch the Engineer’s neck, his eyes open. The face that has haunted me since I was first confronted by him at the cabin – and maybe even before then – now gives me a look of infinite kindness.
His skin is still warm but I can’t find a pulse.
‘Joshua …’
‘Shhh … Don’t speak.’
‘It’s all right,’ he says softly.
‘Somebody get me a first-aid pack!’
‘It’s all right …’
I lean forward until I can feel his breath on my cheek.
‘I am you … Joshua …’
‘What?’
‘I … am … you.’
He somehow finds the strength to raise his hand.
Holds three fingers in front of my face.
As I pull his devastated body toward me, I see the disciple falling backward out of Rembrandt’s Raising of the Cross.
I plead with him to hold on.
But my friend is dead before I can gather him into my arms.