“What does this have to do with John Smith?”
“Look at the data. It’s all there. Look at the Sicarii.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
The man had snorted, a clever teacher with a dull student. “It means ‘dagger-men.’ In the first century, Judea was occupied by Romans. The Sicarii attacked people in public. Killed Romans, and also Herodians, those Jews who collaborated.”
“They were terrorists,” Cooper said, understanding beginning to dawn. “Early terrorists.”
“Yes. Here.” Erik had flicked his wrist and one graph expanded to fill the room in front of them. It was one Cooper had noticed before, a rising line marking murders. The line grew steadily…then intersected another line and plummeted. “You see?”
“They killed more and more people,” Cooper said, “and then something happened.” On intuition, he said, “The Romans decided they’d had enough.”
Epstein nodded. “The Sicarii were hunted, pursued to the fortress of Masada, where they were either slaughtered or committed mass suicide. But look deeper.”
“The rest of the Jews.” It was coming clear to Cooper. “The Romans punished not just the killers, but the rest of the Jews.” He turned to the man. “You want me to kill John Smith because if he keeps doing what he’s doing, the government may turn against New Canaan.”
“Will turn against. It’s in the data. Extrapolating current terrorist activity and charting it against public countermeasures, mapped against similar historical datasets, there’s a 53.2 percent chance that the US military will attack New Canaan within the next two years. A 73.6 percent within three.”
Cooper had a flash of the briefings he’d seen, the preemptive plans, the missile strikes. One thing the DAR has, he’d thought on the way in, is plans. “So why not kill Smith yourself? You’re the big man here. The King of New Canaan.”
The abnorm had winced. “No. It’s not. It doesn’t work like that. Besides. I like people. But people like him.”
“You want him dead, but you’re afraid that if you kill him, your…artwork…will tear itself apart.” Cooper laughed grimly. “Because no matter how smart or rich you are, he’s a leader, and you’re not.”
“I know what I am.” There was the faintest hint of sadness in his voice. “I’m not even me.”
The whole thing felt vaguely dirty, had the stench of palace politics about it. An odd reaction, Cooper knew, but he couldn’t shake it. Still, the arguments made sense. And Epstein was right—if things kept going the way they were, New Canaan would be destroyed. And it might not stop there. Congress had already approved a bill to implant microchips against the carotid artery of every gifted in America. What was to keep those chips from becoming bombs?
He’d never thought of himself as an assassin. He’d killed when he had to, but always for the greater good. That was a certainty that fueled him. It was the only thing that kept him apart from John Smith. This, though, felt like crossing a line.
What line? You came here to do this.
Yes. But not for him.
So don’t do it for him. Do it for Kate. And then go home.
“You understand?” Epstein seemed nervous on the point, afraid. After all, he had revealed not only his secret, but his agenda. The man might have an unparalleled head for data, but a chess player he was not, Cooper realized.
“Yes, I understand.”
“And you’ll do it? You’ll kill John Smith?”
Cooper had turned, started up the ramp. At the door, he’d turned, taken in the whirling chamber of data dreams, and the man at the center of it. An architect trapped in a palace of his own design, watching a tsunami approach.