“Lemme explain. Presentism’s point’s that everything in the past is unreal, everything in the future is unreal. Shcherbatskoy said, ‘Ultimately, real is only the present moment.’ Which I, ’course, reject most soundly.”

Sellitto muttered, “This going anywhere, Fred?”

“Betcha. Now, I myself hew to eternalism. The past does exist. So, for that matter, does the future, but that’s a whole different kettle of fishies. And let’s not muddy up the already-muddy waters with relativity. I’m bringing this up for one very im-portant reason, Lincoln. Presentism and eternalism’re both theories in the philosophy of time. We all together on that?”

“Ah, got it, Fred. You’re thinking that Person X might be the Watchmaker.”

Rhyme objected to the word “nemesis”—the idea of a single villain somehow paired with you like a destructive doppelganger was melodramatic in the extreme—yet he had to admit that if he let down his rationalist’s guard just a bit, he could accept that the word applied to Charles Vespasian Hale.

A.k.a., the Watchmaker.

A for-hire criminal, Hale constructed his criminal plots—for terrorism or assassination or larceny or sabotage—with the complexity and skill of constructing clocks and watches, which was his passion. The last time they had joined in combat, Rhyme foiled a horrific crime he tried to commit. Afterward the Watchmaker had sent an ominous message.

The next time we meet—and we will meet again, I promise you—will be the last. Farewell, for now, Lincoln. I’ll leave you with this sentiment, which I hope you will ponder on sleepless nights: Quidam hostibus potest neglecta; aliis hostibus mori debent.

Yours, Charles Vespasian Hale

The Latin translated into: Some enemies can be ignored; other enemies must die.

Rhyme now told Sellitto and Dellray, “He was the first one I thought of. But I think Person X is something else.”

Sellitto said, “He wants you dead.”

“Of course he does. But he wouldn’t hire the job out—to Person Y. He’d come in person. No, this smells of something else. But until Fred finds more, or we do, it’s pointless to speculate. Maybe it’s all just one big mistake. There’s nobody out there at all.”

—

The man sat in the back of the pub, dressed in a workout kit, dark green, without any team insignia. Here, just outside of Manchester, England, you could get into trouble with a boisterous fan if you were wearing United or City, and he the opposite. Or—even worse—if you were in Chelsea or Arsenal colors. Better to avoid any hint of loyalty.

He was nursing a pint of bitter, as he perused the internet. The pub had good Wi-Fi but he was using his own router—and was, of course, using proxies. Glancing at his watch, he noted that the time in New York would be midday. He extracted his burner phone and placed a call to another one.

The man answered. “Yes?”

“It’s O’Connor.” The Irish brogue was thick. “McAdams?”

“That’s right,” came the low voice, American English.

The names were, of course, codes.

“Ach, I confirmed it. Yeah, they made us.”