It troubled him that a priest had made the call rather than Warren himself. Perhaps it was some arcane form of protection at which Warren was grasping. Thorn had no way of knowing.

He walked through the terminal and hailed a cab outside, giving the directions received the night before from the priest. The cab driver looked askance at Thorn, then shrugged and pulled the flag down on his meter, and they drove off quickly.

During the ride, Thorn thought about a heated political discussion he had had once with his brother, Robert, who had won his argument with a quote from Lenin. It was typical of Robert that he could incorporate all the ranges of political thought and rhetoric, and make some wonderful sense out of it all for his own use in a debate. The quotation that now came to Richard's mind was the question Lenin had forced himself to ask of every action: Who does this benefit?

Thorn applied that question now to everything he had gone over the night before. He was sure he had been overly emotional, overly anxious to have all the pieces fit together and make some sense. But when he applied the question to all the terrible recent events, the answer was always the same: Damien Thorn would benefit.

Only two people now stood between Damien Thorn and total control of the most powerful company in the world: Richard Thorn and his wife.

And Thorn knew instantly why Warren wanted to see him. Warren was going to ask him to kill his brother's son, Damien.

It was Bugenhagen and Robert Thorn all over again. They had tried seven years ago and their efforts had brought them death.

I'm getting carried away again, Thorn thought. I must keep calm. I just stay reasonable. There is too much at stake here.

'You wanna pay and let me get outta here?' asked the cabbie, breaking into Thorn's musings.

Thorn mumbled an apology and reached into his pocket for his wallet. The fare was thirty dollars. Thorn gave the driver another sizable bill to stick around for a while, with the promise of even more if he actually did.

Thorn stepped out of the cab and looked around. He had been brought to an old dilapidated church, standing near the outskirts of a railway yard with tracks originating in faraway Grand Central Station. The church was in great disrepair and looked deserted. Thorn walked up and pushed against the front door. It swung open easily. He turned around to check the cab. It was still by the curb, the engine idling. The driver had pulled his cap over his eyes and already looked asleep. Thorn turned back and went into the building.