In the next ten or twelve rooms, I came across four more people – journalists or academics, probably, but no one I recognized – most of them already packed, just waiting to be told what to do. No one stopped to question the wisdom of the message I was passing on – and I badly wanted to get away from the bombing, myself – but the prospect of a million people pouring out of the city was beginning to fill me with dread. The greatest disasters of the last fifty years had all been among refugees fleeing war zones. Maybe it would be smarter to take my chances playing Russian roulette with the shells.

I knew the last room was a suite, the mirror image of Mosala and De Groot’s; the architectural symmetry of the building demanded it. The cloned pass key signature unlocked the door – but there was a chain keeping it from opening more than a crack.

I called out, loudly. No one answered. I tried using my shoulder – and bruised myself badly, to no effect. Swearing, I kicked the door near the chain – which was twice as painful, almost splitting my stitches, but it worked.

Henry Buzzo was sprawled on the floor beneath the window, flat on his back. I approached, dismayed, doubting that there’d be much chance of getting help amid all the chaos. He was wearing a red velvet bathrobe, and his hair was wet, as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. A bioweapon from the extremists, finally taking hold? Or just a heart attack from the shock of the explosions?

Neither. The bathrobe was soaked with blood. A hole had been blasted in his chest. Not by a sniper; the window was intact. I squatted down and pressed two fingers against his carotid artery. He was dead, but still warm.

I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth, trying not to scream with frustration. After all it had taken to get Mosala off the island, Buzzo could have saved himself so easily. A few words admitting the flaw in his work, and he’d still be alive.

It wasn’t pride that had killed him, though – screw that. He’d had a right to his stubbornness, a right to defend his theory – flawed or not. He was dead for precisely one reason: some psychotic AC had sacrificed him to the mirage of transcendence .

I found two umale security guards in the second bedroom – one fully dressed; one had probably been sleeping. Both looked like they’d been shot in the face. I was in shock now – more dazed than sickened – but I finally had enough presence of mind to start filming. Maybe there’d be a trial, eventually – and if the hotel was about to be reduced to rubble, there’d be no other evidence. I surveyed the bodies in close-up, then walked from room to room, sweeping the camera around indiscriminately, hoping to capture enough detail for a complete reconstruction.