There came a deep silence, and afterward what seemed like a sigh. “Shinkansen ha mata hashirou.” It was the same voice that had spoken to him yesterday.

“I know that. What’s a new machine jihad?”

“The New Machine Jihad.”

“Do you speak for this jihad group, or is it something separate?” He swapped hands. His left arm was tired, achy. That didn’t bode well. “What’s it got to do with Oshicora?”

“I am,” said the voice.

The answer didn’t make sense. “Who am I talking to?”

Silence.

“Look, this is not helping. Sonja has escaped from Hijo. I don’t know where she is. If you want my help, you have to talk to me now, because I’m being surrounded by an increasing number of disease-ridden crazies and your self-appointed prophet wants his phone back.”

Silence again, and Petrovitch growled his frustration.

“Fine. Eto mnye do huya. Did you kill all those people in the Oshicora Tower?”

“Save her,” said the voice. “Save Sonja.”

“That’s what I was trying to do! I had it covered. I had an army, but when I got there, she’d gone and you’d slaughtered all the workers.” He finished through gritted teeth. “You should have talked to me first.”

“Save her,” it repeated.

“Then tell me where she is!”

Silence.

“Now or never. If I don’t know where to start, I can’t do what you want.”

“Paradise,” it said and, with that, the call ended.

Petrovitch tossed the phone back to the prophet, who beheld him with awe. “You spoke to the Machine.”

“Yeah, whoever that is. For sure, English isn’t their first language.” He turned slowly. He was completely encircled, ten deep, by people who’d shambled out of Hyde Park. “Can you get them to move out of my way?”

“But the Machine gave you a mission. We are all under the Machine: your task is ours too.”

Petrovitch froze. For a moment, he terrified himself with the mental image of leading a horde of barely living corpses with a bald, ragged prophet by his side.

“Okay. What the Machine told me to do is for me alone. But it gave me a message for you too, first believer.” The prophet was hanging on his every word. “He wants you to take care of these people: find food, clothes, medical supplies for them. Just take whatever you need, wherever you find it.”

The man nodded vigorously, then started to think. “Won’t that be stealing? Won’t someone stop us?”

“The New Machine Jihad changes all the rules.” Petrovitch was warming to his subject. “Go now. Go with the blessing of the Machine.”

He was willing it to work. The prophet stared through him with his flickering eyes, then held up his hand. Not that there was any talking beforehand, but the mob’s attention was now on him, not the pale man in the black coat.