“The Looking Glass is a weapon?”

“I don’t know; you never told me. We were supposed to meet four days ago. You were going to tell me everything then, and I was going to write up the story and publish it online. You said it was the only way to stop what was going to happen. You said they had penetrated all levels of governments around the world, and that exposing them was the only way to stop them.”

“Stop whom?”

“Again, I don’t know.”

“And you have no idea what the Looking Glass is, or does?”

“I wish I did. You wouldn’t tell me over the phone, only that very soon the scientists building it would use it to take control of the human race, and that it would permanently alter humanity’s future.”

Desmond couldn’t hide his disappointment. He had woken up this morning expecting to get answers. And so, it seemed, had Garin Meyer. The man had as many questions as Desmond did.

“Can you tell me anything else? Anything I said, even if you think it might be irrelevant.”

“Just one other thing. You said there were three components of the Looking Glass: Rook, Rendition, and Rapture.”

Rapture Therapeutics, Desmond thought. The dead man in his hotel room had been a security worker there. As for Rook and Rendition… he was sure he had seen those words somewhere too, but he couldn’t place them.

Garin reached into his pocket and drew out a flip phone.

“I said no phones.”

“You’re also wanted for murder. This is a disposable I bought just in case there was trouble. Only my fiancée has the number.”

Garin opened the phone, held it to his ear, and listened a moment, his body growing tense. He spoke in German, quickly, whispering, and Desmond had to focus in order to translate the words in his mind. “Don’t worry, it’s okay. Everything will be okay. I love you. I’ll see you soon.”

Something was wrong. Desmond glanced around, taking in every face, every car, every motorcycle, his focus sharpened, like an animal on the open prairie that had sensed a predator entering its territory.

Garin tapped a few keys on the phone.

“Hand me the phone, Garin.”

The German reporter swallowed but kept his head down, typing more quickly.

Desmond reached across the table and grabbed the phone out of Garin’s hands, drawing the attention of several people at tables nearby. The screen was open to the text messages window, where Garin had written a single line:

Cafe Einstein

“I’m sorry,” Garin said. “They have my fiancée. They said they’d kill her if I didn’t tell them where we were and keep you here.”

Over Garin’s shoulder, just down the street, Desmond saw a white cargo van pull away from the curb, its tires screeching, with two motorcycles close behind it. All three vehicles were barreling toward the cafe.

“I’m sorry too, Garin.”

Below the table, Desmond pulled the ring igniters on three tactical smoke grenades. Smoke billowed from under the table, pouring into the street. He took the remaining two canisters from his backpack, stood, pulled the ring igniters, and tossed them in opposite directions into the street. The smoke pulled a curtain across the thoroughfare. People shouted and shoved, scrambling to get off the street.