The Dark Heart of Empire

The Dark Heart of Empire

Jeffrey Cushing

The Dark Heart of Empire

Jeffrey Cushing

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 by Jeffrey Cushing

ISBN 978-0-9845442-1-9

Cover Design by Debra Flanders Cushing

and Jeffrey Cushing

MAVE Illustration by Dinesh Gahlot

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is also available in print at select online retailers.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

~~~

The whole of government consists in the art of being honest.

- Thomas Jefferson

Truthful I call him who goes into godless deserts, having broken his revering heart. In the yellow sands, burned by the sun, he squints thirstily at the islands abounding in wells, where living things rest under dark trees. Yet his thirst does not persuade him to become like these, dwelling in comfort; for where there are oases there are also idols…thus the lion-will wants itself.

- Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathustra

~~~

Table of Contents

Glossary

Chapter 1: Xerxes Crosses the Hellespont

Chapter 2: The Confluence of Robotics and Nanotechnology

Chapter 3: Nick Cahill: Cipher 10

Chapter 4: In-Country

Chapter 5: Mine Is The Most Beautiful Life In The World

Chapter 6: Project No. 7

Chapter 7: The Heir’s Garages

Chapter 8: Jafar’s Confession

Chapter 9: The Minister Of Security

Chapter 10: The Restaurant

Chapter 11: The Assembly Room of Infinity

Chapter 12: The Newlywed’s Leap

Chapter 13: The Minister of Security’s Party

Chapter 14: Nick Cahill and Machiavelli

Chapter 15: The Luxury Resort

Chapter 16: The Secret Entrance

Chapter 17: The Dungeon

Chapter 18: Further Underground

Chapter 19: The Electronic Command Center

Chapter 20: Thump

Chapter 21: The Calm Before the Storm

Chapter 22: The Heir’s Birthday

Chapter 23: The Magic Wand

Chapter 24: L-Maves

Chapter 25: A New Paradigm

Chapter 26: Preemptive Strike

Chapter 27: Openness is Strength

~~~

Glossary

Gyges: (jahy-jeez) A character in Plato’s Republic. A shepherd who discovers in a cave exposed by an earthquake a magical ring that, when worn, has the power to make him invisible.

Hellespont: (hel-uh-spont) Strait approximately 40mi (65km) long and 1-4 mi (1.6-6.4km) wide, connecting the Aegean with the Sea of Marmara. Also known as the Dardanelles.

Herodotus: (huh-rod-uh-tus) The Father of History. 5th century B.C. Greek historian.

MAVe: (Rhymes with rave) Micro-Aerial Vehicle

MEM: (Rhymes with gem) Micro-Electronic Mechanical System

Nanotechnology: The technology of making very small objects, often on a molecular scale.

T/R station: A transmission/relay station, used to communicate between maves and mems.

~~~

Chapter 1: Xerxes Crosses the Hellespont

My name is Sarah. This is my husband John’s story, but it’s also my story. I understand that by telling what I’ve seen and heard I’ll make some people angry, probably very angry. But I also know that there are others out there who will understand why I’ve had to do this, even with the risks and dangers it brings.

I guess the best place to start would be a couple of weeks ago. I was walking home after a long day of classes, and I looked over at a setting sun that was shining through some bare branches. Just then, a chilly wind whirled up some dirt and leaves in front of me. My attention turned to a nearby building covered with ivy. The whole thing shivered with a long, dry whisper. At that moment, that sound sent a chill down my spine. I suddenly felt bone cold and alone, so I pulled up my collar and hurried home.

I walked through the dying afternoon shadows and then up the few steps to the front door of our townhouse. I was in the second year of my doctoral program in architecture, which kept me pretty busy. I’d already worked for a couple of years in a firm, but then decided I wanted to teach instead. I didn’t like the business world, with its constant emphasis on money, and the realization that profit and loss motivated almost every interaction. Instead, I thought I’d prefer an academic career for its predictable routine and the time it allowed for my own pursuits. This was my last year of course work, though, before beginning my dissertation. I hoped that if I didn’t have more free time soon, then at least I’d have more flexibility in my day. I pushed the heavy wooden door open and heard its brass knocker clank as I closed the door behind me.

Our townhouse was warm and cozy but small. When I returned home, though, to a somber room lit by a few dying rays, tired from my day of course work, I’d often feel a sense of loneliness in the knowledge of one more day in my life having passed, like a domino in a line that you couldn’t tell how close to the end you really were. This was especially true when the house was empty and I was living by myself. John had already been gone for close to half a year. Often, though, I could shake this feeling with some time to rest and relax, a little food and maybe a glass of wine before starting in on some evening work.

I turned on a lamp, and as its warm glow brightened the familiar surroundings I began to feel a little better. Across the room was my old piano, which, unfortunately, I hadn’t had much time to play since returning to school. Along several walls of the room were books, hundreds of them, both John’s and mine, stacked on shelves and in bookcases. Since I’d been living alone, though, I hadn’t been quite as, well, neat as I like to be. I took off my winter coat and dumped it over the back of a chair. I bent down and picked up some papers scattered on the floor, covered with notes, and began to stuff them inside several large notebooks.

I picked up a couple of these and put them on an empty shelf that I noticed had a layer of dust on it. I made a mental note that I’d have to find some time, maybe over the weekend, and clean up. I noticed on the mantle the silver-framed picture of John and me on our wedding day. John was a big guy, and his arms kind of reached down and around me as we both smiled happily out of the picture. His black hair was combed neatly back, and he had this widow’s peak, you know, with his hair coming to a point on his forehead. He had even features and a strong jaw. But by far his most prominent feature were his dark eyes. They were intelligent and decisive, but there was also this tension visible around them. From the first time I met him, I’d noticed his quiet intensity. It was those eyes that really expressed the two sides of his appearance as well as of his character, quick and attentive, yet still human and warm.

Our wedding photo had been taken close to two years ago now, but I didn’t think my appearance had changed much since then. There were a few thin lines, but I still like to tell myself that there wasn’t too much damage in time for my next birthday, a big one, number thirty.

I first met John when I went to a party thrown by a friend. We’d both just begun our Master’s degrees, but he was studying literature. Later, after he finished his degree, he changed his mind and decided he wasn’t going to go for his doctorate. Instead, he found work with the government, and he told me it was with the intelligence community, but that I wasn’t supposed to talk about it, ever. If anyone asked, he said I should say he was working as a translator. After he took this job, he started going up to Maryland or down to Virginia quite a bit. At first I was bothered by him being away, but then I started to become busy again with my own work so I didn’t end up worrying about it too much.

John spoke English without the trace of a foreign accent. Up until he was eleven he hadn’t lived here in the U.S., so he was fluent in both English and his native language. Through a lot of hard work he learned to speak with an American accent. He even changed his last name to Smith, which only reinforced those two sides of his appearance. I couldn’t help but notice how people were sometimes struck, on first meeting him, by that most unremarkable of names stuck on such an exotic-looking person.

Then, one evening, he said that he’d have to leave for a while on business, though he also said he couldn’t talk precisely about what this work would involve. At first I was surprised and even a little angry at this sudden announcement. After a while, though, I began to realize that these kinds of sudden changes were as much a part of his personality as of his job. It wasn’t until the last few days that I really understood that his solitude, that one part of his personality that he avoided discussing, was the result of an intensely private suffering.

To tell the truth, John had the kind of personality that society always finds difficult to contend with, mainly because it seemed to obey its own secret music. As time passed and I got to know him better, though, I began to see through these contradictions, and the more he let his guard down the more I felt he was trying to let me see who he truly was, and the more he was trying to see the truth of who I am. I remember one time not long after we met, where we spent the whole day alone together. We ate and talked and laughed. And he told me about his life and hopes, what he really wanted and what he was afraid of. And his willingness to talk about who he really was inspired me to do the same. When I did, I could see that he was listening, that he was trying to understand me and all the things I wanted from my life. A life that, as I sat there talking and listening to him and watching him listen to me, I began to see as being lived, from that moment on, with each other. And before I knew it, the whole day had passed, and it was already late afternoon, and we hadn’t done anything except to get a couple of ruddy-skinned pears, some bread and cheese, and a little wine for a late lunch.

I felt the same way about him. That day was one of those moments that stick in your memory, and that for some reason, much more than the daily routines of life, define life, and give it meaning, and make all the other things life sends your way more bearable. Like there really is a point to it all. I remember having that realization at the time. That he was letting me see who he really was, that I could ask him anything, and I knew he’d tell me. And that I was happy. That moment, that whole day, was perfect, you know?

Later, on our last day together, I could sense he was embarking on his odyssey, a personal quest to come to terms with whatever he had guarded so closely. It was that realization that made me think that I couldn’t really oppose him, if this was that important to him, and what I thought were his attempts to find peace. I worried, though, because I could feel that whatever he was thinking about doing was dangerous. Somehow I knew he had to do it to come to grips with whatever deep, dark part of him had been causing so much anguish for so long. That day had been six months ago, and since then, except for a few quick postcards from various locations, I hadn’t seen or heard from him. Because they arrived on Monday every week like clockwork, I was almost certain that these reassuring notes were being forwarded to me by one of the secretaries from his work.

John was like that though. On this one subject, if you didn’t ask him directly, he’d just kind of keep to himself. Maybe it had something to do with his family. I didn’t really know a whole lot about his past before he came to the U.S. I had heard him speak in his native language to his mother every now and then. She, aging though still graceful, was westernized – the main sign that she hadn’t been born American was the accent she still had. In her unguarded moments, I’d catch this wistful expression on her face. At the time, I thought it was probably nostalgia for the past. John’s father was dead. I knew he’d died in the Old Country, as the family still called it, and that he had been a person of some importance. John told me once that just before he and his mother had moved to America his father had died of a heart attack. And of course John would sometimes mention random things about his past and growing up, like starting his first day of school and not being able to speak a word of English.

I turned from the frame on the mantle and noticed the computer sitting on the desk near the front window. Screen savers John had scanned in of various snapshots of us on our holiday trips and summer vacations flashed by. I pulled the swiveling desk chair out, sat down, then touched the mouse as the screen came to life. I checked my email, and at the top of the page was one that just said, From me to Sarah. I clicked on it and a moment later a video image of John flickered to life on the screen.

I immediately noticed that he looked different, and my first reaction was a smile because I thought he must be playing some kind of joke. But then I noticed the intensity on his face, and I knew right away that he must be in some danger. His hair was mussed and he was sweating, like he’d just been running. He also had a moustache, which surprised me because I’d never seen one on him before.

But it’s sometimes the small details that strike us most, and as he stepped back, I noticed he had dirty fingernails, with grime caked beneath them. He was dressed in a plain, light-blue shirt, a worn brown leather jacket, and gray trousers, and was standing in a relatively small room. There was a bed in the corner, kind of like a metal-framed cot, with a suitcase beside it. John was facing the video camera several feet away, while behind him in the direct center of the room stood a portable television set on a small, wooden table. In the foreground could be seen the top of a large and surprisingly uncluttered wooden desk. There was something about the room that told me he was in a different country. Maybe it was the way the light reflected off the uneven painted surfaces around him that revealed stuccoed walls. Or maybe it was the plain, wooden furniture that betrayed a degree of poverty. There was no one thing that I could put my finger on, but I knew right away that he wasn’t in New Jersey any more, or even in the United States, but that he had returned to the Old Country, to the land of his birth.

John glanced nervously over his shoulder. The expression on his face and the look in his eyes made it immediately clear that he was well aware of the danger he was in. I felt my heart begin to beat faster. He hooked up his cell phone to the television with a small wire, then spoke intently, with almost a frantic undertone. Sarah, I don’t have much time, I’ve got to send this message now, so listen carefully. He breathed deeply. This may be the last time I’ll be able to talk to you. He again looked into the camera, though this time his expression was sad, but still direct, almost piercing.

I know all of this must be coming as a shock, but I’ve recorded everything, and when you get to the end I hope you’ll understand what’s happening and why. He glanced down for a moment, then looked back up. I’m sorry for this, especially for the pain this will cause you. Maybe I could have done things differently, or maybe I should have just walked away. But it’s too late for me to turn back now. He looked away for a moment, then continued. Maybe it’s not too late for you though. Maybe my story can stand as a sign to point the way for you to do what I couldn’t.

John was interrupted by the sound of a truck roaring up outside and screeching its brakes. He walked quickly over to the television set behind him, still connected by wire to his cell phone, which he picked up, then pressed a few numbers. On the screen an image of soldiers jumping down out of the back of a military truck appeared. John stepped to a small, barred window and peered out. Instantly on the television in the room, one of the soldiers could be seen as he began banging on a metal gate below. A few moments later, an old man opened the gate and stepped outside. He said something to the soldiers I couldn’t hear. Whatever he said seemed to make them angry, because one of them started shouting. The old man held out his hands beside him and tilted his head to the side, like he was trying to calm them. The officer in front who he had been talking to stood absolutely still for a moment, then without warning pulled a pistol from the holster on his belt and fired a single shot into the old man’s forehead.

The man collapsed to the ground as blood spurted from the wound in a sickening, pulsing stream that pooled around him. For just a moment, a nauseating pink mist hung silently in the air above him. The officer then barked a command and the soldiers around him surged forward and burst through the open gate the old man had just come through. John jumped back from the window and cursed to himself. He then hastily barricaded the door by wedging a small chair under the doorknob and pushing a large bureau beside it. He took a single breath in an attempt to recompose himself and turned back to face me. You’ve always meant love and comfort to me. I would still be willing to sacrifice my life for the new understanding I’ve found here, except that it means letting you go. I’m sorry for the pain this will cause you. But once you’ve seen the whole story, I hope you’ll understand why I couldn’t have done anything else.

My heart started beating faster and my palms were sweating. For just a second, the thought occurred to me that I should just turn it off, turn away from what I saw happening in front of me. But I knew I couldn’t, and so I leaned in closer to the screen.

The sound of shouts and boot steps coming up a stairway could be heard outside the room, followed by a loud banging on the door behind him. He raised his cell phone again, pushed a few more buttons, and the room’s television screen now showed a group of soldiers from above and behind, automatic weapons in hand, as one soldier stretched forward to bang on the door. The soldier shouted from outside the room. John looked at the door, then turned back with fear in his eyes. Pay close attention, he said. He spoke desperately, as if trying to make sure the importance of what he was saying was understood. I have set forth my story, that time may not draw the color from what man has brought into being, nor those great and terrible deeds fail of their report, together with the reason why all these things were done. I’ve had to hide my story well, for many would like to prevent its telling. When you’ve heard the ring of the republic, go there. Then, to get in, find the crossing of the X. To do this, understand that the second is in the first.

He looked intently at the camera, so much so that I had the strange feeling we were looking at one another face to face. For a moment it was eerily quiet in the room, and on the screen behind him the soldiers could be seen backing away from the door, except for one, who leveled his machine gun at the lock on the doorknob. Don’t tell anybody what you’ve seen until you’ve gotten to the end. Then he said, When you know the whole story, tell the world what you’ve seen. If you make the truth public, then that will be our justice. I love you. Sarah. Save our sacrifice – mine and thousands of others’ – from having been made in vain. In that foreboding silence John glanced at the door, then back at me one last time, with a look that clearly communicated his longing to be away from where he was. An expression of regret and sense of loss, but also one of newfound purpose was evident in the calm and steady acceptance in his eyes.

I was really afraid now, and felt like running away, or even – I know it doesn’t make sense – rushing to wherever he was so I could help him. I felt that if I could just be there with him, I would figure out some way to help. But I knew that was impossible. I forced myself to keep watching the computer.

John glanced back at the television screen, then jumped back from the camera, extracted a pistol from under his belt, and pulled the hammer back. He overturned the heavy wooden desk in the foreground then ducked behind it. From behind the barricaded door, splinters of wood exploded into the room, and on the television set on the small table in the center of the room I could see a soldier firing his weapon. When the firing stopped, two other soldiers lunged forward and began to batter down the barricaded door with kicks and rifle butts.

The camera continued recording as barricaded furniture began to move in bumps and violent pushes. John clutched his pistol in front of him and waited. The door suddenly burst open, and the furniture that had been serving as a makeshift barricade was pushed violently aside. A pair of soldiers in combat fatigues rushed in, and began firing AK-47's. John clung to his pistol and cringed as plaster burst from the walls and showered down on him. Then, when these two soldiers had emptied their clips, he rose enough to aim his pistol over the desk and began firing. The first soldier spun backward as he was hit in the chest. The second soldier was hit in the shoulder and then the leg. He dropped his weapon and fell to the ground grasping his thigh and screaming in pain.

During this one moment’s lull in the action, John seized his opportunity, lunged across the desk and grabbed the cell phone that was still attached by a wire to the TV. He glanced back at the camera, then pushed a button before ducking back behind the cover of his overturned desk. A moment later, the screen went blank with a snap.

I sat in silence for a moment, not really believing what I’d just seen, or waiting for the tape to somehow continue where it had left off. When it became clear that it wasn’t going to I started punching at the keys on the keyboard in a desperate and frantic effort to bring him back.

None of it worked. The message was just over. Then I thought, maybe there’s another part, and I pushed the back button to return to the in-box, but nothing was there. There was only the one message from him that I had just watched.

I thought about John, and the old man, and I unconsciously jumped to my feet and paced a few quick steps away from the desk. I remember thinking that I needed to find John and help him, do something to find out what happened to my husband next, after the soldiers burst into the room.

I was walking toward the kitchen when I stopped and thought, maybe that’s not the end, maybe the rest is just hidden. I returned to the desk, pulled my cell phone out of my coat pocket and flipped it open. I knew someone, a friend from school, who was really good with computers. If I couldn’t’ figure out how to find the rest, then maybe he could. I felt a sense of panic welling up in me alternating with moments of elation as I thumbed buttons on the phone.

But then I heard John’s words in my mind again, warning me not to tell anyone what I’d seen until I found the end of his story. I forced myself to concentrate, and pushed both my sense of panic and elation back down.

His boss! I’m not sure if I just thought the words or said them out loud. I jumped up again and moved toward the cupboard in the kitchen where I kept a phone number that John had given me for his boss. He told me I should never use it except for absolute emergencies. I noticed I’d already picked up my phone and flipped it open. But then again, his words of warning that I shouldn’t tell anyone until I’d found the rest of his story returned to my mind.

How could this have happened, I asked myself? I already knew that John worked for the government. And if what I had just witnessed had really happened, how had he been able to record it without being discovered? And how had these images found their way half way around the world and into my living room, and had anybody else been able to see them too?

I forced myself to concentrate and think clearly. Surely a miniature camera could be very carefully concealed, so small as to be practically invisible to the naked eye. And transmitting video must be easy. I wasn’t an expert, but I knew that there must be many ways to transmit information half way around the world to just about any computer anywhere.

Finally, though, it wasn’t any technical consideration that energized me to focus on the single, most important question, but instead a very personal one – how would I find the rest of his story? I knew that what I’d just seen had actually happened. I knew that I had seen John, and I knew that what I had just witnessed had not been staged. He might still be in danger, and I might still be able to help him somehow, somehow.

I returned to the computer and sat back down in front of it. I knew I had to do something. I stared at the computer screen for a few moments and began to realize what that was. If I was to have any hope of helping him or even finding out what had happened to him, I would have to solve the mystery, find the answer to the riddle he left for me in his video email.

I touched the keyboard again and the video began to replay. I watched it until it came to that part that had the directions for finding the rest of his story. When he came to it, I grabbed a yellow note pad and pen lying on the desk and pulled them to me. I was still afraid, but my indecision and hesitation were gone. I scribbled down his words as fast as I could. I have set forth my story, that time may not draw the color from what man has brought into being, nor those great and terrible deeds fail of their report, together with the reason why all these things were done. I’ve had to hide my story well, for many would like to prevent its telling. When you’ve heard the ring of the republic, go there. Then, to get in, find the crossing of the X. To do this, understand that the second is in the first.

My mind reached impulsively for clues that would lead me to the solution, and the first sentence that jumped out at me was, When you’ve heard the ring of the republic, go there. For whatever reason, the first association I had with heard the ring of the republic was the Battle Hymn of the Republic, the song from the American Civil War. I walked over to my upright piano and opened the lid on the bench that contained my sheet music. I rummaged around until I found the copy I knew I had of the song’s words and score. I spread the sheet music on the floor around me, and bending over the papers, pored over every word and note, desperately searching for some clue. But nothing clicked, nothing seemed to offer some indication of a lead that would take me to the ring of the republic.

I began to feel a sense of panic welling up in me, but then I sat back up and stretched my neck that had become tense and sore with my posture. As I stretched, I looked around the room at the hundreds of books that lined the walls. No, I was following the wrong path! The key couldn’t be just some random association, but rather as I looked around I thought, it has to be in one of these books. I was almost positive, the answer had to be in the room somewhere.

It was a very clever form of security, and one that John had figured out in order to give me a head start over anyone who might be following along the same trail. I looked around our living room. John had studied literature, but had also taken a wide range of courses in everything from history to philosophy to art, and the titles on the shelves reflected these different interests. A book. When you’ve heard the ring of the republic, go there, I thought again to myself. I stood up and allowed my fingers to trace along the spines of the books lining the room until the title jumped out at me. The Republic. Of course, Plato’s Republic. I pulled the book down, sat cross-legged on the floor and began reading.

I read for hours, sometimes skimming, sometimes reading and rereading carefully, and the only ring I could find in the Republic was a dialogue about the ring of Gyges. The story tells how there was a great earthquake one day, and the earth was split open. A shepherd named Gyges, astonished at the sight, entered into this newly revealed cave and in it discovered, among other things, a dead body, on whose finger was a golden ring. Gyges stole the ring, put it on his own finger, and climbed out of the cave.

Later, he accidentally discovered that by turning the ring on his finger, he could make himself invisible. And then by turning the ring back, he returned to his normal, visible state. After this discovery, Gyges traveled to the royal palace, where with the help of his new ring, he seduced the Queen, murdered the King, and finally succeeded in seizing the throne.

Assuming such powers, Plato asks, would there be any person who had such iron strength of will as to stand fast in doing right, when he could without any fear of being caught go to the market-place and help himself to anything he wanted, set prisoners free or even kill on a whim - in essence walk among men with the powers of a god? Or would there be such a man who would, despite his newfound powers, persist in justice as being the only thing that really creates and nourishes the true health of the soul, and ignore the power to use any means available to acquire virtually unlimited power for oneself?

I read these words and noticed that on this page of John’s copy of the book the words the ring of Gyges were underlined in red pen. This story must have made an impression even when he had first read it years ago.

When you’ve heard the ring of the republic, go there. I felt fairly certain that I had discovered what the ring of the Republic was, but the next question was, how do I go there?

I was startled out of my reflections by the ringing of my phone. I looked at a clock on the wall. Eleven o’clock at night. I realized that I’d been looking for close to six hours now. The phone continued ringing insistently. My heart skipped a beat as I wondered, who could be calling so late? I picked up my phone and saw that the call was from Oliver, my computer-programmer friend who I was building a website with. I cleared my throat and tried to muster as much of the sound of normality in my voice as I could.

I answered the phone and was surprised by the sound of my own voice, which seemed strange, somehow distant. I cleared my throat to mask the attempt to regain some composure. Hello, I repeated. On the other end of the line Oliver asked why I hadn’t sent him the articles yet that I was working on for the website. Didn’t I remember I’d promised to have them done by the end of the day? I could hear him coughing on the other end of the line. Oliver usually worked at night, staying up drinking coffee and chain-smoking. He was tall and thin, but these habits made him look even more hollow-chested and gaunt.

I realized that I had been so absorbed in trying to solve my riddle that the thought of sending him the articles I was supposed to write hadn’t even crossed my mind. I apologized and lied that I had a touch of the flu, and had been asleep all evening and so hadn’t even begun what had been, just a few hours before, my priority for the rest of the night. I told him I was sorry, and that I’d get the work to him as soon as possible.

There was a pause on the line, I’m not sure Oliver was entirely convinced by my story. An awkward moment of silence passed between us, but then he did something I hadn’t expected. He asked if there was anything he could do, if he could send something over, some soup or something. It was a gesture of concern I wouldn’t have thought would come from someone as cynical as I had come to believe he was.

I thanked him and said no, I’d be all right, what I really needed was just to go back to sleep. He said he would wait for me to get in touch with him when I felt better. I could hear in his voice that he was a little irritated, but he wished me well anyway. Then, not sure I could keep up my pretense much longer, I ended the conversation and hung up the phone.

I exhaled deeply, then looked around the room again. John’s words returned to me. When you’ve found the ring of the republic, go there. How was I supposed to go there? Did he mean he wanted me to catch a flight and somehow look for him myself? I wasn’t sure that was possible, even if I could somehow figure out exactly where he was.

I took a few steps across the room, then turned and leaned against the wall. I realized just how exhausted I