Lystra hung up the phone, indifferent really to the current spreadsheet drama from her office. It didn’t matter. There was no future to worry about. She swallowed the last of the bourbon and stood up to stretch. The marina was nestled between Tiburon and the adjoining Belvedere Island. Unpretentious yet extremely expensive homes rose on a cute little hill to her left and up the longer, wooded slope of Belvedere to her right. Looking south through the forest of masts, she could see San Francisco. Fog was rolling out, revealing the city, all muted pastels and off-whites.

It was all in all a beautiful location, with sailboats and ferries and container ships passing by in review. A genteel, civilized, prosperous place.

And all of it about to come to a terrifying end.

It had been good to watch Janklow go mad; he had annoyed her on more than one occasion. She wanted to get a few tastes of the madness out here in the real world—before the final chapters, which would force her to hide out and watch it as well as she could via electronic means. The personal, real-world experiences would help her to enjoy the next step.

“All done?” the waiter asked, coming to clean her table.

“Soon,” she said.

EIGHT

The first thing Bug Man had asked was, “Where are we?”

Bug Man had flown on a private jet before. He wasn’t indifferent to it, but he wasn’t overly impressed, either. George had not told him where they were going but had retreated into a book, remaining sullen and uncommunicative.

Bug Man saw a city in the distance. It was all tan walls and terra-cotta roofs, a large blur extending far out in every direction, reaching beneath the jet with roads full of small cars.

“The former center of the Earth, once upon a time. The Eternal City,” George had said.

“Yeah, which is what?”

George sighed. “Your education is deplorable. The Eternal City is a reference to Rome.”

“Rome? That’s like, Italy, right?”

George managed not to roll his eyes, but only just. “Yes, Italy, Bug Man. Pizza, pasta, wine, priests, fashion, Rome. The Coliseum,” he added. “Gladiators and all of that.”

“I saw the movie,” Bug Man said. “Also, I played the game. Not a great game.”

“No?” The plane took a little lurch as a crosswind hit it. “What makes a good game?”

Bug Man had been much more sure of his ground on this topic. He didn’t know much about history, but he knew games. “A good game? That’s one where you can’t stop playing it, even when you’re asleep. Whatever you have to do that takes you away from the game, all you’re thinking about is getting back into it.”

“Hard?”

“It’s not about hard. Yeah, it has to be challenging. Can’t be so easy it’s over in five minutes, right? But it’s not just about hard; otherwise, you could play online chess or work a Rubik’s cube, man.”

He heard the grinding of the landing gear coming down.

“Why are we in Rome?” Not that he was complaining. He’d been locked away for several days in a safe house in the emptied-out Lake District before George had come to retrieve him. He’d been about to lose his mind looking at rain falling on green hills.

“We need a good twitcher. A nanobot twitcher.”

“Where’d you get nanobots? The people you work for don’t do nanobots, and I am not doing any biot bullshit. I saw what that did to Vincent.”

“Nanobots,” George reassured him. “We came across some, and a portable controller. Compliments of a former friend of yours.”

“Burnofsky?”

George laughed and didn’t answer. He rolled into the nearest seat and motioned Bug Man to buckle up.

Bug Man didn’t exactly miss Burnofsky. The old man was an unreliable, unpredictable, sometimes cruel degenerate. But he and Bug Man had played a great game. The greatest game Bug Man would probably ever play.

God, that was a depressing thought. Was it all downhill from here? He supposed that would depend on just what George here had in mind.

“What do you want me for?” Bug Man asked, but the question was lost in the impact of tires on tarmac. The jet rolled down the taxiway to a waiting car.

Bug Man walked down the steps to the tarmac—it was warmer out than it should have been for this time of year. Was Rome always warm? He had no idea. The sun was setting, and all he could see were featureless hangars and repair sheds. In the distance was a Fiat sign, and beyond that a billboard for what looked like a juice drink.

“I don’t speak Italian,” he said.

“You won’t need to,” George said. “Get in the car.”

Bug Man did not like that, the bossy tone. He needed to draw a line right here and now, before he was driven off to wherever. “Tell me what we’re doing here, dude.” When George looked evasive, Bug Man held up one hand, cutting him off. “No, man, now. Right here, right now. Enough playing around.”

George nodded, as if expecting this. As if he’d have preferred to do it somewhere else, but okay, if his impatient young friend insisted.

“The Pope,” George said.

“The Pope? The freaking Holy Father? The Pope? What about the Pope?”

“You know he’s in Rome?” The question was obviously insulting, spoken as it was with more than a trace of condescension.

“What’s with the Pope?”

George dropped the snarky look and got serious. “You are wanted by MI5. A word from them and every other intelligence and police agency on Earth will be looking for you. And of course, the Armstrong Twins want you dead.” He stepped closer, put his face right up close to Bug Man’s face, close enough that Bug Man could have told you the man’s toothpaste brand. “But forget all of that, because we have a fellow named Caligula. A charming name, I’m sure you’ll agree. He already knows your name. A single text from Lear to Caligula and your death is assured.” He held up an index finger. “I don’t mean that you will likely be killed. I mean that you will without the slightest doubt be killed. Caligula has never failed. Never.”