62: Chapter 62 Only the dead can keep secrets

Manhattan, 432 Park Avenue, penthouse.

The sirens below could not be heard here, nor could the sound of the rain.

Only the faint humming of the climate control system, like the breathing of some massive creature.

The old man sat in a wheelchair, rotating two walnuts in his hands.

The walnuts were polished with age, a deep, purplish red, like two shriveled hearts.

On the wall of televisions in front of him, over twenty channels were broadcasting the same image: Senator Gore surrounded by reporters at the entrance to the Senate, his usually well-groomed face now twisted like that of a drowning man.

The phone rang.

Not the modern electronic ringtone, but the crisp, mechanical sound of a striker hitting a copper bell.

The old man picked up the receiver without speaking.

"Gore can't hold on much longer." The voice on the other end of the line had been modulated, making it impossible to distinguish gender, sounding like fingernails scraping across a chalkboard.

"The stuff that runaway female FBI agent released is too solid; even the blood sample numbers match up.

The public is like a pack of mad dogs right now. If we don't throw them a piece of meat, they'll tear this building down."

The walnuts in the old man's hands stopped moving.

"How much does Gore know?"

"Not much, but he has met Dr. Hoffman. If he talks in exchange for a reduced sentence..."

"Then make him shut up." The old man's tone was flat, as if he were talking about pouring out spoiled milk.

"Since that female agent is determined to hound him regardless of whether she's dead or alive, let's turn this into an isolated incident.

Gore is a madman, a corrupt criminal; he ran these anti-human experiments on his own, and we were completely unaware."

"But that's not enough. Gore is the Vice Chairman of the Military Committee. The public will ask who gave him the money and who gave him the authority."

"Then give the public a bigger news story."

The old man turned his wheelchair to face the floor-to-ceiling window.

Outside, the sky was gray and overcast, with rain pouring down.

"Fear is the best amnesia medicine. When people are worried about whether they'll cough up blood and die tomorrow morning, no one will care how much money an has-been senator embezzled."

The other end of the line was silent for two seconds.

"Activate Plan B? What about Hoffman..."

"Clean it up." The old man hung up the phone.

He picked up the scissors on the table and slowly clipped the end of a cigar.

...

Brooklyn, safe house.

Chen Mo stared at the red dot on the computer screen.

That was the real-time data transmitted back by Ava Rockefeller.

"These old bastards are quick."

Jack Martin's avatar was flashing frantically in the bottom right corner of the screen. Although he couldn't see him, Chen Mo could imagine the guy's adrenaline spiking right now.

[Boss, can you believe it? Ten minutes ago, three real estate funds under the Rockefeller Family suddenly started dumping all their commercial properties near Georgetown, Washington. The prices are ridiculously low; it's practically a fire sale!]

Chen Mo typed on the keyboard: [Did you buy in?]

[Jack: Buy in, my ass! You can't even buy property in that area with money normally, and now suddenly they're all at rock-bottom prices? There's definitely something fishy! I checked the municipal planning; there's nothing about building a waste treatment plant there.]

"It's not for a waste treatment plant." Chen Mo closed the chat window and turned to look at Old George, who was cleaning his gun. "It's about to become a dump."

George stopped what he was doing and looked up, a flash of sharp insight crossing his cloudy eyes.

As a former CIA Cleaner, he was all too familiar with this scent.

"Georgetown University?" George asked. "That's the backup sample repository for Project 734."

"Gore's scandal is a festering boil. If it bursts, it'll dirty the whole face."

Chen Mo stood up, walked to the map, picked up a red pen, and drew a hard X over the location of Georgetown University. "If they don't cut this face off, the fire will burn the Congress."

"So they're going to stage an accident." George holstered his M1911 with a click. "A biological leak?"

"Or a terrorist attack, or a gas explosion." Chen Mo shrugged.

"Any reason will do, as long as it flattens that laboratory and kills a few key witnesses in the process.

Of course, it would be best if it caused a bit of panic, forcing the National Guard to seal off the streets, giving them enough time to destroy all the data."

Jessica, who had been sitting on the sofa in the corner, suddenly moved.

She had changed her face.

Blonde hair, high cheekbones—after lying in that underground clinic for four hours, the former righteous agent had transformed into a cold and stunning stranger.

Only those eyes still harbored a spark that hadn't been extinguished.

"There are students there." Her voice was hoarse, as if there were gravel stuck in her throat. "And many civilians. It's a university district."

"I know." Chen Mo didn't look at her; he was organizing his gear.

Gas mask, tactical knife, and that glock he had grown attached to.

"Are we going to stop them?" Jessica stood up, her hand instinctively reaching for her waist, where the new gun Chen Mo had given her was tucked.

Chen Mo turned around and looked at her.

"Stop them?" He laughed, his smile devoid of warmth. "Why stop them? We didn't light this fire; we're just the ones going to collect the firewood."

"Do you know how many people will die?" Jessica took a step forward, her fists clenched white.

"Gore deserves to die, the Congress deserves to die, but those students are innocent! If we know about this and do nothing, how are we any different from Ouroboros?"

Chen Mo tossed the gas mask to George and then walked up to Jessica.

He was half a head taller than her, and the oppressive presence made Jessica's breath hitch.

"The difference is, they create corpses, while I utilize them."

Chen Mo extended a finger and gently tapped the tip of Jessica's newly reconstructed nose.

"Agent Vance, or no, Miss Wayne now. Have you forgotten that you're already a dead person? The dead cannot save the living.

If you run out now to report this, or try to evacuate the crowd, there will be only one outcome—you will be gunned down on the spot, mistaken for the terrorist who staged the attack.

Ouroboros might even thank you, because you'd be handing them a perfect scapegoat."

Jessica froze.

She knew he was right; this feeling of helplessness coiled around her heart like a venomous snake.

"Then what are we going there for?" She asked, gritting her teeth.

"The director of that laboratory, Dr. Hoffman."

Chen Mo pulled a photo from his pocket, showing a middle-aged, balding man with thick-rimmed glasses.

"He is the core person in charge of Project 734. Gore is just a watchdog who gets paid to do a job; Hoffman is the one who knows how to make the lock."

"Since the Congress wants to clean house, Hoffman will definitely be the first to die."

"Exactly." Chen Mo stuffed the photo into the pocket of Jessica's tactical vest.

"So we need to hurry. I need to 'borrow' his brain before his corpse gets cold."