The Midas Code

With Tyler, Stacy, Grant, and Cavano dead, the Midas chamber sealed up again, and the warehouse destroyed, there was almost no evidence left of Orr’s true identity and his connection to the Midas Touch. Crenshaw was the final loose end to tie up, and Orr would take care of him after he exacted his vengeance on the smug investment-banking firms of Wall Street and all who profited from their greed.

Crenshaw picked him up at Newark Airport at seven in the morning in a taxi. The weather was bright and clear, with only a slight breeze. Without a word, they rode to a truck stop where the semi was parked.

When they got into the truck, Crenshaw looked at Orr’s eye and said, “What happened to you?”

“Accident. Don’t worry about it.”

“Let’s see the Midas Touch.”

Orr reluctantly opened the pack and held up the container with Midas’s desiccated hand inside.

“That’s it? I was expecting rays to be shooting out of it or something.”

Orr had to admit that it looked less than impressive.

“Believe me,” he said, “it works.”

“I don’t believe you. You have proof?”

Orr gave him the camera, which Crenshaw hooked up to his laptop. He played back the video that Stacy had shot. Even on a tiny computer screen, the chamber was amazing.

Apart from saying “Wow!” a few times, Crenshaw was silent. When the video was over, he tapped a few keys on the keyboard and detached the camera. He removed the videotape and, before Orr could stop him, smashed it against the dashboard.

“What in God’s name are you doing, you moron? We need that to show the auction bidders!”

“I know. And now we’re full partners. I emailed it to myself. Don’t think I didn’t know you were going to kill me as soon as I armed the bomb. You’ve got the buyers, and I’ve got the video.”

Orr peered at Crenshaw and then laughed. A full-out belly laugh. “I didn’t think anyone was as devious as I was, Crenshaw. But I underestimated you. That doesn’t happen often.”

Crenshaw looked as if he didn’t know what to make of Orr, but he seemed satisfied. He put the truck into gear.

They took the Lincoln Tunnel into Manhattan. Orr noted with irony the sign at the entrance, which said NO FLAMMABLES OR EXPLOSIVES.

“Which location are we using?” Orr asked. They had five possibilities for where to park the truck depending on conditions, all of them locations where a Wilbix truck wouldn’t be out of place.

“Vesey Street, just east of Church.” It was just a block from the PATH train station.

The plan was simple. Park the truck on the street, set the timer on the detonator for ten minutes-too short an interval for any tow truck to respond-and walk away. They’d be on their way out of the city before the semi exploded.

Using every trick he knew, Tyler had piloted the flight from DC to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey in just one hour. Riegert had called ahead and arranged for a helicopter to meet them at the airport so they could avoid the rush-hour traffic. Agent Immel brought a Geiger counter to help locate the bomb. Grant, of course, had insisted on coming along.

The four of them had landed at the downtown heliport on the East River at 8 A.M. The New York FBI office had arranged for a car to be waiting for them.

On the way, Riegert discovered that a man fitting Orr’s description had gone through customs at Newark Airport an hour before under the name of Gerald Oren. The flag hadn’t gone out fast enough to stop him at the airport, but Riegert showed Tyler a photo from the security cameras, and the eye patch made identification easy. It was Orr.

Aiden had come through with more info about Giordano Orsini’s life. His father allegedly committed suicide because he’d been fired from his position as an investment banker and was up to his ears in debt with no prospect of finding another job. Orsini subsequently went into a never-ending string of foster homes and eventually fell off the map.

Tyler now understood why Orr was in Manhattan. Orr believed the ultimate revenge was to make himself rich while making the people he blamed for ruining his life suffer. The scope of his vendetta was staggering, requiring patience and planning that must have taken years, even decades. But Orr’s scheme had a twisted sense of poetic justice. Tyler just couldn’t comprehend the boundless reserves of hatred Orr would need to carry out his plan.

Riegert had taken the wheel and headed straight for New York Downtown Hospital. Given the time Orr had landed, he could already be in the city with the bomb. If Orr wanted to blend in, he’d head to the place where he’d expect to see other trucks from Wilbix. The FBI put out an all-points bulletin on the truck and asked Wilbix Construction to make sure all its vehicles were accounted for. But the search would take time, even with the FBI’s enormous manpower.

Four police cars had already converged on the hospital site, so when they arrived an officer told them they’d checked every Wilbix truck in the lot. None of them was the model stolen from Clarence Gibson in Virginia.