The Tesla Legacy

Chapter 40

Quantum liked the anonymity of Newark Liberty International Airport. Nothing ever happened in Newark. No one knew who he was, and no one cared.

Security trusted that he belonged to the forged passport he’d used to check in. He was Matt Chang, an Asian guy on a business trip. Nobody looked twice at him.

The generic atmosphere of McGinley’s Irish Pub wrapped around him like a warm blanket of anonymity. He took a long pull of dark Guinness and set his glass on the black granite bar. McGinley’s clearly wasn’t splashing out on authenticity. The bar was the same kind of stone used in a lot of upscale kitchens in the nineties, not a wooden bar like he’d seen in the movies, so the whole place felt more like someone’s kitchen than an Irish pub.

But he didn’t care. In forty-five minutes he’d be on a plane to Dublin. Then he’d see what was real, and what was leprechaun clichés. He’d mingle with the Irish lasses and keep his head down until Ash gave up on him. They had enough high tech in Dublin that an Asian geek from America wouldn’t stick out too much. Plus, he had no links to Ireland. He’d taken a list of likely international destinations that he had no connection to, given each a number, and let a random number generator choose where he should go. If it were up to him, he’d have picked Berlin, which is why he hadn’t let himself pick.

A heavyset man in a nondescript gray business suit sat on a nearby stool. The bar’s overhead lights reflected off his shiny bald spot. He was glued to the soccer match on the bar’s television. Quantum supposed he’d have to learn to like soccer in Ireland.

A commotion in the terminal drew his attention away from the game. A wiry blonde pulling a hot-pink suitcase was screaming at the man standing next to her. He had a hot-pink suitcase, too, obviously a domesticated man, and he’d apparently run over her expensive shoe. She was giving him colorful hell for it.

Quantum reached for his beer without looking and took another sip of the bitter brew. He was facing the terminal now, enjoying the show. No amount of apologizing on the man’s part would make such a transgression right again, that was clear.

The woman took off her shoe and waved it under the man’s nose, so that he could really understand the depth of his crime. Quantum would miss the New Jersey accent and attitude. But he supposed Dublin would have its own charms.

Nausea passed through him, and he swallowed. He hadn’t had Guinness in a while, but he didn’t remember this reaction. Grogginess drove his head toward his chest. He set his beer down so hard that the glass broke, and dark liquid splashed onto his shirt. The businessman was gone. He’d left a crumpled ten-dollar bill on the bar, and he’d taken Quantum’s laptop.

Quantum staggered to his feet, one hand on the bar to steady himself. He’d been poisoned. Ash had found him, and he’d been poisoned, and he was going to die at a cheap chain bar in Newark.

“Are you OK?” The bartender caught hold of his elbow and was trying to get him to sit down again. His blue eyes looked concerned.

Quantum stumbled away from the stool. Plenty of time to sit when he was dead. That was coming soon.

His life didn’t flash before his eyes, and he didn’t think of some girl he’d missed his chance with. All he felt was a desire for revenge.

Ash probably thought he was going to die in the bar, probably had made it look like a heart attack. His death probably wouldn’t even make the nightly news.

Not good enough. He was going to make damn sure that the police investigated his death, did a thorough autopsy, and that his last moments would be splashed all over the Internet for all the world to talk about.

He summoned up the last of his strength and shouted the only words that would do that.

“There’s a bomb in the terminal. I put it here myself.”