Page 123 of Winterveil

It wasn’t nearly as impressive as Julian was suggesting. In truth, Klaudia had been turning over the idea of escape in her mind ever since they had woken up from the simulation. She had suspected it was a suicide mission all along, but Deckard’s order to destroy the cube had confirmed it. He didn’t want Satow rescued; he wanted Satow killed, which meant the four of them were expendable. If it required too many resources to get them out, Klaudia had no doubts whatsoever that Deckard would leave them for dead.

He had given them the imitation L-pills for a reason. He wanted to prepare them for the most likely eventuality—the one where they were martyrs, not heroes.

“We need to blow Deckard’s plan wide open,” Klaudia said. “Put it on the front page of the New York Times. He’ll be hamstrung by the public’s outrage. If we play our cards right, we can expose everything.”

“But how?” Giselle asked. “We’re trapped here, aren’t we?”

“Theoretically,” said Klaudia. “But I don’t believe Chane for a second when he says that the gala will be discreet. He’s too much of a narcissist. There will be photographers, and information will leak. Which means we have to do something to draw as much attention to ourselves as possible. Something the guests won’t be able to resist gossiping about.”

Nadiya frowned. “Like what?”

“I have some thoughts.”

“Not that I don’t have faith in you,” Julian said, “but you might be idealizing the general public. Don’t you think they’re more likely to hate us for shirking our patriotic duty? What’s to stop them from seeing us as traitors?”

“The political value we provide to Chane’s enemies. There are plenty of senators and congresspeople who have been fighting big tech’s overreach. Deckard is clearly circling some sort of larger deal with him, and we can expose that, too. But I suspect people would support us even just to get under Chane’s skin.”

“Well, I don’t doubt that he has enemies,” said Nadiya. “His hairdresser, for one.”

“All right,” Julian said cautiously. “So we appeal to the other side of the aisle. That means the old-guard Democrats and the centrist Republicans. And anyone whose intern has to help them turn on their computer.” He grimaced. “My father’s demographic.”

“Yes,” Klaudia agreed. “Which is why we’re going to need him.”

Immediately the color drained from Julian’s face. “What?”

“We still have to make a grand exit tomorrow night. In the middle of the gala, for maximum dramatic effect.” She paused. “Is there any way you could contact your father?”

Julian said nothing, and a tense silence settled over the room. Nadiya and Giselle were watching him expectantly. Klaudia noticed the way his fingers curled and uncurled, knuckles turning white and nails digging into his palm.

“I don’t think these phones make outside calls,” he replied at last. “Deckard wouldn’t be so careless.”

“If I can get you to a phone,” Klaudia said, projecting more confidence than she felt, “will you do it?”

Julian’s gaze dropped. She had never seen him look so cowed. For an instant she regretted what she had said, regretted mentioning his father at all. She didn’t know how Julian had left things with him, but surely his father couldn’t be pleased that his eldest son and golden boy—and, presumably, his heir—was a criminal and a political disgrace. Maybe she had gone too far. Klaudia didn’t like thinking that she might have hurt him.

After another long stretch of silence, Julian lifted his gaze.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” said Klaudia, feeling a thrum of relief. “Now, a phone . . .”

She trailed off, but before her short-lived relief could turn to hopelessness, Giselle spoke up.

“Chane has a phone,” she said hesitantly. “I could try and . . . convince him.” She paused for a moment. “But I think he likes you, Klaudia.”

Klaudia stiffened.

“No,” said Julian. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s fine,” Klaudia said. She kept her voice level, even as her heart briefly skipped its beats. “That makes sense. Okay.” She paused again, trying to steel herself, to imagine the scenario that Giselle had presented. “I’ll do it. I’ll get his phone from him.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Julian, without delay.

A rush of gratitude warmed Klaudia’s chest, and it gave her the resolve to say, “All right. Then let’s go.”

They followed Chane’s security guards like a trail of breadcrumbs, leading to the roof. At each checkpoint, the guards demanded them show their hands and made Julian empty his pockets. Klaudia looked pointedly at the bulk of Kevlar underneath the guards’ clothes. Chane, for all his projected informality, was taking no chances.

When they found Chane, he was pacing around the perimeter of the helipad, shouting into his phone. The wind whipped his stringy hair in all directions, and made his exact words inaudible. But his face was red with emotion.