Andy’s help if what Jeremy had uncovered about Christ the Redeemer was even partially true. And for Dashia’s part, she had reached back into her former life as a computer wizard, and had already scripted a hacking program to look into the 2007 vote that had chosen the Seven Modern Wonders. Although she hadn’t found much—just a few suspicious quirks that led her to believe that, indeed, the data had been massaged by an unknown party—it was enough to give more credence to the idea that someone, for some reason, had manipulated the hundred million votes toward a predetermined outcome.
Jack couldn’t possibly imagine what they were getting themselves into; at the very least, the mystery they were trying to unravel was the last thing his brother had been working on when he was murdered. Jack believed he owed it to his brother to follow the clues he had left behind.
Jack’s thoughts were interrupted as a sudden cheer erupted through the car, followed by the salsa band kicking into high gear, wooden sticks slamming repeatedly against steel drums. But despite the roar, Jack’s attention was entirely captured by the scene on the other side of the window. One minute, everything was thick and green, and then suddenly, they were surrounded by swirling gray mist, churning across a steep vista of jagged stone. Then, just as suddenly, they were above the mist. Jack had a moment of vertigo as the train seemed to be going almost straight up, and then there was a lurch as the train pulled to a sudden stop.
They had reached the top of Corcovado.
There was a brief pause, then the crowd surged toward the open train doors.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“He certainly makes an impression, I’ll give him that.”
Andy was a half step ahead of Jack and Dashia, his neck craned upward as the steel-framed escalator deposited them, still crammed into the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, onto the stone-paved viewing platform. Up close, the huge Art Deco statue loomed indescribably large, rising up out of the mist like something from ancient mythology. Though it had been constructed in France in the 1920s and shipped over to Brazil in pieces—white soapstone wrapped around a concrete and steel frame—the monument would have fit well in any Greek or Roman ruin: ninety-eight feet tall, perched atop a twenty-six-foot-high black granite pedestal, rising out of the peak of the twenty-two-hundred-foot-tall mountain, arms outstretched to embrace what looked like the entire world. Christ the Redeemer, perhaps the largest representation of the religious icon on Earth—and the most modern of the Seven Wonders of the World.
“View’s not half bad, either,” Dashia said, from Jack’s left.
She was peering over the low wall that surrounded the platform as they shuffled forward with the crowd. Though most of the view was obscured by the rolling mist, which had followed them up as they’d made their way viaa trio of elevators and a pair of escalators from the train depot, Jake caught glimpses of the incredible panorama down below. From a half a mile up, the urban sprawl of Rio was nearly postcard perfect, from its pincushion of gleaming skyscrapers, to its clustered apartment complexes, to its snow-white resort hotels, and of course, the legendary white sand beaches of Ipanema and Copacabana, bathed in the shadows of Corcovado and its slightly shorter twin, Sugar Loaf.
The crowd of tourists and pilgrims didn’t seem to care that they were gazing down on Rio through breaks in the mist; to the contrary, the wisps of cottony white sweeping across the paved stones, so thick in some places Jack couldn’t see his own feet, made it feel like they were walking on a canopy of clouds.
“I’m a little turned around,” Andy said as they moved along the side of the black granite base. “You want to take the lead, Doc?”
Jack pointed at a woman two steps ahead of Andy, in a flowing white wedding dress, the train folded up beneath the arm of her tuxedo-clad
Jack couldn’t possibly imagine what they were getting themselves into; at the very least, the mystery they were trying to unravel was the last thing his brother had been working on when he was murdered. Jack believed he owed it to his brother to follow the clues he had left behind.
Jack’s thoughts were interrupted as a sudden cheer erupted through the car, followed by the salsa band kicking into high gear, wooden sticks slamming repeatedly against steel drums. But despite the roar, Jack’s attention was entirely captured by the scene on the other side of the window. One minute, everything was thick and green, and then suddenly, they were surrounded by swirling gray mist, churning across a steep vista of jagged stone. Then, just as suddenly, they were above the mist. Jack had a moment of vertigo as the train seemed to be going almost straight up, and then there was a lurch as the train pulled to a sudden stop.
They had reached the top of Corcovado.
There was a brief pause, then the crowd surged toward the open train doors.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“He certainly makes an impression, I’ll give him that.”
Andy was a half step ahead of Jack and Dashia, his neck craned upward as the steel-framed escalator deposited them, still crammed into the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, onto the stone-paved viewing platform. Up close, the huge Art Deco statue loomed indescribably large, rising up out of the mist like something from ancient mythology. Though it had been constructed in France in the 1920s and shipped over to Brazil in pieces—white soapstone wrapped around a concrete and steel frame—the monument would have fit well in any Greek or Roman ruin: ninety-eight feet tall, perched atop a twenty-six-foot-high black granite pedestal, rising out of the peak of the twenty-two-hundred-foot-tall mountain, arms outstretched to embrace what looked like the entire world. Christ the Redeemer, perhaps the largest representation of the religious icon on Earth—and the most modern of the Seven Wonders of the World.
“View’s not half bad, either,” Dashia said, from Jack’s left.
She was peering over the low wall that surrounded the platform as they shuffled forward with the crowd. Though most of the view was obscured by the rolling mist, which had followed them up as they’d made their way viaa trio of elevators and a pair of escalators from the train depot, Jake caught glimpses of the incredible panorama down below. From a half a mile up, the urban sprawl of Rio was nearly postcard perfect, from its pincushion of gleaming skyscrapers, to its clustered apartment complexes, to its snow-white resort hotels, and of course, the legendary white sand beaches of Ipanema and Copacabana, bathed in the shadows of Corcovado and its slightly shorter twin, Sugar Loaf.
The crowd of tourists and pilgrims didn’t seem to care that they were gazing down on Rio through breaks in the mist; to the contrary, the wisps of cottony white sweeping across the paved stones, so thick in some places Jack couldn’t see his own feet, made it feel like they were walking on a canopy of clouds.
“I’m a little turned around,” Andy said as they moved along the side of the black granite base. “You want to take the lead, Doc?”
Jack pointed at a woman two steps ahead of Andy, in a flowing white wedding dress, the train folded up beneath the arm of her tuxedo-clad
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