by Greg Cox
Hours later, the suite had been converted into a prose factory. Everyone, including Denise, was sequestered in a corner, tapping away at one of six networked laptops. Hardison had set up a wireless link between the computers so that scenes and chapters could be passed along the assembly line as each author completed a section. As planned, all roads led to Denise, who was hard at work imposing her singular voice and style on the collaborative effort. A “Do Not Disturb” sign hung on the door outside. The drapes were drawn to cut off the outside world. Room-service trays and pizza delivery boxes were scattered like debris all over the suite. Yellow legal pads were covered with notes and character sketches. Oceans of black coffee had been consumed. A fresh pot was brewing in the kitchen.
They were going to need it.
Nate sat at the bar, sipping a whiskey as he monitored the book’s progress. He was starting to understand why so many authors and editors became alcoholics. Pulling a book out of the ether was enough to drive anyone to drink.
They had been at it nonstop for at least ten hours and the strain was starting to show. Beria’s deadline was bearing down on them like an unstoppable avalanche. A large digital display on the video wall counted down the hours, minutes, and seconds. Nate frowned at the countdown. They had already fallen behind on their word counts…
“Pick up the pace, people,” he called out. “You’re not writing the Great American Novel here.”
“Is that a thing?” Parker asked. “Is there a prize?”
“Just keep writing, Parker. And faster, if you don’t mind.”
“Slave driver,” she muttered under her breath. “I bet there’s a prize.”
Nate lifted his eyes from his laptop to check out the crew. Everyone seemed to be searching for their muse in their own way.
Parker was choreographing her complicated action scenes with the aid of toy vehicles and action figures she had foraged from a local dollar store. As Nate watched, a G.I. Joe fell to his doom after being knocked off the arm of the couch by a hang-gliding My Little Pony. Parker chuckled evilly as the action figure hit the floor. She typed feverishly. “Take that, Double Agent Triple-X!”
Nate peeked at her current output. Sure enough, a rogue assassin had just plummeted to his death in the Swiss Alps.
Whatever works, he thought.
He shrugged and hit save.
Meanwhile, Hardison seemed to be holding up so far. No surprise there; the hacker was accustomed to marathon sessions in front of a computer screen. Empty bottles of orange soda littered the floor around his feet. He finished off one bottle, tossed it aside, and reached for another. Nate made a mental note to schedule another bathroom break soon.
A bowl of brightly colored gummy frogs rested at Hardison’s elbow. He stuffed a handful of candies into his mouth, then washed it down with a swig of soda. Nate practically got a sugar rush just watching him, but didn’t suggest that Hardison ease up on the sweets. They all had their vices and Nate was no one to talk.
He poured himself another whiskey.
Hardison’s latest pages scrolled past Nate’s watchful gaze.
Uh-oh.
“Hold on, Hardison,” he called across the room. “What’s all this about an artificial intelligence… from a parallel universe?”
“All based on sound scientific theories,” Hardison proclaimed, a tad defensively. “Hold on, let me send you some links backing me up here.”
Nate’s e-mail chimed. He ignored the message.
“Just dial it down, Asimov.”
Hardison backspaced through the offending passages. “Everybody’s a critic,” he grumbled, loud enough for Nate to hear. “This stuff was gold, I’m telling you, twenty-four karats of Nebula-quality scientific extrapolation. We’re talking bestseller, boys and girls.”
Save it for the next book, Nate thought. I doubt if Beria’s a sci-fi fan.
Sophie jumped to her feet and started acting out a scene, complete with multiple voices and accents.
French: “For the love of God, Dmitri. Why do you have to be so cold and emotionally unavailable, even to the people who truly care about you. Stop pushing me away!”
Russian: “The mission is all that matters, Yvette. You should know that by now. I am who I am. I lost my heart a long time ago, when Sasha was murdered by those terrorists. All that’s left is the work.”
French: “I don’t believe that. Maybe that hollow-man act fools other people. Maybe you’ve even fooled yourself. But I know you, Dmitri. Better than you know yourself. You’re not really dead inside. You’re alive, Dmitri, alive!”
German: “But not for much longer, mein freund!”
French: “Gustav! No! Put down that machine gun!”
Sophie threw herself in the path of an invisible assassin. A look of mortal terror contorted her face, followed by a grimace of pain. She clutched her chest as though shot.
Russian: “Yvette!”
French: “Don’t forget me, Dmitri! Never forget…”
Nate winced. This was a little on the nose, in more ways than one.
“Damn it, Sophie!” Eliot barked. He pounded away at his keyboard like it was an enemy to be subdued—or maybe just a manual typewriter. “Do you have to keep doing that out loud? Some of us are trying to concentrate here!”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But it helps me bring my characters to life. I can’t just type the dialogue. I need to hear it, speak it, feel it…”
“Well, hear it, speak it, and feel it somewhere else,” Eliot said. “How am I supposed to write a fifteen-page fight sequence involving multiple combatants, a sniper, and a grizzly bear with you making all that racket.”
“Racket?” Sophie said indignantly. “I’ll have you know that scene is the heart and soul of the book. How is the reader supposed to understand Yvette’s complicated love/hate relationship with Dmitri unless every line comes straight from my heart?” She threw up her hands in frustration. “I’ve opened a bloody vein here, people. I’m bleeding onto the page!”
“You are?” Parker said, putting down the action figures. She peered at Sophie’s screen with interest. A puzzled look came over her face as she looked in vain for any literal gore. Disappointed, she turned back toward her own work. “And people think I’m the crazy one…”
The way things are going, Nate thought, she’s going to have plenty of company.
“Calm down, everyone.” He strolled to the center of the suite and raised his voice to be heard over the bickering. “Look, I understand. You’re all tired and irritable and running on fumes. But we’ve got to hold it together.” He glanced at the countdown. “We still have fifty-two thousand words to go—and only thirty hours left.”
A chorus of groans greeted his update. It wasn’t exactly the response he’d hoped for. Even Denise was slumped over her keyboard, looking utterly fried. Sophie collapsed into a comfy chair. She looked up at Nate, her face a portrait of surrender. Red-rimmed eyes implored him.
“I just can’t do it, Nate,” she moaned. “I can’t write anymore. I don’t have anything left.”
“I don’t believe it.” He knelt by the chair, talking to her one-on-one. “You’re Sophie Devereaux. You once worked a PBS telethon for seventy hours straight while posing as a blind tap dancer.”
“Don’t remind me,” she said. “I still cringe whenever I hear ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz’ after dark.”
“The point is, you’re a trouper. Fatigue has never slowed you down before. You keep going until you get the job done.”
“But that’s different,” she protested. “Yes, when I’m grifting I can stay in character for days if I have to, but that’s what I do. I’m an actress, not a writer.”
“So play a writer.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Pretend you’re playing the part of a writer with a tight deadline.”
She sat up straight, struck by the notion. She opened her mouth to raise an objection, but paused and thought it over instead. A speculative look came over her fa
ce, along with an unmistakable gleam of interest in her eyes. Nate recognized that gleam; she got it whenever she was developing a new character.
“Am I a good writer or bad writer?”
“A fast writer,” he stressed.
“And what’s my motivation?”
Nate smirked.
“Your coldhearted, hard-as-nails, son-of-a-bitch editor.”
She smiled slyly as they shared a moment.
“Yes, I can see that.”
| | | | | | TWELVE | | | | | |
MANHATTAN
END, Denise typed. She hit save.
“That’s it,” she announced, taking her hands away from the keyboard. She sounded like she couldn’t believe it. “I think we’re finished.”
“Oh, thank God,” Sophie exclaimed, slumping in her seat. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so tired, so drained. Her eyes drooped heavily; it was a struggle to keep them open. Her brain felt foggier than her old London stomping grounds. She didn’t even want to think about what she must look like in a mirror. “I think I died a couple hours ago.”
Parker leaned over and checked her pulse. “Nope,” she reported. “Not this time.”
“Tell me about it,” Hardison said. Like the rest of them, he was showing the telltale effects of hours of nonstop wordsmithing. His eyelids drooped, as though he was having trouble keeping them up. He needed a shower and a shave. Reaching wearily for his umpteenth bottle of orange soda, he paused and reconsidered. An incredulous look came over his face. “Whoa. I’m all soda-ed out. I honestly can’t face another drop.”
“That’s scary,” Parker said. She stared at him as though he had just been replaced by an alien impostor. She backed away. “Hardison isn’t Hardison anymore.”
“I’m not sure there’s much left of any of us.” Eliot cracked his knuckles. He stretched his stiff neck. “I’m through with this writing crap. Give me a bare-knuckle cage match in Bangkok any day.”
Even Nate had switched from booze to black coffee. His eyes burned.
“Look, I know it was hard on all of you,” he said, “but we did it. We have a book… and none too soon.”
The electronic countdown had only four minutes and thirty-two seconds to go. The forty-eight hours were almost up.
“I can’t believe we actually pulled it off.” Denise marveled aloud. She yawned and rubbed her eyes. “That was quite the marathon.”
Eliot walked over and massaged her shoulders. “How you bearing up?”
“To be honest, I’d kill for a hot shower and a long nap, maybe at the same time.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I feel like an absolute zombie—and probably smell like one, too.”
Hardison chuckled, as though at a private joke. “Funny you should mention zombies…”
Before he could elaborate, a ring tone brought the suite to a hush. All eyes turned toward Denise’s cell phone, which was resting on the conference room table, next to her laptop. The countdown on the video screens hit 00:00:00.
“Right on schedule,” Nate said.
Denise reached for her phone.
“No,” Nate said. “Let Sophie take it.”
He nodded at her and she took a deep breath to clear the cobwebs from her brain. A rush of adrenaline combated her fatigue. She stretched and took the phone. It was already set on speakerphone so that the others could listen in.
Showtime, she thought. “Hello?”
An electronically distorted voice delivered a chilling pronouncement: “Your time is up.”
Sophie declined to be intimidated by such theatrics.
“Mr. Beria, I presume?”
They were taking a calculated risk, revealing that they had already ID’d Beria, but Nate had decided it was worth the gamble. With any luck, using his name would throw Beria off his game and perhaps even serve to bring him out into the open. He might be less likely to remain in the shadows if there was no longer any point in concealing his identity.
At least that was the idea.
“Guilty as charged,” he admitted after a brief pause. There was a click on the line as he dispensed with the electronic distortion. A cool, icy voice with a cultured Mid-Atlantic accent emerged from the phone. “It seems you have the advantage on me. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of addressing?”
That was her cue.
“You can call me… Tarantula.”
She couldn’t resist milking the moment for all it was worth. How often did she get to play an international woman of mystery?
Other than every day, that is.
“Ah, the late Mr. Lee’s highly indiscreet informant,” he replied. “I don’t suppose you’d care to volunteer your real name, simply to put us on an equal footing?”
“What’s the rush?” she said, stalling. They still didn’t know whether Beria suspected that Tarantula was actually the supposedly deceased Vicki Rhodes. “There will be plenty of time to get to know each other once we’ve concluded the business at hand.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “I look forward to having a long and illuminating discussion with you in the very near future. In the meantime, are you prepared to exchange yourself—and the sequel—for poor, petrified Brad?”
“Yes.” Her voice caught in her throat as she channeled Denise’s guilt and acute sense of responsibility. “Too many people have ended up in harm’s way because of my secrets… and my past. I can’t let anyone else pay the price for my sins.”
Her dialogue actually came from Chapter Sixteen of Assassins Remember, which she had written herself, but Beria didn’t need to know that.
“A commendable attitude,” Beria said. “I’m glad that you’re being so reasonable about this. This matter is between you and me. There’s no reason for any hapless civilians, such as Brad, to get caught in the cross fire.”
She glanced over at Hardison, who was diligently attempting to trace the call to its origin. Probably a wasted effort, considering Beria’s black-ops background and expertise, but it was worth a try. Maybe Beria had gotten rusty.
“And you have the manuscript in hand?” he asked. “The complete text of Assassins Remember?”
“Yes, of course.” She shuddered, recalling all those long hours at the keyboard. It was a miracle that she hadn’t developed carpal tunnel syndrome. You have no idea what I went through to be able to say that. What we all went through.
Parker had actually dozed off on the couch. Sophie felt a pang of envy.
“Let’s make this exchange,” she said. “When and where?”
“Trinity Churchyard in lower Manhattan, three A.M. You are familiar with the location?”
“Naturally.”
The historic graveyard, which held the bones of such luminaries as Alexander Hamilton and Robert Fulton, was located in lower Manhattan near Wall Street. Sophie had occasionally taken lunch there while running stock-market scams.
“Excellent,” Beria said. “Come alone, and don’t forget the manuscript.”
“Alone? You can’t be serious.” Sophie knew that Tarantula would never agree to such terms, and neither would she. “I need some sort of backup to ensure that you carry out your side of the bargain, and to escort Brad to safety if and when you release him.”
“You are hardly in a position to dictate terms,” Beria reminded her. “We have Brad. His continued existence depends on your cooperation.”
“True, but I’m not going to sacrifice myself without taking a few reasonable precautions—for Brad’s sake.” She let a note of exasperation creep into her voice. “Don’t insult my intelligence. We’re both professionals. We know how these things are done.”
“Far be it from me to behave unprofessionally,” he conceded. “Let us each bring one bodyguard for our own protection. Is this acceptable?”
Sophie glanced at Eliot, who nodded. So far, things were playing out according to plan. She felt better knowing that Eliot would be watching her back, and be on hand if things got physical.
“Yes. That will do,” she said.
“But we’re not finished here. It’s been forty-eight hours since we’ve had proof of life. I’m not going anywhere, let alone a deserted cemetery after dark, unless I know Brad’s still alive and in one piece.”
Beria chuckled. “You have done this sort of thing before, haven’t you? Very well. Stay on the line.”
He put Brad on.
“Please,” the terrified hostage sobbed. “I don’t know who you are, but you have to do what they want.” He clearly didn’t recognize Sophie’s voice without her New York agent intonations. “It’s not fair! I never asked for this. I don’t know anything about tarantulas or assassins or whatever Gavin was mixed up in. I just want to—”
He was cut off in midsentence.
“Was that sufficient?” Beria inquired.
“Quite.”
“Then we’re nearly done here,” he said. “One last thing: we will have the location under surveillance between now and then. So do not think that you will be able to case the site in advance and arrange some manner of surprise. We will expect you at three, and not before.”
He hung up.
Sophie put down the phone. “Hardison?”
He shook his head. “No dice. It was just like before. He routed that call through Timbuktu and back again. It was like trying to find Carmen Santiago, blindfolded and without a map.”
“Spellcheck,” Parker muttered in her sleep, her fingers twitched as though she was still typing in her dreams. “Gotta check the spelling…”
Nate let her sleep. They could her fill her in later.
“All right. It’s on,” he said. “Everybody get some food or coffee if they need it. This isn’t over yet and we all need to be at the top of our game, despite the fact that we just spent the last two days writing a book.” He looked Sophie over, examining her for signs of fatigue. “You up for this?”
She liked that he was concerned about her. It gave her hope for Dmitri.
“Don’t worry about me,” she assured, acting less exhausted than she was. She hoped her performance was convincing. “I’m Sophie Devereaux, remember?”