by Tim Tigner
Lisa placed both hands on the back of her chair and leaned in. “No.”
The chairman’s face darkened even as his eyes grew brighter, but he bit his tongue. He knew the kicker was coming.
“There’s a way for us to have our cake and eat it too. For us to become rich and immortal without getting lynched or overcrowding the planet.”
Pierce smiled, as much from the realization that he’d been steered full circle as from the anticipation of another titillating revelation. “Now you’re talking my language. What way is that?”
“Instead of selling Eos to a billion people, or even a million, we sell it to just one.”
Pierce nodded slowly, then faster. “One extremely wealthy person. But at what price?”
“A price that puts all the Immortals on the same financial footing. We ask for an even division of the fortune—ten ways around.”
“You mean nine,” Pierce corrected, nodding toward the empty chair.
All eyes turned toward Lisa as her stomach fluttered. “Nine,” she confirmed.
“And I suppose you already have the lucky man in mind?” Pierce pressed, now unable to repress his excitement.
“Woman, actually. My Stanford roommate married Jacques Eiffel, the late oil magnate.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
You may find it helpful to note that Immortals have an “i” in their first names, while mortals do not.
3
The Fix Is In
Twenty years later
Seven Star Island, the Bahamas
ARIA EIFFEL experienced déjà vu as she entered her library to find eight attentive faces waiting. She shouldn’t have been surprised. The faces appeared exactly as they had twenty years earlier when the same crew had ambushed her in that very room.
The pitch that started their everlasting association had begun an hour before midnight on millennium eve. Perfect timing. Poetic even. The end of an old era and the start of a new age. Lisa had even timed her presentation to climax as the fireworks began bursting overhead. Immortality could be hers—if she shared her wealth.
Although today’s date was nothing special, Aria got the sudden sense that there might be fireworks ahead. The atmosphere felt different from the preceding Immortals meetings. She sensed an unusual energy in the room.
Back at that grand soirée on millennium eve, Lisa had been the only one of the eight on the guest list. She’d snuck the other seven onto Aria’s private island.
Today they were all invited, of course, as they were once a year, when it was Aria’s turn to host the Immortals’ semiannual meeting. The other times, Lisa hosted them in California.
Back then, the deal had been immortality—in exchange for equal slices of her fortune. Or as Lisa had pitched it, “With Eos, you can take it with you. At least, one-ninth of it.” Since that split still left Aria with more than a billion in the bank—plus the island, the plane, the yacht, et cetera—her decision had been a no-brainer.
What did her Stanford sorority sister have planned today? Aria could see a special glint in her eye. It was no less telling than a feather on a cat’s mouth. But what bird was she hunting?
Back on millennium eve, Aria had been unable to pull herself from the compelling presentation and extraordinary pitch that followed, despite having a hundred affluent guests waiting for her attention.
These days she rarely had guests.
That was the one big thing Aria hadn’t realized back then, standing on the same spot, surveying the same guests. The hidden cost of becoming one of only nine Immortals on the planet.
By making that enviable move, she had effectively forsaken her right to be a social butterfly. She had tethered herself to the only others whose lives had no horizon. Her secret accomplices. Her new forever family.
She studied the room, wondering what ambush they had planned. The Immortals were a mix of scientists and businesspeople, liberals and conservatives, but nonetheless they were tight. Kind of like cousins. They had to be. It was ultimately too uncomfortable to associate with anyone outside their circle. Any person still subject to the scythe of time.
Pierce immediately confirmed her intuition as he kicked off the Immortals’ fortieth semiannual meeting. “There’s a big decision before us today. Arguably the most difficult and consequential one we’ll ever have to make.”
Aria studied her friends’ faces as she wondered what the big decision was. She saw that most were similarly surprised. Only Lisa and Camilla appeared to know what was coming. Why was it that no matter how small the group, you always had factions?
“As you have all undoubtedly considered in private, we are faced with the enviable but precarious predicament of having appearances that are now twenty years younger than our identities. Good genes and luxurious lifestyles go a long way toward explaining the discrepancy to inquiring minds, but we’re approaching the practical limit.”
Everyone nodded.
Aside from Pierce, who had twenty years on them, the Immortals were in their fifties but looked as they had in their thirties, if not better, thanks to Eos. Aria had in fact mentioned the aging problem to Lisa the last time they were alone together. The two still shared the connection of sorority sisters, despite the fact that their lives and outlooks had diverged considerably after college.
“Purchasing false identities might appear to be the perfect solution,” Pierce continued, “but unfortunately it is not. Lisa and I conducted extensive research and consulted multiple experts. They informed us that using fake documents for an extended period would be extremely risky, given all the attention going to preventing and prosecuting illegal immigration. The experts also noted that people of great means face an additional level of government scrutiny, given their value to the IRS. So we can’t just purchase papers, as they say.”
“What alternative is there?” Felix interjected.
Felix Gentry was Aria’s least favorite Immortal. He had been the CFO back when Eos was a company rather than a lifestyle. The numbers guy suffered from the ironic affliction of prematurely gray hair, which he combed straight back. His eyes were dark, his mouth serious, and his nose looked like it had been crimped with pliers. While she found the combination unappealing, others called it interesting. Apparently, the look attracted women who were drawn to power.
“That’s what we need to discuss,” Pierce said, his tone implying that what followed would not be a comfortable conversation. “The alternative to fake documents—is real documents.”
“You mean replacing real people?” David asked. “Surely you’re not considering something so barbaric?”
“He means scooping up the social security numbers of people who died young, and using them to get genuine documents,” Felix said.
Pierce rose and began pacing. “No, unfortunately I don’t. The government is all too aware of that favorite old tactic. Given that knowledge, and the rise of interconnected databases, the experts have eliminated it as an advisable option. David was right. Our only permanent alternative is to replace real people.”
“Except it wouldn’t be permanent,” David said. “It would need to be repeated every twenty years.”
“Point taken,” Pierce said, pausing behind David’s chair and thereby making it awkward for him to respond.
“What exactly are you proposing?” Aria asked, her stomach suddenly unsettled.
Pierce turned his laser-like focus her way. “There are men who specialize in solving problems and shutting mouths. They’re fixers. Usually former military or law enforcement officers, often with a law degree or private security background. Most live like ghosts off the grid. All know how to keep a secret.
“Lisa and I are asking for the go-ahead to identify and hire the best of their best.”
“The fixer will find suitable physical matches for each of us and attempt to meet additional requirements if presented,” Lisa added.
“Is that even possible?” Aria asked. “Finding our twins?”
“There are already commercia
l websites that do just that. Twinstrangers, twinlets, and ilooklikeyou for example. Obviously, minor cosmetic changes will be required, as will relocation to a place neither you nor your replacement previously lived.”
Felix looked up from deep thought. “Physical appearances aside, how can we be expected to fool these replacements’ families and friends?”
Lisa fielded the question with her typical diplomatic aplomb. “Good point. We’ll need to target people without either. While that sounds like a big ask, there’s actually a significant percentage of the population that either has no family or doesn’t communicate with them. And friends tend to come and go with geography, so the move will take care of that.
“Obviously, there are a lot of considerations. Pierce and I have thought through many of them, but I’m sure there are some we’ve missed. That’s another reason why we want to involve expert help.”
“Will this expert know why we need replacements?” Felix pressed.
Lisa shook her head. “No. He won’t know who we are or what we are. Just what we look and sound like. Obviously, that’s data he’ll need to do the matchmaking.”
“We’ll pay him extremely well,” Pierce added. “Well enough to effectively own him. Both during the replacement process and going forward, since we’ll need someone to troubleshoot any problems which may arise.”
Aria was about to ask what problems they foresaw, when Lisa said, “I’d like to put the proposal forward for a vote.”
Majority approval of the group was required when any Immortal wanted to take an action that might impact the rest of them. Aria, having joined late, voted only in case of a tie. To date, her vote had never been necessary.
“I can’t believe we’re actually considering this,” David said. “Replacement is a euphemism for murder. We’re not murderers.”
“Of course we are,” Pierce said. “We’re simply not in the habit of tracing the provenance of our dinners—or our shoes, belts, bags, furniture… But just as we justify putting veal on our plates with the argument that humans are one rung up the food chain from cows, so we can condone replacing mortals. They are, unquestionably, one rung below us. I second the motion for a vote.”
“Is there really no other way?” Aria asked.
“Surely we can find one!” David said. “Some way to make fake identities work. Through bribes or regular swaps, for example.”
Lisa cut off Pierce’s reply with a glance. “We considered those options. Both jeopardize the prime directive we agreed on during our very first meeting, twenty years ago, right here in this room.”
“Secrecy,” Aria muttered.
“Exactly. We must keep the world unaware of what we’ve achieved. All the alternatives to the replacement process jeopardize our very existence by requiring regular and repeated interactions with scores of outsiders. With the replacement option, by contrast, we only have a single exposure. It’s an unfortunate circumstance, but an easy decision.”
Lisa concluded by raising her hand. “All those in favor.”
Aria watched with fascination as other hands went up one by one. First Camilla, Lisa’s longtime executive assistant. The spoiled sycophant who undoubtedly held the record for best-compensated secretary in human history. Then Pierce, Lisa’s co-sponsor. Felix didn’t hesitate. No surprise there. The finance guy’s calculations rarely escalated beyond number one.
The four researchers shared furtive glances among themselves. If one of them went along, the motion would pass.
Aria knew she was watching history unfold, right there, right then, with stilled breath. The big coin was flipping. Their humanity was spinning in the air. Would it be heads or tails?
She caught a slight nod between Eric and Ries a second before both raised their hands. As the proposal passed, Allison and David met eyes. Their votes were now superfluous. The only question was whether there would be a protest or unanimity.
After a protracted pause that grew more uncomfortable by the second, the last two relented. Most likely out of solidarity rather than consensus.
“The motion passes,” Pierce said, maintaining a neutral tone. “We’ll begin searching for our fixer tomorrow morning.”
“No need,” Felix said. “I’ve heard of the perfect guy.”
4
About Face
That same day
London, England
WHEN SOMEONE WHACKS YOU in the back of the head, you don’t know what’s going on. Your brain simply registers a bright flash a split second before everything goes dark. With luck, you live to see the light again.
I lived, but I didn’t see the light.
Not at first.
When I awoke, I saw only darkness. Not blind dark. Not movie theater dim. The visual disruption you get when your head is draped in a black bag.
My brain was slogging through that semiconscious state, still struggling to adapt, as the coarse fibers of the burlap sack came into focus. Marshaling my active neurons, I endeavored to remember where I was, and why.
Before attempting to unmask my eyes, I surveyed my surroundings with my other senses. I was indoors, slouched in a soft chair. An old armchair by the feel. One that stank of cigarette smoke, stale sweat, and vomit. While my nose revolted, my ears locked onto the subtle sounds of others in the room. Two people fidgeting, fumbling, breathing. Both within striking distance. One before me, one behind.
I began testing my wrists and ankles with tiny gestures.
I was but a few twitches in when the man before me refocused my attention. “I apologize for my employee’s exuberance. Bobby takes my security very seriously. Sometimes he errs on the side of caution.”
The familiar voice brought everything crashing back. The steady stream of top-secret documents leaking out of London. The months of undercover work. The promise of a covert meeting.
My veins surged with excitement even as my head throbbed with regret. I had made it into the same room with Ernesto Sargon, London’s legendary thief and underground information broker. If I, Zachary Chase, lived to tell the tale, I would be the first intelligence officer ever to do so.
I reached up to rub the back of my head, but didn’t try to remove the bag. Best to leave it on for now if that was their desire. “What did Bobby use? A two-by-four?”
“Nothing so crude,” Sargon replied, speaking from behind me now. “Bobby favors a sap, and I assure you there was no real danger. He’s got the Goldilocks touch with that little leather sack of lead.”
It didn’t feel just right to me. “If you say so.”
The bag lifted off, and I found myself looking at a laptop on an upturned crate. The clock in the corner of the screen displayed 22:27. If it was accurate, I’d been unconscious for a mere twenty minutes. A good sign.
The room provided no clue that could confirm the hour. It was small, windowless, and dim. Nondescript as the average walk-in closet. At least the part I was permitted to see. By standing behind me, Sargon was sending a message. Don’t turn around.
I tried to catch the criminal’s reflection on the computer screen.
“This is how it’s going to work,” Sargon said, pacing enough to give me reflected glimpses of a dark suit, gray hair, and silver-framed glasses. “First you’re going to show me an account with sufficient funds. Then I’m going to show you the documents. Then you’re going to make the transfer.”
I began nodding acknowledgment, but immediately regretted it. My head was sore from the sap strike. “That works for me. But I need to verify the authenticity of the documents first.”
Sargon’s reflection put hands on hips. “They’re ink on paper. What’s to verify?”
“Precisely my point. It’s easy to put ink on paper. Anyone can do it. Prove to me that they were actually authored at the U.S. Embassy, rather than on your laptop, and we’re good to go.”
“That wasn’t our deal.”
“Neither was a whack on the head.”
“I’ve apologized for that.”
“Yet my h
ead still hurts.”
Sargon harrumphed. “My reputation is all the proof you need.”
“Same problem. How do I know you’re really Sargon? Prove to me that you’re the thief who stole the Duchess of Cornwall’s jewels, the spy who put a camera inside MI5, the con man who sold Rembrandt’s Storm on the Sea of Galilee three times, and we have a deal.”
Sargon resumed pacing the small room, reminding me of a caged tiger. “You’re a cautious one,” he said. “I can appreciate that. I tend toward caution myself. Show me the money, and I’ll show you proof of provenance. Then you pay and I give you the documents.”
“That works for me,” I said.
The bag went back over my head amidst a flurry of other movements. I heard a keyboard clatter, a few clicks, and then the sounds of passion. Yes, passion. No doubt about that.
The bag came off.
I didn’t know exactly what to expect, but this wasn’t it. “Is this a joke? Your proof is a porno?”
“It’s no joke. In fact, it’s very serious.” Bobby stepped into view, paused the video, and pointed at a face.
“Do you recognize this woman?” Sargon asked.
I did. It took a second. I’d never seen her naked. But once my mind made the jump I had no doubt. “Who’s the other woman?”
“She works for me.”
“An excellent hire,” I said, putting admiration in my voice.
“Indeed. Now that you know, next time we can skip the silly stuff. Will be better for your health and mine.”
I’d positioned myself as an off-the-books advisor to investors who earned outlandish returns using inside information. Hedge fund managers who needed a steady flow of tips without any links to their crimes. Sargon was playing it cool, but I knew he was practically drooling. I was his conduit to a gold mine.