Change Agent

by Daniel Suarez

  Durand’s anger grew more intense. Anger at this evil. Anger at his own presence here.

  Frey held up his hands again. “If you’ll just listen, we are here for something very important—”

  With a wave of Vegas’s hand the child soldiers obediently chambered rounds in their weapons and aimed them at Frey and Durand both.

  Durand felt steady as he stepped forward.

  Men all around them produced guns.

  But Durand could already feel the marks appearing—he willed them into existence with his anger. He glared at Vegas as he slowly approached. Unhurried.

  Vegas’s eyes widened as he saw the tattoos.

  Durand tore his shirtfront open to reveal the dark Huli jing fox, trefoil knot, butterflies, and more surfacing across his chest and stomach. He was certain he felt the tingling of Asian script appearing on his bald scalp.

  The men around the room slowly lowered their weapons even though Durand walked right up to Vegas—looming over the small man.

  Vegas looked suddenly terrified.

  Durand’s dark eyes bored holes into the man. “I am your ‘partner,’ am I?”

  Vegas studied the tattoos still appearing before him. They were clearly marks he knew. He dropped to his knees, bowing his head, hands peaked before him. “Master Wyckes. Please forgive. You change shape like the clouds in the sky. I did not recognize you.” Vegas motioned frantically to the others.

  The men around the room holstered their weapons and bowed deeply, offering wais. At a hissed command, even the child soldiers lowered their weapons and bowed.

  Durand stared at the bowed heads but spoke to Vegas: “You’re going to do something for me . . .”

  Chapter 27

  Silently hovering behind an air-duct louver, a tiny drone transmitted grainy video and scratchy audio of child soldiers and “Vegas” Tang Chalpat bowing before Marcus Wyckes—the burly, tattooed leader of the Huli jing.

  A kilometer away Detective Inspector Aiyana Marcotte recognized the diminutive Bryan Frey standing at Wyckes’s side. She sat in a surveillance truck with Royal Thai Police General Prem Syriyanond, commander of Region Two, Chonburi, Pattaya City—a special self-governing municipal area focused on expats and tourists. An AR conference line was also open to the Royal Thai Metropolitan Police Special Investigations Unit in Bangkok, and in attendance were the head of Thailand’s Arintharat 26 anti-terror unit, as well as the subinspector of Thailand’s Interpol National Central Bureau Foreign Affairs Division One. It had taken half a career of bridge building to get this much political clout in this van, and Marcotte suspected there were as many unseen motives and agendas here as people in attendance. But here they were, and the Thai political machine was finally focused on her target: Marcus Wyckes and his Huli jing. For her reasons or theirs, she did not care. She only cared that their support for Interpol’s case would last. Certainly the Huli jing had spread enough money around Thailand to muddy the already silted political waters.

  Marcotte exchanged weary looks with Sergeant Michael Yi Ji-chang; they’d both been working phones for the past twenty-four hours to arrange this raid. Yi sat among several surveillance technical officers who controlled the equipment in the van.

  The Thai police command studied the surveillance video beamed from the drone.

  Marcotte recognized the drone type from its feed and movements—a tiny CICADA model. The overly cute acronym stood for Close-In Covert Autonomous Disposable Aircraft, and the little devices had proliferated around the world in recent years, used in everything from police work to tabloid journalism. You could find them washing up on beaches in areas where espionage and adultery took place, or wherever celebrities were found. There were probably more CICADAs than tuna floating in the South China Sea these days.

  Marcotte studied the grainy imagery closely and decided to push for action. “Any questions, General Prem?”

  He spoke English with a British accent. “No. I have seen more than enough.”

  Thus far the video evidence from the CICADAS was shocking—even before it revealed the presence of Marcus Wyckes. Dozens of the tiny devices had been set loose to map the air ducts of the subterranean embryo lab. The police version of the firmware was designed for this sort of thing, and they left some of their number behind as relay stations to ensure their transmitters/receivers could daisy-chain their way to the surface. The video they provided was furrowing the general’s brow deeper every moment.

  Live genedited children as floor models, complete with a high-production-value fashion show. That was a new one. Usually the cartels just had CGI mockups. Vegas had apparently spent years growing sample children—for which the Luk Krung would pay dearly under international law. But more importantly, the Luk Krung appeared to be controlled by the Huli jing.

  Marcotte closely observed the revulsion on the face of the police general in charge of Thailand Police Region Two as he watched through LFP glasses; the grainy image of Marcus Wyckes loomed over the kneeling Mr. Vegas—the underboss pleading for forgiveness. Software was analyzing the tattoos on Wyckes’s bald head.

  Yi looked up. “Positive ID on Wyckes, all right.”

  Marcotte would have Wyckes. But the more surveillance video she saw, the more she wanted this place shut down as well—and those children rescued and rehabilitated to the greatest extent possible. The computer models for their genetic edits destroyed. If Wyckes managed to get himself killed in the meantime, that was no great loss to humanity. But this raid needed to go down. And it needed to go down now.

  She turned to General Prem. “Will you command Arintharat 26 to go in, General?” Marcotte wasn’t a fool. She knew there’d been payoffs made to the police at many levels—but she’d arranged enough national political power to be present on this operation that she thought there was a chance no one would weasel out of taking action, lest the optics hurt their careers—and their international reputations. Marcotte also knew General Prem had grandchildren—Yi had provided her with that tidbit, which he’d gleaned from one of the general’s assistants in casual conversation. Marcotte was ready to bring up those grandchildren if necessary to push the man to action.

  But it turned out to be unnecessary.

  The thin, balding, and gray-haired commander shook his head in disgust. “Farang. They come to our country to commit their sins. They think their money buys everything.”

  “Will you order the special tactics team to go in, General?”

  General Prem turned to her with an intense gaze—but spoke to his second in command, a burly Thai police lieutenant with a dour demeanor. “Launch the raid. I want everyone arrested. Do not let the Provincial Police within a kilometer of the target. We will make examples of these people. I want only vetted men on this raid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, Lieutenant . . .”

  The officer turned.

  “Cordon off a two-block radius. No vehicle traffic comes in or goes out of the area. Pedestrians are to be stopped, identified, and searched. Suspicious individuals detained. I want this entire rat’s nest eliminated, and none to escape justice. Do you understand me? None.”

  “I understand perfectly, sir.” The lieutenant started issuing orders via radio.

  The other commanders and political liaisons began relaying this decision across the police and Interpol hierarchy.

  Marcotte unclenched just slightly. Justice would be done today. Too many eyes. Too many lines crossed. For once, things were going her way.

  She stared grimly as the grainy drone video continued. Marcus Wyckes’s image wavered from the tiny camera’s receptor. It might be the last time she saw him alive. But as long as his body could be retrieved, her mission here would be a success. And the world would be a safer place. It might even mean the beginning of the end for the Huli jing.

  She turned to Yi. His eyes bored into the surveillance image of Wyckes. “S
ergeant, I’ll be going in after the site is secured to put eyes on Wyckes. Notify Singapore police; they’ll want to prepare extradition papers in case he survives. And when the raid goes down, I want you in here as my eyes and ears.”

  “Will do, Inspector.”

  Marcotte exited the command truck.

  Chapter 28

  Kenneth Durand stared down at Mr. Vegas. “Get up.”

  Vegas meekly rose from his kneeling position. He waved the security men away. “Get out of here!” He looked up at the catwalks above. “You! Get to your posts.”

  Most of the men started filing out. As did the child soldiers, marching smartly.

  Suddenly a familiar child’s voice echoed from a steel catwalk above them. “Vegas!”

  Everyone looked up to see Kimberly, the precocious six-year-old girl who emceed the fashion show. She still wore her small sequined gown with a tiara, but she looked annoyed as she pushed past exiting security men on the catwalk above. She frowned. “What have you done now?”

  Vegas threw up his hands. “I had business.”

  She marched down a metal staircase to join them. “I told you I had something important to discuss. The next thing I know, you’ve disappeared to do something stupid.”

  “Daughter, we have guests.”

  “I know that.” Kimberly somberly approached Durand and bowed. “Sawasdee ka, Khun Marcus.”

  Bryan Frey stared back and forth between Durand, Vegas, and the little girl—clearly knocked off balance by the sudden turn of events.

  Vegas looked aghast. “Kimberly, you knew this was Khun Marcus?”

  “I recognized him from the stage. What sort of fools are running reception? His face is all over the news. Your people are not doing their jobs.” Kimberly again turned to face Durand. “Our apologies, Khun Marcus. How may the Luk Krung serve the fox with nine tails?’

  Durand narrowed his eyes at the little girl—whose opinion seemed to be held in high regard here.

  Frey looked to Durand quizzically.

  Durand felt his tattoos almost pulsating. His anger was not ebbing. “The authorities are pursuing me. I must change form before proceeding.”

  Kimberly’s eyes grew wide. “You will be changing form here?”

  “Your people will assist me.”

  Vegas wai’d deeply once more. “Khun Marcus, you honor us. I was told the change agent would not be permitted outside of Naypyidaw. To use it here—”

  Naypyidaw. Durand committed the name to memory. He pressed. “We have a police informant among the Huli jing. They betrayed me, and I will find them.”

  Vegas and Kimberly looked concerned.

  “I assure you, there is no police informant here, Master.”

  “That may be.” Durand leaned toward Vegas. “But my right hand is close by and waiting. If I’m betrayed here, there will be no mercy.”

  Vegas blanched. “Otto is here? In Pattaya City?”

  Kimberly’s face scrunched up, and she actually began to resemble a little girl. To Durand’s horror, tears began to flow down her face. He felt his tattoos start to waver.

  Kimberly looked up at Vegas with actual fear. “The Mirror Man isn’t coming, Papa, is he?”

  Vegas moved over and hugged her close, patting her tiara. “There, there, daughter. Otto has no reason to come here. As Master Wyckes said, Otto is only looking for a police informant.” Vegas looked up at Durand. “And there is no police informant here. On my life. We are not fools.”

  Durand also took note of the name of Wyckes’s right-hand man: Otto. It was obvious the man was greatly feared. There was value in that.

  Frey had started showing signs of intellectual life again—coming out of his paralysis at the complete reversal of his fortunes. He observed the crying girl with interest. “You call Otto the Mirror Man?”

  She sniffled and buried her face in Vegas’s brocade jacket.

  “You have not yet met Otto?”

  Frey spoke carefully. “No. I just met . . . ‘Master’ Wyckes . . . a few days ago.”

  Durand noticed his tattoos were beginning to fade now at the little girl’s tears. He moved Frey bodily aside and spoke to Vegas. “We don’t have time for this. I need your technicians to reverse engineer the change agent. There should still be traces of it in my blood.”

  Vegas and Kimberly exchanged startled looks. She looked up and wiped away her tears.

  Vegas asked, “Reverse engineer? Khun Marcus, do you not have the change agent with you?”

  “Not here. And because there’s a traitor among the Huli jing, communications are suspect.” He pointed. “You will keep silent about my arrival.”

  “Of course. You have our word.”

  “I brought a genomic sequence I want to transform into. Dr. Frey here will work with you using my blood sample to search for traces of the change agent. And we’ll take it from there.”

  Frey nodded weakly at first—and then more assertively to the others. “Just show me to your labs.”

  Kimberly and Vegas looked doubtfully at each other.

  “We will happily do as you ask, Khun Marcus, but—”

  A klaxon and strobing lights suddenly went off.

  Frey glanced around. “What the hell is that?”

  Someone shouted, “Tamruat!”

  Vegas blanched. “A police raid? But they have been paid . . . They have all been paid!” He manipulated unseen virtual objects in his LFP glasses, apparently checking surveillance camera feeds. “Arintharat anti-terror teams . . . Why are—?” He gasped, then turned in fear toward Durand.

  Durand was momentarily shocked, but recovered quickly enough to glare at Vegas. “If you’ve betrayed me—”

  “No, no, Master! It was not me. I swear it. We only just now learned of your presence. And we will get you out safely! This will prove our loyalty. I swear to you! I have a private escape route. Follow me!” With that, Vegas grabbed Kimberly’s hand and ran toward the sliding industrial door.

  Durand and Frey exchanged confused and worried looks.

  Frey pointed. “We need to go. Apparently someone somewhere recognized you.”

  Durand and Frey followed Vegas out the door and down a side corridor.

  Vegas waved frantically as the alarms continued. “Hurry! This way!” He brought them through a storeroom abutting a commercial kitchen. They could hear panicked screams of clients fleeing the ballroom.

  Pops of gunfire or perhaps doors being breached.

  Durand shouted at Vegas, “Tell your men not to shoot at the police. Tell them to surrender.”

  “Surrender? But, Khun Marcus, the police must be delayed. We need time to escape! Evidence must be cleared from memory. Genetic material destroyed.”

  “The quicker the police take control of this lab, the sooner they’ll be focused on gathering evidence and not chasing me. The only priority is for me to escape. This facility means nothing.”

  “But, Khun—”

  Durand silenced him with a glare.

  Vegas nodded uncertainly. “I cannot guarantee my men will surrender. The jail time alone—”

  “Tell them the Huli jing will look after those who obey. But only those who obey.”

  Vegas struggled but finally started shouting commands in Thai into his LFP comm link.

  Frey whispered, “What on earth are you doing? We need to escape.”

  Durand hissed, “This place needs to be shut down, and I don’t want police officers or civilians to die in the process.”

  Up ahead, Kimberly had stopped at a blank wall in a corner. She made several somatic gestures to a surveillance camera, and a hidden door opened.

  Vegas shouted, “This way!”

  Durand and Frey followed.

  • • •

  Otto walked through double glass doors into the refined lobby of the
Luk Krung clinic. His tactical police escort stood nervously to either side—local officers in balaclavas, helmets, and black body armor bearing yellow “Police” labels in English. Their weapons at the ready.

  Corrupted men all—too tempted over the years by the unlimited money the Huli jing could offer. Now regretting, Otto knew, their years of payoffs; they could not now, even on a day like today, refuse their true masters. Too much evidence could be used against them.

  The corporal on Otto’s left swore under his breath as he looked ahead to see a dozen heavily armed Arintharat anti-terror teams moving in formation down the corridors of the lab, long guns out, tactical lights on, clearing rooms and shouting at unseen people to get on the ground.

  The corporal turned toward Otto, but soon looked away—clearly spooked by the young man’s disturbing aura. “We should not be here, sir. Our orders are to stay clear of this lab.”

  Otto shook his head slowly as he straightened his pale green silk tie in a nearby mirror.

  “Sir, they will ask me who you are. They’ll analyze surveillance video. We will be found out. All of us arrested.” He paused. “Sir, please. Listen to me. I am on your side.”

  Otto noticed a bronze plaque indicating a restroom. The door was wedged open; chalk marks on the wall showed it had been cleared by earlier teams. “Before we go, I need to use the restroom.”

  “Are you kidding?” The corporal sighed in frustration and motioned for his two even more skittish companions to follow.

  “Is he really using the bathroom?”

  The other whispered, “We need to leave . . .”

  Otto strolled calmly toward the restroom. “Come with me.”

  They reluctantly followed. The sounds of doors being broken in and screams echoed in the corridors farther on.

  The restroom was nicely appointed—tasteful, muted stone and wood tones. A small water feature with water lilies occupied one corner. Otto stepped in front of a large mirror while his tactical escort stood nervously nearby, their radios squawking.