by Colin Harvey
Shah wriggled and kicked out, his foot connecting with something. "Bastard!" Someone grunted, but Shah had no time to do more than clamber to his feet before a punch crashed into his ribs with the impact of a brick, driving the wind from his lungs.
A pair of clasped fists banged into his shoulder blades, driving him too his knees, and a hand gripped his hair, yanking his head back. As if from a long way away he heard a scraping sound and glimpsed two hooded man hauling Marietetski into the alleyway.
Hands pushed his wrists together behind his back and handcuffed him. He felt the sting of analgesic on his temple and jerked his head away, but the hand holding his hair yanked it back.
Someone said, "Leave him functional. I want him to be a walking, talking reminder of what happens to people who ask awkward questions."
That's Sunny Kotian, Shah thought. But then just as sensation faded from his temple, he felt the kiss of a probe making contact.
Then there was the sensation of something drilling into his mind, and blackness swallowed him.
XVIII
As you leave the hotel, Denver's August heat smacks you in the face. At the moment it's still just about bearable enough to walk to the conference hall, but only barely.
Walking means you can eat your Danish in the shade of the giant carving of the bear.
More importantly, you can stop at the breakfast bar opposite the center, and buy your Danish and coffee from the cute young girl behind the counter. She's been too busy to talk the last two days, but you've caught the smile and the speculative look, and you're pretty sure that she's as interested in you as you are in her, for all that she's obviously a college student and probably fifteen years younger than you. Maybe she likes older men.
It's been eighteen months since you and Karen separated, and you've done the rebound thing, the promiscuity thing and the celibacy thing. Perhaps it's time now.
You heart plummets; she's not there. There's a swarthy guy with hairy arms staffing the counter in an otherwise empty bar. "Coffee and cherry Danish," you say.
As you pay for it a soft voice behind you says, "Morning, officer."
You spin round.
She's leaning on the mop with which she's cleaned the floor around the other side of the pillar.
"Morning." You feel a dopey grin stretch your facial muscles. It might as well be a big neon sign. You wave vaguely at your civilian clothes. "It's that obvious that I'm a cop?"
Her knowing look says yes. "There's only one conference this week, so I don't need to be a master of deduction." She's laughing at you, but it feels good. She rests her chin on her hands, which are folded across the top of the mop handle. "How you liking Denver?"
"It's good." Come on Dufus, say something funny! "But a bit, uh, quiet at night."
"That's 'cause you're not going to the right places."
"Maybe I need a local guide," you manage to say.
She lifts her head slightly. "How long till you leave?"
"Conference finishes tomorrow, but I'm taking a week's leave to look round Denver." You were going to fly back, but maybe you can change flights without paying the earth.
"You were, huh?" Her voice is getting quieter and quieter, even as her smile gets broader and broader. "It's nicer out of town, if you can afford to hire a car."
Suddenly driving around Colorado seems immensely appealing. "I'm sure I can. Maybe I could let you know tonight, after we finish for the day?"
Her eyes are hazel and very wide set, as is her mouth. You can barely take your eyes off her chewing her lower lip. "Maybe," she allows. "But Mama always used to say I shouldn't talk to strangers."
"So if I tell you my name, will you let me buy you dinner?"
She lifts her head so that she is standing up to her full roughly one-meter-fifty and her smile gets broader as she bobs her head. "I guess that would be OK."
You extend your hand. "Pete Shah, from New York."
Her hand feels tiny in yours, but she has a firm grip. This girl knows what she wants. "Leslyn Calea," she says with a smile that will burn in your head all day. "Most definitely not from New York."
XIX
The commissioner always seemed to van Doorn as if she were ready to explode. This time she might be justified.
"Six days? This is all you have?" She said, finger to the ornate retro frame of her eyepiece, juggling input as they talked. "Two cops barely fifty brain cells from being vegetables, and this is it? This bastard's laughing at us – last night he raped a girl who was also a civilian worker for us. The media are big on the idea he's going after cops."
Van Doorn refused to meet her anger head-on. She was working herself into a state of indignation for the coming media briefing. "It could have been worse," he said. "Shah and Marietetski's telltales saved them; as soon as their adrenaline skyrocketed, their blood pressure peaked then dropped and endorphins kicked in, alarms were going off like crazy in the call center. That operator getting help so quickly saved their lives."
"And then their attackers would be facing a murder charge, instead of one of assault. That wasn't luck, van Doorn, that was cold calculation on the part of the killers, because that's what they are, killers by any other name."
"But we can't prove that. No witnesses. My squad have saturation-canvassed the whole area, two blocks in every direction. Late Saturday afternoon in early May, with streets full of people. No one saw anything. We've run facial-recognition software through every working camera in the vicinity – which isn't many." He added bitterly, "Strange how the perps knew how to stay out of view of what few working cameras there are round that block."
"Meanwhile your investigation's running out of steam." The commissioner shook her head. "Unless this next appeal turns up something, you'll have to shelve it."
Funny how it's gone from being 'my' investigation, van Doorn thought, remembering the media scrum last Saturday night, to our investigation when it didn't yield immediate results, to 'your' investigation. "We know who the perpetrators are, but can't prove anything." Van Doorn wanted to say more, but the Kotians were players at City Hall, and while he'd used Shah and Marietetski as horseflies to sting the family, he had to be more circumspect now.
He tried not to think of his men lying in hospital beds with tubes in them because he'd allowed them to act as his proxies without considering what happened to biting insects if they didn't move fast enough. "Commissioner?"
"I said, I'm giving you two replacements. One's a skilled memory analyst."
"And the other?"
The commissioner looked like she'd swallowed one of the horseflies he'd just thought about. "Bailey scored highly on all her tests at the Academy. She has a bright future."
"We need experience, Commissioner, not potential." Take a deep breath – don't lose your cool. "Shah's loss is devastating. His talent and his persistence are probably why he was attacked. Shah ploughed through as many downloads as any three ordinary men."
"But we have to replace him, and that's why we have computers – to do the legwork." At van Doorn's exasperated sigh the commissioner said, "Don't do that. If you've something to say, say it."
And screw any hope of promotion when my name next comes up: "van Doorn? The one who lectures me?" van Doorn gulped. "I shouldn't need to tell you that while computers recognize visual cues, human analysis is multi-sensory…"
"We can write algorithms for that too, van Doorn."
"But they don't have intuition! Until someone like the Republic of California develops AI–" he caught her scornful smile and said, "Exactly – how unlikely's that? But until then, our analysis programs can't reach conclusions. There's never been a subroutine that proposed Shah's inference of 'bruising' round the edges of a ripped memory. He's one of the very best. I don't know anyone else who can calculate memories' age and gender, even when there are no sensory cues, and when we've found the owner, to have been right so often."
"Hmm. I get the message, Orlando." The commissioner smiled as Van Doorn squirmed at the
use of his hated first name. "But Marietetski's loss is even harder to take. He was future commissioner material."
"Then give me more people, even on a temporary basis. We know someone will post a relevant memory. It may already be out there–"
"It isn't. The subroutines will holler the minute a Person of Interest posts something."
"But it may already be out there from a witness, a newly-hired hand. You know how it works. They hire lowlifes, sometimes ripping their memories afterwards – or get someone newer still to rip 'em, on a revolving door basis. No one ever sees the whole picture."
He stopped to allow the commissioner time to think. She wouldn't take long. She believed in doing something, anything at all, no matter how asinine, so that she didn't look as if she was dithering. How she was perceived was more important to her than what she did.
"I can give you two more people for twenty-four hours, van Doorn, specifically for memory-analysis."
"Give me until Monday."
"I can't strip the other precincts for that long. You think that the crims will stop as a mark of respect to our boys? No chance!" She fiddled with her frame again. "Wait a minute." She turned her attention back to van Doorn. "Forty-eight hours. Use those programs and subroutines. They're not Shah, but use them smarter! And plan for life without him!"
As soon as she had gone van Doorn switched on his eyepiece. Unsurprisingly, calls had avalanched while he was offline. He speed-listened to as many as he could, deleting many, skipping over others that needed greater thought, archiving routine reports.
Only once did he pause, and when he had caught up on all other outstanding messages, he returned the call. "Doctor Bacon," he said without preamble. "What news?"
"No change on Marietetski. He remains in a deep coma, which he may never come out of. How much damage he sustained is hard to tell. Whether the assailants did it on purpose, or by accident, they went deeper than I've seen any attack go."
As he went into detail, van Doorn found himself paying far too much attention to the man's avatar. Like most adults, the doctor used his head shot. But unlike most, the doctor's image was fixed. Most avatars moved in response to subroutines recognizing the tiny facial movements in the muscles around the eyes caused by the wearer's expression. Either the man hadn't bothered to upload the appropriate software, or he suffered from some kind of 'frozen' face syndrome. Either way, it was disconcerting.
On an impulse, van Doorn called records on a second channel, and mentally raised an eyebrow at the result: Doctor Paul Bacon survived an interrupted memory rip that left him with damage similar to a stroke victim: can't move his facial muscles. Sometimes it could be worse for the victim if an attack was interrupted. He caught "Shah", and focused. "Sorry, say that again."
"I said Shah only survived at all because of training in memory retention and his basic resilience."
Resilience? More like natural bloody-mindedness. But maybe we should make Shah's training mandatory for all cops, improve the chances of a copycat attack. Yeah, and the commissioner will love that request for additional budget. "Is the long-term prognosis better or worse for Shah, Doctor Bacon?"
"Impossible to tell. From the initial damage and his age, I'd have said his outlook was even worse than his partner's. But Shah's fighting spirit is such that he may make almost a full recovery." Bacon added, "But his memory will be impaired and his personality scarred. Any further rip would probably kill him."
"Better put a big warning sign over his head when he returns to duty." New York State doesn't recognize ripping as murder if the victim physically lives, so a murder charge might put a few of the bastards off. I must check the stats later, see how many victims were ever attacked a second time.
"If he ever returns to duty," Doctor Bacon said. "At the moment that seems very unlikely."
XX
Even now you hate Monday mornings, but back then you loathed them with a passion made worse by some pissant Irish band making money out of that shooting in California. Only the paycheck kept you going.
Maybe baiting the new guy would pass the time, you thought. "What sorta name's freaking Rasheed, anyway?" you said on his first day. "That like rasher, like in bacon, or something?" You saw Shumaki wince. "What?" you asked your partner. "What's with you?
"Jeez man," Shumaki whispered. "There's no worse insult to a Muslim than calling him a pig!"
"So? He's coming here to live, he's got to learn our ways. Isn't that right, Shah?" The old man nodded, eyes downcast. Hard to believe this was supposed to be one of the Shah's top secret policemen, reduced to traffic duty in his new home. You squash any trace of pity. "Hey, Bacon," You called to a backdrop of sniggers. "What kinda people violate international laws, and attack an embassy?"
Shah leaned on the locker door. When he looked up, the anger in his eyes filled your bowels with ice. Not so much the emotion as what they said he would do to you if he ever gave way to it. For the first time you can believe the stories that he tortured people.
He said, "People who want to make a statement. That civilized agreements like the Geneva Convention mean this," he snapped his fingers, "much to them. That they play by different rules."
"You agree with those savages?" Damned if you were going to let some punk scare you with a look. "You think it's civilized? The pictures on the news last night?" The swirling surging mob, the burning flags and effigies. Dammit, if we had a real president instead of a peanut farmer, we'd be kicking their asses. You might not have that wuss Carter here, but Shah's the next best thing. How do you know he isn't a spy?
Shah sighed. "Officer O'Riordan… may I call you Pete? Your people have taken my wife and newborn son in, and given us a roof over our heads. I'm sincerely grateful. But what should I do? Return to Iran to fight them on my own?" Shah shook his head sadly. "That mob is not my people. Iran's new rulers are exiles, aliens who have somehow taken over the minds of ordinary people, and turned them into a mob of madmen."
Unsure what to say, you grunt.
"Life under Reza Shah Pahlavi wasn't paradise for those who disagreed with him." Shah sighed. "Actually, for those who attracted the attention of his CIA-trained SAVAK thugs, it's no better than a banana republic. But we tried to modernize the country; to return to civilization after interminable civil wars between squabbling tribes. For a time we dared to dream of joining the West, but that dream's gone, blown away like grains in a sandstorm." Shah repeated, "These are not my people." He wiped his eye, and you looked away, ashamed.
You wonder now whether it was one of his people who came with a pistol to take the guy's life. You wish you could have told him of your cousin in that compound. You wish you could just say "sorry", but it's too late for that.
You stare at the photo in The Times, the article on "Exiled Iranian Now Serving with NYPD Murdered", and wish you could take it all back.
Too late.
XXI
"Aaaargh!" Shah flung the puzzle across the room at the ice hockey players battling it out on the flat screen. They could have been Martians for all he understood of them. Neither Leslyn's nor Doug's explanations had eased his bafflement, but they admitted they'd never been fans.
He held his right hand out in front of him, willing it to stop shaking. When that didn't work, he clenched it into a fist and opened it again, stretching it until fingers and thumb were as far apart as they would go – then further, so that it hurt a little. He repeated the action, over and over again: Clench. Open. Stretch. Clench.
When he had done it twenty times, he stopped, took a deep breath. Sighing, he tottered from the chair to the other side of the room and turned off the set. Crouching, he laboriously gathered the pieces with his right hand, dropping them into his left, which he made into a cup. When he had dropped almost all the pieces into the cup, his hand shook and they fell out.
Shah clenched his eyes shut almost as fiercely as he had his fist, and covered his brow with his free right hand, occasionally removing it to sweep away the seeping moisture, his sho
ulders shaking with a rhythmic intensity that only ceased when a hand touched his arm.
"It'll take time, Pete," Leslyn said. "The doctors said it may be months before you're recovered. It's only been three weeks. Don't push yourself so hard."
"Meanwhile the Department have given me another six weeks to decide whether I'm fit to return to work." And I have no idea what else I can do – at least there I stand a chance of regaining what I've lost. "Have you been waiting outside all the time?" He regretted the bitter question as soon as he said it.
"Just passing." Her voice gave no hint of any resentment.
"What do I do in the meantime?" His voice was still thick. "My body won't do as I tell it to." He resisted the urge to add, I'm an old man. While true, it would sound too self-pitying.