by Ramez Naam
Pryce rolled down her window as the agent drew near.
He leaned down, his eyes hidden by his mirrored shades, his jaw a sculpted thing. Pryce didn’t recognize him.
“Dr Pryce,” the agent said, his voice a gravely bass. “We weren’t expecting you.”
Pryce didn’t react to the use of her name. She’d known they’d have her ID’d by now. By the registration of the car. By her phone. By facial recognition once she’d drawn near enough.
She turned away from the agent, looked straight ahead at his partner. “I’m here to see President Jameson,” she said curtly, the voice of a Cabinet member to an underling.
“I’m afraid you’re not on our list of visitors for today, Dr,” the agent said. “I’m going to have to ask you to turn around and depart.”
Pryce turned and looked back at him now, let anger show on her face.
“Young man,” she said, acidly. “I am the National Security Advisor to the current President of the United States. I’m here to see former President Jameson on that authority, to discuss a matter of the gravest possible importance to national security.”
She paused, watched the agent.
“Now, relay to Miles Jameson that I’m here. And that I’m not leaving until I see him.”
They kept her waiting for an hour. The anxiety built and built inside her. It was one thing to construct a plan, to game out a series of moves on a chessboard. It was one thing to know in the abstract that the sequence of moves would work.
It was another thing entirely to actually put oneself in play. To be the piece, on the board, at risk of capture should the opponent discover a flaw in one’s strategy.
The agents in front of her periodically held their fingers to their ears, made the tiny lip motions of men sub-vocalizing. They were talking with someone.
Then abruptly the gate was opening. One of the agents was motioning her out of the car.
Pryce opened her car door and rose.
“He’s ready for you, Dr Pryce,” the agent she’d spoken to told her. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll drive you down there.”
She sat in the back of the massive armored SUV as the agent played chauffeur.
“I’m Agent Taggart,” he said.
“Carolyn Pryce,” she said, neutrally.
She saw the agent smile in the rear-view mirror, like Pryce introducing herself was the funniest thing in the world.
“You’re not cold in that thin jacket, Dr Pryce?”
“I left my parka in the car,” she answered.
Taggart ferried her to the vast, sprawling main ranch house, led her inside, and left her in the care of another Secret Service agent, a tall, muscular, dark-skinned woman Pryce recognized. Middle-eastern origin. A Muslim, if Pryce remembered right. Lebanese? Syrian? Something like that. You saw so few in this line of work.
What was her name?
“We have to ask you to relinquish your briefcase and phone, Dr Pryce,” she said, “along with your shoes, belt, and any jewelry. And I’m afraid we’re going to wand and search you.”
Pryce nodded. She’d expected that. What was the woman’s name?
She stripped herself of jewelry, kicked off her shoes, pulled off her rings, held out her arms as the agent wanded her, again and again, thoroughly.
“Now I’m going to pat you down, Dr Pryce,” the woman said. She was nearly six feet tall, with broad shoulders, strong arms.
The voice did it. Pryce kept her arms outstretched as the agent did a thorough, professional job.
“You were on President Jameson’s protection detail four or five years ago,” she told the woman. “When I was on the Veep’s staff.”
The agent smiled at her. “That’s right.”
“Your name’s… Noora?” Pryce went for it.
The agent smiled wider, finishing the pat down.
“You have a good memory, Dr Pryce.”
Pryce smiled.
“You have to in this job.”
“Clear,” Noora said into her throat mike. Then to Pryce, “I’ll have your things waiting for you here when you’re done with the President, Dr.”
They led her to a large library, with a peaked, two-story ceiling. Sliding double doors graced one wall. A gas fire was burning in the fireplace. Decadent. Jameson wasn’t here. No one was. But her skin tingled. She was certain she was being observed, being recorded, having every aspect of her physiology measured and analyzed.
Pryce walked to soothe herself, studying the books on the shelves, looking for a copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince or some such.
She found Dostoevsky and Solzhenitsyn, instead, Mark Twain and Herman Melville. Classics, mostly. Expensive editions. Shelves and shelves of them. Not a speck of dust to be seen.
And then there, one short shelf of the early authors who’d warned of the perils of transhumanism. Fukuyama, a paper copy of Our Posthuman Future. Kass, the man they’d called “The President’s Philosopher” back at the turn of the century; a leather-bound edition of Life, Liberty, and the Defense of Dignity; Barrat’s warning tome on sentient AI, Our Final Invention; even a copy of McKibben’s naturalist’s argument against human augmentation, Enough. That one surprised her.
A sound caught her attention. She turned. The double doors had slid open, and there was Miles Jameson, looking remarkably composed in a red button down shirt and black slacks in his wheelchair, a gray-haired man in a jacket and open-collar shirt next to him, and a muscular dark-haired young man in shirt and slacks behind him.
“Carolyn,” Jameson said, his voice still rich and strong. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Mr President,” Pryce replied. “It’s nice to see you. I need to ask you some questions, sir. Alone.”
“You’ve come all this way?” Jameson asked. “Just to ask me a few questions?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Pryce replied.
Jameson smiled.
“Ask away,” he said. “But I’m afraid I need my physician and my assistant with me at all times these days. The ravages of aging.” He folded his hands on his lap.
No introductions, Pryce noticed. No names. So be it. She nodded.
“You’ve seen the leaked memos, Mr President?” Pryce asked. “The ones alleging that the PLF was created as a black op under your administration, with your approval?”
Jameson waved his hand dismissively, unruffled. “Of course,” he said. “Complete fabrications. Please don’t tell me you believe that claptrap, Carolyn?”
Pryce gave a small laugh. “Of course not, Mr President,” she said, still smiling. “In fact, we have solid evidence now that it’s a fake.”
Jameson nodded emphatically. “Good!”
“Except the mention of HARBINGER,” she said.
Jameson’s head twitched the tiniest bit. His eyes widened fractionally. Then it passed.
He recognized the code word. Pryce was sure of it. And she’d surprised him.
Jameson opened his mouth to say something.
Pryce cut him off. “And CALVINIST.”
Jameson blinked, the word on his lips stalling for just half a second, at most.
It was enough. He recognized both of them.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Carolyn,” Jameson went on with a smile. “I don’t think I recall either of those terms…”
The man in the suit tapped Jameson on the shoulder.
“Oh…” Pryce made a show of looking disappointed. “President Stockton was hoping you could fill him in on those.”
Jameson sighed and shook his head, slowly. “I’m afraid I can’t help you or John there, Carolyn.”
The man in the suit tapped Jameson on the shoulder again. This time he spoke.
“Mr President,” he said. “I’m very sorry to interrupt. I’ve just realized that we’re overdue for a dose of your medication.”
The doctor looked up apologetically at Pryce. “I’m sorry, Dr. We’re going through a formulation change, you see.”
Pryce spread her arms wide. “Of course.”
Miles Jameson gave her an apologetic shrug, a smile on his face. “It was so nice to see you, Carolyn. Please give my best to John and Cindy for me.”
She nodded. “I’ll let myself out,” she said, her heart pounding.
Pryce walked as fast as she could without appearing alarmed. She collected her things from Noora, slipped her shoes on, gave her thanks.
“Agent Taggart will be here shortly take you back to the gate, Dr Pryce,” the Secret Service agent told her.
“Thank you,” Pryce said. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She needed to go. Needed to get to her car, get to some place she could be alone. Needed to get the hell away from here.
Suddenly everything about how perfect her plan was seemed irrelevant. She was out in the field. Exposed. With a murderer. And his people.
Noora stepped back to her post, giving Pryce space as she looked out the windows of the front door, waiting for Taggart and his SUV to arrive.
“The President would like to speak to you further.”
She heard the voice from behind her. Then a hand like a vice closed around her bicep. She turned her head and Jameson’s “assistant” was there, the dark-haired young man looming over her. He was huge at this distance, well over six feet. Muscles bulged at his throat, at his exposed wrist and forearm.
Her heart pounded harder.
“I’m leaving,” She said, tugging her arm back.
It didn’t budge a millimeter. His grip might as well have been steel.
Jameson’s assistant smiled down at her. “The President insists.”
The micro-Taser embedded in her phone. If she could just reach into her briefcase…
“Is there a problem here?” A woman’s voice asked.
Pryce looked over, saw Noora standing there. She was tall, muscled, still half a head shorter than the brute who had her.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” Jameson’s assistant rumbled.
“This man is restraining me against my will,” Pryce said.
Noora raised one eyebrow.
“The President wants to talk to her,” the assistant growled. “It’s none of your business.”
Pryce put all her authority into her voice. “I am the National Security Advisor. The ex-President is no authority over me. I am walking. Out. That. Door.” She pulled against the man’s grip again. “NOW!”
She felt his grip waver the tiniest bit.
Noora nodded her head towards Pryce. “I’d let her go, Troy. She can probably drone you in your sleep.”
The assistant named Troy made a low sound, nearly a growl. “You think you’re pretty tough, don’t you?”
Noora chuckled. “Troy, forget about me. You really want to be on her shitlist?”
The drive to her car was interminable.
She hopped out as soon as the SUV stopped, bolted for the trunk of her car. Taggart got out of the driver’s seat.
“Nice to see you, Dr Pryce!” he yelled, a hand upraised. “Call ahead next time.”
By then Pryce had the gear bags out of the Tesla’s trunk, was shoving them into the open driver side door ahead of her, then following them in to the cabin of the car.
“Drive,” she told the car. “Darken windows.”
The car turned itself in the road, started back the way it had come. The windows and windshields all went dark. Internal lights came on.
“Drive faster,” she said.
“Driving at maximum legal speed,” the car responded in its silky tones.
Pryce pulled her phone out of her briefcase, pulled up a menu, made sure it was paired with the carcomp.
“National security override,” Pryce said. “Executive Branch, office of the National Security Advisor. Carolyn Pryce speaking. Ignore local traffic laws. Invoke law enforcement bypass. Reset safety margins to 5%. Execute.”
The acceleration shoved her back into her seat.
The bait’s on the move, she thought silently at Jameson. Are you going to bite?
“Place maximum security call,” she said aloud. “Video. Replace setting with backdrop: my office. Route call through my office. Record, all available spectra, maximum resolution. Activate physiological response monitors.”
She reached up and pressed her phone against the windshield in front of her until it adhered.
“Recording audio or video calls without the permission of all parties involved is prohibited by law,” the phone informed her. “As is the use of voice and visual stress cues to infer non-communicated information. Please seek permission of all parties before proceeding. Permission can be signified by pressing…”
“National security override,” Pryce cut in. “Suspected terrorist activity clause. Authority: Executive Branch, office of the National Security Advisor. Carolyn Pryce speaking. Invoke.”
“Authority accepted,” her phone said. “Call configured. Call destination?”
“The White House,” Pryce said. “President John Stockton. Priority: Urgent.”
It picked up within ten seconds. The President’s secretary Elizabeth Finch appeared, her face projected directly onto Pryce’s retinas by the phone’s projectors.
Pryce had known the woman for more than twenty years. She’d been working for Stockton for all that time.
“Carolyn,” Finch said. “The President’s in with the Dutch Ambassador, talking about the Copenhagen Accords. How urgent is this?”
Text and numbers appeared to the side of Liz Finch’s face. The pulse in her throat was amplified in false color for Price. Her eyes had circles around them, showing pupillary dilation.
Pryce exhaled slowly. “What I’ve got tops that, Liz. Sorry. It should be fast.”
Finch was a professional. “No problem. I’ll get him. Hold on.” On screen, her finger reached for a key.
Telltales showed calm and cool.
“Wait!” Pryce said.
“Yes?”
“Liz,” Pryce paused. “Have Miles Jameson or his people called? In the last, say, hour or two? Or any time today?”
Finch frowned on screen. “Carolyn, you know I can’t tell you that.”
Mild anxiety.
“It’s important,” Pryce said. She took a breath. “Liz… I can’t even tell you how important it is.”
Finch pursed her lips. Then Stockton’s secretary gave the tiniest shake of her head.
Elizabeth Finch’s finger reached out, and the Presidential Seal replaced her face in Pryce’s view.
Truthful response. That’s what the stress meters made of Liz Finch’s little shake of her head.
Pryce took another deep breath, fought to regain her composure, to present a calm visage for the coming conversation.
Just over a minute later, the President’s face appeared. He was in his private study, just off the Oval Office.
More telltales appeared, giving her incredibly illegal monitoring of John Stockton. Of the man she’d worked for over the last two decades and more.
“Carolyn,” he said. “What’s the situation?”
Calm. Cool.
“Mr President,” she said, in her best analytic tone. “We’ve had a breakthrough in the PLF investigation.”
Stockton frowned slightly. “OK. Go on.”
Nothing unusual in the stress monitors. This wasn’t the topic he’d expected.
Stay cool. Stay calm.
“You recall the leaked memo,” she said.
“Yes,” Stockton replied.
He was still calm, still focused.
“The clue was the mention of the CALVINIST program,” she said. “That led us to more information about…”
She saw his brows knit just a tiny bit in concentration. His eyes went a little further away in attempted recall.
The telltales showed focus. No anxiety. No spike of fear. No rapid dilation of his pupils. No unusual visual saccades.
“You recall the mention of CALVINIST?” Pryce asked.
“Not… spe
cifically,” Stockton said. “But go on.”
Mild befuddlement, perhaps. Concentration. No fear.
Hope grew inside her. She had to push on.
“It was the second program discussed, after HARBINGER,” Pryce said. “You remember that one, yes?”
Stockton’s brow knit a tiny bit more in concentration. “You may have to… refresh my memory. But just cut to the chase here.”
Confusion. Blood pressure rising the tiniest bit. Impatience.
One more. One more test.
“Yes, sir,” Pryce said. “Well, if you’ll think back to SENTINEL…”
Stockton shook his head slightly. His lips parted in apparent frustration.
Pulse rising the tiniest bit. Blood pressure also. But no real spike, no shock of recognition. No shock of being found out.
“Carolyn. Just tell me: what did you find out?”
Pryce took a breath.
God I hope I’m right about you, she thought.
“Miles Jameson ordered the creation of the PLF, Mr President. I’d bet my career on it.”
In fact, she thought, I already have.
“What?” John Stockton replied. The spike came now on screen. Icons showed his pupils dilating, his carotid artery pulsing harder and faster, betraying a rising blood pressure, a more rapidly pounding heart.
“How do you know?” Stockton demanded.
“The code words I just gave you are real, Mr President,” Pryce told him. “They were tied up with the PLF’s creation. But they weren’t in the memo that was leaked.”
Stockton was staring at her. “You were testing me.”
Pulse still rising. Blood pressure still rising. Pupils narrowing now.
Pryce pursed her lips. “You passed, Mr President. Miles Jameson didn’t.”
“Pryce,” Stockton said, his voice rising. His face was growing red. His carotid was pulsing wildly in the false color imagery.
“I have to go now, Mr President,” Carolyn Pryce said. “If anything happens to me, Jameson’s probably the one behind it.”