by Adams, P R
As promised, Marshall had been waiting, smelling of alcohol and cologne, when Rimes had arrived. Yet despite the fact that the combination spelled money and politics, Marshall still seemed likable. After a quick meeting and setting up Rimes’s temporary IB account, Marshall sent Rimes to acquire—on IB’s tab—“appropriate wear.”
Rimes glanced down at his jacket, a charcoal-gray, pinstriped cotton-wool-paper blend. He smiled for a moment at the matching pants, crisp white cotton shirt, and poly-blend tie that rounded out his outfit. The office he’d been given was as big as his and Molly’s bedroom.
But the suit felt unfamiliar, and the office lacked any hint that it was his, really.
“Jack?” Kleigshoen poked her head into the room. “May we come in?”
Rimes waved her in and stepped around the bare desk. Marshall was arranging for a terminal access point, but for the moment Rimes was using his earpiece to access IB databases—tracking Scarface’s case both in order to learn the system’s interface and out of curiosity about his assailant.
As Kleigshoen stepped in, Rimes caught his breath.
She wore a black jacket and skirt that accented her form rather than clumsily hiding it as the uniform had. Her hair, while still held up in a bun, seemed to glow in the soft light. Makeup brought perfection to an already remarkable face.
She looked nervously behind her, and a man followed her in.
“I probably should’ve warned you,” she said with an awkward smile. “This is Brent Metcalfe. He’ll be running this operation. He taught me everything there is to know about field work. I think you two are going to really get along.”
Tall and thin, Metcalfe wore a charcoal-gray mohair suit. Rimes pegged him as having North African descent, probably a second-or third-generation citizen following the immigration waves caused by the Arabic Rebellions.
“Jack.” Metcalfe extended a hand and nodded at the window. “Beautiful view, isn’t it? When you work in the vault, you don’t get to see much. Dana has told me quite a bit about you. It all sounds very impressive.”
“I’ll try not to disappoint, sir.”
Metcalfe frowned. “Sir? What the hell does that mean? Are you trying to imply I’m old?”
Kleigshoen put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s the way he’s used to addressing superiors, Brent. It’s just part of military life.” She looked at Rimes for support. “You didn’t mean anything by that, right, Jack?”
Rimes blinked, confused. “Of course not. I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”
Metcalfe glared at Rimes for a moment, then gently took Kleigshoen’s hand from his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”
Rimes stepped backwards and waved at two chairs opposite his desk. They’d seen better days, but he’d already grown attached to them. Somehow, in his mind, they represented him in this new world of glittering skyscrapers and well-dressed civilians. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
Metcalfe closed the door behind them as Kleigshoen settled into the more battered of the two seats. Rimes stepped back to his desk and sat on it, adjusting his pants self-consciously as he looked at the two of them. He felt cheap and out of place.
“I’m betting you’re wondering what this is all about.” Metcalfe looked at Kleigshoen with an inscrutable smile. “Does he have any idea?”
Kleigshoen shook her head. “Jim wouldn’t have gone into detail about something like this.”
Metcalfe’s eyes lingered over Kleigshoen.
“All Director Marshall would disclose is that it’s related to Sundarbans,” Rimes finally said, watching the satisfaction spread across Metcalfe’s face.
“Partly.” Metcalfe stood, unbuttoned his jacket, and pulled it open so he could hook his thumbs on his hips as he paced. “We’ve got some real problems we need to iron out, Jack, some dots to connect. We’ve got holes in our data, and that’s not a good thing. Follow?”
Rimes nodded.
“For instance, what was LoDu doing in that T-Corp facility? It was a genetics research lab that worked on alien DNA, building genies, right? Not just perfect humans, special ones. But LoDu had access to the same DNA. They got it from the same operation, because they worked together on it.”
Rimes offered, “Maybe T-Corp made some advancements LoDu wanted access to.”
Metcalfe waved the suggestion away, but Rimes kept going.
“It’s been thirty-something years. Maybe T-Corp had something, and LoDu wanted a shortcut. Maybe the virus T-Corp developed for the DNA work was more effective.”
Metcalfe was already shaking his head before Rimes finished. “LoDu would have used the same virus. Hell, it became public domain after the outbreak. That facility was only cooking up genie stew, drugs, gene therapies—stuff LoDu could easily reverse engineer. Why take that kind of risk for decades-old materials? And why would T-Corp re-enter a closed facility, at the same exact time LoDu did? Can’t be coincidence.”
Rimes could see Kleigshoen clearly respected Metcalfe, just seeing the way she watched him pace the room’s limited space.
“I'm sorry." Rimes felt uncomfortable challenging Metcalfe, especially given Kleigshoen's obvious infatuation.
“Yes?”
“That doesn’t address the basic problem.”
Metcalfe smirked. “The basic problem. Maybe you could elucidate for us, what with us only being intelligence analysts?”
Rimes fought back the urge to sigh. “Doesn't this all assume T-Corp has something LoDu would want to steal? When was the last time T-Corp was an innovator? All of their corporations copy and refine and squeeze costs down like no one else can. They’re a conservative organization; they don’t lead the charge.”
Metcalfe looked at Kleigshoen. “Dana?”
She smiled up at him, but it wasn’t the same kind of look he’d given her earlier. She crossed her legs and centered herself; she’d obviously rehearsed what she was about to say.
“The LoDu hit team you targeted in Singapore may hold the key; however, we believe your connection with Ritesh Tendulkar will be of more help. His uncle is a T-Corp senior director for colonial exploitation, and his cousin is a senior bio-engineering scientist at their Mumbai facility.”
Rimes looked from Kleigshoen to Metcalfe, surprised. “That’s it? That’s what you need me for? You want me to contact Tendulkar out of the blue and ask him to get his relatives to roll over on their employer? Maybe we can toss back a beer and talk about overthrowing their government? I hardly even know the guy. We carried out one op together.”
Metcalfe smirked. “We’re not idiots, Jack.”
“As I said, the team you hit in Singapore is key,” Kleigshoen said. “Kwon Myung-bak survived the attack. We have every reason to believe he’s a genie. We also believe he’s connected to one of the genies you killed at T-Corp 72.”
“Connected?”
“Same batch,” Metcalfe said. “Same genetic build. Brothers, in a sense.”
Kleigshoen transferred an image to Rimes’s earpiece. He examined it. It was two faces side by side—the last genie killed in the Sundarbans, bruised and misshapen from the fight, and Kwon’s. Rimes blinked, shocked.
That’s not Kwon. That’s the genie, some sort of file photo. They could almost be twins.
Rimes considered the implications. “So what’s the angle? How do we pitch this to Tendulkar? Kwon has a grudge and he’s going to come after the team that tried to kill him?”
“In a nutshell,” Kleigshoen said. “You felt the mission was compromised. You knew the German and the Japanese soldiers, you didn’t know the Indian or the Russian. The Russian is dead. Who does that leave as your prime suspect?”
They’ve seen my report to Bhatia.
Rimes wasn’t surprised. Representative Bhatia made no secret of the relationship between the Special Security Council and IB. But he was surprised that Kleigshoen and Metcalfe had inferred so much from what he’d put in the report. He hadn’t included even the subtlest of accusations of compromise
d security; the Special Security Council wouldn’t have accepted it.
“You contact Tendulkar with an innocent offer,” Kleigshoen said. She looked at Metcalfe. “Friends of yours in the intelligence world—that would be us—have contacted you to solicit your assistance with Kwon. This is the easy part, it being true. We believe Kwon is involved in a broader effort by LoDu to acquire T-Corp technology. Also true. You believe LoDu had an inside man that nearly got you all killed. This is the tricky part. You’ll say you believe the traitor was Nakata.”
Rimes raised his eyebrows. “Nakata?”
“He has some … questionable friends at LoDu,” Kleigshoen said. “It’s actually entirely possible that Nakata is your man.”
“For now,” Metcalfe said, “we’re only concerned about the perception. You believe Nakata was the weak link. He bungled things in Tunis. He has a gambling problem. You need Tendulkar to ask a favor. We’ve given you the information about Tendulkar’s cousin, and you just need any hint of what LoDu could be after. And Kwon has killed Uber, so you think he’s coming after the rest of the team.”
Rimes blinked, stunned. “Uber’s dead?”
“No,” Kleigshoen said. She had a disturbing gleam in her eye that hinted at how much she enjoyed deception. “But he’s off the Grid. We’re working with the Germans and Aussies. They’ve got him stashed away in Darwin.”
It was a stretch. On the one hand, the lie was simple and at least influenced by fact. On the other, he would be asking Tendulkar to get his cousin to compromise his position at T-Corp.
“Well?” Metcalfe stopped pacing in front of Rimes’s desk and smiled down at him. “It’s not airtight, but nothing ever is in this business.”
Rimes shook his head, stopping himself from saying what he really wanted to say. “I don’t think he’s going to fall for it.”
“You might be surprised,” Metcalfe said. “We’ve convinced the military about a lot more outrageous things, right, Dana?” He winked at her.
Kleigshoen’s face flushed slightly. “It could work, Jack. But even if it doesn’t, it may give us some insight into T-Corp. They’re a tough nut to crack.”
Rimes thought about it for several seconds. He couldn’t help but feel there was more to it than he was being told, something that was the foundation for Metcalfe and Kleigshoen’s confidence.
“What’s it going to be, Jack?” Metcalfe tapped the fingers of one hand on the desk.
The IB had already flown him out and put him up in a hotel; they weren’t likely to take no for an answer.
“I’m in.”
Metcalfe smiled broadly, then started pacing again, emphasizing his words with gestures. “Excellent! We leave tomorrow. You’ll need some travel clothes, so we’ll leave you to that; we’ve got some meetings and preparations and such. Why don’t we get together for dinner later on? Six okay?”
Metcalfe strode out the door with barely a look back at Kleigshoen, who jumped out of her chair to follow him.
Numbness slowly crept through Rimes’s gut as the door swung closed, leaving him alone in the office. The sense of things moving invisibly all around him left him feeling anxious and edgy.
He closed his eyes and thought of holding Molly the night before, but the memories were quickly stolen, Kleigshoen usurping Molly’s place.
13
29 February 2164. Mumbai, India.
* * *
Rimes jogged in place for a moment to check his heart rate. His earpiece showed it well within optimal range. A motorized bike passed. Its engine sputtered and its headlamp blinked intermittently.
Rimes blinked, and it was gone in the clinging, acrid smog.
Mirage?
It was 5:06 A.M., but the city was already waking from its slumber. He'd been jogging north in the shadow of the JJ Flyover, sticking close to building fronts to try to avoid the city's chaotic traffic system.
He was past Nesbit Road now, approaching the fringe of the slums. Hotel security warned him to avoid them, but it wasn’t the citizenry that concerned Rimes, and he needed another five minutes out before heading back.
He coughed to clear his lungs, but the smog refused to release its grip. His throat burned; the stench had become a stinging, metallic taste. Then the wind shifted, and the reek of the slums hit him.
Rimes pushed on; his earpiece laid down a route through the maze of slick, muddy paths. Morning sounds echoed in the tight space—babies crying, dry coughs, water splashing. People appeared momentarily, then disappeared again in the mist.
Five minutes later, Rimes circled a hut and retraced his route. A skinny, filthy boy staggered beneath the weight of a sloshing water pail. The water was the same dirty brown as the smog.
He waved at the boy and kept running, but his heart was heavy. Security had said the slums worsened the farther in you went. The outer area was depressing enough.
Somewhere to the west, the city's well-to-do slept in comfortable, expansive homes.
Once back in his room, a coughing fit hit. Rimes doubled over and finally spat up a muddy clump of phlegm. His stomach rolled at the sight of it.
No more jogging outside.
He dressed quickly: underwear, pants, shirt, and tie. Everything about the suit was alien—the texture, the cut, the look. It left him doubting the man looking back from the mirror.
Even on the thirty-third floor of the Golden Brahmin Hotel, Rimes could hear the cacophony of motorized bikes, taxis, and buses, but he couldn’t see them. Mumbai was invisible below the brown smog carpet. All he could make out was T-Corp Primary Research Facility’s glowing copper towers.
His earpiece chimed. It was nearly six. He had two minutes to meet Kleigshoen and Metcalfe in the lobby.
Rimes gathered his coat, checked his tie—deep burgundy with gold diagonal stripes—in the mirror, and exited his room. He was still adjusting to the Muxlan shoes. Stylish or not, they were uncomfortable.
A young woman waited down the hall for the elevator. She glanced at him casually as he approached. At the elevator’s chime, she turned away.
Rimes hustled to catch the elevator rather than testing whether she would hold it for him. They exchanged awkward smiles and rode to the twentieth floor. Three more passengers joined them without exchanging a word. Two more stops, two more passengers, and not a word was spoken before the elevator opened onto the lobby.
Rimes watched the others exit the car. None of them seemed threatening. Still, the attack at the bus station was fresh in Rimes’s mind.
As he entered the lobby, he saw Metcalfe feigning interest in a newscast on the main display. Rimes noted it was the same French newsreader he and Molly took a liking to some months back. However, there was only a Hindi voiceover to listen to—leaving Rimes to wonder if Metcalfe was bluffing about being able to understand the language.
“Morning, Jack,” Metcalfe said. “More trouble in Jakarta. Looks like Minister Sembiring’s family isn’t happy with the names being floated to replace him. They’ve got the minority party riled up. At least twenty killed in riots an hour ago.”
Rimes watched the video of crowds on a dawn march. The march transitioned into people burning vehicles and hurling rocks. Security forces turned them back with sonic crowd control weaponry, tear gas, and gunfire.
“Looks messy.”
“You never see that sort of thing here,” Metcalfe said, half-smiling. “Trained their citizens properly from the start, wouldn’t you say? Dharma. Can’t really go wrong building your society around a religious chassis that preaches acceptance of fate, can you? No better way to control the masses.”
“We all have our filters and controls.” Rimes frowned, but did his best to fight it. He watched the news reader, imagining her soothing French accent instead of Metcalfe’s voice.
Metcalfe turned around, took in the rest of the lobby with a quick glance, then leaned in. “You know, Jack, I’m not blind. I know what’s going on. You want to show you’re the big dog, you might want to think about where you’r
e at and what’s at stake.”
Rimes’s brow wrinkled. Metcalfe’s breath washed over him. Any hint of alcohol or other drugs was smothered by toothpaste and mouthwash. Rimes momentarily debated how to respond. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Brent.”
Metcalfe glanced past Rimes and smiled, suddenly warm. “Well, there she is. Punctual as ever. You’ve gone with the lemon ensemble. Safe.”
Rimes turned.
Kleigshoen wore a yellow pant suit with a modest neckline and a loose, modest fit that at least tried to hide her figure. It was the sort of outfit only she could pull off. She’d also gone light on makeup. “It’s not my favorite outfit, but it’s going to have to do.” She looked at Rimes and raised her eyebrows. “What’s the word?”
Before Rimes could answer, Metcalfe said, “Jack here arranged a meeting with Tendulkar at Café Noorani at eight this morning. That leaves us enough time to swing by T-Corp’s administrative office north of the docks.”
“What do we want with the T-Corp office?” Rimes asked, his eyes slowly drifting away from more images of violence in Jakarta to look at Metcalfe.
“Background investigation,” Metcalfe said with a patronizing smile. “You think it’s all running around shooting people, Jack? Nothing comes easy, and it’s not like in the vids.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Rimes said coolly.
“Of course you didn’t.” Metcalfe stood, straightening out the creases of his tailored pants. “I have a few questions and a contact who might be able to help. We’ll need to get moving. Fifteen kilometers can take forever here.”
14
29 February 2164. Mumbai, India.
* * *
Rimes rode in the front seat, his eyes scanning the streets: pedestrians, huddled beggars, the staggering array of patched and makeshift vehicles. The hotel SUV’s driver banged into more than a few bumpers, coming away with crumpled scraps of fiberglass or rusted metal for his trouble, but deposited them on the steps of their building after only twenty minutes.