by Adams, P R
The T-Corp Administrative Facility Southwest Region Two building was a four-story affair with stone walls and thin strips of copper-tinted glass that gave the impression that the building was a miniature T-Corp Primary Research Facility tower.
Rimes shook his head, perplexed that a simple administrative building could so significantly outshine the austere structures of Fort Sill.
As he climbed out of the SUV, he inadvertently took a deep breath. The air left a foul, gritty feel in his mouth. He coughed as he climbed the stained steps to the entry. “How do they breathe this?”
“They don't have a choice, really.” Kleigshoen shielded her eyes with a cupped hand. “You could wear a mask, but that would probably offend people.”
“Great.”
Metcalfe approached the front desk receptionist, a young woman with an oversized head and a left shoulder that appeared warped, even through her sari’s layers. The desk was isolated, apart, something co-workers could avoid completely. Her deformities marked her as one of the millions damaged by T-Corp chemical spills, a national embarrassment.
Rimes watched Metcalfe talk with the young woman; never once did he appear distracted by her appearance. Rimes couldn’t help but admire the man’s ability to deal with people. Other people.
“What were you two talking about in the lobby?” Kleigshoen asked.
“Honestly, I’m not really sure,” Rimes admitted. “He seems to be concerned about the Indonesia situation, but I’m not getting the connection.”
“That’s nothing to worry about. ADMP will step in and settle things down; they have billions invested in sweatshops there and in Malaysia. Your Muxlans were probably bathed in Indonesian sweat and blood before they ever saw America.” Kleigshoen said. “I lived there for a year, you know. It’s a terrible place.”
“The world’s full of terrible places,” Rimes said.
Kleigshoen’s eyes hadn’t left Metcalfe for a second. “Why don’t you like him?”
“Metcalfe?”
“My father likes him. He says Brent has the makings of a diplomat. I think he ought to consider it. He’s a good judge of character, and he knows how to work well with people.” Kleigshoen waved at Metcalfe as he followed the receptionist out of the lobby. “He’s also very, very good at this job. He could get you on with IB.”
She turned to look Rimes right in the eye. “He likes you.”
Rimes blinked. “What makes you say that?”
Kleigshoen wrinkled her nose. “We talk a lot; he makes a point of teaching me every nuance of the job. Like how to assess people. Including you. He’s a great mentor. I mean, spectacular, really. Did you know I’ll be up for promotion in six months?”
Rimes tried to hide his confusion, but he could feel his brow wrinkle. “I’m not really sure how IB promotions or ranks work. Is that a good pace?”
Kleigshoen put her hand on his chest. “It’s quick all right, my second promotion since I joined. I get all the usual resentment and whispers—I’m sleeping with Marshall, I’m sleeping with Brent, my father’s calling in favors. No one can just accept I’m damned good at my job. I’m doing the sort of work I’ve dreamed of since I was young. You know what I mean?” She pulled her hand back awkwardly, realizing the intimacy of it.
Rimes blushed from her touch. “You were a good Ranger. You’d have made a good Commando. I believe you’ve earned it.”
“With Brent showing you the ropes, you could move up the ranks in no time. He’ll take Marshall’s place in a few years. Everyone knows it. You really need to get past whatever it is that’s messing things up between you two.”
“I …” Rimes sighed quietly. “Sure. I’ll work on it.”
Several minutes later, Metcalfe reappeared in the lobby, all smiles. He stopped by the receptionist’s desk and spoke with her again for a few moments. Rimes thought he saw Metcalfe push something into the woman’s hands, but it was so quick that he couldn’t be sure. The woman’s eyes trailed Metcalfe until he joined them at the doorway.
“We can just make Café Noorani if we hurry,” Metcalfe said as he hurried them out the door.
For Rimes, the drive to the café was even more nerve-wracking than the one to the administration building had been. Even the driver seemed stressed. Twice Rimes heard the driver muttering what was almost certainly a curse.
Most Commando operations happened in the pre-dawn hours, when even the busiest streets tended to be relatively empty. But now the traffic was near-impenetrable. A quick escape would be problematic.
They arrived at the café with a few minutes to spare. Metcalfe lingered a moment at the driver’s door and gave him a hefty bundle of bills, producing a smile and several appreciative nods.
Rimes shook his head at the exchange. No one used cash anymore except for illicit transactions.
Like most buildings in Mumbai, Café Noorani had seen better days. Cracks and divots were all that held the baked clay façade together. What little remained of the paint hinted at an original cream and mustard color scheme.
The three of them headed inside.
Heat washed over them, and spices, herbs, hot grease, coffee, and other scents battled the staggering reek of body odor. The place was filled to capacity. Toothless old men in traditional dhotis and sherwanis were crammed next to younger men in casual Western attire.
“Well, isn’t that something?” Metcalfe muttered through the quiet roar around them. Like Kleigshoen and Rimes, he was craning his neck to spot Tendulkar.
Kleigshoen pointed toward a booth near the back. “There.”
Tendulkar sat in the booth with three uniformed men—Marines—each nursing a steaming cup. One of the men nodded at the Americans. The other Marines took a final, rushed sip and exited the booth, pulling berets from their belts.
Rimes led the others to the rear, nodding to the Marines as they passed. Tendulkar waved one of the staff over, and the man gathered the cups quickly onto a tray. Rimes and Kleigshoen squeezed into the booth opposite Tendulkar, and Metcalfe sat beside him, trapping him in.
Rimes nodded at Tendulkar. “Were they from your unit?”
Tendulkar nodded slowly. He blinked. “Good friends, yes. You should order breakfast.”
Metcalfe smiled. “How is their puttu here?”
“Good, good” Tendulkar said, head bobbing happily. He looked at Kleigshoen and Rimes patiently.
“Something light for me,” Kleigshoen said.
“Honestly, I’m starving,” Rimes said. “What would you recommend?”
“You like rice? You could get idli, a steamed … um, rice cake with fermented lentils. A vada, like a spicy donut. Or you could get a vegetable stew with rice—a sambar. It is filling.”
“Sambar sounds interesting,” Rimes said.
“I’ll try the vada,” Kleigshoen said. “And did I smell Turkish coffee when I came in?”
“Yes, yes,” Tendulkar said. “They have all kinds of coffees and teas.”
Rimes glanced around again at the locals crammed into every seat. The three of them seemed to be the only foreigners. Tendulkar ordered their meal in Hindi, assisted by Metcalfe, who engaged the waiter for a moment on some small detail.
So he is fluent.
Rimes thought back to Tendulkar’s behavior during the Singapore mission. Tendulkar’s tendencies when stressed had included rapid blinking and puckering his lips. He’d also pulled his knife in preparation for an imaginary lunge—something he couldn’t do in the café.
As Tendulkar looked at them, in particular at Metcalfe, the blinking and puckering set in.
At first, Rimes attributed Tendulkar’s behavior to discomfort with people he hadn’t met, but as they made their well-rehearsed pitch, Tendulkar’s behavior intensified. And when their food arrived, Tendulkar ate very little.
Metcalfe finished describing the details of Uber’s death between sips of coffee. “So, Ritesh, what do you think? Is Nakata our man?”
For a moment, the blinking and puckering stopped.
Tendulkar looked at Rimes as if he wanted to say something, then thought better of it.
He blinked several times. “It sounds like he is.”
Rimes wondered what Tendulkar had seen on his face. He knew his own stress tendencies—chewing his lip, going silent. Can you see through the lie?
“Jack really nailed it earlier,” Kleigshoen kept the coffee cup close to her face so she could breathe in the aroma. She was perfectly at ease with the deception. “The mystery here is what LoDu could want with the facility.”
Tendulkar winced almost imperceptibly at the mention of the facility. Rimes imagined the assault must have felt like a slap to Tendulkar’s national pride. The T-Corp agents killed by the LoDu team might just as easily have been Tendulkar’s team instead. Tendulkar’s nervousness made sense, but Rimes wasn’t convinced of the real reason for it.
Rimes cleared his throat. “Nakata leaked information to LoDu. They knew we were coming. That got Pachnine killed and damned near got Uber killed, too. Then Kwon tracked Uber to Australia to finish the job. Why? LoDu agents attacking US military is unprecedented.”
“Maybe they thought you were T-Corp,” Tendulkar offered.
“It’s possible,” Rimes said. “But I doubt it.”
Tendulkar nodded weakly. “I’ll visit my cousin. He will know what was in 72. He will understand. It’s very unfortunate. I’d hoped to go to work for T-Corp soon. The pay …”
“No reason they can’t hire you on.” Metcalfe patted Tendulkar’s shoulder. “Jack here is considering a career change for the very same reason, aren’t you, Jack?”
Rimes winced. “Sure. Having a baby changes everything. You can’t close doors.”
Tendulkar picked at his sambar, leaving Rimes with the distinct impression doors were already closing. Tendulkar set his spoon down and sighed, as if that might grant him strength. “I will call you tomorrow, arrange a meeting. Someplace remote—quieter, safer.”
Rimes tried to conceive of a place in Mumbai that could be considered quiet or remote. He couldn’t. The city was thick with people.
Over Tendulkar’s polite protestations, Metcalfe paid for the breakfast. As they left, Tendulkar lingered in front of the café, waving and smiling for a moment as the hotel SUV pulled away.
Then, frowning, he disappeared into the crowd.
15
1 March 2164. Mumbai, India.
* * *
Rimes fumbled in the dark, struggling to wrap his hand around the soothing cerulean flash of his earpiece. It was an important call. He had the earpiece in place by the third ring.
“Jack?”
“Ritesh, what’s up?” Rimes blinked and rubbed his eyes. He willed himself awake and looked around the room.
The earpiece display showed 0400.
“Can you meet me in an hour?” Tendulkar whispered.
Rimes activated the earpiece’s recorder. “Sure. Where at?”
“Where are you staying?”
Rimes suddenly longed for Molly. He missed her smile, her touch, her taste and smell. He hated this job and what it demanded of him.
Rimes hesitated a moment, embarrassed at staying at such a swanky hotel instead of barracks. “The Golden Brahmin.”
“I know it. It is very nice. Maybe I can take my fiancée there once we marry and I take a job with T-Corp.”
“She’d like it,” Rimes said. “My wife would love it, but we couldn’t afford it.”
They laughed awkwardly.
“There is an old place north of there,” Tendulkar said. “Sewri Mudflats. Take the P D’Mello Road. You can beat the traffic if you hurry. It is quiet, like I promised. We can talk.”
“All right. 0500. We’ll be there.” Rimes looked around at the mess he’d made of the bed. The blankets and pillows were everywhere. He stood and began straightening everything up.
“Good, good. Thank you.”
“Ritesh, I want to tell you how much I appreciate this. I know you’re taking a risk, but Kwon is a very dangerous problem.”
Tendulkar paused for a moment. “Sure, sure. He is a very dangerous man. Genies are bad trouble. No problem.”
Rimes set the last pillow back on the bed. “Okay. See you in a bit.”
Rimes killed the connection and dropped back onto the bed, favoring his left shoulder. It felt tender and weak, and his head ached too much from staying out late with Kleigshoen and Metcalfe to remember why.
Rimes played back the recorded message and had the earpiece search for directions; then he called Metcalfe.
“What is it, Jack?” Metcalfe’s voice was heavy with sleep.
“Tendulkar called,” Rimes said as he stumbled to the room’s modest desk and turned on the lamp. “He wants us to meet him in an hour.”
“Where?”
“Sewri Mudflats.” He suddenly realized how unpleasant the name sounded. “It’s about a half-hour drive.”
Metcalfe noisily fiddled with his earpiece. “That’s certainly remote enough. Okay. I’ll arrange for a vehicle. You call Dana yet?”
“I just got off the call with Tendulkar. I’ll call her now.”
Metcalfe dropped the call without another word. Rimes called Kleigshoen. It took a few rings before she answered.
“Jack? It’s not …” Kleigshoen’s voice drifted off into slow, seductive breathing.
“Dana, we have to leave in about thirty minutes.” The connection stayed silent for several seconds. “Dana? Ritesh called. He wants to meet us. We need to—”
“We should’ve thought of this before last night, Jack.” Kleigshoen sighed heavily. “You two let me drink way too much. I’m a disaster. I can’t believe you’re any better.”
“Thirty minutes in the lobby,” Rimes said, working his stiff shoulder.
He disconnected and tossed his old underwear into the bathroom recycler. Yawning, he ran through a series of stretches, trying to work the kinks out of his back.
Razor in hand, he started the shower. Suddenly, he didn’t care about running up the Bureau’s bill and cranked the shower to full heat. A minute later, he was gasping beneath the steaming spray, shaving as quickly as he could.
He toweled off, applied his antiperspirant, and pulled on his underwear. Bloodshot eyes stared back at him as he brushed his teeth. Cursing himself for indulging in one drink too many the night before, he gargled with the courtesy mouthwash. He eschewed his suit for a black T-shirt, dark slacks, and navy windbreaker. Ten minutes later, he was in the elevator, headed for the lobby.
Metcalfe proved to be a competent but impatient driver. The hotel had loaned them a small T-Corp three-seater with an anemic engine that supposedly boosted its electric motor. There was barely enough room in the back for Rimes and Kleigshoen to squeeze in. They were pressed tight against each other, their bodies warm in the cool air.
The back of the front seat dug into Rimes’s knees. Ten minutes into the drive, they ached as if they’d been worked over with a lead pipe. With each pothole strike, the car sputtered and gasped and threatened to die, drawing another string of curses from Metcalfe.
“He’s got some sense of timing,” Metcalfe muttered over the clattering and squeaking. “We’re not going to get there in time to do any sort of recon.”
“I’m having a hard time getting a connection to the Imagery system.” Kleigshoen massaged her temples. With each jolt, she looked ready to vomit. “The latest image I have is from three hours ago.”
“Send me a copy,” Metcalfe said as he glared at Rimes in the rear-view mirror. “Did he give any reason for having to meet so soon?”
“No,” Rimes said. “We didn’t really talk much.”
Rimes looked out the half-window to his right. What leaked through the grime was a sleeping city: the occasional bus and more infrequent scooter or small car. There were no pedestrians in sight. The car’s engine gasped; Rimes worried about their chances, should things unravel.
A thunderous crack sounded, and the car suddenly went airborne. Metcalfe screamed f
uriously as he fought to regain control. They landed hard, and Metcalfe fought to get the petulant little beast moving in a straight line again.
“I simply cannot believe people live in these conditions,” Metcalfe shouted. “There’s more hole than road—oh, hell.”
Rimes saw the lights before he heard the brief siren wail. The police mini-SUV approaching them in the oncoming lane pulled a U-turn as it passed, then accelerated to catch up to them.
Rimes and Kleigshoen twisted in the seat to watch through the rear window as the police vehicle closed on them. In the confined space, Kleigshoen was pressed against him, filling his awareness with her scent, her heat and touch. He looked down at her for just a moment, long enough to catch her turning to look up at him. She pushed tighter against him.
Without moving his head, Rimes said. “I see two in uniform. They’re definitely following us.”
Metcalfe mumbled and pulled over to the left. He rolled the window down and twisted in his seat to watch the police. “We’ve got five minutes to get there, so this is going to be tight. Let me deal with them.”
Rimes saw Metcalfe slip something out of his pocket: cash. Then the police vehicle’s floodlight kicked on, nearly blinding them. Rimes blocked the light with his hand and watched the policemen exit their vehicle. Both had unsnapped their holsters; the second officer’s right hand hovered over the weapon’s grip.
“Something’s not right,” Rimes said. “They’re ready to draw.”
Metcalfe watched the driver in the side-view mirror. “Dana, what’s our little friend doing back there?”
Kleigshoen strained a little to get a better view of the passenger. “Jack’s right. He’s got his hand on his gun.”
“Okay then.” Metcalfe slid the cash back into his jacket pocket. “Stay sharp, right?”
The driver, a small, pudgy man, finally arrived at the open window. His hand now rested directly on his pistol butt. He made a face, as though detecting alcohol in the air. He stared at Metcalfe.