This, I suddenly realize, is the moment for something reckless. This is the moment when Kurt Russell throws over his desk and screams that he can’t sit by and watch things happen anymore. It’s the time to storm out and right serious wrongs. Except it’s me sitting there. No hero.
Olsted uses the left-hand door. He likes the left door.
And a little bit of me snaps at that. I can’t leave just knowing that. I just can’t.
I open the car door. “Follow the limo,” I say
“What the hell do you—” is all Tabitha manages to say, before I shut the two of them in the car.
I jam my hands into my pockets, put a little stumble in my walk. I’m twenty yards behind Olsted. Tabitha’s clapped-out Honda chugs past me. I’m pretty sure she’s giving me the finger. Adrenaline is buzzing in my system. I’m terrified, and overjoyed, and on the verge of voiding my bowels. I am excited. After twelve hours of mind-numbing, jittery boredom, I am excited.
In the lobby, the doorman welcomes Olsted, but he’s already looking at me. The pair move toward the back of the room, toward the elevators. I push through the same door. Olsted’s palm print is still on the brass plate.
“’Scuse me,” I say, talking too loud.
“If you could wait a minute, sir.” The doorman has put himself between Olsted and me.
“Wouldn’t know if there’s a curry place round here, would you?” I advance. My heart is hammering in my chest.
The doorman stops, turns fully. And I realize then what an enormous slab of a man he is. Bodybuilder and champion breakfast eater, I’ll be sure. Olsted’s at the elevator bank, third on the left. It has its own separate panel.
“No, sir,” says the doorman loudly, forcefully.
“No, there isn’t one, or no, you don’t know?” My voice is shaking a little at the end. I wonder if he knows how scared I am.
The doorman lets his arms drop. They’re big arms. And that’s it for me.
“I’m going. I’m going.” I back away, palms up, keeping my eyes on the doorman. He ignores me with studied patience—threat assessed and dismissed. He slides a card into a slot next to Olsted’s elevator. The elevator doors open. And then I revolve back out through the door and into the night.
I find Tabitha’s Honda idling in the entrance to a loading bay between a purveyor of fine Oriental rugs and, of all things, a curry house.
“What the fuck?” Red spots shine in Tabitha’s dark cheeks as I climb back in. “Heads up please. Next time. Except, no next time, please. Discussions help. Stop you from being fucking stupid. From letting Progeny-aiding magicians seeing your face. Stop them from remembering you.” She waves her hand around the car. “Fucking team here, jackass. Resources. People to trust and who need to know they can trust you.”
Up until then I’d been rather pleased with myself, but then I realize I did something a little bit stupid. And it’s not exactly like I’m high up on Tabitha’s list of lovely-people-who-deserve-a-cuddle. I need to curry trust. I mean, I’m sure she distrusts me as much as I distrust Kayla. Shit, there are alien mind worms about. Everyone’s going to be a little short on trust.
I look to Clyde for support. He doesn’t accuse me, but he’s not defending me either.
“Sorry,” I say. “Impulsive. Stupid. I shouldn’t have...” This is not the sort of speech that great leaders make. Can’t imagine Mel Gibson in a kilt saying, “Well, chaps, I was sort of hoping... if you don’t mind much... Well, to put it one way, would you mind fighting for our freedom?”
So I try again, and say a little more assertively, “I wanted to see what sort of security he has. Ex-military, I’d guess. And I think he was carrying a gun, because there was no way he was that happy to see me.” A small smile from Clyde. “Uses some sort of card to call the penthouse-exclusive elevator. Which we’d have to take from him. I guess there’s more like him up at the top of the elevator as well.”
Tabitha looks at me. She’s still pissed but she’s curious now.
“Can we take the card off him?” Clyde asks. “I don’t think we can take the card off him.” He pauses. “I can’t take the card off him.”
“I don’t think any of us can.”
“How do we get in without Kayla?” Tabitha asks.
Or do we back away from stupid fucking ideas and get her back on active duty, is the question I think Tabitha is really asking.
For a moment I don’t say anything. I’ve got nothing. But then I realize I’m thinking like a policeman. And I’m not a policeman. A policeman wouldn’t barge into a suspect’s lobby and scope the place out. I’m Agent Wallace. I am ballsy and impulsive, and screw the minutia. Go big or go home.
I smile. “We con our way in.”
13
I’m sure it’s difficult to organize a conference, more so than you’d initially suspect, but it hardly seems like it’d be brain surgery. Yet, the Fourteenth Annual Conference of the British Neurosurgery Society seems to have a strong resemblance to Bedlam. Clyde and I are jostled by crowds as we hunt for Olsted. It’s like playing Where’s Waldo, except Waldo is a besuited older gentleman in a mass of besuited older gentlemen.
“There,” I say, finally, after two hours. I point from the back of the lecture hall we’ve just sidled into. “Second row, three in.” He’s sitting there. Leather-face himself. And after all the hunting through random conference rooms and seminars, he’s not actually that hard to find at all. Because none of the other scientists are flanked by bodyguards the size of water buffalo.
“I think we should just turn around,” Clyde says. “Probably. Don’t you think? No. You probably don’t think. That. Certainly do think. Cogito ergo sum and all that. But yes, turning around, silly idea. Shouldn’t do that. Should we? Could we?” He shakes his head. “No.”
I’m a little worried that Clyde is so nervous. This is meant to be his show. These are his people. His skills are at the core of this plan. But there’s no need to put him on further edge by pointing any of that out, so I just ask, “You think you can fudge on this topic?”
This Fourteenth Annual Conference is meant be to where the latest and greatest breakthroughs in neuroscience are presented. And occurring in this very room is one of the key talks about treating encephalopathies, which, Clyde informed me out in the corridor, is why Olsted is taking time out of his busy destroying-the-world schedule to listen in.
Clyde pulls a face. Slowly, his hands shaking slightly, he takes one of the little earbuds from his pocket and plugs it in. Up close it makes him look very CIA.
Well... as CIA-like as it’s possible for Clyde to look. Actually not that CIA at all.
“You getting any of this, Tabitha?” he whispers. He squints at whatever reply he receives. Quickly I plug in my own earbud.
“—the subject?” I hear.
“Basically recombinant DNA in CJD,” he whispers. “Protein biomarkers. Couple of other things. Preliminary stuff.”
“Lit search. Incoming.” Tabitha’s voice is tinny in my ear. There is an ease and efficiency in their voices and manner that was missing during the stakeout. They seem more comfortable with each other when there’s electronic interference they can hide behind.
Clyde looks at me. “I think we can fudge this,” he says. “Maybe. Not really sure. Hope we can. Sort of need to of course. So, yes, I’m sure it’ll all be fine. Fudge-tastic. I love fudge. Caramel too.” He looks away. “Not truffles for some reason. Not sure why.”
I give a nod toward the stage. “Probably help if we...” I start.
“Oh, gosh, yes. Paying attention now.” An affable smile from him. Something similar for me, nerves at the edge of it. But I am gung-ho now. Fearless and impulsive. I need to remember that.
“Not planning any coups are we, Arthur?” Tabitha’s voice sounds in my ear again.
“Not yet.”
She harrumphs but I don’t say anything else and she lets me be. Then it’s just toe-tapping time. I sit there, one hand covering my ear, hoping no one see
s the earbud. It’s hard to blend in when you look like you’re some dubious government agent. Which actually, thinking about it, I am. Still, not looking to advertise the fact.
Finally the talk winds down, the room clears, the guys on stage start to wrap up. I look to Clyde. This is the bit where I just smile and look pretty. Well... where I smile, anyway.
The two guys look up as we approach. They’re about my age, well entrenched in their thirties, I’d guess. One is tall and rangy, the other just, well just sort of average-looking really. Sort of person I’d have hated to have as a suspect. Which, I suppose, is good for us.
“Can we help you?” the taller one asks.
Clyde stares at them for a moment that becomes increasingly awkward as it becomes less and less of a moment.
“We had a couple of questions,” I start.
There’s a pause. The two men look expectant.
“Jesus,” Tabitha says into the silence. Clyde twitches slightly at the abruptness of her voice. “You two never had a conversation? Make nice. Compliment them.”
“Great presentation!” Clyde lurches as if someone suddenly switched him on. “I mean, yes, I... Great. Really... great.” He pulls his head back between his shoulders.
“Thanks!” Nondescript guy looks genuinely pleased. “Obviously it’s all early stages right now, and there are some horrible holes in the literature, but—”
“Now move on to the research,” Tabitha guides him. “Start with the riboflavins or—”
“Riboflavins!” Clyde barks. He looks around as if horrified by what he’s said. It’s as if he’s been suddenly struck by a bout of scientific Tourette’s. “Transcriptase factors!” he blurts.
“Sod it,” Tabitha says. “I’m having no part in this. Bloody idiots.”
Clyde stares desperately at me.
Impulsive. Fearless.
“Yes,” I say. I say it quite loudly. Possibly too loudly. I try to think of something else to say but my impulsiveness seems to have left me. Probably did it fearlessly. The two scientists are looking at us and at each other trying to work out if we were both just bludgeoned on the back of the head by some invisible assailant. Which will probably happen to me before the week’s out, seeing how it’s going.
Clyde is still quiet. I scrabble for words.
“Idiots,” I hear Tabitha mutter again.
“Transcriptase factors,” I say. “Riboflavins.” I’m playing for time. “Two paths of research that we have combined in examining genetic cures for...” I pause, I’m running out of steam, “...modern ailments.”
“Yes.” Clyde echoes my own monosyllable and we stand mutely again. I wince. But then, out of nowhere, a stream of words blurts out of Clyde’s mouth.
“You see, we’re currently engaged in some pretty unique research, which gels quite excitingly with your own. We’re working up in a lab in Swindon, you see, and we’ve been doing some very interesting work on pigs, using gene therapy that crosses the blood–brain barrier.”
And suddenly, to my utter disbelief, Clyde is actually on a roll. The words are coming faster and faster, the buzz words thicker and thicker. And suddenly I think despite the disastrous start, we really could pull this off.
“This is horse crap,” one of the men says abruptly.
Clyde freezes. “What?” he croaks.
“What?” I echo.
“This is quack bullshit,” says the tall guy. “Look, you may be able to take advantage of frightened patients who don’t know any better but we do know—”
Clyde steps away. He’s done. Folds as his bluff is called. And we’re done. Except we can’t be done. We have to know more than which door Olsted prefers. Which is a lousy metaphor.
Impulsive. Fearless.
“Look,” I say, cutting off the guy, “all we should need for this process to work,” I have no idea if what I’m saying gels with what Clyde was saying, but it barely even matters, “is a sample—” I take a quick step forward and put my hands on their heads, like I’m carrying out a benediction or something “—of DNA.” I tug.
Both guys yell.
“I’m calling security,” says one.
“Do you even have membership rights?” asks the other.
Clyde has my arm, is pulling me away.
“Stop!” shouts the taller one, but he doesn’t make a move.
I stare at the two tiny strands of hair in my hand. I feel like a hero. It’s like I just wrested a pair of handguns away from a terrorist. For some reason I can’t quite fathom, I cannot quite resist calling out, “Philistines!” as we leave the room.
“Yeah,” comes back Tabitha’s voice. “Those guys are the morons. Totally.”
TEN MINUTES LATER
“You’re sure this is going to work?” This still feels impulsive, but some of my fearlessness has definitely abandoned me since Clyde pulled out the car battery.
“Relatively,” Clyde says. It’s the fifth time he’s told me that. It’s the fifth time he’s failed to reassure me.
At least Clyde told me we needed to remove the earbuds. It’s nice to do this without Tabitha telling me what a paranoid idiot I am.
We’ve managed to find a storage closet, and next to the battery lie the other contents of Clyde’s rucksack: copper wire, acupuncture needles, clamps of various sizes. It looks less like the paraphernalia of the supernatural and more like hardcore S&M gear.
“How does it work again?” I sound the way I did when I first got an electric razor and was perhaps overly concerned about removing my entire face with it.
“The spell calls upon a mutagenic force from another reality. Then, because I don’t know the exact words to make us look exactly like the guys we want to look like, we’re cheating a bit and just throwing a bit of the impersonatee into the circuit. Should channel the spell nicely.”
“Should. OK,” I say. Words are spoken. Knowledge imparted. I’m still far too afraid.
“Clip the needles to the wire,” Clyde says. His attitude is different here, I think. There’s authority in his voice. And, I realize, it is not out with the boffins that Clyde feels comfortable, but in here, violating the boundaries of what is real. He is, as Tabitha put it, hardcore when it comes to this stuff.
“So, what next?” I ask when I’m done.
“I’m going to take my clothes off,” Clyde says.
Not exactly what I was hoping for.
I avert my eyes while he strips to a pair of tighty-whities. He hands me a couple of the needles that he’s rigged up to the copper wires and taps four spirals of wire embedded under the skin of his chest. “You need to put the needles in these four chakras here.” He taps between his eyes. “And then one in my third eye.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
“Yes, please. The wires—” he gestures to his tattoos “—help get the power to the chakras, but using the exact spot to infuse power is even better.”
And so I stab the poor guy. The fifth and final needle spears low in his forehead, like some sort of crazy unicorn horn. He flexes his eyebrows and it bobbles madly. I look at the car battery, at the wires beneath his skin—the path of least resistance. Not how I usually spend my weekends...
Clyde picks up a piece of aluminum foil and wraps one of the stolen hairs around it, fixing it in place with some clips. He nods. “OK, we’re good. Just hit the juice when I say, ‘ashrat.’ OK?”
He gives a perfect private-schoolboy grin, wonky teeth and all. His face is bright and clean. Almost as if he is not mostly naked in a hotel cleaning closet with giant needles sticking into him.
“Sure,” I say, “whatever you say.”
Clyde hands me two large clamps, electrical tape wrapped thickly around their handles; one red, one black; positive, negative. “On ashrat.” He closes his eyes. He slows his breathing. His chest rises and falls. In and out. In and out. “Sellum,” he says. “Moshtaf al partum.”
Static electricity sweeps like a wave up my arms and legs. Each hair standing on end, one by one.
“Kel saloth cthartin. Anung ash partek. Felim um ashrat—”
I almost miss it, caught up in the madness of the moment. But then I realize and slap the two clamps down onto the battery. And, even as I do it, part of me, yet again, wants to be put on lithium and told the bad dreams will go away.
Clyde convulses. His mouth mashes down on his tongue, mangling a word. The wires under his skin are glowing, red at first, then brighter, whiter, to blue. It’s like they’re going to burn right through him. There’s the smell of ozone, of crisping flesh. Above us the bulb flickers, a strobe flash, and then it dies. The only light is the magnesium flare of the wires, making Clyde a stick man, a scribble pattern of light lifting up, up, off the floor of the room, off into the air, his mass a bubbling silhouette, blacker than the black of the room, shifting, stirring, in flux, his arms and legs spasming, coming in and out, in and out, clenching down into a fetal position then out as a star, some bizarre exercise program, and then there is a snapping sound, like a hundred bones breaking at once, and a cry, and I think I’m finally just going to go ahead and vomit, and the light bulb flares to life once more, and I’m standing in a room with a tall rangy scientist I called a Philistine just a moment before.
“Clyde?” I cannot keep the edge of tension out of my voice.
The scientist’s double shudders, grabs the edge of the table. He exhales. “All right,” he says, “that went better than I had hoped.”
“Better?” I cannot quite keep the incredulity out of my voice.
“Yeah.” Clyde nods. “The wires stop it from stinging too bad.”
“Really?”
“Oh.” Clyde looks apologetic.
“What?” I say.
“Well...” Clyde shuffles on the spot. “Now it’s your turn.”
14
When I was a kid I used to dream about magic. It took both my parents to physically peel me off a copy of The Hobbit. And I don’t mean the stage tricks of David Copperfield. Not the levitating cards of David Blaine, but real magic. Actually violating the laws of physics. Twisting reality to your will, transmuting matter. Magic! Summoning something from nothing. Calling on the powers of the heavens. There was romance to it, poetry.
No Hero Page 11