* * *
—
Side-loaded on Ranveer’s handset is a handy little app that allows him to hack e-ink license plates anywhere in the world. After using GLONASS (the Russian version of GPS) to determine his location, and the camera in his metaspecs to capture the VIN of the Mercedes-Benz H2-Class he borrowed from the hotel, the app uses his handset’s near-field transmitter to broadcast a signal similar to the one issued by the Directorate General of Traffic under the Royal Oman Police after a car has been reported as stolen. However, rather than flashing the Arabic word for “thief!” thereby making the vehicle exceedingly easy for officers to spot (and often shaming your more respectable criminals into abandoning their boosted rides before they can reach the nearest chop shop), Ranveer’s payload generates a random but perfectly valid Omani tag so that if it is somehow recorded, the Mercedes cannot be traced back to the hotel. As an additional security measure, the SUV’s data connection has been disabled so that its location cannot be triangulated, which means it is searching for the Nassif family’s home amid the suburbs west of Sohar using only onboard sensors and cached maps.
It would be fair to say that Ranveer generally works the night shift, and that he is currently on his way into the office. Since he is self-employed and only gets paid for the results he produces, he decides to make optimal use of his evening commute.
He may not be some hotshot CIA analyst, but Ranveer knows his way around the shadowphiles. Wired once described the shadowphiles as the lowest point in our rich, vast, and exponentially expanding datascape; the point at which all phished, leaked, and hacked information eventually collects after most of its immediate commercial value has been extracted; illicit indices of personal details and financial transactions concealed beneath multiple layers of onion routing and asymmetrical encryption, but accessible to anyone well enough connected to buy access. Data sold in bulk and at wholesale. While the shadowphiles were once restricted to criminals with a talent for command-line scripting, enough user-experience designers have turned to the dark side that stalking, hunting, and spying are now as easy as pointing and clicking.
One of the advantages of Ranveer’s new gig is that most of his targets have no idea that anyone would want them dead, which means that the Nassif family is unlikely to employ armed guards, or to have had a custom-built safe room installed. Therefore, Ranveer decides not to waste crypto credits querying financial records for evidence to the contrary. But he does try cross-referencing recurring payments with all known local security companies to see what kind of commercial-grade alarm system he could be up against. Nothing. And, thankfully, no payments to any businesses affiliated with pet care as far back as three years, which means the Nassif family does not have so much as a guinea pig watching over them. Finally, with no memberships, payments, or social media posts consistent with the ownership of firearms, even if Ranveer does encounter the unfortunate combination of light sleeper and creaky floorboard, he shouldn’t have much more to worry about than a carbon-fiber tennis racket, golf club, or cricket bat. With any luck, he will be back at the hotel in time for a nightcap to help ease his jet lag.
The job is still a go, so the rest of the ride is spent on autopilot, Ranveer positioned in the center of the backseat bench, long legs folded into a full Lotus Pose, palms upturned with index fingertips connected to thumbs and eyes serenely closed.
14
DARK TOURISM
YOU COULD ARGUE that the privacy glass surrounding the Emirates Sultan Lounge is installed backwards. That the sheikhs, celebrities, and businesspeople sequestered behind the walls of hexagonal plasma glass blocks should, if they choose, be free to amuse themselves with views of the boorish, drooling, and uncouth buffoons from which they are being spared. And that the less affluent should be kept mercifully unaware of the pampering and coddling in which they will never be permitted to indulge.
But that is not the way the stratification of civilization has played out. The barrier is tinted as though an allusion to discretion, but those with either masochistic inclinations or leisure obsessions can still peer through and discern the manicures, pedicures, massages, and three-Michelin-star cuisine. The billiard tables, the jazz quartet, and the live indoor putting green. It turns out that the deprived revel in the act of coveting almost as much as the privileged relish being watched; that exhibitionism and voyeurism, rather than breeding malice, achieve a perverse and improbable cultural balance; that witnessing others’ entitlement is a twisted form of dark tourism.
But Quinn isn’t into it. Since one does not simply hop a flight to Oman, she has plenty of time to kill, so she wanders over to Terminal B and into a Planet Hollywood. There is only one other patron in the restaurant, and Quinn has made the lone waitress’s job unduly grueling by sitting as far away from him as geometrically possible. She could have saved everyone a great deal of trouble by drinking alone at the bar rather than at a corner table, but she refuses to stage such a mournful display.
Dinner this evening is a tower of onion rings accompanied by chardonnay. She has just enough time before her plane boards for an excess of greasy American fare and to catch a good pre-sleep buzz. To that end, she is well into her second glass of what have turned out to be much more generous pours than you’d expect from a sticky, kitschy tourist trap like this.
Quinn’s handset is out, and she is looking down at her ex-husband’s profile photo. Her thumb hovers in the airspace over the message icon. She sometimes indulges in what a former therapist referred to as “emotional cutting” by scrolling back through old conversations. It’s like the travelers who cup their eyes against the glass wall of the Sultan Lounge trying to spy on a life they will never have. But the difference is, when Quinn stands on the outside looking in, she is a tourist fascinated by her own past. It is not the unfamiliar and the exotic she hopes to one day obtain, but the mundane and the everyday she would do anything to get back.
Quinn has learned that hate is very much like pain. In the moment, it drowns everything else out, but over time, its strength and weight inevitably fade. When she was in the hospital having Molly, before she was given the epidural, Quinn swore she would never go through the experience of childbirth again. And there were moments during her divorce that she claimed to despise the man she once believed she could not live without. But time has a way of averaging out the extremes. Eroding even our best defenses. Exposing our fates and mocking our dreams. Quinn has come to believe that all of us eventually figure out who we are and what we want; the only question is whether it will be too late.
She is fantasizing about tapping that anachronistic handset icon and giving her ex-husband a completely unexpected call when she receives a Semaphore notification. It is an incoming connection request from Henrietta Yi. Quinn is grateful for the intervention and accepts it unhesitatingly.
“Henrietta,” Quinn says. She can see from her own live thumbnail in the corner that she looks like backlit, baggy-eyed shit, but she’s had enough wine that she’s mostly indifferent.
Henrietta waves into the camera with a combination of hesitation and enthusiasm. Her hair is down, and her bangs are perfectly shaped to frame her round, radiant face. “Hi, Ms. Mitchell. I’m so sorry to bother you. Is now a good time?”
“Now’s a perfect time,” Quinn says. “You might have just saved me from drunk-dialing my ex-husband.”
Henrietta is momentarily taken aback by Quinn’s candor, but she recovers swiftly and even transitions into a knowing nod. “We’ve all been there, Ms. Mitchell.”
“Really?” Quinn asks with amused skepticism. “You don’t strike me as the drunk-dialing type.”
“OK, maybe not,” Henrietta confesses. “But one can always hope.”
Quinn is grateful for the company and decides to nudge the dynamic a tick more toward companionship.
“So, does toiling away in Moretti’s secret lair leave much time for dating?”
&nb
sp; “Ha!” the young woman exclaims. “I wish my schedule were the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean men aren’t exactly lining up to date a five-foot-tall Korean K-pop fangirl with two PhDs in physics and a Pokémon fetish.”
“Hold on,” Quinn says. “Back up a second. You have two PhDs in physics?”
“Quantum and particle.”
“Jesus,” Quinn says. “I hope whatever Moretti has you doing is worthy of your aptitude.”
“So do I,” Henrietta says.
“Anyway,” Quinn pivots, “I know it’s hard to see yourself the way other people see you, but you are an intelligent, charismatic, and absolutely adorable young woman. You’re kind of the total package, if you ask me. If you don’t get hit on, it’s only because men are intimidated by you.”
Henrietta blushes through her honey-colored complexion, and her eyelashes bat daintily at her bangs. “You’re so sweet,” she says. “Thank you. I really needed to hear that.”
“Anytime.”
Something dark explodes into frame, and it takes Quinn a moment to grasp that it’s a cat, glossy and pure black. As it nuzzles Henrietta, it simultaneously shows Quinn its pink, puckered butt.
“Who is this?” Quinn asks.
“This is Jiji,” Henrietta says. She hooks the beast by its belly and relocates it beside her on the couch. Its hypnotic amber eyes regard Quinn with intense vigilance as it rubs its cheek against Henrietta’s elbow. “He’s the closest thing to a boyfriend I have.”
“He’s adorable.”
“He’s also schizophrenic. Some days he’s like this and I can’t keep him out of my lap, and some days I can’t even find him.”
“Sounds like a pretty typical boyfriend to me.”
The cat abruptly ejects himself from the frame, and Quinn can see from Henrietta’s gaze that he crosses the room, leaps, and comes to rest on some sort of elevated perch.
“Case in point,” Quinn says.
“Exactly.” Henrietta repositions herself on the couch, and her expression portends a transition. “I know you’re boarding soon, Ms. Mitchell, but do you have another minute?”
“Sure.”
“I wanted to apologize for the other day.”
“Apologize?”
“Mr. Moretti told me about your daughter. And then I remembered making that comment about her growing out of Pokémon.”
Quinn leads with a reassuring smile. “Don’t even think about apologizing,” she says. “There’s no way you could have known.”
“I know,” Henrietta says. “It just felt so…I don’t know. Insensitive.”
“Listen,” Quinn begins. “Let me tell you something about tragedy that only people who’ve experienced it seem to know. It doesn’t help for everyone to avoid talking about it or to pretend like it never happened. I actually like talking about Molly. It seems to make everyone else uncomfortable, but to me, it keeps part of her alive.”
“I like that,” Henrietta says. “Tell me something about her.”
“OK,” Quinn says. “Well, in some ways, you remind me of her.”
Henrietta smiles primly. “Oh? How so?”
“Well, there’s the obvious, of course. The Pokémon fanaticism. But she was also really smart. She always used to figure out all her birthday and Christmas presents before she opened them. She never peeked, but she could always think back in time and figure out little comments, or unusual behavior that would tip her off. Like when her father snuck away at Harry Potter World and bought her Hermione’s wand for her birthday. She remembered that day over three months later and knew exactly what was inside—even though we wrapped it in a shoebox to try to throw her off.”
“Sounds like she was as analytical as her mother.”
“She also had a bit of an edge to her. One day, she and her friends were trying to figure out what their spirit animals were. Everyone else was picking things like foxes and deer and pandas. Then all of a sudden Molly declares her spirit animal is a scorpion that can kill all their spirit animals.”
“Well, that definitely isn’t me,” Henrietta says with playful revulsion. “I’m more of a panda girl.”
“But I can tell you have a bit of an edge to you, too,” Quinn says.
“Really?”
“You have two PhDs. You could be making millions on Wall Street, yet you’re working for the CIA. And you’re working on one of the most covert projects I’ve ever heard of at the agency. And you seem to be one of the few who can handle Moretti.”
Henrietta replies with a demure smile. “You just have to know when to ignore him.”
“Listen,” Quinn says. “I have a box of Molly’s old Pokémon stuff in storage. When I get back, I’d like you to have it.”
“Oh, no,” Henrietta says. “No, I couldn’t.”
“Henrietta…” Quinn insists. “It’s just sitting in storage. Nothing would make me happier than to give all that stuff to someone who will love it as much as she did.”
It takes her a moment, but Henrietta relents. “Thank you,” she says. “I promise to take good care of it.”
“I know you will,” Quinn says. “Unfortunately, I need to start making my way to my gate. Apology not accepted, because it wasn’t necessary. But thank you for calling.”
“Of course,” Henrietta says. “Safe travels, Ms. Mitchell.”
“Call me Quinn.”
Henrietta beams. “Safe travels, Quinn.”
Quinn takes another mouthful of wine. Henrietta was right: Molly got her analytical prowess from her mother. Quinn has come to think of her own mind as a type of multi-threaded device. It is as though she has a second, dedicated processor for offloading background jobs—integrated circuitry optimized for solving complex problems. Sometimes she doesn’t even get to choose the tasks it spins up and chews on. Answers, when they are ready, are simply copied to active memory, whether she is in the shower, falling asleep, driving, or in the middle of a conversation. One moment she is walking or grocery shopping or drying her hair, and the next, she is suddenly aware.
It happened the first time she met Henrietta—the epiphany that Moretti’s secret project is related to the Epoch Index. They are either working on a quantum computer to try to decrypt it, or they’ve already cracked it, and now they are building something unprecedented as a reaction. Either way, Quinn knows that the CIA would not pass up the opportunity to turn the future into the ultimate asset.
15
DHARMA
THE MERCEDES-BENZ H2-CLASS pulls noiselessly up in front of a two-story white stone structure, and just over seven minutes later, Ranveer is standing in an upstairs bedroom at the side of a naturally finished mahogany crib, having just bypassed the biometric bolt downstairs by cutting it right out of the steel door it was mounted in with a portable, high-precision waterjet and placing it gently in a nearby flowerpot.
He isn’t at all concerned about what he touches, because he is wearing polymer obfuscation gloves. Each glove you pull out of the box promises five forensically distinct, completely randomized fingerprints. Law enforcement hates these things because even when they know obfuscation gloves were used, they still have to run down every single print just to be sure. And they have to keep track of all the fake prints and compare them to all the other fake prints ever collected on the off chance that the same glove gets used for more than one crime, which is exceedingly unlikely since they come in packs of one hundred and only cost around twenty euros (and, as they are manufactured by one of the more modern and progressive crime syndicates currently in operation, they are even available in twelve different skin tones). If you really want to fuck with your pursuers, you can also get little baggies full of hair, skin flakes, saliva, sweat, blood, semen, urine, feces, and even ear wax that you can distribute around your work area in all kinds of creative configurations. T
hey come in two varieties: synthetic (which means they contain randomized DNA) and organic (taken off cadavers or bought off people with either mouths or drug habits to feed). But Ranveer carries no such paraphernalia. While he appreciates the forensic static obfuscation gloves generate, there’s something about the use of biobags and clue-glue that he finds distasteful.
He reaches over to the diaper-changing table beside him and holds down the button on what his specs are telling him is the transmitting end of a one-hundred-channel, 2.4-gigahertz, water- and shock-resistant, fully shielded and redundant baby monitor designed to withstand any contingency this cruel and unpredictable world can possibly throw at it—except for someone intentionally switching it off.
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