by P. R. Adams
Weatherford looked into the distance for a moment; he had once said that it was his way of stepping out of the present to see the big picture.
After a few seconds, Weatherford looked back. “I’ll need to talk with Sergeant Rimes for a moment.”
Marshall opened his hands. “Of course.” He smiled and jabbed at something, and his image froze.
“The man who escaped in Singapore …” Weatherford said.
“Kwon Myung-bak.”
“Your report indicated he had a minimal file. You also said you were sure you’d been compromised, but apparently everyone in the world knew about this operation, so it’s hard to know by whom. You think this Kwon Myung-bak was getting his feed from the Korean government? That maybe he’s a Korean plant?”
It didn’t sound likely. The Koreans weren’t part of the Security Council or the even more selective Special Security Council—how would they have known? But Rimes hedged his bets, trying to see where Weatherford was leading.
“It’s possible, sir. Security was clearly compromised. But there were several potential sources.”
But Weatherford was looking away again. “Kleigshoen … the name rings a bell. Where would I have heard of her before?”
“She was in the Commando qualification course when I went through, sir. Came in with a marksman badge, made it further than any woman before her. Her father was an ambassador in the Arturo administration.”
Weatherford’s eyes zeroed in on Rimes. “You know her.”
“She was in my class, sir. She was in my Ranger unit before that.”
“Is she trustworthy?”
“Well, she’s a spook now, sir. I guess she’s as trustworthy as any of them can be.”
Weatherford looked away again. “Ambassador Kleigshoen. I remember him. She’s from money.”
Rimes nodded. “Her grandfather was sitting on a lot of the right stocks when the metacorporations formed. She’s not about the money, sir; it’s career for her.”
Weatherford re-opened the communication channel. The frozen image faded; Marshall was looking off-camera, arguing with someone.
Weatherford cleared his throat. “When do you need Sergeant Rimes?”
Marshall looked back at Rimes and Weatherford, his smooth smile returning instantly. “Can you get him on a plane by noon?”
Rimes looked at Weatherford. “I can be ready by noon, sir.”
Marshall clasped his hands together so quickly he clapped. “Then we’ll see you tonight. Thank you, Colonel.”
Marshall disappeared.
Weatherford stood, shaking his head, and Rimes immediately shot to attention.
Weatherford frowned. “I don’t know what they’re up to, but I don’t trust them. I’d advise you do the same.”
“Will do, sir,” Rimes said.
“How’s Molly?”
Rimes smiled. “She’s a good woman, sir. She’ll be okay.”
“She’s pregnant …” Weatherford’s voice was neutral, his gaze off in the distance again. It could have been a question or a statement.
“Yes, sir.”
“You hurry, you can spend a little more time with her before you fly out.” He extended a hand and Rimes shook it once more. “You explain to her how important this mission is, what it can mean for your career if it turns out right.”
Rimes nodded. “Count on it, sir.”
Thirty minutes later, at the first, vague hints of approaching dawn, Rimes and Molly were en route to the apartment. Molly yawned. Her features were drawn, and he guessed the nausea had returned.
Rimes watched the fields full of struggling dogwood saplings. Red sunlight reflected off the ice-covered branches.
“It’s a big opportunity,” he said, finally. “The colonel thinks it’s the last piece I need to build my OCS application.”
Molly said nothing.
“It’s inter-organization, exactly the sort of credentials you need for promotions. I’d be going into the officer corps with a leg up.”
Molly kept her eyes on the road. “How long?”
Rimes blinked. He couldn’t lie, although he sensed it was what she needed. “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like it’ll be too long.”
“You’re supposed to be on leave, Jack. Our anniversary is coming.”
“If it’s a short enough operation …” He didn’t sound convincing, even to himself.
“We’ve got a baby on the way.” Molly shot a glance at him that contained a frightening mix of pain, love, and fury.
“I know,” Rimes whispered.
12
27 February 2164. Washington, D.C.
* * *
Fog rose off the James River, cloaking the capital in a dreamy shroud. Looking to the north, where the river cut through a scrawny stretch of oak, he could make out a metal framework rising from the fog, a commercial development project to house metacorporate representatives as they dictated to the fragile remnants of government.
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 compromised 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.