“Understood.”
What neither of us said aloud was that the DMS had bungled so many cases during the Kill Switch debacle that all of us had lost some faith in our judgment. We were all suffering different levels of PTSD. The fear there is that damage of that sort can create hesitation, and in our line of work hesitation is nearly always fatal. Or it can make you jump at shadows.
And you wonder why I drink?
My next call was to Nikki, a senior analyst in our computer department. I gave her info on Sean and the names of the dead kids and told her to find me a connection. She ran it through MindReader and called me back in less than twenty minutes.
“I’m getting hits,” said Nikki, “but no pattern. What do you want first?”
“Nanites.”
“Nothing there. They’re not mentioned in the official report Dr. Jakobs filed, and there are no other reports related to Baltimore, local prostitution, unexplained deaths of children, or rabies outbreaks. It might be incidental.”
“How so?”
“There are a lot of groups using nanite swarms these days, Joe. Ever since the Zika virus mutated, they’ve been spraying tons of them. They carry chemical and biological agents that sterilize the female mosquitoes so they can’t breed.”
“We’re using nanites for this?” I asked, appalled.
“Sure. All over the world. There’s a chance the girl was in an area where they were spraying and inhaled some of the nanites. Joe, I’m pretty sure Bug forwarded a report to you.”
“When?”
“Like … two years ago?”
“Shit.” There were a lot of reports forwarded to me every day. I skimmed most of them because we’re talking hundreds of pages, either in print or online. If I was in the field, then all of that data piled up. There was no earthly way for me to keep ahead of it all. “Which is why I love you, Nikki,” I said. “You always help me with my homework. Tell me, would those Zika nanites be in her brain?”
“Well … no, probably not. We can ask Dr. Acharya when he gets back from the DARPA camp.”
“Look,” I said, “is there any chance those nanites were carrying rabies?”
“There’s absolutely nothing like that in the files. Nanites don’t bite. They’re really, really, really tiny.”
“Okay. What about rabies by itself? Any new outbreaks?”
“Well, sure, though not that much. There was a report on that, too.”
“Which I clearly have not read,” I told her.
She sighed audibly. “According to the CDC, incidents of rabies here in America are in decline. There were only two or three cases reported annually and only forty cases diagnosed in the United States between 2003 and early last year, twelve of which were cases where the person contracted the disease while outside the U.S. There’s been a definite increase in the last eighteen months, but it’s still such a low number that it hasn’t gotten much national press.”
“What’s causing the change?” I asked.
“I’ll get in touch with Dr. Cmar. He’ll know.”
John Cmar was the director of the Division of Infectious Diseases at Sinai Hospital of Baltimore, but he was also a senior consultant for the Bughunters, a covert rapid-response CDC group funded by the DMS. He’s one of Mr. Church’s “friends in the industry.”
“Keep me posted on that,” I said.
“Okay, but I’m checking other instances of rabies and I’m seeing increased incidents in India, and in West Africa, Mexico, and Brazil. Pretty much the poorest parts of the Third World, but there are always disease outbreaks there. I’m not seeing anything that ties into what happened in Baltimore, though. I mean, rabies shows up a lot in animals, mostly skunks in the middle part of the country and parts of California, foxes down in Texas, and raccoons on the East Coast. Some bats, and like that. Dogs with rabies are really rare because of vaccinations. We can’t know how the girl contracted it until we get the samples and have our own lab run tests, and even then we might not know for sure. It’s so weird for city kids. I mean, exposure to nanites from mosquito spraying is a hundred times more likely, and even that’s odd.”
“Okay. What about the hotel where Holly died? Any red flags in its health-code violations?”
“No, nothing in particular. I found some deep background stuff on the hotel management but no actionable evidence,” Nikki said. “Nothing you can use in court. But there’s this—all the kids Sean told you about died in hotels or motels, and although none of them are owned by the same people, there is a connection. They all use the same linen and vending services, which are owned by a Baltimore businessman named Vsevolod Rejenko, known as Vee.”
“Russian mob?” I asked.
“Vee’s Czech. Got his U.S. citizenship six years ago. Been looked at a couple of times for possible racketeering, but nothing came of it. I have a bunch of searches active on MindReader, though.”
Old and cranky as it was, MindReader was still a pretty spiffy computer system. It has two primary functions. The first is that it has a superintrusion software package that allows it to invade other computers and, in doing so, rewrite the target’s own software in order to erase all traces of the invasion. It’s a ghost that can walk through walls. The second thing it does is serve as a master pattern-recognition-analysis computer. Because MindReader can essentially steal information from the databases of all other law-enforcement agencies, it can then collate that data and look for patterns no one else sees. If Mr. Church trusted the motives and ethics of the heads of other law-enforcement agencies, he’d probably share MindReader. But there are a lot of complete jackasses out there, even among the good guys. Bug runs MindReader, with Nikki and Yoda as his right and left hands. They are supernerd geniuses who had all been frustrated idealists trying to fight the stupidity of the “system” by acting as anarchist hackers of one kind or another. Then Church stepped into their lives and gave them the chance to do real good for the world, and to do it by using the world’s most sophisticated and powerful computer.
“This Vee character,” I said. “See if he still has active ties in the Czech Republic?”
“Because of Prague, you mean? I thought of that. Vee recruits some of his staff from there, but that’s all that came up.”
“Go deeper. See if he has any ties to the technologies industry in general, and any connection at all to nanotechnology in particular.”
“On it,” she said, and ended the call.
My next call was to Lydia Rose, to book me on the first available flight to Baltimore.
INTERLUDE THREE
HARADA GAMES AND ELECTRONICS
HIRAOKA BUILDING
CHIYODA-KU, TOKYO
FIVE WEEKS AGO
The clerk was reading the paper while an old anime of Sailor Moon played on every screen in the shop. When the bell above the door rang, he looked up to see a middle-aged businessman come in. The man looked sweaty and nervous, the way a lot of customers did. That was useful. It spoke to a type. This man was not here to buy a flat-screen TV or a videogame console. He was too old, for one thing, and his clothes were too good. He didn’t have the slacker look, or even the look of the young worker drone who decompressed after his shift by escaping into alien worlds.
This man was fiftysomething, with a very expensive suit, top-quality shoes, and a leather briefcase that cost more than some of the electronics in the shop. The clerk figured him for an executive in one of the mid to large companies. Probably an oil company, or something related to petroleum, because he seemed to be getting a lot of those kinds of customers in here lately. This man would have at least one very expensive car, a big house, a pretty wife, a couple of grown kids, no dog. He didn’t look like the dog-owner type. Koi, maybe.
The clerk stood and gave a very slight bow, which is something he only did for certain customers. The store was empty, and the clerk touched a button beneath the counter that switched the OPEN sign to BACK IN FIVE MINUTES, and that also engaged the door lock. The man heard the click and fli
nched.
The clerk smiled, even more convinced now.
“How may I help you, sir?” he asked.
The man didn’t immediately approach the counter but instead stood where he was, his pink tongue licking nervously at his lips.
“I, um,” began the man. He cut quick looks around the empty shop and then tried again. “I would, um … I mean, do you carry any, um, software.”
There it was. The code word. It not only identified why the man was here but also who sent him. Each of the account managers associated with this shop used a different word. Software, shareware, spyware. Like that. More than three dozen possible keywords. The trick was to ensure that it wasn’t a random word thrown out by an actual customer of an electronics store.
“For installation or download, sir?”
The man swallowed and blinked. He had sweat in his eyes and on his upper lip. “I prefer to, um, download it.”
“Of course, sir, please come this way. We have an excellent selection of programs.” He held out a hand to invite the man to step up to the counter. Then the clerk went behind the counter and tapped on the keys of a keyboard mounted beneath it. The front-window glass immediately darkened, which was a nice little trick of holography. The glass had some reflective qualities, and small projectors mounted amid the ceiling track lights splashed a continuous video loop of the shop as it looked when closed and darkened. The image was 3-D enough so that if someone outside shifted for a better look inside the image would adjust to maintain a normal view. It was quite effective, and was only one of several dozen high-tech features built into the store’s security. It was a complicated world, as the clerk well knew, and you could never be too careful.
Once they were totally free from prying eyes, the clerk tapped another key, which turned the clear glass countertop into an opaque video screen. The businessman grunted in surprise, but bent closer to watch as the clerk brought up an illustrated menu. The pictures were of anime movies featuring young women in outlandish costumes, many with oversized swords or ray guns. The costumes ranged from tight-fitting sequined gowns to period costumes from the days of the Samurai to schoolgirl uniforms. Dozens of choices, and, with a wave of his hand, the clerk indicated how the customer could scroll down to see even more offerings. It was not a touch screen, because touch screens leave fingerprints.
“We have so many choices,” said the clerk. “Did you have something particular in mind? Vintage, perhaps? Or a costume drama…?”
The customer stopped scrolling and his trembling fingers hovered above an image of a child sitting on a tree stump, a stuffed unicorn doll tucked under her arm and her pouting lips tight around the thumb she was sucking. Without speaking, the man looked up at the clerk.
“An excellent choice, sir,” said the clerk. “And you’re in luck, because we received a brand-new shipment only this morning.”
“N-new? How … um … new?”
“Absolutely untouched, sir. You will be the very first customer for this item.”
The businessman licked his lips again. “You’re telling me the truth?”
The clerk smiled. “We take great pride in providing only the best items for your entertainment needs. We are second to none, as I trust you’ve been told.”
He knew that this was exactly what the account manager had said to this man. The sales pitch was very good, based on the results of several studies of sales language and psychological manipulation modeled on personality subtypes. Sell the customer what he wants in the way that makes him feel comfortable, empowered, and satisfied. Sell it in the language of his desire. That was how the regional director always put it.
The businessman looked up sharply, and even though he was still sweating and nervous, there was a fire in his eyes. The man now knew without doubt where he was, what he was doing, and whom he was dealing with. From here out, he would be less tentative as he got closer to what he craved. He would feel more powerful, but the clerk knew that this only made him more manageable; it would be like leading a stallion into a breeding pen. The horse was headstrong, but his needs dictated everything.
“How much is this … item?” demanded the businessman.
The clerk tapped a key that brought up an amount in yen. Most men would stagger back from that figure, but the businessman nodded. He produced a card and tapped the corner with the chip to the spot indicated by the clerk. There was a soft bing, and the money was instantly debited. The clerk noted that the card had no name on it and no numbers. The man had a special account somewhere just for this sort of thing. It meant that he was a true player, and if things went well for him today he would be a repeat customer. The percentage of the fee that the clerk would have to split with the account manager was delicious. Enough to buy a new scooter and maybe take his girlfriend out to a four-star restaurant. Very few sales hit numbers like this. He kept his pleasure off his face, though.
Instead, he cleared the screen, stepped back, and indicated the passageway to the back room, then hurried forward to open the door for the businessman. The clerk wore an expensive electronic watch, and he held the face to the doorknob so that the scanner built into the knob could read the code and release the lock. Key cards were so last year.
The clerk opened the door and ushered his client inside, then closed and locked the door behind him. Now that the store was empty, a whole battery of sensors came online to monitor the store, the street outside, the alley behind the building, and the roof. Nothing was left to chance.
The rooms behind the store were small but luxurious, with expensive furniture, indirect lighting, good carpets, and rich tapestries on the wall. The rooms were arranged in a kind of maze that prevented customers from ever encountering one another. There was no allowance for awkward moments. Not here. Never here.
The clerk led the businessman to a room near the end of a convoluted hallway, and by the time they arrived he was sure the customer would never be able to find his way out. Not without help. That was a tipping opportunity, especially if the man was satisfied with services provided.
The customers who came here were very good tippers. And although management took its cut, the clerk could clear two or three hundred yen each week. Some weeks it was as high as a thousand. The clerk had paid off most of his student loans so far.
“Here we are, sir,” he said as he stopped beside a door covered in rich, dark-red leather. He waved his watch across a sensor, and the door clicked open and swung inward to reveal a very well-appointed bedroom. The bed was in the European style, with an ornate headboard, a rich brocade comforter, and many embroidered pillows. A lamp set to low light stood on a hand-carved wooden table, and beside that was a long rack of toys covered with a silk draping. Each of the many whips, chains, handcuffs, dildos, leather masks, and other items was brand-new and of the highest quality. The girl who stood beside the bed had her hands folded in front of her, head bowed, eyes politely lowered, long fall of black hair hanging below her shoulders. She was dressed in a school uniform of the kind worn by first graders in the better private schools.
The clerk bowed again as the customer stepped into the room. Then he triggered the sensor to automatically close and lock the door. He straightened, sighed, and cracked the tension out of his neck. The room—like all the rooms here—was completely soundproof. That was fine with him. He didn’t like to hear the screams. After all, he wasn’t kinky. He only worked there.
He went to the restroom and then walked through the twisting and turning hallway back to the door that opened before him and led to the store. Once he was back behind the counter, he tapped the keys that changed the sign back to OPEN and turned the opaque window back to clear glass.
And that’s when the door exploded inward, showering him with jagged splinters. He covered his face with one hand as he spun away and used the other to reach for an alarm button. He hit the button at the exact moment that a hard rubber bullet struck him in the shoulder, shattering his scapula and sending him crashing into the back wall. Suddenly th
e room was filled with bodies as what seemed like dozens of police poured in through the shattered door, shouting, shoving him, beating him to the floor. Alarms rang throughout the building, and the clerk knew that the rest of the staff would be trying to rescue as many customers as possible.
“Through here!” yelled a voice, and a husky cop stepped to the back door and swung a heavy breaching tool. Once, twice, and on the third shot the door lock tore itself out of the frame. The officers ran inside, guns drawn, faces set into fierce growls.
“Where are they?” demanded a hatchet-faced man who wore a detective’s shield on a chain around his neck.
“I … don’t…” began the clerk, but the detective struck him a savage blow across the mouth. Blood spattered the corner of the counter, and the clerk screamed.
“Get him up,” demanded the detective, and two officers grabbed the clerk and hauled him to his feet, which made the broken bones in his shoulder grate together. The clerk screamed, but the detective punched him in the stomach with such shocking force that the scream was cut short. The clerk felt his lungs locking up and fireworks seemed to burst around him. Then the detective took a fistful of his hair and raised his head, leaning so close that when he spoke his hot spit struck the clerk’s face. “Where are the kids?”
The clerk shook his head, blood dribbling from between his mashed lips. “No … kids…” he gasped.
The detective looked as if he wanted to hit him again, but then someone shouted from inside the building.
“Sir! You need to come here,” yelled an officer.
The detective turned to go, but over his shoulder growled, “Bring him.”
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