‘So we exclude the doggy position.’
‘I think it likely that Munoz had adopted Position 2.’
This was a reference to the cowgirl position, pipped to the number one spot by the missionary position. Sasaki remembered with amusement a meeting of his technical team in which, after some debate, the current numbering system had been adopted. Dr Tanaka had been silent throughout, until a junior member of the group suggested that the entire project would fail through a lack of imagination not shown by the artists of the floating world.
‘If we consider the shunga of Utamaro, for example…’
Off the top of his head, the young man could list forty-five positions at least.
But Tanaka had no interest in erotic art. Her interest in Ai, like Sasaki’s, was directed towards enabling her to develop a personality in her own right rather than the creation of a courtesan serving the dubious interests of others. But provoked to speak, this was not what she said.
‘There is no way Ai’s sensor array can cope with forty-five positions; at our current state of development, three are challenging enough.’
And so, pending further advances in sensor technology, the meeting agreed to restrict analysis to the current three positions. Tanaka’s argument had prevailed and nothing had changed since then. Till now. As Sasaki left, she turned her attention to the display on her screen, and that was when she noticed that someone else was accessing her data. This happened on occasion, but always through the company’s intranet. This time, though, a check revealed that the intruder had arrived, not from within the building, but from the outside world by way of a virtual private network. Whoever it was did not want to be traced, and even if a trace could be made, it would surely lead to an internet café or public library, the hacker long gone.
46
Pearson had resisted the idea at first; he disliked aircraft, airports even more, and then there was the money. Why pay for a flight to Seattle and back just to meet up with Charles Ventris? But Ventris had arranged to meet Molly Breitenbach, returning from the public health labs in Shoreline, besides which, his sister lived in Seattle and he made a point of visiting her at least once every five years to check which of them was deteriorating faster with age, Susan or himself.
‘Money isn’t a problem. Bill me and have done, Adalbert.’
Regarding it as ridiculous, he always addressed Pearson by his first name when he wanted to put him down. He was in the lounge, spread out on a grey settee with the Wall Street Journal, a skinny latte on the table. As a further concession to healthy living, he hadn’t eaten anything yet.
‘The trouble with these guys?’ he said, as if Pearson wanted to know, ‘they have all the data in the world but, guess what, they never see it coming.’
Pearson had to agree with him there. He’d learned the hard way, losing the few thousand he had when the tech bubble burst, but none at all during the subprime crash because, burned once, he now kept what little surplus cash he had on deposit. He made himself a coffee at the self-service counter with its helpful row of time-zone clocks and sat down in an armchair opposite the great man, a low wooden table between them.
‘So Pearson, to be clear, you’re back on the payroll till we sort this business out.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
Ventris turned his attention to an article concerning the returns to be made from timber, while Pearson looked out through the picture windows to the uninspiring scene beyond. He decided to risk a remark; after all, they were two sentient beings in the same place at the same time.
‘Your Centurion Card gets you into these places, I take it.’
Ventris looked up from his paper and glanced round the lounge.
‘It would if I had one.’
Given Ventris’ reputation for aggressive business dealing, Pearson wrongly assumed the offer from Amex HQ had failed to come through. According to Ventris, it had, and why would he lie, but there was no way he was coming up with the hefty annual fee.
‘I mean, for what? You can garner equivalent benefits elsewhere for a fraction of the cost.’
He took out his wallet and flashed a Chase Sapphire Reserve Card under Pearson’s nose before slipping it back.
‘And you?’
‘Lounge Club.’
‘Ah.’
Their discussion was cut short by the arrival of Molly Breitenbach, who didn’t so much enter the lounge as breeze in, bringing with her the light wind of summer. In contrast to the men in their run-of-the-mill shirts and slacks, she was wearing a stylish khaki trouser suit, linen. The top four buttons of her blouse were undone, not because she was trying to make an impression but because she enjoyed the feeling of air on her skin.
Ventris rose and offered her his hand, which she shook briefly.
‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Tea, coffee?’
‘Thank you, but I believe I can handle that, Mr Ventris.’
Which she did, before joining them on a chair and taking paperwork from her briefcase. Businesslike at the best of times, she was a woman with little time to spare since she was heading back to Atlanta in two hours.
‘Well, gentlemen, lab analysis shows that the incident at LA was caused by a variant of the H7N9 avian flu virus, the source of which was undoubtedly the Breakout facility at Parndorf. What troubles me is how it got from Parndorf to LA.’ She turned to Pearson. ‘If you remember, both Pienaar and Dietmayer assured us their controls were stringent.’
Ventris laughed. ‘Assurances are worthless, Dr Breitenbach. Why, I could assure you that the earth is flat and goldfish go to heaven when they die.’
He was a man who liked to be right at the best of times, the more so in his dealings with women, so to avoid a pointless confrontation Pearson moved the conversation on.
‘They’ll never admit it, of course,’ he said, ‘but we strongly believe one of Breakout’s employees removed a sample from their labs. Gudrun Grönefeld. We’ve yet to figure out how, but she couldn’t have done it alone. She had help, probably from her boyfriend, though it will reassure you to know that her lab clearance has since been revoked. However that may be, Grönefeld then passed the sample to another of our targets, Catherine Cooper, who sent it on to her contact here in LA.’
Breitenbach had already worked out what happened next.
‘Where her package was opened for checking before being sent on, thus causing the outbreak.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you might like to know, Dr Breitenbach, that our friend Pearson here has already identified who it was sent to. A woman. A Japanese national.’
‘So we break down her door and retrieve this stuff; it’s a serious risk to public health.’
‘We realise that, but in this case there’s more to it. Pearson and I, we’re playing a longer game. Right, Adalbert?’
‘Right.’
Breitenbach was appalled. ‘We don’t play games with public health, Mr Ventris, long or short.’
‘Ordinarily, I’d agree with that, but not in this case. Pearson?’
Pearson explained the link between Grönefeld, Catherine Cooper, Cindy Horváth and Gina Saito. There was evidence of a larger plot, the people involved were dangerous: one of their number was already in a Swiss jail on the thick end of a murder charge.
‘They’re operating in several countries. We already have three security agencies on the case, in Austria, Germany and Hungary, so this requires coordination. Arresting one too soon would alert the others before we’re ready to move. You have to believe me when I say we’re far from sitting on our hands. We appreciate the need to move quickly.’
Breitenbach looked doubtful. ‘What does Klein make of all this?’
Ventris had no idea; he’d never met him, but Pearson was up to date.
‘Not a lot. Since we last convened, Agent Klein has ascended to a higher astral plane.’
Both Ventris and Breitenbach looked at Pearson as if he was losing it too, so he outlined Klein’s recent retirement on health grounds, his musical ambitions and his apparent belief that he’d soon be up there with the greats. Ventris found it hard to believe, as anyone would who’d never met him.
‘It’s true, I’m afraid. A BND agent paid him a home visit, ostensibly looking for advice but really checking how many marbles he still has left and whether they pose a security risk.’
‘And do they?’
‘Only if you stand on them.’
‘Okay, so where are you with Saito, Mr Pearson? You must have followed that up?’
‘I have. She’s no fool. She had a colleague collect the package, a Rafael Munoz.’
‘And this Munoz, do you know where he is now?’
‘To the nearest bed.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘He’s in the Community Hospital. Fractured penis.’
Ventris looked at Pearson in disbelief then roared with laughter.
‘My God, these people are complete amateurs! And just out of interest, how the hell do you know this?’
Pearson knew because he’d hacked Ai’s home base in Nagoya, located the data and listened to her recording of the incident. Ventris, who was loving it, wanted chapter and verse on what he instantly referred to as the Mexican Penis Incident, but as Pearson began to describe Ai and her vaginal inserts, Breitenbach cut him short.
‘However interesting all this may be, gentlemen, I have twenty minutes at most. So where are we at here? Exactly?’
Ventris answered first. ‘I’m now in direct contact with Saito. She’s seeking my assistance in setting up a facility for the production of vaccines.’
Breitenbach was puzzled. ‘On the face of it that’s good, exactly what we want.’
‘If that was her true intention.’
‘You believe she intends to put the variant H7N9 into production and release it into the environment?’
‘That’s my instinct, though as of now we can’t lay a finger on her. She has yet to reveal her hand.’
Pearson agreed. ‘But she’ll have to show it soon or what’s the point?’
‘Actually, she seemed about to broach it in Ouagadougou but for some reason or other held back. Eloise had a crack at her as well, but she got nowhere either.’
Breitenbach wondered if she’d heard right. ‘You’ve been in Burkina Faso with this woman?’
Ventris filled her in on the background and she was duly astonished.
‘You have to understand, Dr Breitenbach, when it comes to creating a production centre, she needs my expertise.’
Breitenbach didn’t doubt this for a moment but thought there must be more to it than that.
‘Not to mention your money.’
‘Funny you should say that.’
‘I see nothing funny about it.’
‘I can’t be sure, but I think she’s being bankrolled, God knows who by.’ Ventris looked at Pearson. ‘You’re covering this, right?’
‘Trying to. She fundraises through a website, Future World. I have reason to believe she recently received a large donation, but as of now I haven’t figured out who from.’
Ventris turned sarcastic. ‘What, with your expertise!’
‘I’ll get there in the end, don’t worry.’
‘Great! But by then,’ Breitenbach said, standing up, ‘we may all be dead.’
As she left, Ventris turned to Pearson in an attempt to sum her up.
‘That woman takes businesslike to a new level.’
He looked up at the board. ‘So when’s your flight, Pearson?’
But the fact that he asked didn’t mean he really wanted to know.
47
Pearson didn’t dream much, or if he did he seldom remembered what he dreamt. But shortly after his meeting with Breitenbach and Ventris, he was visited in his out-of-town hotel room by a dream which troubled him greatly. Although he wasn’t visible in it, he knew he was there because he saw everything through his own eyes. And his dream rose from the depths to draw to his attention the fact, which should have been obvious to a man of his intelligence, that the silicone sex doll Ai and the flesh and blood Gina Saito resembled each other. Saito was Japanese and Ai was Japanese too. Only to be expected, since creators fashion their creatures in their own image the better to magnify themselves which, as we know, is what motivates them most.
And just as Munoz had his way with Ai so, in his dream, did Pearson have his way with Gina Saito. His preference for girls from Korea and Japan had been known to him for years; he had, after all, just visited Koreatown in a failed search for sex. And though he had yet to set eyes on Saito in the flesh, he had seen photographs of her, the most recent taken by Ventris in Burkina Faso. And it struck him at once, filtering out the staid-looking woman in the background putting a dampener on proceedings, that she fitted the bill big time – the more so since, her sunhat aside, she was clad only in a light top and fetching shorts to the advantage of her figure. There was no doubt about it; Saito was the woman of his dreams.
As he lay on his bed, in the sweaty afterglow of his excitement, he pushed this thought to the back of his mind. But the back of his mind had no window or door, and trapped in that dark and circumscribed place it grew in strength, assuming imperative proportions in its attempt to break out into a world where the sun shone, rain fell and wind refreshed the face.
Pearson knew where Saito worked and where she lived. By contrast with her base at UCLA, with its numerous colleagues, security staff and CCTV, her apartment was a haven of tranquillity. And though he had never done anything like it before, the intention grew to pay this unassuming girl a visit, to knock on her door and after that to knock even harder on her body. Why should Ventris have all the fun? Money could buy anything, and in his case, to judge by press reports, it probably had.
He was toying with this notion when a ping alerted him to an incoming message, this time from David Farrow, who advised him that despite his best efforts, he had been unable to hack the VR 360 Headset which the target was currently testing. But in the meantime, he’d accessed her PC and activated its microphone and webcam, both of which had been off.
Pearson moved his laptop from the bed to the desk and clicked on the link Farrow had provided. And sure enough, he was rewarded with a webcam view of Saito’s room, her aquarium glowing by the wall. But the owner of these little fish was nowhere to be seen, perhaps in the kitchen cooking, or relaxing in the shower with the confection of essential oils composing her favourite body wash. Of the two possibilities he preferred the latter. Not knowing how long he might have to wait, he took a beer from the minibar, not one supplied by the management but a bottle he had placed in it earlier, both better and cheaper, and ordered a pizza. In his experience, patience was usually rewarded.
Two hours later, after a session surfing cable TV, his fingers still greasy with pepperoni, he checked again and behold, lo, Saito was back in the room. He watched as she talked to her fish, connected the headset to her PC, read through part of the user guide, probably not for the first time, and put the device on, completely covering her eyes. And it was then he discovered “the target” was making notes to herself on her phone. Which, when he came to think of it, was very sensible, since she could no longer see to write anything down.
‘Second session with the VR 360 Headset,’ she began, and over a period of time added her observations.
As was well known, tethered systems were superior to phone-bound versions on several levels. For a start, they had the required technology built in, motion sensors, external camera trackers, and so on. And the result was a superior 3-D experience. But, and there always was one, the user had to take care with the cables connecting the headset and the PC, otherwise, and this could easily happen, in the middle of taking aim at the alien invader, she coul
d trip over her own cables, allowing the ghoulish creature to seize the moment and take her out.
‘But in this case,’ she added, to establish the higher level of seriousness for which she was noted, ‘I’m testing the headset with Tennis Pro III, an advanced simulation aimed at capable amateurs and aspiring professionals.’
Pearson watched with increasing admiration as Saito silently zapped the virtual ball with inside-out forehands, sliced backhands and the occasional drive volley, all with the sensuous and flowing movement of a slender Japanese girl clad only in a white silk pyjama suit with tasteful floral decoration. Her movement called to mind a dance, and Pearson had a strong desire to join in, to dance with her, not necessarily in the vertical plane. It occurred to him as he watched her move that he was close to engaging in online pornography. Saito’s behaviour was in no way pornographic but his interest in it was. Yet failing the real thing, this thought didn’t trouble him at all.
After ten minutes or so, the elegant Saito finally came to rest, removed the headset and pointed out to her phone that its motion controllers and external sensors were good enough to produce the full 360-degree experience implied by its name. Furthermore, she had used the full extent of her room without going out of range. First impressions were good. And so they were, Pearson thought, so they were.
48
The following day, having nothing better to do, he checked out her apartment block, sitting in his rental car for an hour observing the comings and goings. This wasn’t going to be easy. He knew how it went. In places like this, repairs were scheduled by the management company, so a repeat of his Ökostrom trick wouldn’t cut it. A lady from the US Postal Service came and went but delivered her letters to mailboxes on the ground floor. The only way round this problem was something which had to be signed for, a special delivery from a courier service, an evening delivery when Saito would be at home.
And so he returned that evening and pressed her intercom button.
The Ears of a Cat Page 21
