Hunt You Down

by Christopher Farnsworth

  The ones who move billions of dollars around—the men and women who are not just glorified traveling salesmen—they think about it. I know. I have been inside their heads. They wonder what it all means, sometimes. When the Ambien isn’t working, and their thoughts leak out as they look at a clock at 3:00 a.m. and they don’t quite remember what time zone they’re in, they wonder: What the hell am I doing here?

  At moments like that, they are just like any of us. They want to go home.

  I keep scanning the crowd. Sara is across the room. Neither of us sees Godwin, or even anyone who resembles the grainy older photo we got.

  Then a Chinese man steps forward. He looks a little younger than me, but that could just be clean living and regular exercise. He’s handsome, and smiles with white, even teeth. He’s just about my height, so we are almost exactly eye to eye as he introduces himself.

  And I cannot read his mind at all.

  “Hello,” he says, offering a slight bow and a handshake at the same time. “My name is Zhang San.”

  I smile back and take his hand in mine. “We’ve met,” I reply.

  A few days ago. In Iceland, where he fired off an H&K submachine pistol and tried to kill me.

  He laughs as if I’ve just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

  *

  Back when I was working for the CIA, I always heard rumors that the Chinese had their own version of our special-ed kids. The Chinese government would never allow anyone else to gain a strategic advantage that they didn’t have as well. So, if we had a bunch of psychic soldiers, and the Russians had their own program, then you could be sure China would have one too. While Cantrell and the CIA specialized in finding natural talents like mine and developing them, there were stories that the Chinese government wasn’t content to wait for random freaks to pop up. Researchers began taking large groups of children and training them in remote viewing and other psychic techniques. The program was designed to awaken EHF or “Exceptional Human Function.” Reports were mixed: some of the kids were allegedly able to read minds, move physical objects with their thoughts, see through solid objects with a kind of X-ray vision, calculate faster than a computer. I also heard about black labs, genetic manipulation, drug experimentation, but nothing that was ever verified.

  We never met any of the EHF kids in the field. At least, not that I ever heard. I was too busy in Iraq and Afghanistan and Eastern Europe. I came across a couple of relics of the Soviet era once or twice. But never anyone from China’s program.

  Until now.

  Zhang must be one of the EHF kids, all grown up. His age fits. I’ve been around other psychics before—in the CIA program where Cantrell trained us—but I’ve never had this happen before. I was always able to read them, and they could read me. Usually it caused headaches, tension, and a grating on one another’s nerves, like we were stuck in some kind of feedback loop. If we spent too long in the same room, arguments and fights would break out over the stupidest, pettiest stuff. It was like chewing tinfoil. Cantrell kept us as separate as possible for just that reason.

  Zhang, however, seems utterly delighted to see me. His grin does not waver and he looks at me as if I am a long-lost friend.

  It’s not as much fun for me. I don’t feel any pain, but I’m still trying to deal with the sensation of a blank space right in front of me, an emptiness where he stands. Usually I am sorting through a flood of information when I am this close to another person. With Zhang, it’s a black hole. And it’s throwing me off my game.

  “So I take it Godwin’s not going to join us?”

  He finally stops shaking my hand. “I’m afraid not. As soon as your passports were scanned by customs, Mr. Godwin decided he had better things to do. We’ve rescheduled our meeting.”

  Stupid. Should have realized if the Chinese government was involved, then of course they’d be watching for our passports.

  This leaves me at something of a loss, however. Ordinarily, I’d make my next move based on what I read out of Zhang’s mind. But that’s not an option.

  I think he’s having the same problem. We both stand there for a moment, saying nothing.

  Then Zhang asks, “Tell me, would you like a drink?” His English is flawless. Far better than my Mandarin or Cantonese, or, for that matter, any of the other languages I sort-of speak.

  God yes, would I like a drink. And since it looks like we’re actually going to have to talk, like ordinary human beings, going to the bar seems like a great idea.

  The bartender ignores five people waiting in line to greet Zhang. “What would you like?” he asks with another smile. “Whiskey,” I tell him, and his grin grows even wider. He cannot possibly be enjoying this as much as it seems.

  I take a moment to try to read whatever clues I can from his appearance, since I can’t just pluck the answers from his head.

  His suit is bespoke, a perfect fit, probably from one of Hong Kong’s famous tailors, though I don’t recognize any distinctive cut or stitching. It’s just slim enough that I’m fairly sure he’s not carrying a weapon, but the weight in his pocket could be an exceptionally small pistol.

  The staff is deferential to him, which means he carries some authority around this place, but he doesn’t seem to have any official role. He does not wear a badge or lanyard or anything else that tags him as a functionary. If anything, he seems like a tech mogul at the center of his own launch party; everyone is always polite to the guy paying the bills.

  The bartender serves our drinks—whiskey for me, something clear with ice for him—and we step away from the crowd. I let him lead us over to a pair of comfortable chairs, set near a corner.

  We both have our backs to a wall and sit at an angle from each other, not quite face-to-face but so that we can watch the whole room.

  He raises his glass in a toast.

  “To chaos and opportunity,” he says.

  “I always heard that those mean the same thing in Chinese,” I reply.

  He tries not to smirk. Almost manages it. “That’s a misconception, I’m afraid. But it does make a nice fortune cookie.”

  I raise my glass back to him. “Here’s to nice fortune cookies, then.”

  We drink. And watch each other for a moment. And I still get absolutely nothing.

  It must be the same for him, because he laughs and says, “It’s extraordinary, isn’t it?”

  “Not the word I’d use.”

  “But that’s what’s so extraordinary about it,” he says, leaning close. “Usually, I would know exactly what word you would use. I wouldn’t even have to ask. I’d simply know. Instead, we have to play this guessing game. It’s really just . . .”

  He sees the look on my face, and realizes this isn’t going over very well with his audience. He sobers up a little and bows slightly again.

  “It’s a new experience for me,” he says. “You can see why they get into so much trouble. Always having to figure out what they’re actually saying to each other.”

  I don’t have to ask who he’s talking about. He means normal people. People without our particular talents. Mere mortals like you.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve always managed to find trouble pretty well on my own.”

  “I’ve heard that about you.”

  “Yeah? Well, I haven’t heard jackshit about you.”

  That makes him laugh again. “What can I tell you? There’s a price that comes with fame.”

  He sounds almost like Cantrell there. Scolding me. “You know spies are supposed to keep things secret, right?” he once said.

  “I don’t want you to feel disadvantaged,” Zhang says. “Ask me whatever you want. Let’s get to know each other.”

  Jesus. This is the weirdest first date I’ve ever been on, and that’s saying something.

  “You’re EHF, aren’t you?”

  “I was,” he says. “Most of us have moved on, into other arenas of public service.”

  “And now you’re working for Godwin.”
/>   He makes a face. “I wouldn’t put it that way. I would say we have mutual goals. More like a partnership between private enterprise and the government.”

  “Right. You guys do a lot of that.”

  “Well. Let’s not forget, we are still Communists.”

  “Have you seen what Downvote is doing? You’re happy with that body count?”

  Zhang shrugs. “I’ve worked with worse people.”

  “So what do you get out of it?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot tell you that.”

  “Then why were you in Reykjavík?”

  “I should think that was fairly obvious.”

  “I mean aside from trying to kill me.”

  He waves that off. “Please. If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. You need to practice your hand-to-hand skills more. I think you’ve grown lazy, relying on your other abilities.”

  “You’re right. I should have just shot you.”

  “That would have been a mistake. I’m not your enemy.”

  “Doing a great impression of one so far.”

  His smile has faded by now. We both take another drink. I pull my pill bottle from the inside of my jacket. I look over and realize that he tensed up for a moment.

  I show him the bottle. “Nothing lethal, I swear.”

  “For the headaches?” he asks.

  I nod. “You want one?”

  He shakes his head and takes out his own bottle. “I’ve got my own.”

  We chase our pills with another drink. The rest of the party begins to crowd in on me. Zhang feels it too. He looks around the room and grimaces.

  “Too many people in here. Are you picking that up?”

  I nod and point. “The man in the blue suit. He’s wearing some kind of codpiece, I think.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Some people’s idea of a good time.”

  “I’d be more concerned about the art dealer over by the big red painting,” I say. “Her heart is hammering. Any more cocaine in the bathroom and she’s looking at a cardiac arrest.”

  “If she gets caught with cocaine here, she’s looking at a seven-year prison sentence,” Zhang says. “We take it a bit more seriously than you do.”

  I’m suddenly glad I’ve got a prescription for my pills. Then I sense a sudden shriek of panic, held inside only by severely rigid self-control.

  I look over at an older Chinese businessman, his face utterly calm as he watches the screen of his phone. “That man just found out he’s facing a margin call when the market opens,” I say.

  “Who?” Zhang says sharply, looking up. I point out the buyer.

  “Interesting,” Zhang says. “I had no idea he was that overextended.” He takes out his phone and makes a note.

  “So what else can you do?” I ask. “Aside from reading people. I heard some of you EHF kids could move things with your minds.”

  He chuckles. “I heard that about the Russians too.”

  “It would be pretty cool, though.”

  “Oh, absolutely. But I suspect you and I have similar skills. It might be why we cancel each other out so completely.”

  This is surprisingly friendly. I’ve never known anyone I could compare notes with like this before. I’m tempted to ask him if he knows how our abilities work. Where they come from. I get the feeling he might have some answers. But at the same time, I’m trying to remind myself that we are not on the same side, despite our similarities.

  Still, I wonder if this is what a real conversation is like, among normal people.

  “I have a question for you,” he says. “Why do you still do this? Why are you running around as an errand boy for other people? Surely, by now, you could have your own company. Your own empire. You could be richer than the men who hire you.”

  “What, and give up show business?”

  “I’m quite serious. There is a great deal of money out there for people with our talents. All it takes is the willingness to move to the center, away from the fringe.”

  “Is that what you’re doing now? Working for Godwin?”

  “With him,” Zhang says, a bit of an edge in his voice now. “Not for him.”

  “I prefer to choose my clients. I don’t really want to spend that much time in the center. Seems like too much of a target to me.”

  He looks disappointed. “You are still thinking the way they trained you to think. As a soldier. Or a servant. You’re still trying to do a job that you are no longer qualified for.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He grimaces. Trying to find the right words. He seems like he genuinely wants me to understand him.

  “Not too long ago, there were tens of thousands of protesters clogging the streets here. Waving flags and shouting their slogans. That sort of thing can make the men in power nervous. But they can’t send in guns and soldiers anymore. Not since Tiananmen. You can’t run a man down with a tank. It’s bad for business. Sends the wrong message. Still, you can’t have these children blocking the streets and interfering with things, and most of all, refusing to do what they are told. That’s even worse for business.”

  “Spoken like a true Communist.”

  He waves that off, refusing to let me distract him. “We have a country of over a billion people. Just to keep the majority of them fed and sheltered requires an extraordinary amount of effort and planning and intelligence. It is, perhaps, the most complex and delicate machine in history. And if it’s disrupted, millions will die.”

  “So you keep the machine running smoothly? Make sure nobody throws a stick in the gears?”

  Zhang shakes his head again. “No. That’s what I’m saying. You and I were both trained to do that, but that was a long time ago,” he says. “Now we are an obsolete system. Crowd control and social pacification for the twentieth century, not the twenty-first. The people who built us have either retired or moved on to the next generation. We are too visible, even with our talents. We’re too unpredictable. They want something shinier and better. They want machine precision. Quantifiable results. They want software. They want drones and algorithms and artificial intelligence. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Did you ever think we would be the ones who’d lose our jobs to automation?”

  He gives me a significant look. I know he’s trying to tell me something here. But I’m not good at subtext. I’ve spent too long knowing exactly what people mean.

  “You think Downvote means you can retire? That you won’t have to keep doing your job?”

  Zhang has an almost wistful look on his face when he replies. “I sincerely hope so,” he says. “But I don’t think you would feel the same way. Are you capable of retirement?”

  Not so far, apparently. But I don’t want to admit that to him. Instead, I shrug and tell him, “If they can get a robot to do what I did, then that’s fine by me. I don’t miss it.”

  “Then why are you still doing it? What do you possibly get from this?”

  I don’t have a good answer for him there. Then I think of Kira.

  “Somebody has to pay.”

  “Someone always pays,” Zhang says. “That’s the only remaining truth of this world. The trick is to be the one who gets paid.”

  “Is that what you’re doing now? Getting paid?”

  “More than you are, I suspect,” Zhang says. “You could make a great deal more profit from this by simply walking away.”

  “Oh well, if you put it that way. Sure. I’ll head back to the hotel. Pack my bags. I’ll be on the next flight. Honest.”

  He laughs, genuinely delighted again. “You’re not even trying,” he says. “You really should listen to me, Smith. We are talking about the greater good here. If it’s your life against millions, the math is not in your favor.”

  “Look,” I say, putting down my drink and facing him. “I appreciate the warning. Really. I do. But we both know I’m not going to stop. So whatever you’ve got planned, go ahead and do it. It will save
me time and you the frustration.”

  Zhang smiles and finishes his own drink. Then he stands, buttons his impeccable suit jacket, and gives me a slight bow again. “It’s been interesting talking to you, Smith.”

  “You too, Zhang,” I reply.

  He walks away without another word.

  Sara approaches quickly from across the room. She was watching the entire time, and I can feel the curiosity emanating from her like static electricity.

  “Who was that?” she asks quietly.

  “His name is Zhang San,” I tell her. “That was the guy who shot at us in Reykjavík.”

  “What?”

  She manages to stay calm as I explain our conversation. At least as much of it as I understood. He’s definitely playing a longer game than I can see.

  “There were Chinese psychic soldiers too?” For a second, I feel Sara’s dizziness as she thinks, quite distinctly and clearly, .

  “Similar program. Started younger, though. Even his name. It’s the Chinese equivalent of John Smith. It’s a placeholder name. Just like mine.”

  “So you mean he’s like you?”

  I catch a glimpse of Zhang as he stands at the door of the party. He sees me. He says something to a security guard at his side, who turns and locks eyes with me.

  Then he gives me a friendly wave. And leaves.

  The security guard, meanwhile, turns and starts heading toward Sara and me.

  “No,” I tell Sara. “I don’t think so.”

  For starters, he’s smarter than I am. Dammit.

  Now I know why Zhang had his friendly little chat with me.

  He was buying time, letting his people get into position. Anybody could have seen that coming.

  It’s a trap. Of course it’s a trap.

  I see it like a diagram on a whiteboard, now that Zhang has given the word to his men. The security guards know their plan. There are four of them. The one at the front door picks up another friend and they come at us from the front. The other two are behind us, coming through the crowd, boxing us in.