by Hammond, Ray
‘No, you idiot, I mean what’s the weather like NOW?’ screamed Tye.
Furtrado pushed himself up from the small single bed and walked around to the window. He pulled the floral curtains aside. It was still dark outside, only a glimmer of light in the east suggesting that dawn had started.
With difficulty he undid the catch on the ancient sash window and pushed the bottom frame upwards. He leaned out, felt rain on his face and ducked his head back inside.
He picked up his VideoMate. ‘It’s raining,’ he reported.
‘Show me,’ ordered Tom.
Furtrado found his Viewpers and slipped them on. He returned to the window and scanned the horizon.
‘It’s raining pretty heavily,’ he observed, ‘as you can see. What’s this about?’
‘It hardly ever rains on those islands,’ said Tom, ‘and never at this time of year. It hasn’t rained there at all for seven years. It’s the driest inhabited place in the world.’
‘Oh,’ responded Furtrado, mystified.
‘It’s called taking care of the planet,’ intoned Tye, tartly. ‘Go out into the streets, get me lots of pictures, and then find the mayor and a local judge and record their reactions to the rain. Also, get them to sign timed and dated affidavits about today’s weather. Then bring their depositions back to Connie on Hope – personally.’
Chapter Twelve
Haley Voss felt as if she was bouncing along Fifth Avenue. The sidewalk felt like a trampoline and the soaring buildings seemed to beckon her skywards.
The crush of late-afternoon shoppers and scurrying city dwellers worked its usual exhilarating magic. As she threaded her way northwards through the throng she felt as elated and as vibrant as when she had first visited the great metropolis as a teenager. She hardly noticed the oppressive heat. She had tried to call Felicity so her twin could share her pleasure, but she could only reach Flick’s AutoSec.
Her initial meeting with Luke Bailey and his team at Sloan Press had gone even better than Rosemary had predicted. Haley found that their enthusiasm for her biography was rekindling her own passion for the project. She could now admit to herself that Nautilus’s withdrawal and the subsequent retreat by the other publishers had badly damaged her self-confidence. That was why she had kept rewriting and rewriting, she realized, going over the same material time and again. Now she was keen, almost desperate, to leave her palimpsest behind and to get back to the really hard part of the job: producing the new pages that would reveal the man behind the public image.
‘Handled right, we’ll make the lead item on every news bulletin,’ Sloan’s vice-president of publicity had predicted, his deliberate use of the plural pronoun sending her a clear message. ‘Everyone will want to read the inside details of his life, Miss Voss. We’ll work you so hard on the interview circuit that every time anybody thinks about Thomas Tye, they’ll also be thinking of Haley Voss. We’ll get a number one in the New York Times best-seller list and we’ll become the top e-book download on the networks.’
Sloan’s senior legal counsel and her assistant had seemed totally relaxed about the prospect of a confrontation with the huge law practice that represented the Tye Corporation. They had laughingly dismissed them as ‘Tye’s Terriers’.
‘We’re expecting injunctions and writs the moment we announce our publication of the book,’ she confirmed. ‘We just need to lock the other side up in the discovery cycle until the week before publication. Then we’ll go back and get the injunctions lifted.’
They hadn’t seemed at all worried that Tye’s attempt to stop the book’s publication might actually succeed. ‘This isn’t the UK,’ the senior counsellor had laughed. ‘The right to free speech is enshrined in our constitution!’
But despite this optimism, it was agreed not to divulge a single detail of the book’s content to newspaper editors in advance of publication. They were sure they would be swamped by offers for serial rights the moment the review copies were available.
Then Luke Bailey had taken her for lunch at the Grill Room of the Four Seasons on East 52nd Street. Haley had been careful not to overdress for their first meeting and had chosen to wear a mustard-coloured trouser suit over a high-collared white blouse. A fine gold chain circled her neck, just below the top button. The publisher was obviously well known to the maître d’ and they were quickly shown to a balcony table that provided them with a panoramic view of New York’s favourite traditional luncheon room. She had thoroughly enjoyed the impeccable service, the superb food, Luke’s slightly peccable company and the certainty with which he enthused about their ‘world exclusive’. He had even made a discreet and not entirely unwelcome pass at her that, for the moment, she had chosen to ignore. But it lifted her spirits immensely: it confirmed again that it was only the solitary nature of her writing work that got in the way of romantic opportunity.
Sloan had booked her into a suite at The Plaza, the majestic old Manhattan landmark that faces Central Park from its superb location on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Central Park South. She had planned to spend the rest of the afternoon shopping but, as she paused with the crowds waiting to cross 54th Street, she realized she was far too excited to concentrate on anything as mundane as the items the themed retail stores had to offer. Instead, she would walk up to Central Park, sit in the sunshine, and map out a revised structure for her biography.
‘Haley?’
The voice to her left sounded surprised. As she turned, it took her a couple of seconds to recognize the tall, fair-haired man in a white polo shirt and dark slacks. He took off his Ray Ban sun-viewpers.
‘Why, hello,’ she cried. ‘What are you doing–’
The WALK sign appeared and the crowd surged forward. Jack Hendriksen laughed as they were both carried into the road. He held out his hand and took her shoulder, steering her safely onto the opposite sidewalk.
‘Well, what are you doing here, Haley?’ he asked when they reached the comparative safety of Gucci’s shop windows.
‘I’m here to see my publisher,’ Haley told him breathlessly. ‘Sloan’s now publishing my Thomas Tye biography! But what are you doing here? Why aren’t you with your boss?’
‘I live here,’ said Jack simply. ‘My apartment’s down near the Village. I’m on vacation and I’m shopping for my mom’s birthday.’
They stared at each other for a few seconds.
‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch,’ added Jack. ‘I was incredibly busy when I got back.’
Haley waved away his apology. ‘Now I’ve got a new publisher I really need to talk to you,’ she enthused. ‘You haven’t changed your mind?’
Jack smiled and shook his head. ‘No. I’ve been thinking more about it. I . . .’ He paused, put his shades back on and looked around briefly, then back down at her.
‘Are you busy right now?’ he asked.
Haley shook her head.
‘Let’s walk up to the park,’ Jack suggested. ‘We could sit in the sun and . . . Well, I am going to try and help you with your book. Tom’s behaving increasingly . . .’
He tailed off. Haley was smiling up at him, her broad mouth and sparkling teeth bringing a generous smile to her impish face.
‘I’d love to,’ she said.
As they walked, Jack pointed out the notable buildings – St Patrick’s Cathedral, the re-renovated glister of the old Trump Tower, F.A.O. Schwartz, the world’s largest warehouse of intelligent companions – and Haley listened and wondered about her own feelings on bumping into him.
Passing the Plaza Hotel they crossed into Central Park, mingling with tourists waiting for carriage rides. Then they headed up towards the Zoo, where it would be quieter.
On this beautiful June afternoon all of the benches were in use by shoppers, resting joggers and office workers who had somehow found an excuse to be outdoors. As they approached an occupied bench in the centre of the green, a bulky young black man in a smart business suit rolled his sandwich wrapper into a ball and rose to his feet. With skill h
e lobbed it directly into a trash bin five yards away and headed off in the direction of The Met.
Haley hurried to grab the vacant bench, then sat and turned to Jack with a grin of triumph. They sat facing the afternoon sun as Jack asked her more about her new publishing deal. Then he enquired when she thought she might have the book finished.
She shrugged. ‘It depends on what I uncover. I’ve finished all the orthodox research, but someone keeps sending me new stuff . . . really amazing stuff.’
She glanced sideways at him as he leaned back in the corner of the bench listening carefully to her. He had taken his sunglasses off again, so she looked straight into his clear blue eyes. She had a decision to make here and, if she was wrong, she knew her book could still get suppressed.
‘You remember that report I showed you – about Tye using gene therapy to stop him ageing?’
Jack nodded.
Haley decided. ‘Well, someone’s sent me another amazing report.’
Jack raised his eyebrows.
‘I don’t know who.’ She hesitated. ‘Would it surprise you to learn Thomas Tye has a son?’ she asked.
Jack smiled. ‘Well, someone definitely is trying to help you,’ he confirmed. ‘Thomas Tye Junior and he’s seven. But we’re never supposed to talk about him – for security reasons.’
Haley felt a thrill race through her, shivering despite the warm sunshine. This was the first independent confirmation of what would be one of her most exciting revelations. Then her biographer’s alarm bells started ringing.
‘But how can anyone keep something like that a secret?’ she asked, fearing that the news would break elsewhere before she could publish.
‘That’s not too hard if you’re Thomas Tye,’ explained Jack. ‘The boy has always lived at home – in Tom’s private mansion – and everything is brought to him, rather than the other way around. He has his own nannies, his own doctor – hell, even his own shrink.’
He smiled as he thought of Calypso.
‘But you know about him.’
‘It’s my job to run the security operation there. I have to know.’
‘But all those other people on Hope Island . . .’
Jack thought about the buzz that had started up on the island that time when Tommy had knocked himself out.
‘I guess it’s a kind of open secret there,’ he suggested. ‘But everybody on the island either works for the corporation or is financially dependent on it in some other way. Nobody’s going to risk saying anything to an outsider. The risk of a kidnap attempt is considerable when so much money is involved.’
‘What’s he like – this boy?’
Jack looked down at his lap. He was holding his sun-viewpers open on his thigh, his forefinger crooked between their tortoise-shell arms. He weighed his words.
‘He’s very like his father. He’s pretty spoiled and sometimes his behaviour is . . . Well, I’d like to be in charge of him for a while. I believe that kids need a firm hand – gentle, but firm, you know what I mean.’
Haley nodded. She had noticed that even little Toby seemed to be happier when handled firmly.
‘But is this boy like his father, to look at?’ she persisted.
Jack smiled again. He had already read a copy of the report that UNISA’s London surveillance team had intercepted. ‘He’s the spitting image,’ he confirmed.
He watched as Haley digested this. He hoped she hadn’t noticed that both their VideoMates had remained unusually inactive since they had met.
‘The report claims the child’s actually a human clone – of Thomas Tye,’ she said flatly, looking up to gauge Jack’s reaction.
He uncrossed his long legs and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his sunglasses now swinging between his fingers. He was silent for a few seconds before he turned his head to look at her. ‘I’ve always suspected that,’ he agreed.
They sat for a few moments in silence, lit by the powerful sun, then Jack leaned back. ‘I really would like to help you further,’ he said. ‘Are you free for dinner this evening?’
*
At first, Joe Tinkler had found their request ludicrous. If he hadn’t been sitting there on the seventeenth floor of the United Nations Secretariat building he would have felt sure that the guys from Derivatives had set up one of their expensive and elaborate practical jokes. But the men talking to him now didn’t seem to be working up towards a big laugh.
Joe had agreed to visit the UN headquarters later on the same day that his jog had been interrupted. As he had showered and pulled on a suit, he found himself going over and over the possible reasons for Thomas Tye and Richard Rakusen discussing him last weekend, presumably planning his dismissal. He could see why Tye would want to limit the power of external shareholders, but the Old Man had never given any indication that he knew the tycoon personally. If he did, he should have declared it to the compliance officer and, theoretically, should also have declared it at any meetings in which future investments in the Tye Corporation were discussed.
‘Bastard,’ Joe mumbled as he selected a tie. Perhaps he should call Jill White at home.
Chevannes had been waiting to meet him at the main entrance on UN Plaza and had escorted him through security, the informal ‘immigration’ process and up to Ron Deakin’s office.
‘Thanks for coming, Mr Tinkler,’ Deakin began. ‘I hear you’re out of a job.’
Joe shrugged. The Street had been buzzing with the gossip. He’d had to switch on his AutoSec to manage the carrion calls.
‘Would you consider undertaking a six-month assignment with the World Bank, in Geneva?’
Joe wondered if he had heard correctly. ‘You belong to some sort of security service, right?’ he queried.
Deakin nodded. ‘We’re a security agency for the UN. We have a mandate to operate in all its member countries.’
‘Forgive me . . . I mean, why me? What has the UN got to do with fund management?’
‘Humour me,’ persisted Deakin. ‘Consider it a theoretical question at this stage. If an offer seemed attractive, could you handle it? I mean is there any reason you have to remain in New York for the next six months?’
Joe thought about it. Most of his friends were here, Nancy was here – but that on-off-on-off was more off than on most of the time. His work was here, too . . . His work had been here. He doubted that he could work again in the Street at anything like the same level unless Rakusen-Webber retracted their accusation of gross negligence and agreed a no-fault separation. Even then, as they say, doubt clings where money sings.
‘There’s no reason I have to stay in this city,’ Joe admitted. ‘But I’m no banker. I don’t know much about what the World Bank does – I mean, beyond the obvious.’
Deakin nodded. ‘I understand. You’ll want to know more about this assignment. We’ll provide a first-class round ticket, three nights at the Hotel President Wilson and a payment of sixty thousand dollars just for your time, if you’re prepared to fly to Geneva and meet Doctor Chelouche. He’s President of the–’
‘Yes, I know who he is,’ broke in Joe. ‘What’s going on here? You’ll have to tell me more of what this is about if you want me to consider it.’
Deakin reached in his desk drawer for a copy of the Silence Resolution.
*
Jack was seeing a new side to Haley. On accepting his dinner invitation, she hadn’t seemed the least bit surprised when he suggested that they should eat at his apartment. He liked to cook, he explained, and he rarely had the chance.
Although he really did enjoy cooking, the main reason for his suggestion was to ensure that his discussions with the British biographer would not attract attention. In a world in which politics was dominated by the continuous and instantaneous polling of public opinion – ‘instant democracy’, ‘the people’s voice’ – a revelatory biography could be crucial in changing public perception about his employer. But he needed to keep his cover intact until he could get back to Hope Island and find an answer to UNISA
’s most pressing question.
Jack had no reason to believe that Tye, his pack of feral attorneys, or the many investigation agencies they employed yet suspected that the company’s vice-president of security might be feeling disaffected. Nevertheless, as Al Lynch had suggested, Jack needed to keep any reference to his new relationship with this British author out of the networks, and out of all forms of digital storage. He was starting to discover how difficult that could be.
Al Lynch had prepared his own plans for foiling any surveillance system Tye or his technical teams might have created. He had taken great pleasure in demonstrating a software agent he had deployed.
‘Assuming their system is looking for key words, key faces, et cetera, this agent is designed to snow them under with piles of seemingly fresh information,’ he told Jack. ‘It’s an agent I developed years ago when I was working for the National Security Agency and I’ve adapted it to our needs. Every day this little fellow collects everything that is written, said or broadcast about Tye, his corporation, its technologies or any of the associated companies. It then uses one of my own algorithms to generate new communications and stories that are apparently completely different messages, articles or broadcasts. It will seem as if the coverage of Tye and everything to do with him has suddenly gone up tenfold, and we’ll encrypt a good percentage of the new messages. They’ll be swamped because when their automatic systems get overloaded, humans will then have to decide which messages are worth decrypting – if that’s what they really can do.’
At Jack’s suggestion, Lynch named his agent Multiplicitye.
While he had been undergoing his refresher courses with Lynch and his other, more physical, instructors, UNISA had brought Jack’s apartment up to full safe-house standards. Dozens of small transmitters scattered throughout his floor, wall and ceiling spaces generated a shield of electronic white noise that turned his apartment into a sterile communications zone. Nothing digital or electronic went in or out unnoticed on the airwaves or on the land lines. Technical Services had been sure that no local surveillance of Jack’s apartment had already been established but, as a precaution, they had even set up a system that used recordings to mimic Jack’s normal domestic communications and exchanges to disguise the existence of the new shield. All windows had been double-glazed to prevent laser-borne acoustic bugging and every street and store camera within a three-block radius switched to simulated input (with the correct time and date stamp superimposed) when any team member or target ident was in the vicinity or when a target was recognized by the automatic pattern-recognition system.
