Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5)
Page 122
She wasn’t going after art, this time. Explaining the challenging layout of the diagrams she was looking at, some of their ingredients alien to her. She was going after hi-tech weaponry that could make eliminating some country’s petty dictator more doable. She and the boys weren’t exactly a tightknit SEALS team well-trained for special ops of this kind. But maybe she could tilt the scales in their favor with the latest prototypes, the ones in Los Alamos labs and kindred scientific think tanks around the world. There, she would find the really way-out ideas.
The only problem with hacking past firewalls to get at this stuff was that she might just leave a trail, despite her best efforts to erase her tracks. If so, that meant they’d be putting someone on to working out the countermeasures to their devices, even if they didn’t believe the prototypes were ever likely to go anywhere. The fact would be, someone would have them, someone might perfect them, and that meant needing even more improbable countermeasures. And what that meant to her was making sure they couldn’t guess where she was going to strike next, and never hitting the same place more than once. They sure as hell weren’t going to shop the tech on the open market. They were going to do as they had always done, deny any such technology existed.
She reminded herself a lot of those petty dictators had U.S. support, and that of first world countries in general, only because better them than the alternatives. Better they underwrite junior league tyranny than underwrite major league tyranny, or support a society in which the center could not hold, and in the absence of a strong militaristic leader, the entire country would devolve into endless civil wars between irreconcilable factions.
The U.S. was starting to sing a different song, gradually, now that their foreign policy was going up in smoke thanks to the Arab Spring, and worldwide revolts by people who just had all the oppression they were going to take, thank you very much. U.S. interests be damned, the convenience of petty dictators for those who wanted to turn the global economy into their own private chess game be damned. But things weren’t turning around so fast that she could expect a whole lot of support for what she was doing. Certainly not for how she was planning to do it, which would put every leader of every free-world country on notice for fear she may turn the same methods on them. And she might, seeing what the old world order was doing to dig in and prevent progress at all costs, even the costs of a crashed world economy.
The suit alerted her to its recent hack and the treasure found inside the virtual safe. Flashing in red: SAFE DOOR OPEN. SAFE DOOR OPEN. CONTENTS REMARKABLE. CONTENTS REMARKABLE.
She skimmed through the prototypes looking for something of interest.
She wondered if it would be enough just to get Cliff and Piper bodysuits of their own, even if it meant showing her hand. She decided better of it, as she didn’t like trusting anyone quite that much. What’s more, the bodysuit didn’t make her impregnable. It didn’t even make her fully invisible, despite how good it was at circumventing surveillance gear. Enough eyes on her, and the suit might get overloaded trying to block out all the scanners. Worse, it could simply short circuit at an inopportune time. If she needed backup plans on top of backup plans as just part of her survival instinct, she needed tech to compensate for the bodysuit’s weaknesses—fully functioning or not.
The cop with the metal detector kept finding stuff. It was a public park, after all. That meant the alarm on his device kept sounding, irritating the hell out of her. She was getting ready to ask him if he had a lower setting on the alarm he could switch to, but was afraid it might draw too much of the wrong kind of attention.
Hmm, this looked interesting. A software virus that would allow her to hijack any satellites in the vicinity and retask them how she liked, or simply feed erroneous data through them, that was undetectable in the short-term. She scooped that one up in a New York minute.
Judging by the latest design schematics she had downloaded, she was going to be making a trip to Eastern Europe sooner than she planned, before the boys got back, at least to set the wheels in motion. That way, she could pick up the finished products, once assembled and tested, on her next trip over. If the boys were back by then, and she couldn’t shake them, she’d find some way to get her hands on her new toys without alerting them to her sources. One problem at a time.
She could have opted to transmit the schematics over a secured branch of the net to her pet scientists. She had access to quantum encoding she was confident no one was going to crack. But for such tall orders, nothing beat schmoozing in person so she could read what was going through their minds: anxieties, hesitations, lack of confidence, over-confidence, building resentments that their talents were being overworked and underappreciated, thoughts of betrayal and selling this stuff to a higher bidder, and so much more. What’s more, she could work her feminine wiles on them, which is why she rather specialized in nerdy, sexually frustrated, straight genius techies, even if it narrowed the field. In short, there was no getting around up close and personal contact. Exchanges in the virtual world couldn’t be eliminated, but then, neither could the real world meet-ups.
This time, when the cop’s metal detector sounded, she smiled and closed the pad. Let’s go get something to eat, Iona.
FORTY-THREE
Atam approached Alexis in the foyer of their home holding Damian, the four-year-old. He kissed him on the temple and set him down. “Go get the battleship game ready for us,” Atam said.
“It’s too early in the morning to die a hundred times over, dad. Bad for your ego.”
“I thought so long as you got to act out all the hellish explosions, you were alright with that?”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks for reminding me.” Damian scurried off to set up the battleship game in the family room, leaving Atam standing in the hall enveloped in an ominous air. If it weren’t for the psychic impressions he could leave on a room even while fast asleep, Alexis wouldn’t believe in the Shroud of Turin, either.
“Ellie needs braces,” he said as gently as he knew how. Atam, ever helpful, in his corporate manner that bespoke his past, said, “I think it’s time I got a job.”
“No way. No latchkey kids. I’ve seen how they turn out. Not for us.”
“You could quit your job,” he said in the same helpful tone, as if they were just brainstorming. Because his intentions were innocent enough, she kept her temper in check.
“It happens to be what I’m good at. It’s not a job, Atam, it’s a calling.”
“I hear you’re going after the two serial killers everyone is scared are too bright to be caught.”
“How did you…?”
“You talk in your sleep,” he said, more concern creeping into his voice, though he was clearly trying not to antagonize her.
“I thought we were talking about braces for Ellie.”
“You toy with sick F-U-C-K-S,” he said, slipping into childproof code. “They toy with you, and there goes our happy little household. Getting to us is how they mess with you.”
“Time to die, dad!” Damian shouted from the family room. The right-on-cue omen sent a compression wave of fear through Alexis’s abdomen.
“I have to be me,” she said feebly, not sure how to dismiss his equally valid concern of drawing a protective circle around their family, which they couldn’t very well do with her hot on the trail of the world’s most wanted.
“I think I have a solution.”
Her eyes had fallen away from his gaze, caving under the added force of gravity exerted against those who bore more sin. She met his eyes again thanks to the temporary buoyancy lent by hope.
“Why don’t you consult from a distance? Anonymously. Moonlight out of the house. Collect the consulting fee—God knows we need the extra cash—and give the boys in blue the credit they can use to climb the corporate ladder. That way, when you need favors down the road, should these guys still find their way to you…”
She smiled. “Done.”
“That was easy.”
“You underestimate you
r corporate-grade negotiation skills.”
“Trust me, negotiating bedtime with three kids is harder.” She smiled at his transparently smooth attempt to gloss over the fact that he’d put his calling on hold. All so that there was someone at home to ensure their kids had a chance in life. Let the single-parent households and latchkey kids attest to getting an early start in life, and to having no childhood, for fast-tracking the kids’ mainstreaming into a hellishly competitive world. They were putting their money on the Zen of classic parenting and domestic bliss as the better solution, albeit with hubby in the home maker role, their one concession to modernia.
She kissed him on the lips. That led to heavy French kissing, and the next thing she knew she had her legs wrapped around him. “Is that your gun, or are you just glad to see me?” he said cheekily, as he came up for air.
“Last chance to die a thousand deaths!” Damian shouted from the next room.
“Maybe if keeping me in my place were less of a turn on for you,” he said.
“Ouch.”
“Just joking.” He set her down, his head turning to a strange rhythmic panting coming from Damian in the next room. “You think he picked up Lamaze breathing from us practicing together?”
“He does have a way of mimicking adults well enough that he sounds a lot older than he is,” Alexis said. They strode in the next room to investigate.
The sight which greeted them was inspired neither by Normal Rockwell nor Hallmark. Clearly she had failed as a mother to set the right tone. Damian had cut off all the hair from Ellie’s doll. And he was taking a carving knife from the kitchen to the doll’s chest with relish—the source of the rhythmic breathing.
“Don’t look now,” Atam said, “but that line we drew in the sand to keep out the mad mad world has been breached.”
“This can’t be your genetics. I had you profiled for ten generations back,” Alexis replied soberly. “I should have thought to do the same with myself. Who knows what recessive genes I’m carrying?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Atam said. “It’s a bitch being the middle child. He gets upstaged time and again.” The nine-month-old baby upstairs started screaming, requiring daddy’s immediate attention, as if to lend credence to his argument.
“We’ll go with that for now,” Alexis said. “If I’m right and you’re wrong, we’re trading him in. I’m sorry, but I’m firm on the no-terror-in-the-household policy. It’s non-negotiable.”
He kissed her on the top of her head, and hugged her from the side, just tight enough to squeeze the last of the venom out of her. She pretended for his sake that the gesture was more than adequate to the occasion.
***
That night, Alexis perched at the computer in her upstairs bedroom doubling as a secondary work-station. After a couple hours fishing around in some dark Internet watering holes, she looked out the window at the River Thames, and wondered just how much deeper and wider that river would have to be to wash away the sins of the world. Before moodiness claimed any more of her clear thinking, she picked up the phone to the Albany, California PD.
“Carson?” The voice on the other end simply said, “Yes.”
“Carson Palmer?”
“Yep.”
Clearly the strong, silent type. Alexis was both amused and reassured. “I have a tip for you. You’ll want to look into these guys for the Conflict Diamonds Avenger murder.” She transmitted the fingerprints and IDs. “It’s coming over your fax now.”
She waited for him to receive the fax, listened to the machine in the background, and to sounds indicating he was pulling the papers out of the tray to give them the once over.
“These are from Interpol.” Carson’s tone sounded less than appreciative.
“Since the murder victim committed his crimes in Berkeley, maybe there’s a local connection between him and the ones who killed him.”
The pause at the other end suggested that Carson’s ears had pricked up. “I’ll look into it. But why not call the Berkeley PD?”
“Cause you’re the man for the job.” Another pause. “You’re wondering why I chose you?”
“Yes.”
“These guys only hunt predators. Look for them to keep upping their game each time out with their choice of quarries.”
“Lovely.”
“And Carson, I don’t want any credit. This is all you. Consider me your guardian angel on this case.”
“What did I do to merit that?”
“Let’s just say, when these guys come a knockin’, that new age Berkeley hand-holding, everyone-can-be-saved, let’s-get-them-the-help-they-need shit isn’t going to do much but add to the body count. You’re a dinosaur, Carson, and a dinosaur is the only thing that’s big enough to mash these two.”
“I appreciate the compliment.”
“You’ll hear from me again.” She hung up the phone, figuring he responded better to brevity than to people who took too long explaining themselves, which would just add to his suspicions.
She sensed a presence in the room. Swiveling on her office chair revealed Atam standing in the doorway to the bedroom.
“You sure about dumping our karma on someone else? What if, in saving us, you just get this guy killed?”
“I did my homework, Atam. This guy is Clint Eastwood Magnum Force vintage all the way. In fact, he may be the first impression cast off the mold. He’s got a hunter’s instincts second to none.”
“But can he play head games with those two?”
“No.” She sighed. “I’m banking he won’t have to, and he’s just the better predator in the jungle.”
“I hope so for his sake, and ours.”
***
Carson set down the phone with Alexis (whose name was on the fax sheet), to find his boss, Devlin Hooker, had stepped into the office. He looked like a bull rhino that had been stopped mid-charge by the sight of a fragile daisy he couldn’t stand the thought of trampling. Carson folded the fax sheets and put them in his pocket.
“It’s your wife, Carson.” Devlin choked on the words. “The bastard has your wife.”
Carson checked the magazine on his .50 caliber pistol.
“Maybe you should sit this one out. Let folks with a cooler head intervene.”
“Yeah, sure.” Carson nearly knocked him over as he brushed past him.
Devlin could have ordered him off the case. But he was an obsessive who tended to fret interminably until the ones Carson alone seemed to be able to bring in were off the streets. That made him rather dependent on Carson to get a decent night’s sleep. If Carson had his way, he’d be sleeping just fine tonight.
***
Lily Palmer looked into the eyes of the man who had kidnapped her. She saw there all she needed to know. She wasn’t going to fast-talk her way out of this one. She was going to play along with whatever mad fantasy he had for her, bide her time till her husband got here. Pray her acting wasn’t transparent to anyone but herself. Pray she lasted that long.
“This is a nice place you have here,” she said, eying the cluttered 12’ x 12’ storage space the man had been living out of.
“I’ve been fixing it up special just for you. Notice the thoughtful feminine touches.” He pointed to the paper flowers in the glass vase with the fake water that was in fact hardened plastic. He showed off a couple wild hats he must have scrounged out of the trash or at the Ashby flea market. After planting one on her head, he shoved her face in front of a broken mirror, the fragment just bigger than a basketball. It was one of those mirror tiles with a paisley drawing etched into it, circa 1970s. The hats ranged from the twenties, thirties, and forties. He held up a dress for her. She took it out of his hands and modeled it as he stepped back with the mirror until she could see her full figure in the reflective glass. The dress was fifties housewife kitsch. She glanced around the storage shed and realized there were more eras represented than in a History of Civilization text book.
“You know your history,” she said.
Shit. She was an interior designer by trade. That meant she could date these pieces about as well as any historian. But she didn’t know what dramas were evocative of each era. She had never bothered to take so much as one drama class in high school or college. Shit. Shit. Shit. You’ll just have to pull it out of your ass somehow, Lily. Just play off him, follow his lead, like ballroom dancing. Listen to his tone and inflection, the subtext of what he’s saying, and how he’s reacting to what you’re saying. Fine tune your performance on the fly. And don’t piss yourself. Could detract from the realism—for him, if not for you.
“Okay,” she said feebly.
“Maybe you could put on the dress,” he said.
She wondered how he’d react to her in undergarments. He was anywhere from eighteen to twenty-five underneath that long scraggly hair and unkempt facial frizzies, and that was a lot of hormones to rein in. But he respectfully turned his back to her before she could finish the thought.
***
Carson paced his house, searching for any clue that could lead him to his wife’s kidnapper.
The place looked pretty much as he’d left it that morning, only more tidied up. Which was just like his wife. He put up with the outrageous interior design and the meticulously well-maintained showpiece rooms for her sake. She was convinced it would help him relax from his day, and leave his woes behind at the office, by being sufficiently alien to the crass world of unrefined personalities and living spaces that occupied the rest of his waking hours. Guess no one told her psychos didn’t discriminate as to living arrangements. He just wanted a cold beer on his return home, a small fridge by the sofa promising more to come, and a wide-screen TV for his football games in HD—the one artifact in the room he approved of, rising like a Stonehenge monolith; his place of worship.