Change Agent

by Daniel Suarez

  Durand watched reality with increasing detachment, his eyes wandering across the faces in the crowd above him. Then his eyes focused on one face just now leaning in close to his own—a handsome young Eurasian man. He wore a fine suit and had midlength black hair. He knelt just two feet away, gazing down, with both hands leaning on the engraved ivory handle of a full-length black umbrella. The double-Windsor knot of the man’s pale yellow silk tie was perfect.

  Durand stared into the young man’s gray eyes.

  They stared back with unflinching intensity.

  Even though Durand struggled for air, his entire focus held on the young man. Though every way normal in appearance—refined even—an uncanny-valley effect pervaded him. The young man did not seem real. Some instinct screamed to Durand that the eyes regarding him were empty.

  He felt growing terror as the man leaned even closer now, reaching across Durand. Every cell in Durand’s body recoiled.

  The young man picked up Mia’s gift and tucked it underneath his own arm. With that, he drew back again to stare once more into Durand’s eyes.

  Durand could not turn away. Those cold gray eyes held him. He couldn’t recall ever having seen eyes like that before. Unliving eyes. They watched as Durand’s vision faded into darkness as an internal fire consumed him.

  He could not even gather the breath to scream.

  Chapter 6

  Kenneth Durand knows it is August 2035. That already happened, but that’s okay because it’s a beautiful day. He’s younger—in his midtwenties. O-3, Lieutenant Durand, on ten days’ leave, walking in civilian clothes through the newly expanded Greenfield Terminal of Nairobi’s Jomo Kenyatta International Airport alongside a younger Sowi Michael Yi Ji-chang. Yi frowns as he pokes at an actual handheld smartphone. They move through the busy terminal, dodging between Chinese businessmen and tourists. Durand’s stride is easy and relaxed—though he has no reason to be relaxed.

  “Ken, this connection’s going to be frickin’ tight.” Yi motions for them to step it up.

  They’re catching a Safarilink flight from Wilson Airport to Amboseli—half a dozen other squad mates will be trying to hold the plane for them. They have yet to collect their bags, deal with customs, taxi across town.

  Durand just cannot work up anxiety over it. He’s not sure if that’s the way he felt at the time. He suspects not. This trip was important to him. He bought an actual camera for this trip. Kilimanjaro. The game preserve. It all seemed really special. And it was special.

  But not today.

  They’re pushing through the crowd at baggage claim. Durand sees his bag before Yi spots his own. Durand reaches for the handle at the same time that a young Japanese woman does.

  She looks up in surprise as they brush hands. “This one’s mine.”

  “American.” It is an odd thing for him to say.

  “Yes. And this is my bag.”

  Durand lets go. He looks down and realizes she’s right. There’s a bright red, embossed metal tag on it, held fast by a beaded chain. It’s otherwise identical to his own bag—a matte black carbon fiber shell with the closest thing to off-road wheels. You could probably row the damn thing down the Nile. Now he sees his own bag coming up not far behind on the carousel. He points. “You have good taste.”

  She laughs.

  He collects his bag. It is a highly practical bag. Only attractive for what it can do. Both their bags are scuffed from rough handling.

  She telescopes the handle on hers and rolls it away—but only far enough to get clear of the crowd. She takes out a tablet and starts reconnecting with her world.

  A glance. Yi still anxiously awaits the appearance of his own bag on the carousel.

  Durand turns back. He studies the young woman. She is dressed for travel. Sensible shoes. Lots of pockets. She is not a tourist. She has been here many times before. He rolls up to her. “I have to ask.”

  She looks up from her tablet, her expression guarded.

  “That’s a serious bag.”

  “That’s not a question.”

  “You must have a serious job.”

  “I do.” She nods toward his bag. “And you?”

  “Too serious. I’ve been considering a change. But then I’d have to give up the bag.”

  She laughs again. Her eyes smile.

  The connecting flight is suddenly not so important. “You’re arriving from where?”

  “Far away.”

  “I’ve been there.”

  She points at her tablet. “I’ve got to get my drilling robots clear of customs, and then I’m headed to Mombasa with my project team. So . . .”

  “Right. I’m meeting friends, too.” He moves away and then circles back after going just a few meters. “But here’s the thing: I’ll be on the coast at the end of this week, and there’s this great place on Diani Beach.”

  “Ali Barbour’s Cave.”

  He laughs. “Right.”

  “I love that place.”

  “There’s lots of people there. Come join me.”

  “I’ll still be with my project team.”

  “Bring them. I’ll take your whole damn project team out to dinner if it means you’ll say yes.”

  She laughs again. He could get lost in her eyes. “There’s a fine line between persistence and harassment.”

  He nods, a slight smile on his face. “There is. But this is probably the only time our paths will ever cross. Unless I ask you.” He searches her eyes. “So I’m asking you.”

  She eyes him back. “Do you have a name?”

  “I do.” He extends his hand. “Ken Durand.”

  She shakes his hand with a firm grip. She has calluses on her hands. “Okay, Ken Durand. I’m Miyuki Uchida.”

  “Miyuki. Good to meet you.”

  And it was true. He knew it the moment he first saw her.

  Chapter 7

  Kenneth Durand found himself staring at a soft white light. It took a long while to focus well enough to discern the frame around it.

  A ceiling light fixture.

  He then slowly resolved the ceiling tiles around that. Eventually he cast his gaze downward and saw that he was in a modern intensive care unit—medical machines beeping and pumps hissing.

  What the hell?

  His entire body was racked by dull pain, as though he’d pulled every muscle. He noticed that he was wearing a hospital gown. An IV ran into his arm and a catheter into his groin. No blanket covered him—so he could plainly see the skin of his arms and legs bruised black, blue, and yellow.

  Confusion clouded his mind, and he looked up to see sensors and medical equipment looming around his bed. He felt something lodged in his throat and tried to swallow around it awkwardly. Panic rose as his gag reflex kicked in—until he saw the breathing tube leading from his mouth to a nearby ventilator. It hissed rhythmically, soothingly, and he felt air flow into his lungs. He could feel medical tape around his mouth securing it in place.

  Durand closed his eyes again and tried to center himself. To remain calm. He had no idea how he’d gotten here.

  He heard beep-beeping as his heart rate settled once more. He opened his eyes and looked around the ICU. His bed was partitioned on the left and right by sliding curtains. He didn’t hear any movement or talking beyond them, just the hisses of machines.

  But then he discerned the whine of an approaching electric motor. A boxy wheeled robot soon came into view, emblazoned with a red cross. It rolled to a stop at the foot of his hospital bed, then turned to face him. A soft voice emanated from it as a soothing blue light pulsed: “Please be calm. I have summoned assistance. Sila bertenang. Saya telah memanggil bantuan . . .”

  Durand focused on the pulsing pastel blue light and found it reassuring. He wondered what psychological research had led to its deployment. He decided the research was solid because he did
feel soothed by its glowing, then fading—like waves lapping a beach. He had no idea what the hell was going on, but this machine apparently did, and that was some consolation.

  Moments later an Indian woman doctor assisted by a Hoklo male nurse arrived to check Durand’s vitals. The doctor tested Durand’s pupils with a penlight. Satisfied, she looked closely at him and spoke in British-accented English. “Can you hear me?”

  Durand nodded.

  “I am Dr. Chaudhri.” She placed a reassuring hand on Durand’s shoulder. “You’ve been in a coma. Do you understand?”

  The news hit Durand hard. After a moment or two of panic, he nodded slowly, despite the tubes leading from his throat.

  The doctor squeezed Durand’s shoulder again. “You’ve suffered a massive allergic reaction to something—we don’t yet know what. However, we believe you’re out of danger. Still, we’re going to keep you in the ICU for a little while longer.”

  Durand studied his bruised and bandaged arms and hands. They looked almost alien.

  The doctor followed his gaze. “The swelling receded only yesterday.”

  On Durand’s effort to speak the doctor said, “I’m going to remove your breathing tube. Please just relax. This will not hurt, though it will be briefly uncomfortable.”

  The nurse moved in to assist, and after they removed the medical tape, Durand felt an alarmingly long tube snake out of his throat. He gagged a bit as the last of it came out, and felt again a dreadful soreness in his stomach muscles, ribs, and chest as he coughed. The agonizing coughing fit continued for several seconds.

  The doctor’s soothing hand was on his shoulder again. “You’re safe now, but your heart stopped for a bit last week.” She smiled. “You’re quite the fighter.”

  With the tubes out Durand croaked, “How long have I been here?” His voice sounded as awful as his throat felt.

  “Almost five weeks.”

  Five weeks? That was impossible. He’d just been talking with colleagues at the GCI. What happened? He looked back up at her. “What hospital?”

  “Mount Elizabeth.”

  Durand stared blankly.

  “Mount Elizabeth Hospital, Singapore. You were found without identification. Can you tell me your name?”

  Durand struggled to process all this news. Without identification?

  The doctor repeated, “You were found without identification. Do you remember your name?”

  He took a deep breath. “I’m Kenneth Andrew Durand. Lead geospatial analyst with Interpol GCI. I’m a US citizen.”

  The doctor took notes on a totem device—an inert physical object commonly used as a handy surface on which to interact with virtual screens. “You’re with Interpol?”

  He nodded. “I don’t know how I got here. Where are my wife and daughter? Are they okay?”

  The doctor took additional notes. “You were found alone and unconscious in a stolen car parked in Boon Lay.”

  “Boon Lay?”

  “Were you with your wife and daughter?”

  Durand shook his head absently, recalling that he hadn’t been. “No. No, they weren’t with me.” He wasn’t quite sure how he knew that. But he did. He looked up. “I’ve been here five weeks?”

  She nodded.

  He struggled to understand. “No one came looking for me?”

  “The police came.”

  “Police? Why didn’t they contact my family? Or contact Interpol?”

  “No one could ID you.”

  Durand looked up at her incredulously. “That makes no sense.”

  “You’re not in our national DNA registry. Now we know why: you’re American.”

  “The American embassy should have been searching for me. Interpol. My family.”

  The doctor leaned close and spoke slowly. “Understand, Mr. Durand, we were initially concerned you’d been infected by a contagious pathogen—a hemorrhagic fever or new synbio organism. You were black with bruising—your entire body and face badly swollen. Your skin scabrous. Not even your ethnicity was apparent. Even your hair fell out. Yours has been a curious case.”

  “But . . . fingerprints.”

  She lifted his left hand and opened the palm toward him. He could see bandages wrapping his fingertips.

  “The swelling split your skin at the extremities. It’s still healing. Some required stitches.”

  Durand studied his bandaged fingers and now discerned the soreness underneath. He looked up at her.

  “Your eyes hemorrhaged as well—so we couldn’t scan your retinas. They’re still alarming to behold. We’ve ruled out contagious disease, but we don’t yet know what caused your body’s violent reaction.”

  He searched for words. “My name is Kenneth Andrew Durand. I live in Woodlands with my wife, Miyuki Uchida, and our daughter, Mia.” Durand got emotional. “I need to see them. They must be frantic.” He paused. “It was my daughter’s birthday.”

  “A birthday is the least of your concerns at the moment.” The doctor touched his shoulder again. “I’ll contact your wife immediately, Mr. Durand. Do you have a number I can call?”

  “You don’t have my phone? I . . .” He realized this, of course, must be the case. “I had no identification on me? Nothing?”

  Forgiving of his disorientation, she shook her head.

  He saw that even his wedding band was missing. “They took my wedding ring.”

  “Someone robbed you?”

  He clutched his bandaged hand, but could clearly see the ring was gone. “I remember a young man with an umbrella . . . He was terrifying. And paramedics. I remember paramedics.”

  She stared back.

  “My wife’s number is 9-3-9-3-9-4-7-8-7.”

  She jotted it down. “You’re safe now, Mr. Durand. We think you’ll make a full recovery. Though we’ll want to continue tests to pinpoint the source of your allergic response.”

  As she turned to go, Durand clutched at the hem of her coat with his bandaged hand. “Interpol. Please contact Interpol here in Singapore. Ask for Detective Inspector Claire Belanger. They need to know where I am. It’s critically important.”

  “The number?”

  He paused. Security protocols started to come back to him. “Call the main Interpol line here in Singapore. Tell them who I am, and they’ll direct you.”

  “Inspector Claire Belanger.” The doctor wrote the name down.

  Durand felt suddenly exhausted.

  The doctor moved his arm back onto the bed. “Get some rest, Mr. Durand. We’ll contact the authorities and your family. Your job now is simply to get well.”

  He nodded weakly. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  She and the nurse departed.

  Exhausted, Durand dozed off.

  • • •

  Durand awoke to the sound of someone clearing their throat. He looked up to see Inspector Claire Belanger and Sergeant Michael Yi Ji-chang standing at the foot of his hospital bed. Neither of their expressions looked particularly friendly.

  Durand straightened in the bed. “Claire. Mike. Thank god.” His voice sounded gravelly and hoarse.

  They exchanged concerned looks and resumed staring.

  Durand then noticed that he was no longer in the intensive care unit but in a private room. It was evening outside. He wondered how and when they’d moved his hospital bed, but then decided it didn’t matter.

  “I was poisoned.” Even his tongue felt odd, making it difficult to sound out words. “A jab-stick in the middle of a crowd near the Tekka wet market. I think the Huli jing did it.”

  They said nothing.

  “My comcar malfunctioned and dumped me near downtown. Somebody must have been following me. Which means we’ve had a security breach.”

  They still did not react.

  “We should get techs down here to pull a blood sample.
There might still be traces of the biotoxin they used in my system.” He winced as he sat up slightly. “Also, Anna and Gus should do a pattern analysis on all telephone calls radiating out from my location immediately following the assassination attempt. Geolocation data on all comm devices in the area, too—and communities of interest going out two generations at least, one minute before and after, looking for echoes.”

  Belanger and Yi continued staring at him.

  Durand pressed on. “And a protective detail. They tried to kill me once, they’ll try again. I think the only reason I’m alive is because I was brought in here as a John Doe. And for god’s sake, put a protective detail on Miyuki and Mia. Better yet, put them on a plane to the States. Her parents will be glad to see them.”

  Durand regarded the unfriendly eyes of his colleagues. “This is typically where you guys say how great it is to see me alive.”

  Neither of them did.

  As he tried to lift his arm, Durand’s wrist tugged back to the rattling of metal. He looked down to see that he was handcuffed to the bed rail. “What the hell . . . ?”

  Yi moved toward the bed, pulling a document out of his jacket pocket as he approached. He unfolded the paper and dropped it into Durand’s lap.

  It was a familiar Interpol Red Notice—with text and DNA profile information and also the photo of a familiar, thuggish Eurasian man—labeled with the name Marcus Demang Wyckes.

  “We know who you are, Mr. Wyckes. Matched your DNA. And we’d like to have a word with you regarding the whereabouts of Kenneth Durand.”

  Chapter 8

  Inspector Belanger, Sergeant Yi, and Dr. Chaudhri stood in a radiology lab, examining a wall of virtual medical imagery on an AR layer shared through their LFP glasses. Floating before them were X-rays, 3D scans of bone structure, dental records, MRIs.

  “Why didn’t you confirm the patient’s identity before contacting Durand’s wife?”