Kingmaker
Page 5
“Of course.”
“So what are we really doing here?”
“I believe there may be another way in which I may be of service to you.”
Alexei slowly leaned back again against the cushion. He watched the man beside him carefully. “You want to buy her, don’t you?”
Oliveira smiled. He looked at the boy whose hands moved sensually up from the doctor’s feet to his smooth, shaved calves, then looked back at Alexei. “No, Mr. Drovosek. My preferences lie elsewhere. But I know someone who will almost certainly be interested.”
“Who?”
“He runs a sort of orphanage, I suppose you could say, and has access to the biggest clients in the world.”
“You mean he’s a reseller.”
“More of a middleman.”
Alexei considered his response carefully. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, doctor, but I’d like to see this through myself. I’ve made a tremendous investment in Ki, and I need to maximize my return.”
“That’s precisely what I’m trying to help you do. Forgive me, Mr. Drovosek, but I don’t think you fully grasp the value of what you are in possession of here. Ki is worth enough to set you up very comfortably for the rest of your life if you can get her in front of the correct people. However you couldn’t possibly get access to the kind of clients I’m talking about.”
“I think you’d be surprised by who I know.”
“I may not know who you know, Mr. Drovosek, but I know who you do not know.” Something in his voice had changed. He finished what was in his glass and handed it to the boy. “I promise you that my associate is far better connected than you could ever hope to be. Even with both his cut and mine, you will clear a minimum of twice what you would be able to get on your own. That I guarantee.”
“Your cut?”
Oliveira’s demeanor softened. “I believe in economic arrangements in which all parties benefit.”
Alexei began to relax. The trip was beginning to look worth all the time, effort, and risk after all. “Hypothetically,” he said, “how would I go about finding this man?”
“You wouldn’t.” The doctor accepted his glass back from the boy, then waved him off. The boy bowed, then swiftly left the room. “Hypothetically, he would find you.”
Alexei looked at Ki, then back at Oliveira. “Fine. I’ll hear him out.”
“Good,” the doctor said. “I’ll arrange it.” Oliveira took a quick sip of his drink, then crossed his legs beneath his robe. He put his arm up on the back of the cushions and tilted his head as he regarded Alexei. “And now, if you’ll permit me, I’d like to ask you a personal question.”
Alexei raised his eyebrows. He considered the implications of politely expressing a desire to keep their relationship purely professional, but finally decided it best to at least humor the doctor. “Of course,” he said casually, though his tone was clearly guarded.
“I didn’t just look at the girl’s DNA in preparation for this meeting,” the doctor said. “As you are no doubt aware, my security screening protocol included biometric identity verification for you, as well.”
Alexei could tell that Oliveira was observing him very closely—monitoring his reactions, looking for some kind of a tell. When Alexei simply nodded, the doctor continued.
“Genetic forgeries are getting better all the time, so I use methods much more sophisticated than your typical off-the-shelf drugstore DNA test. That means, among other things, looking at a broader range of the genome.”
“I see,” Alexei said.
“To be perfectly candid, Mr. Drovosek, I discovered something quite peculiar about you. Your seventeenth chromosome contains two p53 genes rather than one. And given that p53 is responsible for apoptosis, genomic stability, and tumor suppression, it’s quite possible that you are entirely immune to cancer.”
“In that case,” Alexei said, “I think I’ll have another cigar.”
The doctor smiled without showing his teeth. The blue glow of the fish tank was reflected in his flawless bronze complexion.
“Please do,” the doctor said, though he did not order that one be brought. “Of course, your phenotype goes beyond just anticancer characteristics, doesn’t it?”
Alexei gave the doctor a thin smile. “You’re the doctor.”
“Strictly speaking, I’m not a geneticist,” the surgeon said, “but I do know that p53 affects the expression of p21 and almost certainly several other genes associated with characteristics such as tissue and blood vessel regeneration, muscle hyperplasia, bone density, tendon strength, et cetera.”
“Well,” Alexei said with a subtle shrug, “what kind of Russian would I be if I wasn’t a little tougher than most other men.”
This time the doctor did not smile. “This goes way beyond generations of harsh winters and vodka for breakfast,” Oliveira said. He paused while he sharpened his gaze. “My initial theory was that you were genetically engineered—probably right around the time of the collapse of the Soviet Union—however you mentioned earlier that both your parents were engineers, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“Nuclear, by chance?”
“One nuclear and one mechanical.”
“I see,” the doctor said. “And did they happen to work at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in 1986?”
Alexei did not respond.
“Of course,” Oliveira said. He was obviously very pleased with himself. “That explains the over-expression of tumor suppression.”
“So I’ve been told,” Alexei said. His tone was markedly less cordial. “The reality is that it’s a miracle my parents were able to conceive. And an even bigger miracle that I was born alive and intact.”
“Not a miracle,” the doctor said. There was wonder and even reverence in his tone. “Evolution, Mr. Drovosek. In fact, it’s all perfectly natural. Mutation is how life has evolved for billions of years. The only difference is that, in your case, it was caused by radiation from a reactor core breach rather than cosmic rays from the deaths of distant stars. And instead of resulting in disease or disability or stillbirth as most mutations do, it actually created something better.”
“Respectfully, doctor, there was nothing natural about what happened in Chernobyl, and considering the fact that I’m sterile, I don’t think nature intends for me to create a new evolutionary branch of super humans.”
The doctor leaned back against the cushions. “I see,” he said.
“I trust that those DNA samples will be destroyed,” Alexei said. “And that you will be discreet with your findings. I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you that there are some very powerful people—both in Russia and the US—who are interested in my whereabouts.”
“Mr. Drovosek, I have the very distinct feeling that you and I are about to embark on a long and mutually profitable relationship, the very foundation of which will be nothing less than absolute trust and respect.”
Alexei gave the doctor a nod, then set his drink down beside the ashtray and stood. “In that case, I won’t take up any more of your time.”
Oliveira did not stand up along with his guest. “Which is why,” he continued, “I’d like you to come back and see me again very soon. And when you do, there’s something I would like you to bring me.”
Alexei brushed a few specks of ash from his pants as he looked down at the doctor. “And what might that be?”
“A little boy,” the surgeon said. He swirled the contents of his glass and smiled. “Maybe even two.”
CHAPTER SIX
Ki is in a sensory depravation chamber in the rear of an SUV. She was not sedated when she was taken from the apartment for fear that she might still be groggy during the exchange, so she was fitted with an active isolation hood before being guided through the set of inner doors and into the elevator. When the hood was removed, she found herself sitting in a fully padded compartment across from the house mom they call Ms. Cathy. Although there was no sound, she could feel that they were moving.
After a particularly long stop—well over a minute, by Ki’s count—she feels the weight of the vehicle change, then hears the muted impact of car doors. Ki reaches for the metal canister. Ms. Cathy hesitates, then concedes. Ki finishes the contents but does not hand it back. When the double doors swing apart, Ki sees four well-dressed men, one of whom is the man she knows only as “the king.” It is dark outside, but the area is illuminated from above by floodlights. The men’s hair is being blown—especially the king’s long blond curls—and their suits ripple in the wind. The warmth inside the vehicle is displaced by the cold outside air.
“Come on,” the king says to Ki. “Leave that here.”
He extends his hand and waits for the canister, but Ki does not comply. She looks at all four of the men waiting outside the vehicle, and then at Ms. Cathy. Ms. Cathy smiles in a way that Ki cannot interpret—perhaps just reflexively. She reaches for Ki’s hand, and Ki allows the canister to be taken.
“Everyone stays here,” the king says. “They don’t want anyone else on board.”
When Ki steps down, she sees that they are on a runway beside a massive delta-wing jet. They are roughly aligned with the nose, which makes both wings visible. Each is painted a glossy black, and the fuselage forms a long, gold stripe down the center of the triangular supersonic design. The words “PEARL KNIGHT” are printed in black above the windows.
“Don’t wait up,” the king tells his men with a grin that shows the gap in his teeth.
Ki is simply and plainly dressed in a pair of white shorts, a tight, pink cotton top with ruffles, and small white tennis shoes. By the time they reach the boarding ramp, her arms are crossed and she is shivering. There is a man at the base of the stairs who watches with his hands clasped in front of him. He motions with his head for them to ascend, and the king lets Ki go first. They are greeted just inside the plane by another man in a suit and oversized tinted glasses.
“We’re in a bit of a hurry,” the guard says. “We need to wrap this up as quickly as possible.”
The king is adjusting his coat and straightening his tie. He uses his fingers to brush back his hair. “That works for me.”
The guard hands Ki a brush, but addresses the king. “The less said in there, the better. You’re not here for small talk. You two aren’t pals. He’s going to evaluate the product, and if he likes what he sees, he will pay you, and then you will turn around and leave. That’s it. Don’t ask him about his day. Don’t ask him what his favorite team is, or what he thinks the stock market is going to do. Right now, you’re just a delivery boy. Understand?”
“I’m not an idiot,” the king says.
“That wasn’t the question. The question was whether you understand what I just told you.”
The king takes a moment to compose himself before he responds. “Yes.”
Ki is finished with the brush and hands it back to the guard. The guard leans into the lavatory and secures the brush in a pocket beside the basin. The boarding ramp has been withdrawn, and Ki watches the guard from behind as he carefully extends himself out over the runway and reaches for the tether dangling from the hatch. His feet are on the edge of the opening and Ki sees that it is only the grip of one hand on one small rail that keeps the man inside the plane. She looks at the king and then back at the guard as he pulls the heavy hatch closed and seals it.
“I’m not going to search you,” he says as he seals the door, “because you couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to be carrying a weapon. Right?”
“People like me don’t carry weapons,” the king says. “That’s why we hire people like you.”
The guard looks down at the king through his wide tinted glasses. His hair is barely long enough to be called stubble, though he does not appear to be balding. The king is significantly smaller than the guard, but he is unmoved beneath the larger man’s glare.
“And it’s a very good thing for you that you do,” the guard says. “Through there. All the way back.”
There is a single button beside an intricate wooden door whose interlocking triangular panels come from multiple species of trees with grains of differing characteristics. The guard leans around the king to reach the button and the door slides noiselessly to the side. The king waits for Ki to enter first.
The conference room is empty. Dark plush leather chairs are arranged around a table with an active surface on which some sort of heat map of the world is currently displayed. Whatever the map is quantifying, there seems to be more of it in West and Central Africa than in the rest of the world. The door slides closed behind them, and Ki is not sure whether the action was automatic or initiated by the guard. There is a similar door ahead and the king steps around Ki to touch the button.
The rest of the plane is a single long and surprisingly wide compartment. There are islands of blond leather chairs around tables with active displays. The back of the plane ends in a glass staircase leading up to a second level, and beside it is a man sitting on an L-shaped couch with an old leather book in his lap. The various screens along the walls show the same map as the display in the conference room. The floor is slightly translucent, and Ki can see several vehicles parked end-to-end below them. One reflects several points of light from an abundance of highly polished chrome; one is sleek and angular and an angry shade of red; and at least one is heavily armored and openly weaponized.
Ki is surprised to see that there is another girl on the plane. Her legs are folded beneath her in a big reclining chair, and she is playing a puzzle game on the interactive surface in front of her. Before Ki looks away, she sees that the girl appears older than she is, with long red hair, creamy skin, cool blue eyes, and full red lips.
The man in the back of the plane closes his book and leaves it on the table in front of him as he stands. The leather-bound volume is an anachronism among the glass surfaces and active displays around them. Ki glimpses the Vs and Rs and Ks of a Russian name imprinted along the spine before her view is obscured by its curator.
The man is compact, handsome, and very well dressed, with wavy dark hair and eyebrows that arch in a way that gives him a naturally friendly demeanor. He leans down and picks up a wide leather case which had been stowed beneath the table. From the way the man must compensate, Ki can see that its contents are substantial. He watches Ki with a wide, thin smile as he approaches.
The man nods almost imperceptibly at what he sees before him and motions with his finger for Ki to spin. As she turns, she can see that the other girl’s feet are now on the floor and her hands on the arms of her chair. When Ki turns to face the man again, his smile is significantly broader.
“You will call me papa,” the man says with a heavy French accent.
Ki performs a combination of a nod and a bow. The man offers the case to the king, who accepts it with poorly concealed anticipation.
“Lucy will show you to your room and explain the rules,” the Frenchman tells Ki. “When I am ready, I will join you. Now be a good girl and say goodbye to our guest. It is time for him to go.”
Ki turns to the king. She lowers her head and bends her knees in a deep and reverent curtsy, then launches herself off the floor to augment the momentum of her strike. There is the simultaneous hollow thud of Ki’s fist striking the king’s trachea and the crunch of the rings of cartilage compacting. Since the majority of the impact was absorbed by the king’s windpipe, he is not knocked off his feet, but instead takes a single step backwards before dropping the case and falling to his knees. He is entirely silent as he gropes with horror at the deep and darkening depression in his throat. The crater is siz
ed to Ki’s knuckles, and combined with the swelling and internal bleeding, it prevents oxygen from reaching the king’s lungs and air from activating his larynx. His blond curls quiver and his eyes bulge behind his gold-rimmed glasses as he asphyxiates.
Ki turns and begins moving toward the man who wishes to be called papa. The arch in his eyebrows which once conveyed benevolence now communicates shock and terror. His hands move up to protect his face and he steps backwards, which gives Ki even more space to build momentum behind her kick. Her heel strikes just below the man’s sternum, crushing his solar plexus and sending his diaphragm into spasm. He heaves as the air is expelled from his body, and he staggers forward directly into Ki’s palm strike. The cartilage of papa’s nose is shattered and compacted into his sinuses and nasal cavity, and as his head snaps back, the smooth white ceiling is misted red. He collapses with his hands pressed to his face and does his best to scream, but can produce little more than a gurgling wheeze. Ki carefully threads her foot with its clean white tennis shoe through the space between the man’s arms and his neck, falls back onto the floor, and locks her heels. Whatever sounds the man was able to produce before immediately cease. He punches and scratches frantically at Ki’s thigh, and then the blows slow and weaken until his arms fall limp. His eyes are wide, and there are bubbles of blood beneath his nostrils and red foam escaping from one corner of his open mouth.
When Ki stands, she is both exhausted and surging. The crotch of her white shorts is bright red, and her thighs are slick with papa’s blood. The hair she had carefully groomed only moments before is now tangled and falls across her face, blown outward with her heavy breaths. She turns to the front of the plane and sees that the guard has just entered. He levels his pistol at Ki with one hand, but his other hand is over his mouth as he looks down at the two fresh corpses. When he looks up again, Ki can see the horror in the man’s expression. She can see his fingers shaking as the hand over his mouth joins his other hand on the pistol in an attempt to stabilize it. He opens up his stance and bends his knees to steady himself, and as he begins to squeeze the trigger, a small quick foot swings up between his legs from behind him and crushes his testicles against his pubic bone.