by Ronan Frost
“Normally you’d be right, but tonight I think a decent cup of coffee will do just fine. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to need to keep a clear head for this.”
The old man smiled. “As you wish. You have a preferred bean? Something rich and fruity or more mellow?”
“Surprise me. As long as it’s hand roasted by naked virgins on some mountainside I’m sure it’ll be just great.”
“Guuleed, see to it, would you?”
“Of course, Mr. Rask.”
Rask.
Like the car. It made sense. Who else had that kind of pull, but someone like Greg Rask? The next question was: What could a man like Greg Rask want with him?
“Now, how would you like to do this? Trade some small talk first, or get straight down to business? You must be tired, after everything. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up first?”
“I’m good. Why don’t you just give me your sales pitch and we’ll see where we go from there?”
“Very well,” Rask said, taking a sip of his drink. “I’m not sure what you know about me—”
“I didn’t even know your name until a few seconds ago,” Rye said.
“Very true. I am sure you can appreciate the need for discretion, given our little arrangement. Greg Rask. It truly is a pleasure to meet you,” he held out his hand to be shaken. Rye took it, surprised to find it was like holding a leathery bag of brittle bird bones. There was very little strength behind the handshake.
“I’ll tell you if I agree later,” Rye said. “We may end up hating each other.”
That brought another wry smile from the older man. “I am a lucky man. You might not think it to look at the facts, especially considering the beginning of my story. I was orphaned before I was seven years old, but the other way of looking at it is that I walked away from the plane crash that killed my mother and everyone else on it. Luck, I tend to think, depends a lot on perspective. Imagine a really lucky man who’s running late, rushing to an airport to catch a flight, everything goes his way, every light turns green for him, every junction is clear for him to race through, customs is a breeze, the TSA wave him through, everything just goes his way. Then there’s the unlucky guy booked on the same flight, he’s coming the other way, hitting every light, and getting more and more frustrated because he’s not going to make the flight. Everything’s against him. Traffic on his cross streets is an absolute bitch, and he’s losing time at every intersection. He just knows he’s going to get stuck in customs and the TSA are going to strip-search him and stick three fingers up his ass while his bags are put on the wrong flight, all of it. So, because nothing goes his way he misses the flight where the lucky guy makes it. When that plane stalls and falls out of the sky, who’s the lucky one, really?”
Rask had a point. Rye had thought about Hannah and what might have happened if she hadn’t chosen that day to run her errands, meaning she never would have come face-to-face with Matthew Langley or his bitter little tribe of trench-coat mafia.
“Do you want to know what saved my life?” Rask asked, without waiting for Rye to answer. “A stranger wanted to hit on my mother. She was a beautiful woman, so I can hardly blame him, but life pivots on such inconsequential things. Fate is a fickle bastard, not that I need to tell you that. We swapped seats, so he could talk to her and I could look out of the window. A piece of metal twisted off the hull and went right through the back of his chair, and I walked away with barely a scratch. A couple of bruises. I don’t remember much of the crash beyond that, just that we changed seats. Which brings me to you.”
“How so?”
“You don’t know whether to feel lucky you’re alive, or unlucky that you lost everything. It took me a while to decide which way I wanted to look at it, but eventually I decided it was all about second chances. I got a second bite at life that day. I was lucky again in that I showed a certain aptitude for the new world, grasping the concept of coding and computers in those early days of the dotcom boom and being able to imagine the future in terms of possibilities where others couldn’t. First, working out of my bedroom, still financed by the payout from the airline, I set up Raskurity, offering people online security while everyone was obsessed with viruses and identity theft, and then the true stroke of luck, used that code to create a secure platform for people to buy and sell anything anywhere in the world, and all for the cost of a half percent or a single dollar fee, whichever is lower. Last year we averaged one point five million transactions a day through the site. Over seven billion dollars were traded, and in terms of pure profit we banked over five hundred million dollars. It’s obscene, of course. And worse when you realize there’s the double dip, because the second best thing I ever did was develop the app that allows people to actually spend their money. Seven billion dollars went through that app last year alone, and we took five percent in transaction fees, meaning we banked another three hundred and fifty million essentially for doing nothing.”
“Must be nice.”
“It is, but the important thing isn’t the money, it’s what we can do with it. Just through these two enterprises Rask Labs banks one and a quarter billion dollars. That money goes into the development of the car Guuleed drove you here in, for instance; into the development of our smart phones, which are being prepped for sale at under forty bucks a phone for the developing world market; the RASKos software we’ve been developing for a few years now, a free-to-the-end-user operating system that addresses security and anonymity concerns in this new era of Big Brother, available on a free license to the end user; and our most recent venture, of course, the Messier 44 space program. And so much more.”
It was an impressive sales pitch. There weren’t many men like Greg Rask in the world.
“It’s all about what you can imagine for the future. Shouldn’t everyone have access to pure drinking water? I think so, consequently we are looking into portable purifiers that can be used in artesian wells, each costing no more than a buck and lasting for a year or more before they need to be replaced. How can we tackle pollution and the problem posed by non-biodegradable plastics? It’s not about straws and plastic bags. That’s barely even the tip of the iceberg. Two thirds of the plastic we consume is through packaging and we only recycle about ten percent of that. We need to think big. Not just more recycling plants. But how do you sell it to people who most of the time couldn’t give a crap? Call it national security. Tell people that by supporting homegrown recyclate plastic industries they are guaranteeing themselves access to vital materials for their economic growth. It worked for gold in the nineteenth century. Tax reductions for industry that source recyclate material rather than virgin plastics. Put emergency taxes on virgin resin. Things like that are bigger than one man. In the long run what I want to do is transform that waste plastic into energy. In the next three years we’re opening the first four Rask Technical Labs, pharmaceutical research facilities, and we’re also developing a new kind of prosthesis for vets that is intuitive and responds as close to naturally as anything I’ve ever seen. Every cent we bring in is being channeled into trying to imagine a better future. Over the next eighteen months we’re also opening half a dozen educational facilities offering free tuition to students from poor backgrounds who show an aptitude for the sciences. And all of it paid for by people’s insatiable hunger to buy stuff.”
“I’m sure there’s some sort of metaphor for modern living in there,” Rye said.
“Absolutely. I’m lucky. I’ve always been lucky. The motivation behind everything we do at Rask these days is to make the world a better place for those who can’t afford to live in it. Not just aid programs, either. Drop-ship food in the desert, you might feed hungry people for a week. Drop-ship farming tools, seeds and such, and they can feed themselves for years. We do a goat donation program where for every five-dollar donation we provide a family with a goat so that they can produce their own milk, their own cheese; but it’s not about giving, it’s about educating, too. So, there’s sex ed programs, there’s hea
lth awareness, vaccines, you name it.”
“And you want me to be a part of this?” Rye said. “I’m not sure I’m much use unless you’re planning on flying me to somewhere I can dig a well or work as security for your doctors out there?”
“Neither of which are what I have in mind for you.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Before we get into the specifics, there’s one other thing you need to know about me; I am dying.”
“I guessed,” Rye said, “but I’m still not seeing where I come in, unless you’re looking for an heir or a kidney donor?”
“One of the many things we are working on at the moment is a series of bionic organs.”
“Like the Six Million Dollar Man?”
“But considerably more expensive,” Rask said. “We’re developing a computerized chipset that is a combination of silicon nanotechnology and living human cells that work to replicate the organ functions, so the bio-kidney would filter blood, removing waste product, the bio-liver would replicate the metabolic processes, break down fats, and produce energy. The whole idea is really quite brilliant. The bionic organs are driven by a series of microchips that essentially form a scaffold for the living cells to grow on, so that the chipset becomes a biological hybrid, much like the technology behind the Lavoisier you were driving.”
“Sounds like something out of the future.”
“Like I said, if you can imagine it, it’s just a case of developing the knowledge to make it possible. We’re still about a year or so away from human trials, but we know the science works. The chipset is capable of balancing the levels of sodium and potassium in the body, filtering waste and toxins from the bloodstream.”
“But?”
“What felt like a vague concept a decade ago is now an inevitability. Our miraculous device won’t be approved in time to save me. And I’m not ready to go yet.”
“I sympathize, but short of giving you one of my own organs, which isn’t happening, I don’t see how I come into this?”
Rask took another drink as Vic appeared over his shoulder balancing a silver tray with a French press, creamer, and single bone china cup on it and proceeded to ease down the press before he poured out a fragrant drink for Rye. “In the last year I have spent a not inconsiderable sum chasing every supposed miracle cure and wonder drug out there. You name it, I’ve tried it. Ancient Chinese dietary remedies, exercise regimen designed for body and mind, acupuncture, herbal teas, even faith healers. Experimental drugs, banned pharmaceuticals. Anything and everything. Nothing has worked.”
“I really am sorry.”
“I’m not looking for sympathy,” Rask said.
“What are you looking for?”
“A man of your unique talents,” he said. “I know you. I know your background, right down to your field of academic study. I’ve read your doctoral thesis and found it fascinating. There is so much we still don’t truly understand about our recent history, but it strikes me you are a man who knows the value of the past. Equally, I am familiar with your passion for dangerous sports and your reputation as a real-life Spider-Man. You are exactly what I am looking for, that balance of brawn and brain.”
“You’re flattering me,” Rye said. “But I’ll take it.”
Rask nodded. “I have located an antiquities dealer in Stockholm who, I believe, is in the process of restoring a painting which contains a hidden map. I am willing to pay a considerable sum of money for that piece of art.”
“I’m guessing the guy doesn’t want to sell,” Rye said. “So, what? You expect me to convince this guy to sell up? Bribery? Blackmail? Or am I supposed to steal it?”
“Rather than theft, perhaps just find out what, if not money, he truly wants for it, and broker the deal? I would leave the particulars up to you. As I said, I’ve done my due diligence, I know you are nothing if not resourceful, but I would prefer it if you didn’t break any laws. I have clearance for the Gulfstream to leave in the morning. You and Guuleed are both listed on the passenger manifest, but of course, you can still say no and walk away tonight as agreed.”
“You could send anyone to pick up that painting.”
“But I don’t want to send anyone. I want to send you.”
“And we circle right back around to the same question that’s been bugging me from the moment that courier dropped off the invitation: Why me?”
“Because you experienced something no one should ever have to. You had your own equivalent of that plane crash and walked away while the one person you loved didn’t. The invitation asked if you deserve a second chance. The wording was very specific, because until you feel that you do you will become more and more self-destructive and truly come to believe that death should be the end of your story. I’ll be honest, I’ve got no use for you if that’s the way you want to go. Perhaps it’s time to meet the rest of the team so you can make your decision?”
Rye shook his head. “I’d rather not. Let’s just say I am willing to travel, just to test the waters—what do I get out of the deal apart from this magical second chance?”
“You will be generously compensated,” Rask said, not actually offering a number.
“I’m sure, but are we talking health care, dental, 401(k), paid vacation? It would help to be able to visualize it.”
“I can help you with that.” Rask fished in his pocket for something, then tossed it across the table. The unfurled wings dug into his palm as Rye closed his hand around the Aston Martin’s key ring. “For one, the job comes with a company car.”
TEN
Rask didn’t actually give him a choice in the matter. It was a lesson in how he operated. If he thought it was time for Rye to meet the team, then it was time for Rye to meet the team, end of discussion.
He led Rye down the hallway to a drawing room where the rest of his team were unwinding.
There were four of them in there, two men, two women.
Rye nodded to them as he entered the room, feeling very much like this was the real interview.
The drawing room was anything but the classic Southern-charm plantation retreat he’d expected. Rye’s first impression was more military in nature: this was a debriefing room. It was bigger than he’d expected, too, with modern technology juxtaposed against conservative charm. One entire wall comprised twelve huge high-definition displays capable of showing either a single image as a visual mosaic or spliced into a dozen individual ones. On the second wall there were heavy antique bookcases filled with priceless first editions and folio editions. Recessed spotlights were set into the ceiling. They were dimmed low.
The room was dominated by antique leather armchairs and a Chesterfield couch that was being used as a bed by a very tall black man.
The rest of Rask’s team sat in three of the four armchairs.
Rask did the introductions.
The man lying on the couch was Carter Vickers, a thief. Carter didn’t look much like a thief, but then what was a thief supposed to look like? He was a good four inches taller than Rye, reed thin, and radiated confidence. The half smile he offered Rye made him look like someone used to trying and failing to charm himself out of trouble.
Next to him was Olivia Meyer. She was pure Celtic fire with an almost albino-white complexion, her shoulder-length flame-red hair framing fine bones and heart-shaped lips. She was born in Cork, her father from a small town just outside Waterford, her mother from the ice of northern Sweden, and Olivia herself was a curious blend of both gene pools, fire and ice. Her Celtic heritage was obvious in her features, while her Swedish side manifested itself in other ways, most of them skin-deep, including a ruthless calm. Olivia Meyer was a linguistics expert, fluent in a dozen tongues, and specializing in dead languages.
On the other side of the room, Iskra Zima inclined her head in greeting when Rask reached her. Iskra was a Russian defector raised to be a Cold War weapon long after the Cold War had supposedly ended. Before she defected, she was GRU, part of the Sixth Directorate in Syria, ex–Soviet in
telligence. She had trained in martial arts and tradecraft, and was by far the most dangerous person in the room. She had lived the kind of life that carved itself out on every inch of her skin. Rye had the distinct impression that the Russian only smiled when she wanted to emphasize just how eager she was to hurt you.
“What is it with you people and your unpronounceable names? First Vic, now you. I’m going to get your name wrong every time I try and say it, so I’m just going to call you Ice, if that works for you?”
“It is appropriate,” she said, a trace of the Russian still in her accent. She sounded cultured.
They, each of them, had their own stories, of course, their own flaws. They were all broken, like him. Vic had made a point of telling him how Rask collected people that he believed deserved a second chance—meaning at one time or another each of these people had received the same black card and a visit from Vic asking if they deserved a second shot at life.
And then there was Jeremiah Byrne, the cuckoo in this nest of soldiers. He was a space archaeologist, though what that entailed was beyond Rye.
“I use satellite telemetry to search for remnants of lost civilizations.”
“Okay, that sounds pretty cool, actually,” Rye said, nodding.
“Most recently, I discovered proof of an entire lost city within the Amazon rain forest, which is what brought me here.”
“Nice. Lost cities. Very Indiana Jones.”
“He is also something of a tech guru,” Rask said. “Newsweek once called him the man who broke the internet.” Which had Byrne rolling his eyes, but he didn’t deny it, Rye noticed.
“Perhaps you should tell us who the fuck you are?” Carter said, grinning. “Fair’s fair, after all.”
“Not much to tell,” Rye said.
“Oh, don’t be so modest,” Rask told him. “One of the youngest competitors in the Vendée Globe yacht race—”
