Borderless (An Analog Novel Book 2)

by Eliot Peper

  To complement the data she already had, Diana had pulled satellite imagery and sent a handful of drones to buzz the property. But security here was tight, federal tight, and the drones had been jammed or destroyed before they’d captured anything more than kilometer after kilometer of alpine rivers snaking through dense pine forest. Despite her rigorous profiling, Diana knew little more than the obvious, that this was an oligarch’s extravagant lair.

  She wanted to reach out to every security contractor she knew, assemble a small army of hard-eyed specops vets, splurge on top gear, call in every favor, snatch Helen and Dag and Lowell and whoever else was in on this mess, secret them away in an anonymous warehouse in the middle of an industrial wasteland, pump them for everything she could, and then leave their bodies to disintegrate in an acid vat. But the invitation had precluded such a glorious scenario.

  Reaching into her jacket pocket, she ran a finger along the edge of the card. She remembered the gritty wetness of the soil on her fingers, the ache in her knees, the sweaty shirt sticking to her back. Her garden was where she licked her wounds, where she escaped her past, where she found the occasional fleeting glimpse of peace. The void its absence had left behind reminded her that there was no place that was truly safe. The slip of paper in her pocket was a far more dangerous threat than any arsenal Diana could mobilize. They knew where she lived. They knew what she loved. They knew just how to get to her. Helen knew all these things and more.

  How did Helen know these things? The answer was obvious. Dag.

  He hadn’t been her boyfriend, or any kind of friend at all. The tender words, constant affection, even the inevitable friction had been nothing but a front. Dag had succeeded where Haruki had failed. Starting out green and full of enthusiasm, he’d absorbed her lessons in tradecraft until his subtlety had surpassed her own. He had forged himself into a weapon, and Helen had pointed that weapon at her prodigal protégé, yanking Diana back into her all-encompassing orbit. Diana had lacquered on layer upon layer of protection, wrapped subterfuge around herself like a cloak. Her cottage was a safe house. Every one of her agents was isolated. Each saw only one of many masks that she donned and doffed with ease. She had thought herself unassailable, exiled by her stubborn conscience and sheltered by enforced irrelevance, relegated to scavenge for whatever scraps of intrigue she could access freelance. Yet at the end of the day, all it had taken to break her down was a hot piece of ass and some half-decent pancakes.

  Leaning over the gunwale, she spat into the churn of the bow wave. Steep hills rose from the far shore of the lake, their slopes covered with spruce and fir. They were dwarfed by the jagged peak behind them, fingers of snow threading between scree and rocky ridges. Clouds massed above the mountain range, mounds and whorls piling on top of each other, filling the immense sky, front-lit by the setting sun, bearing down on the lake, the coagulated darkness in their midst promising a violent alpine thunderstorm.

  Stray pieces fell into place. Sean, Rachel, Lowell, Javier, even Hsu, everyone associated with this job had some connection to Dag. When Dag had left Apex after trading Emily and Javier’s exploit for a global carbon tax, he hadn’t just puttered around drawing all day long. He’d found new employment immediately, attached himself to Helen, and gone undercover to become Diana’s Achilles’ heel.

  Helen must have pitched him after Diana’s root access to Dag’s feed had been revoked. That meant after Diana had reported her findings to Dag, revealed that Emily and Javier had been manipulating his digital life just as effectively as any of their other targets’. She clenched her teeth. Dag would have had just enough time to draw that portrait of her, to work up a sappy act that would play off her flirtatious teasing in time for that meeting on Indian Rock. It had been nothing but a show. They must have had a great time laughing at how easily he’d seduced her, how quickly he’d found his way into her bed and her supposedly hidden life. From then on, Helen had held Diana in the palm of her hand.

  The whole time, Dag must have secretly despised Diana, seen her as hopelessly naive for believing in him. Diana knew better than anyone how obsessed he’d been with Emily. Why would that obsession wane? Maybe while Diana was off on a mission, Dag had conducted a covert affair, meeting the bitch in some obscure boudoir for carnal celebrations of Diana’s credulity.

  Pathetic. That’s what she was. And now Helen had found a use for her. She whistled, and Diana came running. Just like old times.

  The prow cut through the still water of the lake, slicing apart the landscape reflected on its surface. The boat navigated toward a long dock that thrust out from a shoreline fringed with trembling reeds. A pedestrian path led up from the dock through a perfectly manicured lawn and numerous connected patios to what could only be called a palace.

  The Ranch was a confection of stone and wood, complete with countless arches, levels, wings, turrets, and balconies that soared and sprawled at the whim of an architect whose only mandate had been excess. A vast boathouse lay on one side and an equestrian center on the other, the lofty crags providing a dramatic backdrop for the estate. It was beautiful and grotesque in its self-aware opulence. And there, standing on the dock, giving her a jaunty wave as the boat piloted itself to a smooth stop, was its master.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Welcome to my humble abode.” Lowell beamed and extended a hand.

  Diana ignored the offer of help and stepped onto the dock.

  “More like gauche,” she said. “Has nobody taught you the virtue of restraint?”

  Lowell clapped his hands. “Delightful,” he said. “I thought we were off to a strong start, but I was a bit worried the residual alcohol in my system made the memory of your nighttime visit more entertaining than you actually were. Straight off the boat and you’ve relieved that niggling anxiety. Bravo.”

  “I came here for answers,” she said. “Not to be your dancing monkey.”

  He raised a finger. “Entertainment and utility aren’t mutually exclusive. But fear not, there’s no gala this evening. We’re dancing in a show far bigger than even my little hideout could contain. Needless to say, you’re the star.”

  Diana considered drilling him with questions but thought better of it. Let Lowell stand there grinning in his tuxedo. Helen was here somewhere. She was the one Diana had to focus on. Lowell was brash, greedy, and daring, but Helen would have him wrapped around her pinkie. Diana would save her energy for the battle that really mattered.

  Lowell led Diana up the path toward the mansion, peppering her with small talk, obviously gloating over how their positions had reversed so quickly. Diana responded automatically, reviewing the meager data she’d been able to dredge up about Helen in her feed. Helen was a senior adviser to President Lopez, a position that gave her the perfect excuse to have a hand in everything while never risking the awkward attention of formally running an agency. She had played similar roles in every administration since she’d been elevated from deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Helen was one of DC’s few perennial keystones, too well connected for anyone to ignore. Her picture rarely found its way into the feed headlines, but her influence shaped most major decisions.

  It was Helen’s extreme competence that had drawn Diana to her in the first place, that had made Diana so eager to seek her guidance and ride up the ladder on her coattails. Like capital, power compounded. When Diana last saw Helen a decade earlier, the older woman had just made herself the most powerful person in Washington. Dominance would have accreted in the intervening years, solidifying her hold on the nation’s reins.

  Diana still felt the echoes of shock from the morning after her last visit to the Oval. President Freeman was in cardiac arrest. The best cardiology experts in the country were treating him. The press corps ran live streams all day, grave doctors delivering meaningless updates, unable or unwilling to elaborate beyond their prepared statements on the president’s condition. Early the next morning, he was pronounced dead.

  President Freeman hadn’t been part
icularly popular in life, but death deified him. Washington grieved its lost leader. But power abhors a vacuum, and Lopez realized the secret dream and deepest fear of any vice president, taking the office Freeman had vacated. An intelligent young progressive, Lopez desperately needed a guide to help him navigate the DC labyrinth. Helen was right there, ready to take his hand.

  At first Diana had beaten back suspicion with outright denial. Helen might have complained bitterly about Freeman shutting her out, but she was a patriot. Patriots understood that the country was bigger than their personal ambitions. Patriots bided their time and waited for the next elected official to woo. But the more Diana tamped down her anxiety, the more it spread. It was a weed that kept coming back, larger and more invasive each time. Soon she was losing sleep over it, staring at the ceiling of her DC apartment and refusing to consider the conspiracy that consumed her thoughts.

  For no reason she could fathom, Diana hit the breaking point at an organic market in Georgetown. As she picked up a too-ripe avocado, felt the pebbled skin give under her fingers, she decided that the only way to escape her obsession was to indulge it. She would dig her teeth in and, finding nothing, return to more quotidian cloaks and daggers.

  It wasn’t nothing. Diana’s quiet inquiries revealed that her fears were well founded. The president’s toxicology report, autopsy, and reported symptoms were the precise species of nothing promised by the black market biochemist in Buenos Aires. The doctors declared it natural causes, but only because of their ignorance of the new category of synthetic compound that Diana had smuggled into the country, into the White House, in a diplomatic pouch. It was too much to be mere correlation.

  “We have an issue.” The wide main doors of the manor swung open at their approach, a severe woman in a conservative suit standing immediately inside, arms crossed. “Lito says they’re coming up dry.”

  Lowell rolled his eyes theatrically. “Diana, this is Freja. I believe you’ve corresponded during previous collaborations. She’s the real captain of this ship. Freja, Diana is our guest. We’ll have more than enough time to attend to Lito.”

  Freja gave Diana a perfunctory look. Freja was Lowell’s unofficial chief of staff, a consummate operator, and the engine that turned his schemes into reality. Without Freja, Lowell was just a madman. Without Lowell, Freja was just a freakishly compulsive organizer.

  “Let’s get on with it, then,” she said, Danish lilt loaded with disdain. Her heels clicked on the tile floor as she stalked away across the vast atrium.

  “Lovely to meet you too,” said Diana. “It’s a genuine pleasure to experience your vivacious personality face-to-face.”

  Lowell failed to cover a snort. Freja strode on, impervious.

  They walked through a maze of halls and galleries, each parlor dedicated to a particular game. Basketball memorabilia filled one, ivory chessboards the next, StarCraft loot the one after that, complete with antique desktop computers and a painfully reconstructed local area network so that visitors could boot up and play the original classic without feed intermediation. There was a sudoku nook, a martial arts dojo, and a beer pong alcove. Lowell’s fascination with games clearly went beyond poker and five finger fillet.

  Diana half expected to find Dag around every corner, lazily twirling a mini-golf club, grinning like a starved hyena as he surveyed his too-gullible target. But asking Lowell about Dag would show that she cared, thereby reinforcing his advantage. Better to hold her peace, as if his violation of everything she held dear hadn’t affected her.

  Seeing her look, Lowell shrugged. “What’s money for if not to indulge passion?”

  “I wish you’d stay focused on the only game that really matters,” said Freja over her shoulder. “We have more than enough to handle without these childish distractions.”

  “We’ve got a kind of love-hate thing going on,” said Lowell impishly. “She hates me. I love her.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” said Freja. “You’re not interesting enough to inspire hatred.” She shot a glance back over her shoulder at Diana. “You, on the other hand, have a lot more going on. How did you breach security at the Hay-Adams? We obviously need to update our protocols.”

  “A magician never reveals her tricks,” said Diana.

  “Who’s working for whom?” Freja glared.

  “Don’t flatter yourself either,” said Diana. “Neither of you are in charge here.” She shrugged. “Plus, I don’t teach kindergarten.” They rounded a corner and came face-to-face with two Secret Service agents flanking a doorway. “Why don’t you ask these assholes? They spend their whole careers worrying about attack vectors.”

  One of the agents leaned over and opened the door. Diana’s breath caught in her throat as they stepped through into a dining hall. One entire wall was glass. Beyond it, the vanguard of clouds rolled in over the lake, plunging it into an eerie darkness broken only by angled shafts of dying light from the setting sun. Thunder growled in the distance. At the end of a long wooden table, a woman stood, perfectly relaxed, blonde curls tumbling over her shoulders, hands clasped behind her back, staring out over the wind-whipped water.

  CHAPTER 18

  “Where are we supposed to sit, then?” asked Lowell, gesturing at the table that could seat thirty but was set for two.

  Helen turned to face them. There were crow’s-feet around her eyes, and her skin had a papery quality to it, but otherwise she could have stepped right out of Diana’s memory.

  “Oh, Lowell,” she said. “We girls have some catching up to do. Reunions can be so sentimental, and I wouldn’t want to bore you and Freja. We’ll take dinner alone, and perhaps you two can join us for a drink later. How’s that?”

  The musical cadence of Helen’s Southern accent sent a tremor through Diana. That sweet voice was both the angel and the devil on her shoulder. The honeyed tones, at odds with their realpolitik deployment, had suffused countless briefings, postmortems, and intimate confessions.

  “Oh, don’t worry about us,” said Lowell, with forced levity. “We’d enjoy a trip down memory lane. We’ll all get to know each other better that way.”

  “I’ll have Walter lay the extra settings,” said Freja flatly.

  Helen let her baby-blue eyes fall on Lowell.

  “Actually, Freja, don’t bother,” he said. “Let’s leave them to it. We can check in with Lito in the meantime, see if we can get anywhere with his problem.”

  “Such a gracious host, as ever,” said Helen. “Lovely man, am I right?”

  “Charming,” said Diana.

  Lowell offered them a pained smile and a half bow before departing with Freja.

  As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Helen was striding over to Diana, arms wide, a bright smile illuminating her face. Diana stood frozen, hating herself for her impotence, for feeling like an antelope trembling in the presence of a lioness. Helen wrapped her in a tight hug, pressing cheek to cheek, the heady scent of her perfume, magnolia with a hint of musk, setting off a confused rush of nostalgia and panic inside Diana.

  “Maria, darling,” she said, pulling back to hold Diana at arm’s length. “It has been far too long. What a blessing to see you again after all these years.”

  Maria. Something cracked inside Diana, and visions flooded through the gap. A spoonful of kiselo mlyako melting on her tongue. Playing hide-and-seek in the ruined fortress. Neighbors whispering dark tidings. The squeeze of her grandmother’s sinewy hand on her shoulder. An ache that never truly went away. No one else called her by her birth name. It felt anomalous even to Diana’s innermost self, the name of a little girl lost in the past, the name of a stranger. She could count the people who knew it on one hand. But whenever they were alone, Helen never failed to use it, to reinforce the truism that nothing was beyond her reach.

  Diana had to speak, had to say something, had to fend off the awful truth that she was out of her depth. Prying herself away from the tangle of memories, she focused on keeping her voice even and light, devoid of
the dread hovering just below the surface.

  “I honestly thought the day might never come,” said Diana, looking into eyes whose apparent innocence was the greatest lie ever told.

  “Every once in a while, fate smiles upon us.” Helen squeezed Diana’s shoulders. “And when it does, we can’t afford to ignore it. Now”—she clapped her hands—“come sit. I’ve had the chef prepare our favorite. It’ll be just like old times, even as we’re on the brink of new ones.”

  As they walked down the length of the table, something teased at the edge of Diana’s consciousness, something familiar and alien, comforting and sinister. She scanned the room. The table was fashioned from a single cross-sectional cut from the trunk of an old-growth tree, the concentric rings implying untold seasons of drought and plenty. Lightning illuminated the undersides of the clouds outside like a match lit in a cavern. Thunder growled in its wake. Fat raindrops began to fall in an uncoordinated pitter-patter. But it wasn’t sight or even sound that was raising Diana’s hackles. It was something else, something about Helen’s perfume, or some complementary scent playing counterpoint to her perfume, a textured fragrance of grape and banana, so sweet it cooled Diana’s breath when she inhaled.

  And then she saw it. A vase at the far end of the table where their place settings were laid. Long, wide petals the color of oranges and cream falling loosely into a rough globe. Native to the Himalayan foothills of Southeast Asia. Blooms year-round in tropical and subtropical climates. Minimum temperature tolerance around negative one degree Celsius. A key ingredient in the production of the world’s most expensive perfumes. Michelia champaca. A bouquet of Michelia champaca. A bouquet of Diana’s Michelia champaca. The notches on the fourth petal of one of the flowers, the arrangement of the broad green leaves, the specific hue and maturity of the flowers. These had been cut from the tree that had once graced her greenhouse.