Silence. Then: “Ah. Please proceed to reception.”
Stern steps back. Sam parks his bike, then makes his way toward the entrance.
The building’s interior is ultramodern and well kept. Electric current darkens the exterior glass walls, except in a series of translucent rectangles that frame artful images of consumer products, backlit by the sun. The atrium could be a church but for the wholly secular subject matter depicted in the simulated stained glass.
A talking head, modeled after popular film starlet Gong Dugong, greets Sam as he enters and directs him to take a seat. The Gong bot is seated behind a desk that’s merely a concession to nostalgia; she can’t actually use it because her molded-rubber body is mannequin rather than machine.
Comfortable as the waiting area appears, Sam stays standing. For a moment, he watches the holographic projection that hovers above the coffee table. It’s an episode of America’s Funniest Surveillance. But he’s seen it already. He wanders back toward the bank of elevators.
On the granite wall between the first set of mirrored doors, there’s a display panel. Sam asks for the directory. “Where can I find Dr. Xian Mako’s office?” he inquires.
“Room 1427,” a pleasant voice answers.
Not seeing a call button, he asks for the elevator.
“Voice print not found,” the voice responds.
Sam sighs. He’s about to return to the waiting area when an elevator behind him opens and several employees emerge. He steps inside. The doors close.
For several minutes, he waits, staring at the hardened-rubber floor in an effort to keep his face off camera. There are columns of buttons on either side of the door. He doesn’t push them, knowing the fingerprint sensor won’t recognize him.
Finally, the doors open and a middle-aged man steps inside. He presses seven on the right-hand panel.
Sam pretends to push fourteen on the opposite panel. “Busted,” he laments, exaggerating his rasp to suggest laryngitis. He coughs piteously and adds, “It’s fourteen.”
The elevator starts to ascend. The man presses fourteen. Both buttons light up.
Sam scrapes out a “Thanks.”
The man shrugs, but says nothing. At the seventh floor, he gets off.
The elevator continues to rise. The doors slide open at the fourteenth floor. Just beyond is a security checkpoint. It’s manned by a machine, another Honda bot. Sam remains in the elevator and waits for someone to call it back down to the lobby. Stepping out, he resumes his seat in the waiting area as if he’s just arrived.
Moments later, an awkward little man approaches. “Mr. Crane?” he asks.
“Sam is fine.”
“Martin Quoll,” the man replies, manicured hand extended. “I apologize for the delay.”
“No problem.”
“You said you had news about Dr. Mako?”
“I take it no one contacted you?”
“Is he alright?” Martin takes a seat. “He didn’t show up for work yesterday or the day before. We were just going to report him missing.”
“He’s not so much missing as dead.”
Martin grimaces. “How?”
“That’s what I’m investigating. Would you mind answering a few questions?”
Martin hesitates. “Everyone here is under a pretty strict NDA.”
Sam nods sympathetically. “I’m not asking you to violate the terms of your agreement, just to help me see justice done for your colleague.”
“Alright. FYI, I log directly to the Homeland Defense Office.”
“So you’re the Commissar here.”
A blank look. “The what?”
“Sorry, ancient history.”
“Lauren,” Martin says to his agent, “define ‘Commissar.’”
The voice of Lauren Bacall answers, “During the Soviet era, a Commissar was an official of the Communist Party in charge of political indoctrination and the enforcement of party loyalty.”
“I get it,” Martin says, vaguely amused. “But this is different. I’m a Federal Monitor.”
“Right.” Scratching his head, Sam puzzles over where to begin. “I’ve been trying to find out about Dr. Mako for the past two days. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to hide his records.”
“Really? Seems like an exercise in futility these days, with every heartbeat stored in a database somewhere.”
“It’s only a matter of time,” Sam agrees, in part for his own reassurance. “But I think it’s just that—a delaying tactic. You can help by telling me about the sort of work he did here.”
“Eye design, among other things.”
“Is there a big market for eyes?”
“In developing nations, yes. And among the geriatric set.”
“Anything else?”
“He led the team that developed Paralaxe.”
“Which is?”
“A nerve bond. It’s used for rapid transplantation—”
“You mean using that…uh, cherry picking thing?” The thought of it makes Sam squirm.
“Yes. It’s also used to restore vision in those whose optic nerve has deteriorated or been severed.”
“That’s available now. So it was developed a few years ago?”
Martin nods.
“What’s he been working on recently?”
“He just returned from sabbatical last month. He was doing some consulting work for Zvista.”
Sam leans forward. “He was?”
“Yes. Is that significant?”
Sam rubs his eyes. “I don’t know. Did Dr. Mako have any enemies?”
“Like all of the prominent scientists here, he got his share of death threats,” Martin says, stroking his chin. “Mostly religious fanatics and anti-capitalist agitators. But we usually ignore those. Actually, you’d be surprised how many people pay under the table to have themselves threatened. Stalkers mean status, not to mention a tax deduction for security expenses.”
Sam grins. “I know. I used to do celebrity defense: My posse’s bigger than yours.”
“Ever noticed that every time a star has a picture opening, there’s a reported assassination attempt, a kidnapping, or a terrorist threat against someone in the cast?”
“The real crime is marketing,” Sam muses.
“The Terrorism of Desire.”
The phrase unsettles Sam. “Did you just make that up?”
A laugh. “No, that’s the title of the show.” Martin points at the stained-glass images near the entrance.
“I wondered about those. A bit better than your average probonos.”
“That’s not advertising, it’s art.”
“Soup cans and sex?” Sam purses his lips in mockery. “Is there a difference?”
“Just a couple million dollars. These are straight from the Museum of Modern Art. Next week, they’re off to Berlin. If you ask me, Amy’s work is pretty good.” He grins. “Of course, I have to say that, since her old man is tight with the boss.”
Sam does a double take. “Do you mean Amy Ibis?”
“Yep. Do you know her?”
“No, but maybe I should. She’s Harris Cayman’s daughter, right?”
Martin nods.
“And your boss?” Sam can’t remember his name.
“Bernard Loris.”
“What’s his relationship with Cayman?”
“They golf together. Down at Exxon Mobil’s Pebble Beach. I coordinate security on occasion.”
“Do you know the last time they saw each other?”
“Probably back in January, at the opening of Amy’s show.”
There’s a gentle beep from Sam’s collar speaker. “Hello again, Sam,” says Marilyn, full of cheer.
Martin looks perplexed. “Whose voice is that again?”
Sam’s mind is elsewhere. He’s trying to picture the photo of Cayman and Amy at the museum. The date read January, didn’t it? “Marilyn,” he says finally. “Search yesterday’s audio log. Find instances of the word ‘January.’ Replay each utteran
ce.”
“Right, Marilyn Monroe,” Martin says.
Matsushima’s voice: “January 21, 2050.”
“Stop.” Sam turns to Martin. “That’s the night Dr. Mako dined at the Aquamarine restaurant, I believe with some colleagues from Biopt. That’s also the night Amy’s show opened, isn’t it?”
Martin considers the question for a moment. “Right. The twenty-first.”
“Did Dr. Mako attend the opening?”
“I think so. He was friendly with Harris Cayman.”
“Pardon me, Sam,” Marilyn says, “but you asked me to remind you of your eleven o’clock appointment with the FBI. It’s now 10:20. You’d know that if you were wearing a Sony TimeBand, now available for only $399.”
“Thanks, Marilyn.” Sam looks back at Martin. “You mind if I call you if any further questions arise?”
“Not at all. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you keep me informed of your progress. I think everyone here would like to know what happened to Dr. Mako.”
Sam’s face lights up. “Do they want to know enough to fund a full investigation? The good doctor didn’t leave anything for legal services in his will, and the police franchise in charge only has resources for a limited inquiry.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Even if the brass won’t approve it, I bet some of his colleagues will want to pitch in.”
Sam stands and shakes Martin’s hand. “I appreciate it.”
Isolated from the network, the interrogation room at the FBI’s field office in San Francisco proves unexpectedly relaxing. Though the spartan décor leaves something to be desired, the visual vacuum fills Sam with a sense of well-being. It’s not simply the absence of ads, but the silence and the sunlight slipping in through the skylight above. The air too; filtered to prevent bioterrorism, it’s fjord-fresh. The Feds could make a killing renting the place out for meditation.
A grim man in a baggy suit arrives. That he’s balding despite the available treatments suggests a religious aversion to genetic self-help. Chances are he’s a Mormon, given the FBI’s tendency to recruit from God-fearing Utah. In contrast to his clothing, his skin is scalpel-tight. Sam considers suggesting that he have his tailor and his plastic surgeon better coordinate how things fit, but decides against getting off on the wrong foot.
“No need to get up,” the man says, though Sam gives him no indication that he plans to stand. “I’m Dr. Stephen Ursa, Director of Counter-Terrorism for the Western Regional District.” He sits opposite Sam and rests his forearms on the table.
“Sam Crane. But you probably know more about me than I do.”
“Indeed.” Crossing his arms, Stephen stares at Sam.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“No. Just observing.”
Sam shrugs. “Usually you travel in packs.”
“You’re a very cocky man,” Stephen declares. “I was watching your little performance with Agents Gibbon and Indri. You seem to think us fools.”
“Just Indri. Gibbon was more on the ball.”
Stephen strangles a smile. “You’re playing with fire.”
“If only I had some marshmallows.”
Silence. “I have my limits, you know.”
Sam is unfazed. “Are we there yet?”
“Alright, an olive branch: Our first contact could have been handled better. For that, I’m sorry. But you were being an ass.”
“It may surprise you to know that I have rights.”
“You’d do better with a gas mask.”
Sam narrows his eyes. “Is that what this is about? Bioterrorism?”
Stephen slides his tablet across the table. On the screen, there’s a crisp surveillance photo of a now-familiar face taken from overhead, a satellite shot. The image is composed of unusual colors, with infrared and ultraviolet light mapped to the visible spectrum. “Emil Caddis has ties to an Algerian terrorist cell that we’ve been monitoring. On Sunday, they went quiet.”
“And you’re expecting an explosive initial public offering?”
“So to speak.”
“Well, I have seen him, but I had no idea who he was.”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday, at Aquamarine. I walked past him on the stairs.”
“And last night, at the festival?”
“Yeah. Again, we passed each other in the crowd.”
“What about the night before?”
“Monday night?” Sam’s mind flashes back to the image of Jacob’s dog Duke, still as a statue, eyes dimmed. “I was busy dealing with the police.”
“What for?”
“My neighbor was murdered.”
“What time?”
“Just after eight.”
Shaking his head in dismay, Stephen asks, “Why didn’t anyone pick this up?”
Sam’s puzzlement fades when he realizes his inquisitor is addressing a remote listener.
“Enough excuses,” Stephen snaps, then turns back to Sam. “What was the victim’s name?”
“Jacob Gaur.”
“Look him up,” Stephen says to his distant colleagues.
Sam peers across the table at the picture of Emil Caddis. The well-groomed Algerian seems to be staring back at the satellite, watching him. Perhaps he’s scanning for low-flying drones. There’s no way to tell.
The numbers on the screen are more revealing: latitude and longitude. They’re familiar because they’re very close to the numbers printed on parcels delivered to Sam’s conto. Caddis couldn’t have been more than a few yards outside of Sam’s home when the picture was taken.
“Let’s assume Caddis killed your neighbor,” Stephen says. “Why would he?”
The coldness of the question annoys Sam. Like he’s a cow being milked for information. He’s only ever seen cows in commercials, but an image from one of the ads sticks in his brain: a bewildered animal in the grip of a machine.
“I wish I knew.” Sam knows he’s treading on thin ice. He’s telling the truth, but only just. With a few wires to his head, they’d see how much he’s withholding. He weighs telling them more, but decides the information has to flow both ways.
“You have no idea?” Stephen sounds skeptical.
“You’re the one’s tracking Caddis,” Sam answers. “What’s your theory?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the investigation.”
“So put me on the payroll,” Sam suggests with a grin. “I could help you a lot more if you told me what was going on.”
“We don’t work that way.” Stephen nods, but not at Sam. “You can go.”
“Are we done?”
“For now.” Stephen says, his lips bent in a cruel smile. He stands abruptly and hurries out.
“Where’s the fire?” Sam asks, but he gets no response.
As forecast, it’s clear and sunny outside, with high ad visibility. Sam stops on the steps of the FBI building and looks back. Why did they bother to summon him? Slap on the wrist for running? Or did they really believe he knew something about this terrorist? No doubt their systems saw a connection not apparent to him.
Sam heads across the street to a falafel vendor. The franchise operator stands beside his bicycle-stove chimera, soliciting business in the face of financial-district distrust. American flag stickers adorn his hybrid bike, as if to apologize for the operator’s ethnicity.
After listening to a fairly convincing food pedigree—lab of origin, trace toxins, genetic enhancements, and the like—delivered by a reluctant Marilyn, who tries to convince him to try Fa-La-La-Fel’s a half mile away, Sam authorizes a debit and receives what turns out to be a rather tasty concoction.
“How’s business?” Sam asks without really wanting to know.
“It’s like I’m invisible,” the man says with a Spanish accent.
Sam does a double take and grins.
“What?”
“Nothing, I just thought you were Iranian or something. You know, with the falafels and all.”
“You want to know why I
’m selling falafels?” the man asks. “Because I can’t afford to license the burrito recipe. The Mexican Food Marketing Association has its agents scouring the streets for unlicensed burritos. They come around with their dogs. I don’t stand a chance.”
Sam nods sympathetically. Just getting a pushcart license from the city requires extreme valor. The tangle of intellectual property issues could only make the experience more frustrating. “You could sell a derivative product and call it something else,” he suggests.
The man musters a skeptical look. “A what?”
“Like they do with wraps. Burritos in everything but name. So a few ingredients are different. You register a recipe with, say, bacon and call it a ‘bacquito’ or something like that.”
“A bacon burrito? I don’t know, man.”
“Bacquito, not burrito. You’ve not selling burritos. That’s what you say when the inspectors come by. Now, you can always sell a bacon-free bacquito. Variations are allowed; it’s a loophole. Your recipe just has to be registered and branded differently.”
A smile creeps across the man’s face. “Is that true?”
“Absolutely. But you should consult a gastronomic licensing attorney, to make sure they don’t find some other way to get you.”
“Could you recommend someone?” The falafel vendor sounds unsure.
“Tara Skate. She’s a partner over at Mallard & Starling. She helped a friend of mine who was trying to get around the caramel cartel. The guy ended up selling confectionary caulking as a novelty item because Food Science has a lock on shelf space for sweets. It did pretty well for a while, until some illiterate sued because he couldn’t read the label that warned him not to use it for construction.”
The man reaches over to shake Sam’s hand. “I will do that. Thank you. You come by again, lunch is free. My name is Hugo.”
“Sam.”
In a pedestrian alley half a block up, Sam buys ten minutes from a bench meter, sits, and busies himself with lunch.
Across the alley, a ‘gent stands motionless, arm outstretched. Quite tall, he’s wearing a tattered football jersey. Wads of duct tape hug his knees. A donation router sits at his feet and a makeshift cardboard visor perches atop his black plastic sunglasses.
Oversight Page 8
