Sam recognizes him immediately: Dr. Stephen Ursa. “I believe this is what you’re looking for,” he says, holding up the black glasses case. “I am going to walk down the stairs and place these glasses on the sidewalk. You’re going to take them. And then you’re going to go.”
“That’s not the way we do business,” says Stephen.
“I suggest you consider a policy change, then,” Sam says, descending the steps. “If you’re here for the glasses, they’re yours. If you’re here to arrest me because you want a trophy, it’s not going to go as well.”
“We don’t bargain, Mr. Crane.”
As if on cue, arms tense, clothing rustles, and weapons click. Gun barrels stare back at Sam. Unlike eyes, they see death without reflection.
“What’s it going to be?” Stephen demands.
Sam longs to fight. The thought of being able to call down the wrath of the heavens is almost too much to forego. With a gesture from him, it would all end in fire. Cayman’s words haunt him: “You call down God’s damnation because you long for his power.”
Sam knows he does. Yet, there’s something more. Though he hears Cayman’s words, he sees his daughter’s face. More than God’s power, he craves mercy.
At the bottom of the steps, Sam closes his eyes and kneels.
Hands slam Sam to the ground and pull the glasses case from his grasp. They bend his arms back and tie them with plastic restraints. Someone slips a Faraday bag over his head to isolate him from the network. It smells like sweat and metal. Forcing him up, the agents maneuver him toward and into a waiting air car.
Gyring skyward, bound and blind, Sam feels free.
After what seems an interminable wait, Dr. Ursa finally removes the bag from Sam’s head. Up close, his surgically tightened skin suddenly makes sense; Sam now sees that he must have been burned at some point. The reconstruction appears to have been done well.
Sam is sitting in a small interrogation room with a stainless-steel table and two matching chairs. His hands are still bound behind his back. The scent of bleach is strong enough to sting. The room is bright and windowless. A single steel door offers the only way out. Stephen stands beside it.
“Why am I here?” Sam asks.
“Because we need to talk,” Stephen answers.
“I’m getting tired of being questioned.”
“This isn’t an interrogation. It’s a negotiation.”
“Then would you mind untying my hands?”
“I don’t have anything to cut the restraints at the moment.” Stephen shifts his weight and folds his arms. “But your answers here will determine whether I am motivated to free you.”
“I feel like a contestant on Who Wants Someone Else’s Money?”
Stephen offers a polite smile, creating strange creases in his too-smooth face. “Do you recall asking me to put you on the payroll?”
“I say stupid things sometimes.”
“Perhaps,” Stephen concedes, “but that particular idea has merit now. We know a lot more than we did when last you and I spoke. You’re our best shot at securing Amy Ibis.”
Sam is puzzled. “I thought you were after Emil Caddis?”
“Oh, we are after Emil. We’re always after Emil. He’ll be eliminated as soon as we have Ms. Ibis. Get to her and we get to him.”
“And how does Amy fit into this?”
“She’s the key to Harris Cayman. You know that.”
Sam glares. “What a low bunch of bastards you are.”
Stephen nods. “Something you have experience with, I realize. If you want our help freeing Fiona, you’ll do as we ask. Time is short and the stakes are high.”
“Cayman is already keeping Fiona safe, so to speak.”
“Who do you think has more pull, your government or a rogue advertising magnate?”
Sam waits a long time before answering. He decides to gamble on the building being radio-proof. “Show me that my daughter is safe and I’ll cooperate.”
Stephen beckons toward the door and Sam follows, hands still tied. They leave the cellblock and walk past blast doors and a guard bot into an expanse of shoulder-high cubicles. He asks a colleague for a pair of scissors and cuts the plastic ties binding Sam’s hands.
Sam rubs his still-striated wrists. Surveying the maze of office dividers, he sees heads rise into view, move, then drop out of sight. It reminds him of the Whac-A-Mole game he played at carnivals as a child.
Handing the scissors back, Stephen asks the agent to show Sam the Zvista feed on his daughter.
“What room is your daughter in?” the agent asks.
“Room 305,” Stephen interjects.
The FBI agent addresses his network agent. Fiona appears on the monitor, complete with a readout of all the patient diagnostic information that is supposed to be available only to parents, spouses, domestic partners, insurance companies, and pharmaceutical marketers. She seems so serene.
Sam watches for a moment, then nods. The image reveals nothing; everything on the monitor could be faked. But he has to accept it. To do otherwise would lead to violence and probably his death. He turns away and says, “Okay.”
The remote operations room in the downtown office of the FBI is impressive. Once an art-deco movie palace, it’s now home to a sophisticated audiovisual nerve center dominated by three giant video screens that display live feeds from agents in the field. Over a dozen operators with earpieces, goggles, and feedback gloves provide assistance to those they’re monitoring. Today, they’re mostly watching the show. Several agents have bags of microwave popcorn.
Stephen explains that the operation on the central screen is being run directly by the CIA in Langley, Virginia. The intelligence agency is providing a feed to sister agencies as a courtesy. The image comes from one of the agency’s drones in Venezuela.
Treetops scroll off the bottom of the screen. Afternoon sky fills the top. Jungle birds scatter. A clearing appears in the distance. There’s a building there. It moves slowly closer. The jungle ambience sounds compressed.
A burst of white light fills the frame and the drone’s exposure sensor tries to compensate. In the building’s place stands a smoking ruin.
“OOO,” one of the agents in the audience says with exaggerated awe, eliciting a few chuckles. Sam gets the joke. O.O.O. stands for Offensive Orbital Ordinance.
Faint voices echo. Panning its camera, the drone moves toward the sound. The screen fills with foliage. Then the colors change as the drone looks through different filters: thermal, infrared, and ultraviolet.
A man appears in silhouette. Then he falls down dead.
“OOO,” gasps another agent, again prompting faint laughter.
The drone turns its lens to other areas around the destroyed structure, to make sure there are no survivors.
“That was the lab where we believe the virus was developed,” Stephen whispers to Sam. “The President ordered a decisive response.”
“The President Strikes Again,” Sam quips.
“There are better ones in the series,” Stephen says. “Ever seen The President and the Terrorist?”
Sam shakes his head. “I’ve never even heard of that one.”
“You’re living it,” Stephen says. “Your part will be to go to Korea, just as you planned. You’ll exchange the glasses for Amy. Once she is safe, we will eliminate Emil. After that, I expect Harris Cayman will be more cooperative.”
Sam laughs.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re asking me to do exactly what Cayman wants.”
“No. Cayman wants Caddis’ gun removed from his head. We want Caddis’ gun so we can point it at Cayman.”
“To what end?”
Stephen pauses to consider his words carefully. “The power he can grant diminishes the state,” he says.
“Are you talking about the ability to control orbital weapons or the ability to control the look of the world?”
“Both. It should be obvious we can’t have citizens running around with the ability
to call down air strikes,” explains Stephen. “And it should be equally evident that freedom cannot be sustained without limits. The world is not yours to remake.”
“Whose is it?”
Stephen just smiles and gestures toward the door. “You can go now. Your flight leaves in three hours. Don’t make us come get you.”
Sam starts toward the door, then stops. “Why are you letting me go?”
Stephen doesn’t answer. “See you at the airport.”
Just after four p.m., Sam emerges from the FBI building. He’s dosed with Demendicil so Cayman can’t detect his lies. He hopes the circuits in his new eyes don’t monitor blood chemistry. He’s all but certain the FBI is monitoring him.
Taking a seat on the stone steps, Sam waits for Cayman to call. Minutes pass in silence.
Traffic is still sparse. It feels like a holiday. Pigeons strut across the street against the light without consequences.
Sam wonders why he’s free. It’s true that the FBI, with all its surveillance equipment throughout the city, can locate him at will. But there must be something more to it.
“Marilyn,” Sam says, “finger Tony Roan.”
“He’s busy.”
“Doing what?” Sam is a bit annoyed.
“No explanation is available.”
“Send him a voice message. Begin: Tony, I’m okay. I’m headed to Seoul tonight. I’ll be in touch. End message.”
“Message sent, Sam. Based on speech analysis, the network has determined that your call was unrelated to business. You will be billed at the social rate.”
Sam rises and sets off toward Fisherman’s Wharf. He’s decided to try getting back to a world he understands, to being a spec. A few days ago, he had a relatively simple goal: finding out who killed Dr. Xian Mako. Somehow he’s become a pawn in game that’s beyond him.
The next few blocks pass without incident or interruption. It’s a strange tranquility, like the calm before a storm. It’s relaxing at first, the absence of ads, of people clamoring for attention. Then it becomes eerie. He begins to wonder whether he’s missing something. He stops, closes his eyes, and touches the nearest building to compare its appearance to its texture. It feels the way it looks.
The wharf itself isn’t entirely deserted. A handful of tourists, trapped in town by the quarantine, mill about amid shuttered stores. The mood is somber. A street performer sits on the edge of a public bench that has been designed with lumbar protrusions and seat ridges to minimize loitering by maximizing discomfort. Beside him lies a canvas bag stuffed with juggling props, but he seems unable to muster the energy to play for an audience.
Ikura Industries occupies a small storefront on Pier 33 amid the tourist traps and bombastic signage. Though hardly the largest wholesale fish outlet in the city, it has relationships with most of the local high-end seafood restaurants. A sign on the wall beside the door says, “Closed.”
When Sam tries the door, it opens.
Inside, a middle-aged Japanese man sporting a goatee and pinched lips stands behind the counter. He’s in the midst of an audio-only conversation. He lifts his hand to acknowledge Sam. A bowl of mints mummified in cellophane tempts the undiscerning. The strong scent of fish does little to make the candies more appetizing.
Eventually, the shopkeeper finishes his call and looks up. He listens politely to Sam’s request to view his sales database, but immediately declines. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That’s proprietary information. You want to buy some fish? That’s what I have to sell here.”
“I’ll buy a tale about who’s buying fish.”
The man shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says again. “I can’t help you.”
“Uzai Sutaba?” Sam asks, recalling the owner’s name from his network queries. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Mr. Sutaba, you seem to be under the impression that you have an option,” Sam explains, taking care to phrase his threat so that he can be understood but not sued. “You’re operating under a state license. The state has a lot of regulations. One of them is that you open your database to criminal investigators upon request. I’m sure there are others, but it’s awfully hard to remember them all.”
Sutaba proves more receptive than Kenneth Wren. “I think we can work something out,” he says, sliding a tablet across the counter to Sam and ordering his agent to grant access.
“Sen, show me a list of customers who purchased fugu between April 20 and May 2 of this year,” Sam says.
The list is short; as Sam expected, most of the orders were from Aquamarine. But there’s one individual name—someone Sam wouldn’t have expected to be ordering on his own account.
Chef Shingen Saba’s flat is just across the street from Golden Gate Park. It’s a meticulously kept salmon-colored Edwardian. Normally, at this hour, Sam would have had to seek the chef out at Aquamarine. But the restaurant remains closed due to the outbreak.
Sam presses the doorbell and waits, hands clasped behind his back. His gaze wanders, entranced by the flashing stoplight suspended over the street.
From inside, someone shouts, “I told you I don’t want to switch to City Water! Get out of here before I call the police.”
“Mr. Saba? I’m here about Xian Mako.”
The door opens. Saba is a stylishly dressed man, suspiciously slender for a chef. His eyes are post-op bloodshot. That alone would explain his evident disorientation.
“Mr. Saba, my name is Sam Crane,” Sam explains. “I’m a spec. I’m investigating the death of Dr. Xian Mako on behalf of the police. I take it you know who he was?”
Saba nods, exhaling heavily. “Come in.”
Removing his shoes, Sam follows the chef through a sparsely appointed foyer into the living room. Four imitation-Shaker chairs surround a glass coffee table. Though elegant, they prove uncomfortable. A reed mat covers most of the floor.
“Would you like something to drink?” Saba inquires.
“No, thanks.” Sam notes Saba’s agitated state. He waits a moment, sensing his host wants to talk.
“The preparation of that meal was flawless,” Saba says suddenly. “I knew I should not have been doing it, but Miss Ibis wanted to surprise Xian and both have been good friends over the years.”
“She asked you to prepare a dinner at her home?”
“Yes, and I was careful,” Saba insists, then pauses. “I know they told me not to say anything.”
Sam looks surprised. “Who told you?”
“Two men,” Saba says. “They came to my kitchen and threatened me. I told them I wouldn’t say anything.”
“Do you know who they were?”
“They’re all the same. They’re criminals.”
Sam nods. There’s something compelling about Saba’s defiance. He wonders what it is that makes him resist when others would be cowed. “So you prepared the fish properly. What happened to the liver and the skin?”
“I threw them away.”
“Where they could be retrieved?”
Saba nods slowly.
Sam leans forward in his chair. “Do you believe Amy Ibis poisoned Dr. Mako?”
“Yes.”
“Why would she do that?”
“They were lovers once. Hate comes easily after that.”
Sam shakes his head to scold himself. How could he have not seen it? Was it because he felt something for her that he couldn’t imagine her with Dr. Mako? Was it because he was Asian or she was rich? Or perhaps it was just that a lover’s quarrel seems so prosaic amid the vastness of Cayman’s conspiracy. “That night, did she seem angry with him?”
“There was some tension. I tried not to listen in. Xian was worried about a business deal in China.”
“How much did he tell you about his work?”
“Very little. I don’t think it was going well recently, though.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He said he might be moving.”
“I don’t suppose you have your log from that
evening?”
Saba shakes his head. “No, but I have the log from when the men came to intimidate me. I will send it to you.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sam says. “In any event, I appreciate your candor. I don’t expect any of this will get back to the licensing board.”
Following a few more questions about Amy’s and Mako’s history, Sam thanks Saba and departs.
When Sam emerges, he sees Nial Fox in his trench coat leaning against his air car across the street. Behind him, the trees in the park bend in the breeze. Agents Gibbon and Indri stand close by, semi-transparent. They’re looking at Nial but he takes no notice of them. Sam realizes they’re hiding behind a masking layer. Mako’s eyes see through it. Perhaps a hundred yards further west on the street, there’s an FBI air car. Otherwise the street is empty.
Sam approaches, walking slowly across the street without even checking for oncoming traffic. Nial shifts about. Something isn’t right.
“What brings you out this way?” Sam asks.
“I heard the FBI picked you up earlier today,” Nial answers.
“Word gets around.” Sam notices the two concealed agents glance at one another. “Why do you care?”
“Did they ask about me?”
“Are you logging?”
Nial shakes his head. “This is off the record.”
Sam waits before replying, watching the effect of the delay on Nial. He looks uneasy. Then again, his reflex implant would make it hard to stand still at the best of times. “You weren’t mentioned,” Sam says finally.
Nial suppresses a smile. “That’s all I wanted to know.”
“You could’ve just messaged me.”
“Good policing is personal.”
Sam doesn’t buy it. He’s thinking of Jacob’s funeral, about the fact that Nial showed up at all. He’s trying to remember the call he made to Nial from the freeway. What was it he said? “You’re popping up on dispatch screens all over.” It was as if Nial had been monitoring the dispatch feeds directly, with an attentiveness above and beyond the call of duty. And, on the night of Jacob’s murder, Nial seemed certain no glasses had been found, but he showed no curiosity until Sam questioned him further. And what was the FBI looking for when it downloaded Nial’s files?
Oversight Page 19
