Chameleon Uncovered

by BR Kingsolver

  Zhukoff looked at Wil.

  “I don’t have any arguments with anything she’s saying,” Wil told her. “Her associate retired as Director of Security at MegaTech, and one of MegaTech’s subsidiaries is a competitor to Securitas. You’re not going to find anyone more knowledgeable.”

  In the end, I got the go-ahead and signatures on a contract I had prepared in advance for the initial assessment. The sun seemed to shine brighter when we walked back outside. Even my bruises felt better.

  When I showed up at AIC the following morning, a secretary type led me to a small office in the basement, and I balked.

  “This won’t do. I need large tables to spread out blueprints and schematics. Don’t you have an unused conference room?”

  She called Zhukoff, who came down to talk to me.

  “I’m going to be asking for blueprints of every building you own, lease, or borrow, and I need space to spread them out. I need room for the schematics for all of your security installation, and to keep them neat and separated. If this is my workspace, I’ll need to block off the hall so I can use the floor.”

  She regarded me with a twinkle in her eye and a twitch at the corners of her mouth.

  “We do have a space such as you describe, but it’s in our oldest building and hasn’t been used in years.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Certainly.” She led me out of the new modern part of the museum, across an elevated walkway, through another building, down a long flight of stairs, up another flight of stairs, through a dark back hallway, across a glassed-in terrace that served as a surrogate for an outdoor café, down more stairs, and finally to a locked door at the end of a hall. She keyed in a security code and pushed the door open.

  Inside the large room were empty bookshelves, several large wooden tables, and half-a-dozen old wooden chairs. And dust. Lots of dust. One dirty window provided some light, but when Zhukoff flipped a switch, half of the fluorescents on the ceiling came to life.

  “This would be perfect,” I said. “Do you suppose—”

  Her laughter interrupted me. She had a wonderful laugh. “That we could get it cleaned up a little? Yes, I think we can manage that.” She turned to the secretary type. “Jess, get hold of housekeeping and tell them to spruce this up and replace the lights.”

  Jess pulled out a radio and gave the orders.

  “Do you have a map showing how to get here?” I asked.

  Zhukoff laughed again. “Yes, but there are shorter ways. This is part of the original museum, and your car can drop you off right down there.” She walked over to the window and pointed down at a parking lot.

  She put her hand on my back in a friendly way and said, “I apologize that we’re not ready for you this morning. Why don’t you come over to my office and we can discuss what else you need while we get this space cleaned up?”

  I tried to hide my wince. My back was still very tender.

  We trooped back through the labyrinth along a different path to Zhukoff’s office. I had always loved the museum and was secretly relishing the chance to thoroughly explore it. At one point, I stopped, and Deborah didn’t notice until she had walked on quite a way.

  I stared at the incredible necklace in the case—a gold, enamel, opal, and amethyst creation of René-Jules Lalique crafted in the late nineteenth century. The main motif, repeated in nine pendants, was an attenuated female nude, whose highly-stylized curling hair swirled around her head, and whose arms sensuously curved down to become a border enclosing enamel-and-gold swans and an oval cabochon amethyst. Shorter pendants, set with fire opals mounted in swirling gold tendrils, separated the nudes.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?” Deborah asked.

  “I love his work. I wish I could own something of his.”

  We continued on to her office, where she made me tea and we sat on a comfy couch next to each other. I explained all the documentation I would need, as well as an escort to take me around and show me things.

  “I probably don’t need the tour guide until next week,” I said. “Somebody from your maintenance staff who has access to everywhere would be ideal.”

  “Not someone from security?” she asked.

  “No, I want the guy who crawls around in the ceilings or under the floor when the lights or the plumbing aren’t working. I want the guy who knows how the trash gets out of the building.”

  She cocked her head and in a flat voice said, “The trash.”

  “Two paintings were stolen from the National Museum in Brasilia last year. They recovered the paintings and discovered they were smuggled out of the building in the trash. If you aren’t doing a security screen on your garbage, you’ve got a major hole that needs to be plugged.”

  I could see the ‘Oh, crap!’ thought by the expression on her face. “I’ll check on that immediately.”

  She put her hand on my knee, smiled, and said, “I can already see this is going to be worth the money. Thank you, Elizabeth.”

  We had lunch in a staff dining room off the main restaurant, and then went back to inspect my workspace. The dust was gone, and the window was clean, but otherwise the place was bare. Just the way I wanted it.

  I spent the week reviewing the blueprints and schematics, scanning them, and sending them to my Dad. First major security problem. Why did their system allow me to do that? I carried a roll of blueprints out of the building and took it back to my hotel one night. Even though I brought it back in the morning, no one should have been able to carry anything out of the building unchecked. I could have easily rolled a Rembrandt into the middle of those blueprints.

  I was healing nicely, and by Wednesday, I could even sit on one of the hard, wooden chairs in my workroom. I took a break at lunch and called Wil. The doctors hadn’t let him go back to work. I had talked to him a couple of times, and he still had episodes of double vision and headaches.

  That afternoon, Deborah stopped by.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Making progress,” I told her. “I’m finding a few things you should pay attention to.”

  “Problems with the system?” She moved from relaxed to alarmed in two seconds flat.

  “Oh, no. Just some procedural things, training of your staff, things like that. The system stuff looks fine,” I hastened to reassure her.

  Her shoulders slumped. “Well, that’s good to hear. We spent a huge amount on the upgrade.”

  “But you wanted my assessment anyway?”

  She shook her head slightly. “That was Malcolm. He said that unless everything was verified and validated by an independent expert, we were just guessing as to how well the job was done.”

  I nodded. “That is standard procedure for large computer systems projects.”

  “He’s very smart, and a good businessman. We’re lucky to have him on our board.” Her voice changed on that last part, almost as though she were reciting a slogan rather than something she believed.

  “What are you doing tonight?” Deborah asked, changing the subject.

  “Just back to the hotel, dinner, hot bath. Maybe read up on some of Securitas’ specifications until I fall asleep. If you ever have insomnia, system specs are a good cure.”

  She laughed. “I thought I might take you out to dinner. We could get to know each other. We’re going to be working together for quite a while if your schedule is correct.”

  I straightened from the blueprint I was leaning over and turned to her. “Can we go someplace that doesn’t have a lot of corporate bigwigs? I don’t think I could handle being bombed two weeks in a row.”

  “Oh, you poor dear,” she said, reaching out and stroking my shoulder and upper arm. “Of course. I have just the place. Great food, casual atmosphere, and not a CEO in sight.”

  “Sounds good. How should I dress?”

  “Oh, casually. Nothing fancy. I’ll stop by your hotel for you about six-thirty.”

  I knew my definition of casual and that of a woman such as Deborah Zhukoff were vastly differen
t. Her choice in clothes was decidedly feminine and fashionable. A lot of pink and other pastels, with skirts and dresses rather than business suits. In short, Deborah was a girly-girl, with elegance and sex appeal oozing out of her pores.

  I also wasn’t naïve. I had watched her with other people, and not once did I see her touch another woman. Hands-on wasn’t her standard personnel management style. I also noticed the looks I was getting from her secretary. If looks could kill, I would’ve needed body armor around Jess.

  After my shower, I put on a red blouse with a broad, open collar, black stovepipe pants that fit my butt like I was poured into them, and a belt-length black jacket. With a pair of four-inch heels, I would be a head taller than Deborah and rather masculine-looking standing beside her and her curves. To emphasize that, I set my illusory hair into a tight bun at the back of my head.

  My instincts proved correct. Deborah showed up in a sports car wearing a dark green pleated skirt with a hemline well above the knee, and a bright yellow blouse that showed plenty of cleavage.

  “My, don’t you look nice,” she said with a bright smile. “Very sexy.”

  I laughed. “Very practical.” I pulled up the leg of my trousers to show my bruises and scars. “I won’t be wearing anything that shows much skin for a while. And my back and ass make this look good.”

  “It’s a miracle you’re up and around,” she said.

  I agreed. Wil might not remember why we were outside the restaurant, but I did. It haunted me. I couldn’t remember the feeling I had, just that I was uncomfortable.

  Deborah took me to a Mediterranean restaurant with many small rooms with small alcoves and candlelit tables set far apart. I quickly noticed that almost all the parties were couples, and at least half of those were same sex couples. I understood her promise that we’d avoid the titans of industry.

  “I’m curious,” I said as we waited for our meals. “Your official bio indicates you’ve never been married.” For a woman of her class that was highly unusual, as was her position as head of a major institution.

  She took a sip of her wine. “By the time you get a PhD, you’re a little too old to make a traditional marriage. Truth to be told, I’m not against marriage, but I’ve never met a man I loved more than art.”

  A sly smile crossed her face, and she looked at me over the rim of her glass when she said, “You’re rapidly passing marriageable age. No panic? No regrets?”

  I laughed. “I come from very unconventional parents. A very unconventional mother. Mom never presented becoming a corporate wife as a goal. Quite the contrary.”

  To my surprise, Deborah blushed. Evidently, she had researched me and found my mother’s history. I wouldn’t have thought a single woman would be scandalized. Director Zhukoff was a bit more conventional than she was trying to project.

  “How long have you known Wilbur?” I asked. “I’m a little surprised that a non-profit institution would seek a vendor through the Chamber of Commerce.”

  Tossing her shoulder-length brown hair, she said, “You shouldn’t be. Museums, the Symphony, and other artistic endeavors, have a special relationship with the Chamber. We can’t support ourselves, but the elite classes need something other than money to set themselves apart. High culture has always depended upon the moneyed classes for patronage. The Chamber helps us organize and coordinate that and ensure our survival.”

  “Well, that makes sense. So, that’s how you met Wil?”

  She blushed again. “He is very fond of art. I met him at a gallery show for a young local artist.”

  After dinner, Deborah asked, “Back to your hotel, or are you interested in seeing some more of Chicago?”

  I acted as though I was thinking it over. “Is your taste in music confined to opera and the symphony, or do you ever go slumming to listen to common tunes?”

  Laughing, she said, “Chicago has a rich blues tradition. Do you like blues?”

  “Twist my arm,” I said, returning her laugh.

  We drove to a club and turned her car over to the valet.

  “Don’t wander too far,” Deborah cautioned me, her eyes scanning the neighborhood around us. “We’re on the edge of a mutie district. Friends of mine tell me it’s safe, but I just never feel that way.”

  We went inside and found a table. It was a very upscale club, but the band was playing some great down-and-dirty blues. The patrons were casually well dressed, even though the crowd contained a fair sprinkling of mutants. Among the obvious mutations, I spotted more than a dozen bald women and several chimeras—people with multi-colored skin and hair. Those weren’t necessarily mutations, since both could be due to developmental abnormalities, but anyone who wasn’t normal was usually classified as a mutant. The vamps and lycans were definitely mutants.

  “The mutant community is either more affluent here than in Toronto, or less inclined to hide their abnormalities,” I observed.

  Deborah looked around. “A bit of both, perhaps. Scientists noticed mutated animals and fish in Lake Michigan three hundred years ago. The percentage of mutations here is higher than any other North American city, except Denver. Unless, of course, you want to consider what’s left of Mexico City a city.”

  I watched a man in a business suit walk up to the bar on four hands, like an ape. He stood upright to order a drink, then returned to his table walking upright, looking quite normal.

  We ordered drinks from the automenu. After taking a sip of her colored thing with a bunch of fruit on a toothpick, Deborah continued. “There’s a mutie district in the southwest part of the city and another one near Gary. I’ve never been near either one, and they are basically lawless. Here, on the North Shore, a lot of mutations crop up even in the better families. Those that are viable have the same opportunities available to them as everyone else.”

  I was so used to the prejudice that I didn’t have to bite my tongue. What she meant by viable went beyond the ability to function. A child would also have to be physically whole and presentable. Even healthy mutants from rich families might get turned out if their mutations were unsightly. At the best, they had no chance at moving up the corporate ladder, so the mutant janitor could be the brother of the CEO.

  I wondered why Deborah took me there instead of a more mainstream club. I was glad she did, as I was more than comfortable and planned to come back on my own. Then she asked me to dance, and I realized that she didn’t expect to meet anyone she knew. Me? I didn’t care what anyone thought about me.

  We stayed for a couple of hours, dancing a few times and enjoying the music. Then a couple of fools got in a fight over a girl. It didn’t appear to me that she had an interest in either one of them, but the alcohol-testosterone mixture bathing their brains wasn’t helping them to pay any attention to reason. Unfortunately, they started their little game near our table.

  I grabbed my beer and stood up, facing the pugilists and shielding Deborah.

  “I think we should move,” I told her. “I don’t want to get caught in this thing.”

  I felt her stand behind me. “I’m ready,” she said.

  About that time, a couple of one fighter’s friends joined in the fray, which caught the attention of the other guy’s buddies. I turned, grabbed Deborah by the arm and headed toward the exit. We almost got there.

  Then a chair flew across our path, followed by a man staggering into me and knocking me off balance. I grabbed his arm and steadied us both, then pushed him away from me. Instead of thanking me, he cocked to throw a punch. Some people don’t recognize courtesy. I kicked him in the knee, and he screamed as he went down.

  I tried to turn back toward Deborah and the door, but two more idiots decided they wanted to show a girl how tough they were. I could have told them that wasn’t the way to impress a lady.

  I took one out with a roundhouse kick to the head and hit the other one in the throat with the edge of my hand. My recently healed left hand. It hurt. I kicked him in the stomach out of spite. A man as tall as I was looked down at t
he three on the floor and then up at me.

  “I’m out of patience,” I told him, putting my hand in my purse. “Anyone else comes at me, I’m going to start killing people.”

  “Right,” he said and turned away.

  I backed up until I ran into someone. Looking down, I saw it was Deborah, standing next to a bouncer.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, draining my beer and handing the glass to the bouncer.

  We collected her car, and she drove me home.

  “That was quite a performance,” she said once we were on the road.

  “I don’t provide bodyguard services, but my dad made sure I knew how to protect myself,” I told her. “These shoes make it hard to demonstrate my best move, though.”

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  “I have long legs and I can run like hell.”

  Chapter 5

  I spent the rest of the week going through the documents AIC gave me and sending them on to Dad. Other than lunch with Deborah one day, and Friday dinner with Wil at his apartment—he cooked, something no man except my dad had ever done for me—I spent my time working.

  The museum was busy on Saturday, and I wandered around in the crowds, observing the docents, staff, and security guards. That night I made my first efforts to hack into the computer systems. The public-facing computers were easy. I worked from Saturday evening until almost midnight Sunday to get into the administrative systems. I was impressed, but I did get in, using only tools and techniques available to anyone on the infonet.

  I didn’t even try to access the security system. They were secure against most attacks. Mom and I had built specialized tools to hack into Securitas’ systems, but no one needed to know that.

  My second week in Chicago, I organized and wrote my initial report and prepared my bid for the main assessment. After running it by Dad, I presented it to Deborah and Malcolm Donnelly on Thursday, and flew back to Toronto Friday morning.