The Rimes Trilogy Boxed Set

by P. R. Adams

  He waved at the boy and kept running, but his heart was heavy. Security had said the slums worsened the farther in you went. The outer area was depressing enough.

  Somewhere to the west, the city's well-to-do slept in comfortable, expansive homes.

  Once back in his room, a coughing fit hit. Rimes doubled over and finally spat up a muddy clump of phlegm. His stomach rolled at the sight of it.

  No more jogging outside.

  He dressed quickly: underwear, pants, shirt, and tie. Everything about the suit was alien—the texture, the cut, the look. It left him doubting the man looking back from the mirror.

  Even on the thirty-third floor of the Golden Brahmin Hotel, Rimes could hear the cacophony of motorized bikes, taxis, and buses, but he couldn’t see them. Mumbai was invisible below the brown smog carpet. All he could make out was T-Corp Primary Research Facility’s glowing copper towers.

  His earpiece chimed. It was nearly six. He had two minutes to meet Kleigshoen and Metcalfe in the lobby.

  Rimes gathered his coat, checked his tie—deep burgundy with gold diagonal stripes—in the mirror, and exited his room. He was still adjusting to the Muxlan shoes. Stylish or not, they were uncomfortable.

  A young woman waited down the hall for the elevator. She glanced at him casually as he approached. At the elevator’s chime, she turned away.

  Rimes hustled to catch the elevator rather than testing whether she would hold it for him. They exchanged awkward smiles and rode to the twentieth floor. Three more passengers joined them without exchanging a word. Two more stops, two more passengers, and not a word was spoken before the elevator opened onto the lobby.

  Rimes watched the others exit the car. None of them seemed threatening. Still, the attack at the bus station was fresh in Rimes’s mind.

  As he entered the lobby, he saw Metcalfe feigning interest in a newscast on the main display. Rimes noted it was the same French newsreader he and Molly took a liking to some months back. However, there was only a Hindi voiceover to listen to—leaving Rimes to wonder if Metcalfe was bluffing about being able to understand the language.

  “Morning, Jack,” Metcalfe said. “More trouble in Jakarta. Looks like Minister Sembiring’s family isn’t happy with the names being floated to replace him. They’ve got the minority party riled up. At least twenty killed in riots an hour ago.”

  Rimes watched the video of crowds on a dawn march. The march transitioned into people burning vehicles and hurling rocks. Security forces turned them back with sonic crowd control weaponry, tear gas, and gunfire.

  “Looks messy.”

  “You never see that sort of thing here,” Metcalfe said, half-smiling. “Trained their citizens properly from the start, wouldn’t you say? Dharma. Can’t really go wrong building your society around a religious chassis that preaches acceptance of fate, can you? No better way to control the masses.”

  “We all have our filters and controls.” Rimes frowned, but did his best to fight it. He watched the news reader, imagining her soothing French accent instead of Metcalfe’s voice.

  Metcalfe turned around, took in the rest of the lobby with a quick glance, then leaned in. “You know, Jack, I’m not blind. I know what’s going on. You want to show you’re the big dog, you might want to think about where you’re at and what’s at stake.”

  Rimes’s brow wrinkled. Metcalfe’s breath washed over him. Any hint of alcohol or other drugs was smothered by toothpaste and mouthwash. Rimes momentarily debated how to respond. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Brent.”

  Metcalfe glanced past Rimes and smiled, suddenly warm. “Well, there she is. Punctual as ever. You’ve gone with the lemon ensemble. Safe.”

  Rimes turned.

  Kleigshoen wore a yellow pant suit with a modest neckline and a loose, modest fit that at least tried to hide her figure. It was the sort of outfit only she could pull off. She’d also gone light on makeup. “It’s not my favorite outfit, but it’s going to have to do.” She looked at Rimes and raised her eyebrows. “What’s the word?”

  Before Rimes could answer, Metcalfe said, “Jack here arranged a meeting with Tendulkar at Café Noorani at eight this morning. That leaves us enough time to swing by T-Corp’s administrative office north of the docks.”

  “What do we want with the T-Corp office?” Rimes asked, his eyes slowly drifting away from more images of violence in Jakarta to look at Metcalfe.

  “Background investigation,” Metcalfe said with a patronizing smile. “You think it’s all running around shooting people, Jack? Nothing comes easy, and it’s not like in the vids.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Rimes said coolly.

  “Of course you didn’t.” Metcalfe stood, straightening out the creases of his tailored pants. “I have a few questions and a contact who might be able to help. We’ll need to get moving. Fifteen kilometers can take forever here.”

  14

  29 February 2164. Mumbai, India.

  * * *

  Rimes rode in the front seat, his eyes scanning the streets: pedestrians, huddled beggars, the staggering array of patched and makeshift vehicles. The hotel SUV’s driver banged into more than a few bumpers, coming away with crumpled scraps of fiberglass or rusted metal for his trouble, but deposited them on the steps of their building after only twenty minutes.

  The T-Corp Administrative Facility Southwest Region Two building was a four-story affair with stone walls and thin strips of copper-tinted glass that gave the impression that the building was a miniature T-Corp Primary Research Facility tower.

  Rimes shook his head, perplexed that a simple administrative building could so significantly outshine the austere structures of Fort Sill.

  As he climbed out of the SUV, he inadvertently took a deep breath. The air left a foul, gritty feel in his mouth. He coughed as he climbed the stained steps to the entry. “How do they breathe this?”

  “They don't have a choice, really.” Kleigshoen shielded her eyes with a cupped hand. “You could wear a mask, but that would probably offend people.”

  “Great.”

  Metcalfe approached the front desk receptionist, a young woman with an oversized head and a left shoulder that appeared warped, even through her sari’s layers. The desk was isolated, apart, something co-workers could avoid completely. Her deformities marked her as one of the millions damaged by T-Corp chemical spills, a national embarrassment.

  Rimes watched Metcalfe talk with the young woman; never once did he appear distracted by her appearance. Rimes couldn’t help but admire the man’s ability to deal with people. Other people.

  “What were you two talking about in the lobby?” Kleigshoen asked.

  “Honestly, I’m not really sure,” Rimes admitted. “He seems to be concerned about the Indonesia situation, but I’m not getting the connection.”

  “That’s nothing to worry about. ADMP will step in and settle things down; they have billions invested in sweatshops there and in Malaysia. Your Muxlans were probably bathed in Indonesian sweat and blood before they ever saw America.” Kleigshoen said. “I lived there for a year, you know. It’s a terrible place.”

  “The world’s full of terrible places,” Rimes said.

  Kleigshoen’s eyes hadn’t left Metcalfe for a second. “Why don’t you like him?”

  “Metcalfe?”

  “My father likes him. He says Brent has the makings of a diplomat. I think he ought to consider it. He’s a good judge of character, and he knows how to work well with people.” Kleigshoen waved at Metcalfe as he followed the receptionist out of the lobby. “He’s also very, very good at this job. He could get you on with IB.”

  She turned to look Rimes right in the eye. “He likes you.”

  Rimes blinked. “What makes you say that?”

  Kleigshoen wrinkled her nose. “We talk a lot; he makes a point of teaching me every nuance of the job. Like how to assess people. Including you. He’s a great mentor. I mean, spectacular, really. Did you know I’ll be up for promotio
n in six months?”

  Rimes tried to hide his confusion, but he could feel his brow wrinkle. “I’m not really sure how IB promotions or ranks work. Is that a good pace?”

  Kleigshoen put her hand on his chest. “It’s quick all right, my second promotion since I joined. I get all the usual resentment and whispers—I’m sleeping with Marshall, I’m sleeping with Brent, my father’s calling in favors. No one can just accept I’m damned good at my job. I’m doing the sort of work I’ve dreamed of since I was young. You know what I mean?” She pulled her hand back awkwardly, realizing the intimacy of it.

  Rimes blushed from her touch. “You were a good Ranger. You’d have made a good Commando. I believe you’ve earned it.”

  “With Brent showing you the ropes, you could move up the ranks in no time. He’ll take Marshall’s place in a few years. Everyone knows it. You really need to get past whatever it is that’s messing things up between you two.”

  “I …” Rimes sighed quietly. “Sure. I’ll work on it.”

  Several minutes later, Metcalfe reappeared in the lobby, all smiles. He stopped by the receptionist’s desk and spoke with her again for a few moments. Rimes thought he saw Metcalfe push something into the woman’s hands, but it was so quick that he couldn’t be sure. The woman’s eyes trailed Metcalfe until he joined them at the doorway.

  “We can just make Café Noorani if we hurry,” Metcalfe said as he hurried them out the door.

  For Rimes, the drive to the café was even more nerve-wracking than the one to the administration building had been. Even the driver seemed stressed. Twice Rimes heard the driver muttering what was almost certainly a curse.

  Most Commando operations happened in the pre-dawn hours, when even the busiest streets tended to be relatively empty. But now the traffic was near-impenetrable. A quick escape would be problematic.

  They arrived at the café with a few minutes to spare. Metcalfe lingered a moment at the driver’s door and gave him a hefty bundle of bills, producing a smile and several appreciative nods.

  Rimes shook his head at the exchange. No one used cash anymore except for illicit transactions.

  Like most buildings in Mumbai, Café Noorani had seen better days. Cracks and divots were all that held the baked clay façade together. What little remained of the paint hinted at an original cream and mustard color scheme.

  The three of them headed inside.

  Heat washed over them, and spices, herbs, hot grease, coffee, and other scents battled the staggering reek of body odor. The place was filled to capacity. Toothless old men in traditional dhotis and sherwanis were crammed next to younger men in casual Western attire.

  “Well, isn’t that something?” Metcalfe muttered through the quiet roar around them. Like Kleigshoen and Rimes, he was craning his neck to spot Tendulkar.

  Kleigshoen pointed toward a booth near the back. “There.”

  Tendulkar sat in the booth with three uniformed men—Marines—each nursing a steaming cup. One of the men nodded at the Americans. The other Marines took a final, rushed sip and exited the booth, pulling berets from their belts.

  Rimes led the others to the rear, nodding to the Marines as they passed. Tendulkar waved one of the staff over, and the man gathered the cups quickly onto a tray. Rimes and Kleigshoen squeezed into the booth opposite Tendulkar, and Metcalfe sat beside him, trapping him in.

  Rimes nodded at Tendulkar. “Were they from your unit?”

  Tendulkar nodded slowly. He blinked. “Good friends, yes. You should order breakfast.”

  Metcalfe smiled. “How is their puttu here?”

  “Good, good” Tendulkar said, head bobbing happily. He looked at Kleigshoen and Rimes patiently.

  “Something light for me,” Kleigshoen said.

  “Honestly, I’m starving,” Rimes said. “What would you recommend?”

  “You like rice? You could get idli, a steamed … um, rice cake with fermented lentils. A vada, like a spicy donut. Or you could get a vegetable stew with rice—a sambar. It is filling.”

  “Sambar sounds interesting,” Rimes said.

  “I’ll try the vada,” Kleigshoen said. “And did I smell Turkish coffee when I came in?”

  “Yes, yes,” Tendulkar said. “They have all kinds of coffees and teas.”

  Rimes glanced around again at the locals crammed into every seat. The three of them seemed to be the only foreigners. Tendulkar ordered their meal in Hindi, assisted by Metcalfe, who engaged the waiter for a moment on some small detail.

  So he is fluent.

  Rimes thought back to Tendulkar’s behavior during the Singapore mission. Tendulkar’s tendencies when stressed had included rapid blinking and puckering his lips. He’d also pulled his knife in preparation for an imaginary lunge—something he couldn’t do in the café.

  As Tendulkar looked at them, in particular at Metcalfe, the blinking and puckering set in.

  At first, Rimes attributed Tendulkar’s behavior to discomfort with people he hadn’t met, but as they made their well-rehearsed pitch, Tendulkar’s behavior intensified. And when their food arrived, Tendulkar ate very little.

  Metcalfe finished describing the details of Uber’s death between sips of coffee. “So, Ritesh, what do you think? Is Nakata our man?”

  For a moment, the blinking and puckering stopped. Tendulkar looked at Rimes as if he wanted to say something, then thought better of it.

  He blinked several times. “It sounds like he is.”

  Rimes wondered what Tendulkar had seen on his face. He knew his own stress tendencies—chewing his lip, going silent. Can you see through the lie?

  “Jack really nailed it earlier,” Kleigshoen kept the coffee cup close to her face so she could breathe in the aroma. She was perfectly at ease with the deception. “The mystery here is what LoDu could want with the facility.”

  Tendulkar winced almost imperceptibly at the mention of the facility. Rimes imagined the assault must have felt like a slap to Tendulkar’s national pride. The T-Corp agents killed by the LoDu team might just as easily have been Tendulkar’s team instead. Tendulkar’s nervousness made sense, but Rimes wasn’t convinced of the real reason for it.

  Rimes cleared his throat. “Nakata leaked information to LoDu. They knew we were coming. That got Pachnine killed and damned near got Uber killed, too. Then Kwon tracked Uber to Australia to finish the job. Why? LoDu agents attacking US military is unprecedented.”

  “Maybe they thought you were T-Corp,” Tendulkar offered.

  “It’s possible,” Rimes said. “But I doubt it.”

  Tendulkar nodded weakly. “I’ll visit my cousin. He will know what was in 72. He will understand. It’s very unfortunate. I’d hoped to go to work for T-Corp soon. The pay …”

  “No reason they can’t hire you on.” Metcalfe patted Tendulkar’s shoulder. “Jack here is considering a career change for the very same reason, aren’t you, Jack?”

  Rimes winced. “Sure. Having a baby changes everything. You can’t close doors.”

  Tendulkar picked at his sambar, leaving Rimes with the distinct impression doors were already closing. Tendulkar set his spoon down and sighed, as if that might grant him strength. “I will call you tomorrow, arrange a meeting. Someplace remote—quieter, safer.”

  Rimes tried to conceive of a place in Mumbai that could be considered quiet or remote. He couldn’t. The city was thick with people.

  Over Tendulkar’s polite protestations, Metcalfe paid for the breakfast. As they left, Tendulkar lingered in front of the café, waving and smiling for a moment as the hotel SUV pulled away.

  Then, frowning, he disappeared into the crowd.

  15

  1 March 2164. Mumbai, India.

  * * *

  Rimes fumbled in the dark, struggling to wrap his hand around the soothing cerulean flash of his earpiece. It was an important call. He had the earpiece in place by the third ring.

  “Jack?”

  “Ritesh, what’s up?” Rimes blinked and rubbed his eye
s. He willed himself awake and looked around the room.

  The earpiece display showed 0400.

  “Can you meet me in an hour?” Tendulkar whispered.

  Rimes activated the earpiece’s recorder. “Sure. Where at?”

  “Where are you staying?”

  Rimes suddenly longed for Molly. He missed her smile, her touch, her taste and smell. He hated this job and what it demanded of him.

  Rimes hesitated a moment, embarrassed at staying at such a swanky hotel instead of barracks. “The Golden Brahmin.”

  “I know it. It is very nice. Maybe I can take my fiancée there once we marry and I take a job with T-Corp.”

  “She’d like it,” Rimes said. “My wife would love it, but we couldn’t afford it.”

  They laughed awkwardly.

  “There is an old place north of there,” Tendulkar said. “Sewri Mudflats. Take the P D’Mello Road. You can beat the traffic if you hurry. It is quiet, like I promised. We can talk.”

  “All right. 0500. We’ll be there.” Rimes looked around at the mess he’d made of the bed. The blankets and pillows were everywhere. He stood and began straightening everything up.

  “Good, good. Thank you.”

  “Ritesh, I want to tell you how much I appreciate this. I know you’re taking a risk, but Kwon is a very dangerous problem.”

  Tendulkar paused for a moment. “Sure, sure. He is a very dangerous man. Genies are bad trouble. No problem.”

  Rimes set the last pillow back on the bed. “Okay. See you in a bit.”

  Rimes killed the connection and dropped back onto the bed, favoring his left shoulder. It felt tender and weak, and his head ached too much from staying out late with Kleigshoen and Metcalfe to remember why.

  Rimes played back the recorded message and had the earpiece search for directions; then he called Metcalfe.

  “What is it, Jack?” Metcalfe’s voice was heavy with sleep.

  “Tendulkar called,” Rimes said as he stumbled to the room’s modest desk and turned on the lamp. “He wants us to meet him in an hour.”