by Tim Tigner
My mind was experiencing a clarity I’d only enjoyed while sitting cross-legged on sunny mountaintops after long climbs. My thoughts didn’t stutter, or get hung-up, or repeat. They flowed.
Testing my Brillyanc seemed superfluous, but I needed to be sure it wasn’t a hallucination. I started by trying to multiply our ten-digit phone numbers in my head. I’d taken plenty of math in college, but since graduation I’d relied on a calculator like everyone else. The Brillyanc in my blood didn’t cause the result to pop up like it did on a computer screen. I had to work it out. But I could work it out. I could keep track of the digits and decimals without paper. I did know instantly that it would be one-point-something times ten to the nineteenth power, since both had 317 area codes, and 317 squared gave me 100,489. The rest took about a minute. Brillyant.
For fun, I tried calculating the square root of the product. Instantly I knew that it would begin with 317 — no great leap there. However, the next seven figures flowed as well, even though I couldn’t remember ever mechanically calculating a square root before. That took about ninety seconds.
I went out to the central room, intent on retrieving the newspaper, only to find that Katya had beaten me to it. She too was dressed in a white hotel robe, but had also gone for the slippers. She lowered the paper into her lap to reveal tousled hair and a big grin. “I read the paper. The whole paper, straight through. My mind sucked up the words like a vacuum cleaner. Line after line without distraction or fuss.” She folded the paper and held it out. “I remember it all. Ask me a question.”
I took the paper and opened it to a random page. “What percentage of the US population–”
“One percent,” Katya said, before I could finish, “is affected by schizophrenia.”
“Okay. There’s an article written by Bill Clinton’s Drug Czar–”
“Barry McCaffrey.”
Two for two. I decided to try a different kind thinking. “Got a puzzle for you. You need to measure out exactly four liters of water, but all you’ve got is two jars and a water hose. One jar holds exactly three liters, the other exactly five. There are no markings on the jars. How do you do it?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Fill the five jar. Dump what you can into the three, leaving two liters. Empty the three jar, then pour the remaining two into it, leaving space for one. Refill the empty five, and pour what you can into the three. Exactly four liters will be left.”
We continued to test-drive our new processors all morning, switching from trivia to the investigation as we boarded the plane and our stomachs started to tense with the knowledge of what lay ahead.
“Have you figured out how Brillyanc links to Colin’s murder?” Katya asked.
I had been hoping that answer would just pop into my head. So far, no pop. “I haven’t nailed down the exact motive, but there’s no longer any doubt that it was some kind of cover-up related to Brillyanc. Given the way its got us thinking, this drug is clearly destined to change the world — and make many billions in the process.”
“Maybe it was just money. Lots of money. Isn’t that the oldest motive?” Katya looked hopeful.
I hated to dim her glow. “I don’t think so. They could have just fired my father and brother. There would have been a payout involved, but nothing consequential. And it had to be something consequential against a backdrop of billions. Something that put everything at risk.”
“But isn’t that exactly what the sun bear sourcing does? If Colin refused to go along with the cover-up, he’d have put billions at risk.”
I shook my head. “There had to be more to it than that. Sun bear sourcing doesn’t explain murder. Confidentiality agreements would keep him quiet. Confidentiality agreements silence executives all the time — just look at the tobacco industry. Plus, they’re marketing Brillyanc in secret, so regulatory approval and whistleblower protection doesn’t apply. Meanwhile, the operation goes on. In fact, it appears to be picking up steam. Rita clearly feels like she’s riding a gravy train that’s got nothing but acceleration ahead. And given the way our minds are working at the moment, I can see why.”
“So what then?”
I looked out the window, hoping to find the answer written in the clouds. It wasn’t.
“Come on, put that Brillyant brain to work.”
I tried, but just couldn’t make the leap.
Speaking of leaps, the next thing I knew we were landing in San Francisco. Put another way, we were about to leap from the frying pan into the fire.
Chapter 78
Squawk
WE LANDED at SFO with time to burn, so we swung by long-term parking to check on the Escalade. It was still parked where we’d left it. That surprised me. The smell of decomposing corpses should have drawn attention by now. I noted that the bay breeze created constant air circulation. Maybe the stench didn’t have the opportunity to accumulate. For precaution’s sake, we decided not to get close enough to check.
I stashed our Yates passports along with our iPhones at the baggage storage desk. That left us with just 202 area code burner phones in our pockets. Our absence of identification would raise questions if discovered, but the alternative was worse.
This whole operation was half-baked. I didn’t feel good about that, but I couldn’t change it either. Risk increased as prep-time decreased, and I’d had little. I was running out of time and cash and options.
Katya was drawing many an appreciative eye. Sporting the same royal blue dress she’d worn to meet Rita, she looked like she’d come off a catwalk rather than a plane. Like she’d be met by a Maserati rather than a black sedan.
“Do you think it’s going to be one of those stretch limos?” she asked. “Or a typical livery car?”
“As long as it’s not a black Escalade, I really don’t care,” I said, regretting my words immediately. “Sorry, that was indelicate of me.”
“Better that I’m prepared in case it is.” Katya was all made up for the big event. She looked so spectacular that when she flashed me a smile my knees almost buckled. “And I’m not worried if you’re here.”
We made it to Door One at five minutes to six. The area was plenty busy. Not Monday morning or Friday evening busy, but enough that cars were double-parking to disgorge departing passengers. Several of them were even black Escalades, but none paid us any heed.
The road ramped up to the departures level around a curve just before Door One, so we only caught sight of approaching cars a few seconds before they arrived. The opposite was also true. Since there was no place for a driver to wait without drawing a squawk from a surveilling cop, ours either had a spotter, or he was circling, or he was counting on our being there as the clock struck six.
A cold wind took the air temperature down to forty-five degrees. Katya crossed her arms and began rubbing her hands over her triceps. I ignored the chill. Truth was, I hated the cold as much as anyone. I’d just learned to switch off that part of my brain when in the field. I wouldn’t let it register until it began to compromise finger function. Then again, I never wore dresses.
A stretch limo appeared atop the ramp at precisely six o’clock, its windows dark as onyx. It wasn’t one of the obscenely long vehicles that could house an entire football team, but it was good for a rock band, and it maneuvered to a stop right before us.
The door opened by itself. An anonymous invitation.
My phone started buzzing.
I had my iPhone forwarding to my burner, just in case. And I had Chris Pine’s home phone forwarding to my iPhone, just in case. I pulled it to my ear and answered. “Hello.”
It wasn’t the driver, or someone looking for Chris. It was Max.
I held up my left forefinger to request a minute while I pressed the receiver to my ear. Between the whistling wind and buzzing traffic, it was hard to hear.
Katya looked me a question. Should she get in? Or should she wait?
I swapped my left forefinger for the halt sign.
She grabbed the door, but didn’t
get in.
The police car squawked.
Max said something about this being the only time he could get into the lab, and wanting to let me know right away. I did the calculation. In Moscow, it was four o’clock on Sunday morning. I stuck a pinkie in my left ear and closed my eyes, straining to hear his report.
The police car squawked again.
Katya called my name.
I opened my eyes to see the limo starting to roll away. An unspoken message. Now or never. I motioned to her to get in. I walked toward the door, slowly, buying time. Having trouble hearing while unable to believe my ears. “Are you absolutely sure?” I asked.
The police car started to roll. The limo inched forward again, this time with Katya inside.
I jumped in.
The limo pulled away.
The door swung closed.
The call dropped.
Chapter 79
Rule Three
MY MIND WAS ALIGHT with the fireworks of revelation, but the limo itself was black. Black seats, black carpet, and black windows. We couldn’t see the driver. We couldn’t see outside. We were in a rolling blindfold, but a comfortable one.
Soft light emanated from a LED strip that ran the perimeter of the ceiling, giving life to the droplets clinging to a frosty silver bucket of champagne. On the wall, two fragrant roses in a silver bud vase shared their blossom and their scent. Directly before us was the most enticing feature of all. Perched atop the backward-facing seats at the other end of the cabin, two black Prada duffle bags displayed numbers embroidered in white silk: 204 and 205.
A soothing but authoritative voice, presumably the driver’s, interrupted the analysis churning inside my head. “Make yourselves comfortable. We’ll be driving for a couple of hours, give or take. Somewhere along the route you’ll need to get changed. Everything you brought with you, and everything you’re wearing, goes into your bag. Everything. Your bag will stay right there until we reverse the procedure on your return. Meanwhile, your chairs recline fully, in case you want to take a nap. I understand it’s going to be a long night.”
Music replaced the voice. Smoky instrumental jazz fit for dark clubs rife with romantic tension.
“A couple of hours of driving could take us north to Sacramento or Santa Rosa, or south to San Jose or Monterey,” Katya said. She knew it had been Max on the phone, and I could see her real question in her eyes. She wanted to know what he’d said. I was dying to tell her.
We had agreed not to say or do anything suspicious in the car, assuming we’d be under audio and video surveillance. But Max’s revelations were too momentous.
“Or we could circle San Francisco, the drive an illusion in support of Rule One,” I replied. “In any case, we may as well get comfortable.”
I put my arm around Katya’s shoulders and pulled her close, turning my head and burying my nose in her hair as though I was kissing her ear. “Max says Brillyanc is entirely synthetic,” I whispered. “Which means Vondreesen’s endangered species story was complete bullshit.”
Katya turned her face toward mine, as though she were about to kiss me. Despite the circumstances, I felt a thrill reminiscent of my teenage years.
I could have kissed her, ostensibly for the camera. But she would have known that I meant it. I’m no expert on women, but I know they tend to be extremely sensitive about those things. So I gave her my ear.
She whispered, “I’m sure that changes things, but I’m not sure how.”
My thoughts exactly. I was going to need the two-hour drive to process these twists. Katya was no doubt eager to analyze the implications as well. God her hair smelled great.
I withdrew my arm from her shoulder. “We’ve got two hours. Let’s see what’s in the bags, and then follow the driver’s advice and take a nap.”
I passed Katya 205 and pulled 204 onto my lap. The leather-tabbed zipper opened to reveal a red silk lining and black silk garments. Pajama bottoms rested atop mine. Katya’s held a slip-nightie. “That look like your size?”
Katya ran her hand over the fabric. “It looks tailor-made.”
Next, we extracted full-length robes, accented with red liners and complete with hoods. The robes were followed by slippers and masks that tied in the back. “As advertised,” I said.
“Rita also said we’d be getting the rules.”
“There are three,” the driver said. Apparently the powers that be wanted us to be aware of the surveillance. Not unlike the CIA. “Rule One,” the driver continued, “Absolute secrecy. You are never to reference, hint at, imply, insinuate, or otherwise indicate the existence of Brillyanc to anyone, anywhere, ever.” He paused to let that sink in, before continuing.
“Rule Two: Complete Anonymity. You are neither to give nor solicit information which could lead to the identification of yourself or another. This includes where you live today or have lived in the past. It includes where you’ve studied, worked, or grown up. It includes references to clubs or societies or political affiliations. And of course, it includes references to family members, lineage, and nationality.
“Finally, there’s Rule Three: No Exit. Up until you leave the limo, you can back out. Rule One still applies, of course, but you can walk away and make like this was all a fanciful dream. The moment you step through the door at our destination, however, Rule Two becomes compromised. There’s only so much that can be done to protect anonymity, even with sanitized costumes and masks. We’re only working with the most elite, and that means that there’s a certain amount of fame involved. So crossing the threshold raises the stakes. You’ll be under no obligation to continue paying the fees and using the product, but thereafter, a certain amount of surveillance should be expected. Enough to ensure that you’re not disregarding the first two rules. Think long and hard about that before stepping out the door. You’ll get the question when we arrive.”
“What’s the penalty?” I asked. “For breaking a rule.”
The music resumed. Apparently this was meant to be a one-way conversation. And silence was the polite-society answer.
Chapter 80
Masks On
I PICKED UP my Prada bag while Katya toyed with her seat controls. “I’m going to change.”
I started with the top. Jacket, tie, button-down shirt, all refolded neatly and placed in my bag. Then the bathrobe went on and the rest followed. The material wasn’t really silk, but some microfiber that was both stretchy and resilient. The robe probably cost a good two hundred bucks. Everything fit like a suit from Savile Row. “How do I look?”
Katya gave me an exaggerated once over and grew a mischievous grin. “Here in the limo you look like a guy who rents for a thousand dollars an hour. I mean that in the best possible way, of course. At the party, I suppose you’ll look very comfortable, and very rich. What about the mask?”
“I’ll hold off on that until we arrive.”
I reclined my seat until I was looking at the ceiling, giving Katya privacy. Then I closed my eyes and started processing Max’s startling news and its implications for the journey ahead.
I’d gone into plenty of operational situations without detailed knowledge of the lay of the land, but this was extreme. At a minimum, I’d always had a location and a target. A person to be neutralized or liberated. A document to be retrieved or destroyed. A charge to be placed. A photo taken. A trail erased. Tonight I needed to identify the person in charge, isolate him without drawing attention, and then force him to reveal the circumstances of my family’s death. All beneath the watchful eyes of men in black suits.
“I think Rita must have worked in fashion before pharmaceuticals,” Katya said. “She certainly sized me up.”
I opened my eyes and sat up. “Gives a new twist to the little black dress.”
“I’ll say. It’s not just little. It’s incomplete.”
“Incomplete?”
“A friend of mine in college had a euphemism for it. She called it going out ‘alfresco.’ She found it thrilling, but it will be
a first for me.”
We reclined and lapsed back into contemplative silence until the driver interrupted. “We’re five minutes out. Time for your masks, and your decisions. Rule Three. If either or both of you want to go back, just remain in the car. Otherwise, welcome aboard. Get ready for the time of your lives.”
Katya moved back next to me, and we donned our masks. The eyeholes and nose pieces were molded but the rest was free-flowing fabric that stretched and tied easily. Mine was integrated with a skullcap, producing more of a pirate look, whereas Katya’s was just the strip, pure Zorro. “Reminds me of the movie, The Princess Bride. Ever see it?”
Katya shook her head. “Seems an odd piece of apparel for a bride.”
“Her boyfriend Westley was a pirate. He wore a mask like this. Said it was terribly comfortable. I’m not sold yet, but we’ll see.”
On that note, the car slowed and the music crescendoed. The driver turned and the road began to rise. A different timbre emanated from the tires, and my stomach encountered butterflies.
Katya grabbed my hand and we looked at each other in anticipation. Would it be a nightclub, or a hospital? A five-star hotel, or cabins in the woods? Would there be ten other participants? A hundred? A thousand? We’d mused on these during the flight, but even with Brillyant minds, we’d come to no conclusion.
The car crunched to a halt, along with the music. We heard similar rhythms coming from outside, as though the entrance to a trendy Parisian club lay ahead. For a few seconds we sat in relative silence, stewing in anticipation. The car rolled forward only a few feet before stopping again, like our plane had on the Dulles runway, and limos did at the Academy Awards. The ambient music became a little louder with each promotion. One more roll and the speakers were right there, not just in front but also behind. Then the door opened with a click and a whoosh, and we found ourselves looking down a candlelit tunnel.
Chapter 81
Two Blows
GRIGORI IGNORED THE FLEAS buzzing around his head. They couldn’t hurt him, and he was having too much fun with the girl. He’d bid on Green, an atypically early selection from the rainbow on auction, because he felt like fucking a lawyer. Well, a law student, to be precise. This one looked like a younger version of the plaintiff’s lead council in a wrongful death case GasEx was trying to settle. Grigori suspected it might actually be her daughter. Wishful thinking.
