Oversight (19 page)

“You sound surprised.”

“Disappointed. I was looking forward to beating it out of you.”

Stifling a smirk, Sam leans back in his chair. “So why were Chinese agents hoping to do the same?”

“I’m not here to indulge your questions.”

The words “Stand slowly and quietly” appear over Gibbon’s head. Sam hesitates for a moment, then complies.

Gibbon continues to look at the chair Sam just vacated. “I’m going to ask you one more time, Mr. Crane.”

“Move to the door,” the text advises.

Sam does so, the noise of the air vent masking his steps. The riot officer is standing next to the door. Both he and Agent Gibbon are still staring at the empty chair.

“Where are the glasses?” Gibbon asks one more time.

“Knock on the door,” the text says.

Sam knocks.

The officer and Gibbon exchange glances. Gibbon gestures at the door. The officer opens it. Seeing no one, he steps outside. Without waiting for further instruction, Sam follows. Sensing something, the officer turns. Sam stops and tries to remain still. The officer’s eyes look right through him. With a shrug, the officer returns to the room.

“There’s no one there,” he says as he shuts the door.

Emerging from the BART station, Sam heads east on Market Street toward the X Hotel, where the replica glasses are. In the sun and his jacket, he’s sweating, but he’s too preoccupied to remove his coat.

The street is surprisingly busy, considering the circumstances. Though the outbreak has reduced the number of cars on the road, there are quite a few pedestrians, not to mention soldiers. And of course there’s no shortage of ‘gents. Many of the panhandlers haven’t yet adapted to the realities of begging from the blind; they’re still holding cardboard signs that spell out their plight. But a few have taken to spoken or sung solicitations.

The fountain on the corner of Seventh and Market is one of two free water sources in the city. It features a statue of Jurgen Spatz, the billionaire industrialist behind Municipal Water’s parent company, Weltherschaft AG. Beneath a sign indemnifying the city and Municipal Water from health-related lawsuits, reasonably clean water pours from the copper-green statue’s hands into a pool for anybody to take—though that’s easier said than done. A loose ring of ‘gents controls access to the water, which they bottle in scavenged plastic and sell for $5. Not to be outdone, City Water also maintains a public well downtown, a bit further east.

At Fifth Street, where commercial rents rise, the city changes. The downtown shopping area looks immaculate. To the west, buildings come with soot, faded paint, and cracked facades. The sidewalks are stained with gum, spit, trash, and grime. To the east, everything is unnaturally clean, as if the buildings sprang straight from an architect’s computer rendering. Instead of loitering ‘gents, fashionable citizens in business suits lean against the walls. Instead of ragged cardboard-box panels with copy crafted to tug on emotions and wallets, these well-to-do salespeople hold professionally printed placards for familiar products. The scent of lavender and lemon fills the air. Whenever Sam’s gaze falls upon a storefront, a faint glow appears about the shop, distinguishing it from its surroundings.

Sam realizes how much of Cayman’s vision layer is a work in progress. Having more or less come to terms with his visceral revulsion for mediated reality, he wonders how much control he has over what he sees. That, after all, is Cayman’s selling point: the ability to create the world as you wish to see it. The trouble is that Sam’s new eyes didn’t come with a manual or tech support.

Turning south at Third Street, Sam finally reaches the hotel. The décor is stylish, with lots of black leather, dark wood, flowers, and terrazzo. Tight black turtlenecks—and the physique to look attractive in them—appear to be mandatory for the staff. Apart from a blind woman being helped through the revolving door by a soldier, there are few signs of the outbreak. He asks if there are any messages for Ryan Wolfe.

The receptionist shakes her head.

“Not surprising, with everything that’s been going on,” Sam says. “How has it played out for you all?”

“Hectic,” she answers.

“Was anyone on staff affected?”

“Oh yeah. Not me for some reason. I feel really lucky.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts.” Sam heads for the elevators.

Room 451 is small but well-appointed. A red gift box tied with a white ribbon sits atop a brown bed. Sunlight seeps through the shutters.

Taking a seat on the bed, Sam opens the box. A hard black case inside houses the spectacles. The replica looks just as he remembers the genuine article. He tries them on. The rose-colored lenses show him a pleasant world, though the glasses are just slightly too heavy to be comfortable. He returns them to their case.

Marilyn breaks her silence to pitch Sam on the virtues of the minibar. Sam finds it interesting that while Cayman’s system overrides many of the network ad buys, his agent still accepts and delivers site-specific solicitations like the ones provided by the hotel. Opening the waist-high fridge, he grabs a sandwich in cellophane and a bottle of Vater—tap water transformed with a trademark and bottled by the Global Cola Company. Cayman is picking up the tab, after all. And somehow it makes him feel altruistic to buy what his agent is selling.

Sam watches the news while he eats. It seems there have been outbreaks in cities all over the globe. A CNN reporter details the impact of blindness on a number of prominent actors. The cameras track every tear in close-up. Occasional cutaways to scenes of international chaos appear as dramatic punctuation. The logo of the underwriter, pancake and munitions chain FlakJack, has been superimposed on billboards and walls in the scenes of urban rioting.

The sight of unrest brings Fiona to mind. Sam directs Marilyn to put his daughter on screen. Her picture appears. She looks untroubled, which is especially comforting given what’s happening in the outside world. He watches her for several minutes before signing off.

Sam asks Marilyn whether Tony Roan is at home. She answers that is he is. He starts to ask her to call him, then changes his mind. Some stories are best told in person.

A quick shower does little to relax him. He’s anxious for Caddis to make contact.

“Thank you for using Municipal Water,” Marilyn says through the bathroom speaker as Sam towels off. “Our records show that you use an alternative water provider at home. We’d like to have you as a customer, and to help that happen, we’re offering a special one-time discount of two hundred seventy-nine a month for the next three months. Just say, ‘It’s a deal,’ and we’ll switch you over from your current provider at no extra charge.”

Sam declines and gets dressed. That’s when the call comes in.

Sam directs Marilyn to put the feed on the wall screen, but the video portion is only a placeholder graphic.

“I wish to inquire about the glasses you advertised,” says the distorted voice of Emil Caddis.

“You’re being much more polite than the last time you asked,” Sam replies.

A pause. “The last time?”

“When you pushed me out of an airplane, Emil.”

Caddis chuckles. “Sam Crane,” he says. “I should have known.”

“You sound like you’re having technical issues.”

“It’s necessary to conceal my location. Let us talk terms.”

“The glasses for the girl,” Sam answers. “You know the score. We use a Korean DMZ escrow vault. I’m working with the Seoul branch of International Hostage Brokers.”

“Twenty-four hours?”

Sam thinks about it for a moment. “Assuming I can get out of the country, that’s fine.”

“Until tomorrow, then.”

“Wait. I want an explanation. What’s so important about the glasses?”

“They have great sentimental value.”

“Call terminated,” Marilyn announces.

Sam spends the next hour making travel arrangements. There are no commercial flights out of San Francisco International due to the quarantine. But charters are allowed, with government approval. Marilyn manages to book him a flight at six p.m.—a bit too easily as far as Sam is concerned.

With his plans set, Sam takes a moment to relax on the bed. His thoughts drift back to the murder of George Gannet and he realizes what’s been bothering him about the incident. He’s certain Gannet must have been arrested on Wednesday after attacking agents Gibbon and Indri outside the Pure Café. But Luis said Gannet was picked up on Friday. It doesn’t make sense that the FBI would let Gannet go so Luis could pick him up two days later. “I know you,” he’d said. “I see things.” Was that a revelation or a complaint? Had he been killed because he saw Mako’s killer? Or was that his explanation for hallucination? Who’s to say how Indri and Gibbon appeared to him if he saw them through another’s eyes?

“Marilyn,” Sam says, “Contact Wu Hen. I’d like to speak with him.”

There’s a brief pause. “Contact denied. His agent says he is on vacation and won’t return until null days.”

“That’s a long vacation.” In Sam’s experience, missing data like that is a sign of manual tampering. So much for the easy road to Gannet’s medical records. He could go directly to the medical examiner, but that seems risky at the moment. He decides to appeal to a higher power.

“Marilyn, contact Harris Cayman.”

Another pause. “Contact denied,” Marilyn repeats. “Inadequate privileges.”

“I’m here, Mr. Crane,” Cayman says. His voice sounds thin, as if he was speaking on a twentieth-century telephone.

Sam sits up, eyes glancing about the room as if searching for a mosquito. For all the absurdity of Cayman’s God complex, there’s something to his delusions. His omnipresence is unsettling.

“How long have you been watching?”

“There’s always someone. I joined when Emil called.”

“I see.”

“You’re going to have to move soon,” Cayman continues. “Our efforts to conceal your location have failed.”

“George Gannet,” Sam says. “He had your eyes, didn’t he?”

“Who is George Gannet?”

“Look him up. From San Francisco.”

“A moment.” The background hiss from Cayman’s mic drops out, then returns. “There was a ‘gent by that name in our alpha test. Very perceptive of you.”

“Was he a willing participant?” Sam asks with an edge on his voice.

“As much as anyone bound by poverty is free in his choices.”

“For how long?”

“Several months.”

“How does it work? Is there a central control room?”

“I am at one of several control rooms,” Cayman explains in paternal tones. “But control is a misnomer. The system is designed so there can’t be any single point of failure. Access is sold through competitive bidding.”

“How closely do you monitor your engineers?”

“You’re suggesting we have a mole?”

“Well, if you weren’t repainting Gannet’s world, someone else was.”

A pause. “I will have to look into it.”

Sam stands and paces, rebelling against so much disembodied interaction. “I want to see,” he demands. “I want to see what Gannet saw.”

“Mr. Crane, I must insist that you focus on your assignment. Once Amy is safe, we can negotiate further.”

“No.” Sam is adamant. “I want 8:00 p.m. to 8:10 p.m, Monday, May 2.”

“There isn’t time for this.”

“Make time. Or is that beyond your powers?”

“I can save you time, but I cannot give you more.” There’s an edge in Cayman’s voice. “Government agents are approaching the hotel.”

“Whose government?”

“Does it matter?”

Sam steps to the window and opens the shutters. Four men wearing suits, sunglasses, and sidearms are moving with purpose toward the hotel. They’re walking in the right lane of the street, undeterred by the occasional car.

“It matters to me,” Sam answers. “I live here. That becomes a lot harder if I’m wanted.”

“They want the glasses, not you. You must leave now.”

“Alright, alright,” Sam says, grabbing his jacket. Struck by Cayman’s apparent desperation, he steps into the hallway outside his room, deliberately leaving the replica glasses in their case on the bed.

“Take the stairway,” Cayman says.

At the door to the stairwell, Sam suddenly stops. “The glasses. I forgot them.”

“Back! Quickly!”

“Can you send me another copy?”

“No, no, no! Run, get them! They can’t know the glasses are fake.”

Sam turns and runs back toward the room.

“They’re in the lobby,” Cayman says.

A woman’s voice can be heard addressing Cayman: “Elevator three will arrive first.”

The door unlocks with the application of Sam’s thumb.

“Sam,” Cayman says, “I’m going to hand you off to our senior overseer. Jenny is more experienced with remote operations than I am.”

“On station,” Jenny says in a voice both confident and compelling. “I’m accessing the local surveillance nodes. You’ll see them live in a sec.”

Sam runs in and grabs the glasses from the bed. Cayman’s insistence that he retrieve them makes him certain they contain a tracking device, or perhaps an explosive. He hurries back into the hallway and toward the elevators.

A semitransparent video window into another portion of the hotel appears in the upper right quadrant of Sam’s field of vision. He’s looking through the lens of a surveillance camera in the lobby. He watches two agents step into an elevator.

“Marc,” Jenny says, “I need to know which ones have the sight.”

“Already on it,” a man’s voice says in reply.

Sam turns toward the door to the stairs at the end of the hall. The view from the surveillance camera changes to reveal the bottom of the stairwell. Two more agents are climbing the stairs.

“Back to the elevators,” Jenny says. “Quickly, press the up button. There’s one approaching the fourth floor.”

The feed in Sam’s eyes cuts back to the two agents in an elevator.

Almost as soon as Sam presses the button, the elevator to his left opens. He steps in immediately, joining a uniformed waiter and a rolling cart moguled with the domes of plate covers. As the doors slide closed, he can hear the adjacent elevator opening. In his private cutaway window, he watches as the two agents arrive in the hallway he just left. Then the window fades.