Silhouette (22 page)

Zhang Sun once again turned his head slowly to meet my gaze, then looked away. But I felt the same sense of aggression emanating from him, even though his face remained blank. I thought that perhaps he knew of my role in the Taiwan crisis, but even that didn't seem capable of eliciting this kind of personal hostility. But as I reminded myself one more time, it might have just been my imagination.

“One could say that San Francisco is almost heaven,” Saul Rabin was saying. “Because there are no lawyers in San Francisco, and we all know that there are no lawyers in heaven.” The lightning scar on his cheek crinkled slightly from his thin smile, and he looked at Stanford Glenn. “By that standard, what would we call your country?”

“Hell on earth,” the black man in the white sweater answered.

“Is being a lawyer a capital crime now in the Bay Area?” the Macrosoft man Otero said, stirred from his former indifference by the lighter spirit of the conversation.

Saul nodded. “We shoot 'em on sight,” he said.

“I do not see what is humorous about any of this,” Nakamura interjected. “Human rights are being violated in this ‘heaven' of yours.”

“Which rights are those, Mr. Nakamura?” the old man snapped back. “The right to avoid prosecution if you have enough money, or if the court system is too busy? The right to go on living while you are destroying the lives of others? Let me ask you a direct question, sir, since you are being so direct with me. What concern have your people shown for the countless thousands of human lives, especially young helpless ones, that have been sacrificed for the sake of your genetic experiments?”

“Tu quoque,” Nakamura was quick to respond. “As Geneva affirmed, those experiments were morally acceptable because they have resulted in the greater good of our society.”

“That sounds like Nazism to me,” Paul said with a smile, which disappeared quickly when he caught a stern look from his father. So he added, “With all due respect, Mr. Vice President.”

“By that standard,” Saul spoke before anyone else could, “our experiment in justice has been successful on all counts. You will find no place in the world, with the exception perhaps of Mr. Sun's country, where the innocent feel more safe and the guilty feel more fear.”

There was that connection between the Bay Area and China again. Were they birds of a feather, two fascist governments who would want to rule the world together?

“Of course, we could ask whether that is the standard which
should
be applied,” Stanford Glenn said.

“True,” Saul Rabin answered, appearing genuinely thoughtful. “But with the way the world has become, when other noble priorities seem to be so out of reach, so unrealistic … I suppose that safety and security have become among the most important ones to me.” This moral dilemma seemed to engender in him a mild dose of humility, which was rare enough to cause a silence at the table for a few moments.

“Security,” the old man repeated, then let out a tired breath. But then he suddenly snapped back into a business mode, and delivered the blow that I had been expecting all night, though it came in an unexpected form.

“Personal and national security is a concern we all have,” he said. “And that is why I asked one of our executive peacers, Michael Ares, to tell you about the work he did in securing the Napa Valley a few years ago. He's prepared to share some insights that can revolutionize your own approach to protecting yourself and your people. Why don't you give that report I asked you to prepare, Michael?”

As the stares landed on me, I fought hard to not reward them with surprise or fear. Though his motives were a mystery, the old man had effectively strapped me into a no-win situation. I couldn't call him a liar, or even imply that he was mistaken, in front of these people, without committing an unforgivable faux pas. On the other hand, I had nothing to say, so the only alternative was to look like an unmitigated idiot.

I had thought that the Mayor might use me to perpetrate a political assassination—some kind of physical homicide. But now it seemed that he had planned a
professional
murder, and the victim was my career, and what was left of my reputation.

By now I was feeling nauseated, in addition to my acute exhaustion, and I longed to retreat into the bathroom for another splash of cold water, or perhaps to throw up. But instead I pressed a smile onto my face, tried to summon from my anger the motivation I needed to beat the old man at this mysterious game, and opened my mouth.

 

20

“I want to … um…” was all that I could get out before choking up and having to swallow, from nervousness and every other emotion that had been plaguing me. “… Say … something about Saul … Mr. Rabin.”

“Are you all right, Michael?” the old man said abruptly, and the affront of his expressing concern for me jarred me enough to clear my mind, at least for the moment.

“When Mr. Rabin asked me to do this,” I said, not looking at him, “I immediately began constructing an elaborate report, packed with information about the securing of the Napa Valley. But … then I remembered the kind of men to whom I would be reporting.”

I raised my eyes and swung them around the table at the guests, who were all watching me curiously.

“I remembered that those of you who are interested in such information would most likely have it already, and, uh … those of you who are not interested would not want to waste your precious time in such a manner.” I looked at the old man now. “So, with your permission, I would simply like to answer any questions these men might have. If there are none, or few, you can then move on to more pressing matters.”

Saul was now nodding repeatedly, mostly to himself, and it seemed more than just a response to my question. I looked around the table again at the guests, whose silence made my guess appear profound. Before I could conclude, however, one of them did speak up.

“I have a question
about
Mr. Ares,” Stan Glenn said to the old man. “Though it's not related to the Napa Valley.”

“By all means,” Saul said, snapping out of his reverie.

“I'm concerned about the effect he may have on the stability of your organization,” the black man said bluntly. “Whether there is any truth to the rumors that have been circulating.”

“Do you want to know if the rumors are true, Stan?” said the Mayor. “Or do you want to know if they have a negative effect on BASS?”

“We could start with the first,” Glenn answered.

Macrosoft's Otero, who had been studying his nails, brought his boots down off the table and sat up. The Chinese, on the other hand, remained statues.

“What rumors have you heard?” the old man asked. I was annoyed by the fact that I was clearly not a part of this conversation, but it didn't seem a good time to say so.

“Speculation that he killed the man above him, and his own child in the process.”

The words stung me, but I tried not to move.

“Severe accusations, I know,” Glenn continued, “but they seem to rise above the usual trash from the media. And that man named Harris, who hinted at this publicly, died in an assault led by Mr. Ares himself. That only heightens the suspicion that he may have committed the murders.”

The old man knitted his brow and stared at the American until he was sure of his seriousness, then he turned to me.

“Is this true, Michael?” he asked. “Did you do this?”

Everyone looked at me.

“Yes,” I said. “In a way.”

Everyone looked at me more, and I sensed Paul shifting in his seat.

Then, to the old man, I said, “But you are also responsible.”

Saul's only reaction was a slight smile, which I couldn't decipher. He met my eyes, and I let a few moments pass, during which I could tell that Paul was trying to decide whether or not to say something.

Then I added, to the whole table, “We both brought them into this dangerous lifestyle, so we both put them in harm's way.”

I dropped my head, a despondent and guilt-ridden father and friend.

Paul relaxed in his seat, and then broke the silence.

“Of
course
there is no truth to those accusations,” he said. “If there were, we would be the first to deal with it. You should know that, Mr. Glenn.”

“Why didn't you answer the claims on the net?” the black man asked after nodding in resignation.

“Haven't you ever read Shakespeare? ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks'?” Paul smiled warmly at the man, to soften his words. “Better to ignore it than sink to their level and look more guilty.”

“We haven't heard anything from you, Mr. Rabin.” This British voice came from Howard Carter, my accursed former boss. I looked up at him as he continued. “You don't seem highly confident in your man here.” He gestured at me with his head, but wouldn't meet my gaze.

“Well,” the old man said, examining the top of his cane for a few moments, as if for no other reason than to make us wait. “Michael is like a son to me.” Then he leveled his gaze at Carter. “I would die for him.”

“Ah,” Carter said, nodding. “Yes.” And the discussion was over.

You're gonna die for me tonight
was all I could think as I watched the old man, who concluded the meeting and dismissed us without acknowledging me again. This bizarre episode had been the last item on the agenda, which strengthened my suspicion that it was actually the main reason for the whole meeting. Try as I might, I could not fathom why this would be, so I gave up trying on my way out of the Parthenon Room.

I collected the boas, exchanged a meaningful look with Paul, and headed to my office to wait for his call.

*   *   *

Safely situated in an office chair that cost more than most offices, and staring through the transparent wall at my twentieth-floor view of the city, I realized again how wasted I was, physically and emotionally. I turned on the chair's relaxor, hoping it would help a little, and it did. I remembered years before, when I used to keep a few confiscated Artstim derms in one of my desk drawers, and wished I had one now. Recalling why I had finally flushed the drugs down the toilet, I thought of Lynn, and tried to contact her again. The glasses were in my jacket, but I used the office, which doubled as a net room, so that anyone who answered could see my pitiful, yearning face.

Lynn's three numbers yielded nothing but messages again, but I did reach two of her closest friends, one in L.A. and the other here in the Bay Area. The bad news was that they both said they had not heard from her, but the good news was that they both seemed to be telling the truth. This meant that she might have gone home, and simply wasn't answering the phone.

I glanced at a clock and noticed it was almost 1:00
A.M
. That meant I had about three hours before I would have my chance to confront the murderer of my friend and daughter—or the
other
murderer, I should say. On top of the resident exhaustion and nausea, I felt a pang of fear and another ache in my head where I imagined the neurochip was located. I wondered if I could make it three hours before it was activated again, to cause me to perpetrate another craven deed or to burn out half my brain.

I selected a holo on the player in my desk. I needed to be doing something in case I was being watched, because I wanted to replace the stopper rounds in my right boa with killers. When the holo came on, I began to do this, without being able to see my hands or the gun, as I watched my wife and daughter fly a kite in the park. Grass and sky and the sound of wind were all around me. I had made this holo not too long ago with my glasses, and seeing it now hurt worse than my physical pain. But it brought flashes of pleasure, too, and after I was finished reloading the gun, I slumped into the comfort of the chair and enjoyed what I had lost.

After Lynn managed to get the kite in the air, and the string secured in Lynette's hand, she backed over to me and slid her arm around me. I almost felt her against my side as I studied her face close-up, taking in the combination of stunning profile and imperfect skin, both of which were highlighted by the bright morning sun. I looked back at my little girl, who had stopped yelling, “I'm doing it!” and now wasn't sure what she should do next. I broke off from Lynn and walked to Lynette, encouraging her with a hug that brought near her features, which were a gorgeous fusion of mine and her mother's. Then I told her to run with the kite, because it was starting to descend. She ran the wrong way, of course, and soon we had to relaunch it.

In the bright light of this virtual reality, my hand came up to wipe the tears from my eyes, which were caused by the allergy-inducing winds of the Napa Valley. And in the darkness of real reality, my hand was also wiping my eyes.…

*   *   *

The phone rang, Paul's voice came on, and soon I was entering Saul Rabin's top-floor lair, noticing that it seemed darker and more ominous than ever before. Out of a swirling mist of atmospheric chemicals, the old man appeared, leaning on a pulse rifle instead of his cane. He laughed maniacally.

“Come to kill me before I kill you?” he spat, then began to raise the big gun so slowly that it wasn't even a threat.

“You killed my daughter, you bastard!” I screamed, and emptied both boas into him. There was no blood on his body as it fell to the floor.

“You killed my father,” Paul said as he emerged from the mist. I realized my guns were spent, and wondered if I could take the big man in hand-to-hand combat. But before I could decide on a course of action, his frown turned to a smile, and he added, “And I'm glad you did!”

He moved forward and embraced me, which was unpleasant because he seemed to be enjoying it too much. I started to pull away, but before I could, a wall of brown flesh twice our size dropped from the ceiling and knocked us to the ground.