Cog (5 page)

Chapter 5

“And he’s still complaining about not getting secret clearance, bragging that he had it at his last job, and that the managers must be idiots. I mean it’s been three years. If he doesn’t have it now, he ain’t gonna get it. You know what I mean?”

Thia Wayan trained her eyes on Menzel’s mouth to help her understand what he was saying. The cacophony in the crowded bar drowned out most conversations, and this was one she had been waiting to hear. Menzel was just an average spotter whose job it was to seek out potential recruits, but Thia had had her eye on a particular recruit for some time. Patience was the name of the game, and it usually paid off in the end.

“Did you invite him here, as I asked?”

“Yeah, but I dunno. He kinda keeps to himself. Said he might drop by, might not. Personally, I think he’s a bit stuck up,” Menzel said. He kept ogling the brunette at the bar, who returned his interest. Her cleavage threatened to spill out of a tight sweater with a plunging neckline. The sweater kept changing colors, blue, then black, pink, then blue again. Men were so simple, she thought. Thia swirled her gin and tonic, then drained it.

“Well, thank you, Menzel. Your efforts, as always, are appreciated. I think I’ll just hang around for a bit, though.” She had slipped a five-thousand-dollar money chip under a cardboard coaster when she first sat down. Now she slid the coaster across the table to Menzel.

Menzel’s fingers expertly picked up the chip. He winked at her, then headed for the woman at the bar.

Thia retrained her focus on the milling patrons, mentally creating profiles: middle class, average student who used a prominent neighbor’s reference to
become a senator’s aide; Georgetown graduate who’s slumming it with her ne’er-do-well boyfriend; administrative assistant who’s not shy about using what she has to climb to the next level. It was an exercise designed to keep her mind sharp and relieve boredom. But lately she’d been creating the same few profiles.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar face. Neer Bol.

His hair lay flat, parted to one side, widow’s peak pointing down to an aquiline nose. An intelligence still peered from behind his eyes, coldly calculating. A taut Windsor knot lay atop a spread-collar shirt, underneath a dark blue pinstripe suit, sleeves ending in gold cufflinked folds.

He shouldered his way to the bar and raised an arm, trying to get the bartender’s attention, who was busy pouring drinks for a group of blondes at the other end. Neer looked out of place with his stiff demeanor and passé fashion, juxtaposed with the three twenty-something males dressed in the latest smoothskins. Colors and images slid over bodies in synchronous timing—proximity patterning.

Thia motioned to the bartender, whom she had tipped generously for her drink, holding up her empty glass and pointing to Neer. The bartender nodded and headed down the bar. He handed Neer his order and, when Neer tried to pay, waved his hand in refusal and tilted his head in Thia’s direction. The look on Neer’s face almost made her laugh. After he closed his mouth, he eyed her suspiciously, then sidled over to her table. He balanced his drink as he pushed his way through the throng. He edged around the booth and sat down.

“Well, well. Fancy meeting you here,” he said. He had the same smooth baritone voice with the slight gravel edge she remembered.

“I just stopped by. Thought this looked like a nice place,” Thia said.

“Bull. You’re never seen unless you want to be seen. Don’t tell me. You’ve got a spotter at American Hologram.”

“You always did cut to the chase.” That was one thing about working with those in the business. They knew the routine.

“Did he or she tell you that Kalinska is having money problems, and that Urbana is a closet hetero?” Neer said.

“I’m not interested in the others,” Thia said.

“Oh? That so?”

“How long has it been since you worked at the department?”

Out of the window on M Street, white fairy lights illumined the bare trees that lined the sidewalk. Groups of workers passed underneath, on their way to the next bar. The street was a favorite after-work hangout. A recruiter’s dream.

Thia turned her attention back at Neer. The vein in his temple throbbed. The mere mention of his old place of employ must have set off internal alarm bells. He swallowed hard.

“Three years, two months, fifteen days.”

Three years and the poor bastard still kept track. This should be a cinch.
“Ever think of coming back?”

“Every damned day,” he said. “But we know that’s not happening.”

Thia took a drink, then shrugged. “Maybe I can talk to some people.”

“Come back as what, your subcontractor? No way. I’d want full reinstatement.”

“That might take time. In the meantime—”

“What the hell is it you want, Thia? Just come out with it.”

Thia thought over her next move. The job of recruiter was a delicate one, a task to be finessed. Push too hard and a potential spy might bolt; too soft and one wouldn’t know what she was talking about. Although she didn’t have to worry much about the latter with Neer.

“You’re looking handsome as ever, Neer.” She smiled as she reached over and ran her finger along the edge of Neer’s glass.

Neer threw his head back and laughed out loud. “So that’s it. Seduce me and promise my old job back, in return for what—information? How predictable I must be,” he said.

Thia suppressed a smirk. Men like Neer might protest, but would jump at the chance to work for intel again. Corporate senior developers no longer had automatic access to top secret information, no opportunity to prepare briefs for high-ranking government officials, no occasional jaunts on Air Force Two. Probably just meetings, corporate propaganda, and production mandates from the higher ups. Not a glamorous prospect.

“Do I at least get dinner first?” he said.

“I know a great place.”

b

Thia and Neer walked arm in arm into the restyled Au Pied de Cochon. The aroma of the restaurant’s signature dish, emincé de volaille sauce Roquefort, greeted the pair at the door. Dim lighting lent an air of secretive conversation, perfect for the evening’s agenda.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Michaud, bienvenu,” the host, Michel, said. He stepped forward from the front desk and spoke in a low voice. “Aimeriez-vous la pièce privée?”
Would you like the private room?

“Oui, Michel. Merci.”

Michel reached for two menus and motioned for the pair to follow him. With Neer in tow, she walked past the row of tables populated with Georgetown veterans and decorated with white tablecloths, votive candles, and yellow mums. Michel seated them and left.

Neer studied the dark cherry wood paneling. “Nice place. You have a reserved private room?”

Thia thought the ambient lighting softened Neer’s eyes.

“Oh, let’s just say it pays to treat staff well.” She tapped her foot three times, initiating a continuous sensor sweep that would download the results to her node. A green light flashed in her periphery. The room was clean of bugs. At least the ones she knew about. Technology improved every day. One’s enemies—or a neutral party looking to sell information—could be listening in with some new device. It paid to be paranoid.

The waiter entered after knocking and took their orders: the signature dish for both, a bottle of strong wine for dinner, and Green Chartreuse liqueur with dessert to help lower Neer’s inhibitions. When the waiter left, Thia kept the conversation light, choosing to wait until dessert to make the offer and close the deal. She hoped Neer was a fast eater.

By the time the crème brûlée arrived, the wine was taking effect, to Thia’s satisfaction. She’d managed to maintain her one glass, while Neer had polished off the rest of the bottle, all the while pontificating on his technological prowess.

“He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about anyway. He’s a finance manager, for cryin’ out loud. He barely knew Cog was a trapped ion quantum computer, and he’s got the nerve to try to tell me—ME—about decoherence. Ha!”

As her eyes began to glaze over from boredom, she slid closer to Neer, slipped off one of her black leather pumps, and rubbed her foot against his leg. Her fingers brushed the back of his neck, raking through his hair.

With her other hand, she spooned her dessert into her mouth. The savory warmth of the brûlée curled around her tongue. Neer finally stopped talking and looked at her with a wicked grin. Pieces of broccoli stuck in his teeth; green dots crowned his gums. She did her best to ignore it.

His hand shook as he poured the last of the Green Chartreuse into his glass, spilling some onto the white tablecloth. The stain spread, reminding her of a gunshot wound, and she imagined Wills Ryder lying on the floor in front of her, bleeding to death, his life slowly ebbing away. He had stolen information from her, and it had been her ass that had gotten chewed out. She didn’t even know he had stolen the secrets until the rumors started. But if she didn’t bring him in, there would be hell to pay.
Bastard
.

“You know, you never told me exactly what you wanted,” Neer slurred. The cold, sharp intelligence in his eyes had dulled to a hazy obtuseness. She’d seen that look too many times in too many bars, hashhouses, and pakz joints.

“Well, besides Wills Ryder himself, you know more than anyone about Cog, n’est pas?”

“Wills Ryder. Puh! Bastard took the money and ran. Had nothing to do with day-to-day management. And with the old man in a coma and his thieving sister on the run, I predict the company’s gonna go down the fema hole.” He pointed a shaky finger in Thia’s face. “Mark my word.”

“Nicholle Ryder, curator at a holographic art museum, acting president of a large corporation, now a suspected felon.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but we got a new VP, Perim Nestor. Maybe the Board will appoint him.”

She’d heard Wills had cut and run with a large percentage, but that didn’t sound like him. His mantra was power, not money. He was controlling the company from behind the scenes. Somehow.

Neer’s face turned down into melancholy anger. “I was one of the best, wasn’t I?”

“The best damned research scientist Homeland Intelligence ever had.” Thia raised her glass in mock tribute.

“One little mistake,” he said. His eyes held a faraway look.

Thia begged to differ with calling an entire career of back-stabbing and insubordination ‘one little mistake,’ but she nodded her head in agreement. “Bastards don’t know what they’re missing. But I’m giving you a chance to get back in, if you want it.”

“Whaddoo I hafta do?” he slurred.

“There’s a rumor that Wills was working on consciousness transference before he left. I just need you to poke around, see if it’s on the server. If so, share the wealth.”

“Transference of consciousness? Why didn’t I hear about it?” Neer said.

“Because you don’t have our resources. Do you think Perim or Nicholle knows?”

“If anyone, probably Nicholle. Blood, you know, is thicker than water.”

“I see. I don’t have to remind you that what’s said here is strictly between us,” Thia said.

“I’m not an amateur,” he protested. His voice was noticeably louder, and Thia knew she would have to close the deal soon, before the management did it for her.

“So, do we have a deal?”

Neer raised his glass, the Green Chartreuse casting a neon glow on his pallid face. “To our deal.”

“Excellent. We’ll have to work out a system of communication. But we can talk details later.”

Neer had a blank look on his face. “Why can’t I just send it wiho?”

“I don’t trust it.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” He leaned over and breathed alcohol in her face. “What say we go to your place?” he whispered loudly.

Thia refrained from rolling her eyes and waving her hand in front of her nose. “I’m in the purlieus. Get your coat.”

b

With the advent of fuel cells, people had moved farther out beyond D.C. than before, establishing towns in once-rural areas, now known as the purlieus. The suburbs were abandoned, left to whoever was left—usually the criminal element.

Route 1994 was relatively empty, given that it was a weeknight. Most of the commuters had gone home on the Maglev, and were now ensconced in their cookie-cutter neighborhoods on the edge of nowhere, where pudgy husbands mowed their postage-stamp yards on Saturday mornings. Gossipy housewives walked their children to the park to talk to other moms about the best daycare, or which child had what second-grade teacher. Thia hated the whole scene. But it was the only place she could afford. At the moment, anyway. The rich still inhabited their enclaves in Kensington, Georgetown, and Potomac. The middle class were relegated farther out in the purlieus, while the poor were stuck in rundown isolation in the suburbs.

The high-speed trains had allowed those middle-class earners who wanted the white picket fence to head out to the purlieus in search of good schools, low crime, and convenient shopping. The people had moved beyond the cities, but culture hadn’t. Ask a purlieu dweller when the last time was he saw a chamber orchestra and he would look at you as if you had sprouted a second head. Even if the orchestra was, literally, at his fingertips. Tap a finger, et voilà! A string ensemble.

As the car sped past a blurred landscape at 250 miles per hour, Thia lounged in the driver’s seat. In her lifetime, auto-pilot reduced the role of the driver to mere observer, and the interior of cars changed accordingly. She tapped up a heated massage and sank into the blanket of hands that stretched under the ostrich skin seat. Fingers kneaded away stress-induced tension.

A low snore emanated from Neer. His mouth hung open as drool leaked from the side. His self-aggrandizing charm had long since dissipated. She figured she would stash him in her bed until morning, tell him how great he was, then send him on his way.

A blue light flashed three times in her periphery. Her corporate handler. He wanted an update. She tapped out the menu and wrote a message summarizing the night’s events. He would be happy to find out Neer had taken the bait. When the message encrypted, she sent it along. She felt more confident sending messages since they had built additional quantum repeater stations, but she preferred the dead drop approach, which she still used with her own informants. Or maybe she just liked the subterfuge. Skulking around in the bushes was more palpable than tapping a finger. But if she added another country to her list of employers, it’d be hard to keep track.

To pacify her Chinese handler, she would have to make a stop.

The car passed the service station where her own dead drop was, but she had to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Thia turned off at the second exit past the station and meandered through darkened neighborhoods with her lights off as she prepared the message for Wu Ji.

Convinced no one was tailing her, Thia ordered the car back onto the highway, heading for the service station. Neer still slept peacefully.
Must be getting old, Neer.

At the station, she exited the car and opened the back door. She grabbed a stiff leash and activated the diode. A small white terrier appeared at the end of the leash, eagerly sniffing out its surroundings. She took the dog toward the wooded area in back of the service station.