Spark: A Novel (8 page)

“So … let me look at you.” Placing her elbows on the desk, the woman leaned forward and studied my face. I was close enough to smell her rose perfume; it had a dark purple color in my mind. A small electronic device with an LED screen was next to her notebook computer. Much later I would discover that my supervisor always carried a full-frequency detector that sensed wireless transmissions.

“I was told that you were in a motorcycle accident.”

“That’s true.”

“You do look a little odd, but it’s not terribly noticeable.”

I stayed silent.

“How did you get here, Mr. Davis?”

“On the subway.”

“And you can take trains and drive cars, correct? Can you travel in airplanes?”

“I can do all that. I just don’t like to get touched by strangers.”

“I understand
completely.
” The woman’s southern accent was very strong at that moment. “People are always pushing and shoving, especially here in New York. When I was a little girl, I was taught politeness. Sometimes I think certain people were taught how to be
rude.
”

“So when can I get the money?” I asked. “Do I have to sign something?”

The woman reached into her leather portfolio bag, took out an envelope, and placed it on the desk. “This envelope contains one thousand dollars in cash. It’s yours. You earned it by entering this room and sitting down on that chair.”

“But I didn’t—”

“You will earn an additional two thousand for hearing my complete proposal. You don’t have to agree to anything, Mr. Davis. But you do have to listen.”

I picked up the envelope and looked inside. Yes, there was money and it appeared to be real. Ever since the accident, I had
been told that I was delusional by a series of physicians and psychologists. At that moment, it felt pleasant to meet someone who appeared to be insane.

“There is no Section Three lawsuit. I’m not a lawyer. And ‘Larson’ is simply a name of convenience. If you wish, you can call me ‘Miss Holquist,’ but that isn’t my name either. I work for the Private Clients Division of BDG … The Brooks Danford Group. We’re a major investment bank with a global orientation. Our private clients are ultra-high-net-worth individuals who control a wide spectrum of revenue streams. We don’t search for new clients. They’re recommended by our satisfied customers.”

“So why am I here?”

“To listen, and get paid.” She leaned back in her chair. “Mr. Davis, many of our international clients possess or control ‘black money’—that is, income illegally obtained or not declared for tax purposes. Some of the money comes from the bribes and kickbacks paid to government officials. But most of it is the profit earned by international corporations. Economists have estimated that up to twenty percent of the world economy is somehow connected to black money.”

“So it’s billions of dollars.”

She nodded. “We handle dollars, of course, but also euros and every other currency in the world. You need to understand that we’re just part of a system that parallels what we call the ‘public’ economy. There are black money stockbrokers, real estate agents, and investment counselors. In America, BDG is a well-known investment bank with buildings and computers and hundreds of employees. But overseas, we are connected with foreign banks as well as shell corporations that are only a wisp of paper in a lawyer’s office. Everything is well run and well organized, but our clients do have one significant problem.”

“They’re breaking the law?”

“Not relevant.” Miss Holquist flicked the fingers of her right hand as if she was brushing away a housefly. “Let’s say you’ve given black money to a stockbroker or that you’ve purchased a share in a business venture. And let’s say that some unethical person embezzles
or steals your investment. What are your options? You can’t go to the police. In some countries, you would become a target for extortion. In other countries, you’d be arrested for tax fraud.”

“I guess you’re out of luck.”

“That’s the way it’s been in the past, but several years ago a Russian bank … one of our competitors … organized a ‘Special Services Section’ to deal with this problem. Other banks imitated this move and we had to follow the crowd to stay competitive. I am currently in charge of our company’s Special Services Section. This service isn’t free, Mr. Davis. Our clients have to pay an additional fee for each assignment. Most of our clients never use our service, but everyone likes the fact that we exist.”

“So people steal money and you have them arrested?”

“We aren’t police officers, Mr. Davis. But we do have warm relationships with police departments all over the world. The Special Services Section tracks down offenders and neutralizes their future actions by ending their lives.”

Miss Holquist kept smiling and staring at me, but it felt as if she had suddenly become harder, colder—like a pool of water frozen into a slab of ice.

“And you do this yourself?”

“Of course not. You definitely have the wrong impression. I graduated magna cum laude with a degree in chemistry from a well-known university, worked in the government sector, and then went to business school. I’m on the board of several charitable foundations and I’ve raised two children on my own … two lovely young ladies.”

“Then who—”

Miss Holquist began to tap her right forefinger. It sounded like she was pinning certain words onto the surface of the desk. “I’m
management,
Mr. Davis. I hire and supervise our contract employees. But during my first year in charge of Special Services I discovered that it was very difficult to find competent and reliable workers. Most of the people my predecessor had hired were criminals with substance-abuse problems. They couldn’t follow orders and they weren’t discreet. I suppose I could have accepted an unpleasant
situation, but the Q-scanner changed everything. Are you aware of this technology?”

I shook my head.

“Q-scanners fire a burst of undetectable laser beams that are able to penetrate clothing and provide molecular-level feedback from a distance of fifty meters. They were originally restricted to airport security stations, but now they’re used by police departments and corporations all over the world.”

“So it’s like a body scan?”

“Much more than that. The laser beam is imperceptible and provides virtually instant data. It can sense drugs, explosives, and what you had for dinner. With certain adjustments, a Q-scanner can also measure the adrenaline level in your body. When most people are about to attack someone, their adrenaline spikes. On two occasions my enforcers were detected before they could finish their assignments. And that …” She tapped her finger on the desk. “That was
very
annoying. The Q-scanner created a problem that had a negative impact on our efficiency.”

“I don’t know how you could get around that. A scanner could be built into a doorway. You’d never see it.”

“That’s correct, Mr. Davis. And ordinary people will always be tense or frightened if they have to neutralize someone. But then I came up with a solution to the problem. I was reading the London
Telegraph
one morning and I learned about a Danish company that employed autistic people to test mobile phones. It turned out that people with autism spectrum disorders were obsessed about details and doing a job the same way each time. If the company required one hundred tests for each unit, the employees would never shirk and lie and do ninety-nine tests. They were honest, reliable, and never complained about overwork.

“So I thought … why not hire enforcers with psychological or neurological issues that allowed them to stay calm when they neutralized a target? A calm but efficient enforcer would never experience a surge of adrenaline. Gradually, I found individuals all over the world who matched my new criteria. Our current enforcers rarely get arrested and always obey orders. It’s been a great success,
Mr. Davis. The bank’s clients are pleased that the neutralization process is handled in a businesslike manner.”

“I think you’ve made a mistake, Miss Holquist. My last job involved speech-recognition systems.”

“My staff have entered a variety of databases and we’ve accessed all your files.” Miss Holquist reached into her portfolio bag and took out a flash drive. “Every fact about your life is contained on this flash drive. I know all about your childhood, your college years, your work for InterFace, your motorcycle accident, and your two months in the hospital. A variety of psychiatrists and neurologists have said that you have Cotard’s syndrome. You think you’re dead.”

“Yes. But that doesn’t mean—”

“I think you have the qualities to become an excellent contract employee. You’re intelligent and college educated. You don’t drink alcohol or take drugs. If you neutralize someone, you’re not going to feel tension, fear, guilt, or any other psychological issues. All the doctors who have examined you state that you appear to have no friends or family relationships and you are incapable of any sort of empathy. In short … you’re perfect for this job.”

“But what if I don’t want the job? Aren’t you taking a risk talking to me? I could go to the police and tell them about our conversation.”

Miss Holquist smiled. “Tell them what? No one named Holquist works for the Brooks Danford Group and this office was rented for the day by a shell corporation. If you went to the police, a bored desk sergeant would listen to your story, fill in a digital form, then delete it five minutes after you left the precinct house.”

We stared at each other for a few seconds and then—without thought or intention—my head nodded. Yes. She was right.

“When you say your employees ‘neutralize’ someone, that means … kill?”

“We rarely use that word, Mr. Davis; it describes an act, not an objective. What we do is different. You are going to neutralize the future negative behavior of people who have broken promises or violated agreements. When thieves cheat and steal from us, it shows disrespect for our clients and the bank. Do they think that
we’re weak and foolish? Really? Well,
I’m
not weak and foolish … as a great many people have discovered.”

I was surprised by the job offer, but it didn’t generate any of the emotions that Jean LeMarc portrayed in his catalogue of facial expressions. Since my Transformation, I saw the world clearly. There was no inherent value in any object or action. The woman who said she was my mother was the equivalent of a doorknob. A pigeon flying in the park was equal to an apple falling from a tree. If I neutralized someone for Miss Holquist, it would simply be a new kind of activity performed by my Shell—like tying my shoes or opening up a bottle of ComPlete.

“I still think you’re talking to the wrong person, Miss Holquist. I don’t know how to search for people or shoot a handgun. I hunted rabbits on my uncle’s farm when I was a teenager. That’s about it.”

“You would be trained at a private facility in North Carolina by former police officers and intelligence operatives. We would spend a great deal of money to teach you the necessary skills.”

“What about the police? Won’t they track me down?”

“If you join our team, we’ll give you a new identity. Our friends in Homeland Security will inform the EYE system that you have a Certified Anomaly Profile. That means your behavior could fall outside normal perimeters and you won’t be tagged.”

“Perhaps I could learn the skills, but I’ve never ‘neutralized’ someone before.”

“Why should that bother you? Are you really going to pretend that you have any kind of morality or that you care about the law? You’re dead, Mr. Davis. Is that correct?”

“I—I have been transformed.”

“There’s nothing wrong with thinking that you’re dead, but if you’re walking around New York City you’re going to need money. The bank would pay you enough to create a safe, stable environment. Earlier in our conversation, you said that you didn’t like to be touched. Only rich people live in a world where they have complete control over who touches them.”

I got up from the chair. “Let me think about this.”

“Of course. It’s a major decision. Once you make up your mind, you can send me an e-mail. In the meantime …” She took a second envelope out of the attaché case and placed it on the desk. “Here’s your second payment for listening to my presentation.”

My right hand floated above the envelope. Then I picked it up and placed it in my coat pocket.

Miss Holquist smiled, showing her teeth. They were white and perfectly aligned. “Now that was easy. Wasn’t it?”

The town car from the airport passed beneath the East River, glided up a ramp, and emerged into the sunlight. Yesterday, I was in the English countryside watching a man bleed to death, and now I was traveling through Manhattan. Bright yellow taxicabs maneuvered around each other while the drivers hunched forward and gripped their steering wheels. Within the cabs, the passengers felt as if they were going somewhere. But if you gazed down on the traffic from one of the towers, it looked like yellow particles moving randomly through the narrow streets.

The car traveled up Madison to East Sixtieth Street and pulled over to the curb. “Now what?” I asked the driver.

“Suite 2160, sir. Don’t forget to take your luggage.”