31
Upstate New York
USA
THE RAIN CAME DOWN HARDER—not quite in solid sheets but in a disorienting rush that blurred the people around him and turned the lake to mist. The words of the priest were overcome by the impact of the drops against umbrellas and Christian Dresner considered it a blessing.
Of course he could use his Merge to compensate for the visual and audio chaos, but why? To hear a stream of meaningless platitudes about a God and a soul that he now knew didn’t exist? To hear passages from a two-thousand-year-old book written by ignorant men who needed a deity to explain every clap of thunder and burning bush?
What was left of Craig Bailer’s body had been cremated after a cursory autopsy, but it had taken months for the family to put together this modest ceremony. He looked at their faces—the stoic wife, the supportive children, impatient business associates—and wondered about the delay. Was it because no one cared enough to shuffle their schedules? Perhaps they had seen Bailer for what he was: a man obsessed with money and the illusion of personal value it could be used to create. A man eminently replaceable as a business partner, parent, or friend by the thousands just like him.
The priest stepped down and a young man Dresner didn’t know took his place. Not that he would have expected to recognize him. He knew very little about Bailer personally. The man had been a convenient tool but, beyond that, of little interest. Not that their impersonal relationship had made killing him—murdering him—any easier. But then, it had been an act of no real importance. Bailer would have died later with all the others anyway. For his sins.
“My father loved it here,” the young man said, his voice cutting through the rain in a way that the priest’s had not. “When I was a boy, this piece of land only had a little cabin on it and there were other houses surrounding the lake. Over the years, he bought them all up and removed them. He loved the quiet. The beauty of nature.”
Dresner frowned imperceptibly. The “cabin” was now a thousand-square-meter monstrosity and the dock they were standing on held a massive speedboat painted a garish red and yellow. The truth was that Bailer had never shown any interest in nature. This was just another trophy.
The family walked in a silent procession to the end of the pier and turned an urn upside down over the water. The wind whipped at the ashes for a moment before they were soaked through and dropped unceremoniously into the lake.
A fitting end to Craig Bailer.
The crowd began to disperse, about half checking their email on cell phones and the other half doing the same with the subtle pupil jerks that people had taken to calling the Dresner Stare.
He moved against the exodus, people shuffling out of his way with nervous glances as he approached Bailer’s wife.
“I’m so sorry, Lori,” he said, feeling her tense under his embrace. He was less human than symbol now and people often didn’t know how to react to his physical presence.
“I want to thank you for coming,” she said as he took her hand. “It would have meant a lot to Craig.”
“I considered him one of my closest friends and owe him a great deal. I can’t imagine how you and your family must be feeling, but I want you to know that it was a devastating loss for me, too.”
She gripped her umbrella tighter, seemingly unsure what to say. “We still don’t know what happened, Mr. Dresner. I suppose we never will.”
He held out a business card, blank except a single phone number centered on it. “This comes directly to me. If there’s anything you need—anything I can help you with—please call.”
She accepted the card and this time seemed a bit more relaxed when they embraced. Dresner stood by respectfully as she retreated to the fold of her family and then started up the slope toward the house. A limousine appeared along the muddy road and glided to a stop in front of him.
Dresner pulled the door open, freezing for a moment when he saw a figure sitting next to the heavily tinted window on the opposite side.
“Hello, Christian.”
The voice was immediately recognizable and Dresner slipped inside, dropping his dripping umbrella on the floor in front of him. “Very dramatic, James. I’ve always admired a good entrance.”
“You said you wanted to talk and that it was important. I thought I’d take advantage of your rare presence in our country.”
The limousine weaved through the people still gathered in front of Bailer’s house and Dresner took a seat opposite the man. He had retired years ago as a major in an area of U.S. military intelligence where rank was not necessarily well correlated with power. Now he was in his early seventies, with gray hair still cut in an efficient military style and a gaunt, sun-damaged face that meshed perfectly with a body that was a product of a lifetime in the Marine Corps. The scar that ran from the edge of his starched collar to the underside of his chin completed the image but, ironically, was not a souvenir from combat. According to Dresner’s investigators, it was actually the result of a childhood accident.
“Sorry to hear about your CEO. Can I assume that it won’t affect the production of military-specific Merges?”
“Your concern is heartwarming.”
“Everyone dies, Christian. Even you and me one day.”
Dresner looked at the glass separating them from the driver and security man in the passenger seat. It was soundproof, but he still would prefer to have this conversation elsewhere.
“We’ve run into some cash-flow problems that need to be dealt with in order to keep manufacturing at capacity.”
“Cash-flow problems? What kind of cash-flow problems?”
“Nothing that fifty billion dollars won’t resolve.”
Major James Whitfield sat in silence, nothing registering on his face. It never did.
“It’s a temporary shortfall,” Dresner continued. “The rollout is actually ahead of projections.”
“Whether it’s temporary or not is irrelevant. The amount isn’t though. We’ve already given more than a hundred billion to this project.”
“And in return, I’ve agreed to provide America with a number of critical exclusive technologies. Certainly the Merge is more useful than obsolete aircraft carriers and fighter jet prototypes that have trouble getting into the air.”
“Do you think I just call the Pentagon and tell them to write a check?” Whitfield said, his voice turning menacing. “Making this kind of money disappear from the defense budget isn’t trivial. Even for me.”
“Obviously, I could go looking for the money on the open market. I imagine the Chinese government would be interested.
When Whitfield spoke again it was through clenched teeth. “Anything else?”
“In fact, yes.”
Dresner pulled up a photo on his Merge and was about to securely transfer it to Whitfield but then remembered the old soldier still refused to adopt the technology. Instead, he was forced to use a laptop lying on the seat next to him.
“What am I looking at?” Whitfield said, accepting the computer and examining the enhanced image.
“The two people sitting in the booth are Randi Russell from the CIA and Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, whom you’re familiar with.”
“What’s he holding?” Whitfield asked.
“A severed head that Russell found in Afghanistan.”
“Why do I care?”
“Because that particular Afghan was involved in an experiment you paid for almost four months ago. The skull has Merge studs in it.”
Still, nothing registered on the former marine’s face, but the rise and fall of his chest increased noticeably. “Where did you get this?”
In fact, he had quite a bit more—including photos of Russell actually retrieving the head. He couldn’t reveal that, though, without compromising his view into Whitfield’s world.
“Smith is in charge of the military’s adoption of my technology. It makes sense for me to watch him to the degree practical.”
“Why wasn’t I told about this experiment?”
“You never seemed interested in this level of detail.”
“Christ…” Whitfield said under his breath. “Does anyone at Central Intelligence know about this?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I don’t think so. She and Smith have a personal relationship—he was engaged to her sister when she became one of the first victims of the Hades virus. It appears that Russell came straight to him because of that history and his position as the director of Merge development. I take it you haven’t heard anything through military channels?”
Whitfield shook his head. “If Smith is concerned about this, he hasn’t gone up the chain of command with it.”
“Then there’s still time. Watching Smith is one thing, but dealing with him and a CIA operative is obviously beyond my experience.”
“Dealing with? Why the hell were you even following him? This isn’t your sphere of influence. If you feel people need watching—and goddamn well if they need ‘dealing with’—you come to me.”
“I have come to you, Major. And I’m expecting you to handle it.”