She freezes, then slowly withdraws.
A moment of perfect silence and then it’s like she’s become a different person as she laughs and jams her hands into her armpits and says, “Sorry, I’m just so fucking cold. Anything to warm up, you know? They say drinking warms you up but if it did I’d feel fine.” Her poise holds for a moment, then collapses before his eyes, and suddenly she seems needy, almost childlike, and close to tears. “And I may not be thinking too clearly, but I’m not so lit I can’t recognize an intelligent man. I hate to ask, since you’ve been so tolerant already, but who do you think is doing this to us, and why would they bother?”
“It’s not clear,” he says, which is both honest and appropriately unforthcoming. “There’s a pattern but I can’t quite see it.”
“Your family’s been political for generations, right? And owns like one percent of Brazil?”
“Less than that,” he says reflexively. “Especially now.”
“Maybe someone wants you for leverage? Whether hostage, spy or pawn, you’re a good thing to own.”
“Maybe the surgeon is corrupt, but how would they have gotten my mother to abandon us?”
“Maybe she had to make some hard decisions,” says Akemi. “You have two brothers, right? Maybe her back was against the wall, and she wanted to hold onto something.”
He starts to get out of the car but she seizes his wrist and it’s less like she’s compelling him than like she’s afraid he’ll disappear so he doesn’t insist and after a moment of terrible silence he says, “Is your family political too?”
“No,” she says, smiling thinly. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s less obvious why they’re interested in me. At first I thought they wanted an actress who was a reliable commodity—someone who couldn’t refuse projects, forget her lines or shoot up between scenes. I’m in the sweet spot—I have the goods, but no leverage, and no one’s going to miss me. Or it could be less than that—maybe they’ve got a new technology, and I’m just a trial run.”
“You sound so resigned.”
“You have to work within the givens. Like now. I’ll find a way out, because there’s always a way out, and I’ve been in worse spots than this. Anyway, I have an idea—you tell me if it’s dumb or not.” Her uncertainty and need for his approval are all but palpable. “You know the surgeon’s tablet? Maybe that’s how he’s changing us. They know I ran away, but they probably still think you’ll do what you’re told. You could be in a position to take action.”
“Even if I could get the tablet, it wouldn’t matter. They’ll have other means of access.”
“Couldn’t you lock them out?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“It seems desperate.”
“Yes,” she says. “But it’s better than just giving up. Do you want to let them make you a slave without putting up a fight? Anyway, it’s obvious that you’re brilliant. I could see it the moment I met you. You practically shine. You could figure it out, couldn’t you, you of all people?”
“I … maybe,” he says. “But why would he give me his tablet in the first place?”
He freezes as she takes the pistol from her pocket—it’s practically an antique, an old-school Colt revolver with a purely mechanical action—and he wonders if earlier he miscalculated and now he’s going to suffer, but she reverses the gun, puts it on his palm, presses his fingers around the handle.
46
Exact Enumeration of Blurred Flocks
The corroded mirror behind the bar reflects the aqueous glow of Irina’s whisky, the hunch of her shoulders, and the continuum of the motion of travelers passing by. Tasting blood, she washes the liquor around her mouth, holds the cold glass to the swelling on her jaw. It’s okay, somehow, to drink in airports in the morning.
Her other memory offers the columns of smoke over the villa inclining in the wind. She feels no rancor toward Corporal Boyd, in fact hopes he makes it home, for all her hate is reserved for Cromwell, who has to die, however great his strength, however far he stands above the law, while she is alone, and wants to sleep.
For the fifty-third time today, she thinks of what happened in W&P’s servers. Did Cromwell suborn Cloudbreaker, and if so, how? If not, why did it want her memories? In any case, how did it break into her implant? She’s made no progress but can’t let these questions go even for the space of a drink.
If it was the occluded AI that influenced Cloudbreaker, then Cromwell might have been less culpable than she’d thought, which means they could maybe have talked it out, but now their conflict has its own momentum and the situation’s logic requires her to escalate.
She recognizes Fabienne in the mirror by her walk.
“How are the kids?” she asks, as Fabienne sits beside her.
“Chastened,” says Fabienne. “Except the little one, who thinks we’re having an adventure. They’re with friends now.”
“Are they safe?”
“Beyond question,” says Fabienne, her voice iron, her poise fully restored. “I’m friends with the minister of defense. Actually, we used to date. He’s taking care of everything. In fact, he put the military on alert, and he’s invited all the private soldiers to leave the country and its waters within the next four hours. He’s blaming the escalation on Turkey. He says he’s been looking for an excuse, but I think he’s just being polite.”
“What if Cromwell gets to him?”
“You mean, what if he tries to bribe him? Unless he’s been going boar-hunting with Stavros since they were teenagers, he won’t even get a hearing. As for assassination, there have been contracts on Stavros since he got involved in politics. It was exciting, at the time, in hotels, knowing there was someone trying to find him …
“He has a gift for you,” Fabienne says, and in response to Irina’s questioning look she says, “I told him you were a friend of my brother’s, and my father’s guest. My father, just yesterday … He didn’t tell me everything, but I know you fought for us, and suffered for it. So please accept this.” She takes something from her purse, puts it in Irina’s hand. It’s a Greek diplomatic passport; she opens it and there’s her own picture next to the name Elena Vougiouka. She flips through it, sees the colorful stamps of many countries, the record of this fictive self’s trajectory through the world. “Your U.S. passport is flagged, it turns out, so you’ll want to travel with this.”
“A fake passport seems to invite more problems.”
“Eh,” shrugs Fabienne. “What’s fake? It’s a real diplomatic passport. As far as my old boyfriend is concerned, and thus the Greek state, you’re Elena Vougiouka.” She glances at her phone. “Now you must excuse me. My nine-year-old son is declaring that he is now a man, and that it’s his right and duty to raise an army and avenge his grandfather, and so far he’s managed not to cry.”