“Unplug it,” Rendell said.
The kid, James, crawled under the desk. “Okay, got it.”
“Buckle up,” Violet said, and logged in. There was a little icon on her desktop called Fizz, in the shape of a soda can. She clicked it.
Her machine said: bing! A window appeared: McAfee Anti-Virus: WARNING! McAfee has detected a possible virus on your computer. Virus Type: unknown. File(s) infected: Fizz.exe. Delete—Fix—Ignore.
“Game over,” Hunter said across the table, pushing back his chair. “Sorry, you’re dead, Violet. Thanks for playing.”
“You shouldn’t have let him ghost your machine,” James said. He was looking over her shoulder. “He installed our virus checker.”
She looked at her screen a while longer. When the network activity stopped, she closed the lid and rested her elbows on the table.
“And not only did we bust your virus,” Hunter said, “but we got a copy of its signature, so we can spot it if it shows up anywhere else. You’re history.”
Violet glanced at the hub, a squat, plastic box routing traffic between the server and PCs. Its green lights were flashing. “So my virus is getting transmitted to the server.”
“No, not your virus. Its signature. Big difference.”
The hub’s lights were increasingly active. The geeks eyed it. Flash-flash-flash-flash. Violet said, “Then your server transmits my virus to the checkers on every PC. Right?”
“No, no, no.” Hunter’s eyes flicked to the hub. “Virus checkers don’t store actual viruses. They store patterns.”
“My virus checker is updating,” one of the other geeks said.
“Mine, too.”
“It’s meant to!” Hunter said. “Be cool, guys. It’s inoculating us.”
“You have a lot of faith in your checker,” Violet said, “for a product with buffer-overrun issues.”
Hunter stared.
“Last chance,” she said.
It was a small noise, and to anyone but tech-heads, hardly noticeable. From each PC: chik-chik-chik-chik-chik—
“Shit!” Saqlain said. “Disk activity—”
“Me too—”
The machines crashed together. The geeks stared at dark screens. Each computer beeped simultaneously, rebooting. Violet knew what they were looking at now, a screen that said: BOOT DISK FAILURE: INSERT SYSTEM DISK. This meant that either someone had unscrewed each computer and removed the hard drive, or the disks had been trashed so thoroughly the computers couldn’t tell if they were still there.
“Jesus, she wiped the master boot record!”
“Did you go through the virus checker?” Saqlain asked, astounded. “Did you send a worm through the virus checker?”
She swiveled her chair to see the lights on the HP server lock up. When that was done, she turned to Rendell. “Interested?”
Rendell looked from his server to his dead PCs.
“It could have been your whole company,” Violet said. “Not just this room. You tell me: how vulnerable do you want to be?”
“Whoa, whoa,” Hunter said. “You know, I hate to ruin the party, but we don’t need to buy anything from you. I can recover this thing. Two seconds of disk activity, it’ll be somewhere.”
“Whatever you can recover from those drives,” she said, “you’re welcome to.”
Silence. Rendell lifted his chin. “James? Cancel our other applicants, please.”
22 Buy
Buy woke up feeling like someone had rearranged his intestines. He staggered into the bathroom. On the mirror in red lipstick was:
HOPE YOU’RE FEELING BETTER,
SLEEPYHEAD! CALL ME!
SANDY
He sank to the cool tiles. Buy didn’t think he’d be calling Sandy John Hancock. He crawled into the shower instead. This was not going to be a good day.
He arrived at Mitsui very late, which for a stockbroker was not just improper but obscene. The stock markets had been twenty-four-hour for several years now, and Hamish would be angrily waiting for Buy to relieve him.
The elevator doors opened and he walked between the cubicles. Hamish jumped to his feet, snapping closed his briefcase. “Sorry, Hamish, I—”
“That’s all right.” He was looking at Buy oddly. His whole reaction was odd. “They told me what happened. You don’t even have to be here, we can get a temp—”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, good luck.”
Buy watched Hamish leave, then sat down. He felt eyes watching him and turned. Suddenly a lot of brokers were frowning at their screens and flicking lint off their pants. He turned back to his screen.
He looked at it for a long time. Something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. He clicked through a few pages of overnight financial summaries, but kept losing focus on the screen. His attention was drifting back to Friday night. His phone rang, and he looked at it, abruptly frightened. He didn’t want to answer it.
He felt sweat on his forehead. Brokers burned out sometimes; everyone knew somebody who had derailed. It was a terrifying idea, that you could lose the motivation to keep going. That everything that used to define and sustain you could collapse into meaninglessness.
An hour later, Buy felt a hand on his shoulder. He was staring into space.
It was Cameron. “Want to talk?”
He’d only been inside Cameron’s fishbowl office a couple of times. Everyone outside could see you, so you knew they were speculating about you. Not the office for a paranoid, Buy decided.
“You don’t have to be here today,” Cameron said. “You know that, right?”
“I don’t get paid if I’m not.”
Cameron shrugged. “Even so.”
Buy said, “I’m fine.”
“How many trades have you made this morning?”
Buy was pretty sure the computer on Cameron’s desk could answer that question. He was pretty sure it already had. “None.”
“I’m going to help you, now,” Cameron said. “All right? I’ve heard a whisper that ExxonMobil could be the target of a takeover.”
“ExMo?”
“The word is that Shell likes the idea of ExMo at up to forty-seven.”
He thought. “Shell is…half ExMo’s size. It can’t be true.”
“I think it is.”
Buy considered. This was a huge tip, even more valuable than the NRA information Sami had given him. If he remembered right, ExMo was trading around thirty-one. Cameron was offering him sixteen dollars a share. “Then thanks.”
“Thank me by making trades. You’re a good broker, Buy. Don’t let yourself get thrown.”
“I won’t.”
“Good. Now get out there and trade.”
Buy left the office and walked down the staircase, trying to ignore the eyes on him. He sat down and clicked for the latest ExMo price. It was even lower than he’d thought: just above thirty.
He picked up the phone handset. The dial tone hummed in his ear. His hand shook. He felt sweat on his forehead. He tried to force himself to focus on what was important. Seventeen dollars a share. Seventeen dollars a share.
After a while, he put the phone down. His fingers felt like ice. He could feel it in his gut: it had happened. He had burned out. Buy had lost it.
23 Jennifer
She requested an arrest warrant right away, but that was wishful thinking. She was in the car with Calvin when Elise, her boss, radioed. “What’s this application? Are you trying to create paperwork?”
“No, Elise,” Jennifer said. “We have reason to believe John Nike—”
“Because one suspect says so? You need more than that.”
“Right, but we’re going to interview this Police officer and we’ll get him to confirm meeting with John Nike. Then we—”
“So talk to me after that. Right?”
“Right,” Jennifer said, and hung up the radio. “Shit.”
“Well, it was worth a shot,
” Calvin said. “Hey, you know who works around here? That Mitsui stockbroker. Want to interview him?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
He changed lanes. “So where do you know John Nike from?”
She blinked. “What?”
“The way you reacted in the interview room, it seemed like you knew him.”
“Oh,” she said. “I just—you know, I’ve dealt with him before.”
“When?”
“Hey,” she said. “Here’s a question for you. Apparently someone told the hospital shrink I’m not interested in dating anymore. Any idea who that was?”
“Uh,” Calvin said. “I might have said…you hadn’t dated in a while…”He glanced at her. “I was just trying to help.”
“I date plenty,” she said.
“Okay, okay. Fine.”
“I do,” she said.
“I wasn’t arguing.”
“I’ve been busy, that’s all.”
The radio said, “Unit three-three-nine, come back.”
Jennifer picked up. “Three-three-nine.”
“It’s Gary. We’re at that apartment you wanted us to check out, Hack Nike’s? There’s no dead body here.”
She looked at Calvin. He shrugged. “You sure?”
“You want us to start cutting up furniture?”
“No.” She didn’t have the budget to replace furniture. “Any sign of a struggle?”
“The bed’s unmade.”
“In the kitchen. There’s meant to be a dead man in the kitchen.”
“The kitchen’s spotless. It’s the cleanest room in the apartment.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She hung up the radio.
Calvin said, “You think Hack lied to us?”
“He never said he saw the body. He said his girlfriend told him it was there. This Violet.”
“So either Hack’s lying, or Violet’s lying—”
“Or John Nike cleaned up the scene.”
“Hmm,” Calvin said. “I’ll take door number three.”
“Shit!” she said. “That asshole!”
Calvin looked at her.
“What?”
“So where did you say you knew John Nike from?”
“Why does it matter?”
“I’m trying to work out why this case is so important to you. Why you won’t take time off, even though—”
“He killed fourteen people. Isn’t that enough?”
“To explain the look you get? No.”
“I don’t have a look.”
“Now you’re getting irritable,” Calvin said. “I think you used to work with him. Before you joined the Government. And I think your mysterious source is someone you used to work with, too.”
Jennifer pressed her fingers to her temples. “I’ve never worked for Nike. Okay? Now drop it.”
“Hmm,” Calvin said. “Well, you sure didn’t get that tattoo in the Government.”
Buy Mitsui took a long time to come down. Jennifer amused herself by reading the wall hangings. There were case studies up there, with pictures of suits shaking hands under headlines like Mitsui & Reebok: Float Debuts Up 118%! It reminded her of the photos they had in casinos: elderly couples in front of slot machines with improbable readouts. JACKPOT!
“I’m Buy,” a man said, and she turned.
He was tall and good-looking, which surprised her. It had been a while since she’d dated. “Jennifer Government. Thanks for your time.”
“I thought I’d been through this. At the mall. I don’t see why—”
Calvin said, “Somewhere we can talk?”
His shoulders dropped. “There’s a room through here.”
They followed him. The meeting room was big and tastefully lit, the chairs heavy and wooden. There was nothing like this in the Government. “Nice digs.”
“Our business sells intangibles,” Buy said. He took a seat opposite her. “Nothing you can touch. So we like to appear very…” He knocked on the table.
“Rich?”
“Solid.” He smiled, but it was a strange, disconnected smile; it worried Jennifer a little. Buy Mitsui was not running on all cylinders.
Calvin flipped open his notepad. “You were at the Chad-stone Wal-Mart mall last Friday?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t see anything.”
“I got there too late. The girl…she…”
“Take your time,” Jennifer said.
“I’m sorry. I’m not…The girl died. I couldn’t help her. I tried.”
“You didn’t see who shot her?”
“I didn’t see anything. I told the Government people this last Friday.”
“Right,” Calvin said, flipping some more. “You gave the girl some money? Why was that?”
“I wanted to.”
“But you’d never met her before?”
“No.”
Calvin paused. He was waiting for her to come in, Jennifer knew: to run a flanking formation, to squeeze from the other side. Instead, she said, “I was there that night.”
Buy’s eyebrows rose. “At Chadstone?”
“They peeled me off the top of a Mercedes.”
His eyes widened. Then he laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you. You are…much improved.”
She looked down, a little flustered. “It’s a pretty fucking strange coincidence, you giving Hayley money to buy the shoes she was killed for, don’t you think?”
She regretted the words immediately. Buy’s face fell. “I wish more than anything I had never met her.”
Calvin said, “Did you see any of the assailants that night?”
“No.”
“Anyone who looked suspicious? At all?”
“No.”
Silence.
“So, the only suspicious thing you saw that night was yourself. Is that right?”
“I suppose so.”
Calvin looked at her. She nodded. “All right,” he said. “Then we’re done. For now.”
Jennifer stood. Buy was staring at the tabletop. On impulse, she sat again. “Hey,” she said.
He looked up.
“I understand how you feel.” He said nothing. She slid her card across the table to him. “If there’s anything else, call me. All right?”
He nodded wordlessly, looking at the card.
She touched his hand across the table. Then they left, passing through the lobby and exiting to bright sunshine. The door wheezed pneumatically behind them.
“Goddamn, Jennifer Government,” Calvin said finally. “There may be hope for you yet.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said. “Let’s go talk to Pearson.”
24 Billy
Billy NRA’s plan was very simple: the second he could, he was going to run like hell. The longer this charade continued, the more fucked-up things were getting.
The inside of the plane had not seats but benches and straps, and when they were in the air, instead of getting peanuts and Cokes with too much ice they were given Vektor R4 assault rifles. It was the heaviest gun Billy had ever held. That somebody thought he might need it scared the crap out of him.
They landed somewhere rural and piled out of the plane and into the back of two Ryder rental trucks. More benches and straps. There was some chatter, none of it making much sense, and Billy stared at his black boots. He was starting to think he’d be better off if he was still lost in the bush.
The truck idled for two hours, then took off with such a start that Billy fell into the guy next to him. “Sorry,” Billy said, and the guy said, “You’re right, buddy.” But Billy was not right. He was not right at all.
The squad leader pulled himself to his feet. “We are now at T minus two minutes! Our primary objective when we reach the target is to maintain a safe operating perimeter, inside of which Team B will operate! Is this clear?”
“Yes, sir!” the men shouted. Billy didn’t shout anything, but the word “perimeter” was the most interesting thing he had heard all day.
The truck slow
ed, then stopped. The leader cracked open the doors and peered out while everybody else sat tight, fingering their Vektors. It was becoming clear to Billy there was going to be some fairly serious law-breaking going on here.
“Go, go, go!” the leader said, and threw open the doors.
Billy immediately saw two things: first, they were on a leafy, reasonably urban street, and second, someone was about to have a very bad traffic accident. The car was a late-model Ford, and the second Ryder truck plowed into it, catching its rear. The Ford made two full, smoking-tire revolutions, then bent itself around a telephone pole.
“Move!” someone yelled, and Billy realized he was gaping like an idiot. Some of the NRA soldiers were running toward the wrecked car, keeping low, as if they expected the guy inside to jump out with guns blazing. Two others were carrying something from the second Ryder truck, something like the jaws of life. The largest group of soldiers were dragging metal barriers across the south side of the road. Billy started jogging north.
“Hey, you! South side, south side!”
“I’ll cover the north!” he yelled back. “Just gonna check it out!”
He heard footsteps behind him. He put on a burst of speed, but with the Vektor it was like trying to run with a motorcycle around his neck. A soldier grabbed his arm. He was a young guy, like Billy, but without the terror. “What’s the matter? South side, man!”
“Dude, I really have to go,” Billy said. “No offense, but—”
Behind him, the jaws of life screeched. Billy jumped. NRA guys were tearing into the Ford, or what was left of it. For the first time, Billy noticed a Police insignia on its side. He saw someone moving inside it.
“Yallam’s going to hear about this. Now get your ass back to the perimeter!”
“Look, this is all a big mistake,” he said, and then there were shots and Billy hit the deck. He raised his head. The young soldier was looking down at him contemptuously. The NRA soldiers were jogging away from the smashed Ford, holstering weapons. Billy realized they’d just accomplished their mission. He felt sick.
“Hostiles from the south! Hostiles inbound!”
“Come on! They need us!” The young soldier ran back toward the line of soldiers.