A friendly dog approached Marcotte, wagging his tail and barking beyond a chain-link fence.
“No!” Marcotte fled back toward the bridge, running along the lane, waving off curious onlookers. She felt her lungs burning as she sucked for more from the mask, but nonetheless sprinted the last few meters to jump off the bridge into the brown water of the canal.
Chapter 30
A jet-black Ehang autonomous chopper soared above the evening skyline of Bangkok. Other than its gold stripes, it looked identical to the previous four they’d ridden in a circuitous route all afternoon.
Seated next to Durand, Frey sighed and looked upon the city. “That’s a sight I didn’t think I’d see again. I’ve made a few enemies here.”
“Is there anywhere you haven’t made enemies?”
Durand gazed out the window. He’d never been to Bangkok, and the city looked beautiful as the sun set. From five hundred meters up the Chao Phraya River coiled through the midst of it like a metallic snake. The navigation lights of long-tail boats, barges, and the occasional fishing boat speckled its length.
Their chopper navigated between glittering hundred-story office and residential towers, passing by other autonomous time-share choppers, ferrying well-heeled passengers across town. Bangkok, too, had benefited from the Gene Revolution, and lots of business was being transacted here, as a gateway between China and the rest of South and Central Asia. Corruption was an issue. It was a place to do business if you couldn’t do your business inside the Bubble.
And it was breathtakingly beautiful to fly over at night.
Before long, the Ehang descended toward a spire of mirrored glass—a residential tower overlooking the illuminated Bhumibol suspension bridge. A private helicopter pad came into view on a broad terrace near a swimming pool. The multistory residence appeared to take up the entire top of the building and was more opulent than anything Durand had ever seen up close.
The Ehang masterfully maneuvered past potted palms and alighted in the center of the helipad. The rotors immediately began to wind down, and as they did, the doors remained locked.
The synthetic voice said, “Please wait.”
Normal safety rules were apparently being enforced again.
When the rotors had finally stopped, the chopper doors whirred open, and the voice said, “Thank you for escaping with us. Please exit the aircraft.”
Durand grabbed the leather go-bag; then he and Frey stepped out, relieved to see no other chopper waiting for them. Frey spread out his arms at both the expansive nighttime view of the city and the river a hundred stories below. He then turned to encompass the three-story terraced penthouse behind them.
“Would you look at this place?”
Each floor was smaller than the one below, creating a series of large terraces. They currently stood on the middle one, overlooking an illuminated swimming pool and bar, while on their level were gardens and patio furniture—along with another bar. Above them looked to be bedrooms. All of it was softly lit and designed with a modern art aesthetic: clean curves of polished cement and glass, along with a profusion of living things and trickling water. The plants had clearly been modified to grow into Thai cultural motifs—chedis and temples.
As they followed steps down from the helipad, the Ehang’s doors closed and its rotors wound up again. They watched as the chopper took off into the evening sky, soon lost among dozens of other choppers flitting about the skyline.
Then it was relatively quiet again.
Durand dropped the go-bag onto a nearby patio table, while Frey approached a second impressive bar, done in the style of an ornate Buddhist stupa, in direct contrast to the modernity of the surrounding penthouse. Somehow the juxtaposition worked.
Frey’s short frame disappeared around the bar, but his hands could be seen grabbing for several bottles. There was a rattle, and in a moment his upper body appeared behind the bar. He was obviously standing on something.
“I must say, the pay scale for evil is impressive.”
Durand collapsed onto one of the cultured-wood patio chairs. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“Care for a drink?”
“I think I need one.”
“I’ll make you my specialty.”
“Whatever. After today, I don’t really care.”
“Quite the day.”
Durand looked above and around him. “We can’t stay here. The police could arrive any minute.”
“I’m not sure I agree with that assessment.” There was a tinkle of glasses.
“How do you figure?”
“Well, this was Vegas’s safe house—the operative word being safe. The place he would flee to if things went to shit. Which would likely mean it’s owned through a series of shell corporations that have no ties to him. No doubt lots of bribes were paid to keep it off the books . . . This is Thailand, after all.”
“What about the data trail for the choppers?”
“What trail? That bootlegger OS they were running seemed less than legal. And don’t overrate Interpol’s influence in Thailand. We’ll be long gone before your colleagues dig up this place. No, I think we’re safe here for the time being. Safer by far than parading around the streets of Bangkok.”
Durand considered this and finally leaned back into the patio chair. “Fine. But we need to get to the capital of Myanmar somehow.”
“Naypyidaw.”
“Right. That’s where Vegas said the change agent was. That must be the elite black market those rumors mentioned.”
“Interesting city, Naypyidaw.”
Durand looked at Frey in surprise. “You’ve been there?”
“No. No one’s ‘been there.’ I meant the city’s history is interesting. I saw a documentary about it once. Half a century ago the military junta decided its citizens were annoying, so they built a new capital city out in the middle of nowhere. Huge buildings. Wide streets. But not many actual people. You can’t just fly in there. It’s locked down tight.”
“Nonetheless, we need to go there.”
Frey poured two drinks into frosted martini glasses. “Well, let’s not eat boiled rice from the middle of the bowl, as the Thai people say.”
“Which means what exactly?”
Frey walked from behind the bar. “It means, let’s not act without preparation. Why it means that, I have no idea, but it does.” He passed a glass to Durand, raising his own in toast. “To well-programmed escapes.”
Durand clinked glasses, but then examined the bright red drink. “What is this?”
“I call this a blastocyst injection. Mekhong whiskey and Krating Daeng. I suspect it’s been responsible for more than a few pregnancies.”
Durand drank and winced at the strength of it.
Frey got into one of the incredibly comfortable patio chairs. “Just look at that view.”
Durand sat for several moments lost in thought, staring out at the city. After a minute or so he turned to see a wary expression on Frey’s face. “What?”
“You had me going there for a bit back with the Luk Krung.”
“You didn’t seriously think I was Wyckes?”
“You were alarmingly convincing.”
“If I hadn’t convinced Vegas, we’d both be dead right now. Or arrested—which in my case is the same thing.”
Frey was silent for a few moments. “You’re really serious about going to Myanmar?”
“Yes, I’m serious. It’s where the change agent is. And it’s also where the real Marcus Wyckes is.”
“And what will you do even if you reach Naypyidaw? It’s not like the Huli jing will have a Yelp listing.”
“What’s a Yelp listing?”
“Never mind. It was a thing. My point is that the Huli jing are probably protected by the junta there.”
“Myanmar became a democracy decades ago.
”
“There are a lot of democracies that aren’t. The Myanmar military can countermand anything the civilian government does. That’s why there’s a multidecade insurgency still going on there.”
“Then don’t go. But I’m going—because I refuse to stay like this.”
“Things really could be worse for you, you know.”
“Oh, really, how? Has anyone stolen your body, Bryan?”
“No, but neither has anyone spent weeks breaking me with torture. Make no mistake: a military junta is the real power in Burma, and the Huli jing has probably paid them off. If they find you, they’re liable to do terrible things. There’s a reason there are two million Shan, Karen, and Hmong people in refugee camps along the border with Thailand. And what’s more, you don’t speak the language. You aren’t exactly going to blend in. Do you even have a plan?”
Durand pondered the question. “If I could get direct evidence of what the Huli jing is doing and bring it out to the rest of the world, then perhaps international pressure could force action.”
“The world has been ignoring the situation in Myanmar for fifty years. What makes you think they’re going to start noticing it now?”
Durand gestured to his body. “Because this change agent will affect everyone on earth. Like you said: this can’t have been developed just to be used on me. And the Huli jing is hiding it there, in Myanmar, where no one can see it.”
Frey paused and then raised his eyebrows. “Scaring the bejesus out of the world. I suppose that might actually work. But if what you’re looking for is evidence, why not just use yourself as evidence? We have DNA proof that you’re mostly Kenneth Durand.”
“I need to get changed back before I provide evidence.”
Frey grunted. “I keep forgetting.” He took another sip of his drink. “Okay. So what constitutes ‘evidence’ of this change agent?”
“A sample, I suppose.”
“Of the intact change agent? Ready-to-use?”
Durand nodded.
“There’s a major insurgency going on in Myanmar. Did I mention that?”
“You did.”
“Not thrilled about going.”
“I told you, you don’t have to go.”
“Oh, but I think I do.” Frey grimaced. “The Thai police apparently followed you and me to the Luk Krung clinic. Which means I am now a known associate of possibly the most wanted man in the world.”
“Marcus Wyckes.”
Frey nodded. “So I can’t go back to where or who I was. Or anywhere really.”
Durand sighed. “Shit. I’m sorry I pulled you into all this, Bryan.”
“You didn’t do it. I did. Or more accurately Rad Desai did. Bastard hasn’t even returned my messages. Probably in hiding waiting for this to all blow over.”
Durand brooded.
Frey took another sip of his drink. “Besides, you and I had an agreement.”
“Even after all this, you still want to get edited?”
“Especially after all this. It’s starting to sound like reinventing myself is the only viable option.” He looked approvingly at his drink. “And I can help get us over the border.”
“I thought you were clueless when it came to smuggling people over borders.”
“Normally, yes, but in this case I have connections.”
“Your last ‘connection’ wanted to kill us.”
“Tang did take my departure harder than I thought. But no, the Shan people and I get along famously.”
“The Shan people.”
“Indigenous hill tribes. Theravada Buddhists. Four or five million of them spread across Laos, Thailand, and Burma. They’re at war with the Burmese central government, as are the Hmong and the Karen people and half a dozen smaller indigenous tribes. Seems they’re all in the way of resource-development projects.”
“And how do you know these Shan people?”
“I did freelance work for their resistance a few years back.”
Durand couldn’t mask his surprise.
“Now, now. I wouldn’t want to ruin your negative impression of me. I was paid. And paid well. Black markets love wars. I edited LOC_OSO7 and p-SINE1 rice strains for the Shan to counteract Burmese government gene drives—some of which were developed by major biotech firms on the down-low, in violation of UN treaties.”
“I’m familiar with gene drive weapons. I spent eight years hunting bioterrorists.”
“Well then, you know how ugly shoving undesirable traits onto victim populations can be—in this case, sabotaging rice to create famines. Destroy the food supply in a clandestine way—make it look like a blight. Wrath of god, what have you. Nothing the media hasn’t seen before. Better optics than land mines and air strikes. It also drives tribes out of a whole region. But the Shan hired black market genetic engineers of their own to create competing gene drives to keep their crops viable.”
“Genetic warfare.”
“All genetics is warfare.”
“And you still have contacts among these Shan.”
Frey nodded. “If they’re still alive. I read that the government bought hunter-killer drones and set them loose in the jungles last year.”
“Lovely.”
“I’ll reach out to the Shan later tonight. I’ve got a rather ponderous encrypted address book out there on the Interwebs. I’ll need to crack that open. I’m sure Vegas has some prepaid telecom equipment around here. He was always privacy-obsessed.”
“So you got your start with Vegas.”
Frey looked wistful. “I lived here in Thailand for years. When I first left the States.”
“Then you speak Thai.”
He laughed. “No. When I say ‘live,’ I mean like an American.”
“Why’d you leave the States?”
“Why did you leave?”
“I asked first.”
Frey shrugged. “I could see which way the wind was blowing. I got the sense they were going to start burning witches again, and big things were happening in my profession elsewhere.”
“Big things—like children who’ve had compassion edited out of their genome?”
Frey just gave him a look. “See, that’s not a helpful attitude. You world policemen want to declare everything illegal, but in the final analysis people will use every tool at their disposal to obtain advantage. You can’t legislate morality.”
“You’re not seriously arguing that Vegas had the right to create sterile, remorseless child soldiers?”
“Of course not. I’m arguing that what can happen will happen, but that it’s better that the research take place in the light of day rather than in the dark corners of the world.”
“They’re creating a whole new subspecies of human. They’re minting sociopaths, is what they’re doing, and they’ll mingle into the general population.”
“And I’m certain the purchasers of these ‘remorseless children’ will have buyer’s remorse. Leading an army of sociopaths is incredibly dangerous. I might be a genetic engineer, but I think the demise of natural selection has been greatly exaggerated. Nature did not select for empathy and social bonds because Nature was kind—but because those were survival advantages. Completely selfish, unfeeling people don’t care for the greater good. They don’t appreciate goals beyond themselves. And that limits them.”
Durand stared. “Then explain Wyckes. He sure as hell seems to be succeeding.”
“Mark my words: Mother Nature has a hell of a backhand.”
Soft jazz music suddenly started playing all around them.
Durand and Frey both froze in alarm.
Swirling mood lights illuminated the patio, creating a party-lounge atmosphere.
A beautiful young Thai woman in an ornate silk robe and sandals emerged from inside, walking confidently across the patio. She was stunning. Her sm
iling face fell when she noticed Durand and Frey—who were quite clearly not whom she had been expecting.
“You’re not Gino.”
Frey sat up straight. “Sadly, we are not.”
She checked her comm bracelet, tugged with long polished nails at a virtual screen. “I got an alert that said Gino’s chopper had arrived.” She looked up, businesslike. “He’s not with you?”
Durand shook his head.
Frey shrugged casually. “Gino sent us ahead. Told us to wait for him here. I’m sure he’ll be along in a day or two.”
She sighed in irritation. “He’s not answering his phone.”
“He was quite busy when we left him. And you are?”
She looked irked but said, “Gardenia.”
“Gardenia. What a lovely name.”
“I’m with Gino.”
“Of course. I’m an old associate of Gino’s from back in the ’20s.”
“I didn’t think anyone knew Gino from that long ago. You must have some interesting stories.”
“None I can tell, unfortunately.”
She nodded. “I was going to take a swim.”
“Don’t let us stop you.”
She shrugged and slipped off her robe, revealing her perfectly toned body in a bikini. She walked toward the water, kicked off her sandals, and dove in.
Frey sighed. “Such a lovely view out here.”
Durand finished his drink. “I need to get some rest. You should do the same—after you reach out to your hill tribe.” He got up, examining the glass walls on the floor above. “I’m going to find a bedroom.”
“Looks like there’re plenty.” Frey raised his glass again.
Durand followed a wide teakwood staircase upstairs into a long hallway. He wandered from door to door until he found what seemed to be a guest bedroom with a glass wall looking down on the pool area below and the broad sweep of the city lights. It appeared that all the rooms had glass walls. He wondered how people got privacy. Or how they slept in. But he was too tired to think for long. Almost as soon as his head hit the pillow—and a very fine pillow it was—he fell asleep.
• • •