Interface

  “I knew it would come out eventually. Little brother, it is corruption and CIA intrigues. Pure and simple. That’s the only explanation.”

  “Are they planning to do something to the theater?”

  Arun laughed bitterly. “Let me catch you up on events. The Ashok Theatre does not exist anymore, as of yesterday!”

  “No!”

  “I kid you not.”

  “I knew it was decrepit but—”

  “It is more decrepit now. They have smashed it to the ground. Within twenty-four hours the site was picked clean by a million harijans. They came from every quarter of the city, like piranhas, descended on the rubble before the dust had settled, and carried away every piece of the building. Why, my secretary says that today they had earth-moving equipment there, digging a basement!”

  “But . . . who is ‘they’ in this case?”

  “Guess.”

  “I can’t.”

  “MacIntyre Engineering. The right hand of the CIA!”

  Like many Indian politicians of a certain age, Arun liked to find the CIA everywhere. Gangadhar, having spent some time in the States and gotten an idea of the way that large American institutions actually operated, had his doubts. He had come to realize that MacIntyre Engineering would be a far more fearsome multinational corporation if it had nothing whatsoever to do with the United States Government.

  “Since when are you such a cinema buff anyway?” Gangadhar asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why is this such a heinous crime? The Ashok Theatre was a dump. It was high time for it to be torn down anyway.”

  Arun sighed at his brother’s naivete. “It is not so much what they did as the way they did it,” he said.

  “How was that?”

  “They swaggered. They came into town like pirates. Little brother, it was like the old days, when the Brits or the Yanks would charge in and do as they pleased.”

  “But Arun, we are a sovereign country. How could they—”

  “A sovereign country run by men.” Arun sighed. “Corruptible men.”

  “They bribed their way in?”

  “Gangadhar, do you have any idea how long it would normally take to obtain all the permits to raze a theater and begin construction of a new structure?”

  “Weeks?”

  “Months. Years. MacIntyre did it in days. They only got here a week ago. The telephone lines were smoking, Gangadhar, so many of their people were phoning in from the States, calling all the right officials, sending round limousines to take them out to lunch. I have never seen anything like it.”

  Someone was rapping on the frame of Dr. Radhakrishnan’s door. He looked up to see yet another delivery person from GODS carrying a package. This one was the size of an orange crate.

  “Just a moment, I have to sign for something,” he said. He beckoned the courier into his office, signed his name on the notebook computer with a nonchalant flourish, and waved him out. He withdrew a penknife from his desk drawer and began to cut the fiberglass tape that held the top of the box in place. It was a thick-walled styrofoam sarcophagus.

  “Do you have any idea what sort of structure they intend to build?” Dr. Radhakrishnan continued.

  “If they had gone through the normal channels, I would, but the ink is hardly dry on the blueprints, the workers themselves probably don’t even know what they are building. The pace of the construction is frantic. They have actually purchased a local cement factory for their own private use! Gangadhar, everyone says that America has gone downhill, but you would never believe it if you could come here and see this. The only parallel I can think of is the Manhattan Project.”

  “Did I ever tell you about the time I went to the Taj Mahal?” Dr. Radhakrishnan said, suddenly, on a whim.

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  Dr. Radhakrishnan had gotten the lid off the styrofoam box. The walls were three inches thick. The interior was filled with a swirling fog of dry ice. He waved his hand over it to dissipate the cryogenic mist. In the middle of the container, neatly packed between large chunks of dry ice, was a small rack made of clear plastic, about the size of a cigarette case. It was made to hold several narrow glass tubes. At the moment, it held two of them.

  “I was standing there looking at some of the inlay work on the north wall of the structure. Magnificent stuff. And this group of Americans was there. Had come all the way around the world to see the Taj Mahal. It was beastly hot, must have been forty-five degrees. They were all dirty and tired and as usual there were pickpockets all over the place. And one of them said, ‘Hell, we should just build one of these things. In Arizona or somewhere.’ ”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. He thought that they would just raise some money and replicate the Taj. And all the other Americans just nodded as though that were a perfectly reasonable idea.”

  “It’s unbelievable.”

  Dr. Radhakrishnan had opened the little case now, taking care not to burn his hands with the intense cold, and removed the two narrow glass tubes. Each one was mostly empty except for a small dark wad of material near one end. He raised them up toward the light.

  “They have no values of any kind,” he said. “Nothing means anything to them. The Taj is just a construction project, a particular manipulation of assets. And whatever they’re doing on the Ashok Theatre site is more of the same.”

  He saw a glint of red and realized that the dark wads must be tissue samples of some kind, which had presumably leaked a bit of blood against the glass walls of the tubes before they had frozen. He stepped over toward his window to allow the winter sunlight to illuminate them a little better.

  Arun’s voice sounded far away. “Maybe they’re building a Taj in Delhi so they don’t have to take the bus all the way to Agra,” he joked.

  Dr. Radhakrishnan said nothing. He had recognized the contents of the tubes.

  Mr. Salvador had mailed him pieces of two people’s brains.

  twelve

  FROM TWO thousand feet above the California coast, Dr. Radhakrishnan could see the whole thing taking shape. This was one of those especially nice corporate jets with oversized windows: a Gale Aerospace Gyrfalcon. The windows gave him a panoramic view of the entire parcel: there was the flat, sandy plain where the future position of the private landing strip was already marked out with little fluorescent orange flags. There was the gravel access road, which was rapidly being transmuted into asphalt by a road crew. There was the grove of trees that would be turned into a little park where the workers could recreate. And finally, high above the pounding white crests of the Pacific, there was the rocky bluff where the facility itself would be constructed.

  Was being constructed.

  “My god,” Dr. Radhakrishnan blurted. “It’s half finished.”

  Mr. Salvador smiled. “This sort of rough structural work always goes surprisingly quickly. I suppose that putting on all the doorknobs will take eons. Care for another cigar?”

  The coastline passed beneath them. The afternoon sun was now slanting in through the windows on the left side of the Gyrfalcon.

  Dr. Radhakrishnan still didn’t know how to take all of this. He had been thinking about it for days and still hadn’t figured it out. It was way too much. Totally unrealistic. He had scraped for money and recognition his whole career. Now he was getting everything. The Manhattan Project, as Arun had said. This could not be happening. But it was happening.

  His instincts told him that there was no rational explanation for this frantic expenditure of money. But that was a closed-minded attitude not befitting a scientist. He was not a businessman. Who was he to say that it didn’t make financial sense?

  Dr. Radhakrishnan V.R.J.V.V. Gangadhar belonged on this business jet. And he deserved his research institutes also. It was altogether fitting and proper.

  “I couldn’t help noticing you had some newspapers in your briefcase,” Dr. Radhakrishnan said. “I didn’t get a chance to pick one up this morni
ng.”

  “Yesterday’s New York Times,” Mr. Salvador said.

  “Oh,” Dr. Radhakrishnan said disappointedly. “I was hoping to take a look at the stock quotes.”

  “Say no more,” Mr. Salvador said. He put his cigar down and moved to the front of the cabin. He sat down in a leather swivel chair in front of a portable communications setup that was built into the forward bulkhead of the Gyrfalcon, just behind the cockpit. It included a telephone and a fax machine, a keyboard, and a couple of flat-screen monitors. The fax machine had been oozing paper almost since the moment they had taken off in Elton, and by now a long curlicue had piled up beneath it on the deck. “These Gale birds are pricey but they have peerless avionics,” Mr. Salvador continued, punching away on the keyboard.

  A stock ticker materialized at the bottom of one of the monitor screens, scrolling from right to left. “Can you make this out from where you are?”

  “Yes, I can see it very clearly, thank you.”

  “I should have anticipated your interest and had it running when you came aboard. My apologies.”

  “Oh, I’m not that much of a player,” Dr. Radhakrishnan said, embarrassed by the fuss. “But I have a bit of stock in Genomics, that company in Seattle. When we began working with them, I was so impressed that I decided to buy in.”

  “And it’s been moving rapidly of late, making you a nervous wreck,” Mr. Salvador said.

  “Exactly. Takeover rumors. I told my broker to sell at eighty-three.”

  “Then you made out brilliantly.”

  “I did? What do you mean?”

  “Genomics was just bought out by Gale Aerospace this morning. At eighty-five. You called it exactly.”

  “Gale Aerospace now owns Genomics?” Dr. Radhakrishnan said. He was relieved and delighted. But he also thought it was just a bit eerie. He glanced around at the interior of the jet’s cabin as if it might be able to tell him something.

  “Yes.”

  “Why would a rocket and missile company want to own a scruffy little genetic engineering firm in Seattle?”

  “Diversification!” Mr. Salvador said. “An intelligent enough strategy in this age of world peace, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes. Now that you mention it, it does seem perfectly logical.”

  “While we happen to be on the subject of tissue culture, did you get my other package? The tissue samples?” Mr. Salvador said.

  Tissue samples was a nice word for it. “I did,” Dr. Radhakrishnan said. “They were good clean samples. Whoever took them for you knew his business.”

  “We try to hire well,” Mr. Salvador said.

  “This is the first opportunity I have had to work with human brain tissue,” Dr. Radhakrishnan said. As he delivered this sentence, he slowed down, sensing that he was on slick footing.

  Mr. Salvador smiled understandingly. “I know that the regulations on these things in the States can be quite stifling.”

  “Exactly. Anyway, I, uh, or we, my students and I, were not sure exactly—we have so little experience.” Dr. Radhakrishnan knew that he was groping pathetically, but Mr. Salvador kept smiling and nodding. “We have, anyway, initiated the cell culturing process with those samples . . . sent them on to Genomics. There were a few false starts—”

  “Naturally. That’s how science works.”

  “—but the samples you gave us were so, well, generous, so large, that we had a lot of margin for error. I am almost surprised, well . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Of course human brains are larger than baboon brains, so my perspective is skewed just a bit, but if I were to take samples of a human brain that were so large, I would”—again, he sensed he was on slick footing—“well, let us say that in America, with its malpractice hysteria, where you always have to cover your tail—”

  “Ridiculous.” Mr. Salvador agreed.

  “—lawyers—”

  “Carping and niggling and backfilling,” Mr. Salvador said. “In some ways, Doctor, America is the best place in the world to do research. In other ways, with its litigiousness, it is a terrible place. We think that India and America may be able to complement each other in this respect.”

  He was so good. “Exactly. Mr. Salvador, you have a knack.”

  “I am so pleased that we are able to see eye to eye on this,” Mr. Salvador said.

  “How are the, uh, patients doing, by the way?” Dr. Radhakrishnan said. “Ha! I almost called them specimens.”

  “Call them whatever you like,” Mr. Salvador said. “They are doing well. You will be able to examine them shortly. Of course we would not have selected them for inclusion in this program if they had not already suffered neurological damage, so this makes answering your question somewhat problematic.”

  “Yes, I see your point.”

  “Well. I don’t mean to wear you out with all this technical chitchat. We’ll be taking the great circle route to Delhi,” Mr. Salvador said. “We’ll make refueling stops in exciting places like Anchorage and Seoul. There’s a private cabin on the other side of that bulkhead where you can get some rest, and while you’re there I’m sure that Marla will be happy to give you a massage or engage you in conversation or whatever it is that would make the time go faster.”

  “Ah,” Dr. Radhakrishnan said. “I thought I smelled perfume.”

  “As you can see, Mr. Coover is a consummate host. My job does not come with such fringies, but I have more than enough to occupy myself.” Mr. Salvador nodded in the direction of the communications rig on the bulkhead.

  “You are a busy man,” Dr. Radhakrishnan observed.

  “Great things are afoot,” Mr. Salvador said with uncharacteristic gusto. “For certain people, this is a fascinating time to be alive.”

  Dr. Radhakrishnan certainly felt that way. “How long have you been working for Mr. Coover?”

  Mr. Salvador paused before answering, his face alert, his eyes glittering. He was not thinking about how to answer so much as he was studying Radhakrishnan’s face. He seemed, as usual, ever so slightly amused. “I wouldn’t make unwarranted assumptions,” he said.

  Dr. Radhakrishnan wanted to pursue this line of questioning but he had realized that, by asking about Mr. Salvador’s background, he had blundered into the realm of bad taste. And that was much worse than bad morals or bad manners for a certain kind of person.

  However, he sensed without having met her that Marla would be a much more accessible person on all levels. “I’m going to freshen up,” he said, nodding toward the private cabin in the back.

  “Take your time and relax,” Mr. Salvador said, “it’s a long way to India.”

  In his usual style, Mr. Salvador had gone to great lengths to make Dr. Radhakrishnan feel at home in Delhi, even though Delhi was his home. A large suite had been rented out at the spectacular Imperial Hotel, an aptly named pile sitting at the end of a palm-tree-lined drive just off Janpath. It was just south of Connaught Circus and less than a mile from where the institute was being constructed. Mr. Salvador had rented out a couple of floors of the hotel. During the course of the long flight across the Pacific, Marla had developed quite an infatuation with Dr. Radhakrishnan and insisted that she be allowed to stay in Delhi for a while; Mr. Salvador had grudgingly granted her a suite of her own, just down the hall from Dr. Radhakrishnan’s. Mr. Salvador was staying at the other end of the hall in lesser but still opulent surroundings.

  When Dr. Radhakrishnan arrived at the Imperial, a pleasant surprise awaited: his entire extended family. They all cheered and hugged and kissed him right there in the parlor of his suite and then moved downstairs to a banquet room for a lengthy dinner. Dr. Radhakrishnan felt like a conquering hero back from the wars, being welcomed home by the maharaja with a royal feast.

  After that, Marla had to nurse him through a day or two of hangover, fatigue, and jet lag. When he finally felt ready, he called for a car and told the driver to take him southward down Janpath into the New Delhi South Extension, where, he had been ass
ured, the temporary laboratories of the Radhakrishnan Institute were bustling away.

  On his way out of the hotel, he met a young American fellow in the elevator. Dr. Radhakrishnan could have met this man in Antarctica and still recognized him immediately as an American high-tech entrepeneur. He was in his early thirties. He had longish hair that had probably been cut in the mirror at home. He had a beard. He wore glasses. He was dressed in blue jeans, sneakers, a decent enough striped white shirt, and a crumpled wool blazer. He was carrying a briefcase in one hand and a rather formidable laptop computer in the other.

  And one other key point: unlike everyone else he had met since the beginning of the flight to Delhi, he did not make any effort to brown-nose. “Hi, you must be Radhakrishnan,” the man said. “I’m Peter Zeldovich. Most people I work with call me Zeldo. That’s my handle on most e-mail systems. Nice to meet you.” He put his laptop on the floor of the elevator and stuck out his hand; Dr. Radhakrishnan shook it, limply and reluctantly.

  “Gotten over your jet lag yet?” this man said as they took the elevator down to lobby level.

  Dr. Radhakrishnan had already forgotten his proper name. He was terrible with names. Now he knew why everyone called this person Zeldo. His real names vanished instantly from memory; Zeldo lingered unremovably on the doorstep of the mind, like a steaming turd left behind by a stray dog. Hopefully they would not be working together very much.

  Naturally they would not have to work together. It was Dr. Radhakrishnan’s institute, he was in charge, he could send Zeldo back to his festering West Coast bachelor pad whenever he got to be too annoying. Which might not take very long, at this rate. “Heard you were on your way in to the Barracks, so I thought I’d hitch a ride with you,” Zeldo said as they exited into the lobby.

  “The Barracks?”

  “Yeah. That’s what we’ve been calling the temporary institute. Guess you haven’t seen it yet.”