Marcus Sakey - Brilliance

Robert Zane had come from the street, and neither the Lucy Veronica cashmere sweater or the two-hundred-dollar haircut could change that. He radiated an ineffable sense of dangerous slickness, and around his eyes and in his posture there always lingered a hint of the days when he’d been bad old Bobby Z. “Mr. Eliot.”

“Mr. Zane.”

“Drink?”

“Sure.”

Joey closed the door behind them as Zane walked to a sidebar. “Scotch okay?”

“Fine.” The rug was thick beneath his shoes. He set the briefcase flat on the table, then sat down. The couch was too soft. He leaned back with his hands in his lap.

“You know, I wasn’t sure you were serious. What you were offering? Nobody can get hold of that kind of newtech.” Zane took ice cubes from a mini-fridge and dropped them into the glasses, then poured two inches into each. His movements as he walked back were light and balanced, a fighter’s posture. He passed a glass and then sat on the couch opposite, legs crossed and arms outstretched, every bit the man of leisure. “But here you are. I guess I shouldn’t have doubted, huh?”

“Doubt’s good. Makes you careful.”

“Amen to that.” Zane lifted the glass in a toast. On the tri-d, a reporter stood in front of the White House. The ribbon at the bottom read, BILL TO MICROCHIP GIFTED PASSES HOUSE 301–135; PRESIDENT WALKER EXPECTED TO SIGN. The reporter’s breath steamed in the cold air, rippling toward them, artifacting a little where it reached the limits of the projection field. “So.”

“So.”

Zane nudged the briefcase with his toe. “You mind?”

“It’s your case.”

The other man smiled, leaned forward, and thumbed the locks. They gave satisfying pops as they opened. Zane lifted the lid. For a moment he just stared. Then he blew a breath and shook his head. “Goddamn. Ripping off a DAR lab. You don’t mind my saying, you are one crazy son of a bitch.”

“Thanks.”

“How did you pull it off?”

Eliot shrugged.

“Okay, sure, professional secret. Let me rephrase that. Any trouble?”

—a finger of flame shattering the glass, shards raining sparkling down, the squealing of the alarms lost behind the roar of another explosion, the truck’s gas tank going—

“Nothing that will come back on you.”

“Goddamn,” Zane repeated. “I don’t know where you came from, but I’m sure glad you’re here. People can say what they like about your kind, you get the job done.” He closed the case slowly, almost gingerly. “I’ll have the money transferred, same as before. That okay?”

“How’d you like to keep it?”

Zane had been about to sip his scotch, but the words caught him off guard. He froze, the muscles in his shoulders going tense. Dealings in the criminal world were a dance as regimented as a waltz. Everybody knew the steps, and any improvisation was cause for alarm. Slowly, Zane lowered his glass and set it on the table with a faint click. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ll give you those,” gesturing at the case, “and you keep your money.”

“And you get?”

“A favor.” Tom Eliot leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, a confessional pose, man-to-man. “My name isn’t Tom Eliot. It’s Nick Cooper.”

“Okay.”

“What I’m about to tell you…” He paused, held it, sighed. “Trust isn’t a big part of our business, but I think I can trust you, and I need your help. You know I’m an abnorm.”

“Of course.”

“What you didn’t know is that I used to work for the DAR.”

“So that’s how you were able to rob their lab.”

“No, actually. I’d never been to one before. The labs are on the analysis side. I was response. Equitable Services.”

Zane almost controlled his reaction.

“Yeah. We don’t exist. Except, of course, we do. Or they do. I left under…well, being gifted at an agency that hunted my kind caused some friction. The specifics don’t matter. What does matter is that once I left, I became a bad guy in their eyes.”

“I know something about being a bad guy.” Zane smiled.

“That’s why I think I can trust you. See, they’ve named me a target. They’re trying to kill me. And sooner or later, they’ll succeed.”

“And you want me to…what? Take on the DAR?”

“Of course not. I want you to help me become someone else.”

Zane picked up his drink. Sipped at it. “Why not go to Wyoming?”

“And live with the rest of the animals in the zoo?” He shook his head. “No thanks. I don’t like cages. And nobody is going to put a tracking device in my throat. Not ever. So I need a new name, a new face, and the documents to go with it.”

“You’re asking a lot.”

“Those semiconductors?” He gestured to the case. “That’s virgin newtech. No one, no one , outside of the DAR has seen that architecture. You play your cards right on those, you can make a fortune. And they won’t cost you a dime. You’re one of the biggest smugglers in the Midwest. You really going to tell me you don’t have a hacker and a surgeon in the family?”

The tri-d switched to footage of the Exchange explosion, the same loop of footage he’d seen on the tri-d billboard back in March. They had played it endlessly for the first months, followed by clips from President Walker’s speech, especially “For them, there can be—will be—no mercy.” Then as it became clear that John Smith wasn’t going to be quickly caught, it had slipped out of rotation. But it still ran every time anyone wanted to say anything negative about abnorms. Which was pretty much once an hour.

“Sure, I have the resources. But if I do this for you, then what?”

“I told you. You get those for free.”

“I could just kill you.”

“You sure?” He smiled.

Zane laughed. “You got balls, man. I like that.”

“We have a deal?”

“Let me think about it.”

“You know how to reach me. Meanwhile, hold onto the money and the semiconductors. Call it a good faith gesture.” Cooper brushed off his pant legs, then stood up. “Thanks for the drink.”

The rain had let up, and by the patch of slightly brighter gray in the western sky, it looked as if the sun might even be trying to shine. Cooper retrieved his weapon from the trunk, then steered the Jaguar off the crumbling streets of the warehouse district and into traffic. The car was a beauty, though he missed the raw muscular rumble of the Charger.

It had been a risky play, with Zane. Hopefully the man was the dirtbag Cooper believed.

He swung south, downtown. The skyline was half lost in clouds. He passed a row of shops, a car dealership. The El banged by overhead, sparks showering down where it banked.

Streeterville was a high-rent district, the kind of place that before he’d never have thought to stay. It was all boutiques and hair salons, shrill dogs and expensive women. He pulled down Delaware and stopped in front of the gleaming opulence of the Continental Hotel. A tall, pale guy in a dark jacket opened his door. “Welcome back, Mr. Eliot.”

“Thanks, Mitch.” He left the car and strode into the hotel.

The lobby was the definition of modern opulence, all clean lines and lush furniture. A huge paper chandelier glowed above. Cooper strolled to the elevator and swiped his keycard. It slid into motion without him touching a button. His ears popped as they rose.

“Forty-sixth floor. Executive suites,” the recorded voice purred. He pictured her tall, with sleek blond hair and a skirt that showed a little thigh and a lot of shadow.

Cooper keyed into his suite and slid out of his suit jacket. It was gray and Italian and cost more than his entire previous wardrobe. The staff had cleaned the room and drawn the curtains. Outside and far below, Lake Michigan churned silently against the shore. The sky was slowly turning to amber. He called down for smoked salmon and a bottle of gin.