Marcus Sakey - Brilliance

Cooper turned and went to the Murphy bed. Grabbed the edge of the wrinkled sheets, shook them out and laid them smooth. Whacked the pillows, then tucked them in place. He wondered what Natalie would think of Shannon, whether they would like each other, decided that they probably would. “I grew up an army brat. Joined when I was seventeen. Then the agency. All that time, I was trying to fight for something. Trying to protect…everything, I guess. I was one of the good guys. And then when they pinned the bombing on me, I was alone. In a lot of ways I’d been alone my whole life, but this was different.”

He moved to the edge of the bed and folded it into the wall on smooth hinges. Turned to her, not sure where he was going even as he went. “The last months, I’ve been doing things I used to fight against. I’ve been one of the bad guys, and I’ve been good at it. So does that mean I was wrong before?” He shrugged. “I don’t think so. I liked protecting things. I miss it.”

“There are other ways,” she said. “Believe it or not, I feel like one of the good guys too. I am one of them.”

“Everybody is,” Cooper said. “That’s what makes life complicated.” He knew her well enough to pattern her. She was holding something back, lying to him at least by omission. What, though? Hard to say. And besides, he couldn’t blame her. He was lying to her, too.

Ain’t we a pair.

“Look,” he said. “Everybody’s got layers. Nothing’s simple. You thought I would be a humorless government operative without conscience or questions. And I thought you would be a two-dimensional fanatic who didn’t care about hurting people. Now you know that I have an ex-wife, that I love hot sauce, that I dance badly, that I’ve read Hemingway and even remembered some of it. And I know a few things about you, too. But there are things neither of us knows. Things we’re holding back.” He said it lightly. “And that’s okay, too. Doesn’t make anything less real. Especially,” he said, and rubbed at his temple, “my hangover. So how about we let things lie for now?”

For a moment she just looked at him. Then she opened a cabinet, took out two coffee mugs, filled them both. She handed one to him, and when their fingers brushed in the exchange, she didn’t jump. “I’m going to go clean up.”

“Okay.” He sipped the coffee, watched her walk to the bathroom.

She stopped at the door. “Cooper?”

“Yeah?”

“Pills in the drawer by the sink. For your head.”

He smiled at her. “Thanks.”

Two hours later they were three thousand feet up.

An updraft hit, and they bounced a dozen vertical feet. His stomach rolled. “You sure you know how to fly this thing?”

She smiled from the pilot’s seat in front of him. “I saw it on tri-d once. How hard can it be?”

The airfield was on the outskirts of Newton, four smooth runways crisscrossing like a pound sign. They’d left his car parked in a gravel lot, checked in at ground control, and gone to the assigned hangar. The glider was futuristic looking, with broad wings and a streamlined body. Made of carbon fiber, it weighed so little that they pushed it by hand onto the runway, where Shannon hitched it to a thick, twisted cable. Inside she put on a headset, spoke in a soft, fast voice to the tower, and a moment later the cable snapped taut and yanked them almost a mile in thirty seconds, the massive winches hauling with force sufficient to hurl them into the air. Cooper didn’t mind heights, had ridden in helicopters and jets and military aircraft, and had even jumped out of a few of them, but the glider he wasn’t loving.

“How long can this thing stay up?”

“You a nervous flyer?”

“No. I just like doing it in a machine with, you know, an engine.”

She laughed. “Old-world thinking, Cooper. Gliders have no emissions, the winches are solar-powered, and out here, if you ride the updrafts, you can stay aloft for hours. Easiest way to get from town to town in the NCH.”

“Uh-huh.” He looked out the window at the patchwork ground far below. The only sound was the wind rushing beneath the broad wings, whistling over the teardrop body. The hull of the thing was about the thickness of a napkin.

“Look,” she said. “No hands.” She released the stick and held them up above her head.

“Jesus, would you quit? I’m hungover here.”

She laughed again and banked in a slow angle that gave him a better view than he really wanted.

Tesla was in the heart of the state, and tacking from updraft to updraft, the trip took about two hours. Seeing it from the air was oddly familiar, similar to the satellite images he’d reviewed. Midsize by Holdfast standards, it was home to ten thousand people. The town was a grid centered around a complex of mirrored rectangles, energy-efficient buildings that rose four stories higher than anything else.

In one of them sat the richest man in the world.

The landing turned out to be gentle enough, not much different from coming down in any other small plane. Shannon had touched, bounced once, then smoothed the glider into a long slow run. Good flying.

There was another security check at the hanger, this one more intense. The man behind the bulletproof Plexi was affable enough, but he ran their passports with care and spent longer than Cooper liked clicking on his datapad. Tesla was well outside of the tourist sections and protected by several more layers of sieves. The whole town was private corporate land, inside a gated community, inside a high-security municipality, a series of legal classifications that basically amounted to “keep the hell out.” Cooper smiled blandly at the guard.

Half an hour later, they were pulling into Epstein Enterprises, the mirrored buildings, all sun and sky, too bright to look at. There was another security post, but Shannon had made a call this morning, and their fake names were on a list. They got in with little more than a passport check and a scan of the vehicle.

While Epstein’s official headquarters were in Manhattan, this was the true nerve center. From here, the abnorm ran his massive financial empire, not only the development of New Canaan, but the management of thousands of patents, investments, and research projects, the total net worth of which was impossible to calculate. Money at that level was not something that could be counted; it was dynamic, a living thing that swelled and shrank and consumed the money of others, companies buying companies buying companies for fifty iterations.

The top of every building bristled with satellite dishes and security systems, among them batteries of surface-to-air missiles. Defensive, supposedly, and squeaked through on a congressional exemption that must have cost billions. Cooper remembered a plan he’d seen for a coordinated missile launch targeting the compound: expected physical efficacy of 27 percent in an initial barrage, but casualties projected at only 16 percent, less than 5 percent upper managerial.

There were no doubt plans for a nuclear option as well. One thing the DAR had was plans.

“You okay?” Shannon maneuvered the electric car they’d rented into a parking spot in a row of identical vehicles. “You’ve been quiet.”

“The glider,” he lied. “Still getting my ground legs back.”

She turned off the engine. “There’s something you should know. I got us in by dropping John’s name.”

“John?” he said. “Oh. John Smith. Hmm. Will that make him friendly?” Epstein openly and frequently disassociated himself from the terrorist movements, all of them. He had to; any link to someone like John Smith and the loopholes that kept the Holdfast safe would close swiftly and tightly. The DAR assumed that there must be some back-channel connection, but they’d never been able to find evidence of one.