Alan Foster - Sagramanda, a Novel of Near-Future India

Rather than unsettling the European, the older man reacted as if Taneer's announcement was nothing less than what he expected. "Of course you will. That is only natural. I personally will be glad of the additional security." He raised a hand. "Until tomorrow, then, at the agreed-upon place and time."

"Tomorrow," Taneer concurred.

The communicator went dark and silent as the link was mutually cut. Children dashed past the trio while fretful parents warned them not to run lest they trip and ruin their clothing. Autovendors continued to hawk foods whose primary ingredient was cane sugar, fructose, and assorted other artificial sweeteners. Music filled the air. The fireworks and laser show that featured three-dimensional virtuals enacting the climactic battle in the sky between Rama and Varan was about to begin.

Events had been set in motion that could not be stopped.

Of the three, Sanjay was breathing the hardest while showing the least enthusiasm. When Depahli moved to reassure him, he almost jumped back from her. "Please do not come any closer, Ms. Depahli! Out of my shop I have sold narcotics from Afghanistan and Nepal and Tibet that have less effect on men than you do."

She smiled amiably. "What a flattering thing to say, Mr. Ghosh. I would blush, if I remembered how."

"This cannot work," he muttered tersely. "How can this possibly work? I am no mercenary, no gunman." He looked back at them imploringly. "What do you expect me to do?"

"Fake it," Depahli told him bluntly. Even Taneer looked at her doubtfully. Seeing both their uncertainty, she elaborated. "Sanjay, are you a fan of the cinema?"

He was taken aback. "Every Indian is a fan of the cinema. It is in our blood, I believe."

"Good. Think back to some of your favorite films. Which ones had the worst villains? The most vile, wicked bad guys? Bandits and robbers, murderers and revolutionaries? Every child plays at such things. When they grow up, those who are good at it become actors. We are all of us who go to the cinema actors, in our heads if not in our lives."

"I see what you are proposing," he replied thoughtfully, "but if I go through with this I will not be acting in my head. What of this businessman's bodyguard? He will be a professional. He will see through this puppet-play in an instant."

She laughed lightly. "Don't be so certain, Sanjay. And don't be in such a rush to sell yourself short. Every good shopkeeper knows how to act: poor, desperate, overworked, in desperate need of just one sale to keep food on the table and creditors from his door. I'm sure you do it every day, with your customers. Remember: we will be in a strange, dark place that will be unfamiliar to both these persons. In such circumstances everyone will be a little nervous, a little on edge. And both sides will be in a hurry to complete the business. If all goes as planned, the exchange will be over and done with before anyone has time to ponder individual suspicions about anyone else."

Encouraged, Taneer stepped forward. "Depahli's right, Sanjay. You only have to be convincing for a couple of minutes. I bet you can do that."

"A couple of minutes." Sanjay considered. Years ago, he and Chakra had splurged, had taken what few spare rupees they had man aged to accumulate and gone into the nearest sizable town to have dinner out and to see a film. Its title-he didn't remember the title. But the villain of the piece, a serpentine monster with a vast mustache and glittering eyes, had lied and cheated and slaughtered women and children with scene-chewing relish. He would never forget that face, that devil's expression, those unblinking eyes.

He could do nothing about the mustache, but standing there, he widened his own much smaller one deliberately, flared his nostrils, swelled his chest, brought his arms slightly forward at the shoulders, and glared at each of his business partners in turn. Depahli almost broke out laughing, but fortunately managed to restrain herself.

"That's very good, Sanjay. Very good! But remember that you are not on screen or in a vit, and that your audience will be both smaller and nearer. Don't breathe so hard-you're pretending to be a body guard, not a dragon."

"You might consider keeping one hand close to your heart, as if it's ready to slide at any moment into your vest toward the gun you have holstered there," Taneer suggested thoughtfully, studying his new escort.

Sanjay slumped slightly. "But I do not have a gun holstered there. Oh," he added quickly, a smile of understanding spreading across his face. "I understand. They will not know that." He frowned. "But I do

not have a vest, either. At least, not one that would be suitable for such a deception."

"Get one," Depahli suggested. "Black. With shirt, pants, and shoes to match-not sandals. You don't have time to train for the part, but you can at least look it."

Around them, the shouts and yells of bouncing, delighted children and smiling adults convinced their money had been well spent turned their heads and craned their necks as noble Rama's chariot soared through lights and explosions to confront the evil Ravan's monstrous sky-carriage. Among those watching the display were two men and one woman who could only hope that their own looming, critical confrontation proceeded with considerably less in the way of actual fireworks.

Chal Schneemann leaned back in his chair and, for the first time in many days, relaxed. At least, he relaxed as much as he ever could while still on the job. Though the high-rise hotel he had chosen for his base of operations had excellent security of its own, he would not have felt completely safe without taking his own safety measures even if he had located in a suite next to one occupied by the president of the United States.

He had taken all his normal precautions. To the consternation of the staff at the front desk and in contrast to the sweeping views offered by other rooms, he had insisted on a suite as high up as possible but with the smallest windows available, a seeming contradiction in desires. In addition, the excellent blackout curtains that covered those windows were kept permanently drawn. He slept on the side of the bed as far from the bedroom window as possible. Working in the suite's other room, he positioned his chair so that it was not directly in line with either the covered window or the second door that opened onto the hallway. And still he never felt completely secure.

Such feelings had kept him alive in a profession where retirement was frequently prevented by means most violent.

Two portable miniunits sat on the desk. One held nothing but information. The other was utilized for nothing but box access. The only link between the two devices was wireless and highly proprietary. In the event some exceedingly clever outside entity managed to pierce box security and tried to access the storage unit, number two would die. Should it fail to respond properly and the unauthorized link be made, number one would die. The loss of equipment would not bother him. Both units could be replaced, and the information they contained was backed up elsewhere and not linked to anything except an old-fashioned lock and key.

While from the outside both units appeared relatively normal, their highly customized electronic viscera would have amazed any tech lucky enough to be granted a look at them. At considerable personal expense to their owner, they had been customized and put together with illegal and to a large extent military components. These enabled the pair, especially when operating in tandem, to perform operations no similar units outside a government entity ought to be able to do. Intercept and decode quantum-encrypted transmissions, for example.

The success of such a procedure, which might best be likened to electronic surgery, was what was presently enabling Chal to ease back against the body-conforming hotel chair. Hands clasped behind his head, he murmured a soft verbal command that instructed the box unit to replay what it had just observed and recorded.