Ramez Naam - Apex

“Carolyn,” Jameson said, his voice still rich and strong. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Mr President,” Pryce replied. “It’s nice to see you. I need to ask you some questions, sir. Alone.”

“You’ve come all this way?” Jameson asked. “Just to ask me a few questions?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Pryce replied.

Jameson smiled.

“Ask away,” he said. “But I’m afraid I need my physician and my assistant with me at all times these days. The ravages of aging.” He folded his hands on his lap.

No introductions, Pryce noticed. No names. So be it. She nodded.

“You’ve seen the leaked memos, Mr President?” Pryce asked. “The ones alleging that the PLF was created as a black op under your administration, with your approval?”

Jameson waved his hand dismissively, unruffled. “Of course,” he said. “Complete fabrications. Please don’t tell me you believe that claptrap, Carolyn?”

Pryce gave a small laugh. “Of course not, Mr President,” she said, still smiling. “In fact, we have solid evidence now that it’s a fake.”

Jameson nodded emphatically. “Good!”

“Except the mention of HARBINGER,” she said.

Jameson’s head twitched the tiniest bit. His eyes widened fractionally. Then it passed.

He recognized the code word. Pryce was sure of it. And she’d surprised him.

Jameson opened his mouth to say something.

Pryce cut him off. “And CALVINIST.”

Jameson blinked, the word on his lips stalling for just half a second, at most.

It was enough. He recognized both of them.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Carolyn,” Jameson went on with a smile. “I don’t think I recall either of those terms…”

The man in the suit tapped Jameson on the shoulder.

“Oh…” Pryce made a show of looking disappointed. “President Stockton was hoping you could fill him in on those.”

Jameson sighed and shook his head, slowly. “I’m afraid I can’t help you or John there, Carolyn.”

The man in the suit tapped Jameson on the shoulder again. This time he spoke.

“Mr President,” he said. “I’m very sorry to interrupt. I’ve just realized that we’re overdue for a dose of your medication.”

The doctor looked up apologetically at Pryce. “I’m sorry, Doctor. We’re going through a formulation change, you see.”

Pryce spread her arms wide. “Of course.”

Miles Jameson gave her an apologetic shrug, a smile on his face. “It was so nice to see you, Carolyn. Please give my best to John and Cindy for me.”

She nodded. “I’ll let myself out,” she said, her heart pounding.

Pryce walked as fast as she could without appearing alarmed. She collected her things from Noora, slipped her shoes on, gave her thanks.

“Agent Taggart will be here shortly to take you back to the gate, Dr Pryce,” the Secret Service agent told her.

“Thank you,” Pryce said. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She needed to go. Needed to get to her car, get to some place she could be alone. Needed to get the hell away from here.

Suddenly everything about how perfect her plan was seemed irrelevant. She was out in the field. Exposed. With a murderer. And his people.

Noora stepped back to her post, giving Pryce space as she looked out the windows of the front door, waiting for Taggart and his SUV to arrive.

“The President would like to speak to you further.”

She heard the voice from behind her. Then a hand like a vice closed around her bicep. She turned her head and Jameson’s “assistant” was there, the dark-haired young man looming over her. He was huge at this distance, well over six feet. Muscles bulged at his throat, at his exposed wrist and forearm.

Her heart pounded harder.

“I’m leaving,” she said, tugging her arm back.

It didn’t budge. His grip might as well have been steel.

Jameson’s assistant smiled down at her. “The President insists.”

The micro-Taser embedded in her phone. If she could just reach into her briefcase…

“Is there a problem here?” a woman’s voice asked.

Pryce looked over, saw Noora standing there. She was tall, muscled, still half a head shorter than the brute who had her.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Jameson’s assistant rumbled.

“This man is restraining me against my will,” Pryce said.

Noora raised one eyebrow.

“The President wants to talk to her,” the assistant growled. “It’s none of your business .”

Pryce put all her authority into her voice. “I am the National Security Advisor. The ex-President is no authority over me . I am walking. Out. That. Door.” She pulled against the man’s grip again. “NOW!”

She felt his grip waver the tiniest bit.

Noora nodded her head towards Pryce. “I’d let her go, Troy. She can probably drone you in your sleep.”

The assistant named Troy made a low sound, nearly a growl. “You think you’re pretty tough, don’t you?”

Noora chuckled. “Troy, forget about me. You really want to be on her shitlist?”

The drive to her car was interminable.

She hopped out as soon as the SUV stopped, bolted for the trunk of her car. Taggart got out of the driver’s seat.

“Nice to see you, Dr Pryce!” he yelled, a hand upraised. “Call ahead next time.”

By then Pryce had the gear bags out of the Tesla’s trunk, was shoving them into the open driver side door ahead of her, then following them in to the cabin of the car.

“Drive,” she told the car. “Darken windows.”

The car turned itself in the road, started back the way it had come. The windows and windshields all went dark. Internal lights came on.

“Drive faster,” she said.

“Driving at maximum legal speed,” the car responded in its silky tones.

Pryce pulled her phone out of her briefcase, pulled up a menu, made sure it was paired with the carcomp.

“National security override,” Pryce said. “Executive Branch, office of the National Security Advisor. Carolyn Pryce speaking. Ignore local traffic laws. Invoke law enforcement bypass. Reset safety margins to five percent. Execute.”

The acceleration shoved her back into her seat.

The bait’s on the move, she thought silently at Jameson. Are you going to bite?

“Place maximum security call,” she said aloud. “Video. Replace setting with backdrop: my office. Route call through my office. Record, all available spectra, maximum resolution. Activate physiological response monitors.”

She reached up and pressed her phone against the windshield in front of her until it adhered.

“Recording audio or video calls without the permission of all parties involved is prohibited by law,” the phone informed her. “As is the use of voice and visual stress cues to infer non-communicated information. Please seek permission of all parties before proceeding. Permission can be signified by pressing–”

“National security override,” Pryce cut in. “Suspected terrorist activity clause. Authority: Executive Branch, office of the National Security Advisor. Carolyn Pryce speaking. Invoke.”

“Authority accepted,” her phone said. “Call configured. Call destination?”

“The White House,” Pryce said. “President John Stockton. Priority: Urgent.”

It picked up within ten seconds. The President’s secretary Elizabeth Finch appeared, her face projected directly onto Pryce’s retinas by the phone’s projectors.

Pryce had known the woman for more than twenty years. She’d been working for Stockton for all that time.

“Carolyn,” Finch said. “The President’s in with the Dutch Ambassador, talking about the Copenhagen Accords. How urgent is this?”