Ramez Naam - Crux

Kade took a breath. This was nuts. He had to get out of here.

He opened his hands towards Shiva, placatingly. “Look, if you want to convince me,” he told the older man, “why not just take this off?” His fingers rose to the metal disk at his throat.

Shiva laughed.

“And you would use that access to my mind to coerce me, to ‘escape’, out to a world where you’re in far more danger than here. I don’t think so, Kade.”

“I give you my word,” Kade said. “Let me just see what’s going on in your mind. Not just some carefully selected memories. All of it. I promise not to do anything other than look.”

Shiva smiled grimly. “You’re a terrible liar, Kade.”

54

BROTHERS IN ARMS

Sunday October 28th

Feng woke slowly. His head throbbed. Intense pain came from his left side, from his right knee, from his shoulder. And he was hungry, so hungry. His body’s emergency genes had kicked in, working to heal the damage, demanding protein, fats, calcium, all the raw materials required to rebuild him. Feng ignored the gnawing hunger, kept his eyes closed, tried to take stock of his situation.

He was seated. A hard metal chair by the feel of it. His hands were cuffed behind his shoulders to his ankles, pulling them up off the floor. Professional.

His internal GPS gave him his location. Hồ Chí Minh City, Vietnam. Saigon. South side of town. Eighteen meters above street level.

Two kilometers from his last location, on the fifth or sixth floor. Who had him? Bounty hunters? Police? The mystery men with the Indian boss?

He opened his senses, listened to the room. A soft sound of breathing, three meters in front of him. Slow. Rhythmic. Deep. A lone male. Fit.

Feng tensed his muscles ever so slightly, aiming for the smallest motion, the minimum of sound. How strong were these cuffs? How strong was this chair?

“ Ni hao ,” a voice greeted him in perfectly accented Mandarin: Welcome back.

Feng sighed and opened his eyes. He was in a soundproofed room, the walls thickly padded. And across from him, seated in a chair, was a tall Asian man. Japanese, perhaps. In his forties. Graying at the temples, but still fit and hard. In his hand was a silenced pistol of Chinese design, pointed at Feng. On his face was a grim smile.

Feng recognized the man from Kade’s memories.

“You’re Nakamura,” Feng said.

“And you’re Feng,” Nakamura replied.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment.

Feng broke it. “You pulled me from the building?”

Nakamura nodded. “You got lucky. A beam fell above you, got pinned against your jeep. You were in an air pocket. Otherwise…”

Feng laughed. “Lucky. Yeah.” He rattled the restraints behind him.

Nakamura raised one eyebrow. “Beats death.”

Feng nodded. The man had a point there.

“Where’s Samantha Cataranes?” Nakamura asked.

Feng blinked in surprise.

“Thailand, maybe?” Feng guessed. “Left her six months ago.”

Nakamura frowned. “Why?”

Feng shrugged as best he could. “Wanted to find kids. Nexus kids.”

Nakamura’s frown deepened. “Lane let her go?”

Feng cocked his head, quizzically. “What you mean?”

“Lane,” Nakamura started again. “He…”

“You have him?” Feng interrupted. “Kade?”

Nakamura stared at him.

“Who turned Sam?” Nakamura asked, “Lane? Or Shu?”

Feng blinked again. “You turned her. ERD turned her. Killed a little girl in Bangkok. Killed civilians. Blew up building with people in it. While they’re all on Nexus and Sam feels it. That’s what turned her.”

Nakamura went silent. In the corner of his eye the DNA match kept blinking. A match against Lane’s DNA, on Feng’s clothing. No match on Sam’s DNA, anywhere. Feng hadn’t been near Sam anytime recently.

Was it possible? That neither Lane nor Shu had reprogrammed Sam? That what she’d experienced had flipped her so suddenly?

Jesus.

Feng interrupted his thoughts. “Kade. You have him or not?”

Nakamura looked at Feng. If Sam really had turned on her own… Then the worst thing he could do was lead the CIA to her.

He needed more data. But he also had a mission.

“No,” he told Feng. “I don’t have Lane. But I want him. Who took him?”

Feng calculated. That third force must have Kade. The old Indian man and his soldiers.

Handing Kade over to the CIA would be no better. But if he helped Nakamura… Chaos could produce opportunity. An opportunity to get Kade free.

“I don’t know,” Feng said. “But I’ll help you find out. One condition.”

“What’s that?” Nakamura asked.

“When you go get him, I come with you.”

It took twenty minutes to figure out who had taken Kade. Nakamura listened as Feng told his story, then fed the data and the description of the man to a CIA analyst AI. It brought back dozens of hits of older Indian and South Asian men who might have been in Saigon, who had connections there, who might in some way be connected to the case.

He showed the images to Feng on a slate from across the room, one by one.

“That’s him,” Feng said. “I’m sure of it.”

Nakamura looked at the hit. Shiva Prasad.

With the name came data.

The untouchable billionaire had entered Vietnam on his private jet a week ago. And before dawn this morning his passport had been electronically stamped again, as he’d left in that jet once more, with a flight plan filed for his private island off the coast of Burma.

“Hey, you have any food?” he heard Feng ask. “Really hungry.”

Nakamura smiled widely.

“Sure, Feng,” he said. “And I hope you can swim.”

55

OLD FLAMES

Monday October 29th

Holtzmann fumed after the call with Barnes cut off. But there was nothing he could do for those poor children.

Somehow he had to get Rangan Shankari out of ERD custody. But how? He could walk Shankari out of that cell, give him the keys to his own car, and in the very best case the ERD would just pick Shankari up a few hours later, and lock Holtzmann away for good.

He needed help.

An underground railroad. That’s what the rumors said. A network that got Nexus-born children out of the country. Would they take Shankari? Holtzmann had no idea. But he thought there was one person who might know.

Her number was in his phone, years after she’d tired of his lies and his weakness and cut off their affair. Did she ever think back to their time fondly? Or was he a pathetic figure in her mind, a man who’d lied and cheated, seduced her even though he was her professor and fifteen years her senior? Would she even talk to him after their encounter at the Capitol?

There was only one way to find out.

Holtzmann tapped on his phone, and called Lisa Brandt.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Lisa,” he said. “It’s Martin Holtzmann.”

“I know who it is,” she said coldly. “What do you want?”

Martin paused. Hostility… He deserved it.

“Lisa,” he said. “I was thinking about our last conversation. I… I may have changed my mind. I’d like to talk.”

Silence. More silence.

“I’m listening,” she said finally.

“Could we… talk in person?” he asked.

“I’m in Boston, Martin.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “I can come to you. I’ll take the train up. Lunch tomorrow? Leonetti’s?” She used to love Leonetti’s.

Another pause.

“Not lunch,” she replied. “Coffee. Harvard Square Café. 2pm. Come alone.”

“Thank you…” he started.

The line clicked and went dead.

Lisa Brandt ended the call, and looked across the small room to where her wife Alice rocked their adopted son Dilan as he nursed.