Fear the Future (The Fear Saga Book 3) (27 page)

Chapter 25: Reaching Out

Jim Hacker stepped from the plane and into the harsh light of the Iranian sun. Tehran was a city of climactic shift, bridging the border between the broad desert plain of the south and the great Alborz Mountains that separated it from the Caspian Sea to the north. Here in the south of the city it was often ten to fifteen degrees hotter than in the northern districts, where the city began to climb the slopes of snow-capped Tochal Mountain.

He was greeted, not surprisingly, by a bank of soldiers and military vehicles. They were not shy at pointing their weapons at him, though he noticed that a single, clearly senior officer stood well out in front.

Ayala:
‘that is a good sign, jim. if he was behind the soldiers i would tell you to stay behind the phase elevens as well.’

Jim nodded, though he did not know why. Then he realized that she was as aware of his movements as he was. He was being monitored both inside and out, and both by his friends and his enemies. He hoped the rest of the world was watching just as closely.

He breathed deeply. He was dressed smartly, in a suit. A notable contrast from the two Phase Eleven automatons that had lumbered down onto the tarmac before him. His only concession to security, other than the military machines that formed his escort, was a body suit under his more conventional one, and a set of glasses not unlike the ones Cara had worn into her meeting with the minister in Vienna.

Not that Jim knew of Cara, or the deadly face-off she had been forced into. The details of the minister’s betrayal and his brutal conversion back to the cause had been lost in Ayala’s ever-growing files. All Jim knew was that the signal from his little glasses was being broadcast far and wide, an insurance policy similar to Cara’s, though his audience was far larger than just a vigilant Hektor.

As he stepped forward, leaving his automata behind, he hoped the officer’s seniors would be taking note of that signal he was broadcasting, taking note of how the view being broadcast by TASC was from him, not his guardians. He would not take the robots with him, but they would remain ready. Ready to come for him at a moment’s notice. Jim hoped they would see that, even without the dangerous-looking machines, he was still in constant contact with TASC, and the world at large.

He stepped up to the officer and extended his hand, noting that the officer had an earpiece. He was clearly receiving instructions. The man’s expression was a changing sea of emotion. The unfortunate officer knew he had just become the focal point of an international game of brinksmanship. He waited for orders.

Someone, somewhere realized that Iran itself was being judged by whether it took that hand or not. Would it be polite or would it refuse? They were in a corner. The tiny speaker in the officer’s ear sparked to life and slowly, gingerly, the officer extended his hand.

- - -

Across Tehran, a busy side street bustled with activity along an exposed section of the Karaj canal. It ran a full fifty-three kilometers right from the town of Karaj on the outskirts of the province, to the center of Tehran, supplying a good deal of the drinking water of the districts it passed through.

But it was not a river, not a natural life source, as such. Its banks were concrete, its passage clogged with the debris of a city growing too fast to keep up with itself. As the water flowed past, few gave it much thought. Few stopped to look at the murky-looking surge of life-giving liquid as they crisscrossed it on the myriad of bridges, walkways, and paths that blithely passed it by.

As millions of cars, cyclists, and pedestrians moved overhead, their disregard for their water source suited Bohdan just fine. He was moving slowly, swimming slowly, well beneath the surface, out of sight.

Somewhere else in the city was Hektor, or what was left of him. Bohdan did not like to think of what had happened to his superior and friend. It was not a choice Bohdan would have made. If he lost his legs … well, he imagined he would … well, he
didn’t
imagine it really.

He had contemplated death. He had contemplated torture. He had contemplated choosing the first over the second, if he had the choice when the time came. But he did not like to think about maiming. And he did not thank Hektor too much for making him face that truth. Sure, it was a cold thing to feel anger toward his friend for getting injured, Bohdan knew that, but he just didn’t want to think about having his balls in a jar somewhere for some foreign doctor to poke and prod.

Bohdan put the thought aside. Elsewhere in the region he knew his friends Tomas, Niels, Frederick, and Cara were also deployed, though he was not privy to where, none of them were, and that thought brought him back to the torture concept again. No doubt they were moving quietly, like him, wading through the murk and muck en route to predetermined stations.

He could see nothing. He swam using a small impeller built into the rebreathing tanks he carried with him. He moved by passive sensors alone. Weaving the underwater maze of trashcans, supermarket trolleys and random other flotsam and jetsam that had found its way into the waters over the decades since the canal’s construction.

He knew there were more pervasive obstacles. Half a mile ahead of him, a weir across the canal would prove troublesome, no doubt. He would need help traversing that. He sensed it was time to let Minnie know where he was. Calculating he was near an overpass, he pulled up to a bank of weed that had grown out from a patch of parkland along the canal’s southern border.

He didn’t need much. Slowing for a moment he rolled on his back. Checking the satellite feed sweeping the area, he confirmed he was clear, then he allowed his black helmeted face to break the surface ever so slightly. He did not need long. Within moments his systems had located a passing pod satellite and were sending a tight-beamed data package containing his status and expected progress from here.

He was getting his data in return, as he always was, via a real-time subspace feed from Minnie. She was bathing the city in data, in fact. No matter what tech ten capability they might secretly have, they would not be able to decipher her encryption, and TASC was making no secret of having a presence in Tehran; indeed, it was one of the most public events the world had ever seen, rivaling even the docking of Hekaton, as the two sides jockeyed for position. No, only the Spezialists themselves remained subspace quiet. They would not make the same mistake as in Russia.

Minnie noted Bohdan’s progress and let him know that she would be ready when he got to the weir. She would give him a running update on traffic patterns and give him a window when he should cross it.

He thanked her and he was gone, underwater once more. Moving on. Rolling back over and surging forward. Moving deeper into the city.

There were actually two other Spezialists across Tehran itself, the others being spread out across Iran. Niels was moving under the Jajrud overpass in even murkier waters than Bohdan, getting ever closer to the Iranian Air Force headquarters in downtown. Hektor was enjoying much more pleasant surroundings as he lay, still as stone, in the shallow waters that passed the Manzariye Gardens. It was a beautiful part of the city, and had been much easier to get to than his friends’ stations were proving to be.

But it was barely half a mile from the Niavaran Palace, one of the ayatollah’s many residences. If they only knew which of those palaces the ayatollah was in they would not need to be spread so thinly, but they did not know. He would appear, occasionally, for meetings or prayers, but his schedule was rarely announced beforehand, and in the meantime his movement was shrouded behind layers of decoys and doppelgangers.

Hopefully events unfolding at the International Airport would force the Supreme Leader to show his face, if only to explain why he was refusing an audience with the surprisingly brave administrator boldly and publically requesting one even now.

- - -

Neal watched the map as the pieces moved slowly into place. He was focused on Tehran, but he knew that similar assets were moving into place in Mashad and elsewhere.

Neal at Ayala:
‘¿do you think jim is going to make it?’

They looked down on the proceedings as Jim was led into an official complex off of the main airport terminal. He was standing now in a small interview room. He had been offered a seat while a representative of a representative of the government came to meet him and discuss his illegal status in Iran. Jim had chosen to remain standing.

Neal and Ayala could see the room through his eyes, even feel his heartbeat. The Iranians might make the mistake of thinking he was using his glasses to keep the public informed, but that was just one reason for the link, and just one part of it. Through the glasses and an array of other transponders, Jim was wired to his escort automata at a primal level. They would find him if they needed to. That had been Ayala and Minnie’s promise.

He stood and tapped his feet nervously. Neal and Ayala did not share their conversation with him.

Ayala at Neal:
‘i remain extremely skeptical, neal, as i have been from the start. but the mission remains a good one anyway. jim does not need to get through to the iranians, just as wislawa does not need to get through to our junta generals in cairo when she goes there later today, though for my money, i think she will have more luck than happy feet down there.’

Neal chuckled humorlessly. Poor Jim. He just wasn’t wired for such excitement. Neal chose not to speculate whether he would be doing any better, and the point was moot anyway. They would no more have sent Neal to Tehran than the grand ayatollah himself would have flown into Baghdad.

Neal at Ayala:
‘yes, this does seem like a long shot. which, of course, may make our real intentions all the more obvious. still no signs of tech ten units, i assume.’

Minnie:

Ayala at Neal:
‘another thing the iranians will no doubt discern themselves if they are smart, meaning they would be operating just as silent as we are.’

Neal:
‘all true. all true.’

Neal breathed deep and allowed a part of his real senses to bleed in, allowing him to feel his body and the outside world even as he remained firmly planted in the system. His arm reached out gently to the right and sure enough, a moment later another hand grasped it. He did not open his eyes, he just relished the brief contact from Jennifer, sitting at his side during this difficult time.

This was going to be a long day. He focused on the city again.

Chapter 26: Ad Minister

“This way, gentlemen,” said Peter indignantly. He strode on purposefully down the corridor, the two Spezialists assigned by the UN observers to ‘guard’ him following close behind. He picked up the pace, walking with brisk steps, his aide-de-camp almost running to keep up himself.

It was pointless, of course. As if he could lose these guys. Even if he was riding his old Vyatka moped they could probably keep up with him. In fact, he could probably run faster than that old beast himself, but that was beside the point.

He strode on anyway, making a show of trying to get away from them. Seeing one of his more hardline colleagues ahead, he came to a sharp halt at the entrance to an executive bathroom. As he pushed at the door, he made a show of saying, “May I at least have some peace and privacy in
here
?” and he stomped into the toilets alone.

The two guards were used to it. They had been told by Saul to expect resistance. They had also been told that it was going to be, for the most part, bluster. The acting leader of the Russian Republic, or Republic Secretariat as the office was now called, was in fact probably more than happy to have the men at his side, and all the martial protection they afforded him.

And indeed he was. More than he would even admit to himself. The Kremlin had become a pit of vipers, even worse now as events were accelerating. He was struggling to keep his head, literally and figuratively, and was only succeeding because his opponents lacked the will and organization to take control from a man who was at least ‘tolerated’ by TASC. One such viper now followed him into the men’s room, the one he had seen in the corridor.

“Mr. Secretariat,” he said diffidently, bowing his head slightly.

“Minister,” said Peter, as he washed his hands.

“Your guard dogs getting a little bothersome, Peter?” said the minister as he stepped to the urinal. It was a sign of how little regard the man had for Peter’s place in the government that he used his first name.

Peter decided to pretend to take it as a sign of friendship, rather than the snub it was no doubt intended as. “Indeed, Dmitry, indeed.”

After pretending to do what he had pretended to come in to the room to do, Dmitry zipped up and came to wash his hands by Peter, looking at the other man in the mirror. He seemed to think awhile, then said, “Maybe you should do something about them?”

Peter’s brow furrowed. He did not reply, he merely held the other man’s stare and allowed one eyebrow to rise.

Dmitry smiled patronizingly. “You know, my friend, you and I have more in common than you know. TASC is not the only power in the world. We have other friends. We have other … options.”

Peter looked like he was about to speak but Dmitry brushed him off. “But what do I know of such things, Mr. Secretariat,” and he went to leave.

Pausing by the door, Dmitry turned back and said in a stern tone, “I speak only of the fact that Russia is not now, and never will be, anybody’s puppet.”

His eyes flashed back to Peter’s, full of fire, and Peter matched the look, pouring all his feigned animus for the guards into the mold of his face to fill it to the brim with righteous indignation and blustering pride. Dmitry watched Peter closely for a moment and then the other man smiled coldly, nodded once, and turned to leave.

It would only be five hours later that Dmitry would chance upon the secretariat once more, and this time drop an invite into their equally brief conversation, an invite to a chat with him and two other colleagues that evening. Peter would accept.

- - -

The minister called as soon as he received the package. He received it via messenger, as usual. It was handed to him by Karl, the only member of his security team who had survived the brush with Cara and Hektor unscathed. It was, in fact, the first sure sign he had had that his cover was not blown, that the people who had once been his customers did not know that he had been turned.

Without thought, he flexed his left foot. Without thought. It was as if it was his own foot. It even felt real, to an extent. The sensation of touch was the only thing it did not reproduce faithfully. It was not a sensation so much as receiving an e-mail about a sensation. Like a note was passed to you saying, ‘hey, someone is touching your ankle here and here,’ or ‘just so you know, your foot is a bit chilly.’

It was much easier to ignore than sensation, though, and of course that was not always a bad thing, Rudolf supposed. It would not actually ever get too cold either; well, not as long as it was above about minus forty, which it didn’t get to in even the harshest of Austrian winters. And it would never get tired, or sunburned, or old. Or if it did, it would be replaced. He had what Ayala had termed as a lifetime warranty: TASC would service or replace his new extremity, and any other limbs or organs he might need, and in return he would work for her … for life.

He breathed long and deep. It could, most definitely have been worse. In fact, Ayala had gone to some length to explain to him how much worse it could have been, and could still get, should he betray them once more. She had been very convincing.

As soon as he received the message, he was already reaching out to her, not via phone or even via the spinal tap in the back of his neck. His very nervous system was wired into his left foot, necessarily, and from there to Ayala, through a subspace tweeter built into his very sole.

Rudolf:
‘good morning, ayala, i have received word from my contact at the syrian embassy.’

He began explaining it, but she was already reading it, through his eyes. It was not a perfect rendition. The signal from his optical cortex came to her as an echo of the real thing, such was the location and nature of the spinal interface. But along with the echoed audio input she also received, it was enough to keep a very close eye on the man she had so delicately turned.

It was an intrusion, to be sure. But she cared less than nothing for his privacy, and it was without regret or shame that she read the message directly, even as he extraneously described what it said to her.

Rudolf:
‘my contact is requesting an update. specifically, he is asking if i have any information on the delegate landing in tehran, and whether there is a larger operation afoot. i believe he suspects that mr. hacker is a decoy.’

As she had assumed, thought Ayala. She considered the request.

Ayala:
‘hold on, rudolf, i have to check something.’

As the minister waited, Ayala reached out to Neal and Saul. The Iranians would have been fools not to suspect something, they had known that. And that they were asking Rudolf was not really that surprising; in fact, it was potentially useful.

But their original plan, as speculative as it was, was being overshadowed now by actual real progress by one Jim Hacker. He had managed to secure a meeting with none other than three representatives of the Assembly of Experts. It was an astonishing achievement, one that might, if that meeting went well, or rather if it went perfectly, lead to an audience with the Supreme Leader himself.

They pondered this and discussed the implications. In the end, they had never really thought Jim could succeed. They had not thought he would get killed, though Ayala had accounted for that, and so, to some extent, had Neal. But succeed. They weren’t sure exactly where that would put them. If they actually got an audience, what would that lead to? And how would the world react?

They discussed their options. And then they made a decision. Ayala reopened her link to a waiting minister.

Ayala:
‘minister. i want you to continue to have credibility with our Iranian friends, so i am going to give you a data packet to share with them. it should help bolster your reputation with your former masters.’

Rudolf ignored the implied insult. Or at least he did not take the bait. “Masters indeed,” he whispered to himself, making sure it did not bleed through to the link to Ayala. “I never worked for those idiots in Iran, and I do not work for you either.”

He felt almost perverse saying it, like a child whispering insults to their father’s back after being chastised. But he got a little bolder now, though he still did not broadcast, of course, as he said, “I am my own fucking master, you uppity little Jewish bitch. I have never worked for anyone but myself, and I still don’t.”

He stretched his foot once more, but this time with relish, like it was a prized possession, and indeed it was a magnificent piece of machinery. He tried to convince himself this had all been for the best, that once again he had come out on top, that even after being caught he was still in charge, still winning.

Miles away, Ayala listened in, felt every movement of his body and eavesdropped on his whispered tirade. She smiled. Nothing amused her more than seeing a once proud predator leashed. Not that this was much of a predator. He was a mere hyena, a dingo bucking and whining at its collar, gnawing on its chain. Her smile turned to a sneer. Little Jewish bitch, eh. But it is you who is the bitch, my friend, and without further thought, she terminated the link.

A subroutine would continue to monitor his behavior, and either update her or some analyst on Saul’s team if he did anything else of note.

His brief part in this was probably coming to a close soon anyway.

- - -

The meeting Peter Uncovsky was invited to was a small one. With a brush of his hand, he dismissed the Spezialists at the door and sighed deeply as it was closed in their faces.

He looked each of the men seated in the room in the eye. These were not his friends. These were his rivals, he had no doubt about that. They were not even each others’ friends. But strange times made for strange bedfellows, and with a nod of approval he stepped up to each in turn and took their hands.

“Welcome, Mr. Secretariat,” said Dmitry, as if he was welcoming the leader of his government to a club Peter should be honored to be a member of. But it was a club Peter would be loath to be a member of, even if he really wanted to be the leader of this government.

That said, Peter knew that here, in the hands of these three men, lay the real power in Russia. Like a wounded bear, Russia may be cowed for now, but it would be a fool indeed who would underestimate Russia’s might, even when injured. These men had known too much power in their lives, and too much liberty to exercise that power. They had no more intention of becoming a cog in TASC’s machine than they had of ceding control to a bureaucrat like Peter Uncovsky.

But maybe, they thought, Peter could be used, as either lightning rod or puppet, in this time of regrouping and rebuilding. As the bear licked its wounds, maybe they could use Peter to fend off predators or rivals, and if he got himself killed in the process, then so be it.

Peter was surprised when, as he went to speak, Dmitry silenced Peter, raising a finger to his lips and shaking his head gently. Another man was, it appeared, setting something up.

At a nod from that man, Dmitry smiled magnanimously and said, “A leftover from the grave of our friend Commandant Beria, or Mikhail, or whatever his name was. They will not hear us now, no matter how clever they think they are.”

Peter nodded appreciatively, but then his face set once more. “A small upside for Mr. Beria’s betrayal, I suppose, though I will not thank him for the way he used Mother Russia.”

Dmitry frowned and shook his head. “No, no, you misunderstand me, Mr. Secretariat. You will find no love for Mr. Kovalenko in this room. Quite the opposite. The time has come to put a stop to Russia being some pawn in the greater game, Peter. The time has come for Russia to reclaim its place among the world’s elite.”

Dmitry glanced at the machine that was apparently even now masking any signal Ayala might be using to listen in on them, then went on, “But while I cannot thank the traitor Beria for using us, we are not too proud, I think you will find, to make the best of the tools he may have left behind.” He paused and glanced at his colleagues then back to Peter, “Nor are we too proud to recognize when we might have been wrong about one of our own.”

Peter and Dmitry held each other’s stares as the other two ministers nodded approvingly. Peter smiled, as his eyes narrowed. It was tempting to believe Dmitry, but Peter was no fool, he could see that they were only really offering to have him be their tool, as opposed to TASC’s. But Peter was
not
TASC’s puppet. He was their ally. Because however much he might disagree with that organization’s ever more stringent methods, they were still, in the end, doing what must be done.

And so was he, he knew, as he engaged with these three snakes and pretended to be enticed by the apple they offered.

The apple, it turned out, was a new alliance. A temporary one, but one that would give Russia leverage. One that would dislodge the American Neal Danielson from the helm of the ever more powerful TASC and put a council there in his place, a council upon which Russia would sit. They spoke of allies, they hinted at some, and were cagey about others. And they spoke of the remnants of what they now knew as tech ten. There was not much left, they said, but they were learning how to replicate it.

Soon they would have an army, as would their allies. They would take control of TASC and be the ones to ride the warhorse into the coming fight, and they would be the ones left ruling once they had dispatched the coming alien Armada.