Persona (13 page)

This place didn't encourage participation of any kind, and it fascinated him.

He moved toward the dance floor, one eye out for Suyana. The aesthetic from home was elite and knew it; this was more pristinely ramshackle, more insidiously snotty. He wanted, just for a second, to propose to the designer.

“You must be new.”

The snap contact had found him. He froze.

Somehow he'd imagined the strike would come outside the club, if he was unlucky enough to be on the street alone; somehow he'd figured that by getting inside he'd outsmarted them. He was an idiot. Shit. Shit. He steeled himself and turned.

It was Martine Hargaad. He was so startled that he jumped, felt like an asshole.

She was just as pale as she looked on TV, more so without the warming amber lights the IA used for broadcasts; with her blue dress and blue eyes and hair so blond it was nearly white, she looked like a glacier.

He knew she'd been a Face for a long time—she had to be twenty-seven, maybe older—but up close he could see why Norway had never replaced her. Where would they find a better face than hers?

She was holding a cigarette, low at her side and untouched. All right, he thought. Careful. Don't fuck this up. (Don't be memorable, he thought, quick on its heels.)

He smiled. “Need a light?”

She made a face, held up the cig, and rolled it for a moment between two fingertips. It beeped and flared to life.

He remembered those, now that he saw one—pricey, but Faces were too important to risk lung cancer, something like that. Whatever you told the public to justify some people getting electronic cigarettes and everyone else getting ads for smokes that killed them.

“Just as well,” he said. “I'm out of matches.”

She half smiled, took a drag. Water vapor curled out her nose and left the scent of cardamom. “Haven't seen you here before. Tourist or taxi dancer?”

There was no right answer, the way she asked it. “Whichever one gets me a dance.”

She looked unconcerned and horribly suspicious. He had no doubt, now that it had occurred to him, that a snap was watching him as they spoke. And somewhere in the crowd, Suyana was looking for whomever she'd come here to find, and trying not to be made.

“Taxi dancer,” she said. “First night?”

From her tone, untested taxi dancers' corpses weren't worth soiling your shoes on.

“Oh no. Some women can handle a man who's more direct, that's all.”

Her eyebrows moved even higher.

Daniel wished he could risk breaking eye contact to scan the place, but Martine conversed like she delivered addresses on TV, dismissive but demanding your full attention, and he didn't dare get distracted.

She was a black-and-white movie of some ancient queen who'd been famous for her cruelty. In other circumstances, he'd have liked it.

At last, she said, “Does that line ever work?”

“Not on direct women,” he admitted.

That got him the shadow of a smile. (He was auditioning for a movie where she had a script and he didn't. This is what her kind were trained to do. No wonder Faces all lost their minds.)

She plucked her cigarette from her lips. “Let me guess,” she said, tapping it as if it could ash. “You like them blond.”

He shrugged. “Depends. If they have faces like yours, I could learn to like it.”

She shot him a look. “I'm rich, too,” she said, an edge sliding in. “I bet you like them rich.”

That was a trap if he'd ever heard one. He wondered if the bouncers knew how Martine felt about taxi dancers, and let him in just so she could tear him to shreds. Too late now. Caught was caught.

He grinned. “Rich doesn't hurt.”

“Doesn't hurt me,” she agreed. The cigarette hovered against her mouth as she took a drag, the end glowing red like it was burning. “You could stand to be more subtle.”

“No time. It's a long night if you're lonely.”

“Yikes.” She looked out across the crowd, said absently, “You could stand to be a
lot
more subtle.”

“You could stand to cut to the chase a little.” It came out sharper than he meant, he didn't know why. Had she seen Suyana? Was that who she was really looking for?

Her grin turned a little feral. “I make my living not cutting to the chase. What's your excuse?”

“That I'm waiting on someone else.”

“God help that poor soul,” she said, still smiling, flicking her eyes across him once like she was taking his measure for a suit. Then she shook her cigarette until the light went off and vanished into the crowd.

It should have felt like a reprieve. Instead, it felt as though she'd hanged him, wrung him out, and declared him unfit for duty.

He put it aside, tried to even out his breathing. She was the least of his problems. He scanned the room casually, just a guy looking for a slight acquaintance, unconcerned.

To his left, on the raised platform of seating areas, Martine and another girl (Grace, maybe, though he couldn't tell) were crowding a booth, chatting with someone blocked by one of the high-back couches.

Suyana, Daniel thought. His throat went tight.

If Martine had found her, it was over. He should have kept her talking, he should have done whatever it took. Damn, damn, why couldn't he have held it together?

He was so distracted that it took him longer than it should have to register what was going on elsewhere.

There was a tall guy at the bar facing out, a glass in one hand, the other shoved into his pocket. He was fidgeting, leaning away slightly as people pressed in beside him to wave at the bartenders and call for drinks.

Snap. Had to be. No one who belonged here would cede space that easily.

Daniel tried to take comfort that the kid looked less cutthroat than the woman on the phone sounded. He was freakishly calm—the only one standing still as the crowd surged against the bar—but he seemed more alert than vicious. Daniel could handle calm and alert. Calm people were pragmatists; they examined situations, they made deals.

Daniel had thought about diplomacy a little, taking photos of Hae Soo-jin pretending to be surprised by visitors. He'd picked up a little about negotiation. The rest he'd picked up since he got here and started shoplifting and handing out bribes.

For a second Daniel wondered if it was possible to get out without catching his attention, but even as he was trying to avert his eyes and keep walking, the guy looked at him and raised his drink.

He'd probably known Daniel was here as soon as he knocked. That was how snaps worked, by knowing everything first. It was why Daniel had wanted to be one to begin with. Felt like a long time ago.

As if Daniel had waved, the guy pushed off the bar and through the crowd, lifting his glass whenever someone's dancing threatened to knock it away. He didn't look at Daniel, which meant he figured Daniel had nowhere to go.

(Daniel thought about the woman who had been on the other end of the phone.)

“You must be Daniel,” the guy said when he was close enough. He was older than he'd looked from a distance, with red hair and a square, slightly stolid face, like he'd stepped out of an ad for Alpine health. He held out the glass. “Drink?”

Daniel thought about roofies, seizure-inducers, radium tracking. “Pass.”

The guy took a swig. “Figured you could use it, after Martine.”

Daniel smiled, thin with no teeth. “Glad you enjoyed the show.”

“Didn't stand a chance, man. I've watched her before. You lasted as long as anyone could.” He took another drink. “Of all the people we don't engage, she's the one I'm happiest about.”

Daniel looked the guy over, but there were no lapel pins or anything he could peg as a camera. He wondered if there was even anything on him, or if someone else was recording. He glanced around, scanning to see if anyone else was holding too still.

“Do you have a name, or are we just playing with codes?”

The guy smiled. “Bo. And it's not like that. Snaps don't operate like these others. And you're one of us.”

That stung.

“Well, at the moment I'm still just a freelance intimidatee, not one of you, so you can understand how I'm wary.” Trying to seem like the picture of reason, he said, “I don't even know the company name.”

Bo's smile dimmed. “Not without a gesture of good faith, no. I'm under orders, you know how it is.” He set the drink down in a corner, then dusted his hands like a man getting down to solving a long-awaited puzzle.

“So,” he said, sliding one hand in his pocket, “what can you give me on the target?”

“Nothing.”

The rest of Bo's smile disappeared. Nothing else changed, but now he looked a lot less like the picture of Alpine health and much more like a combative weight lifter.

Maybe there was no one else here. It wasn't like Bo needed the backup. Maybe he wasn't even recording, because this was the kind of stuff you didn't want on the record.

Daniel's fingertips went numb.

“Not that I don't want to,” Daniel amended as smoothly as he could. “I even came here after her, looking for a story after Ethan was a bust, but she's just not much of a newsmaker.”

“I was told you had a good faith gesture,” Bo said, as if Daniel hadn't spoken. He and the woman were definitely from the same company.

“Oh,” said Daniel, “you mean the—” He reached into his pocket. “I thought you'd expected me to get something between the phone call and now, which is flattering but seems a little optimistic even for your boss.”

(Get out, Daniel thought like it would do any good; Suyana, look over here, look over here and run.)

Bo's face softened. “She can be a little brusque,” he admitted, “but she gets the goods. It's amazing what she can do.”

“You're telling me.” Daniel held out the card in two fingers. “I assume that I'll be paid in line with your usual rates. I risked my life for them, it seems only fair.”

Bo raised an eyebrow. “She said you'd ask about the bottom line. Half price—on acceptance, obviously—and there are discussions about commission and expenses, if she takes you.”

“She'll take me,” Daniel said, unable to keep the fatalistic note out of his voice.

The palm-size viewer that had appeared out of nowhere in Bo's hand lit up with two people in an alley, and he slid through them, pausing on the last few frames.

Daniel glanced away. His heart was already pounding fast enough; Suyana bleeding and running from gunfire was the last thing he wanted to see.

“Where's your camera?” he asked, just for something to say, because Bo was distracted and smiling at the pictures as if he'd justified a long night at that long bar, and there wouldn't be a better time to ask.

“What makes you think I'm recording?” Bo asked, sliding back and forth between two frames, but he reached up for a moment and touched his temple, where there was a slight bump with a little scab Daniel hadn't even noticed, scar tissue left over from an old injury. It instantly explained why so many snaps had gotten photos no one should have been able to get.

It made him ill to think about it—how did you know you were getting the shots? How did you record? Could you ever turn it off, or was your whole life a photo essay?

“So,” Daniel said, when he could tear his eyes away. “Are we about done, or did you want to buy me a drink?”

He didn't look over at the lounge. If he did, Bo would look over at the lounge, and there was nothing that camera would miss. Daniel's eyes hurt with not looking. His breath was tight from not looking.

“Sure,” said Bo, sliding the viewer in his pocket. “We should talk about what else you can get on Sapaki.”

“Nothing.”

The word was out before he had a chance to consider a better answer, or a more politic excuse, or a smoother way to make good on an escape.

Bo considered this and then said, calmer than he might have, “This should have been explained to you.”

“Yes, it should have been. Instead, all I got were a bunch of amateur threats and some nonsense about spying on a third-rate Face who's done nothing but get shot at.”

Bo tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. “She didn't mention you were compromised.”

For someone who was supposedly an employee, this woman's name was being safeguarded from him like he was still a threat. Daniel exhaled through his nose, swallowed his answer.

“I understand you develop opinions—happens to everyone,” Bo went on, sounding like a guy who had long ago gotten over that little shortcoming, “but if you can't stay objective, we'll tag her with someone else.”

“No,” said Daniel. Then he added, “That's not the issue. I was very clear that I was there to photograph Ethan Chambers. If you check with your boss, you'll find out I never agreed to follow Suyana Sapaki.”

“You followed her here.”

Point. Daniel forced a grin. “If you had a girl like that staring at you like you're a hero, wouldn't you follow her to see if you had a chance?”

“Not really my beat.”

“Well, then maybe you'll rescue a handsome guy from gunfire and we'll see how that goes,” Daniel said, crossed his fingers in front of his face as if for luck.

He was trying to think of a way to spin this that could get Suyana out of trouble, some other way than being given what he'd always wanted against the one person he'd rather not betray.

After a second he said, as though considering, “What would I be reporting on? I mean, what would you even need her for?”

“Everything,” Bo said. “Someone getting shot at tends to be worth following. You must have heard something—you got your picture.”

Suyana was moving away from the circle. She was going to duck under the bar and slip out the kitchen entrance and vanish, and one way or another someone was going to get the photo they needed.