“He’s changed a lot. I don’t think he can separate himself from Larry anymore.”
“You knew it was a lie but you didn’t say anything?” I demanded.
“They told me it was to maintain the future of the company and our facility. It would only be temporary until they set up a proper exchange of power.”
The armor fit me snugly and I picked up my strap of light bombs. “What was the point of keeping me around your place earlier?”
“I wasn’t trying to keep you. They just wanted me to keep tabs on you and make sure you didn’t cause any problems. I’m sorry. I know you’ve been through hell. And Larry — Harold’s a different guy now. He loses his temper all the time. I think he’s sleeping with other women too.”
“Do you know how Zhang Zhang is connected and why they care about me?”
“The only thing Larry and Dr. Asahi told me was to keep you distracted.”
I sighed. “Can you call the police downstairs?”
“That’s the weird part,” she said. “I called them earlier and they told me everything was fine.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those men have clearance to be here,” she answered. “I told security that I wanted them out of here but they said there’s nothing they can do.”
That meant they had some arrangement with the police and wouldn’t be killing us here as news of any deaths inside a prison-complex condominium would cause property values to drop drastically.
“If someone could grow real hair, why wouldn’t they announce it to the whole world?” she asked.
I didn’t tell her the business-driven answer that instinctively came to mind, but I think she saw it in my eyes.
“Profit?” she asked. If she had known about the existence of hair beforehand, she did a convincing job faking that she didn’t.
“What are the chances of them breaking through that door?” I asked.
“Those doors have three layers of titanium. They’ll withstand most explosives. Short of laser beams, and I mean the pure crystal kind, I don’t think they’re coming through.”
“Are there security overrides?”
“There are, but those are just for emergencies,” she answered, though a sliver of doubt had slipped in.
“Can I speak with them through here?” I asked as I strapped my paralysis gun into my belt. She nodded. “Hello, gentlemen,” I said through the communicator. “What can I do for you?”
“My boss would like to see you,” one of them said.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course,” he answered in the same tone as the one from Beijing.
“Patch her through.”
“She would like to see you in Bangkok.”
“I bet she would, but I can’t go to Bangkok right now.”
“She has allowed you eight hours to arrange matters before she insists you depart for Bangkok.”
“That’s generous of her.”
“In eight hours, be at the Shanghai Pudong International Airport. We will escort you to Bangkok.”
“What if I’m late?”
“We will assist in making sure you arrive on time,” he answered in a voice bereft of menace that made it all the more menacing. Abruptly, they left.
“It looks like I have a date with four faceless thugs,” I said to Rebecca.
I took out my Pinlighter and went to use her computer. There, I uploaded the footage of Russ Lambert confirming Larry was dead. I also had footage of the girl with hair. I had it on timed automail to several media friends in case something happened to me and those faceless thugs got me. I took out the locket of hair I’d gotten from Plath and felt it against my fingers.
Should I expose the fake Larry for being an impostor and reveal the possibility of people with real hair? I needed to head to Gamble Town, meet with Tolstoy and Beauvoir. Then track down Russ. I only had eight hours before the Colonel’s thugs would be after me again.
While I was contemplating my course of action, Rebecca held out her hand. The fox necklace dangled from her fingers. “I don’t think I should keep this,” she said.
“You saved my life.”
“I was keeping an eye on you.”
“I don’t care about your reasons. You still saved my life,” I said. “Throw it away if you don’t want it.”
“What are you going to do about those guys?”
“I have no idea.” I opened up the door. “Don’t let anyone in,” I told her. “And if I don’t see you again.” I stared at her. “Thank you. For everything.”
She slapped me.
“W-what was that for?”
“Be strong,” she said. “I hate weak men.”
“You don’t like short ones either.”
“I’ll make an exception for one, but not both.”
The door shut. I hustled down.
III.
Hustle might have been an exaggeration. More like lumbering along. Walking was excruciatingly painful. The only place I could think of going was Gamble Town to visit Tolstoy and Beauvoir again. Maybe they could shed some light on what was going on as it was clear they were connected to Plath.
I got into the cab and asked the computerized driver to head to the airport. On the television, the incidents at all the different hair factories were being highlighted. I called a journalist friend, Lena, who served in Africa with me. She was giddy as she always was whenever there was lots of news to cover. Scenes of violence and death were interspersed with sexually explicit ads reminding people about the upcoming Global Entertainment Awards in Los Angeles. Both Jesus the General and Rhonda would be there, sharing a dance duet, although the prayer vigil was still ongoing and millions throughout the world were praying for his recovery from his flu.
“I’ve got something big,” I told Lena.
“Bigger than the attacks?”
“The real reason behind them,” I replied. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Seoul right now, but I’m heading over to Hong Kong,” she said.
“Send me your HK address. Or can you make a quick detour to Shanghai?”
“I can. But you need to give me a hint what this is all about.”
“Hair,” I replied, and would offer no more.
She didn’t seem convinced, but we had a lot of history together. “I can be there in 25, maybe 35 minutes if customs is tough.”
“I’ll pick you up from the airport.”
The communication ended and I called the hotel in Gamble Town where Beauvoir was staying. Surprisingly, the operator patched me through after saying, “She’s been expecting your call.”
“Hi, Nick. Nice wig,” she said.
“You look very nice yourself,” I answered, marveling at how beautiful she was. “I met your sister, Plath. I know what’s going on. At least part of it.”
“She told me.”
“Can we talk?”
“I think my brother wants to see you anyways.”
“Your br—”
Something crashed into my taxi and I heard Beauvoir scream, “Nick!”
Almost immediately, the whole compartment was filled with green gel, freezing me in place. It was designed to protect me from collisions as the car spun out of control. I could still see, though my visibility was filtered by the green gel that made me feel like a fishing bob in the ocean. Had I been in a car accident? That was impossible. There hadn’t been car accidents outside of America for decades, unless someone had taken manual control? Or had there been an automated failure? The gel was good for me and had medical palliatives to sooth my muscles. My shoulder and leg were grateful.
“Nick! Nick!” Beauvoir called.