Michael grabbed the boy by his shoulders, shaking him violently, and shouting at him. Alex’s head rolled back and forth like a rag doll, but he didn’t seem to notice. Michael wasn’t even sure what it was he was shouting. Michael thought desperately, weighing his limited options. He was seriously considering knocking the boy unconscious, but he was afraid that might not stop the reaction, but rather make it even more out of control than it already was. The protocol had gone Black when Alex operated it, Michael was certain, though he didn’t understand how that had happened. Rebecca would never have deliberately implanted a Black Protocol, but some protocols, including Michael’s own, could turn black in the right (or wrong) Operator’s hands.
The dilemma was interrupted by the rock face. It didn’t explode, though he felt the ground shake beneath him and there was tremendous noise. Rather, the whole slope imploded with a whooshing sound, all of a sudden, folding impossibly in on itself and then disappearing, trails of dust falling towards nothing. All around the expanding cavity, the frozen rock bent and crackled, clearly planning on following suit. The air was so cold that it was painful to breathe, and Michael’s hands were red and numb.
Michael said a small, silent prayer, and hit Alex above his jaw on the right side, below his ear. For a moment, Michael was afraid that nothing had happened, and that he would die feeling weirdly guilty for having struck a student who was already lying on the ground. Then, distantly, through the partially-frozen clothing on his back, he felt the heat of the sun, and he collapsed gratefully by Alex’s side. He lay there in the afternoon sun, his head buzzing with frightening thoughts, while his body slowly warmed.
Seventeen
Tung Do shifted nervously in his Aeron chair. It was the most expensive office chair available five years ago, and something of a status symbol at the time he bought it, even if it was second-hand. They didn’t tend to open up direct retail outlets for things like high-end office furniture in obscure Philippine port towns. But Tung had bought it solely for the mesh back, as it was supposed to reduce back sweat, a source of great embarrassment for him. Generally, Tung liked to blame his nameless American G.I. father and the godforsaken, roasting hot Philippine climate for his tendency to sweat like a pig.
Today, however, he blamed the spreading dampness that had glued his chino shirt to his back on the three people opposite his modern, blond-wood desk.
The Chinese guy hadn’t spoken and refused to take a seat, instead standing behind the two women, wearing what appeared to be a ‘clean-room’ style mask, goggles and gloves. Then there was the Japanese woman with livid red eyes, who didn’t talk much either, but stared at him constantly, with an unnerving intensity. But the woman in black, who did all the talking through an obscenely smug grin, she was the worst.
She’d been the only one to accept his offer of coffee — and despite the fact that it was Vietnamese-style iced coffee, sweetened with condensed milk, she’d insisted on adding several more spoonfuls of sugar to it. Just watching her drink the stuff made him slightly ill.
Tung had heard of Alice Gallow, which meant the other two must be Auditors. And what he had heard about Gallow, well, that was making him very nervous indeed.
“How is business, Mr. Do? It seems like you are doing alright for yourself,” Alice observed, gesturing at the plush office around her.
Tung attempted a modest smile. The Auditors must have activated a translation protocol; whenever Alice spoke, he heard perfect Vietnamese with a slight northern accent, exactly like his own.
“This has not been our best year, I’m afraid.” Tung wanted desperately to shift in his chair, to fidget and fiddle with his hands, and fought to suppress the urge while keeping a calm, unworried expression on his face. “Exports to North America are down, what with the bad financial climate, and it has had a negative impact on overall revenue.”
“Huh,” Alice said, sounding genuinely surprised. “I’d have figured people would be more interested in smack during a recession.”
“Nguyen Exports handles a broad range of products for an array of reputable clients,” Tung sputtered defensively. “I do not appreciate the implication that we would deal in anything untoward. Our firm has operated for decades and enjoys an excellent reputation, here and in Central.”
The woman nodded and crossed her legs. She was attractive, if a bit too pale; even Tung, who wasn’t the biggest fan of Caucasians, had to give her that, with her long legs and lithe figure. Or she would have been pretty, rather, if she hadn’t had that ludicrous smirk plastered on her face.
“You have no need to be concerned about that, Mr. Do. The Audits Department is well-aware of everything that your company transports, even when it somehow doesn’t make it on the manifest,” Alice observed dryly. “If we had a problem with it, we would have gotten involved some time ago. Moreover, the quality of the services you provide is universally recognized. At several points, we have contracted work to your organization, as a matter of fact.”
“I hope the services were rendered to your satisfaction?” Tung inquired politely. He was impatient to get the Auditors out of his office, but he couldn’t think of any way to do so. The right of an Auditor to compel cooperation was absolute, when conducting an Audit, and he’d already inspected the paperwork. Tung shifted in his expensive chair, and wished he could go change his shirt.
“Yes.” Alice waved her hand dismissively. “Enough of these trivial matters. You are a busy man, and I do not wish to waste your time. I wonder if I might show you something, Mr. Do.”
Alice dug through the duffel bag she brought in with her, and Tung panicked briefly. He hadn’t had the right to demand a search of the bag — he could not interfere with an Audit — and he tensed up, aware that he was being ridiculous and unable to stop himself. After a moment’s search, Alice produced a stack of printouts, each page a photo headshot of a Vietnamese or Cambodian man.
“Do you know any of these men, Mr. Do?”
Tung made a show of putting his glasses on, and then looking closely at each of the photos in turn. Alice’s smile broadened a notch, and he felt slightly queasy, like the whole affair was turning into a farce.
“I have never seen any of these men before,” Tung said honestly. “I am sorry I cannot be of more assistance.”
“The first part is true,” Mitsuru said, her voice devoid of emotion. Her entire contribution to the conversation up until this point had been limited to occasional confirmations of what he’d said — she was obviously running an Audit protocol, some kind of lie-detector. “But he isn’t actually sorry.”
“Good for you, Mr. Do!” Alice said enthusiastically. “But if I’d asked if any of these men had been clients of yours, it would have been a different answer, right?”
“Nguyen Exports does business with many different clients each year. Only a fraction of them ever deal with me personally. And even then, many of our clients employ another agency as a buffer, to ensure confidentiality,” Mr. Do explained patiently. “There is no way for me to be totally certain that my firm has not contracted with these men, indirectly, at some point.”
“It was a trick question, Mr. Do.” Alice’s expression was smug. “These men are all members of a Hmong Weir tribe, one that has done contracting work for your little operation before. Surely you remember that little deal-gone-bad in Myanmar that they helped you resolve? We know that your cartel recently arranged transportation for them to the United States, on one of your vessels. That was a big mistake, Mr. Do.”