“We’re already at three percent penetration in active combat troops and if Dresner can get production to where it needs to be, forty percent of combat personnel will be Merged up by the end of next year. And that’s just military units — soldiers are buying civilian units with their own money because we aren’t moving fast enough for them.”
“Fortunately for me, the CIA isn’t as sold.”
Inconspicuous dots appeared on her face as his Merge began mapping it. They’d been talking long enough for LayerCake to determine that she wasn’t in its database and to assume he knew her. Later that night, he’d receive a text asking him to put a name to the image the system had created. A text he would delete unanswered.
“They will be soon, Randi. Because of the individuality of brain waves, the security is light-years beyond what you’re using in Langley. But enough of that. What is it that you’re doing standing in the middle of my training exercise? Last I heard you were in Khost.”
“There’s something I want to talk to you about. Maybe we could have a drink?”
Most people wouldn’t notice, but he’d known her long enough to hear the concern in her voice. And when Randi couldn’t completely hide what she was feeling, it was generally something you wanted to pay attention to.
“Deal. But first, you’re going to have to help me get this damn camera off.”
29
The bar was classic Randi. Out of the way, dark, and sparsely populated — a stale smoke-scented, cracked-black-vinyl-encased facsimile of the ones she haunted in the forgotten corners of the world.
Every male customer immediately turned and followed her with his eyes, something that was impossible not to do. Despite the comically oversized handbag thrown over her shoulder, she carried herself with a mesmerizing, almost predatory grace.
Smith bucked the trend and looked away, casually examining a woman pulling slots next to an overflowing ashtray. The jingle of coins momentarily overpowered the eighties music straining hidden speakers and she joylessly transferred her winnings to a plastic cup.
The men around him suddenly lost interest and he turned back to see Randi disappear into a booth tucked into a shadowed corner of the room.
“Nice place,” Smith observed, sliding in next to her. “I have an office, you know. They even gave me a window.”
She frowned disinterestedly in his minor victory but he suspected that she felt the same way he did about being there together. Despite a soul-crushing personal history and the tendency for near-death experiences to follow every time they so much as set foot in the same state, they were as close to each other as to anyone. As close as people in their profession could be.
“I guess I forgot to congratulate you on the new job,” she said. “I just did a night op with a guy who uses one. As much as I hate to admit it — and you know I do — I was impressed.”
“But you’re still not sold.”
“I’ve always felt like sticking things I don’t understand in my brain isn’t a good idea.”
“What if I told you that I understand it and that it’s safe?” he said, picking up a menu lying in the middle of the table and looking at the list of beers.
“I’d say maybe you don’t know as much as you think you know.”
Smith gave an unsurprised nod and flipped to the wine list. There was only about a two-second delay before LayerCake recognized what he was looking at and flashed dully in his peripheral vision. Curious why, he launched the icon and watched as the Wine Spectator ratings of the listed bottles appeared next to their names. How civilized.
“Are you using it now?” Randi asked.
“Yeah.”
“Could you turn it off?”
His brow furrowed for a moment and then he shrugged and shut it down. “Okay. It’s off. Why?”
Randi scooted close enough to press up against him. “Because I have something I want to show you.”
“I’m intrigued.”
She unzipped her bag and pulled that something out, setting it on the table in front of him. In the poor light it took his mind a few beats to reconcile what he was seeing.
“Jesus, Randi!” he said in a harsh whisper, twisting around reflexively to look behind him.
Murphy’s Law — the principle that seemed to rule his life — was in full effect and a bored-looking young waitress was making a beeline for them through the empty tables.
He must have looked a little panicked, because Randi put a hand on his arm. “Relax, Jon. Don’t you ever look at your calendar?”
The young woman arrived at their table jotting on a small tablet. “Can I get you—”
Her voice faltered as she spotted the severed head resting on the cracked Formica. Smith tensed but then a broad smile spread across her face.
“That thing is too cool! Where did you get it?”
“Off the Internet,” Randi replied casually.
“The weird musty smell…”
“Comes in a little spray bottle.”
“Awesome!”
He was a bit perplexed by the conversation until he remembered Randi’s comment about the calendar. He’d been to immersed in his work with the Merge to bother keeping up with holidays. It was October 30. The day before Halloween.
“I’ll just have a beer,” Randi said. “Don’t care what kind.”
“Same,” Smith agreed.
The girl gave the head one last admiring glance and then returned to the bar. He waited until she was out of earshot before he spoke again.
“What the hell is this? Something for the mantel?” he said.
“Take a closer look.”
“Can I turn my Merge back on?”
“No.”
A quick glance around him confirmed that no one but the returning waitress was paying any attention at all. He waited for her to slide the beers onto the table and disappear again before pulling the head toward him.
“Looks like the spine was severed with a saw of some kind and then it was left somewhere dry. Skin color and features are a little hard to distinguish with the shrinkage, but based on the hair and the beard, I’d say you found it in Afghanistan.”
“Very good. Anything else?”
He kept going over it and was about to say no when the dim light picked up something on the side. He pushed back the matted hair and found himself looking at a Merge stud.
“Christ. They’re already smuggling them in?”
She shook her head. “This man died more than three months ago. On July twenty-first.”
“You have your dates wrong. The Merge didn’t go on the market until after that. Hell, Dresner didn’t even make his announcement until the twenty-second.”
“I don’t have my dates wrong.”
If it was anyone else, he would be asking if she was certain, probing for a mistake in her timeline or logic. But this wasn’t someone else. It was Randi Russell.
“So you’re saying you’ve had this since July twenty-first?”
She shook her head. “I went to a village on the twenty-second that had been wiped out by the Taliban. All the men had been decapitated and the heads were gone. I finally tracked them down in a cave a few days ago.”
“Did they all have studs?” he said, trying to conjure an explanation for what he was hearing. The best thing he could come up with was that someone had snuck into that cave ahead of her and installed studs on a bunch of severed heads. Not particularly high on the plausibility scale.
“I didn’t look. That was just the first one I picked up.”
The truth was that it didn’t really matter. One was as ugly a mystery as a hundred.