“Not unless it pays well.”
“Probably has the ethics ofE. coli .” Romy could see why Zero was concerned. “What do we do?”
“We don’t interfere—at least not yet. Just as great literature can be created by an author writing simply to pay his rent, great good can sometimes be accomplished by people with less than exalted motivations. This Patrick Sullivan may simply be trying to turn a buck or looking to garner some cheap publicity. If that’s his goal, we’ll follow the progress of the case and see if we can turn things to our advantage along the way.”
“And if he’s an out-and-out crook?”
“We’ll be keeping a close watch on him. At the first sign of any funny business, we move.”
“Move how?”
“I’m not sure…”
The remark disturbed her. This was the first time she’d ever detected uncertainty in Zero.
“Something else I wanted to tell you,” he said. “You’ll be receiving notice soon that OPRR has succeeded in obtaining a court order allowing it to inspect the SimGen facility.”
Stunned, Romy could only sit and stare.
“Something wrong?”
“How…how did you managethat ? We’ve been trying foryears to get a look in there.”
“Vee haf vays,” he said in a bad German accent, and she could imagine a smile behind the protective layers.
“No, seriously. How—?”
“By employing the same tactics that SimGen has used to stall the inspection: bribery, cajoling, intimidation, the whole nine yards.”
Romy frowned. “Is that the way we want to be?”
“It’s the way we have to be. And even then it was pure luck that the petition came before a judge who was retiring and didn’t give a damn about whatever pressure SimGen and its pet politicos were bringing to bear. He said to hell with it and signed the order.”
“This is wonderful.” Her admiration for Zero climbed to a new high.
“It’s a start. The order allows a one-time inspection of the entire research facility.”
“No follow-up visits?”
Zero shook his head. “Sorry. But at least it’s a foot in the door. We’ve pierced their armor—now we get a chance to look into the SimGen abyss.” He slid the briefcase on the table closer to her. “Take this with you. It contains various miniature spycams. Use them on your inspection tour, especially in the basic research facility. Be sure to ask for a full explanation of their security procedures—because you’re interested in how well the sims are protected, of course.”
“Of course. And who knows? Maybe I’ll get a face-to-face with the Sinclair brothers.”
“Don’t count on it. But even if you do, prepare to be unimpressed.”
Another shock. “You’ve met them?”
“Yes. A number of times.”
“Then theyknow you?”
“Yes…and no.”
“I don’t get it. What—?”
He raised his gloved hand, palm out: a stop sign. “We can’t get into that now.”
“When?”
“Maybe never.” Zero rose and extended his hand across the table. “Good luck.”
Romy shook his hand, peering closely at him, thinking: He knows the Sinclair brothers. Who is he? I’vegot to find out.
6
SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ
OCTOBER 3
“And I tell you, my brothers and sisters, that SinGen is doing the work of the devil his own self. Yes! The devil’s work! As surely as I am standing here, Satan himself sits in those corporate offices, guiding the hand of the SinGen researchers, inspiring them to fashion beings that the Creator never intended to exist, creatures that are an abomination in the sight of God. It must be stopped or we all—and Idomeanall,not just the SinGen sinners, but all of us who abide that company’s evildoing—will be called to account on the day of Final Judgment!”
Mercer Sinclair, a tall, lean, youthful-looking fifty-two with dark eyes and dark hair that had yet to show a trace of gray, sighed in disgust as he turned away from the plasma TV screen hanging like an Old Master on his office wall. He jabbed theOFF button on his desktop and banished the Reverend Eckert’s florid face.
Stepping to the tinted window that took up most of the western wall of his top-floor office, he gazed out at the green rolling hills, mist-layered and glistening with morning dew. All SimGen’s, as far as the eye could see.
Using proxies and dummy corporations, buying up little parcels here and there, Mercer had accumulated this massive chunk of northwest New Jersey for damn near a song. He could have bought more land for less in the Sunbelt, but that would have placed him too far from the action. Yes, he was in the boonies here, but these boonies were only a twenty-minute helicopter ride from Wall Street, while the isolation afforded a form of natural protection from prying eyes.
Closer in, nestled in this tight little valley, stood the gleaming glass and steel offices, the labs and natal and nurturing centers that fed the world’s ever-growing need for sims. Here they were bred and housed until ready to be shipped to training centers all over the globe. Here beat the heart of SimGen’s—Mercer’s—far-flung empire.
He opaqued the window and turned to the three other men in his office.
“‘SinGen’? I wonder who thought that up for him.”
His brother Ellis, two years older, taller, grayer, and almost gaunt, slouched on one of the black leather sofas to the left, far from the desk. Mercer expected no reply from Ellis, and received none.
Luca Portero, SimGen’s chief of security, remained silent as well. Compact, muscular, in great shape for a man in his early forties, he stood with feet apart, arms behind his back; despite the blue blazer and tan slacks, he looked every inch a soldier.
Mercer hadn’t picked Portero. He’d beenassigned to SimGen as security chief. But he’d looked into the man’s background. A self-made sort, starting off as a street urchin with an Italian first name in a mostly Mexican border town in Arizona, father unknown, mother of very dubious reputation—oh, hell, why not say it? The town whore. As soon as he was old enough he joined the Army and apparently found his métier.
And like a good soldier, he rarely spoke unless spoken to. That was the only thing Mercer liked about the man. Portero had always struck him as more snake than human. He didn’t walk, he glided. On the rare occasions when he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. And those cold dark eyes…always watching…like a snake. Mercer often wondered if Portero had indulged in a trans-species splice or two before joining SimGen…something reptilian. The heart, perhaps?
“Don’t underestimate Eckert,” the third attendee said in a thick Alabama drawl.
Mercer glanced at Abel Voss, SimGen’s general counsel. In his mid-fifties, with longish silver hair and twenty extra pounds packed around his waist, he filled the seat on the other side of the desk. Which didn’t mean he was close—a string quartet could have set up and played on the vast gleaming ebony surface of Mercer’s desktop. Only two colors here: furniture either black leather or ebony, carpet and curtains all a uniform light gray.
“You know him?”
“No, but a few years ago nobody’d even heard of that boy, and now he’s a household name.”
Voss liked to come on as a slow-witted, somewhat bemused good ol’ boy. He used it to lull opponents until he sprang and crushed them with one of the sharpest corporate law minds in the world. Mercer liked that. The crushing part.
Mercer grunted. “And he galloped there onmy back.”
“Yourback?” Ellis said. “How about my back as well? I wind up being painted with the same brush as you, something I donot care for.”
Well, well, well, Mercer thought. Look who’s speaking up.
He couldn’t understand why his brother bothered with these meetings. He’d arrive, slump in a chair without saying a word to anyone, stare into space without participating, then leave.
Ellis had been in an emotional tailspin for years. Mercer had heard that only a complex antidepressant cocktail enabled him to get out of bed these days. Somehow he dragged himself to meetings, and managed to maintain a decent work schedule in his lab, but his productivity was zilch.