Boy Nobody (13 page)

A shadow crosses the plastic sheeting of the doorway and continues down the hall.

The man struggles harder in my arms, trying to get away, trying to shout out.

I clamp down on his mouth and pinch his nose at the same time, denying him air.

If the second man continues up the stairs, I’ll temporarily knock this man out and go after number two.

But the second man does not move on. He comes back.

A figure appears behind the plastic. Not nervous like the man in my arms. The figure is powerful, sure of himself.

The Presence. He’s back.

He assesses without entering the room, his face obscured through thick plastic.

Suddenly the man in my arms has a blade. It happens in an
instant. He shrugs his arm hard, and it appears from a hidden sheath on the inside of his forearm.

He stabs backward, aiming for my neck but settling for the shoulder if he can get it.

I turn quickly, and the blade flashes an inch from my face.

I was able to dodge the first time, but the second time I may not be so lucky.

I do not kill for sport, only when necessary.

I quickly assess my options.

It is necessary.

I shift my hand rapidly from his mouth to his forehead, readying a killing blow.

In the split second that his mouth is uncovered, he shouts out. I immediately torque his head viciously to the side until his spine snaps, and he goes limp in my arms.

A single phrase. That’s all he has time to shout. It’s a foreign phrase, but one I recognize from my training.

A warning.

In Arabic.

I let his body fall and I rush toward the Presence, whipping the plastic sheeting out of my way.

But he’s gone.

I hear footsteps at the bottom of the stairs, followed by the slap of wood as the Presence bursts through the front door.

He’s got too much of a head start. By the time I make it outside, I’ll have no chance at all.

I head back toward the room, checking the hallway floor as I go.

I see my footprints and those of the man inside the room.

I also see a third set, from the Presence.

Boot treads in the dust. Brand-new boots. Not worn in.

I go back inside to examine the man I just killed.

I drag his body toward the shaft of light coming through the window. I examine him head to toe. New clothes. A starchy jersey, khakis, stiff new work boots.

New everything.

Professionals do not buy new clothes for a job. It’s too hard to age them correctly. New shoes will slip if they’re not scuffed. New sneaker treads will stick. All of it will pop on visual inspection.

These guys move like they’re military, but trained professionals do not buy new clothes. Not unless they have to because they’re in a rush.

Rushed.

Like me. Like my assignment.

I think about the man speaking Arabic.

There are no coincidences on assignment.
That’s what Mother taught me.

Sam’s mother was Israeli. She died in the Middle East.

The men are speaking Arabic.

It’s a tenuous connection, but it’s something that needs exploration.

The question now is, how am I going to explore it?

The one where I grew up, the one where I trained. And a third one. The mayor’s residence.

One becomes the other in the dream. I am lost inside of these spaces, trying to find my way. I use my training, marking walls, memorizing turns, doing what I know to do.

But it all fails. The harder I struggle to get my bearings, the more lost I become.

I wake from the dream, my breath coming in gasps.

I sit up in bed, trying to understand what’s happening. I don’t dream on assignment, not like this.

I dream plans. I dream strategy. I dream about finishing.

But this dream, what was it about?

Failing.

That’s not possible.

I run to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

What’s happening to me?

A double vibration from my phone. It’s the signal for a secure call request from Father.

I glance at the clock.

6:45
AM
. Day 2.

I take the call.

“How was the party last night?” Father says. No greeting.

“It was very interesting,” I say.

I think of the body in the town house. I did not send a weather advisory to alert a cleanup crew. I’d have to explain myself to The Program, allow that my cover had been blown, and with it, possibly my entire assignment.

I’ve never blown an assignment, and I’ve never been discovered.

It will not happen this time. I will figure this out, and I will finish.

I’m quite sure of it.

So I did not signal a weather alert, and I will not discuss it with Father now.

My guess is that the body is no longer there. It feels like the Presence is military, and now I know he’s not working alone. He would not leave a body around if it threatened him in any way.

“Did you get to meet the mayor?” Father says.

Odds he knows I met the mayor, that there’s someone in the house reporting to him?

Low.

Necessity of testing this hypothesis by lying to him?

Also low. Stick to facts.

“I met him,” I say.

And I hesitated.

I do not say that.

“Am I going to read about it in the
Times
?” Father says.

“No.”

A pause.

“That’s my other line,” he says. “I’ll call you right back.”

The connection cuts off.

I’m in trouble.

I met the mayor, and the mayor isn’t dead. Father wants to know why.

A text message comes in on my phone.

Great talking to you.

—Dad

This is no normal text message. I press it, and my touch brings up the front-facing camera. I’m staring into the phone at a live video feed of myself.

The video stream is open to Father. He can see me, but I can’t see him.

“Was there a problem last night?” Father says.

“No problem,” I say. “My meeting the mayor does not make the
Times
, Dad. Students often meet the mayor.”

“Not students like you. Not special students.”

“Special students, normal students, all kinds of students. There were a lot of people at the residence last night. It was hard to get any time alone with the mayor.”

“I see.”

Silence on the line.

I’ve got a pretty good idea why. Father is running my image
through microexpression software, monitoring my eye movement, subtle changes in my facial musculature, the number of times I blink per minute.

In other words, a lie detector.

Which is bad news for me, because I’m lying.

I’ve never lied to Father before. Why now?

He said this is a test. My greatest test yet.

And what do I want the results to be?

Am I a soldier or a boy who hesitates? Who can’t handle a presence following him? Who has memories when he should be focused on his task?

No.

I am a soldier.

And a soldier finishes the mission.

So I don’t tell Father the details of last night. I concentrate on making my face calm on the screen. I slow my breathing. I imagine the muscles in my face—relaxed and untroubled, professional in every way.

“My concern is that meeting the mayor is a once-in-a-lifetime event,” Father says.

“It was very special,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t happen again. Remember, I’m going to school with his daughter now.”

“You’re telling me you may meet him again,” Father says. “If you’re lucky.”

“We make our own luck,” I say. “Isn’t that what you taught me?”

“It is,” he says.

I shift on the edge of the bed. I feel the indentation caused by someone else’s body. On every assignment there is a mattress perfectly broken in. How do they do it? I imagine a giant device
slamming into the bed over and over again, bending fabric and padding to its will.

Father says, “If you need anything, you’ll let me know?”

“Of course.”

“Do you need anything?”

I sense him looking at me on the other side of the phone. Looking at my image as it is analyzed by a computer.

“I have everything I need,” I say.

“That’s my boy,” he says, and the line disconnects.

I’m surfing the Web, sitting in a carrel in a long row of computers. Most students at this school carry laptops, netbooks, or iPads. But they also provide computers in the library for those who might need one.

I do not need one, of course. I have my phone, and my phone is secure, at least to the world at large. But it might not be secure from The Program.

And I do not want The Program to know what I am doing.

Investigating.

In a strict sense, I do not need additional information to complete my assignment. My job is not to investigate or understand the big picture. I have a name, I have a target, and I have my training. That should be enough.

In a normal assignment it is. But things are happening that are not normal.

The Presence. Who is he and where did he come from? How could he know that I am here?

The man last night shouted to him in Arabic.

Sam’s mother was Israeli, and she died in her home country.

The Middle East. That is the connection.

It’s a long shot. But it’s something.

As I surf, I focus especially on stories about the mayor losing his wife. Her car accident in Israel. I read article after article about the tragedy. I look at photos of the aftermath.

One in particular gets my attention.

It’s a picture of Sam at the funeral. Her father is next to her, side by side with the Israeli prime minister. Behind them is a group of soldiers standing at attention. They stare straight ahead.

All except one.

He looks at Sam.

It could be the angle of the shot. A coincidence of timing. A sneeze. Someone passing by in the street he recognizes.

Or it could be something else, something to do with Sam.

The picture is grainy, the soldier’s features unclear. Yet there is something familiar about this man.

“How did you like the party?” Howard says.

He comes over and sits next to me. I casually click the browser closed before he can see it.

“The party was okay,” I say. “Were you there?”

“I was invited, but I didn’t go.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t go to parties.”

“Is there a reason?”

“People are there.”

“What’s wrong with people?”

“I don’t get along with them,” Howard says. “Not the ones in this school.”

“Only Sam,” I say.

“Only Sam.”

He looks toward the ground. He’s always looking at the ground. I’ve seen this before. In animals who have been hurt.

I say, “Wouldn’t it be worth suffering through a party just to be at the mayor’s place?”

He shrugs.

“I was there a few years ago,” he says. He looks up at me. “Did you see Sam’s room?”

“Why would I see her room?”

“I don’t know. On the tour or whatever.”

A loud yawn from a student across the room.

I scan the space. Is anyone listening to us? Giving us too much attention?

No.

“Why are you asking so much about the party, Howard?”

“I’ve never seen Sam like a guy so fast.”

“What does it matter if she likes me?”

“I’m worried that you’re up to something,” he says.

“What could I be up to?”

“A conquest.”

“Not my style.”

Not strictly true. I don’t have a style. I do what’s necessary.

“Then maybe it’s something else,” Howard says. “Something to do with the mayor?”

I don’t like where this conversation is headed. I consider the possibility of Howard having an accident in the men’s room. How much attention would it draw?

Not much.

There would be a disruption, almost certainly a police investigation.

I decide an accident outside of school might be better. Better still is to remove the need for one.

“Okay, you caught me,” I say.

“It’s the mayor?” he says, leaning in.

“It’s sex.”

“Oh. Typical.” He looks disappointed.

“Everyone wants to have sex with the mayor’s daughter, right?”

“I don’t,” Howard says.

“No?”

“I don’t think it’s right to be friends with someone just because her father is famous. Unlike certain people in this school.”

“You’ve never thought about being with Sam?”

He smiles a shy smile.

“I’m taken,” he says.

“You have a girlfriend?”

He looks around to make sure we’re not being overheard, then he motions for me to come closer. He flips open a netbook, and his fingers fly across the keys. The school might be wired for Internet, but Howard is wired for speed on the Internet.

In three seconds flat his screen is turned toward me.

An anime character stares out at me. She has enormous eyes. When she blinks, tiny rainbow-colored stars float from her lashes.

“This is Goji,” he says. “She’s my girlfriend.”

“Goji like the berry?”

“It’s a nickname.”

“Um—is she an anime character?” I say.

“That’s just her avatar,” he says like I’m a little dense. “For your information, she’s Japanese. And she’s real. Hey, do you want to see
my
avatar?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. His fingers fly across the keys again, stopping when a Howard avatar pops up on-screen.

At least I think it’s Howard. The hair is familiar, but everything else is transformed. Howard after five years in a gym and extreme makeover surgery.

His character waves at hers, the hand causing ripples of blue-green energy to flow outward. Suddenly the two characters run toward each other on the screen, meeting in an embrace that sends them both flying through the air on a river of hearts.