Sims (34 page)

Who am I kidding? Someone like Harry Carstairs is a team player, but not Portero. He doesn't know the meaning of the word “team.” Mercer smiled to himself. Come to think of it, neither do I.

This visit meant one thing: Portero wanted something.

He'd never come right out and ask, Mercer knew. He'd use an oblique approach, try to sneak it in when no one was looking. Mercer was sure he'd find out what it was before the meeting ended.

“I thought you'd be upset,” Portero said.

Is that why he came? To watch me blow my top? Sorry, Little Luca. Not today.

“I am. I hate the idea of losing a dozen of our sims. That's something people seem to forget—they're
our
sims. No matter what country they're shipped to, even if it's the other side of the world, they still belong to SimGen. We can barely keep up with demand as it is, so of course I hate to lose even one.”

“But you seem almost . . . happy.”

“I'm happy that these SLA creeps have been exposed for what they are. Yesterday's discovery shows they're not pro-sim activists, they're murderous organleggers.” He glanced at the police report again. “They're sure these are the same sims that were hijacked from the globulin farm?”

Portero nodded. “Absolutely. Lucky thing NYPD was able to resuscitate that memory chip from the Bronx. And lucky too these globulin farmers were excellent record keepers: They scanned the neck bar codes of all their ‘cows' into their computers.”

“Then that nails the SLA. When they're caught they'll go down for murder and illegal organ trafficking. Any chance of tracing those organs?”

Portero shrugged. “Unlikely. They were probably shipped overseas while still warm. I've heard the Third World black market in transplant organs is booming, but . . .” He looked troubled.

“But what?”

“I know there's a big demand for human organs, but sim organs?”

“They're called xenografts—nonhuman organs. Human bodies used to reject them almost immediately, but with the new treatments that remove histocompatibility antigens, the rejection rate is about equal to human allo-grafts. Those hearts, livers, and kidneys are worth a fortune on the black market.”

Portero nodded and Mercer thought, You haven't a clue as to anything I just said.

“Hearts, livers, kidneys,” Portero said. “What about uteruses and ovaries? Are they transplantable?”

“No value at all. Nor are the testicles they cut off—unless someone's developed a taste for a new kind of Rocky Mountain oyster.”

Just the thought made Mercer ill.

“Then why go to the trouble to harvest them?”

“Maybe they were stupid organleggers.”

“One other thing concerns me,” Portero said. “The chip from the globulin farm shows records of thirteen sims housed there right up until the night of the fire. But only twelve were found in that Brooklyn basement.”

“You're sure?”

“We know from the records that a female sim is unaccounted for. The only reason I can imagine why she wasn't butchered along with the rest is that she wasn't with them.”

“You think she escaped?”

“I suspect she was never captured. I think she fled the raid and the fire, and is hiding somewhere in the city.”

“Why on earth would she hide?”

“Maybe she saw the security man murdered and she's frightened. She could be anywhere, too terrified to show herself.”

A witness, Mercer thought. A sim could never testify in court, but this one might be able to provide the police with a lead or two.

Mercer glanced down at the embedded monitor in his desktop. Damn near every headline scrolling up the screen this morning seemed to be about the sim slaughter in Brooklyn. The good part was that the phony “SLA” had shown its true colors; the bad part was the depiction of sims as helpless victims, easy prey for human scum. Too high a sympathy factor there. He needed to counter that, and this missing sim offered a unique opportunity.

“I want that sim found,” he told Portero. “To make sure she is, SimGen is going to offer a million-dollar reward to whoever finds her.”

Portero looked dubious. “Do you think that's necessary? I'm sure my people—”

“Forget your people. This is strictly a SimGen matter. We'll handle it.”

Yes. The more he thought about this, the more he liked it. Here was a way to take back the headlines and reassert SimGen as the true champion and defender of sims.

“Very well,” Portero said, rising. “Since there's nothing for me to do in that regard, I'll get back to my office.”

After Portero was gone it occurred to Mercer that he hadn't discovered the reason for the security chief's personal visit. He'd been sure he'd wanted something. But what?

Well, whatever it was, he hadn't got it.

Luca Portero went directly from the CEO's office to the parking lot where he picked up one of the SimGen Jeeps. He grinned as he drove out the gate.

A million-dollar reward—and Sinclair thinks it was his idea. Doesn't have a clue that I steered him into the whole thing.

The meeting had been a thing of beauty, he had to admit. Knowing Sinclair-1's obsession with SimGen's public image, Luca had simply parceled out the information—first playing dumb about the xenografts, then mentioning an unaccounted-for sim, then hinting that she might be a witness—letting Sinclair pounce from one to the next like a mouse following a trail of cheese bits, until he'd ended up right where Luca wanted him.

A reward! Put SimGen in the news: The corporation with a heart as big as its market cap value!

Putty in my hands, Luca thought.

His grin faded as he thought about what lay ahead. Another meeting. This one with Darryl Lister. He and his old CO hadn't had a face-to-face in almost a year, which could only mean that the subject was as delicate as it was important.

That made him uneasy. Worse yet, they were meeting at Luca's house.

He pulled up the long drive to the rented two-bedroom cabin in the center of five acres of dense woods. He liked the isolation. This was his retreat from SimGen and lost sims.

Lister wasn't due for another half hour. Still plenty of time to get Maria out of the way and—

He hit the brakes when he saw the black Mercedes SUV parked in front of the house.

Lister? Shit!

He still had time to salvage this. Was Lister alone? With the late morning sun glinting off the SUV's windshield, Luca couldn't tell how many were in the car.

When he pulled up next to it he was startled to see that it was empty. He hurried through his front door and found Darryl Lister sitting on the
couch, sipping a beer. Maria stood behind him, rubbing her hands together, her dark eyes wide with anxiety.

Luca stared at Lister. This plump country squire type was miles away from the hardbodied CO who'd parachuted with him onto the Shahi Kot mountains. He was a pogue now, in his late forties, and the brown corduroys and bulky white Irish wool sweater he wore couldn't hide the inches he'd been adding to his waist. And judging from the new gelled-up style of his light brown hair, it looked like he'd started going to a fag barber. The man was becoming a stranger.

“Luca.” He rose and smiled as he extended his hand. “I was going to wait in the car, but then this sweet young thing surprised the hell out of me by opening the front door. I invited myself in.” As they shook hands, his smile faded. “Who is she, Portero? I know you don't have any kids. A niece?”

“No one you have to worry about.”

“You know the rules.”

Luca held up the car keys.
“Maria, esperame en el auto.”

She scurried around the couch. Her jeans and bulky flannel shirt couldn't hide her ripe young figure as she grabbed the keys and ran out the door. Luca noticed Lister's eyes following her all the way.

“Nice,” he said. “What is she? Sixteen?”

Luca felt invaded. He wanted to tell Lister it was none of his fucking business, but bit it back. To a very real extent, it
was
Lister's business.

“She's old enough,” Luca said.

Maria had told him she was eighteen, but she might be even younger. He'd seen her begging on an East Village sidewalk last summer. Maybe it was her flat peasant face, or the desperation in her black eyes . . . something about her spurred an impulse from a nameless place to shove a couple of singles into her hand. He heard her soft, “
Gracias, señor
,” saw the sudden faraway look in her eyes as she clutched the bills between her breasts like a family heirloom, and he had to speak to her. Good thing he knew Spanish because she didn't know anything else.

He bought her lunch, took her to a Spanish film at the Angelika, bought her dinner, then brought her home. She'd been living here ever since. She cleaned his house, cooked his food, kept his bed warm at night, and thought she'd found heaven.

“She's an illegal who's young enough to be your daughter, right?”

True on both counts, but so what? “Don't worry. She doesn't know anything. Can't speak a word of English.”

“But I
am
worried. It's against the rules. You're supposed to be a model citizen. A clean nose, no legal hassles. That's the deal when you come in. You agreed, now look at you: shacking up with a barely legal illegal.”

“No one's going to know. Not way out here.”

“But
our
people will know. Sooner or later you know they'll find out. And they won't like it. And since I sponsored you, that will reflect on me.”

“Look—”

“They've already got questions about you. Like why you don't seem to own anything. You rent this place and . . .” He looked around with distaste. “And it looks like you furnish it from secondhand stores.”

“It came with the territory. It's a furnished rental.”

“I know we pay you enough to afford to buy.”

Of course they did. But Luca saw no point in tying up money in real estate. He wanted no anchors. When the time came to move on, as it inevitably would, he wanted to be able to pick up and go without a second's hesitation, without a single look back.

“It's the way I've always lived.”

“I know. I've tried to explain that to them. They don't care. They want you settled in. I went out on a limb to get you this cushy assignment, but if you don't put down some roots, they'll transfer you out to Idaho. And I'll have egg on my face.”

Luca had spent a few months at the Idaho facility and had no desire to go back.

He held up his hands in surrender. “Message received. I'll see what I can do about buying this place.”

“Luca,” Lister said, smiling as he put a hand on his shoulder. He rarely called him by his first name. “You're making good money. And you'll be making better and better money. Enjoy it, for Christ's sake. That's what it's for. You can't take it with you.”

Luca nodded. “I guess you're right.”

But he was thinking, You
can
take it with you—if you've got it squirreled away in a secret offshore account.

Luca believed in being prepared. He'd learned that from his mother. She might have been a whore, but she was no dummy. She always kept a roll of cash hidden away for what she called “the rainy days,” when the cops periodically would raid her place and roust her out. The cash had always kept her out of jail.

The same held true here. Who knew when the weather would change?
He could handle the proverbial rainy day, but SIRG played rough, and if a shitstorm struck, he believed in having a safe harbor to hole up in. His was in Hamilton, Bermuda.

He repressed a shudder. If SIRG ever found out about that account . . .

“But that's only half the reason for this face-to-face,” Lister said.

“If it's about the missing sim,” Lucas blurted, relieved to be moving away from his personal life, “I just enlisted Mercer Sinclair's help—a million-dollar reward.”

Lister was looking at him. “So you told him?”

“Not yet. Not till I find the sim. I've got people combing the city, visiting any place that uses sim labor. This reward will flush out anyone who's seen her. Once I have her, the Sinclairs can take over.”

Lister frowned. “You might have had this sewn up by now if they'd been on board from the start.”

“They'd have added nothing but panic.” Bad enough to have Lister calling twice a day, he didn't need the Sinclairs yammering in his ear every free minute too. “And don't forget, it took days for the fire department to sift through all the rubble. Until they reported no sim remains, we didn't know for sure she was missing.”

“Still, if this million-dollar reward had been announced days ago . . .”

“You know my problem with telling SimGen too much.”

“This ‘leak' you suspect?”

Luca nodded.

Lister shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around. “I thought you were way off base with that at first. Now I'm not so sure.”

“Why? What's happened?”

“The Manassas attorneys met with the Cadman woman and Sullivan. What a farce. She could have walked away with millions but she's asking for
billions
in damages.”

Luca wanted to laugh. He'd known they couldn't buy off Romy Cadman.

Just hearing her name set off reactions within him, part anger, part lust. Sometimes when he was with Maria, moving inside her, he thought of Romy Cadman. Young stuff like Maria pushed his buttons,
all
his buttons, but that didn't mean he didn't have anything left over for a prime piece of mature tail like Cadman.

“Did you agree to pay it?”

Lister stared at him. “You're not serious.”

“You should have called their bluff, just to see what they'd do. Because
we all know they're not after money. But what does this have to do with a leak?”