He was in a swirl of black and white, of tuxes and gowns and jewelry that half the thieves in Manhattan would have given their right arm just to touch, and a live quartet’s bright classical music that helped everything glitter, yet the only thing Alan really noticed was the skinny man with the sun-dried face who stood awkwardly in a white suit that Penelope had picked out for him. Occasionally the preternaturally tall bankers and financiers stepped up to loom over him and shake his hand and speak rapidly to him before breaking off and returning to their own kind, leaving him again looking entirely out of place, even though, as Penelope had said, all of this was for him.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he saw Heeler’s number. “Hey.”
“His limo just pulled up.”
She was stationed outside, on the other side of Fifth Avenue, watching out for Gilbert Powell. “Got it,” he said. “Any sign of others?”
“Just a bodyguard.”
“That’s fine. I’m not going to give him trouble. Just need to be available in case he wants to talk.”
“Well, call if you want backup.”
“Thanks, Heeler.”
He hung up and looked around the vast foyer, but Powell hadn’t made it inside yet, so he turned back to the guest of honor. Alan had heard Manuel’s story many times as the plans for the gala had been made in his living room. Manuel Garcia, born in Tamaulipas, had come to America as a child in the seventies, part of the migrant underclass that kept America’s farms working, and when his parents eventually became citizens, he did as well. He also worked the land, marrying and raising two daughters, both in their early teens, and together they would visit Tamaulipas yearly so that his children could see another way of living. The previous summer, his wife and daughters went on their own so he could finish the harvest season, and when they returned his wife’s papers were flagged. She, too, had arrived as a child in the seventies, but her parents had never become legal, and a previously forgotten charge for buying alcohol with a fake ID at sixteen had suddenly appeared on the ICE computer. Manuel’s wife had been redirected to a holding facility in an old Walmart in Brownsville, Texas, and since their daughters were minors they had been detained, too, but elsewhere.
“They won’t let Manuel speak to them,” Penelope had told him as they dressed for the evening, him pulling on his new jacket. “He can’t afford a lawyer. There’s a pro bono guy down there, and he’s not even sure ICE knows where they are. Can you believe it?”
He could. And this, tonight, was what it came to: a sad man in an uncomfortable suit whose family had been taken from him.
Alan set the glass on a table and headed over to speak to Manuel. If nothing else, maybe he could help the guy relax.
He was halfway through the crowd when he noticed a tall fortysomething in a blazer and crisp T-shirt talking with Penelope. He stopped in his tracks. Gilbert Powell, who had lunched with Beatriz Almeida and Katarina Heinold and Grace Foster. The man whose social media service, Kristin theorized, gave a new breed of Tourists the power to track almost anyone—a power that in his day Tourists could only have dreamed of.
As he approached, he heard Powell saying, “The platform is already wildly popular in Costa Rica. I don’t see why we can’t tweak it for the other markets.”
Penelope looked mildly buzzed, or maybe it was the intoxication of standing so close to a billionaire. She said, “That would be terrific. People like Manuel could get a lock on their families.”
“Isn’t that the opposite of what you do?” Alan asked, stepping into the conversation. They both looked at him, blank; then Penelope introduced “my husband,” and the two men shook hands. “Alan Drummond,” Alan clarified.
He couldn’t tell from Powell’s expression if the man knew who he was—how much did they really know about the Library? He only smiled and said, “Sure, our model is anonymity, but it’s a matter of adding a switch in the settings so users can choose to share their locations. We’re working on versions of this. But what’s really interesting is pushing it further—we’ve developed algorithms that can predict location.”
“Those are in the app?”
He shook his head. “But they could be added in an update. Imagine—your family can know where you will be at any particular time with, say, eighty percent accuracy.”
“That’s amazing,” Penelope said.
“Dictators of the world will be very happy,” Alan said.
“No,” Powell came back quickly, shaking his head. “You misunderstand. This wouldn’t be automatic, and if it were added you would choose who has access.”
Alan didn’t trust himself to speak. He felt a strong desire to grab Gilbert Powell and shake him and demand answers. This was out of the question, of course, but the feeling didn’t go away. Powell was connected to a dark, dangerous world that threatened people he cared for, but that wasn’t the only reason. There was also jealousy, seeing the attention Penelope bestowed upon him; was that why he wanted to slap Powell across his smug face? He almost pulled Penelope close, to show his ownership—
No, not ownership. Protection. Because this guy wasn’t the Silicon Valley darling he pretended to be, and she had no idea.
Alan said, “I read a report that the Honduran military uses Nexus to communicate, so there’ll be no record of its atrocities.”
Powell surprised him by smiling. “There’s a rumor the Massive Brigade has started to use it, too. Going to blame us for their attacks?” He took a step closer, seeming incredibly confident. “Mr. Drummond, I’m just trying to level the playing field. Governments already have the technology to cover their tracks. Privacy should belong to everyone.”
Penelope’s features twisted, looking anguished, and she said, “People like Manuel over there don’t care about political considerations. They just want their family.”
“How do you know, honey?” Alan asked, now feeling inexplicably bitter. “Did you ask him?”
“No, I—”
“I’ll bet Manuel’s a pretty smart guy. He’s certainly politically savvy enough to know that showing up at a party in Manhattan makes better sense than being where he wants to be—back in Texas, looking for his family.”
A little grin played in the corner of Powell’s lips. “You know that, huh?”
“No, Gilbert, I don’t. But I’m going to find out.”
He looked around the room and had just spotted Manuel, still on his own, when his phone vibrated again. Heeler. He nodded apologetically to Penelope and turned away. “What’s up?” he said, but the music was too loud, her voice too quiet. He veered left through the crowd, toward the exit, and spotted Powell on his own now, frowning directly at him, the mask gone. Yes—there was the real Gilbert Powell, and Alan decided that when he came back he would have to face him; there was no other way.
He continued past the burly security guards out into the cold, where the columns and shadows dominated, lit from below.
“Heeler?”
A woman’s voice replied, “We’ve got an offer.”
Heeler’s phone but not Heeler. He felt a chill. “Who is this?”
“Cross Fifth, and we’ll talk.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think?”
“Where is the owner of that phone?” he said, suddenly worried for Heeler.
“She’s fine.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Silence. Then: “Take a look across Fifth. I’ll wave to you. So you see I’m alone.”
Alan stepped from behind a column, looking down the wide stairs and across Fifth at the familiar park-view buildings he’d seen all his life. Occasional stragglers wandered by, but he didn’t see … there. Standing in a long coat, head uncovered under a streetlamp, her left hand raised in greeting. “Grace Foster,” he said.
In the silence, that cool tingle spread across his scalp again. He’d made a mistake, maybe, revealing that he knew who she was. Then he heard footsteps behind him and turned to find a beefy security guard approaching. “Sir?” the guard said.
“I’m with the party,” Alan said. He looked for Foster, but she was gone now. As his eyes focused on the other side of the road, he felt the guard come near, very near, so close that he felt his hot breath. When Alan began to turn to face him, he felt a sharp pinch in the middle of his back, behind his ribs, and only after he’d turned to look into the guard’s eyes did he realize he’d been knifed. His knee buckled. He raised his arms instinctively against the flash of the blade, but the guard was a big man, and too close already. A second jab caught him in the chest, running through to his lung, a searing, bright pain, and the guard’s free hand clamped his throat and shoved him against the column. It was all so fast that Alan couldn’t quite register that he was being killed. And by the time he did, it was too late.