Boston—about the same time
“I hear you turned Johnny Givens down for a job,” said Chelsea, greeting Louis Massina when he walked into her office. “How come?”
“I didn’t turn him down. I told him there’d be a job for him when he got better. He still has a long way to go.”
“He didn’t hear that part,” said Chelsea. “The only part he heard was no.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“You know, Lou, you can be kind of, well, deaf sometimes. To other people’s emotions.”
Massina frowned. “Best to be direct in the long run,” he told her. “People appreciate you being honest.”
“Honest and blunt are different.”
“I wasn’t blunt.” Massina brushed his hand, tired of the argument. “What’s new with our ATM project?”
“It was an application layer attack on the local machines,” said Chelsea. “The solution isn’t difficult—it’s just fixing old code. But that’ll still be patchwork. I have a better system. I just need to test it.”
“Marketable?”
“Absolutely. The whole ATM system is ridiculous,” continued Chelsea. “It’s 1970s tech. I mean like, forget it.”
“Put together a task line and get ready to hand it off. I want you back on Peter. Las Vegas is coming up, and we need him ready.”
“You’re going to demonstrate him at a consumer show?”
“Why not?”
“You want to go into mass production?”
“Eventually.” Massina’s real goal was to kick a little sand into the eyes of a competitor who had just pulled out of the show. The bot was at least a year from any sort of regular production and even then it would be far too expensive for anyone but the most deep-pocketed company or the government to buy. But some wows from the media would look good in the marketing material.
“I talked to Flores, at the FBI, last night,” Chelsea added as he was about to leave. “He was trying to pump me for information on the girl.”
“Last night?”
“He made it look like a date.”
There was a wistful note in her voice.
Hmmmm, thought Massina. “What did he ask?”
“Nothing specific. But they’re definitely still working on the case, no matter what they told you.”
“If they want to cooperate, they should just come out and say that,” Massina told her. “You see? It’s best to be direct.”
“Should I tell Agent Jenkins that?”
“No. Let them come to us. Or me. You’re sure this girl is responsible?”
“No. But she’s smart enough. Maybe we should hire her.”
“You’re going to be running my HR department soon.”
Chelsea watched her boss leave. She wasn’t kidding about getting Borya Tolevi to work there. Not as a full-fledged employee: she needed to go to college and get more formal training. But the girl needed something to push her in the right direction. She was a smart kid, interested and intrigued—there was huge potential there if she just got the right chance.
She needed someone like Chelsea’s dad to push her. She didn’t have that.
That was the difference between them.
Maybe. Borya was far more rebellious. Chelsea would never have broken into an ATM network.
Not that she couldn’t have.
No, Borya was already a thief and a black hat hacker. If anything, she should be locked up in jail—and she would be if Chelsea told Jenkins what she knew.
Give her a job here? Ha!
Maybe it would steer her in the right direction. And Johnny Givens?
He was cute.
And incredibly strong. Mentally. It was impossible that he was out walking around. His face was still covered with scabs, his arms red with flash burns—and yet there he was, walking on artificial limbs Massina had invented.
Other people, too, but Massina mostly. The prosthetics were an obsession.
Chelsea rose from her workstation. Borya did remind her of herself, or a self she could have been under different circumstances.
How am I going to save her?
Massina headed home to change, then drove to the Antiquarian Club, where he had promised to put in an appearance at a fund-raiser. He didn’t particularly like playing VIP, but it was a favor to a member of his board of directors.
It meant putting on a tie as well as a suit. He fiddled with it in his bathroom, trying to get the knot centered perfectly. It wasn’t easy, and he was too distracted, thinking about a million things: ramping up production on a new bot line, repurposing an older generation of chips for handheld devices, the possibility of revamping ATM networks, Chelsea’s dalliance—or not—with the FBI agent.
And that little girl hacker.
Give the girl a job? Throw her in jail first. What’s wrong with parents today?
Thirty minutes later, tie still slightly askew, Massina walked into the lounge at the Antiquarian Club. The club’s name was not meant ironically—it was devoted to preserving the past, raising funds for the city’s museums and historical sites. He shook hands with the VIP host, then nodded his way to the bar, where he had just obtained a four-finger bourbon when a familiar voice scolded him.
“Now Louis, remember you have to give a speech,” said Sister Rose.
“Sister Rose Marie. Night off?”
“They cut the ball and chain for special events,” said the nun.
“I don’t have to say more than five words. That’s in my contract. What are you drinking?”
“Seltzer, please.”
“Not white wine?”
“Too early. I might tell some of the politicians what I think of them, and things would be awkward for the rest of the evening.”
“Sister, I don’t think you’ve ever offended anyone in your life. Even your insults are a blessing.”
“Don’t butter the bun on both sides, Louis. It’s likely to fall.”
Massina got her the drink.
“Your young man made remarkable progress,” she told him, sipping the seltzer daintily. “The drug regime is very, very good. And, of course, God was with him.”
“He came by and asked me for a job today.”
“Really?”
“I told him he has months to go. But he has the right attitude.”
“You can’t let him go back to work yet. He needs time.”
“I don’t intend to. Down the road, maybe.”
“Make it a long road, Louis. This is very fast.”
“If you’re thinking of poaching him, Sister, you’re welcome to take first shot. Half the people on my payroll work for you as it is. Or they think they do.”
“I’m worried about the effects as the drugs taper off.”
The mayor’s wife greeted Sister Rose, interrupting the conversation. Massina excused himself; spotting his board member, he went over and said hello. He soon found himself talking to a Harvard history professor who was an expert on the Revolutionary War and was working with an archaeologist planning to excavate a site near the harbor. The site was not that far from his laboratories.
Dinner passed quickly. Massina gave his very brief speech commending the organization with a slogan his PR director had suggested—The future needs the past to get ahead—and made his getaway as the session broke up.
Out front, he gave his car’s ticket to the valet and waited for the vehicle to arrive. Different projects flicked through his mind, problems, solutions.
Will Peter be ready to demonstrate?
How much of a test should it be given?
His car pulled up. He reached for his wallet to get a tip for the attendant.
At that same moment, someone behind him shoved a cloth bag over his head. Before he could react, something slammed into the back of his head. A curse died on his lips as he fell, unconscious.