The Gender Game by Bella Forrest (motivational novels .TXT) 📕

regard. In the end, it comes back to protecting those principles.”

Saskia laughed bitterly. “How pathetic. That is the age-old drivel spouted from the mouth of any idiot with a cause, from the religious fanatic to the political terrorist.”

She expected, hoped, that he would react angrily. Instead his head drooped. “Saskia, you don’t understand. I don’t want to do this.”

“Listen to me,” she interrupted. She grabbed his wrist. “You must understand. My boss. The way he operates.” She checked the room for eavesdroppers. “This chip contains me, the real me. I do not want to go back. That is not who I am. I choose to remain this way.”

“What does the chip do? My computer says that it has interfaced with your cortex.”

“It is a new personality. A donor. It suppresses the old. I was...a criminal. My boss wishes to harness that criminality. That criminality gives me a certain empathy with the people I try to catch.”

Proctor’s expression was blank with competing questions. She released his wrist. “But,” he said, “doesn’t the new personality overwrite the old one? Doesn’t that mean that the element of criminality from the old you has been, so to speak, deleted?”

“No.” Saskia stared into her empty glass. “Someone once said it has been ‘knocked sideways’. It is still there. It is dormant. If you deactivate the chip, I will become a murderer.”

David frowned. “Do you think that will be a significant change?”

“Of course I do.”

“You think murderers are insane?”

“No. I do not wish to talk about this any more.”

“What would you do if I told my computer to deactivate the chip?”

Saskia shrugged. “I would load my gun and I would commit suicide.”

Proctor said, “Oh.” She had embarrassed him. He called the steward over. “Another whisky, please. Double.”

They watched the steward inject two shots. He placed it before Proctor, who pushed it towards Saskia. “That’s for you. Come with me to find my daughter.”

“I have no choice.”

He smiled. The man with principles. He had blown up a research centre because of them. He had murdered his friend. He was the real murderer, not her. But as he looked, shyly, at the backs of his hands, she was reminded again of the sheriff waiting for high noon. She took the whisky and knocked it back.

John Hartfield smiled and blinked as the aide held open the side door for him. “You may take the call in here, sir,” she said. As the door closed, the corridor noise muted. Hartfield sank into an ornate armchair and appreciated the bookcase to his left. His eyes stopped on a leather-bound Mark Twain.

The aide said, “The room is secured with lead-panelling, sir. The second Bush.” She paused. “Would you like some privacy?”

He smiled and blinked again. The gesture unnerved some people, but the aide was blank. Hartfield could imagine her as a personal assistant.

“Would you like to work for me?” he asked “I will double your salary.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

The aide left the room in a perfect reverse of her entrance. Before the door closed, Hartfield had placed his computer – a cylinder the size of cigarette – on the edge of the adjacent table. He licked his index finger and dabbed a four times on the surface.

In the rough square, a graphical interface appeared. The bottom half showed a keyboard. He began to type.

A face appeared and he sat back.

“You are connected to the local server. Your caller is waiting,” said the face.

“Take the call,” he replied.

Another face occupied the square. It was a young man in a cap. He was unshaven and nervous. Behind him was a highstreet. “Hello?”

Something changed in Hartfield’s expression. A light began to radiate, or the muscles around his eyes and mouth began to work properly, or his concentration returned. But it was a mask. When Hartfield did not wear that mask, talking to him was like talking to an answer phone. The aide knew that.

“I am here,” replied Hartfield. He leaned back further. The cigarette-sized computer contained a camera, but he did not adjust it for a better angle. The computer would supply a false image and a false voice by default.

“I’m in a public phone booth,” said the man.

“That is good. What do you have to tell me? I’m about to have an important meeting.”

“It’s our man. He’s en route to Las Vegas. There was a drama at Heathrow. It was on the news.”

Though he was unseen, Hartfield frowned. His voice was easier to modulate when he immersed himself in the role. “I told you to follow him. You should be on the plane.”

The man adjusted his cap nervously. “It would have been easier to take him when the glider crashed.”

“I wanted you to follow him. To lead me to his benefactor.”

“Not in Scotland. Too open. Spot a tail in a no time.”

Hartfield steepled his fingers. He had read many books on body language. Finger-steepling indicated control. Control was a impression he wished to create. “You may die tonight. You should put your affairs in order.”

The man clapped a hand to his mouth. Hartfield noted the gesture. He associated it with women, or effeminate men, but the operative on the phone was an especially brutal individual. “You can’t do that,” he hissed.

“Remember what you are,” Hartfield said. He cut the connection.

He dropped the computer in his pocket just as a knock came at the door. It opened immediately and the aide entered. Corridor sounds followed her. “The President will see you now, Mr Hartfield.”

He stood and brushed his thighs, though there was nothing to brush off. He felt a pause was needed. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

“Sorry, what?”

He smiled and blinked. “I have urgent business in Las Vegas. I’ll be in touch.”

The Las Vegas Connection

When the aircraft touched down at 5:15 a.m. in McCarran International, David was listening to his favourite piece of music, a guitar instrumental called Cavatina. He had not slept since the connection in Chicago. He unplugged the earphones and raised his cuffed left hand.