Depth (7 page)

“I’ll sign a nondisclosure form, if you want,” Simone said, but she slumped her shoulders back. Anika was all business all the time. She could see where this was going.

“I appreciate it, but still no. I’d have to have lawyers draw up the form, which means Darren would see it and ask why and I’d have to tell him it was because a private investigator was asking questions and I thought it would be okay to answer them. Sorry, Simone.”

“C’mon, Anika. I’ve done some work for you. You know you can trust me.”

“You’ve done great work for us,” Anika said, looking right at Simone. “But right now, you’re doing work for someone else.”

“Can you at least tell me her name?”

“Honestly?” Anika said with a shrug. “I don’t remember it. I’m telling you, Simone—she’s not worth it. If she doesn’t know she’s peddling pure bullshit, then she’s either an idiot or insane. It’s not worth your time.”

“Do you know Henry St. Michel?” Simone asked.

“No—should I?” Anika asked.

“No. Just . . . maybe he was buying this bullshit.”

“Then I don’t want to know him. I don’t have time for stupid people, Simone. And you shouldn’t waste yours on them, either. Anyway, I’m going to send you our fall sampler. Just pop the pack in your 3D printer and pick the sunset pearl lipstick. Trust me, you’ll love it.” She glanced up and away. “I have to go. Think about the lab job? Get back to me.”

The screen went dark before Simone could answer. Simone leaned back, putting her hands behind her head. So The Blonde was selling something. Probably not women, if she thought Anika would buy. But what would you try to sell to both an export/import guy and a makeup VP? And why would it be worth firing bullets over to Henry, but not to Anika? Simone rubbed the back of her neck and shook her head. She didn’t know enough yet.

SHE MET DECOSTAS
AT
the Broecker Building the next morning. As the building had been in Queens, the walk was across several ships floating over what was once the East River. Those ships now made up Little India, and the smell of frying pakoras and samosas from the food carts wafted on the early wind towards her. It smelled like smoke and spice.

She was wearing a suit and tie under her trench coat and carried her father’s briefcase. She had made a ten-thirty appointment with a bank manager, saying she wanted to offer him corporate espionage services, but she had no intention of keeping it. When deCostas showed up, he was in a shabby brown suit, with a loose tie. Simone tightened his tie without saying anything, then walked into the building. Security men were posted at the elevator banks and behind the desks. Most of the businesses in the Broecker Building had branches on the mainland or the EU, but a New York branch was still important because of its lax enforcement of inconvenient laws, like the Tithe Rule or the Modesty Codes. When the water had first hit the streets, big business had started to flee the city, but seeing how many people stayed, they had come back. The Broecker Building welcomed them. The twenty-first floor had been expeditiously repurposed into a lobby after the waters rose, with working elevators, chic leather sofas, and a fully 3D directory server: a glowing woman made of holographic crystal who told you what floor each company was on.

Simone marched ahead of deCostas to the security desk and smiled, pushing her hair behind her ear so her face was clear. She told the security guard whom she had an appointment with, then showed her IRID and thumbscanned it to confirm her identity and motioned deCostas to do likewise. She was rewarded with two visitor’s badges, one of which she handed to deCostas before leading him through the guard posts to the elevator banks. She waited until there was an empty elevator before boarding, then exited at the twenty-second floor. She smiled at deCostas, who still had said nothing, just followed her. She nodded down one of the hallways, and while they were walking, dialed the corporate account on her earpiece and spoke in a frantic tone when the secretary picked up.

“I’m so sorry,” she told the secretary, “we were coming up in the elevator when we received a message that there’s an emergency back at HQ. We’re leaving now, but I’ll reschedule when I’m back at the office.”

She found the door to the stairwell as she hung up.

“Now it’s your game,” she told deCostas.

“I was wondering if I would be allowed to speak.”

“I never said you couldn’t speak.”

“You didn’t give me a chance,” he said, walking downstairs. “I had plans to be charming.”

“I had plans to get the job done. That’s what you’re paying me for, isn’t it? And,” she said, motioning down at where the water lapped at the stairs, “I’ve done it.”

“Yes you have,” he said, grinning at her. “But think of the fun we could have had in the elevator if I had thought I was allowed to talk.”

Simone raised an eyebrow at him but grinned when he turned away towards the water. It was a large white stairwell, and the water seemed clearer here, a deep blue, swaying against the stairs and walls. DeCostas took a small metal marble out of his jacket pocket and dropped it into the water. It sank silently down the stairs. Then he turned on his wristpiece and began taking notes.

“What was that?” Simone asked.

“Depth measurement,” he said, still looking at the water. “I have the monitor back at the hotel. It keeps track of the water pressure on the device so I know how deep it went. Stairwells are more free from debris, so they may be able to get clear readings.”

“Think there are secret air pockets?” She was leaning back against the wall, her arms crossed. He turned around and shrugged.

“I didn’t think that would be so fast. Are we ready for the next one yet?”

“Next one knows we’re coming. He’s given us special permission to see the stairwell, but you have to be on your best behavior.”

“I thought I was.”

“You smile too much to be on your best behavior.” Simone headed for the door, deCostas following. No one raised an eyebrow as they handed their passes back and left the building.

“Who is it who runs this building?”

“Pastor Sorenson. It’s the Boro-Baptism missionary. Like a cult and an embassy all rolled into one.”

“He knows we’re coming?” deCostas asked, trailing a little behind her as she walked towards a water-taxi stand. There were a few taxis lined up. It used to be that the taxis would just roam the city, waiting for someone to stick their hand off a bridge or whistle, but people fell off doing that more often than anyone wanted to admit, and half the time the drivers never saw them. So they put in stands—places where the taxis lined up to grab customers and places you could ask to be taken to, if you weren’t quite sure of the address you were going to or didn’t want to say it aloud. Generally, New York was still a walking city, and Simone had the legs to prove it, but the taxis were nice to have around. Especially if you had to get across the city and your client was footing the bill.

“I called this morning, said I was your assistant, asked if we could examine the stairwells as part of a study involving water depth. Didn’t get more specific than that, but they okayed it. Keep in mind this is a church. Also a corporation, but mostly a church. Run by someone with powerful ties to the mainland.”

She stepped into a waiting water-taxi and gave the driver the address of the taxi stand closest to the church. Like most taxis, it was a small solar motorboat with room for about four, plus the driver. It was painted yellow but had faded greenish.

“What does that mean?” deCostas asked. “Should I cross myself when we enter?”

“No,” Simone sighed, “just be respectful.”

“Did I do something to make you think I wouldn’t be?”

The water sprayed them as they cut through it; the boat had a windshield but no roof—it was too small for that. Some fancier new models had little tarps over them, but Simone always thought those smelled like cheap plastic, and, besides, it was New York. Everyone was going to get wet.

“Most New Yorkers aren’t very respectful of Boro-Baptists,” she said to deCostas, leaning back in her seat. “It’s sort of a joke. I doubt we’ll talk to anyone besides a secretary, but if we do meet a pastor or something, just nod politely and pretend you believe in Jesus.”

“I do believe in Jesus.”

Simone gave him a sharp look to see if he was joking. She didn’t think he was. Even the driver turned around for a moment before realizing it was none of his business.

“Well, I guess it’s just as plausible as no water below the twenty-first floor,” Simone said after a moment.

deCostas said nothing to this, and they finished their ride in silence, aside from the toddler wail of the motor and the sound of water being sliced like torn plastic. They stopped a bridge down from their destination, and Simone climbed out, leaving deCostas to pay the driver. She started walking, knowing he could catch up. The Hearst Tower had been retrofitted and painted in Glassteel about twenty years before the water hit the streets. It was a tall, mathematical building, all mirrors and triangles. The doors were once windows in a slightly indented section of the building, and they were spread wide open. A large cross hung over the doors. It was just on the edge of the bad part of town—west, but not too far west. The tall, needle-like buildings just down the bridge were bustling condos, but in the other direction was a trashed-looking yacht. The church was right on the border. Simone frowned to herself, then put on a ruthless smile and stepped forward.

The interior was clearly renovated post-flood. A wide room greeted them, carved from sunlight and heavy paneled wood, giving it a dark but airy feeling. Paintings of Bible stories hung behind a wooden desk, next to another cross. In the far corner was a bench that resembled an old wooden pew. A woman was sitting on the bench, legs crossed, a digital news page in front of her face. The legs seemed oddly familiar, but before Simone had time to give the woman a once-over, a secretary dressed in a modest skirt and long-sleeved jacket stood up, her face all bright hopefulness. “Hello, welcome to the Mission. How can I help you?”

“Hello, my name is Simone Pierce, and this is Alejandro deCostas. I called this morning about stopping by to see the stairwells?”

“Oh, of course!” the woman said, standing up. “It’s exciting. You know, I’ve never seen the stairwells myself. I just use the elevator.” She laughed a little and Simone forced a smile. “Let me just call Pastor Sorenson, and he can take us all over there.”

“Pastor Sorenson?” Simone asked. She knew that he would have to approve their entry into the stairwell, but she didn’t think he’d be showing it to them personally. He was too important for that.

“Oh yes,” the secretary said, “he’s eager to meet you.” She pressed a button on her headset. “Ms. Pierce and Mr. deCostas are here,” she said. “Of course, we’ll wait right here for you.” She pressed her headset again and looked at Simone. “He’ll be right down. Would you like a pamphlet to read in the meanwhile?” She handed Simone a rectangle of blank white paper which shifted the moment Simone touched it, raising embossed letters telling her that now was the best time to accept Jesus. She ran her hand over it, and the embossing scattered under her fingers like ripples. Then it popped up again: new words, same message. It was a nice piece of work, probably from Brazil, or somewhere else in South America. The mainland didn’t make stuff like this; they specialized in cosmetics. Not the genetic stuff, of course—that was outlawed—but the US owned the market on basic items like creams, shampoos, hair dye, and makeup. China did the genetic stuff, the Japanese fleet did robots and augmented reality, South America did smart polymers, Israel did defense, the EU did communications, Canada did VR. Everyone did guns.

Simone ran her hand over the pamphlet and pretended to look at it a moment before turning to deCostas. She took him by the arm and led him away from the secretary and spoke in a low voice.

“Pastor Sorenson is the head of the Mission,” she told him. “Be very polite and very vague about what you’re doing.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain later.” Simone furrowed her brow, wondering what it could mean that Sorenson himself was coming to see them. Did this job have implications she wasn’t aware of? “Trust your instincts, but don’t assume,” her dad always said. Her instincts told her there was something going on here she couldn’t see. The pastor wasn’t just coming to see the stairwell.

The elevator at the end of the room opened, and Ned Sorenson stepped out. Simone had seen him in the papers and on the web but never in person. He was about sixty years old, but only just graying, and only slightly balding. His tight black curls made him look younger, but his face was more worn, as though to make up for it. The wrinkles were deep in his mahogany skin. His eyes had the look of someone used to being in control, and who was often amused. Simone wasn’t sure what to think of him. He wore a plain black shirt and pants with a white pastor’s collar, and walked with his hands behind his back. He smiled when he saw them. It was a kind smile, but Simone wasn’t sure it was a genuine one.

“Hello,” he said. “You must be Ms. Pierce and Mr. deCostas. I’ve been waitin’ excitedly for you since I heard you were comin’.” He spoke in the mainland accent, where words never really ended but just rose and fell into one another.

“Pleased to meet you, Pastor Sorenson,” Simone said, extending her hand in what she hoped was a confident way. He shook it. His hands were rough and dry.

“Thank you for letting us do this,” deCostas said, also shaking his hand.

“I’m always eager to help scientists,” Sorenson said. Simone kept her face still and managed not to laugh. Sorenson was a representative of the mainland, and the mainland policy on science was generally not eager to help. “But I fear you’ll be disappointed. I’ve been in our stairwell many a time. It’s just water.” He opened his arms, gesturing towards a wall. Simone walked towards the wall and noticed the seam in the wood paneling—a secret door.

“Why hide the stairs?” she asked, stopping next to the door.

“Looks nicer,” Sorenson said with a shrug. He pressed his thumb onto a small square of wood, which lit up and scanned the imprint. The wall clicked open. Hidden and locked. Simone was even more curious now. But the stairwell was just as Sorenson said. Water lapped at gray-painted stairs. The walls were a dim yellow, the paint chipped away in many places, and a few pipes, painted bright red, thrust through the landing. The ceiling was rough, and moss grew in the corners. Just like any other stairwell.