The Big Sheep (26 page)

“Are you saying it's a dummy organization?” I asked. “Like a shell company?”

“Belgium recently loosened its restrictions on genetic engineering in the hopes of attracting more investment capital,” said Keane. “I think whoever is running Tannhauser is using the Belgium location as a cover. The actual work is being done elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“Here,” said Keane. “Southern California.”

“Because Guryev is here?”

“I checked the domain registration of the Tannhauser website,” Keane said. “It's owned by the same company that owns the domain for the Solana Resort and Spa in Malibu.”

“That's … odd,” I said.

“The resort is located on top of a cliff overlooking the ocean,” said Keane.

“Like Priya's dream,” I said. “The bad place.”

Keane nodded. “Except I don't think it's a dream. I think that's where the Priyas are born. Whoever is creating them does their best to suppress the clones' memory of the place, but it's their first real memory, so some of it sticks. They're probably also brought back occasionally for additional conditioning.”

I thought for a moment. “It was pretty sloppy of them to register both domains under the same name, if the association between Tannhauser and Solana is supposed to be secret.”

“Yes,” Keane replied. “And the domain registration for Tannhauser was just updated yesterday. Before that, it was registered to a completely different company.”

“It's like somebody is trying to tell us something.”

“Exactly.”

“But who? Not Takemago. She's been pretty up-front, as near as I can tell. Maybe the same person who sent the Noogus letters?”

“Maybe,” said Keane. “The other likely possibility is that it's someone working for Selah Fiore.”

“You think it's a trap? Selah trying to lure us to the Solana?”

“Could be. Only one way to—”

His words were cut off by the sound of a deafening boom somewhere above us. One of Keane's windows cracked, and plaster dust fell from the ceiling.

“What in the hell?” I yelled, using my shirt to shield my face from the dust cloud. I drew my gun and ran to the stairs. Keane followed close behind. I bounded up the stairs and threw the door to the roof open. The source of the noise was immediately apparent: the aircar was in flames, a plume of black smoke rising to the clouds. Shattered glass and chunks of torn metal lay strewn around the gravel surface of the roof.

I crept onto the roof, my gun raised before me. Making a full-circle survey of the roof, I determined it was deserted. I checked behind the vents and air-conditioning units just in case. Other than Keane, myself, and the remains of the aircar, the roof was empty.

“Any ideas?” I said to Keane.

“Yes,” he said, surveying the wreckage. “We should get off the—”

At that moment a man in combat gear clambered over the edge of the roof in front of us. An automatic rifle was slung over his back.

“Hold it!” I yelled, pointing my gun at the man. Then I saw another man, on the north side of the building. Then one on the south, and another on the east. I turned to see three more climbing over behind me. Maybe if I'd started shooting as soon as I'd seen the first guy, I could have taken them out, but now it was too late. Three of them already had their guns pointed my direction. I could get one, maybe two of them before Keane and I were both gunned down.

“Drop the gun,” said the man right in front of me. I had no choice but to comply.

“Who the hell are you?” I demanded. The men wore masks concealing their faces.

“Who we are isn't important,” said the man. “Our boss wants to talk to you.”

I became aware of a large, armored aircar descending from the clouds behind me. It bore no markings that I could see.

“And who might your boss be?” said Keane.

“You'll find out soon enough,” said the man. “But I think it's safe to say you've pissed him off.”

 

TWENTY-THREE

The car landed, and we were forced inside. Three of the men boarded with us, keeping their guns trained on us the whole time. The aircar lifted off again and headed into the heart of the DZ. This was a flagrant violation of FAA and LAPD regulations; legally, they were required to pass through one of the checkpoints. Evidently, whomever these guys worked for didn't feel the need to play by the rules.

The car landed on a five-story building just north of Compton. Keane and I were prodded out of the car and down a set of stairs. We found ourselves in a luxuriously appointed office that contrasted starkly with its location in a dilapidated old building in the worst part of the city. Two armed men stood against the walls, watching us. Behind a large desk was a man whose face I had seen on the news: Mag-Lev, the most powerful warlord in the DZ. Mag-Lev was an ugly, mean-looking man whose silk shirt and clean-shaven head couldn't conceal the brutality of his nature. He sat, his elbows on the desk, his chin resting on his fists, studying us impassively like a wolf regarding its prey. The left side of his face was disfigured by a horrible burn scar, and his left eyelid drooped over a dead, bloodshot eye.

I'd heard a lot of theories about who Mag-Lev was and where he had come from, but none of his would-be biographers seemed to be able to produce any solid evidence. He had simply appeared on the scene just over two years ago, and had begun ruthlessly eliminating other warlords and seizing control of territory. It took him less than a year to become the most feared man in the DZ, and he seemed to be well on his way to uniting all the DZ under his rule. A lot of important people were justifiably worried about that possibility: a disorganized, impoverished DZ, splintered into warring factions fighting over territory, could be managed and ultimately controlled. A unified DZ with a powerful leader posed a threat to the delicate equilibrium of Los Angeles.

As ugly as he was, I had to admit he had an unnerving sort of charisma. It came through on the brief snippets I had seen on TV, and I could feel it even stronger now, even though he hadn't yet said a word. It wasn't hard to imagine a man like that becoming the sole, unquestioned authority in the DZ.

“Keane and Fowler,” Mag-Lev said in a low, gravelly tone. “I expect you know who I am.”

“I'm hoping you're the guy from Triple A,” said Keane. “Because I've got a serious problem with my car.”

“That was just to get your attention,” he said, with a grim smile. “A small taste of payback for destroying something I loved.”

“The sheep?” I said. “We didn't kill the sheep. And to be honest, if your feelings for a farm animal are that strong, you've got problems that aren't going to be fixed by blowing up cars.”

“The sheep was just business,” growled Mag-Lev. “I was speaking of Priya Mistry. You should never have involved her in this. It's your fault she's dead, and you are going to pay.”

“Uh…” I said, not sure which part of this to respond to. “You're in love with Priya Mistry?” I heard myself say.

“Suffice it to say I am deeply aggrieved by her death, and that is not good news for you. For her death, you will pay a thousand times over.”

Keane started laughing. At first it was just a chuckle, but it soon turned into a chortle, and then a guffaw. He was bent over, gasping for breath.

Mag-Lev glared at Keane. “You find this amusing, Mr. Keane?” he growled.

“She … doesn't even … remember you,” Keane said, gasping. “She could name every actor on that show … except for you.”

Mag-Lev motioned to one of the guards, who took a couple of steps forward and jabbed his rifle butt into Keane's gut. Keane fell to his knees, still laughing.

“Priya and I have a connection you would never understand,” snarled Mag-Lev. He was struggling to maintain his cool demeanor.

“Oh, I'm sure,” Keane said between gasps, tears running down his cheeks. “It's the stuff of poetry. Two young sympaths in love, on the set of a shitty sitcom.”

“You know nothing!” Mag-Lev snarled. “I loved her before she was famous, when she was still Bryn Jhaveri. And you will pay for her death!”

It finally dawned on me what Keane found so funny. He'd determined what had happened to the fourth actor, the one who'd spoken the catchphrase. Selah had told us there had only been one actor whose Feinberg-Webb score was anywhere near Priya's, and we'd found him. But instead of becoming a TV star like Priya, he had taken a different career path. Some combination of time, steroids, surgery, and maybe even gene therapy had transformed Giles Marbury, sitcom actor, into Levi Magnuson, aka Mag-Lev, DZ Warlord. I could only assume Selah Fiore had something to do with that transformation. But deep inside he was still just an insecure actor with a crush on his one-time costar Priya Mistry. Whatever special bond he thought he had with Priya existed only in his imagination: the Priyas we knew thought of him only as some guy they had worked with briefly years ago. I wondered what else having to do with Mag-Lev was illusory. Was he even a real warlord? Virtually everything I knew about him I had learned on the news, and the news could be manipulated.

“Leave us,” said Mag-Lev to the guards, who were eyeing him curiously. Presumably, they didn't know about his secret past, and he wanted to keep it that way. When they balked, he growled, “Get out! I can handle these two.” He pulled a gun from a holster. They complied.

“So how does it work?” Keane asked. “Selah Fiore is going through old Feinberg-Webb scores, finds your name near the top of the list, and gives you a call? You're out of work after
Room for One More
gets canceled, so you're desperate for a job. She tells you she's got the role of a lifetime. All you have to do is become an entirely different person.”

“Who I was isn't your concern,” said Mag-Lev. “It's who I am right now that you need to worry about.” He leveled the gun at Keane. “And right now I'm the guy who's going to put a bullet in your head.”

“You're not going to shoot me,” said Keane, who had mostly recovered from his laughing fit. He was rubbing his belly where the guard had struck him.

Mag-Lev laughed. “Oh yeah? And why not?”

“For one thing, your beloved Priya isn't dead.”

“Bullshit,” growled Mag-Lev. “Cody and Kevin told me what happened. You guys showed up to nab the sheep, but Selah's people interfered. Priya got caught in the crossfire.”

“That wasn't Priya,” I said. “It was a clone.”

He pointed the gun at me. “Don't you fucking lie to me,” he said.

“He isn't,” said Keane. “We've been working on her case for three days now, and we've encountered at least three different Priyas. We don't believe any of them are the real one.”

“This is seriously the best story you could come up with?” Mag-Lev snarled. “Clones? Let me guess, the real Priya was abducted by aliens from Venus?”

“You of all people should understand what Selah Fiore is capable of,” said Keane. “She transformed you from a sitcom actor into a DZ warlord. Made Giles Marbury disappear, altered your appearance, set you up in the DZ, got her media outlets to cover your remarkable ascendance to power. She created the myth of Mag-Lev, and the myth became reality. You think she's not capable of making copies of a popular actress in order to cash in on her success? Oh, and by the way, if you're looking for someone to blame for Priya's death, you might consider the fact that the clone that originally hired us was buried under a mountain of rubble on the
DiZzy Girl
set when a bomb went off. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you,
Giles
?”

Mag-Lev shook his head. “That was her stunt double, Stacia Acardi.”

“That's what they said on the news, anyway,” said Keane. “And we know how reliable the news is. If it makes you feel better, Stacia Acardi probably is dead now, as it would have been awkward for Selah if Stacia showed up on the set after her supposed death. I could add that the Priya who got shot would never have been at that house in Culver City if you hadn't double-crossed Selah. You're to blame for her death as well. You killed Priya, Giles. You killed her
twice
.”

“If you value your life, you'll stop calling me that,” snarled Mag-Lev. “And stop talking about Priya. You don't know anything about her.”

“I know that Priya Mistry is an illusion,” said Keane. “Just like Mag-Lev, almighty warlord of the DZ. The good news is that we have reason to believe that the original Priya Mistry, the woman you knew as Bryn Jhaveri, is still alive. And if you let me and my partner go, we might still be able to save her.”

“Not a chance,” said Mag-Lev. “You're lying. You're making this all up.”

Keane sighed. “These accusations, from a man whose entire life is a lie, are getting a bit tiresome. You want a demonstration of my veracity? Here's a story for you. Selah Fiore asked you to steal a sheep for her. She wouldn't tell you why she wanted it, but you used your criminal connections to get the sheep. Then you and Selah had a falling-out. Probably she's afraid of the monster she created becoming too powerful for her to control. That's what that bombing was about: you trying to show her who's boss. But Selah isn't going to back down that easily. Did you know she's auditioning for your replacement right now?”

Mag-Lev regarded him skeptically, but I could tell he sensed the truth in Keane's words. I knew it too, as he said it: the actors Selah had showed us weren't trying out for a TV show; they were—unknowingly, no doubt—auditioning for a role as a real-life DZ warlord. But if that was true, then Selah Fiore was even more powerful than I had thought.

“You double-crossed Selah,” Keane continued. “You had Hugo Díaz deliver the sheep to three friends of yours, out-of-work actors who aren't part of your formal criminal empire, probably because you know Selah has spies all throughout your organization. You wanted to make sure you could hold on to the sheep without Selah finding out where it was. But we ruined that plan when we led Selah's people to the house in Culver City.”