Agency

47 Phonelessness

Rainey?” Verity asked. “You still there?” Sevrin had driven them out of Treasure Island’s Kubrickian tunnel, back onto the old span, so there was no mystery about this part of their route to wherever they were ultimately headed.

“She’s with Thomas,” Wilf answered.

“Thomas who?”

“Our son.”

“How old?”

“Eleven months.”

The drone’s hatch opening again, periscope extruding, to project a feed on the back of Sevrin’s seat. A baby, in a navy-and-white horizontally striped playsuit, sitting up on a pale wooden floor, enthusiastically patty-caking a craftsy-looking fabric ball with both hands. A similar ball rolled slowly past, in front of the baby, then out of frame.

“Cute,” Verity said, and he was, but then another ball, not the one she’d just seen, rolled back into frame, behind him. “Who’s rolling the balls?”

“They roll themselves, all six of them,” Wilf said. “Our nanny.”

“Your nanny what?”

“Thomas likes her well enough, configured this way, but most of all as three pandas,” he said, Verity thinking London had some seriously next-level parenting gear, then baby and balls were replaced by a young woman, brown hair lighter and curlier than Verity’s, seated at a red table. “Rainey,” he said, “last week.” Who stood, in jeans and a long-sleeved black t-shirt, smiled at the camera, and walked out of frame, the feed closing. The periscope descended, the drone’s hatch shutting behind it. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“We’re on the Bay Bridge, to San Francisco,” Verity said.

Sevrin, touching his earpiece, briefly spoke Moldovan.

Then they were off the bridge, into the city’s traffic.

“Like Lev’s grandfather’s garage,” said Rainey, “minus the tanks.”

“Tanks?” asked Verity.

“A friend’s grandfather collects antique vehicles,” Wilf said, “some military.”

She peered through the inky tint of the window to her right. Union Square? A pang of phonelessness struck her, mainly for Google Maps. “Geary?” she asked Sevrin.

“Yes. Close now. Be ready.”

“What about this?” She indicated the drone, beside her.

“You’ll have help. Here,” said Sevrin, pulling to the left, stopping.

“Where?” she asked, spotting a Walgreens sign on the corner diagonally opposite.

“Geary and Taylor,” he said, as the passenger door opened.

Virgil climbed in, wearing a black all-weather running outfit with reflective silver highlights. “Where’s our other customer?” he asked.

“This,” Verity said, leaning back to give him a better view of the drone. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

He grinned. “I’m supposed to get that out for you.”

“It’s on wheels,” she said. “There’s a handle on top, pulls out. Don’t trip on the charger there.” She pointed.

Sevrin opened the driver-side door, got out. He closed it, starting around the front of the van. She undid her own seatbelt, scooting along the seat toward the open passenger door, then getting her legs up, out of Virgil’s way. Sevrin appeared at the passenger door, a cab passing behind him. “Stay until he has it out,” he said to Verity.

“What’s here?” she asked. Virgil, having squeezed past her, was pulling up the handle, unfastening the drone’s seatbelt.

“The Clift,” said Sevrin.

Virgil edged the drone forward, until it cleared the front of the seat. One hand on the handle, the other near its feet, he lowered it to the carpeted floor. “Wouldn’t want this in an overhead bin,” he said, swinging it around by the handle. He started to back it out, past her.

He and Sevrin lowered it to the street.

“Don’t forget bag,” Sevrin said.

“Hood up,” said Virgil.

She picked up the charger, which he and Sevrin seemed to have forgotten, pulled her hood up, put on the sunglasses, grabbed her bag, and got out. Virgil was pulling the drone around the back of the van.

She and Sevrin followed. “See you,” he said. He headed for the driver-side door.

Virgil rolled the drone up the side of the curb and made for the entrance. She caught up. His hand lightly on her shoulder as they passed hotel security.

In the lobby, various shades of twilit lilac, Virgil immediately cut left, avoiding reception, toward a curtained corridor leading to the elevators, Verity glancing back to see the iconic Big Chair, on which she’d been photographed shortly after meeting Stets. “Virgil,” she said, “here’s a question. Answer me, straight up, or I might kill you.”

He side-eyed her. “Long day?”

“Longest ever. Where are you taking me?”

“Suite,” he said, “eighth floor.”

“Who’s there?”

“Stets.” They’d rounded a corner, reaching the elevators, the lilac gloaming having grown deeper. “And Caitlin.”

“Shit…” She pulled the sunglasses off.

“Back from New York on the Honda.” The elevator door opened, revealing a dramatically lit maw of russet mirror.

“She’s up there?”

The door began to close. He blocked it with his free hand, the other supporting the drone’s handle. “I know her. Trust me. It’ll be okay.”

“Here.” She thrust the cable-wrapped charger at the hand holding the door. “I’m done.”

He reached for it, causing the door to start to close, but again stopped it, this time with his upper arm. “Please.”

“Forget it.” She turned, discovering a couple young enough to be in the hotel’s prime demographic, observing them with a uniform blankness of expression. “Or just,” she said, turning back and pushing past him, “fuck it,” the elevator door closed behind her.