Killing Time

CHAPTER 34

With our ability to move at full speed restored, we were able to reach the English Channel, if not France itself, within the hour's time called for by Malcolm. Our path of descent from the stratosphere ended above the channel just north of Le Havre, and after once again engaging the holographic projector we flew directly over that city at cruising altitude, following the Seine River as it snaked its way through one of the most congested areas of French suburban sprawl. This sprawl, like all things French, had over the years become steadily more American in its details and trappings, yet because it cut through one of the finest and most historic areas of Normandy, it was in some way even more grotesque to look at than its American counterparts.

Most disturbing about the scene was its eerie illumination. In suburban areas of the United States one had long since grown accustomed to the sterile, flickering light that oozed out of homes every night into the dark streets and yards: the emanations of hundreds of thousands of Internet and computer monitors. The French, on the other hand, enjoyed a lower crime rate than the Americans and could therefore afford to be more subtle with their street lighting and more indulgent of their characteristic aversion to window furnishings, all of which made the glow of those same monitors — as ubiquitous in France as in the United States or indeed anywhere else in the digital world — more than simply apparent: it was dominant.

As we got closer to Paris, the residential congestion beneath us thickened and the incandescence of the countless monitors intensified. Malcolm and I, watching it all roll by from the nose of the ship, were soon joined by Julien, who of course had the greatest reason to be disheartened by what he was seeing. Fouché professed to have accepted long ago that his native country, whatever its pretenses and protestations, was as susceptible to the afflictions of the information age as any other; indeed, it was the ongoing denials of this fact by his fellow academics and intellectuals that had, he said, provoked his emigration. But such statements didn't seem to help him face that endless, bright testament to his homeland's secure place in the community of modern technostates.

"One attempts to be philosophical about it," he said, crossing his arms and running one hand through his beard. "And yet philosophy only sharpens the indictment. You have read Camus? 'A single sentence will suffice for modern man: He fornicated and read the papers.' We must now change this sentence a bit, I think: 'He masturbated and logged on to the Internet.' " Fouché's bushy brows arched high. "But perhaps the order of activity in that statement is wrong, eh?" He tried to at least chuckle at what, under other circumstances, might have been an amusing thought; but just then neither he nor I — nor, certainly, Malcolm — could quite muster the enthusiasm.

Several silent minutes later Larissa entered, bearing news that, if not uplifting, was at least somewhat encouraging: Tarbell had been able to identify a man in the general vicinity of Paris who regularly sold stolen technological secrets and advanced weaponry to the Israeli government through the Mossad. It seemed more than likely that, as Eshkol's flying destination had been Paris, he intended to contact this man, who, according to Leon's research, was capable of laying hands on almost any sort of hardware — including miniaturized nuclear devices. The dealer lived in and conducted his business out of an expansive lakefront estate near the medieval city of Troyes, southeast of Paris in the Champagne province. So we maintained our heading and increased our pace, perfectly aware that the likelihood of the dealer surviving any encounter with Eshkol was slim.

Swift as we were, though, we were not swift enough. Our ship had barely reached the rolling landscape around Troyes when Leon began to pick up French police reports concerning a murder at the home of the arms dealer. Given the victim's occupation, the matter was being kept very quiet, though even in their (supposedly) secure communications the police admitted that they had no leads at all: apparently the Israelis were in no rush to acknowledge either that they had done extensive business with the dead man or that one of their own operatives might have been responsible for his death. There was nothing for us to do but program our monitoring system to keep a close watch on all sales of airline tickets for journeys originating in France; by cross-referencing with other databases according to the system already set up by Tarbell and the Kupermans, we could reasonably hope to discover where Eshkol intended to go next.

That revelation, when it came, was more than a little surprising for some of us: "Kuala Lumpur?" I repeated after Tarbell broke the news. "Malaysia? He's going into the middle of a full-scale war—"

"Ah-ah." Leon wagged a finger. "A 'United Nations intervention,' please, Gideon. They are very particular about that."

"All right," I said, irritated. "He's going into the middle of a United Nations intervention that's turned into the biggest regional bloodbath since Vietnam? What the hell for? Is he trying to get himself killed?"

"You are the psychiatrist, Gideon," Fouché said. "That is really a question we should be asking you, non?"

I took a light but fast swipe at him, but he dodged it with the impressive agility I'd seen him demonstrate in Afghanistan. "This isn't funny," I declared. "I hope nobody's thinking that we're going there?"

"Why not?" Larissa asked.

"Into the middle of the Malaysian war!"

"Ah-ah," Tarbell said again. "It's not a—"

"Leon, will you shut up?" None of them seemed in the least apprehensive, a fact that was wearing on my nerves. "Do I have to remind you that every Western power currently has troops in Malaysia? Real troops — not militias, not police, armies. And the Malaysians have become so damned crazed from two years of fighting that they're actually giving those armies a run for their money. You don't expect me to waltz into the middle of that?"

"Darling?" Larissa cooed with a little laugh, coming up behind me and putting her arms around my neck. "You're not telling me you're afraid, are you?"

"Of course I'm afraid!" I cried, which only amused her further. "I'm sorry, but there's only so much you can ask of a person, and this—"

"This is necessary." It was Malcolm, ready with another piece of discouraging but unarguable information: "We have to go, Gideon. There's only one thing that can be drawing Eshkol to Kuala Lumpur. The Malaysians have been financing their war effort in part through one of the most extensive black market systems ever seen — they're laundering Third World drug money, trafficking in everything from rare animals to human beings, and doing a huge business in stolen information technology and databases. None of this, however, will interest Eshkol. He'll want something else, something that will have originated, unless I'm mistaken, in Japan." By now all jocularity had departed the table. "The Japanese economy, of course, never really rebounded from the '07 crash. Like the Malaysians, they've had to use whatever methods have been available to organize even a modest recovery. Certainly, they've had neither the money nor the resources to update their energy infrastructure — they still depend primarily on nuclear power and haven't been able to phase out their breeder reactors."

Eli suddenly clutched his forehead. "Breeder reactors," he said, apparently getting a point that was still very obscure to me.

"What?" I asked quickly. "What the hell's a 'breeder reactor'?"

"A nuclear reactor that makes usable plutonium out of waste uranium," Jonah said. "Seemed a very promising idea at one time."

"An idea that was abandoned by almost every country in the world," Malcolm went on, "because of safety problems — and because of the enormous temptation that copious amounts of plutonium lying around in civilian installations poses for terrorists." Malcolm looked at me pointedly. "As well as for the people who do business with terrorists. Japanese black marketeers — without, supposedly, the connivance of their government — have been regularly selling large quantities of their excess plutonium to such people. In—"

"In Kuala Lumpur," I said, falling into a chair in resignation.

"Actually, no," Jonah said. "The U.N. has control over the capital. Most of the serious black marketeering goes on in the Genting Highlands that overlook the city — the old gambling resort. But Kuala Lumpur's the only place the Allies will permit planes to land, since they control both the city and the airport. Eshkol will head there first, probably masquerading as some kind of humanitarian worker, then make his way through the lines and into the high country."

I took the news as best I could, letting my head fall onto the table and drawing several long, deep breaths. "So what's Malaysian food like?" I mumbled.

"I doubt if you'll have a chance to try it," Tarbell answered. "There is a war going on there, you know…"