have a deeply-buried soft side.
I turned to Bart. “See you in the funny papers.”
“Hey, Donner,” said Bart, shuffling. “You did good.”
My throat tightened as I walked out.
13
DONNER
T he building looked like it had been blown from glass. It twisted at impossible angles, a silver sculpture. That people worked within seemed an afterthought. The sun made its spires glow so brightly that I wondered if the glare was a driving hazard to the serfs below. There was an outer morphinium shell over the building’s superstructure that slowly, over the course of the day, undulated and changed shape. You could actually see it flow if you stood there long enough. There were thirty of the same sort scattered around Manhattan, the gimmick being that New York’s skyline was never exactly the same.
I crossed the courtyard toward a triple set of revolving doors. Nestled between them was a plaque with brushed copper letters that read simply: THE SURAZAL CORPORATION.
I rode the elevator to the fiftieth floor and the company’s Research and Development Division. A receptionist took my name and blinked out of existence.
The décor was deliberately expensive and deliberately ugly. Visitors weren’t wanted here. Images flowed across the wall opposite me. A scientist. The Blister. A double helix. Captions like “Surazal Corporation—Protecting the World.”
From me , I thought.
Two men entered, lost in conversation. The first one I immediately placed. The resemblance to Nicole was remarkable. Adam Struldbrug, President of Surazal Corporation. Her twin. One of the most powerful men in the country.
His features were severe but handsome, his thick black hair slicked into place. Something subtle in his coloring suggested Mediterranean ancestry, but he had the same piercing blue eyes as Nicole. His body was so symmetrical that he could have bought off the rack and looked tailored. But the fabric that swathed his limbs was a thousand dollars a yard.
As he headed for the elevator, his eyes swept the room, surveying his kingdom. He caught me appraising him. We made eye contact. It was like two stones sparking off each other. Mutual recognition of the thing beneath. The thing in the dark that citizens miss but fellow predators acknowledge. He came over instead of ignoring me, as he should have.
“Paul Donner, isn’t it?” He didn’t offer his hand.
“Your sister keeps you well-informed.”
“No, Mr. Donner, my spies keep me well-informed.”
I nodded.
“You’re not shocked.”
“It doesn’t take a genius to see that Ms. Struldbrug is… a handful.”
He laughed, pleased. “Speaking of geniuses…”
He turned to the other, a man powerfully built and bald. This, I assumed, was Maurice R. Gavin, Director of R&D. Gavin gave me an impassive twitch of the head.
“I don’t have to tell you that Dr. Crandall’s disappearance is a sensitive matter,” Adam Struldbrug continued. “I wouldn’t have chosen to go outside the company like Nicole did, but now that she has, I trust you will remain discreet.”
“My middle name,” I said.
“Should you somehow manage to achieve what we have not and find the good doctor, well, you will be able to… how do they say it?… ‘write your own ticket’ in Necropolis.”
“Good to know.”
He pursed his lips. “You seem rather underwhelmed.”
I shrugged. “After coming back from the dead…”
“Yes, I see. Everything else pales. Quite so. Well, I shall leave you to it. Good luck.”
And with that, he was gone into the elevator.
Gavin stepped into the vacated space and extended a hand the size of a ham. The blunt fingers were manicured. “Maurice Gavin. This way, please.” Gavin strode past the desk. I scurried to keep up.
A minute later, we were comfortably ensconced in a burgundy office the size of a tennis court. The left wall was all window, offering a breathtaking view of the Manhattan Bridge and the East River. The burnished surface of
I turned to Bart. “See you in the funny papers.”
“Hey, Donner,” said Bart, shuffling. “You did good.”
My throat tightened as I walked out.
13
DONNER
T he building looked like it had been blown from glass. It twisted at impossible angles, a silver sculpture. That people worked within seemed an afterthought. The sun made its spires glow so brightly that I wondered if the glare was a driving hazard to the serfs below. There was an outer morphinium shell over the building’s superstructure that slowly, over the course of the day, undulated and changed shape. You could actually see it flow if you stood there long enough. There were thirty of the same sort scattered around Manhattan, the gimmick being that New York’s skyline was never exactly the same.
I crossed the courtyard toward a triple set of revolving doors. Nestled between them was a plaque with brushed copper letters that read simply: THE SURAZAL CORPORATION.
I rode the elevator to the fiftieth floor and the company’s Research and Development Division. A receptionist took my name and blinked out of existence.
The décor was deliberately expensive and deliberately ugly. Visitors weren’t wanted here. Images flowed across the wall opposite me. A scientist. The Blister. A double helix. Captions like “Surazal Corporation—Protecting the World.”
From me , I thought.
Two men entered, lost in conversation. The first one I immediately placed. The resemblance to Nicole was remarkable. Adam Struldbrug, President of Surazal Corporation. Her twin. One of the most powerful men in the country.
His features were severe but handsome, his thick black hair slicked into place. Something subtle in his coloring suggested Mediterranean ancestry, but he had the same piercing blue eyes as Nicole. His body was so symmetrical that he could have bought off the rack and looked tailored. But the fabric that swathed his limbs was a thousand dollars a yard.
As he headed for the elevator, his eyes swept the room, surveying his kingdom. He caught me appraising him. We made eye contact. It was like two stones sparking off each other. Mutual recognition of the thing beneath. The thing in the dark that citizens miss but fellow predators acknowledge. He came over instead of ignoring me, as he should have.
“Paul Donner, isn’t it?” He didn’t offer his hand.
“Your sister keeps you well-informed.”
“No, Mr. Donner, my spies keep me well-informed.”
I nodded.
“You’re not shocked.”
“It doesn’t take a genius to see that Ms. Struldbrug is… a handful.”
He laughed, pleased. “Speaking of geniuses…”
He turned to the other, a man powerfully built and bald. This, I assumed, was Maurice R. Gavin, Director of R&D. Gavin gave me an impassive twitch of the head.
“I don’t have to tell you that Dr. Crandall’s disappearance is a sensitive matter,” Adam Struldbrug continued. “I wouldn’t have chosen to go outside the company like Nicole did, but now that she has, I trust you will remain discreet.”
“My middle name,” I said.
“Should you somehow manage to achieve what we have not and find the good doctor, well, you will be able to… how do they say it?… ‘write your own ticket’ in Necropolis.”
“Good to know.”
He pursed his lips. “You seem rather underwhelmed.”
I shrugged. “After coming back from the dead…”
“Yes, I see. Everything else pales. Quite so. Well, I shall leave you to it. Good luck.”
And with that, he was gone into the elevator.
Gavin stepped into the vacated space and extended a hand the size of a ham. The blunt fingers were manicured. “Maurice Gavin. This way, please.” Gavin strode past the desk. I scurried to keep up.
A minute later, we were comfortably ensconced in a burgundy office the size of a tennis court. The left wall was all window, offering a breathtaking view of the Manhattan Bridge and the East River. The burnished surface of
Similar Books
