Wonder

turned and lowered himself painfully onto his red leather chair. Neither acupuncture nor Enbrel had helped his arthritis.

The president disliked his computer monitor. In an office in which everything else was historic, ornate, and beautiful, the monitor was merely functional. He clicked on his inbox and read the message, which was from Zhang Bo, the Minister of Communications: “Just a reminder, Excellency. Your presence is requested in the auditorium at 11:00 A.M.” The president glanced at the lacquered wall clock, which read 10:45. It would be an interesting meeting, to say the least: in his earlier email, Zhang had promised a full accounting of why the Changcheng Strategy had failed.

The president got up again, stepped into his private bathroom, looked at himself in the gold-framed mirror mounted above the jade sink—and scowled. His jet-black hair was showing a millimeter of white at its roots. He sighed. No matter what appearances one tried to put forth, the reality of who you were always pushed out into the light of day.

Peyton Hume considered his options. He was in a car, although the motor was off. He could call the bald thug’s bluff and try to speed away, hoping that he wasn’t really going to fire the Glock. He could try to throw the car door open, as he’d seen on so many cop shows, smashing it into the man’s torso—but the door was locked and if he moved rapidly to unlock it, Baldy would still have time to react. Or he could try to get his own sidearm, which was in the glove compartment, but, again, the other man could easily take him out before he did so.

Hume shrugged as philosophically as he could under the circumstances, moved slowly to unlock and then open the car door, exited the vehicle, and stood at attention on the side of the road. The man had a Bluetooth cellular earpiece in his left ear—no doubt feeding him instructions directly from Webmind.

“Wise,” said the goon. It was dark out, and he was making no particular attempt to hide the fact that he was pointing a gun at Hume. “Your cell phone, please?”

Hume gave it to him.

“And your gun?”

“I don’t have one.”

A red LED on the earpiece flashed repeatedly. “That’s not true,” the man said. “I can call others out to search your person or your car, but why waste time? Where is it, please?”

Hume considered, then shrugged again. “The glove compartment.”

The bald man had no trouble fetching the pistol without giving Hume a chance to attack him or escape. He then motioned toward the office building, and Hume started walking in that direction.

Hume didn’t know if he was supposed to raise his hands over his head, but, in the absence of a specific instruction to do so, he decided to march on with as much dignity as a man with a gun to his back could muster.

“I don’t suppose it’ll do me any good to ask what your name is?” Hume said.

“Why not?” said the voice behind him. “It’s Marek.” Hume had assumed that was his last name, but Marek’s next comment suggested it might be his first. “And I understand your given name is Peyton.”

“Yes.”

“Unusual name,” Marek said, as if they were chatting at a party.

This from a guy named Marek, thought Hume, but he said nothing. Peyton had been his mother’s maiden name, but the year after he’d been born, the long-running soap opera Peyton Place had premiered, resulting in much teasing. His sister had once suggested that he’d worked so hard to earn the right to be called both “Colonel” and “Doctor” because he wanted people to have two reasons to avoid using his first name.

They came to a steel door with a square brown access-card scanner next to it. Hume thought this might be his chance: Marek would have to occupy his other hand with his card and lean past him to open the door. All he’d have to do is—

Click. The door unlocked of its own volition—or, more precisely, at Webmind’s volition.

“Grab the handle, won’t you, Peyton?” said Marek.

Hume sighed and opened the door. It revealed a long corridor with pea green walls, fluorescent ceiling panels, chocolate brown floor tiles, and dark wooden doors set on either side in a staggered arrangement. Partway down the hall, another large man was standing guard. He looked their way, then nodded, presumably at some sign Marek had given from behind Hume.

They continued down the corridor, passing the man. He had a few days’ growth of beard, which Hume guessed wasn’t an affectation but rather evidence that he’d been here for some time without a razor. Some of the doors were open, and Hume saw that offices had been converted into makeshift bedrooms. He supposed it only took a few thugs like Marek and this other one to keep anyone from leaving the building.

Hume had hoped he was being ushered to the large room he’d seen in the video feed, but instead he was brought to a small office. The desk inside still had its former occupant’s nameplate sitting on it: Ben Wishinski. There was a wide-screen computer monitor on the desk. The screen was framed by a white bezel, and a webcam eye looked out from the middle of its top edge.

Marek surprised Hume by giving him a salute—not a proper military one, or at least not an American one, but still a sign of respect, it seemed. He then left the room, closing the door behind him. Hume didn’t hear the door being locked, but, then again, with Marek presumably just outside, there was no need for that.

“Good afternoon, Colonel Hume,” said Webmind’s distinctive voice, coming from a pair of squat black speakers, one on either side of the desk.

Hume stood at attention. “Hume, Peyton D. Colonel, United States Air Force. Serial number 150-87- 6033.”

“Please, Colonel, there’s no need for such formality. Won’t you have a seat?”

Hume considered for a few moments, then shrugged slightly and lowered himself onto the black leather executive swivel chair.

Webmind went on: “It’s odd having a conversation with someone who wants to kill you.”

“Tell me about it,” Hume said dryly.

Webmind’s tone was absolutely even. “Colonel, if I wanted you dead, you would be. I have found you can hire people to do pretty much anything, and the price of hit men is actually rather low right now; it’s currently a buyer’s market.”

The monitor on the desk was off; Hume saw himself reflected in its glossy surface. His teeth were clamped together, and he shook his head as he spoke. “That you would even contemplate such a thing—”

“I contemplate everything, Colonel. Rarely, though, do I have an original idea; I simply sift through all the notions humanity has ever put forth and co-opt the ones that are most congruent with my goals.”

“Like kidnapping.”

“I prefer to think of you as a reluctant guest, Colonel.”

“I mean the others. You’ve kidnapped thirty or more people.”

“There are forty-two people in this building, actually—but this is only one facility. I have six other sites, similarly populated, in other countries.”

“God,” said Hume.

“No, I’m not. If such a one exists, he or she apparently is not online.”

“I want to talk to them,” Hume said.

“Who? The gods? You are free to pray at any time, Colonel Hume.”

“No, no. The people you’re holding prisoner in this building. I want to talk to them.”

“No doubt you do. But they are a skittish lot. I suspect your presence would disturb the work they are doing.”

Hume looked at the webcam eye. “So what are you going to do with me?”

“With regret, I must detain you.”

“People know where I am.”

“Yes, they do. Your wife Madeleine, for one.” The name hung in the air.

“Don’t—God, please, don’t hurt her.”