The illusion of WilsonVille shatters, and shatters utterly. The hallway they’re standing in now is concrete, the flight of stairs Bell ascends galvanized steel, and, as they reach the second floor, the room they enter is, in every way, modern. Banks of video monitors line either side, more than twenty people staffing them, headsets on and entirely focused on their screens. Voices overlapping, all speaking softly, recording and reporting, and a quick check tells Bell that at least one-quarter of this surveillance is dedicated to the park’s entrance-the exterior promenade, ticket booths, and approach. The steady thrum and whir of electronics fills the background, unseen fans working to circulate air for people and machines.
Marcelin stands, silent, while Bell takes in the command post. Bell walks the room slowly, peering over one shoulder, then another, to monitor after monitor. They’re using video primarily, images in color, high-res, though Bell is certain the cameras must have some low-light or even night-vision capacity for after the sun goes down, for those dark corners. A full bank of sixteen separate screens monitors the park’s perimeter, effectively covering every possible angle and approach. One terminal monitors air quality at multiple locations, both within attractions and facilities as well as out in the open. Another station is devoted to thermal imaging, recording results from six cameras placed along the promenade and just inside the main gate. One after another, people pass the lenses, oblivious, and one by one, their body temperatures are recorded.
“What’s the trigger?” Bell asks the woman working the station.
“One-oh-one. That’s for summer. One hundred in winter.”
“And then?”
She steals a glance away from her monitors, one eye narrowing in suspicion. “I’m sorry, who are you again?”
Marcelin glides forward. “This is Mr. Bell. He’s with me.”
“If they trigger, protocol is to radio one of the units on the gate. We pull the guest out of line and escort him to the doctor’s office on the square.” She looks from her monitor to Marcelin, seeking some sort of permission, which he grants with a slight nod. “We screen for SARS or swine flu or whatever bug the CDC may be warning us about at the time. If you’ll excuse me, I need to be concentrating on this.”
Bell thanks her, turns back to the air quality station.
“Chem-bio?” he asks.
Marcelin nods. “And radiation. It’s the Spartan II system, I think it’s called. There are sensors placed throughout the park.”
“It’s that comprehensive?”
“You name it, it’s searching for it. Ricin, tabun, sarin, mustard, cyanogen, phosgene, ethylene oxide, even botulinum. The list goes on and on.”
The hint of a frown on Bell’s face. Most of these agents, he knows their vectors, has studied them, has studied their effects. He’s had to, can think of at least two dozen times in the past decade that he and his team had to deal with one or another of them. Botulinum, too, but to his knowledge no one has ever been able to weaponize it yet, and thank the gods and goddesses of warriors everywhere, because botulinum is the True Nightmare Scenario, beyond even anthrax or sarin or any of their cousins. Aerosolized, weaponized botulinum makes its biotoxin cousins look like they’re still playing in the sandbox.
Marcelin can read his expression. “You don’t like it?”
Bell chooses his words carefully. “I don’t know the system. But you’re describing a wide search, and it makes me wonder if your Spartan, in trying to do it all, may not be doing any of it well.”
Marcelin shakes his head slightly. “I’d love a better system, but as far as we know, it’s not being manufactured, not even at the military level. Agent- and vector-specific monitoring systems were considered post- nine eleven, but the cost was prohibitive, both in equipment and manpower.”
“I can imagine.” Bell can, too, but he suspects another factor at work as well. WilsonVille has gone to great lengths to keep its visitors from knowing they’re being watched. More monitors, more sensors, more cameras would be that much more difficult to hide. They would shatter the illusion, and in WilsonVille, Bell already understands, the illusion is everything.
At another station, a video is reversing, showing a young man surreptitiously yanking what looks to be a Lilac doll down the front of his pants. The screen flickers, shows real time, and the young man is now tete-a-tete with a much larger, but just as young, gentleman in a WilsonVille blazer and khakis. They leave the camera’s view together, and Bell notes that at no time did the WilsonVille employee put a hand on the shoplifter.
“He’ll bring him here,” Marcelin says in Bell’s ear. “We’ll have someone from the Irvine police department meet them.”
“You press charges?”
“We always press charges. Let’s go into the conference room.”
“So here’s the job,” Marcelin says. He’s sitting in almost the same posture, the same manner that he had earlier in the day, in his office. The chairs in the conference room are Aerons as well. “Deputy director of WilsonVille park safety. Salaried position, starts at five hundred and fifty K, and of course that gives you free year-round passes to all Wilson Entertainment venues for yourself and your family. Medical, stock, etc., we can discuss later. The job is six days a week, you get six weeks’ paid vacation annually, and paid sick leave. You would report to and work under the director of park and resort safety, Eric Porter.”
“And for all this I’m expected to do what?”
Marcelin gestures in the direction of the room full of monitors. “Primary duties are to ensure the safety and security of our employees and guests. Secondary responsibilities are to minimize breakage, vandalism, and theft, most normally in the form of shoplifting.”
“Sounds my speed,” Bell says.
“Bullshit,” Marcelin says. “You’re overqualified for the position, and we both know it.”
Bell doesn’t say anything, and this time he thinks Marcelin is going to try to wait him out. The silence stretches, brushing up against becoming awkward. He wonders idly if Chaindragger’s cover contained any mention of military service, if he had any awkward questions to avoid during his job interview. He suspects not.
“You heard about the murder?” Marcelin asks, finally.
“I did not,” Bell lies.
“One of our employees was found dead out by the northwest parking lot, the staff lot. He’d been beaten and stabbed.”
“They made an arrest?”
Marcelin shakes his head. “Investigation is ongoing.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
Marcelin studies him further, scratches the back of his neck, seems on the verge of saying something more, asking something more. Bell can see the wheels turning. He’d suspected Marcelin was smart; now he’s certain of it.
“What were you? Special Forces? Green Beret?”
“Like that.”
“But not that. And you just drop out of the sky to fill this position, and all the right people are saying that you’re my man for the job. I’m no more paranoid than the next guy, but this doesn’t seem like a coincidence to me.”
“Coincidences do happen.”
Marcelin shakes his head. “Job vacates and here you are. I have to ask. Is something going to happen to my park, Jad?”
“Not as far as I know, Matt.”
It takes a couple of seconds, then Marcelin sighs.
“You’re either legit or you’re not,” he says. “But like I said, all the right people are telling me you’re a gift, and I’m not going to look that horse in the mouth. Most people in your position, they leave the military, they go either corporate or private.”
“This doesn’t count as corporate?”
“We’re not exactly KBR, Jad.”
“Not my thing.”
“No, apparently not. So what do you say?”
Bell thinks, wonders just how hard to get he should play this. Not hard at all, he decides, offering Marcelin his
