The Turing Option

“It is — and about time as well. Treatment is improving — but even with the new vaccine there are still over a hundred million cases in the world. The sums involved in just containing the disease are so large that the richer countries have to contribute — for selfish reasons alone.”

Brian found his eyes closing; even with the pills he had not slept well the night before. He woke when Ben shook him lightly by the shoulder.

“Time to get moving,” he said.

Dermod led the way and Ray fell in behind them when they went on deck. The water was smooth, the day sunny. The aircraft carrier was barely slipping through the water when Brian made his way carefully down the steps behind Dermod. The boat waiting for them turned out to be a thirty-foot deep sea cruiser with its fishing poles secured vertically. As soon as he was helped aboard, and the others jumped down behind him, the motors burbled and roared and they swung away around the island, leaving the Nimitz behind. The Mexican coast came into view and they cut around two other fishing boats as they headed toward the marina. Brian found that the palms of his hands were suddenly moist.

“What happens next?”

“Two unmarked police cruisers will be waiting for us, driven by the Mexican plainclothesmen I told you about. We drive directly to Telebasico — who are expecting us.” Ben dug into his pocket and handed over two black plastic boxes, about the size and weight of dominoes. Brian turned them over, noticed the socket each had in its base.

“Memory,” Ben said. “These are GRAMs I told you about.”

Brian looked dubious. “There may be a lot of records in those files, years’ worth maybe. Is there enough memory space in these two to hold it?”

“I should hope so. You don’t really need both — the second one is for backup. Each of them holds a thousand megabytes. Should be more than enough.”

“I should say so!”

The cars were long and black, the windows so heavily tinted that very little could be seen of the insides. The two Mexican plainclothesmen who were waiting by the cars had natural mustaches that were even more impressive than Brian’s fake one.

“The guy in front is Daniel Saldana,” Ben said. “He and I have worked together before. He’s a good man. Buenos dias, caballeros. ¿Todos son buenos?”

“No sweat, Ben. Easy as falling off a log. Good to see you again.”

“The same. Ready for a little drive?”

“You betcha. We have been instructed to take you and your friends to a business premise here, and after that safely to the border. I will be pleased to drive you there.” He opened the door of the first car. Ray stepped forward.

“No problem getting three in the back of this, is there?” he asked.

“If that’s the way you want it.”

Ben traveled with the other plainclothesman in the second car. Brian, sitting in the middle of the backseat, felt like the filling in a sandwich. Both big men kept their eyes on the street outside. Dermod, sitting on Brian’s left, unbuttoned his jacket with his right hand — and kept his hand at his waist after that. When they swayed around a turn the jacket gaped open and Brian had a quick glimpse of leather and metal. So it had been a bulge he had seen in his armpit.

It was a brief drive to the industrial area, the typical low and windowless factories of high-tech manufacturing. The two cars drove into the complex and parked behind one of the buildings, entered it through the loading bay. The detectives had obviously been here before and led the way to a small, wood-paneled office. There were two men already there, sitting before a computer terminal. It was uncomfortably crowded when all of them except Ray, who stayed behind in the hall, pushed in and closed the door.

“Which of you is the gentleman with the account?” one of the technicians said, taking up a sheaf of papers.

“I am.”

“I understand that you have forgotten your identification number and password, Mr. Delaney?”

“You might say that.”

“This has happened to us before, but you will understand we must still take every precaution.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Could I please have your signature here — and here. This is your agreement not to bring charges against us if you cannot access your files. It also says that you guarantee you are who you say you are. Now — all that is left is to make the final verification. Could I have your hand, please.”

He held out an electronic instrument about the size of a portable radio, touched it to the back of Brian’s hand.

“It will take a few moments,” he said, carrying it across the room and plugging it into a larger machine there.

“What is it?” Brian asked.

“Portable DNA matching,” Benicoff said. “Just coming into commercial use. The adhesive on the handpiece picked off a few of your epidermal cells, the ones that flake off all the time. Now it’s matching up your MHC complex with the one on file.”

“Never heard of that.”