The Savage Girl - Alex Shakar [128]
Ursula stares at Dellaqua, her focus oscillating between the serene laziness of his right eye and the utter turmoil of the rest of his face.
“How do you mean, political?”
“Destruction of currency is a serious crime. Your sister is attempting to undermine the economy.”
“Oh, come on.”
Dellaqua fixes his good eye on her. “Money is the lifeblood of our society,” he says. “Even purely symbolic attacks on it can lead to copycat crimes, crises of confidence, chain reactions we can’t even begin to anticipate. Is Ivy involved with any groups or organizations, to your knowledge?”
“You mean like, is she a Communist?”
“Who are these people called the Trendspotters, anyway?
“We are,” she shouts. “Me, James, Chas. We’re not political. We’re businesspeople. Agent Dellaqua, please, she’s just a schizophrenic. She’s not a terrorist.”
“I’m not denying your sister’s mental condition. But you have to realize that these days terrorism is everywhere. It’s in the air. People can be terrorists without even knowing it.”
“Can you please get her out of there and talk politics later?”
“I’m trying,” he says, his face pained and exasperated. “I spent the whole morning on the phone with her. She says she’s going to blow herself up at noon, which gives us an hour and a half. She’s been insisting on seeing you, in person. I told her I’d let her talk to you on the phone—which is what I brought you here for—but she said we were trying to trick her and it wouldn’t really be you. Then she pulled the phone cord out of the wall. Until she calms down a little all we can do is watch her on the computer screen, like everyone else.”
“You have to let me go in there and talk to her,” Ursula says. “I can stop all this.”
Dellaqua shakes his head. “Right now the only threat your sister poses is to herself. I’m inclined to keep it that way.”
She fights the urge to throttle the man. “Sir, please,” she says instead. “She’ll listen to me. I know how to talk to her.”
Dellaqua studies her face. “Your friend here, Mr. Couch, has been telling me the same thing for the last hour or so. He says she trusts you. You protect her from . . . who is it?
“The Imagineers,” Couch says.
Her plaintive look seems to soften him. He thinks for a beat. “Is that true?”
For a moment she wonders which he means—true about Ivy trusting her or true about Ursula protecting her from the Imagineers. She decides for the present purpose it doesn’t matter.
“It’s true,” she says.
Dellaqua looks away, pawing his jaw. He turns to a man sitting at the far end of the table. “Wire her up,” he says. “She’s going in.”
A young agent with patchy, hipster sideburns and sweat stains on the underarms of his shirt comes over and asks her to pull the bottom of her blouse out of her pants. Wearing a wire seems like a dumb idea to her—after all, the agents can simply listen in on the webcast like they’re already doing; and if Ivy happens to discover the wire on her, who knows what delusions it will reinforce?—but she decides not to waste time arguing. As the sideburned agent tapes the transmitter to her back, she looks again at the iridescent blue letters on the jacket of the men watching the computers.
“What’s that stand for, anyway, ‘VTU?’ ” she asks no one in particular.
“Virtual Terrorism Unit,” Couch whispers in her ear. “Sexy, eh? This ain’t your dad’s FBI, that’s for sure. Pretty soon they’ll be funding themselves through merchandising alone.” He rocks back on his heels, looking around the loft with approval.
Dellaqua comes back over and begins coaching her on the kinds of things she should say and not say, equivocating on every point, telling her to be firm but polite, respectful but not indulgent, rational but not provocative, and on and on. Each new vacillating, contradictory instruction adds to her anxiety, so that by the time the wire has been tested and Dellaqua is done talking she’s sweating and can feel blood drumming in her ears. He then walks over to one of the computer screens. Ivy is silent now, writing frantic messages in the air with her cigarette. Most of the former garish Flintstones