officially six feet tall. Dad thinks I’m taking steroids.”
“To get taller?”
“Otherwise he can’t explain it. He’s five eight. Mom’s barely five feet. He said there were stories about a distant uncle who was over six feet tall. Supposedly, he was some kind of tiger hunter. Stupid family lore. He looks at me like I’m not his son. He’s weirding me out, Simon. Talk to him.”
“Will do,” said Simon. “What are you studying out there in California?”
“Quantum mechanics.”
“So you do like cars after all? If you need a summer job, let me know.”
“Quantum mechanics has nothing to do with automobiles,” said a distraught Arjit.
“That right? My bad.” Simon made a face. “Do they still say that? Anyway, from now on I’m going to call you ‘Tiger.’”
“I don’t have to play golf, do I?”
“Just keep studying. You’ll make more than the other Tiger ever will. Maybe you can solve the Higgs boson quandary. Win a Fields Medal. That would be something.” Simon pointed a finger at Arjit “Tiger” Singh, as if to say he wasn’t as dumb as he looked. “Tiger” was not amused.
“Dad’s in his lab. He’s been up all night. He’s not happy about it.”
“Some things never change.”
“Knock, knock,” said Simon, rapping on the wall as he descended the stairs to Vikram Singh’s basement lab. “Anyone home?”
Vikram Singh stood at his waist-high worktable, a halogen lamp attached to his forehead, its beam directed at a small, shiny object in his hands. A Sikh, he wore a flaming orange turban and kept his long salt-and-pepper beard tied neatly under his chin. His eyes darted to Simon, then returned to his work. “Sit. Silence. Patience.”
Simon dropped into a chair in the corner. Vikram Singh had every right to be angry. It seemed that every time Simon needed his services, it was on a rush-delivery basis. Simon would feel the same way if a client demanded he renovate a car faster than he would like or was capable. Hurrying was not only an inconvenience; it threatened one’s reputation for quality.
Simon eyed the various and sundry items scattered across the table, mostly metallic black boxes with nobs and toggles that he identified as StingRays, devices designed to mimic cellphone transmission towers and capture cellular communications. Either with a warrant or without.
A graduate of the Indian Institutes of Technology, India’s most prestigious academy of higher education, Vikram Singh had immigrated to the United Kingdom with a PhD in electrical engineering at the age of twenty-two and went straight to work for MI5, known colloquially as “Box,” Britain’s domestic security service, where he spent twenty years using his skills to outfit officers for undercover work. Seeing greener pastures in the private sector, he left to offer his services to a higher paying clientele. The spotless BMW 750iL saloon parked in front of his home testified to the wisdom of his decision. His son, Arjit, only fifteen, attended Caltech. His daughter, Vandita, was reportedly even sharper, the subject of a recent article in The Times after she aced five O-level examinations at the age of eleven.
“Still there?” asked Vikram Singh.
“Sitting and silent. Definitely not patient.”
Singh extinguished the halogen beam and removed the lamp from his head. “I have good news and bad news.”
“Good news first,” said Simon.
“Against all odds, I’ve managed to fulfill your requests.”
“That is good news.”
“You may stand now.” Singh circled the table and slid a rectangular tray toward Simon. The tray was bare except for two pea-sized pods the color of flesh and a black square-shaped strip of metal. “Try one. Goes in the ear. Your choice. Right or left.”
Simon placed one of the pods in his ear.
“Make sure it is on.”
Several months earlier Singh had built Simon a device capable of detecting the presence of a digital camera. The first time he used it, Simon had forgotten to turn it on, to near disastrous effect.
“My iPods turn on automatically,” he said.
“Do I look like Tim Cook?”
Simon plucked the pod from his ear and flicked a pale nub on one side. A green light appeared and he replaced it.
“Hello, hello,” said Singh.
“Hello, hello,” said a voice in Simon’s ear. It was a female voice with a seductive English accent.
“I think I’d rather have HAL,” said Simon.
“Over Helen Mirren?”
“That’s Helen Mirren?”
“A voice print compilation.”
“Never mind. I’ll take Helen Mirren.”
Singh walked to the far side of the room and spoke a few words in his native Punjabi.
As he spoke, the woman’s voice translated the words into English. “Smart man, Riske. I’d take her over HAL any