Page 137 of King’s Ransom

Damn.

He was good.

‘Tell me, Dr Speedman—Samuel, if I may—straight up, first instinct, do you love Agent Audrey Mills?’

‘Yes, I do.’

And it was the truth.

A cold snort came over the line.

‘You see, I do not love. Nor am I loved. Love is not only a delusion, it is a weakness. Me, I am neither good nor bad. I do not have some sad childhood history of abuse or trauma motivating me. I do not need money—I have enough—and I do not need vali­dation. I have no manifesto or philosophy to impose on others.’

‘Just a need to overcome your boredom?’ I said.

‘Precisely. You know, Vasha is about the same size as Agent Mills. It wouldn’t be impossible to transform her into Agent Mills. Addressing the differences in skin pigmentation would be an issue but not insurmountable. Ms Mills has such interesting freckling. Hmmm.’

So, Vasha—who I’d read about in the plaintext—was indeed a female accomplice of this guy.

But what the hell did he mean when he said ‘transform her’ into Audrey?

And when he spoke of Audrey’s skin, his voice took on a strange tone, like the sort of detachment a hobbyist might display.

I didn’t like where this was going.

‘If you come after Audrey, I’ll come after you,’ I said.

‘See, Samuel, there it is. That is precisely why love is a weakness. Tell me, do you ever wonder if, perhaps, Agent Mills does not love you as much as you love her?’

Every day, I thought.

He was getting under my skin now.

‘Do you have a name?’ I said, trying to switch to another subject.

‘Attempting to change the topic? Good idea. I would, too, the way this conversation is going. I did have a name once. But I’ve been so many other people over the years—walked in their bodies, lived in their homes, cut their spouses’ throats—that I almost can’t remember my original name. I have gradually removed my original identity from all records and databases, from all existence; so much so that I have literally become an unperson from George Orwell’s 1984. Why don’t you call me that: Unperson.’

His words reverberated in my mind:

He’d walked in people’s bodies, lived in their homes.

I once again recalled the Russians’ name for this man.

Perevertyshe.

One who walks around in another’s skin.

‘Are you American?’ I said.

‘I am now.’

A curious answer.

‘You came to America at some point?’

‘With skills that America didn’t want. No, that’s not right: I arrived with skills that Americans use differently. Cheiloplasty. Free flaps. Autografting. Americans do these things for their vanity. I performed them in different circumstances. Tell me, Samuel, have you ever been conscripted to serve in an army? Ever seen a person whose face has been blown half off by a landmine?’

An even more curious answer.