Anderson listened to chatter in a dozen languages at the poolside tables around her. She felt eyes upon her in her relatively modest bikini. There were few other women about, but no one was making a move-unsure of which underworld figure she belonged to. She smiled to herself. Her man was about as underworld as you could get…
The Hotel Menon looked like an upscale Motel 6. Casa Blanca in stucco and plywood. Most of the people conducting business here never had to physically set foot on the island, so appearances didn’t matter much. Those who did make the journey typically came to the edge of the world just to exchange briefcases. Most of these transactions were technicallylegal, but they weren’t the sort of thing participants wanted on the evening news back home.
Pale-faced, tubby Russians in impeccable Armani suits sat with Arabs in robes so white it hurt to look at them. Ruddy-cheeked Australians and Nipponese in silk suits looked down through their sunglasses to examine the spotty glasses before drinking to the health of their business partners. Most tables sported two or three expressionless Terminator types scanning the patio for trouble and thumbing the handles of metallic briefcases. Anderson was finally doing serious journalism. If only her friends knew.
Of course, she wasn’t here as a journalist. She was undercover as CFO of a Hong Kong fiber optic concern. She smiled. Her business card was spectacular, with a holographic cross-section of a bundle of fiber, glittering with light.
Her new satellite phone emitted a melodic ringtone. She lifted up her sunglasses and pulled a small encryption chip from its location, clipped invisibly in her hair. She grabbed the phone from a nearby end table and fitted the chip into a slot on the side. Then she answered it. No need to say anything. She knew who it was.
It was The Voice with her clipped British accent. “Can you get to a satellite news channel? Yes or no.”
Anderson glanced around. She saw a television mounted over the hotel bar beyond tinted glass. It was always tuned to business news. “Yes.”
“Go to it. CyberStorm Entertainment.” The line clicked off.
Synthetic bitch. She liked Sobol’s voice better. Anderson yanked the chip and stowed it, as though fixing her hair. She saw a Ukrainian enforcer staring at her longingly. She pointedly ignored him and wondered what sort of dental hygiene was prevalent in the former Eastern Bloc nations. She also wondered what physical security the Daemon could offer her.
She gathered her things and clicked across the tiled patio to the refrigerated air of the bar. An Australian satellite news feed was already on, but muted. Anderson smiled brightly at Oto, the Tahitian bartender, in his starched collar and black vest. She wondered what horrific thing he did to deserve exile on Nauru. Probably hacked someone to death with a machete. “Oto, can you turn the volume up?”
“Yes, Ms. Vindmar.”
Her cover name-a deliberately amateurish attempt at privacy, since she was traveling under her real passport.
The crawl at the bottom of the cluttered TV screen flashed “CyberStorm Entertainment.” The newscaster’s Aussie accent came up, “…from the American NASDAQ. CyberStorm Entertainment’s share price has plummeted 97 percent in the four hours following a press release by the deceasedCTO Matthew Sobol, in which he claims to have placed a back door in the company’s Ego AI engine. Share prices of third-party game companies using CyberStorm’s software have also been punished since the news-and lawsuits are already in the works as products are yanked from store shelves worldwide. Analysts expect a cloud will be hanging over the entire PC gaming sector until the full extent of the problem is known.”
Oto smiled in that good-natured way South Seas islanders have when noticing how fucked up the mainland is. “The dead are punishing the living, eh?”
Strangely, Anderson swelled with pride. That’s my boss for you.
But why had the Daemon phoned her about it? Something was up, and it had everything to do with Tremark Holdings, IBC. She was sure of it. She was also glad she didn’t have to figure any of it out-since the Daemon was handing her both the clues and the answers in its own sweet time.
“May I join you?”
Anderson jerked her head to see a handsome, square-jawed American in a floral print shirt and khakis standing over her. He was in his mid-thirties, but he had a trim waist, broad shoulders, and rugged good looks that made Anderson imagine a string of broken-hearted women stretching from Minnesota to Sumatra. He had that cool, self-assured air that effective people have.
Anderson acted cool right back. “Can’t you see I’m catching the business report?”
He straddled a bar stool next to her. “There are more convenient places than Nauru to do that. So what brings you way out here?”
“An intense desire to be left alone.”
He laughed. Then he leaned close and spoke sotto voce, “The better question is: what is Anji Anderson, previously of KTLZ TV, doing in Nauru?” He laid his FBI credentials on the bar in front of her.
Anderson’s eyes widened for a moment as she nearly panicked. She should tell him. But what would that do? The Daemon was taking care of her. It wasn’t her enemy. This was leading somewhere. Betraying it could ruin everything.
She got ahold of herself. The Daemon had sent her here, and it knew everything. “I should have figured you for a spook.”
He collected his badge and grabbed her by the hand as he pulled her over to a red vinyl booth in the corner of the deserted bar. He was a man of action. Pseudo-romantic scenes from a dozen cable soft-porn films entered her mind. She tried to concentrate on the real situation.
“Oto, another drink for the lady.”
Oto nodded and got busy.
The FBI agent slid into the booth, pulling her in alongside him. She couldn’t help but see the bulge of a pistol holster in the small of his back as he slid across the bench seat. He smiled and extended his hand. “Call me Barry.”
She shook his hand warily. “All right, Barry,what’s this all about?”
“I want answers.”
“Such as?”
“What’s a lifestyles reporter recently let go from a San Francisco affiliate doing asking questions about Tremark Holdings, IBC, in far-flung Nauru?”
“What’s a big corn-fed frat boy like you doing so far from a Hooters?”
“I asked first.”
She acted coy. “Okay. I’m trying to launch a career as an investigative journalist. I’m tired of being the stewardess of the evening news.”
“Not an answer.”
“You mean, why am I so interested in the names of the officers of Tremark Holdings?”
“Yeah. That’s exactly what I mean. You know, of course, that asking questions around here is a good way to wind up missing.”
“Then why are you asking so many questions?”
He pointed a finger at her and let out a slow laugh. “I think I like you, Anji. Are you going to help me?”
“Help you how?”
“What does Tremark Holdings have to do with the Daemon?”
“What makes you think it has anything to do with the Daemon?”
“Because Matthew Sobol moved money into Tremark Holdings on the day he died.”
A wave of shock sent goose bumps over Anderson’s skin. God, this was fun. She couldn’t have faked that surprise. “Really? That answers a lot of questions.”
“How did you get wind of Tremark Holdings?”
“Let’s just say I have my sources.”
“Are they the same sources bankrolling your trip? The same sources helping you encrypt your satphone conversations?”
“Oh, please, Barry.” She emphasized his name with contempt. “Don’t be childish. Espionage isn’t the only reason for privacy. I’m working on possibly the biggest story of the year. Sobol had bankers, and some of those bankers are fond of a certain blond reporter-who at present is unemployed.”
“What did you learn on the Isle of Man?”
“That a Manx/Celtic fusion restaurant is a bad idea.”
He gave her a look. “Anji.”
“Okay. I learned that Sobol moved money into three different accounts there-all held by various international business corporations. But I also learned the money was moved out seconds after it arrived.”
He looked surprised. “How the hell did you get them to tell you that?”
She wasn’t about to tell him that the Daemon told her. No, the new Anderson was a resourceful investigative journalist. She smiled. “If you’re an overweight, balding Welsh banker, and I start coming on to you in a tavern, what would you do?”
He considered this. “I’d do anything to keep you talking to me.”
“Of course, I don’t do just anything, Barry. I’m not that kind of woman.”
“What else?”
“I’m not telling you anything you don’t know already-or at least won’t learn soon.”
“Did you find out anything else?”
She toyed with him, smiling and ticking up her eyebrows as Oto arrived with her drink. “Thanks, Oto.”
“No problem, Ms. Vindmar.” He retreated to the bar again.
Barry looked at her incredulously. “Where’d you come up with Ms. Vindmar?”
“It’s better than Barry.” She hammed it up, acting like a dope. “Hey, I’m Barry-not an FBI agent.”
“All right, stop. What if my name’s actually Barry? Did you ever think of that?”
She burst out laughing.
He looked intently at her. “Did you learn anything else?”
She sipped her Lemon Drop and then rolled the twist sensuously over her lips. God, this espionage stuff was fun! Especially when you held all the cards, and handsome tough guys had to wait on your every word. “Yes, I did, Barry. Have you noticed the short positions on the CyberStorm stock?”
She may as well have cracked a two-by-four over his head. He apparently hadn’t expected a sexy, fluff-piece reporter to actually come up with something. “Tell me more.”
“You’ll find there was an extraordinary rise in short positions in the weeks leading up to Sobol’s death. I was real curious about it until I saw the news today. Now it makes more sense. You know what stock shorting is, right?”
He gave her a slight smile. “I have a series seven.”
“Well, if that means ‘yes,’ then you can appreciate that someone just made a boatload of money by destroying CyberStorm.”
He looked confused. “But what good is money to a dead guy?”
“What makes you think the recipient is dead?”
He smiled at her-for real. “I’m really starting to like you, Anji.”
“I don’t know whether I like you yet, Barry. But I know what would makeme like you.”
“What?”
“An exclusive on the story when we find out where the money’s going.”
“An exclusive.”
“I get to breakthe story. And the FBI gives me an introduction to a major media company.”
He frowned. “You’re serious?”
“I’m unemployed. Remember? You just confirm that I’m investigating something big with the bureau.”
“Wouldn’t they think it’s a planted story?”
She laughed. “You’re so funny, Barry. I think I do like you. You’re like an innocent little fawn.”
He tried to eye her darkly, but it wound up just looking stupid. “I’ll need to run it past some people.”
“You do that.” She felt firmly in the driver’s seat now. He was reacting to her, not the other way around. “In the meantime, I’m going to get that list of corporate officers, and when you Feds catch up, we’ll talk some more.”
“Careful, Anji. This isn’t a game.”
“Who said I’m playing one?” She kept her eyes on him and took another sip of her drink.
He looked confused, as if he suddenly realized he was talking to someone else-not the Anji Anderson he’d expected to find.
She continued. “Are you going to help me, or are you going to stop me? Your choice.”
He stared at her. His silence said it all.
Chapter 22:// Honey Pot
Reuters.com
CyberStorm Voice-Over Actor Found Dead, New York, NY — Expatriate British actor Lionel Crawly was found dead in his apartment on Manhattan’s Upper West Side early today. Crawly gained a modicum of fame in the online gaming community as the voice of Oberstleutnant Heinrich Boerner, the notorious villain of the bestselling game Over the Rhine. Police sources indicate that the body of the elderly actor lay undiscovered for several days and that the cause of death is unknown pending an autopsy-although poisoning is suspected.
Agent Philips did not contact Sebeck or Ross directly. Nonetheless, Sebeck felt the heavy presence of NSA security all around his house. Two windowless vans sat curbside near his driveway, and federal agents shooed away reporters foolhardy enough to approach his residential block-although, in the tumult of media attention following the fiery destruction of Sobol’s estate, no one focused much on the cop who discovered the Sobol connection. Control of the Task Force had been transferred to Washington, which meant that Sebeck and the entire Sheriff’s Department were out of the loop. That was fine with Sebeck. It gave him time to focus on something he’d never given a damn about: computer games.
In general, Sebeck viewed computers as a necessary fact of modern life. His chief complaint was that they gave a false sense of precision to poor thinking. But then, technology was like religion-you either had the faith or you didn’t.
It was almost midnight, and Sebeck scanned his keyboard to find the hotkeys that would twirl his barbarian character around. The majesty of a fully textured 3-D wilderness filled his computer screen. In the foreground, giant rats were overcoming a muscle-bound barbarian.
Sebeck’s son, Chris, stood next to him. “Dad! They’re kicking your ass.” He laughed and covered his eyes.
Sebeck glanced at the screen. He started hitting keys at random. His barbarian had the digital equivalent of an epileptic fit, while the rats brought him down. “Damnit.”
“Oh man, you suck.”
Sebeck gave Chris the evil eye, and the boy held up his palms in submission. “Just trying to help.”
“Yeah, you’re a hell of a teacher.”
“You should just let me do it for you.”
“This isn’t a game, Chris.”
“Yes, it is a game.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’ve been after you for a year for a subscription to The Gate.What’s the difference if I play for a while?”
“Because the psychopath who killed Aaron Larson created this game.” He cast an angry look at his son.
Chris was taken aback at the harshness of the reaction.
Sebeck collected himself. “Chris…”
Chris adopted the intense indifference unique to angry teenagers. “No problem.” He stood up and walked out-only to pop his head back in the doorway to say, “I was just trying to help,Dad.” He stormed down the hall, then thundered upstairs.
Sebeck stared at the floor. He’d screwed that up-like most aspects of fatherhood. Listening to himself speak sometimes Sebeck wondered who the hell he’d become. In high school he’d been a laid-back guy. But that was before all this. And why was he not repentant? Even now he sat at the desk with a vague feeling that he should feel bad-but he didn’t. Instead, he felt justified by the importance of his work. It was a coping mechanism he’d honed to a razor edge over the years.
He focused on that work again.
The computer game, The Gate,seemed infantile. Apparently, loads of people were eager to spend fifteen bucks a month to wander around an endless 3-D wasteland bashing rats, slugs, and zombies over the head. No wonder Sobol was rich. Sebeck didn’t see the appeal in it, and aside from the arcane hotkey commands required to turn around quickly, it wasn’t much of a challenge. Certainly there wasn’t any thought required.
His home phone rang. Sebeck eyed the cordless handset suspiciously. He glanced at his wat
ch. It was just after midnight. He picked it up and pressed “Talk.” “Sebeck residence.”
Ross chuckled on the other end. “Giant rats? You let giant rats kill you?”
Sebeck frowned. “You saw that?”
“I was watching you from a nearby hill.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“It’s involved. Suffice it to say there are ways.”
“Jon, tell me again why it’s not stupid to be running this game on my computer. The Gateis supposed to have a back door in it.”
“We’re tryingto draw the Daemon out. You backed up your hard drive like I told you, right?”
“Chris did-although you can delete the whole damned thing for all I care. All I ever find on here is spam, porn, and pirated music.”
“Look, there’s something strange happening off the northern coast of Cifrain. I want to check it out, and you’ll need to be tougher to come with me.”
“I’m still stuck in this Briar Patch.”
“Forget about that. I went on eBay and bought you a real character-not that newbie Conan cut-out you’re running around with now.”
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