The Diamond Dust on Dragonfly Wings: A Jeffry Claxton Mystery Novel

by Michael Yudov

  He hadn’t had the time to redo the plots, and any attempt at an explanation of duplicity now, however misplaced, would not garner him the results he had longed for. The final nail in his cross of fear had been driven in by himself, without any help whatsoever. ‘Then I take the data elsewhere.’ He couldn’t believe he’d said it, but there it was. These people weren’t going to put up with crap like that, not with a half million U.S. dollars riding on the payoff to one of the little wheels in the grander scheme of things. It had slowly been sinking in just how big this whole game had become, and he was getting the shakes.

  The air conditioning was blowing a cool air across the room, but he was sweating freely, just lying there in the semi-gloom. He sat up suddenly, throwing the sheet away from his body. It was already too late, but there was one man who would have an answer. John would know what to do. The kid was smart, and in the end, he had nowhere else to turn. He grabbed the briefcase on the chair next to the telephone desk.

  As he fumbled with the snaps, he cursed his own stupidity. The case opened with a soft metallic double click, sounding in his ears like the cocking of the chamber on an automatic pistol. His imagination was beginning to get the better of him. It wasn't fear, it was a dreadful certainty that he had screwed up again, only this time it could be the last.

  He pulled his Toshiba notebook PC out of the case and placed it on the desk. He was shaking by now, and he turned and walked to the bathroom, pulling on the robe provided by the hotel. It was exceptional, in that it was thick and warm. He shivered with relief, and held his arms tight about himself, standing with his eyes closed for a moment, thoughts of all his regrets rushing through his mind. Unstoppable, unforgiving. When he opened them again, his eyes held a new light. This was the right thing to do, he knew that like he knew the skies.

  He connected the laptops' modem to the hotel telephone jack and flipped up the screen. The red plasma display blinked into life, and glowed dully onto the desktop. It was only a few moments before his communication software had linked him to his brothers' number across the Atlantic. It was 12:30 AM in Toronto, and the next day was a working day. John would be in. He would be sleeping soundly, dreaming of his next promotion, his next multi-million-dollar deal, his next condo…, the 'phone rang four times before a sleepy voice responded over the line.

  "Hello…, hello?" He was half asleep, and confused by the delay in the transmission.

  "Johnny! It's me, Ted. How ya doin' little buddy?" There was a pause at the other end.

  "Ted? Is that you?"

  "Yeah, of course it's me. Who else would call you at this hour?" He forced a laugh. "Listen Johnny, I have to talk serious now, wake up and listen, OK? Are you listening?" There was a rustling sound on the line, then a voice came back, strong and clear.

  "Yes, I'm listening Ted. What's happened now? Are you alright? Where are you?"

  There was genuine concern in the tone of his voice, and Ted Dawson felt one more regret to add to the rush flowing nonstop through his mind. It had been almost a year since he had even spoken to his brother, and then it had been to ask for money. An indiscretion involving the wife of a policeman in the city of Recife had cost him far more than he had been able to put his hands on.

  Ted set his voice low, and spoke very deliberately and firmly, knowing the effect it would have on John, just like it always did.

  "Yes, I'm alright Johnny, don't worry. What I called you for tonight is something different. I can't explain everything over the 'phone, it's too complicated. I’m in Amsterdam, and I want you to listen carefully to what I'm going to say. This could be the deal that makes our fortune Johnny, both of us. I never stop thinking about you, buddy. I think I overreached myself on this one, but with your help, we can make it turn out ok. Are you with me?"

  "Tell me what you want me to do." He was all business. There was never any change. Whatever Ted wanted, that was what John gave him. When he thought of Ted, he thought of an adventurer in the classic style. His hero-worship had never waned. He had loved his big brother without reservation since he was old enough to know what a big brother was. Other people felt differently, but that was their problem.

  "I'm going to transfer some files over to your office system. I've got my laptop ready to go, and I'm using an NFS connectivity package, the same remote access software I used before. I know you had Unix on your PC last time I called you, because we used it then. You still have it, don't you?" A slight tremor of fear ran through him. Fear that this wouldn't work, due to technical incompatibilities. What a way to finish up.

  "Yeah, sure, but I'll have to boot my system here, log onto my PC at the office, and open up my side of the comms link, set up the account, that kind of thing. It'll take a few minutes, it's the middle of the night you know. I don't run a twenty-four-hour shop here, I'm at home in bed. What is it that's going on Ted? What's happening?"

  "Johnny, do what I tell you and you can get the info from the files after we've finished the transfer, OK?"

  "Sure Ted, let me set it up. I'll be right back on the line." There was a sharp knocking sound as he put the telephone down on his bedside night-table.

  Ted Dawson sat in his room, with his head propped up in one hand, elbow resting on the desktop, while he waited. His eyes were closed and he was trying not to think. It wasn't working. Suddenly John’s' voice came on the line, bringing him to attention with a start.

  "Ted, you there?"

  "Yeah, I'm still here Johnny, are you ready?"

  "I’ve opened an account for you on the system. Be careful though, I gave it superuser capability, so that you’ll have priority over any scheduled tasks that might kick in while you’re online. It’s up and running, waiting for your input. Password protect it OK? I can’t control access to my office when I'm not there. Use your middle name. That’s your account, and your password, in the ‘user’ subdirectory. What now?"

  "Alright, I'm going to call the bank line. I'll initiate the file transfers, and let it run for a bit. The speed I'm using is only 14.4 Kbps, I don't have the fast modem with me and these files are kind of big, kid. I've got about twenty-five megabytes of data to… " His brother didn't let him finish. He'd already made the calculations in his head.

  "Ted, are you crazy? You'll be on-line 'till next Tuesday! At that speed…”

  Ted stopped him abruptly. “CUT IT JOHNNY!” He could feel himself beginning to lose it. The control he had felt just moments ago was fading away as he sat there with the telephone in his hand, talking to his little brother the successful banker, and playing the tough guy. All the while knowing that it was slipping out of reach. His dreams, his hopes, maybe even his life… all of a sudden, he snapped to awareness. There was silence on the other end of the line. Ted spoke softly, “Johnny, are you still there? Say something.”

  “Ok Ted, I’m here, sorry, continue.”

  He finished what he had been saying. "Yes, there's just about twenty-five megabytes of data, but the first file I'm going to send you is called ‘geosqueez’, which will take about ten minutes. That file is the compression routine I used to squeeze the data down to about twenty megabytes or so. Use it to decompress the data after we're finished. The whole transfer shouldn't take more than few hours, give or take fifteen minutes."

  "Ted, I don't know what you're doing with this. Why don't you just send it to me by courier? I'd have it by tomorrow. The 'phone bill's going to be astronomical, and I'm certainly not going in to the office to babysit the line in case of dropout. I've got a job to go to in the morning." He gave it a moment or two before adding, "Well?"

  Ted took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I don't have time to explain, never mind wait for the courier offices to open up. By the time, I'd get the package picked up, you'll have it safe and sound, on your system. I need your input on this one kid, and I can't wait for days to get it. Once I hang up, you can go and get some sleep, but only a few hours’ worth. You have to get to the office on the tail end of the transmission, say about 5:00 AM Toronto
time. You’ll need the extra hours. You have to look over the data, and make an analysis of the financial aspects involved. There's a text file in the data called WHATITIS, read it first when you get into the office in the morning, and then offload the files and store them someplace safe. You're a banker, you understand the meaning of 'safe storage', right? I'll give you some time to think about what you see, and I'll call you again at about twelve thirty, your time on your private line at the office. Then I’ll bring you up to date over the last couple of days. It's still the same number, right?" He spoke on, not waiting for the verification. "Twelve thirty tomorrow then. You'll understand when you get the files. If you don't hear from me…, never mind, I'll call. For sure, OK?" He held his breathe, knowing what the final answer would be, but hoping that his brother would accept what he had told him and just do it. He could explain later, when he could think straight.

  John Dawson’s voice was laced with resignation. It was apparent even over the long-distance line. "Fine Ted, 'As You Like It', as always. I'll try to get some sleep, and I'll go look over the files at five o’clock in the morning. BUT, when you call me tomorrow, I want some answers. You can't go on just throwing yourself into every dark hole you come across on the off-chance there's a pot of gold in the deep dark bottom. Think about the offer I mentioned when you called last year. We could still make a go of it. Alright? Think about it?"

  "I'll think about it Johnny. I promise. I'm hanging up now. I'll call in less than twelve hours. Talk to you then. Thanks Johnny." He cut the connection and the line started to buzz with a dial tone. Immediately, he picked his Day-Timer out of the briefcase lying open next to him, and opened it to the office number for John's PC. The system answered on the first ring, and he began the initiation of the transfer. Within a few moments, the 'File Transfer in Progress' message came up on the screen. The breath went out of him and he seemed to fall in on himself, leaning forward in the chair, his head down, his arms hanging on the edge of the desk. He was thinking of the offer John had made last time he called. Come on home. Start a sightseeing mini-charter service for tourists. John would put up the capital, and he would run the business and fly the tours. Maybe even hire a second pilot if things got busy. It would work, and they would make money, but he would die in three months and he knew it. Die inside, and maybe never come to life again. To Ted Dawson, that was scarier than what he was into now. Never mind, if this worked, he could ask John to be his equal partner in a real flyers' business. Wilderness geophysical survey flights. Where the wild birds go. If this worked. That was becoming very vague in his mind at the moment. Well, John would figure out an angle. He was good at that, and always had been.

  He turned to matters at hand, realizing belatedly that a three plus hour data transfer wasn't going to be completed on battery power alone. The best he'd ever gotten from the Toshiba, time wise, was about three hours’ max, and the machine wasn't carrying a full charge right now. He had used it on the 'plane on the trip over from Rio.

  He dug into the briefcase and pulled out the AC adapter, stopping to think about it for a minute. He couldn't wait around for the transfer to finish, he might get interrupted by the very people he was beginning to fear. That wouldn't be good. He had to go out, maybe call Enrico and go for breakfast somewhere, take his time over it. Keep them occupied with him, and they would never know that the secret was out. It wouldn't take long, only a few hours. Ok then, if he was going out, he had to stash the laptop away somehow, while it finished its' work. It would be fairly obvious, sitting on the desk warbling away, if anyone came into the room looking for him while he was out. The maid might even accidentally interrupt the process if she came in to clean the room early, while he was out.

  Slowly, his whole demeanor changed, as he contemplated success in a modified form. He felt certain that he was going to be able to give all the info to John. No matter what happened after that, or to him, he had them beat. He smiled to himself as he set down the AC adapter and pulled the drawer out of the desk. Carefully he broke off the back wall of the drawer and slid it back into place, with the broken piece laid inside. Pulling the desk away from the wall, he took his soft-wrap toolkit out of the briefcase, and stepped behind the desk. Carefully, he turned the laptop to face him on the desktop. He unfolded the toolkit and pulled out a fresh roll of black electrical tape. Unrolling the tape, he picked up his cutters and began hanging fourteen inch strips from the edge of the desk. The modem in the machine warbled away in happy obeisance all the while. Bytes of information traveling at the rate of twelve hundred per second. Sending his secrets to his brother on another continent. When he had no more room to hang any more strips, he put down the cutters and delicately started laying the tape across the bottom top lip of the machine. The half inch of the lip that contained the insert holes for the latches on the lid. As the latches mated to the insert holes, the automatic power-off feature was engaged. That was exactly what he didn't want. But he did want to shut it. It wouldn't fit into the drawer with the lid up, and the tape would prevent it from shutting off when he put it in the drawer. He continued with the procedure until the tape was used up. The result was a one-quarter inch raised lip, with the insert holes covered up. It would work. He pulled the AC adapter off the desktop and plugged it into the wall behind him, then turned and plugged the AC power into the laptop.

  He gently pulled down the lid until it touched the barrier of electrical tape. He stood and pulled off his robe, then wrapped it around the computer, until the sound of the modem was something indefinable. A noise on the edge of consciousness, without origin or identity. Picking it up, he placed it into the open back of the drawer, from behind. The telephone jack and the power cord trailed out the back, but they would be virtually unnoticeable. It was done. He moved out from behind the desk and pushed it back against the wall. The deception was complete.

  He checked the time. 6:10 AM. Fifteen minutes to shower and shave, get dressed and then give Enrico a call. A perfect time for an early breakfast in an historical city. He almost ran to the shower.

  North Atlantic, en route to Toronto, June 17, 96

  T

  he vibration from the engines of the 747-SP were all-pervasive. At thirty-six thousand feet the air was clear, but the cloud covered down below stretched as far as the eye could see, dark and uninviting. It would not be comfortable by the looks of it. Swissair flight 522 from Zurich, via Montreal arrived at 1:40 PM, right on schedule, as could be expected. The travelers disembarked with the usual relief, tiredness, chatter, complaints, compliments and so on.

  Among them was a man in a Christian Dior charcoal pinstripe suit, carrying only a slim black attaché case, and an off-white trench-coat. He was of indeterminate age, and indeterminate origin. His hair was dark and full, with the kind of natural wave some modern men paid a fortune for. He stood at medium height, with eyes that were quite full and very green. They were also very cold, but there was no-one greeting him to notice. He passed quickly through customs, and having no bags to pick up, found his way moments later to the cab stand. He stood quietly until it was his turn. As he got into the car he stated his destination. The driver nodded jovially and pulled out into the stream of vehicles.

  The cab cut through the driving rain, pausing only for traffic signals, and the occasional pedestrian scurrying for shelter. It was only 2:45 PM but the sky was as dark as twilight. Thunder cracked down from the sky and bounced around between the towers as the car wound its way deeper into the canyons of the city core.

  The driver pulled up to the curb in front of the Elephant & Castle pub, just a block or two from the financial district. He glanced in the rear-view mirror to gauge the effect of his driving on the passenger, and on his tip. The fare had sat motionlessly, never saying a word throughout the entire trip from the airport, despite the occasional attempt at small talk presented to him.

  "Here you go mister. That'll be twenty-eight fifty." He half turned, expectantly.

  In the back seat the man reached inside his sui
t jacket slowly. Billy Santers got a sudden chill, without really knowing why. He had been driving cab in this town for over twenty years and he had a pretty good feel for what was what, but he couldn't have said what it was about this guy that bothered him, it just did.

  The man pulled out an old-fashioned wallet, like Billy's grandpa used to have. About double the size of a regular one, and pulled out a twenty and a ten, carefully, then passed them over the seat. Without a word, he opened the door and got out of the cab. As he left the car, Billy called after him "Thanks mutely Mister, I'll be seein' you", just like he usually did, but this time he hoped it wouldn't happen. He hadn't tipped well anyway, Billy thought to himself as he headed back uptown to find a new fare.

  Enrico DeVasques walked quietly through the pub, gently shaking out his trench-coat, dripping slightly from the downpour. He stopped at the standup bar and signaled the waiter, ordering a Perrier water, and a glass of white wine. He grimaced as he sipped the wine. At 3:20 PM, he found his way to the telephone booth and made a call. A secretary answered, putting him through efficiently to John Dawson.

  “Mr. Dawson?”

  “Yes, what can I do for you?”

  “I bring news of your brother. I think we must meet.” There was a long pause.

  “Yes, of course. Who am I speaking to please?”

  “I’m a friend of Ted’s. He has sent a message for you. My name is Karl Millar. I worked with Ted in Brazil.”

  “I see. Can you give me some idea of what the message is? Is Ted alright? Where is he now?”

  “All of your questions will be answered Mr. Dawson. Why don’t we meet, say at six thirty or so tonight? Perhaps at the Daily Planet Bar & Grill? We can have a drink and maybe a bit of dinner while we talk.”