by M. G. Harris
He clicked the mouse. Tentatively, he typed: hello?
Astonished, he watched as words began to appear on the screen in reply.
Hello, Mr. Bennett. I see you are still in Mexico City.
Jackson was too stunned to move. More letters appeared:
You may as well talk to me. You’ve already made your mistake. Here you are. Just a matter of steady, number-crunching, time before I track you down.
Cold dread swept through Jackson. But he couldn’t tear himself away. His fingers moved almost mechanically: Who are you?
My name is Hans Runig.
The name meant nothing to Jackson.
A symbol appeared on the bottom right hand of the computer, just as at the library: WARNING. SOMEONE IS TRYING TO TRACE YOUR IP ADDRESS.
You were at the university library today weren’t you? Rude of you not to wait to say hello. My men have put a lot of effort into meeting you. Make no mistake, before long, they will.
Jackson pushed back the chair. He had to wake Marie-Carmen. But before he turned around, he noticed a yellow shield symbol flash momentarily on the screen, giving way to a grey dialogue box on which the words: “IP Masking Software in use. Advise you disconnect Internet connection within 5 minutes.”
From behind him, he heard Marie-Carmen’s sleepy voice.
“You see. I’m not just a pretty face; and I don’t like people who snoop on me over the Internet.”
The text box where Hans Runig’s words appeared sprang to life once more.
What’s this? IP masking software? Impressive. I think you’ve found someone to help you, Mr. Bennett. You’re not that smart around computers, are you? At least that’s what Dr. Beltran used to say about you. So, who’s helping you? Is it that pretty girl from the Beetle? That silver Beetle?
They both froze. Marie-Carmen’s fingers touched Jackson’s. Then she leaned over the computer, pulled out the connection from the wall plug into the DSL modem, effectively removing her computer and modem from the Internet.
On the screen were the final words typed by their correspondent:
The channels of investigation may encounter arbitrary resistance, Mr. Bennett. But clarity will prevail. This is mere digression. Everywhere we go, we are observed. Someone, somewhere, will be willing to talk.
Jackson and Marie-Carmen stared at each other for a few seconds, before Jackson managed to ask, “What the hell just happened?”
Marie-Carmen was already gathering belongings into a pile, hunting in a closet for a suitcase.
“I pasted PJ’s sequence into Google. There’s a website with that address?”
She stopped moving. “But . . . why?”
“Some kind of trap. Anyone who searches for that sequence on the Web is going to wind up clicking on that link. Someone called ‘Hans Runig’ starts getting all chatty.”
“You know him?”
Jackson shook his head. “Nope. You?”
“Never heard of the guy. Looks like you tripped his IP tracing software again, like at the university. The software I installed can mask our computer’s IP address, for a while. Then it becomes like a battle of wits. Their software tries to crack our software. My money would be on theirs. I didn’t pay for mine, just downloaded it for free on the Internet. It gives you a five minute warning to disconnect.”
“So – we’re safe?”
Marie-Carmen shrugged. “Seems this Hans Runig has put a couple of facts together since last night. I’d guess they’ve realized that my stopping the car right there was just too much of a coincidence. They must have tracked down the new owners, got the license plate and model of the car I took, that heap-of-junk Tsuru.”
He began to dress. “Come to Switzerland with me.”
Marie-Carmen sighed, irritated. “Don’t you get it? We can’t be seen together anymore. We need to go right now, take a taxi, then separate. You go to the airport and wait for your ride to Switzerland.”
Jackson took hold of her hands, stopping her as she moved busily, nervously around the apartment.
“I’m supposed to leave you to be found?”
Marie-Carmen gave him a tender smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll take a bus out of state. I’ve saved up some money and technically, I’m still on sabbatical. I’ll go to Acapulco and hide in a hotel. I’ll always be around people. We’ll stay in touch over the Internet.”
“Alone? In Acapulco?”
“Sure, I’ll read books by the beach by day and go salsa dancing by night.”
Indignantly, he blurted, “Guys will hit on you!”
She gave him a little shove in the chest. “Listen to you! How long will it take you to forget me when you’re with the famous scientist lady in Switzerland?”
“But what should I do,” Jackson asked, his eyes wide, innocent, “if she wants me bad?”
Marie-Carmen raised a highly doubtful eyebrow. “You tell her she’s too old for you, maldito!”
“See, using bad words like that with your ‘gentleman callers’ could be the reason you aren’t married.”
Marie-Carmen’s eyes flashed with genuine anger, obviously hurt. She shoved him again, harder this time. “Hey, where’s your wife? Or are you one of those who likes to play the field until he’s over forty?”
“I’m trying to be serious, just for a second. Is there someone else I should know about? Because I’d kind of like to know.”
“There was. I made a big mistake.”
Jackson ventured, “Was he . . . ?”
“Married? Yes. I was stupid.”
“There’s no-one now?”
She replied, “I don’t know, Jackson. Is there?”
In response he kissed her, easing her back down on the bed.
“Promise me you won’t go with some stupid, fucking Italian whilst you’re in Acapulco,” he murmured, quoting broadly from his favorite Mexican movie, Y Tu Mama También.
She chuckled, kissed him back and whispered, “I won’t ‘go with any stupid, fucking Italians’. Or Brazilians, Frenchmen, Americans or Mexicans.”
“Good.” He tried to sound satisfied.
“Don’t you go with the glamorous rich lady.”
“I won’t,” he said as he kissed each corner of her mouth. “Even if she begs.”
Parting
Less than one hour later they left the apartment, strolled into the cool dark of the condominium’s gardens. The sky was an opaque, rusty orange, the reflection of the city lights a solid barrier to the night sky. As they walked past the security post, the guard stirred to life.
“You’re leaving, señorita?”
“Taking the bus to Valle de Bravo. Stupid car can’t be trusted to make the trip!”
Marie-Carmen observed the guard carefully. He asked, “Is there a contact number?”
“Thanks, that’s OK. My family knows where I stay in Valle.”
They walked into the street, in which shadows danced between the old wrought iron lamps and the tall trees which lined the road. “‘Valle de Bravo’, hey?” murmured Jackson. “That’s quite some diversion from Acapulco. Are you suspicious of your security guard now?”
“When they work out where I live, which we have to assume they will, the first thing they’ll do is to bribe the security guard.” She paused briefly. “Jackson, you really don’t know anything about Hans Runig?”
“No clue at all. I was going to search for his name on the Internet but . . .”
“You should be very careful about what you search for on the Internet. Until you buy some secure Web surfing software.”
“What’s that?”
“There are programs that you can use to surf the Web anonymously. That way, your searches and emails sent via the Web can’t be traced back to you. I’ll look out for something and email the link to you.”
“When will I see you again?”
Marie-Carmen just stared at him, shaking her head. “I don’t know yet, but we’d better think of a plan.”
They walked to the nearest taxi rank –
Marie-Carmen refused to risk picking up a passing taxi – and rode together to a large shopping mall near the Universidad metro station where they found a late night VIPS café. The place was relatively busy with a mixture of the excitable post night-club crowd and exhausted shift workers. They picked one of the red leather-seated booths and held hands, sharing coffee and frozen lemon cream pie.
Jackson picked up the fresh paper drink coaster. An idea hit him. He removed the DNA sample from his pocket; at the lab he had diluted it further, so there were now almost 250 micro liters – a volume roughly equivalent to two teardrops. He flicked the tube so that the sample landed, blotting onto the coaster. He asked for a clean, sharp knife. With immense precision, he sliced the coaster into two parts, placing each in a clean napkin. On each he had written a brief note of instructions, a name and address; two people in San Francisco.
He handed them to Marie-Carmen.
“Can you mail these for me? As soon as possible? It’s really important that you don’t touch them with your fingers, or anything which could be moist.”
She received them into an open paperback book.
“Now, that’s my secret backup.”
At 5am the café closed. The clientele spilled out onto the steps next to Plaza Universidad. It was still dark when they emerged. To one side was the rare sight of Avenida Universidad relatively free of traffic; to the other the empty parking lot of the now sleepy shopping mall.
Jackson sensed a sudden awkwardness between himself and Marie-Carmen. He could hardly believe that the moment had finally arrived to take their leave from one another. It really felt as though he should take the initiative, set the tone for the farewell. But he balked. Words, phrases that had been forming in his head already sounded trite as he imagined himself mumbling them.
As Marie-Carmen stood next to him, waiting expectantly on the steps in front of VIPS, Jackson found himself speechless, reduced to an uncertain smile.
“What’s wrong?” she asked him. “You don’t want to kiss me goodbye?”
Marie-Carmen clasped her arms around his neck. He couldn’t resist returning the embrace. Even through their clothing, he could feel the warmth of her body. With her fingers she traced the line of his jaw. He shivered at the memory of her skin flowing beneath his.
“I don’t want to say goodbye either,” she said, “But since I don’t know when I’m going to see you again . . .”
She kissed him deeply and without reserve. Jackson clung to her for minutes, refusing to let go.
“Make me a nice farewell,” she insisted.
He replied with a helpless shrug, “It’s no good. Can’t do it.”
Marie-Carmen pulled away, brusquely. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said, walking away.
He gave her a conciliatory wave and called out, “I’ll see you again real soon. In the meantime, I’ll write.”
“Sure; I can imagine. The last of the Great Romantics.” Marie-Carmen turned on her heel as she approached the taxi rank. She rewarded him with an unexpected, adorable smile.
***
Marie-Carmen took a taxi to the southern bus terminal, Jackson to the city center. He walked the streets of the old colonial heart of the city, a few moments of quiet tourism before taking a Metro train to the airport.
Even at this hour the airport hummed with activity. Jackson bought a paperback and hid behind it at a coffee bar. He was well aware that he’d chosen the furthest one from where he’d met PJ Beltran, just two days ago. Jackson doubted that he’d ever again be able to eat anything; the thought of what had happened to PJ made him feel queasy. With just ten minutes to go before his rendezvous with the Chaldexx representatives, an impulse took hold of Jackson. He went to the Internet café and paid for the minimum five minutes.
Straight away, he logged onto Hans Runig’s site.
In the crowded, noisy hall of the airport, the animated, flashing symbols and gloomy music had nothing of the impact of the night before. Jackson waited, watching the ticking of the counter for his Internet access. With just two minutes to go before his time ran out, text began to appear in the window.
Quite a surprise, Mr. Bennett.
Jackson typed: What’s your interest in all this?
I’m someone whose business interests were being threatened by Dr. Beltran. That had to end.
What makes you think I’m Bennett?
Because the only other person who knows the code sequence is dead. Unless you told your friend, your helper.
You’re on the wrong track there. The girl who gave me a lift dropped me at the university. You’re wasting your time looking for her.
Now . . . why would you tell me that?
Jackson’s heart almost stopped. His adversary was clearly no fool, why had he risked such an obvious lie?
I think you’re lying. You’re trying to protect her. She matters, doesn’t she? Who is she? A friend of Dr. Beltran’s? Whoever she is, Mr. Bennett, we’ll find her. We’ll find you both.
The Internet access timed out. A deep chill began to invade Jackson’s chest, a sense of his own stupidity and the desperate consequences that might now follow.
The Princess
The lobby of the Fairmont Acapulco Princess Hotel bustled with the daily arrivals and departures; white-uniformed porters whisked about, their trolleys piled high with luggage, guests queued to check in and out.
Marie-Carmen stepped out of the taxi, enjoying the cool breeze which swept in directly from the Pacific Ocean through the hotel’s marble lobby. It was a huge space; the hollow center of a pyramid-shaped hotel which had once been the most famous hotel in all Mexico.
As Marie-Carmen waited, she noticed a large poster board on which was written “Fairmont Acapulco Princess welcomes the 15th Annual Meeting of the American Society of Ancient History Teachers.” A few nervous-looking pale, predominantly white, Anglo and female persons had begun to aggregate in the vicinity of the poster; it seemed that the conference was beginning that day. Just then they were joined by a tall, good-looking man in his mid-thirties. He sported a crisply-ironed guayabera, similar to those worn by the hotel staff, and an infectious grin. The group immediately perked up. His sandy-brown hair was short at the back but with a long, unruly fringe. Twice, while Marie-Carmen was looking, he ran a hand through his fringe as he stared into the middle distance, like a yachtsman in a sea breeze.
Behind a hand, Marie-Carmen smiled. In her experience, guys like that were perfectly aware of every ripple of attention they drew. Every gesture was calculated to reinforce the initial, usually favorable impression. She found herself thinking immediately of Jackson. There was a good chance that he didn’t even realize how attractive he was. He certainly didn’t seem to spend much time worrying about what impression he made.
The sandy-haired guy was surrounded by his apparently admiring, mainly female colleagues. Out of the corner of her eye, Marie-Carmen thought she sensed his eyes on her, just for the briefest minute.
She was well used to such glances, often covert, usually investigative. In this case, however, her response was modified by an additional factor; the uncomfortable sense of being hunted. Her eyes wandered around the lobby, watching for anyone whose gaze might seem to be fixed for anything more than a fraction of a second, on her. Some people returned her glances, but only for acceptably short stretches of time.
She forced herself to calm down. There was no way she could have been traced to this hotel, or even at this stage, to Acapulco. Marie-Carmen had thought carefully through the trail she’d left, concluded that it could lead no further than the security guard at her condo building. He’d been briefed to divert attention to the lakeside town of Valle De Bravo, a popular holiday destination from Mexico City.
Anxiety was useful only as far as it kept her alert. Rampant paranoia, she figured, was best avoided.
Within the hour Marie-Carmen had checked in and changed into a deep orange bikini and a green silk sarong shot with golden thread. Anywhere else
it would have been an arresting outfit. At the Acapulco Princess, Marie-Carmen was fairly certain that it would help her to fit in. She looked out of the window of her 19th floor room, staring at the view over two 18-hole golf courses studded with palm trees and glittering blue water traps.
In its eighties heyday, the Princess had been a retreat for the rich and famous. The spectacle of a huge, modern architectural homage to an ancient Maya civic center in the midst of tropical gardens, lagoon style pools and waterfalls became one of the best known postcards of Mexico.
Although the splendor of the surroundings and service were still as impressive as ever, Acapulco itself had taken a blow as Mexico’s premier beach resort. Other resort developments such as Cancun and Huatulco and lately, Cabo San Lucas, had siphoned off the cream of the tourists and seen to it that the Princess was now – just – within the reach of Marie-Carmen’s salary as an archaeologist. One who liked to live extravagantly, at least.
Marie-Carmen reasoned that it would be one of the last places anyone would search for a modest academic. She opened her MacBook laptop computer on the glass table, in front of the open balcony.
First she searched for some cast-iron secure Web surfing software, which she quickly purchased and installed on her computer. Then she opened her webmail and emailed a quick message to Jackson, with a link to the software. Now, provided that they both surfed the Web from behind the protection of the software, there would be no way to track down the IP address of their computers; no way to link them to an obvious commercial, academic or geographical location.
With meticulous care, she typed in the sequence of Pedro Juan’s DNA molecule, transcribing from a printout. Marie-Carmen was not yet satisfied that Jackson had searched thoroughly enough. Yes, he had searched in the databases of known DNA and protein sequences, and also in the patent databases. However, that still left plenty of places where they might find mention of the sequence.