“About our friend Wu Yung,” said Sally. “About the islands.”
Atal blushed and they both knew why.
As light began fingering the palms that edged the beach, Sally had splashed her way onto the sand and stopped to retrieve her sarong, wrapping red-and-white dragons loosely round her narrow hips, then padded her way along a winding path between rampant bushes of sea almond and wild orchids until she reached the kampong.
At the entrance of her hut Sally stopped again to kick white sand from her heels and, glancing across the kampong saw Wu Yung leave a house on stilts that Atal had chosen. An empty wine bottle in his hand, the camera around his neck.
She ate breakfast alone that day but at lunchtime she joined the others by the jetty, sitting topless while Atal swam and Bozo chilled under a palm, spliff growing cold between his fingers as he stared in wonder at a cluster of coconuts above, any one of which could have killed him.
On the jetty itself Wu Yung worked a barbecue made from an oil drum cut open end to end and welded to the old frame of a metal table. He had two fish the length of Sally’s arm crisping on its griddle, fat spitting on the glowing coals, their eyes gone opalescent with heat…
“You okay?” Atal asked.
“Sure,” said Sally as she watched Singh’s cab roar away. “Just remembering how we got here.”
Bozo grinned. He knew exactly how he got there, by Boeing 747 from KL to Idlewild, paid for by the weird Chinese guy and with $1,000 spending money in his pocket. “We going to do this, or what?” he said, putting on a fresh pair of gloves.
Almost opposite the Church of Our Saviour stood the Hotel Kitano. A lovingly restored fifteen-storey redbrick hotel that majored in rollout futons and sunken hot tubs for its mainly Japanese clientele, or so Atal said, then got embarrassed when Bozo asked how he knew. And that was where Sally, Atal and Bozo went—across the four-lane, cop-car howl of Park Avenue. Although they detoured round the block to let them approach the hotel from a different direction.
Getting in meant staying confident, what with the riots and everything.
“I need to use your bathroom,” said Sally before the uniformed doorman even had time to speak. Whatever the man had been about to say got lost inside her smile.
“It’s on the right, down some stairs.” He’d been about to call her lady but the kid’s accent was just too upscale for that.
“Wait in the bar,” she told her companions. Shuffling the Balenciaga bag so it sat higher on her shoulder, Sally headed for a dark wood door without looking back.
The woman who exited the chrome, glass and slate bathroom wore Dior lipstick the colour of dry blood, a small pillbox hat, and a dress of tissue-thin black silk that rustled over her small breasts and made obvious her lack of a bra. The bag was gone, tossed into a chrome trash can, and with the bag her shades and Atal’s jacket, all three spoof-bombed against DNA tests with crud vacuumed up from the backseat of a bus.
It looked on first glance as if she wore no knickers at all. It looked that way on second glance too.
“Champagne,” she told the barman, “chilled not frozen.” He didn’t get the reference. That was the problem with using English tag lines, few Americans ever did. “And some olives,” Sally added. “Preferably in brine.”
Over at his table, Atal smirked.
“You both know what to do?” Sally asked, grabbing a chair and leaning forward, so that her dress gaped at the neck. On cue, the eyes of her two companions flicked from their beers to the swell at the top of her breasts.
That worked then.
“Well?”
“We know,” insisted Atal, his eyes still fixed on her front.
“Glad to hear it.” Sally sat back, picked up her drink and smiled. In ten minutes’ time she’d be meeting a fiftyish WASP, probably done up in dress-down Fridays twenty years too young for him so he didn’t get coshed by protestors. And the man wasn’t going to listen to a word she said, which suited Sally fine since she was planning to busk that bit of the routine.
“Finish up,” she said. “We’re on.”
The Bayer-Rochelle office was two blocks from Hotel Kitano. Stuck between the Sterling Building and Doctors Mutual International. There were uniformed guards on the door, four of them, and they’d taken the mayor at his word and armed themselves with something more deadly than nightsticks.
Although their Glocks were still holstered, not drawn or combat held like guards outside one of the banks they’d driven past earlier.
“Annie Savoy,” announced Sally, flicking on her smile and one of the uniforms unbent enough to check his clipboard.
“Not on the list,” he said and turned away, conversation over.
“Could you check with Charlie?” Sally’s voice was saccharine sweet.
Despite himself, the guard turned back, question already forming on his lips.
Got you, thought Sally. “Charlie Savoy, my godfather…”
The man looked at Sally, whose sun-bleached hair was now swept back in an Alice band, black to match her dress. Comparing and contrasting the rugged, well-known looks of billionaire Dr. Charles Savoy (son of H. R. Savoia, a cheesemaker from Basilica) with the very English girl standing on the sidewalk, waiting to be invited inside.
He’d had jobs in Lower Midtown long enough to recognize expensive clothes and he knew, as you were meant to know, that only the very rich got away with wearing so little with so much elegance.
“Your name’s not on today’s approved list,” he said apologetically. “But I’ll call his PA.” The nod he gave the other three was perfunctory, more a reminder to stay alert than any apology for leaving them.
“Your boss?” Sally asked.
One of them nodded.
“Doesn’t like doing door duty, right?”
Another nod, more emphatic this time.
“All hands to the pump I guess. What with anarchists trashing everything of value…”
Behind Sally, Bozo turned a snort of laughter into a hasty cough and swallowed his smile inside a hastily grabbed silk handkerchief. The handkerchief was blue. It matched his stolen suit.
“There’s a problem…” The returning guard sounded more apologetic than ever. “Your grandfather’s not here at the moment.”
“Godfather,” Sally corrected. “My godfather. What about Mike Pierpoint?” That was the fiftyish WASP she actually needed to meet, the one with receding hair and a weight problem. She knew this because she’d seen a shot of him in the back of Harpers, a moon-faced academic in rimmed glasses out of his depth at some black tie do for ethical genome research…
“He’s on the phone,” the guard recited from memory. “He sends his apologies and asks you to wait.”
“No problem,” said Sally. Sliding past the guard, she strolled towards a bank of lifts and punched the correct button without needing to look at the list displayed in a brass frame on the wall. A puff piece in the local business press had already revealed the right floor.
Gazing down from his twenty-second-floor office, billionaire Charlie Savoy can almost see the tiny corner shop where his father…
“He meant wait down here.” The guard’s voice faltered as Sally turned, her face suddenly worried.
“If we must,” she said, sounding less than happy. “Although I’d feel safer waiting in his office.”
They rode an Otis to the twenty-second floor, thanked the lift politely when it wished them a profitable day and had to wait for Atal to get over his attack of giggles. As the doors shut Atal was still grinning. The man who came out to greet them wore Gap chinos, canvas deck shoes and a striped sweatshirt with an anchor on the pocket.
“Annie…”
Sally shook his hand warmly, holding her grip for a second longer than strictly necessary and the man smiled politely, but only after noticing her nipples.
“Beautiful dress.” Mike Pierpoint blushed as he said this.
“Dior,” Sally agreed. “A present from my father.” And the bald man nodded as
if he knew who she meant.
“I don’t think we’ve met?” he said, his question just the wrong side of anxious.
“We did,” said Sally. “But you won’t remember. I was much younger. More of a kid really.”
Mike Pierpoint wanted to say she was still a kid, Sally could see it in his eyes. But he resisted the urge, helped probably by the half glances he kept throwing at her tits.
“At a baseball match or company barbecue,” Sally added, busking it.
“Barbecue,” Mike said with certainty. “It must have been a barbecue. Your godfather hates baseball with a passion.”
Sally smiled.
“I don’t want to keep you,” she said. “If you can just show me the way.”
The room was everything Wu Yung had led Sally to expect. A huge corner office full of heavy furniture and carpeted in burgundy, with blue washed-silk wallpaper between faux marble half pillars that supported a panelled ceiling probably made from embossed card, although a century’s worth of paint would need to be cut away before anyone could be sure. In the six-foot drop between the ceiling’s ornate coving and a slightly less ornate picture rail, bare-breasted nymphs hit stucco tambourines and flicked their hair in a static wind.
Charlie Savoy’s desk was equally imposing. Solid not veneer, made from some wood so oxblood it was undoubtedly endangered.
Atal nodded. “Meranti,” he said, “from the shorea tree.” He looked at the wood, considering it carefully. “Probably thought they were buying teak.”
On top of the desk stood an old-fashioned PC, a stand-alone Dell, lacking even a modern connection. Beside the PC a newish laptop slotted into a docking bay that bled wires in a waterfall to the floor. Atal switched on both machines without Sally having to say a thing.
“Too worried about being phreaked to go infrared,” said Atal, pointing to the wires, his dismissive grin that of someone who’d once read a complete stranger’s dear john e-mail across a crowded railway carriage, using a basic Van Eck box.
“The fire door’s out there,” Sally told Bozo as she tossed him a pack of Marlboros. “Check it’s not alarmed and go have a cigarette. Warn me if that creep comes back.”
“I don’t use tobacco.”
“That’s right,” said Atal, snapping on a wristband and letting its antistatic wire hang free while he struggled into new surgical gloves. “Don’t you know his body is a temple?”
“Yeah,” said Sally, “and yours is Disney World.”
With Bozo standing guard by the fire door and Atal busy unscrewing grey boxes, Sally made a slow circuit of Charlie Savoy’s office and let her instincts run free. She was big on instinct. Instinct was what steered an albatross through storm-torn skies and let salmon do feats of navigation only long-dead Polynesians could imitate; it was what let Aboriginal kids remember routes they’d travelled only once, years back. Instinct was survival hardwired and way more important than most people allowed.
In fact, Sally was pretty certain that even human belief in free will was hardwired and she didn’t have a problem with that contradiction, she had a problem with what it allowed humanity to do to the rest of the planet.
So if she was Charlie Savoy, local boy made extremely good courtesy of a Ph.D. in microbiology and a couple of lucky guesses, where would she stash all those valuables she couldn’t risk taking home?
Assuming she could intuit what valuables such a man might want to stash…
Dirty money, maybe. Negatives featuring random acts of senseless sex? Quite possibly from what she’d heard, but she doubted he’d mind having his prowess exposed to the world. It would be something technically brilliant but deeply illegal. Sally was counting on it.
Wu Yung was already in line for whatever Dr. Savoy kept on the hard disk of his stand-alone, which, for all she knew, was kiddie porn, but Sally intended to take spoils for herself. Charlie Savoy was one of the bad guys and somewhere there’d be leverage, something to make him stop.
There always was. Look at her father.
In the corner of Savoy’s office stood a filing cabinet made from mahogany with solid brass handles. When Sally opened the top drawer she half expected it to be lined with padded silk like a coffin. Instead she got bundles of yellowing papers in hanging files gone brittle with age. Accounts mostly, a few ancient tax returns. He’d been rich for longer than she’d been alive.
“Story of my life,” said Sally.
“What?” Atal glanced up, the cross-blade screwdriver in his hand a fetching shade of orange. He’d shoplifted it from The Wiz along with his antistatic band the day before. “What’s the story of your life?”
“All of this.” Sally gestured to a row of bronze figures that lined a long ebony sideboard near the filing cabinet. A Roman slave with a rope round his neck lay dying on a poorly carved patch of earth. A half-naked bronze dancer, wearing a wisp of tin over her pudendum pirouetted on one leg, both arms raised above her head.
“Collectable,” said Atal.
Sally looked at him.
“Late Victorian,” he said. And Sally realized there was a lot she didn’t know about his background, but then everything he knew about hers was a lie, which probably made them even.
“Got it,” Atal said suddenly, lifting free a Southgate hard drive.
“Good. Now do the laptop…”
“Did most of it already,” he said, “while you were mooning about.”
Sally sighed.
After he’d replaced the PC’s casing so that everything looked normal from the outside, Atal flipped up the screen on the laptop and sat back, feeling blindly in his pockets for a disc. The antistatic wire still hung from his wrist but its crocodile clip no longer clasped anything. Atal didn’t need it for what came next.
Extracting a CD from his pocket, he slipped the disc into the slot.
“Got a knife?” Sally demanded suddenly.
Atal had and he watched as Sally slid the blade between the doors of the sideboard, cracking it open. Twenty-five-year-old McClellan, VSOP Hine, two kinds of Bombay Sapphire, Armagnac XS, a bottle of Pussers Rum so dark it could have been treacle… The man had something for everyone, complete with matching sets of glasses.
“Okay,” asked Sally, holding up a frosted tumbler. “What’s this?”
“Bohemian,” Atal barely raised his head from the laptop. “Art deco, possibly Lalique. Smashing it would be a crime.”
Atal’s virus was a kiddie script, captured from a zombie and modified slightly, then signed with someone else’s tag. Attached to it was what mattered, a hack he’d written from scratch.
As hacks went it wasn’t bad.
A quick skim of the network showed a six-car rats’ tail exiting through a router, most of those cerberus functions had been disabled, with the machines instructed to look to an IcePort X2, which doubled as a mail server and did a reasonably neat job with network address translation, meaning everyone was effectively invisible from outside.
More or less what Atal had expected. Solid but not flashy, functional rather than bleeding edge and a good eighteen months out of date. As for the network itself, well, that still used cable.
“Okay?” he asked Sally.
She nodded.
“Right we are then.” Atal switched off the laptop, counted to thirty and switched it on again. Extracting his disc, he slipped it back into his pocket.
“It’s done,” he said and Sally smiled.
Come midnight when the system prepared itself to back up, a sliver of script would lock out anyone still connected, which would be nobody, and fuck over the central server. First thing tomorrow, when the network came up all the keyboards would freeze and every local disc would reformat itself, several times.
Of course, it was possible to stop this by switching off individual machines at the wall, but experience proved that few people ever did that until it was too late. And the joy of the whole hack was, what with the trashed server, failed network and general panic, it might be as much as twenty-four hours bef
ore anyone thought to check inside Charlie Savoy’s stand-alone to discover exactly why its hard disk kept failing to boot.
“Shit,” Sally said.
Atal turned at the heartfelt expletive and found her staring down at the splintered front of a small drawer.
“Georgian card table,” said Atal. “Extremely valuable… Well, it was.”
Only Sally wasn’t listening. She was gazing at a transparent plastic folder and Atal had to agree, for that amount of damage it wasn’t much of a haul.
“The drawer can be mended,” he said soothingly. “So only an expert will be able to tell.”
“Really?” said Sally but her attention was on the folder. It showed handwritten specifications for a genetics lab recently built in North Africa by Bayer-Rochelle in conjunction with the Emir of Tunis. A joint project was mentioned, provisionally named Eight Score & Ten.
“You okay?”
“Sure.” Sally nodded. “How about you?”
“Me?” said Atal. “I’m good.” They’d been lovers briefly at the kampong, for the week or two it took them to admit they both preferred Wu Yung. After that, their time sharing a bed was limited to those rare occasions their host summoned them both.
From his other pocket Atal produced wet wipes and started to clean down the stand-alone’s grey case and keyboard, then did the same for the laptop, finishing the laptop’s TFT screen for good measure.
Just to muddle forensics still further (given he’d messed over both machines wearing gloves and the wipedown was a put-on), Atal upended a small plastic envelope of the kind banks use for loose change and dribbled the desk with crud vacuumed from a bus stop in Tribeca.
It was fair to say, Atal felt, that the obvious advantages of spoof-bombing every crime scene with a random collection of dead skin, broken hairs and artificial fibre had given a whole new lease of life to those little handheld vacuum cleaners that RadioShack sold for extracting dust from computer vents. “You done?” he asked Sally.
She smiled.
CHAPTER 12
Thursday 10th February
“So you see,” said Eugenie, “it went like this…”
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