by D. F. Bailey
“Come on in, Will!” Eve hitched the straps on her bathing suit over her shoulders and waved a hand. A new swell rose behind her and hoisted her up and down. A roller-coaster ride.
He jumped up, dashed forward, jumped over a falling breaker and dove head first into the trough of water beside a gang of six teenage boys and girls holding hands in a circle. He paddled hard and fast, propelling himself underwater until he could see Eve’s green one-piece a few feet ahead. He could hear her scream with delight as he wound his arm around her and pulled her under.
As they broke the surface he spat out a long jet of water and splashed his hand in a slant that sprayed the water past her face.
“You will pay for this!”
“Promise?”
“I was trying to keep my hair dry!” She paddled beside him and kissed his cheek, then wrapped her legs around his waist and braced herself so that she could sweep her hair over her shoulders with both hands.
He locked his arms around her back and held her there. “This is like our first time.”
She laughed. “You’re so sentimental. I feel like I’m in a Deborah Kerr movie.”
“Careful. I don’t think that flick ended so well for her.”
“Maybe if we make love right away, then everything will turn out perfect.”
“Right away? Like, right here?”
She glanced toward the Moana Surfrider Hotel, a 1930s architectural gem that sat above the long flank of sand just above the tide line. She pointed to their corner room on the top floor, the open window she’d pulled ajar to admit the sea air just after they’d checked into the hotel. “No. I’m not some crazy exhibitionist. I mean up there.”
He turned his head.
“In our bedroom.”
He saw the curtain flap rustle. Could a breeze be tugging at the dark fabric? In this still air?
“All right. But only if we order room service tonight.”
“Sure.” She smiled and kissed him again. “If you think you’ll still be in a mood for eating.”
He laughed at that, at the gift Eve had for spinning almost any topic into sexual innuendo. He knew she was falling in love and he realized he was getting there, too. It was all so different than his marriage to Cecily with its weight of domesticity. A child to mind, the worries about tomorrow, the weary routines. No, there was none of that now. Eve had a talent for living in the moment and she invited him to share every minute with her.
He took her hand and they stumbled out of the ocean, picked up their towels and made their way to the patio at the back of the hotel, through the lobby and into an empty elevator car.
Eve leaned against his chest and whispered into his ear. “I’ve got a special surprise for you.”
“A surprise? I love surprises.”
“I know you do.”
“Mmm. So what is it?”
“Not telling.” The tip of her tongue traced the lobe of his ear.
By the time he opened the door to their room, he couldn’t contain his passion for her. Maybe she was right after all; maybe they wouldn’t have time for dinner tonight. Or anything else.
※
The next morning Finch and Eve met Sochi for breakfast in the Surfrider Cafe. Finch watched in amusement as Sochi unfurled the top of a flexible bag and pulled out a flash drive.
“You’re always bringing a new device into the game, Sochi. What’ve you got this time?”
“It’s called a Faraday bag.” He opened the top to reveal the mesh interior. “Looks like a shaving kit, but it provides electromagnetic shielding for electronic devices. Phones, computers, laptops. And thumb drives.” He smiled as if the bag possessed innate intelligence. He set the flash drive on the table.
“Good.” Finch sipped his coffee. “But we won’t need the drive this morning.”
“Right.” Sochi nodded and slipped the device back into the bag. He glanced over a shoulder. “Unless the plan changes.”
“Nothing’s changed.” Will wondered how Sochi would react to a last-minute shift to their schedule. He had a touch of obsessive-compulsiveness, a need to ensure life maintained a predictable order and sequence. From what he’d observed, it was a common neurosis amongst the technorati — the minions who engineered the world’s digital cogs and gears.
“So how did you sleep last night, Sochi?”
“Perfect.” He pointed through the open-air cafe to the beach. “It’s the surf. I think it might be harmonic with my REM-wave patterns.”
Eve smiled and checked her watch. “So. It’s almost eleven o’clock. Time to go.” She glanced at Finch and turned back to reassure Sochi. “I’ll text you when the meeting’s over and then we’ll see you in your room, okay?”
He shrugged and toyed with the beads knotted in his beard. His expression suggested that her comment was unnecessary. Almost coddling.
As they left the restaurant, Eve leaned next to Finch and whispered, “He’s nervous.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t tell her that despite their night together, a night that should have dispelled all cares, he felt some anxiety, too.
※
Finch walked past the giant Banyan tree along Kalakaua Avenue, the air clean in his lungs and the sun warm on his skin. The tide was up and he could hear the rollers breaking on the beach where he and Eve had lingered yesterday. Between the ocean and the sidewalk, the beachfront shops were preparing for business. A crowd of tourists with hotel towels draped over their shoulders waited at the open-air counters. The men wore thigh-length swim trunks. The younger women wore thong bikinis. Tattoos wound around thighs, up arms, over bellies. Inside the stalls long-haired boys in surfer shorts rented surf boards, umbrellas and collapsable loungers for a few dollars an hour. A breeze lightly scented with coconut oil wafted past him. He felt as if he’d stumbled into an endless summer.
As he approached the covered pavilion opposite the Aston Waikiki Circle Hotel he paused and studied the passing crowds. No one bore a hint of agitation or concern. The perfect place to meet. At the far end of the pavilion he saw the line of picnic tables. Every other bench was occupied by tourists and topped with clothing, portable ice boxes, towels, newspapers — all you’d need for a day in paradise. Next to the chess board sat a heavy-set man in his mid-thirties. He wore a linen jacket and a monochrome green tie, sunglasses, no hat. Nothing ostentatious. Only the scar along the length of his jaw betrayed him.
Finch approached the bench and studied the board. All the pieces in place, ready to begin. “Do you play the Sicilian Defense?”
The stranger lifted his head and studied Finch. “Never on Monday.” A Russian accent, Chekov from Star Trek.
Finch nodded. The greeting matched the prepared script word-for-word.
“Do you have software?”
“Maybe. And you have the key?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Chekov narrowed his eyes. As he leaned backward his neck thickened above his collar. Finch guessed that he’d trained with weights when he was younger, likely won a tournament or two.
“So. It’s all guesswork then.” In the near distance, next to the banyan tree, he could see Eve watching them. He frowned and leaned forward to speak under his breath. “I want to meet Alexei Malinin.”
Chekhov smirked at this. “He talks through me. Me only.”
Finch studied the men on the board. The black pieces were on his side suggesting he play defense. Each stood perfectly aligned, the four knights nosed straight forward, the notches parallel in each bishop’s miter, the kings’ crosses squared. He wondered how a bull like Chekhov could possess such a tidy sense of order. Had he set up the board, or had someone else?
He said, “Are you wearing a wire?”
“A what?”
“A microphone.” He fluttered his fingers and thumb together, a pantomime of lips flapping in the breeze.
When Chekhov didn’t seem to comprehend, Finch leaned forward, his head a foot away from the big man’s jacket lapel. “Alexei Malinin. If you want the GIGcoin softwar
e, then you have to meet me. In person. In the flesh. No later than six o’clock tonight. This is a one-time offer. Take it — or I leave this evening and you never see me again.”
Chekhov nodded with a look of contempt. “You want meeting? Okay. Three o’clock outside the Princess Iolani Palace. In the gazebo.” His accent sank on the zee. “Bring software. And no trouble.”
“All right.” Finally some progress. “In the meantime, what do you say we have a friendly game.” He tipped his chin to the chess board.
Chekhov shrugged as if he had no idea how to begin.
Finch advanced the black king’s pawn two squares.
The big man smiled, almost let out a laugh. “White goes first, always.”
“Not today, my friend. Starting today, we play by new rules.”
※
On the eighth floor balcony of the Aston Waikiki Circle Hotel Alexei Malinin pulled the headset from his ears. He’d heard enough. The reporter knew his name already. No surprise. Their next meeting was set and Kirill had done his job well. To look strong, impenetrable, controlled — that was enough for now. Later, if the need arose, he could unleash the big man against his adversaries.
Malinin closed the file folder containing the confidential documents on Finch and Eve Noon. Back in Moscow his old colleagues in the FSB had provided everything he needed to know about the reporter. Since his discharge from the US Army, Finch had maintained the charade that he’d served in Public Affairs, a cover for his assignment in Military Intelligence. At least the man could keep a secret, a rare quality in anyone these days.
Malinin walked to the open window and pressed the Zeiss binoculars to his eyes to study Finch. He clearly resembled the photograph in the file. He was taller than Malinin imagined, and heavier in his arms and legs. Perhaps the reporter had lost some of the physical agility he possessed during his tour in Iraq. Ten years later, that would be natural. But his instincts might be sharper, his senses more tuned, his stamina deeper. Malinin watched him jump a black pawn forward two squares on the chess board. Absurd. Who ever starts a fight with a left hook?
He shifted the binoculars a few degrees to the east until he spied Eve Noon pacing under the Banyan tree. Despite the concern drawn in her face, she was a beautiful specimen. Tall, robust — yet elegant. She possessed the self-assured reserve of a runway model. Perhaps because she was once a cop. How strange when beauty and iron discipline are wed in one woman. What man would not want to savor this fantasy for a night or two?
He turned back to examine Finch as he walked away from the table under the pavilion and ambled down to the beach. Why did Finch want to stand against him now? Except for the few who endured through sheer spite, all the reporters in Russia had been imprisoned, intimidated, or simply liquidated. But despite their assurances to him, the Whitelaw brothers had failed to eliminate Finch.
Perhaps one had to take great precaution with such a man, an extra measure of care.
※
The gazebo provided a whimsical air to the clipped-and-pruned Victorian landscape surrounding the Princess Iolani Palace. As he led Eve and Sochi up the steps to the covered platform Finch wondered if they’d stumbled into the gardens of Alice in Wonderland.
But when he saw Alexei Malinin and his team ahead, his wonder turned to more pragmatic considerations. He found himself assigning pros and cons to the venue. Pros: One, a public space distant from any eavesdroppers. Two, a location miles from Waikiki neighborhood snoops who might recall Finch’s previous meeting. Three, a decent vantage-point to detect approaching intruders. Cons: One, only a single access point in and out. Two, Chekov guarding that access point. Three, the contented look of anticipation on Alexei Malinin’s face.
“Ah, Mr. Finch. We meet at last.” Malinin crossed from the far side of the gazebo, his hand extended in greeting. He shook hands and turned to Eve. “And you must be Eve Noon.”
“Indeed.” She shook his hand.
“Well, I’m always pleased to meet new business partners.” He swung around to introduce his team. “This is Kirill, who you met this afternoon” — he waved a hand toward the unsmiling bull Finch had dubbed Chekov — “and Marat, my tech specialist.”
“Hallo,” Marat mumbled and glanced away.
Malinin paused to smile and after a brief hesitation ticked his hand toward Sochi. “And this is?”
“Our tech specialist. Sochi.”
“Sochi?” Malinin’s face brightened with an air of surprise. He stepped forward and shook Sochi’s hand with brisk formality. “Do you speak Russian?”
“No, not a word.” Sochi looked away.
“Ah. Well. Sochi is one of our most beautiful cities. In the Crimea.”
Except for a few mispronunciations, the Russian’s English was near-flawless, his accent flat, mid-western. Finch was impressed. So far Malinin behaved as if he’d convened a Christmas meeting of the board of directors to announce a special gift for a children’s charity.
“Please. Come, over here.” Malinin waved a hand and led them to a cluster of chairs in the shade of the gazebo roof. “Kirill will ensure we have privacy.”
They sat, three facing two: Finch, Eve, Sochi versus Malinin and Marat. Despite their shared expertise, Marat could not look less like Sochi. His face appeared sallow, almost unnourished. His fingers were stained with nicotine, his jaundiced eyes sunk deep in his face. With a nervous tic he raked thin strands of his hair to one side. Finch wondered if he had cirrhosis of the liver, or if some form of hepatitis had sipped the lifeblood from his being.
“I hope you don’t find me too expedient, but I suggest we get straight to business.”
“Of course.” Finch adjusted his chair so that he could keep Kirill in sight. The man rolled back and forth on the balls of his heels at the top of the stairs. His arms crossed over his belly, probably to screen a pistol tucked under his linen jacket.
“Good. To begin, let me say that I believe you are in possession of software that belongs to our company.”
“You mean GIGcoin Bank and Exchange?”
Malinin’s bonhomie vanished in an instant. He looked away and then turned back to Finch with a serious turn in his jaw. “Yes. GIGcoin.”
Finch leaned back in his chair and glanced at Eve. “Gee, I wasn’t aware of a change in ownership. My understanding is that the software belongs to Eve Noon.”
“Yes.” Eve uncrossed her legs and leaned in. “It was given to me by Gianna Whitelaw. I’m also the beneficiary of her estate and that of Raymond Toeplitz. The lawyers are probating the estates as we speak.”
“Any way you look at it, Alexei, Eve has the law on her side here.” Finch lifted a hand, a gesture that called for capitulation.
“Not if the property was stolen.”
“Stolen?” Eve feigned surprise.
“And you have some alternate proof of ownership?” Finch said.
“Of course.” Malinin lifted a briefcase onto his lap and carefully rotated the spindles on a four-cylinder lock located under the leather handle. The latch snapped open with authority. He withdrew a three-page legal document with an embossed seal imprinted on the bottom of each page next to a series of signatures. He passed the papers to Eve. “As a former police officer, I’m sure you can testify to its validity.”
Finch watched as she studied the signatures and read the summary paragraphs at the beginning and end of the document. The fact that Malinin knew her background showed that he’d done his research, too. No surprise.
“As you can see,” Malinin continued, “Raymond Toeplitz entered into a contract with GIGcoin Bank and Exchange to develop the GIGcoin software for the exclusive use of our company. For this he was paid handsomely. If you are the beneficiary of his estate, Ms. Noon, then congratulations. You will live comfortably for the rest of your life. As to the legal rights to the property, there is not a court in the USA, or Russia for that matter” — he laughed and looked away — “that would dismiss this contact and assign the software to you.”
“Maybe.” Eve handed the contract back to Malinin. “But as a cop I can assure you that once the lawyers stir the pot, anything can happen. Especially when it comes to assigning the property of a US citizen to a foreigner.” She glanced at Finch and continued, “So. Let’s talk about the software key. Two of them are required to initialize the program. You hold one. I assume the other belongs to the Whitelaws.”
He stared at her without answering. By now his amiable look had shifted to something more sinister.
“I’d like to propose another option that might satisfy both of us. A compromise.”
Malinin scowled. “There is no compromise to outright ownership.”
Finch watched as Kirill adjusted his weight and took a step toward the staircase. He felt the urge to change the mood. “Why not hear what she’s proposing?”
Malinin nodded and waved a hand as if he were shooing a dog across the street. “Go on.”
Eve leaned in again. “I will give you a copy of my software and you will give me a copy of your key.”
“What?”
“That way we each get what we want and keep what we already have. And neither of us can move forward without the second key.”
Malinin’s eyes narrowed and he settled the palms of his hands on his thighs. As he moved, the stick man, Marat, touched his shoulder and whispered into his ear.
Malinin held a hand aloft. “A moment.” They spoke in whispered phrases, in Russian.
Meanwhile Sochi drew Eve and Finch into a huddle. “He’s going for it,” he murmured and drew a hand through the mane of hair on his shoulders.
A minute passed as Malinin continued his conference. “All right,” he said at last. “Marat can arrange for the exchange tomorrow morning.”
“Sochi,” Eve asked, “can you prepare for the transfer by ten A.M?”
Sochi shifted his shoulders from side to side, weighing the possibilities. “Yes. But I’ll want to verify that the Russian key is valid before I transfer the software.”
Malinin looked at Marat. He nodded.
“Then we are agreed?”
“Not yet.” Finch set a smile on his lips. “I have two other conditions.”