The Depository

by E Y Mak

  Mauritius paused to sip water.

  “Now think of all the information about you on the internet—and there’s a lot out there on you. There are companies out there whose sole purpose is to buy information, mine the information for patterns, and sell the information to others. If our goal is to protect privacy, we should be advocating for stronger regulation and resources dedicated to protecting information and public education. But when was the last time you saw any kind of public interest in this, particularly on a sustained basis?”

  Mauritius continued, accentuating the need for continued reinforcement for reasonable belief before a governmental authority could access any private information. Russell watched the master orator seem to make love to the crowd during his speech. He was a showman—as much an entertainer as he was a teacher. Despite the dry topic, Russell began to feel just a bit of excitement. He also thought there was some inherent irony that he, an agent of one of the most intrusive companies in the world, could see the light side that this privacy advocate was promoting.

  “We can all hope for the best—that we all live in countries that respect and support the individual’s right to privacy. However, I challenge all of you here today to try to make a difference. Many of you serve as gatekeepers in your organizations. Maybe your organization itself serves the gatekeeper function for your community or country,” he said, smiling towards a table that had earlier identified themselves as regulator staff. “Put policies and regulations in place to help protect the information that we talked about today. I implore you to do all that is within your power to make a difference. Thank you all for your attendance tonight.”

  Russell watched as raucous applause followed Mauritius all the way from the podium to his seat.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After the lecture, Russell kept looking for a chance to talk to Mauritius. He had mastered the art of feigning intimate conversation while actually focusing elsewhere. Right now, he was debating the finer points of the Occupy Central movement with one of the privacy officers while keeping Mauritius in his peripheral vision.

  I need to get an audience with him.

  The rock star never had a free moment. If Mauritius wasn’t enthralled by his tablemates, then a wayward attendee had made their way to his table to make an introduction and request a quick chat.

  Russell had already gone down a half-hour rabbit hole at his table before he decided that he had waited long enough. He grabbed his jacket and pretended that he had received a notification on his phone. After excusing himself, he texted Benita. He could see Benita’s face light up in the distance from the display on her cell phone.

  Russell: I need you to get him alone for me.

  Benita::)

  He watched as she stood up and walked to the bar, her dress shimmering in the dim light of the ballroom chandeliers. She slowed as she passed Mauritius’s table, giving him a bit of extended eye contact when he looked up. She then picked up her pace and went into a small alcove on the side of the ballroom. Mauritius smiled, stood up, and followed her in. By this time, Russell had already made his way over to the other side of the alcove.

  She looped out on the far end and passed by Russell. Though they avoided eye contact, Russell helped himself to a peek. He then used this distraction to feign accidentally walking into Mauritius.

  Russell spoke first. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Not at all, señor.”

  “Oh . . . Mr. Delgado. It’s you!” said Russell with fake excitement. “I’d just like you to know that I very much liked your speech. I especially liked your war stories on the first couple of start-up years at Delgado Solutions.”

  Mauritius was clearly annoyed at the interruption, but he was a keynote and had to maintain his composure.

  Russell stuck out his hand. “Russell Woo, vice president—Corporate Finance at Hocking Financial.”

  The corners in Mauritius’s face went from a look of annoyance to a look of surprise. Mauritius raised his eyebrows and took Russell’s hand.

  “Russell. A pleasure to meet you. What is a banker from Hocking doing at this conference?”

  “I’ve got a keen interest in the tech sector with an eye on opportunities in this space. It’s a scary world out there, but this is the time for some investment in the right places. I’m in Hong Kong on personal business, but I’ve also heard through the grapevine that you have something percolating.”

  Mauritius looked at him suspiciously. “Look, I have a lot of interest already for any deals that we have. I deal primarily with UBS, and they decide who to syndicate with.”

  “I know how we can get you a better price than UBS. Since we’re a smaller shop, we’ll take a smaller commission as well.”

  “Russell, it’s more than just numbers with me. But how would you get similar participation to UBS? How would you . . . you should talk to my confidante, Elva, about any deals that we have going on.”

  “Why don’t we go somewhere more appropriate to talk about this? I’ll make it worth your while. Hocking’s been all over the news lately,” said Russell, leaning in slightly. “We’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy.”

  Russell knew he was really going out on a limb here. Hocking had signed a limited agreement for Phineas agents to use their brand to give their operations an additional air of reality. He was pretty sure, however, that Russell’s semi-authorized mission was outside the scope of that engagement.

  Mauritius raised an eyebrow. “I did read a lot about Hocking in the Times recently. You were involved in those deals? The Foscos one-point-three-billion-dollar acquisition?”

  “You better believe it,” Russell said as he grinned confidently.

  “Okay. You piqued my interest. My keynote is done. Let’s go to the Fighter’s Club. Tonight. I’m not free after that,” said Mauritius. “My driver is outside.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sometime in the late 1990s

  In the moonlight, the teenage boy jumped an old, rotting log on his bike and furiously pedaled straight towards the forest ahead. As the shrubby path opened up for him, he curled forward over his bike, trying to reduce his drag for that one last push to the treeline. Two spotlights lit the ground beneath him, broadcast from the two silent airships pursuing him.

  He was making his way to the pretty teenage lifeguard’s house. She was his new obsession, someone he had been tailing for the last three weeks, ever since a chance sighting at the local state fair with his friends. He had quickly found the red brick townhouse where she lived, the Staten Island community center where she worked, and the Pine Trees Mall she frequented on Friday nights. He had even jealously watched her have sex in the back of her boyfriend’s pickup truck.

  On the day he had finally gone to visit her at her home, alone in her bed at the usual time, he had once again ritualistically prepared himself for the moment.

  He had set out his tools, the black hoody and khakis, and the Timberland boots. He had checked the airship positionings on the online message forums and pirate radio. This was the time that they weren’t supposed to be in the area.

  Except that they were.

  He hadn’t arrived yet at her home when he first noticed the airship gliding behind him. It was almost imperceptible in the darkness, it’s dark underframe blending into the night sky from his earthly vantage point.

  But he saw it. And it had seen him.

  As he cycled eastward on Lathrop Ave, he made a sharp left turn onto Bidwell Ave. He cycled for four blocks at top speed before banking a hard-right into the wrong way traffic on Maine Ave.

  Near the top of the block, he looked behind him.

  There were two of them now. Lower and closer to the ground. Just above the electrical wires.

  He debated stopping and simply letting them fly over. He had not done anything. He was simply out for an evening ride at an odd time of night.

  With a knife and his tools in his backpack.

  But he couldn’t risk it. These airships were here f
or a reason. They weren’t usually here. They were sent for a purpose. To monitor and surveil. A geographical profile told them to be on the lookout at this time of night, in this area, for a lone rider. The data had sent them here.

  He had meticulously planned for these types of situations. Some form of escape. Sometimes, it was entering one of the dozens of connected buildings in Manhattan to escape Phineas. Other times, it was a safe house where he had stashed a disguise or an alternative mode of transportation.

  Here, all he had to do was make it to the trees at Clove Lakes Park. So he had gunned it as hard as he could.

  That was when the airships activated their spotlights on him.

  He knew that the NYPD had already been called on him too.

  But he had made it this far. Now, the forest cover was only fifty yards away.

  He pushed harder and harder. The spotlights stayed on his every move. But he was young and fit. Each push on the pedal propelled him that much closer to his freedom.

  Forty yards.

  Then thirty.

  Twenty.

  Five yards.

  He let out a gasp as he made it to the forest and briefly let the bike move forward on its own momentum. The airships suddenly rose, forced to move above the tree canopy. The spotlights scattered, suddenly becoming ineffective tools to penetrate the treetops.

  The teenager began pedaling hard again, pointing himself to the park maintenance door, which, in turn, would give him access to the underground sewer system. He briefly slowed again as he wiped the sweat off his forehead with his hairy forearm.

  His escape.

  Once inside the underground system, he began to route his way away from Cloves Lake Park, contemplating which of the three hundred sewer entrances scattered across the island he would use to exit.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Present day

  Somewhere on the Kowloon Peninsula

  As Mauritius’s BMW 7-series limo snaked through the evening Hong Kong traffic, Russell humorously noted how he was going to the invitation-only event catering to the social elite. Just two weeks before, he had read an exposé in the South China Morning Post describing the underground spectacle featuring expensive steaks, beautiful strippers, bare-knuckled boxing, and high-stakes poker. Mauritius was not only able to walk in unimpeded by the six foot seven bouncer at the entrance of the shady warehouse somewhere on the Kowloon Peninsula, but he was also able to bring in his confidante, Elva. A subtle nod by Mauritius opened the gates for Russell as well.

  As they entered the warehouse, Russell stayed close behind Mauritius as he walked down a darkened hallway. Its filthy speckled tiled wall seemed to foreshadow the grimy and seedy activities within. An elevator half full of suits loomed at the end of the hall. One of the men spotted Mauritius’s group approaching and expedited the closing of the elevator doors.

  I can understand why he assumed that I would want to be here. So far, the guests were a who’s who of the investment banking community. Noticeably, the crowd was predominantly expats. Aside from Russell and Elva, the only obvious Asians were the serving and kitchen staff and the scantily clad girls.

  “Assholes,” Mauritius muttered under his breath.

  Russell redirected the conversation with some small talk. “Who’s fighting tonight?”

  Elva answered first. “We are here to see the first fight. There’s Olivier Marc on one side. He was just flown in from France to take on the local guy, Dominique Lestrange.”

  “What are the odds?” asked Russell.

  “Three to one in favor of Olivier. He’s proficient at adapting to any competing style. He’s got technical precision when striking and a strong ground game developed through years of practicing Brazilian jujitsu. Dominique is more of a brawler—the underdog. Always seems to be overmatched but the crowd loves him as he always seems to get the lucky strike.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the fighters here, Elva,” said Russell.

  “We come here a lot,” she said. Russell had had trouble reading her earlier in the car ride over. She’d kept to herself most of the ride, checking her phone and giving sharp instructions to the driver in her deep and monotone voice. He sensed some derision in her voice now, as though she resented being dragged to these lowbrow events. “It’s . . .”

  “Elva loves it here,” said Mauritius, cutting her off.

  After their group finally arrived at the main dining area, an overly excitable girl dressed in a short cocktail dress and gaudy bunny ears led them to their table. It was a large round wooden affair with five chairs on the side opposite the ring. The table itself was in the first of five rows of tables encircling the ring. Every table was packed with scores of laughing, joking men, primarily red-faced and throwing expletive-laden insults amongst each other. The server pulled the center chair back for Mauritius before assisting Elva with hers. Russell sat down on Mauritius’s other side without any assistance. The girl then bowed and, with a flirty bounce of her bunny tail, moved back towards the growing crowd of patrons at the entrance.

  Mauritius turned to Russell and leaned in. “What kind of drink would you like to have?” he asked.

  “I’m a scotch man, myself. Speyside.” Russell replied. “Yourself?”

  “I like a good Speyside too. Elva—order us my usual.” Elva motioned to a passing server. No less than a minute later, two glasses with doubles of an amber liquid. Russell sniffed it, looked at Mauritius, and said, “Glenlivet?”

  Mauritius nodded. “Glen Forty.”

  “Nothing for yourself, Elva?” Russell asked.

  “I’m working,” she said.

  After clinking their glasses together in a round of awkward cheers, Russell began regaling Mauritius with fictionalized tales of his investment banking experience, primarily gleaned from rehashing the stories of his Wall Street clients. Mauritius listened intently, but Russell could tell by his casual posture and reserved responses that Mauritius was simply feigning interest. Russell knew that he needed to ratchet up the charm soon and gain Mauritius’s trust, or else he would never learn anything about Fuengirola.

  As he was pondering how to accomplish that, an older man with explosively flamboyant hair and a shimmering grey suit walked onto the center stage and grabbed the microphone hanging down from the ceiling. A spotlight followed his every step into the ring.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to tonight’s entertainment. It’s time for the first undercard. I welcome to the ring, from France, you have the one, the only, the Alsatian Assassin, Olivieeeerr Marc!”

  The spotlight moved to a side entrance, where a tall Caucasian man wearing red boxing trunks and a black hoody strolled towards the stage, hands in the air and waving to the crowd to the tune of Mark Morrison’s “Return of the Mack.” An entourage of trainers donning similar hoodies followed closely behind him. By the look of Olivier’s chiseled features and relatively lean body, Russell agreed with Elva’s assessment that the Frenchman prioritized speed and agility over strength and power. A small round of cheers was immediately wiped out by a chorus of boos hailing from the rear rows of the room, where the local Hong Kong businessmen were seated.

  After Olivier made it into the ring and settled in, the grey-suited man spun around with his right index finger pointing at the far side of the ring, and hollered, “In the other corner, we have the Beast of the East, your Dominator, Dominique Lestrange!”

  A slightly shorter black man walked in from the other side of the room, fists in the air. His oversized arms and bulging chest gave way to the bump of a small beer belly. A set of thin chicken legs comically supported his enormously oversized body. A huge cheer erupted from the crowd at the sight of their local hero entering without an entourage.

  “He’s local?” Russell asked.

  “Yeah,” said Elva. “Son of a Brit expat who really liked Hong Kong.”

  After the introduction, the ring referee came in between the fighters. After some muffled conversation, the fighters touched gloves and a be
ll rang, signaling the beginning of round one.

  Dominique rushed out of his corner and immediately launched a swift kick to the vicinity of Olivier’s head. Olivier ducked the kick and stood taut, catching Dominique’s leg and throwing him into the corner. Russell heard Elva gasp as Dominique hit the turnbuckle, but the Hong Kong resident quickly somersaulted back onto his feet.

  The two men circled the ring counterclockwise, with Dominique leading the dance. Again, Dominique took the role of the aggressor and broke the dance with a short jab to Olivier’s face. Olivier efficiently deflected the blow and countered with two bare-fisted strikes to the face, landing both. Dominique was stunned, but quickly recuperated and backed up into the closest corner to regain his breath and composure. Olivier followed, closing the distance with Dominique.

  As they circled slowly facing each other, Olivier suddenly lunged at Dominique’s legs in an attempt to immobilize his legs and knock him to the ground. Dominique jumped back, but it was too late as Olivier connected. Russell felt the heavy thud as both muscular bodies slammed into the rubber floor of the ring. They wrestled in the middle of the ring, neither gaining the upper hand, and eventually, both regained their footing.

  Russell could see why the local crowd loved Dominique. He was brash and unrefined and overmatched technically by his opponent, but heart and passion meant a lot in underground street fighting.

  Olivier came in with a three-punch combo, landing the first left but having his right uppercut and subsequent left-cross blocked. The local moved back as the Frenchman pushed forward when unexpectedly, Dominique stopped and pointed a quick jab to Olivier’s face, connecting his chin. Olivier fell to the ground, stunned. Dominique took no mercy on his fallen opponent. He leaped onto him, alternating between pounding Olivier’s ribs and face with his bare hands. Within seconds, these hands were soaked in blood. The referee came in with a flying body check, knocking Dominique off his opponent.