The Inverted Pyramid (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 2)

by A. C. Fuller

  James said, "I feel a little like the kid with divorced parents who meet up to swap him for the weekend. You guys want to get some dinner? Food usually solves things."

  Camila nodded and Alex turned quickly, leading them to a conference center restaurant adjacent to the hotel lobby. They took seats at a table in the bar at the front of the restaurant and read the menus in silence.

  Every few seconds, Camila turned to Alex and smiled, but he stayed quiet, hoping James would talk. When the waiter came, Alex and James both ordered vodka with soda water. Camila ordered a French 75.

  "A what?" the waiter asked.

  "French 75. It's a shot of gin, a dash of simple syrup, a squeeze of lemon juice, and a few ounces of champagne. Some places sugar the rim."

  "Never heard of it."

  Alex laughed. "She drinks it to be fancy."

  "Sounds delicious," James said. "But the sugar content alone . . ."

  Camila waved the waiter's attention toward the bartender. "It'll be in her mixology book."

  "And for your meals?" the waiter asked, clearly growing impatient.

  James ordered the tuna steak with no rice and extra vegetables, and Camila ordered a steak sandwich and Caesar salad.

  "I'll have the same," Alex said.

  Camila balked. "Don't you want to hold the bread, hold the croutons, and run the dressing through a high-velocity, anti-sugar micro-filter?"

  "Nah," Alex said. Then he smiled at the perplexed waiter, who nodded before turning to leave.

  Camila patted his hand. "That's so cute. You eat like a person now."

  "I've relaxed my intensity, to some extent."

  "Good, but now you have James eating like you used to?"

  "You would, too, if you knew what gluten does to your micronutrient absorption," James said earnestly.

  When their drinks arrived, Alex drank half of his vodka in one long sip. He let his eyes wander around the bar, then up at the mounted TV, which was muted but showing video of President Bush and Senator Kerry delivering stump speeches. "Looks like it's gonna come down to the wire between Bush and Kerry."

  Camila ignored his comment and said, "I check on your site every week or so. Sometimes, I think the main purpose of the Internet is going to be keeping tabs on former friends and lovers without them knowing we're watching them. What are you guys working on now?"

  James took Camila through their last big story, making sure to point out three or four times how they had scooped The New York Times. Then he detailed, in chronological order, all the other major stories they'd had over the last two years. Alex sat silently, pretending to listen.

  When their food came, Camila bit into her steak sandwich, and, with a mouth full of food, asked, "So why isn't Lance here?"

  Alex looked at James, but his friend was leaning over his plate, practically inhaling the food. "Lance is heading up to Boston," Alex said. "Working on a story about the way the sports press ignored steroids, and is still ignoring it. We're going to tie it to this year's baseball playoffs." He didn't mention that Lance was traveling with Greta. "So, I've been wondering," he continued, "how's Iowa, Camila?"

  "It's weird for you not to call me 'Cam.'"

  He didn't know why, but something about that hurt. He cleared his throat. "How's Iowa, Cam?"

  "Fine. I teach at a tiny community college out there."

  "A job you're ridiculously overqualified for," James said between bites.

  "I don't think there's such a thing as overqualified," Camila replied. "Whatever job you find yourself in, you just do it all the way."

  "Good attitude," James said, glancing at his watch. "I need to get to bed. Part of weight loss is rebalancing hormone levels, so the body can get back to where it was meant to be. And I need nine hours of Zs to get there." He popped the last bite of the tuna steak in his mouth and stood to leave.

  Alex stood also, before realizing what he was doing.

  "No," James said. "You stay. You've barely touched your food, and you and Camila need to catch up." Alex sat back down and James patted him on the shoulder. "Or at least, stop acting like you don't know each other."

  12

  James walked down the long hallway toward the lobby, planning to check in on some of the evening talks and panel discussions. At a nook in between guest rooms, he stopped and stared into a vending machine. Chips, candy, gum, mints. Peanut and chocolate combinations had always been his favorite, but his desire for them wasn't overwhelming anymore. After a moment, he stepped over to the ice dispenser and caught a few cubes as they rained down. The nook smelled of mildew, and he felt guilty that he was likely contributing to the stench by allowing a few ice cubes to fall to the carpet.

  Sucking on the ice, he continued down the hallway past another block of rooms. As he came to the end of the hallway, a sound came from one of the rooms.

  "Pssssst."

  He turned but saw no one.

  "Room 103." It was a woman's voice. A voice he recognized. Warm and soothing, with an Indian accent.

  James shot looks up and down the hallway, stepped toward the room, and stopped. The door opened, and he tried to make out the woman in the shadows. She had short black hair, parted in the center, that came down to her chin and framed her thin face and sharp cheekbones. She wore black jeans and a dark blue turtleneck.

  "In-n-nerva?"

  "Kaleja mooh ko Alana, James. And yes, come in."

  The room was dark, lit only by a bedside lamp, and laid out just like James's. A king-sized bed in the center, small desk along the wall, and small sitting area near the window at the far end.

  Innerva waved him toward the sitting area. "Have a seat."

  James sat, his forehead already growing hot as he began breathing deeply to calm himself. Innerva sat cross-legged on the corner of the bed furthest from him. In the shadows, James could barely make her out, but saw light reflect off a small gold stud in her nose.

  After a moment, he said, "You c-called m-me?"

  "Calm down, James. It's okay."

  James wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Two large silver laptops sat on the desk, each connected by a series of wires to a small black box topped with what looked like a mini satellite dish.

  "Nice s-setup," James said. He pointed at the black box. "How does it connect?"

  "That connects to a DSL line in a rented apartment down the street."

  Her voice was soft and James was beginning to calm down. He admired her computers for a few seconds, then turned back to her. "What are you w-wanting to tell me?"

  She studied him for a moment. "Look at me."

  James wiped his forehead again and slowly raised his head.

  "Lock eyes with me."

  Her eyes shone black and he stared into them.

  She held his gaze for a few seconds, then smiled. "My grandmother taught me to do that. You are not a bad man. I can tell."

  James smiled. Realizing he had been sitting stiffly in the chair, he took a deep breath and relaxed into it. "So, what do you want to tell me?"

  Innerva pointed at the laptops. "Clearly, you know what I do. This does not matter to me, because you will never find out who I am. I think you know that to be true."

  James nodded.

  "Twenty-one days ago, a pupil of mine was murdered in New York City. He was in the same business."

  "Murdered? What was his name?"

  "I will not tell you his real name, but you have heard of him. He went by Bhootbhai."

  James had heard of him. No hacker himself, he did follow the major hacks enough that he'd heard of Bhootbhai's exploits. "Didn't he h-hack the Chinese naval command center when he was, like, eleven?"

  Innerva smiled. "That is only a rumor."

  "Why didn't I hear about his murder?"

  "You probably did." She reached into a brown leather briefcase next to the bed and handed James a story that had been clipped out of the New York Post.

  He read the headline: Unidentified Man Found Dead
in Battery Park Porta Potty. It was from September 12.

  "Oh yeah," James said. "I heard about it. That was Bhootbhai?"

  She didn't speak, but he could tell she was nodding, because the gleam on her nose ring was shifting up and down.

  "Are there any suspects?"

  "None. The case is still open, because no one can identify him. And no one ever will. He had layers to his identity that will never be sorted out."

  "Why are you bringing this to me?"

  "Because I know who killed him, or at least who arranged it. A couple of months ago, he took a job for a company called Plutarch Capital. He said it had something to do with some American politicians, but at the time, he didn't know all the details. His specialty was extracting private information about public figures. So it made sense that he would be working that job, especially with the election coming up. I advised him not to take a job with an American company around the election, but he needed to make ends meet."

  James leaned forward on his chair, trying to get a better view of her in the shadows. "So, how did you find out he had been killed?"

  "I received a message from him the day after he died. He had set it up to send before he was killed."

  "A dead man's switch?"

  "That's what nonprofessionals call it. We just call it a worst-case-scenario e-mail. He knew he was in danger, and he wanted to let me know if something happened. He also wanted me to—"

  "Avenge him?"

  She chuckled for a second, then swallowed it. "I don't think in terms of vengeance. Neither did he. But wrongdoing should be made public, especially when the wrong is done by those who pull the strings of the world. Don't you agree?"

  "Who killed him?"

  She reached into the briefcase again, then scooted toward James, stopping in the center of the bed. Leaning forward, she handed James a single piece of paper. He switched on a floor lamp next to the chair and read.

  The e-mail addresses and dates had been blacked out.

  Dear Polly-

  I'm writing this on September 9, 2004. If you receive this message, it is because I have been killed by someone at Plutarch Capital. Check the New York City newspapers, and you will likely find news of my death.

  Plutarch Capital hired me in July to uncover damaging information about the presidential candidates, Bush and Kerry. Operationally, Plutarch Capital is just Denver Bice. He answers to people, but I don't know who.

  Two weeks ago, I finished the job and passed the information I'd discovered on to Denver Bice. He refused to pay me what was promised. He paid me $200,000 instead of the agreed upon $2,000,000. When I objected, he began raging at me.

  Thinking my obligation to Mr. Bice dissolved, due to his breach of contract, I decided to profit from the information I'd uncovered in another way. Somehow, Bice found out.

  In the coming days, you will see a story appear in the American press—I don't know where—implicating a Congressman McGregor in a scandal. When Bice opted not to pay me, I tapped his phone and was able to learn that he is being made a scapegoat. When this story appears, you must approach the man who prints it and tell him about my death. You must tell him that the story is only the beginning, and that Plutarch Capital is behind something much larger. I do not know precisely what it is, but I know it is bigger than I had imagined—big enough to place me in danger.

  Thus far, I have been unable to recover the money I'm owed through other efforts, so I will meet with Bice again to demand payment. This may prove to be a mistake.

  You were right. I never should have taken this job.

  James was no longer sweating, but his throat was scratchy and, for reasons he couldn't understand, he didn't want to make eye contact with her. "I should really go get my partner, Alex."

  "No. I know you now. I trust you."

  "What the h-hell could any of this have to do with me, or my company?"

  Innerva said nothing. When James looked up, she was at the closet, placing clothing in a small black bag. She returned to the desk, where she began unplugging wires from the laptops and the black box.

  "You're l-leaving?"

  She nodded toward the article and the printed e-mail. "You can keep those."

  "But I . . . Tell me this, at least. Did you forward that e-mail to the police?"

  "The police exist to protect men like Denver Bice. Not people like you. And certainly not people like me."

  James thought it through and realized that, if Innerva had forwarded the e-mail to the police, there was a chance they would have gotten into Bhootbhai's e-mail accounts, which could have led them to her. It was a small chance, but from what he'd heard, hackers tended to be overly cautious. The ones who didn't get caught, anyway.

  "So, what do you want me to do?" James asked.

  "I'm looking into some things. Seeing if I can find out what it was that Bhootbhai uncovered. Trying to figure out what he meant about trying to profit off the information in other ways. I figure maybe he tried to sell the information to one of the campaigns."

  "Have you found anything yet?"

  "Not yet, but this is all very new. I'll find something. I'm not as good as he was, but I'm not bad."

  "Where are you going?"

  She turned toward him, staring into his eyes for a moment before giving him a coy smile.

  "You're not going t-to tell me that, are you?" James asked, watching her pack the laptops into a case.

  "No."

  He folded the pieces of paper several times and slid them into his back pocket. "Will you contact me again?"

  She smiled again.

  "Innerva, please?"

  "Innerva only exists in this hotel room."

  "Are you Polly?"

  She slung the black bag over her shoulder and held the laptop case close to her side as she moved closer to James. For a moment, she stood over him, which made him want to stand up, too, but she was so close that he wouldn't be able to without bumping her. With a swift movement, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. She smelled like the burnt tin from a soldering machine, with just the faintest hint of gardenia.

  "If I find something more, I'll contact you."

  Before James could say anything, she was gone.

  Alone in the room, his thoughts turned to whether Bice was in the hotel, and if so, whether he was stupid enough to have checked in under the name Plutarch Capital.

  13

  By his fourth drink and her second, the awkwardness had passed, and Alex and Camila had left the bar to wander around downtown Seattle within a few blocks of the convention center. The night was dark, and a thin fog had rolled in off the Sound, giving the streetlights around them a hazy glow. Though Alex was still slightly uncomfortable, Camila was making it easier for him to relax. She had a way of speaking about serious things with intelligence and wit, but with a casualness that made them seem as if they didn't matter at all. Her ease in the world relaxed him.

  Camila stopped under the awning of a fancy chocolate shop. "Seriously," she said, "you can replace the word 'you' or the name of the person in any song with the word 'God' and it still works. Pick your favorite love song."

  "Okay, don't make fun of me like Greta would, but . . . 'Layla.'"

  "God, you've got me on my knees."

  "'In Your Eyes.' Peter Gabriel."

  "He even says it in that one. He sees the doorway to a million churches, or whatever."

  Alex laughed. "That's not how it goes."

  "Close enough."

  "Fine, but what's the point?"

  "No point, just something I was thinking about."

  Alex's phone vibrated and he read the caller ID. Greta. He leaned up against the window and pretended to study the chocolates while powering down his phone.

  They ambled on for a few more blocks, then stopped at a construction site that took up an entire city block. The block had been hollowed out to about forty-feet below street level, and a giant yellow crane sat in the center of the hole. Alex leaned on the chain-link fence and stared
down into the cavity.

  "You look good," Camila said. "Living with Greta works for you. I'm glad."

  He felt a movement in his throat, but there were no words.

  "Alex, what's wrong?"

  "Yeah, I mean, I don't know. Living with her has been good."

  "Remember what I told you about the coffee pot?"

  "Remind me."

  "Well, without going through the whole analogy again, I was asking about the feeling of relief that happens when you've been worried about something, preoccupied by it, even tormented about it, to the point where it affects your physiology and makes you forget all the good things in life. And then you realize it was nothing all along. All in your head. All your imagination."

  Alex smirked. "I feel like, in order to get what you're saying, I need to have either had less to drink, or much, much more."

  Camila laughed. "I'm just saying. There's a reason you were attracted to me, Alex. I have something you want. But it's not something you can get by being with me."

  "I'm really not following you."

  She gestured toward the gaping hole in the ground. "See that? There used to be a building there, and they tore it down. Now, presumably, they're going to build a new building, right?"

  "They're modernizing the whole downtown. It's part of a city-wide project to—"

  "Alex, you're stepping on my metaphor."

  "Sorry."

  "How would you define what's there now?"

  "A hole where a building used to be?"

  "But what is it, really?"

  "Just empty space."

  "Exactly. Our first instinct is to define everything in terms of something else already known. So, you think of that hole in terms of a building that was once there. But, in fact, it's just empty space. Well, air and dust particles and whatnot. In this moment, it has literally nothing to do with the previous building."

  Alex knew something was right about what she was saying, but he still didn't quite understand it. "So, why'd you bring that up right after you asked me about living with Greta?"

  "I know you a little bit, Alex. Back when we were . . . together, or whatever, you thought I was going to fill that space in you."