Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

  She wouldn’t allow herself to ruin this day in paradise – she more than knew she had that capacity.

  But not now. Not today. Just take it hour by hour.

  She shut off the tap and opened the glass shower enclosure; hot vapor drifted into the cool room like a fragrant mist. Moving into the shower, the water became soothing, timeless, constant – a welcome interruption of her uneasy thoughts. She leaned back her head and closed her eyes, the warm spray streamed down her body, the tingling of its impact on her skin both revitalizing and relaxing. For a brief moment her universe was condensed into the pleasant sensation of water, as it sluiced away the salt and the oil and the troubling ghosts of unbidden visitors from an unwelcome past; a past that had betrayed her, at the end of it; given the lie to the promise of innocence and hope, leaving her damaged, and with a secret that had almost destroyed her.

  Focal Point: Chapter 19

  As far as Griffen could determine, Glen Vesper wasn’t offering anything helpful. His advice to ignore the website was fine, except for the dozen or so calls per day Griffen was getting from troubled investors. Those weren’t pleasant to deal with, and he suspected his pat answers weren’t having the calming effect they’d had several weeks ago. Too much information in the public domain was bad. They had to shut the site down, one way or another. Permanently.

  “Give me something, Glen. Anything. I’m getting killed here. Give me some good news.”

  “Nothing new to report, Nicholas. Sorry,” Glen lamented. “Wish there was.”

  “Can’t we go after the site legally in some way?” Griffen wasn’t interested in taking the ‘pretend it’s not there’ route any longer.

  “The questions are, where’s it domiciled, and who do you go after? So far we keep running into a Latvian server that’s mirroring the site from an undisclosed location. Barring government-level systems capabilities, we’ve got no chance of getting past that. And now my tech people tell me the mirroring looks like it moves around Latvia on a weekly basis. Who even knew Latvia had more than one server?”

  “So…dead end,” Griffen seethed. He wished death and sickness and pain on the site administrator. Envisioned horrible mangling in threshing machine accidents for the new webmaster. It could all be arranged to order…if only he could get his hands on the saboteur.

  “Afraid so.” Glen rose, and smoothed out the creases in his expensive and well-tailored slacks. “Wish I had better news.”

  Griffen had arranged another meeting with Sergei, where he heard much the same thing. Nothing new, no way to penetrate the virtual firewall the mirroring had created.

  “Come on, Sergei – don’t you have pull in Latvia? Can’t you just go down to the server location and see where the original signal’s coming from?” Nicholas asked.

  “It’s not so simple, my friend. We have to wait for someone to make a mistake. So far they haven’t. But they will. They will. They always do.”

  Griffen considered his options. “I trust you’ll tell me when they do.”

  Sergei appraised him. “Of course you will be the first to know. Now don’t worry. It is just a matter of time.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Steven rinsed off and considered his new look in the mirror. He’d become more accustomed to it, but it still gave him a little start when his reflection looked back at him. He threw on some clothes and decided to check the web and his e-mail. Pogo posted that he was now providing random multiple mirrors of the site and moving it around every few days.

  He logged off, and was struggling with agonizing choices like sandals or loafers when there came a knock at the door. He opened it, to be greeted by Antonia in a simple cream-colored summer dress. She looked like two million dollars. Make that three. She wore a gold charm bracelet and a pair of diamond earrings. She smelled exotic.

  “Buona sera,” Steven intoned in his best faux Italian manner. He’d investigated how to say ‘good evening’ online.

  “Buona sera. Are you going to invite me in?” She smiled at him, throwing several hundred thousand kilowatts of pure charm into the mix.

  “Of course. Come in.”

  She moved easily into the room; looking around it, noting the flowers and the champagne.

  “Very nice. You look very handsome, Steven.”

  Damned if she didn’t catch him off guard with that.

  She smiled. “I think you are blushing. No, I’m sure of it. Ah…nice view. Just like my room.” She had amazing timing, that was for sure.

  “And you look absolutely stunning, Antonia. If I seem like I’m at a loss for words, it’s because I’m still trying to catch my breath.”

  She threw back her head and laughed in that delightful way...then cocked an eyebrow. “James Bond again, smooth talking the peasant girls.”

  “Can I interest you in some champagne? Came with the room and I hate to see it go to waste. You really have to help out. Flush the taste of sorbet out of your mouth.” Steven admired the way the dress clung to her curves. Some things didn’t require a lot of help. Antonia’s wardrobe was one of them.

  “Thank you, but I’d rather have a drink at the restaurant. I’m starving.”

  “So what do you recommend, sandals or shoes?” Leave it up to her. Never a bad strategy.

  “Sandals, definitely. You’re in the islands. Live a little. Let your hair down, Mr. Bond.”

  They ambled down the path towards the main building. It was a balmy evening, and they made small talk in easy tones as they walked alongside each other. When they reached Pimm’s, the hotel’s high-end restaurant, they entered the foyer and were seated on the veranda, overlooking the ocean. The lights of St. Martin were already illuminated, twinkling in the distance as the sun slowly dipped into a darkening azure horizon. They perused the menu; both finally opting for the blackened swordfish and a glass of wine.

  They watched as the fiery orb’s reflection faded into the sea, casting an amber glow over the damp sand of the beach. Neither expected service to be hurried – nor were they disappointed.

  They continued their small talk as appetizers and bread were brought to the table.

  “So, where are you from, Steven?” Out of the gate, a tough question.

  “Originally, or now?” Playing for time.

  “Now. Where do you call home?” she asked.

  “Nowhere at the moment. I suppose Anguilla is home for the time being. I’m sort of traveling around, looking for a new place to call my permanent home.” That was the truth.

  “How can that be? You mean you don’t live anywhere?” She was toying again. But only partially.

  “It’s the truth. I decided to travel until I find home. So far I haven’t found it. I’ll know when I do. I won’t want to leave, and one day I’ll realize everything I ever wanted is there. Then I’ll be home.” Melodramatic, but the truth again.

  “It sounds very exciting, but also a bit sad. If nowhere is home, then you have none.”

  “I like to think that wherever I am is home...for now. Does that make sense? Tonight, in Anguilla, having dinner with you, I’m home.” And he meant it.

  “That’s very sweet.”

  “And what about you…what’s your story? I know about Florence, but what brings you to the Caribbean…alone?” Emphasis on alone.

  “It’s really a long story, Steven. A long and sad story. I’m here to escape the sad story, I suppose. I’ve spent a lot of my time lately being sad, and I’m trying to remember what it’s like to not be.”

  “I’ve got nothing but time, Antonia. You don’t know me; I’m just some stranger on an island. You can tell me anything – you have nothing to lose. Hell, I don’t even know your last name. This is your opportunity. I won’t bite you; words are just words. Take a chance.” Good Lord, had he actually said that? He’d swear he was intoxicated, although he’d only had a glass of wine. Maybe he was having an allergic reaction to the appetizers?

  And yet, again, he meant it. That was the alarming part. The little devil had deserted his s
houlder, it seemed…running scared, no doubt.

  She looked directly at him; as if into the deepest recesses of his being, and apparently satisfied with what she saw there, began speaking.

  “I’m thirty years old, and I’ve been a widow for the last year and a half. I met and married the best man I’d ever met in my life when I was twenty-two, and I lost him six-and-a-half years later to cancer. Unexpected.” She looked into her glass of water. “He was the picture of health, no problems, and on his thirty-fifth birthday he went in for his annual physical. A blood test came back abnormal. Further tests confirmed there was something horribly wrong. It was a rapidly growing form of cancer, and I spent the next five months watching a strong, proud, smart man with the world in his hands shrivel and die.” She took a sip of the water before continuing.

  “We went to all the top centers – money wasn’t even a question, but they couldn’t do anything. Nothing. And I’ve spent the last year and a half sleepwalking through life, wondering why him, out of all the people in the world.” She stopped, unable to continue.

  “Oh God, Antonia, I’m so sorry; I wish I’d never asked…”

  “No, you’re right. It was time to say it all out loud. As you said, what do I have to lose? What do any of us have to lose?” She turned her gaze to the darkening shape of St. Martin for a moment or two. “I came to the Caribbean with well-intentioned friends who wanted to take my mind off my misery. The problem is every morning I wake up and look in the mirror, only to see myself without him. And it drives me crazy. So yesterday, after yet another night of listening to all the hopeful advice, I decided to leave and be by myself. I came here. And then today you showed up in a red hat on a boat from who knows where, and for the first time in a year and a half I…I felt my heart beat again.”

  She flooded him with her soulful gaze. “You remind me of him, although you look and sound nothing alike. I don’t know why that is.” She averted her eyes again, as if contemplating a riddle. “So that’s my story to the man in the restaurant who I don’t know and who won’t bite me. Now tell me the truth, Steven. What’s your story?”

  He couldn’t stick to his cover. Fuck.

  Why did this have to happen now, when his life was in chaos? Why couldn’t he have met her at a different point? Answer: Because you don’t get what you need when you want it, but rather when you need it.

  So now his turn had arrived.

  What was it going to be?

  “I’m almost ten years older than you, and I’ve never heard a sadder story in my life than yours. Mine’s not hard. I’ve made some money, never met the woman I wanted to stay with permanently, always been sure things would turn out okay. Recently I’ve been involved in some situations that changed that certitude. I’m in a conflict with some very powerful, very dangerous men who’ve taken everything of value in my life from me. I can’t say any more, but I’ll end with this. People near to me have died just for being my friend.” Remorse momentarily stabbed his consciousness as he remembered Peter and Todd. What the hell was he doing? Had he said too much? Did it matter?

  “They haven’t taken everything. You’re still here.” She paused, reflected, continued. “So, we have both lost our way. Strange, is it not?” she suggested.

  “The difference is I got myself into this situation, whereas you didn’t,” he said.

  “I got myself into my situation by meeting and marrying who I did. Those were the cards. I would have rather had six-and-a-half years with him than fifty years with someone else. No one knows how long they have together, Steven.” He loved her lilt when she pronounced his name.

  The waiter appeared with their entrees. Just what the doctor ordered. They enjoyed their meals, focusing on them while unhurriedly digesting the information they’d just shared.

  “Your secrets are safe with me, Antonia.”

  “I know they are. It has helped.” She didn’t volunteer more. He didn’t ask. They ate, and thought about each other.

  The busboy arrived and removed their plates.

  “I’d like a drink, Steven. In the bar.” He could take a hint, and waved for the bill.

  They adjourned to the lounge, where she ordered a Sambuca and he a glass of port. They considered their situation as they listened to the ethnic island music. The sensuous reggae beat pulsed in the background, a plaintive voice singing about injustice and unrequited love. Water lapped and lulled along the edge of the shimmering beach as the phosphorescence of the surf created an ever-changing lightshow for their personal enjoyment. Never before had the heavens been illuminated with such a tapestry of stars, each twinkling softly, as if in quiet harmony with the music, and the primal rhythm of the tidal surge. They watched in wonder as two shooting stars suddenly blazed a trail into the deep horizon, as if racing into sweet oblivion. Celestial fireworks. They looked at each other in silent serenity for a few moments, finished their drinks, and walked back to their rooms. He stopped at his door as she continued to hers. “Goodnight, Antonia,” he said, a softness had pervaded his voice.

  “Donitelli. My last name, Steven. Goodnight to you, too.”

  Focal Point: Chapter 20

  The next day Steven woke up late. He decided to risk a run, figuring that he didn’t really involve his upper body if he took it slow, so he wasn’t endangering the sutures. He first checked in on the stock, to discover they were having a flat day. No obvious manipulation, just the market doing its thing.

  He went out onto the path, starting slowly, and found that if he kept to jogging rather than running his side didn’t hurt. He jogged the length of the resort and then over a bridge that separated the thin peninsula beyond from the rest of the island. After half an hour he looped back around. Not much of a workout, but better than nothing.

  He rinsed off and stepped out onto his terrace, noticing a solitary figure down at the cabanas. He grabbed his wallet, key and cell and walked briskly to the shore.

  “Good morning, Antonia.”

  She turned and treated him to her radiant smile. “Ah…the man of mystery returns to the scene of his latest adventure... It’s gorgeous out here. Are you up for some sailing? I saw in the lobby where they’ll rent a sailboat to you with a captain for the day.” She wore a pink swimsuit with a yellow pinstripe border. Still a G-string, he noted, and she looked better than he remembered, if that was possible.

  “I need to grab something to eat on the way out, but a sail sounds great. We won’t need a captain, though. I’ve done a little sailing in my wasted youth,” Steven said.

  “I should have known Mr. Bond knows how to sail, as well as all sorts of other things, I’m sure. We’ll get to your misspent youth in good time.” She shielded her eyes with a hand, scanning for a potential harbor. “Let’s see if we can find a boat.”

  God but that accent was something. You put it into a tanned package wearing strips of fabric, and, well, you obviously had Steven’s continued interest.

  She pulled on her cover-up, grabbed her beach bag and they made their way to the hotel. The concierge made a call, and within a few minutes they had a 35-foot sailing catamaran for the day.

  The hotel offered to shuttle them over to the marina. Steven went down to the little beachside restaurant and grabbed a muffin and a banana, and upon his return they were off.

  Ten minutes later they were deposited at a small harbor at Sandy Ground, on the opposite side of the island. They sought out the captain of the catamaran, a relaxed islander named Roy, who Steven took aside and chatted with while Antonia skipped down the rickety dock and hopped aboard the boat.

  After being assured that Steven had more than fifteen years of sailing experience, Roy had few reservations about letting his pride and joy out of his sight. He gave Steven some indigenous tips on areas with dangerous reefs to steer clear of and advised him on the location of the ignition and the fuel cutoff.

  In the short time since they chartered the vessel, Roy had already packed a lunch for two and placed it onboard, so all that was left was to
untie the dock lines and set sail. Steven assured him he would have the boat back by four.

  They got underway without fanfare. Antonia was delighted as porpoises surrounded the boat, surfing and cavorting and zooming up splashing out of the water immediately in front of them. She stood astride the bow and reached out, almost able to touch the playful animals.

  After a few hours of being pushed along by a frisky breeze, Steven lowered the sails and dropped anchor in a secluded bay that afforded a stunning view of St. Martin. Antonia unpacked lunch and they ate contentedly, rocking lazily on the small swells off the beach. Steven asked about her workout regimen.

  “You’re in amazing shape, Antonia. How do you do it…what’s your secret?” he asked.

  She laughed. “Now I am the one to be blushing, eh, Steven? I run several times a week on a machine and lift a few weights. I used to be in the ballet, so this kind of exercise is new for me.” She munched on some grapes, lazily dangling a pretty toe in the warm seawater.

  “The ballet? Well that explains why you’re so graceful. How long did you dance?”

  “I was a soloist with Ballet La Scala in Milano until my husband got sick; then I had to attend to him, and I never went back. I lost the urge, I suppose. Sometimes I miss the dance, but most of the time I don’t think about any of it. I moved back to Florence after he – after it was…” She stumbled to a halt.

  “Is that where you were born, in Florence…are your parents from there?” He wanted to move far away from the topic of dead husbands. These questions seemed fairly benign, couldn’t get him into too much trouble.

  She frowned. “My parents are both dead. A car accident, seven years ago. We have many such accidents in Italy; everyone drives like they’re crazy. I grew up in Firenze and always loved the city’s vibrancy. Milano is industrial. There is no real charm, no feeling of the history. Once I stopped dancing there was no reason to stay, so back home,” she explained.