by Sam Waite
"Why's that?"
"Your man, Diego Cervantes, he's not with PDVSA. He's what you might call an enforcer for Maduro."
"Your president?"
"Last I heard, yeah. Easy trace, but I'll let you pay me anyway. You said a week. I've spent a day. Do you want anything else?"
"Stay on him. Anything you can find, let me know. If you can tell me what he was doing in Paris with PDVSA people, there's a ten percent bonus."
"Ten percent! Pendejo. Make it fifteen."
"Drop the home boy slang, Jorge." I hung up and went back to browsing files.
Data on the Petroleos Venezuela study was well organized, but Trevor had a weird habit of hiding some personal files in system or application folders. It didn't provide any kind of security. It just made it hard to locate things, especially if you didn't know what you were looking for.
I ran searches on names from the list. I got several hits, but nothing interesting until I got to Mumby, the jittery investment banker. The one file in his folder contained a list of dates with a percentage written next to each one. Maybe Mumby made book on the side.
The secretary poked her head in and said that Sabine wanted to see me. I passed Alexandra as she was leaving Sabine's office. She didn't look happy.
"Sit down, Mick," Sabine said. "I made a mistake in the way I brought you in, but it's one we will need to live with for a while. As long as you're with us only a short time and you keep a low profile, there's no reason for anyone outside the study to challenge you. I suggest you move out of your hotel and into my flat. You'll have better workspace and communications. I'll set you up with a computer. The less time you spend here the better."
"It's a deal." I looked for the imp in Sabine's eye, but I only saw its shadow.
My hotel was on a back street near St. Lazare Station, a working-class district close to central Paris. I packed my bag, checked out and then headed for the station down a blue-collar block of Rue de Lordes. Even this place testified to the city's ageless beauty with buildings signed by their creators. Thus, Monsieur A. Aldrophe won another fifteen seconds of immortality each time a commuter or wandering tourist glanced up and saw his name next to carvings of classic beauty that spoke of anything but blue-collar.
Sabine's flat was in the Montmartre hills, amid quaint cafes, tourist trails and a few urban vineyards. The first time I was here, she said her husband knew. I didn't bring that subject up again, but I didn't think she was talking only about me. I didn't much care. Life came in daily doses. I'd let too much of it slide by to worry about epic design.
Sabine met me at the door. She showed me where to unpack—and how to undress.
I doubt they approved, but Grandmas Sanchez and Fitzgerald emerged in my mind. The two women who'd taken turns raising me granted me absolution, and faded away. Even after a war, and decades of my bottom fishing the dregs of humanity, they still showed up in my mind when I needed them, but they closed their eyes on cue.
I wanted to know as much of Sabine as I could. The painting that hung in her office had intrigued me. She traced her finger across my stomach, as though she were drawing. It was her own work, she said. The form was Nihon-ga, "Japanese painting." In that style, the artist makes her own paints from natural materials such as ground rock, shell, and vegetable pigments. The paints are mixed with organic glue so that layers can be built up like Western oil, but the texture is fluid and more delicate than oil. She'd learned it during a stint in Japan.
I almost wished I hadn't known. Artistry opened yet another dimension for me to fall into, lost in the mystery and fathomless depth of Sabine's spirit. I crushed her to me. She gasped and replied with her own cinch of arms.
Chapter 4
The next morning, I went to see the woman Trevor's secretary had identified as his romantic interest. If she was hiding any knowledge of where he was, I figured a surprise visit would unnerve her enough to make a slip. After a twenty-minute interview, I was convinced she knew no more than I did.
I'd like to do the same with Mumby, but he was in London. I'd probably need a digitized ID tag and a blood test just to get through the front door of a private investment bank. After our phone conversation, I couldn't pose as a potential customer.
I ran through a list of things I'd covered and things that were pending. Considering that I was into my fourth day here, both lists were embarrassingly short. I tried to shift into lateral thinking, but my mind kept drifting back to the corrupted, or more likely encrypted, files I'd copied from Trevor's computer. Sabine had said the system administrator might be able to help or might know someone who could. I called her about it. She suggested the three of us have lunch.
I hoped he could decipher the files. What I knew about encryption could be written on a matchbox, but I'd read somewhere that the ancient Data Encryption Standard was fifty-six bits. A computer that could crack that level of encryption in one second would take one hundred and forty trillion years to crack the current standard. That should be a good while after the universe blinked out. I didn't have that long.
Sabine and the computer expert met me at an eclectic café whose menu ranged from couscous to salmon paté to steak and fries. Pastries and seafood sat in an ice-chilled glass case in front of the shop's windows. An opened bottle of wine was set on the table, house service. Water had to be ordered.
"Our little conspiracy is growing quite fast," said Sabine. "I thought it best to tell our system administrator what we were doing."
He held up his hands. "No one will hear it from me. I see secrets every day. It's my job. If Trevor used our office's encryption program, all I need is access to his computer. We use the same encryption key throughout the office. Consultants can create as many private decryption keys as they want, but they'll all show up on a point-and-click interface."
"That doesn't sound very secure," I said.
"The issue is protecting data transmitted through networks to a client or other office in the firm, not physical security inside the office."
That made sense. If anyone broke in, they could read reports on paper. Sensible or not, when we got back, none of the keys he tried worked on the Trevor's scrambled file.
When he went back to regular work. I started going through Trevor's papers. I'd checked two drawers of a five-drawer file cabinet when Sabine stopped by to tell me she was ready to leave. I asked her if I could stay until I finished.
"What are you looking for?"
"I'm not looking for anything, but I'm looking at all that's here. Sometimes you can see clearer with a blank mind."
She opened her purse and tore a chit off a pad. "You can use this for a taxi. The company's phone number is on it." She slipped the chit into my shirt pocket. "Wake me when you get in. It's Thursday. I go home tomorrow evening."
I didn't wake her. I never left the office. It was 5:45 a.m. before I finished. Among the stacks of paper and drawers that I'd checked were three items that caught my attention. One was a printout of the list of dates and percentages that I'd found earlier on Trevor's computer.
The paper version, was annotated with handwritten equations. Each equation was marked with a number that appeared to correspond to a date on the chart. The second item was a printout of a receipt for an online transfer of twenty-five thousand euros to Mumby's investment bank in London.
The third was a bag of chocolates. They didn't last long. I'd skipped dinner.
Sabine woke me when she opened the door. My head was lolling on the back of the chair. My mouth was open, pretty sight.
"Did you pull an all-nighter?" She smiled like an indulgent fraternity mom.
"I dozed off maybe about six." I swiped my hand across my chin to check for drool. Thankfully, it was dry, but it felt like it was sporting steel bristles. "I need to clean up."
"Use the taxi chit to go to the flat. But before you go, Trevor's secretary said you received a phone call. She didn't want to disturb you. You might want to check with her first."
I tried to tell Sabine ab
out Trevor's receipt and charts. She said she wouldn't have time to look at them today, but that she would next Monday for sure.
The call was from Gavizon. He sounded sleepy. "Cervantes left this afternoon on a flight to London, if you're curious. Besides his role as enforcer, he apparently is also an adviser to PDVSA. That's why he was with your people in Paris."
"I already know that."
"So why are you paying me a bonus to tell you what you already know?"
Good question. I'd meant to ask why was Cervantes an adviser, but I hadn't said so. I made up for the oversight. "Is Cervantes an oilman?"
"No, he's a thug with connections. I expect his portfolio comes directly from President Maduro. He's probably calling the shots in whatever the real PDVSA people are doing. It's a nationalized company, so ultimately Maduro's in charge."
"Thanks, Jorge. The check is in the mail."
"Whoa, Mick. Don't you want his agenda?"
I'd slipped again. "Uh huh."
"He's meeting a Saudi. I'll fax his name and incidentals. He's the only person anyone seems to know. He has ties to the emirs, but he isn't one of them. There are also ties to Aramco, but he is not an employee. I hope that's useful. It might not sound like much, but I had to call in a personal favor, a big one, to get it. I'd say I'd call back if I find out anything else, but I don't think there's much more I can dig up. My contact in Maduro's office was nervous about giving me that. The Saudi will be traveling with two Venezuelans, I'll fax their photos and names, too. Buenas suerte, amigo."
"Hey Jorge, don't you want to hear about your bonus?"
"I was afraid you'd forgotten."
"Fifteen percent."
"¡Que tacaño! Make it twenty."
No matter what I paid for Jorge's information, it would be worth a lot more if I knew what it meant. I decided to make another push for a bit of Sabine's time. I waited ten minutes outside her office for her to get off the phone. When she did, I asked if there was any way the firm could check on a Saudi who might be connected with the study. It was a long shot, but it might help find Trevor.
"We have an office in Dubai. I'll check there and with Tel Aviv. They might know something. I'll call you if I hear from them."
I went away regretting that I had bothered her.
Neither of my grandmothers ever let me leave them without a hug and a kiss, which was probably the only thing of real value that I ever learned from anyone. I wish I had remembered that lesson when I said good-bye to Sabine.
I went back to the flat, showered, shaved and rested. Later I brewed coffee and sliced up a baguette, cheese and a pear. While I ate, I checked Trevor's charts again. The numbers and symbols looked like equations, but they meant nothing to me. They used symbols that I didn't know. A few letters could have been constants, or variables or abbreviations. In any case, I had no hope of figuring them out on my own.
The receipt for the money transfer didn't correspond to any of the dates. The best prospect for figuring it out was a notation on one entry: "Bizet's theory." I remembered a Bizet from Trevor's notebook, and checked it again. Philippe Bizet was listed, along with his address and phone number.
I stored the name in a mental file, and spent the weekend thinking of what I would do if I had my former company's resources. Each of those thoughts was a wedge hammered into my self-esteem. I was just past sixty. Even so, I was still strong as a boar and had harbored delusions of taking on the world when I'd hung out my shingle: Mick Sanchez, Globe-Trotting PI.
Cases like this weren't meant for a one-man shop. The only case I'd ever handled for Global Risk single-handedly was the work I'd done for Trevor. Even then, he'd had the answers. All I supplied was proof. I'd planned to have a long heart-to-heart talk with Sabine. We needed to reassess what I saw as dwindling prospects for success.
Then came Monday.
When I got to her office, Sabine's secretary told me that she had died at home Sunday afternoon, while her husband was out. She didn't know the cause, but considering the suddenness, she assumed it was a stroke or a heart attack.
I've heard people say they can compartmentalize their minds as though it were possible to seal away grief in a mental cupboard for later nibbling, like snacks of poignant nostalgia. It's never worked for me. Sabine's death bled throughout my psyche and fed a rage that had no better target than myself. She had expected me, and I'd missed our night together. If I'd gone, maybe things would have been different.
It was an absurd sense of guilt, but one I couldn't shake.
I looked for another target to rail against, but all I saw was a spiritless void.
I wanted just to leave. There was nothing more for me to do in Paris, but there was a complication with my temporary employment at Winchell Associates. Loose ends like that could strangle a man. Besides, my walking away might leave an undeserved question mark on Sabine's career. I called Alexandra. She said a partner from the London office was coming in to take over the study. She would be spending the morning with him, but would set aside time for me in the afternoon.
I showed up at two o'clock.
When I asked for her, Alexandra was meeting with the new partner in Sabine's office. I headed for the door, but she stepped out before I got to it and shunted me into her own office.
"Sabine's replacement is Ian Graham, from London. He's been a partner about six years. He has been passed over twice in elections for director. If he misses the next round, he'll have to leave the firm. This is an up-or-out organization. The study is probably his last chance to show he can produce an extraordinary success that might get him elected to a directorship. No one else would willingly step into a situation like this."
She clasped her hands and pressed her thumbs together as a crease worked its way across her forehead. "He may seem harsh when you talk to him. He asked me what your role was, but I said you should explain it. You can say what you like, but he might not want to keep you on to find Trevor."
I smiled. I hadn't expected her to be concerned about my welfare. "I'm leaving anyway. Trevor's why I came. Sabine was why I stayed. The only reason I'm here now is to clarify why Sabine brought me into this."
Alexandra looked relieved. "There's one other thing. The managing director, Marcel Gatineau, also wants to hear your story. I expect him to supervise the study, at least for a while. Before we go in, I want to warn you again. They may sound abusive."
If these people were that concerned about harsh-language trauma, they must have lead sheltered lives. "No problem," I said.
When we went in, Graham was standing straight as a rod, feet close together. He'd just taken a memo from a business analyst. He didn't give Alexandra or me a glance as he read it. He looked at the analyst when he finished.
"You signed this 'I.G.' "
The analyst looked confused. "My name is Isaac Goldberg."
"I don't mind your being Isaac Goldberg. You may not, however, be I.G. I use those initials. Find another way to sign your name, at least until either you or I are no longer employed at this office."
The analyst's face flushed. He mumbled that he understood. When he'd gone, Graham acknowledged my presence." Mick Sanchez, why hasn't anyone I've contacted in the Houston office heard of you?"
"I've never been there."
"But you seem to be employed there."
"The operative word in that sentence is 'seem'."
"Then I am quite curious to hear your story. As is Mr. Gatineau."
Graham led the way to the boss's nook, while I nursed strong doubt that I was doing Sabine's reputation any good by coming here.
Gatineau's office was as richly decorated as Sabine's had been spare. Paintings covered the walls. There was a marble bust on a pedestal to the left of his desk. At first, I couldn't tell why it seemed out of place among the classic works. Then I realized that the figure's lapel was modern. Another look at Gatineau and I realized the bust was of him. He followed my eyes and glanced toward it. For a moment, I thought he was going to ask me how I liked i
t, but why would he care?
"How do you do, Mr. Sanchez," was all he said.
I shook his hand, soft flesh, firm grip. He was about five feet five or six. Graham and both I stood half a head taller. He had a modestly round physique and pudgy face, but there was nothing soft in his manner or eyes.
We sat at a lacquered table with carved legs and inlay on the surface. The chairs were embellished with hand carvings.
Despite his diminutive stature, Gatineau exuded the confidence of command, unlike the posturing Graham. I gave them the whole story, or at least as much of it as I thought they needed to know.
When Graham started to speak, Gatineau lifted his hand for silence. "Mr. Sanchez, I'm sure you understand that it is impossible for you to continue here."
"I've already told Alexandra that I am leaving. Actually, I had planned to advise Sabine—Ms. Duveau—today that prospects for finding Trevor weren't good."
"Then we're agreed. If you have any personal items in the office, you should take them with you when you go. To avoid bookkeeping, and..." He paused and raised his left eyebrow a hair's breadth. "...legal difficulties, the firm will pay you a month's salary, but there is no need for you in any way to pursue your search for Trevor. The police have accepted that he is missing and are handling the case. Do you agree?"
"It's more than fair."
"Ian might have a few questions, if you wouldn't mind accommodating him. As for me, adieu, M. Sanchez." When we stood to leave, I noticed a bald spot spreading forward from the back of his head and an ungainly breadth to his hips, characteristics, as I recall, that he shared with Napoleon. Maybe that explained his attitude.
I didn't mind answering Graham's questions. It was the accusations that redlined my pulse. He alluded to Sabine's personal reputation. He came close to suggesting that the firm might have been funding services other than a missing person investigation. When I heard the words "nearly embezzlement," I stood.
"That's it," I said.
"No, I'm afraid it isn't."
Maybe it was just the act of standing, but my anger flowed away. Ian Graham was no longer an irritant. He was a shell filled with cravings for admiration, superiority, promotion. They overwhelmed everything else about him and made him small.