Wired Truth

by Toby Neal

  “No. None.” They touched glasses and drank.

  The Master set aside his tumbler with an air of getting down to business. He steepled his fingers, studying the board. “We have time for one more game before my flight.”

  “Where are you headed?” Connor leaned forward, a pleasant sense of anticipation quickening in his veins. The Master had told him early on in his training that they played chess to hone their strategic thinking.

  “I will be gone for an indefinite time.” The Master studied the pieces, answering but not answering, as he often did. Firelight burnished his golden-brown skin. He picked up a rook with a long-figured hand and made an opening move. “I want you to run the compound, and also our mutual online interests.”

  Connor’s gaze flew up to meet the Master’s compelling pansy-purple eyes. “I haven’t been near a computer the whole time I’ve been here. Now you want me to resume the Ghost’s activities?”

  “I want you to step into the position I have prepared you for. It was always my intention that you could replace me here, bringing with you the additional layer of your computer presence as the Ghost.”

  “I hoped someday to partner with you, but I had never have dreamed of replacing you.” Connor’s throat went dry just saying the words. “It’s a lot of responsibility, Master.” Connor made a countermove, and his brows lowered in dismay as the Master took his knight. “What has changed?”

  “You have graduated. That is what has changed. And you have more talent than I even hoped for. With many gifts, comes much responsibility.” The Master made another move. “I suggest you pay attention to the game.”

  Connor tried to focus, but in three more moves, the Master had taken his queen. “Check.”

  “You win.” Connor tipped his king over. “Now, tell me what you want me to do.”

  “I must leave the compound for a time, and you will prove your ability to stand in my stead and take care of what I have entrusted to you.” The Master rose from the table, graceful as always. “I have left word with the section leaders that you are in charge. After today’s events, you will have no trouble from anyone.”

  Connor’s pulse picked up. Running the compound was a lot to take on. The stronghold, and its training program, were only a fraction of what the Master oversaw in his leadership role for Thailand’s clandestine spy agency and the last remnant of the Thai royal family’s castle guard. The Yām Khûmkạn was the equivalent to the USA’s Secret Service and CIA combined, and though he had been briefed, he had not expected to assume command of such a complex organization. “I would prefer if you stayed a little longer, Master. If you took me around, oriented me on all of the aspects . . .”

  “Nine will be available to assist you. Do not disappoint me.” Coldness in the Master’s voice conveyed his displeasure.

  Connor’s belly tightened. “I will do my best.”

  A flash of memory, long suppressed, ambushed him: his father’s voice. “You disappoint me.” A fall down the stairs into a cold, dark basement . . . the door banging shut overhead. Darkness, for hours.

  “I will communicate when it is safe to do so. Make your acquaintance with the computer lab; I know you have been avoiding it, but that time is over. Nine will serve as your right hand. Good night.” The Master walked into his bedroom area, and pulled the door closed behind him.

  “Good night, Master,” Connor said to the empty room.

  He looked down at the abandoned chess game.

  He had been obliterated in only a few moves. All this time, the Master had gone easy on him, and allowed Connor to think he could win. What else had he been outplayed at?

  Chapter Nine

  Raveaux: Day One, Evening

  Raveaux walked up the colorful tropical walkway to the door of his bottom floor apartment in Waikiki. He’d rented the condominium on the advice of his counselor: “somewhere bright, cheerful, whose location will raise your mood.” As he sorted through a bunch of keys for the one to the door, the shrieks and laughter of children playing in the pool that was a part of the complex tested that wisdom.

  The setting didn’t match his mood—in fact, the presence of happy vacationing families so close to him only served to highlight what he’d lost.

  He opened the door and gave it a push. The interior layout was simple: a single bedroom with bath, a kitchenette along the back wall, a living area in front of sliders that gave way to a pretty seating area that looked out between two palms and a mass of plantings, toward the distant beach and ocean.

  Raveaux walked to the sliders and unlocked them. His nostrils filled with the smell of the sea as the evening breeze flowed in. He glanced over at the aforementioned crowded pool, visible through clusters of palm plantings. He could sometimes swim laps alone at six a.m. before the kids showed up. A meandering concrete walkway that passed all the major Waikiki resorts wound its way past his unit. And straight ahead, a swath of yellow sand beach radiated leftover warmth from the day’s sunshine. Little turquoise waves purled onto the sand, expending themselves again and again like a beating heart.

  He turned and headed for the refrigerator, battling through a wave of longing for a drink. He had beaten that demon two years ago almost to the day.

  Yes, tomorrow was the fourth anniversary of the day his wife and daughter had been blown to bits. The two years following their deaths had been spent in the bottom of a bottle, and, after his sister had staged an “intervention,” he’d gotten sober at a high-end facility in Arizona.

  Somewhere along the way, between the yoga, the therapy, and the sweat lodge, he’d decided to live. Decided that dying wouldn’t bring them back. Decided he might have a little tread left on his tires, after all, though for what purpose remained to be seen.

  Close to two more years had passed as he consolidated the remains of his former life, some of which had meant throwing away his own useless possessions and boxing Gita and Lucie’s things. He’d sold the flat on the Riviera where they’d lived as a family, with its joyful and terrible memories, and relocated to Hawaii. He was still on a visa that required frequent trips back to France, but his new consulting career had turned out to be surprisingly interesting and fruitful.

  The liquor craving temporarily vanquished, Raveaux reached inside the refrigerator for a bottle of seltzer water. He poured the fizzy liquid over ice cubes into an antique cut crystal glass he kept for that purpose. He added a lime wedge and swirled the liquid, enjoying the sound of the cubes and the sight of the bubbles. Just because the drink didn’t have a kick didn’t mean it couldn’t be pleasant.

  Holding his drink, Raveaux walked through the living area and stepped out onto the lanai. He sat in one of two metal tubing beach recliners, sipping the pleasant bubbles and taking a long moment to watch the palm trees do their hula dance in the evening light, to enjoy the sight of the mynah birds hopping on the smooth grass, chatting in a busy way that reminded him of the common blackbirds of France.

  Maybe he would forgo the evening workout.

  After all, why bother? It wasn’t like anyone saw his body, and it wasn’t like he did anything very physical on the job anymore, so he no longer felt a need to be prepared for combat or running. This new case was mostly going to be interviews and computer work, too.

  For that reason alone, he probably needed to get his blood moving. He had a lot of surveillance recordings to get through this evening. But right now, he had time for one more chapter of the Nesbo book.

  Raveaux got up and retrieved his paperback. He found his page and opened it.

  Gita and her bookmarks. He’d enjoyed finding those brightly colored paper scraps to add to her collection from all over the world. He’d boxed them away without looking at them, blind drunk, with a respirator mask on so he wouldn’t smell her scent or feel her presence as he touched her clothing and mementos. He’d thrown everything that remotely reminded him of her, along with Lucie’s things, into a storage unit to be dealt with someday, when he had the strength for it.

  Righ
t now, he couldn’t imagine a day when he’d have the strength for it.

  A palm frond had fallen to the grass beside him; Raveaux reached down to pull off a single frond. He stripped the brown leaf material from the spine, and slid the woody, springy wand into the book, holding it deep in the pages as he read, sipping his drink. The chapter was absorbing, taking him away—but too quickly, he reached the end.

  He set it aside and changed, lacing up his running shoes and picking up a pair of weights. Being efficient at things was a personal value and a trademark of his work. He could do weights and run at the same time, while “considering the questions of life and the universe too.”

  Raveaux heard that last sentence in his mind, spoken in Gita’s laughing voice.

  He would never forget the first time he met her. She had been involved with one of his cases on the Riviera. As an antiquities assessor, she was often called in to work for the wealthy, giving professional estimates on their possessions for insurance valuation or resale through the different auction houses. He’d met her on a case much like this latest diamond heist one.

  Raveaux locked up his place and got out on the sidewalk, hefting his weights as he ran, trying not to think about Gita.

  But there was no way to banish her—she’d arisen in memory like a djinn, lush lips framing perfect teeth in a smile that was just a little too large for her face.

  Gita had been a small woman with a big personality and the kind of belly laugh that made his toes curl with happiness. She’d always worn her thick onyx hair braided unless he asked her to take it down. He could still see his fingers fanning through it, sorting the long rippling strands, loosening her braid . . .

  Raveaux fumbled for his headphones in the pocket of his running shorts. He booted up some German thrash metal on his MP3 player, and that knocked everything out of his mind but the pound of his feet on the pavement, the pump of his arms as he lifted the weights, and the thunder of his heart as he pushed himself past memory.

  Raveaux’s laptop was top-of-the-line, and he had a satellite signal booster and a scrambling program on it to provide him with detection protection and alternate VPN addresses. Showered after his run and the distracting pageantry of the sunset, he settled himself in the small living room with the laptop on his knees, waiting for the Chinese takeout he had called for. He cued up the recordings from Finewell’s.

  As he logged in to the encrypted stick drive Sophie had given him containing his half of the footage, his mind wandered.

  What was Sophie’s personal background? He knew only her professional life.

  She seemed so polished, so well put together. He could tell by her accent she had been educated in Europe. The excellent cut of the simple, movement-friendly clothing she wore spoke of sophistication. He’d heard Sophie was a mother, but she wore no ring, and her body was the lithe shape of an athlete.

  What did she do in the evenings? Was her lonely routine like his?

  Maybe she’d like to share his Chinese food and go over the surveillance together.

  Raveaux shook his head abruptly at the intrusive thought, waving his hand as if a fly had buzzed near his ear.

  The doorbell rang. Out of long-established caution, Raveaux assessed the deliveryman through the spy hole from behind the door: Asian teen with jeans hanging off his butt and a gold chain showing on his skinny chest between the panels of an unbuttoned black shirt—the real thing.

  Once he had paid for the takeout, Raveaux set the assortment of small, waxed cardboard containers and a pair of chopsticks on the coffee table.

  He eyed the food with distaste.

  He loved a good Bordeaux with a nice cut of meat in a red wine truffle reduction sauce; maybe some lightly grilled vegetables on the side garnished with crunchy pommes frites for texture, and a fresh baguette to tear apart and dip into the sauce.

  What was he doing, ordering Chinese for the third day in a row?

  The same thing he’d been doing with a million cruel little choices he made for himself on a daily basis—punishing himself for being alive, when they were dead.

  Raveaux’s therapist had nailed that pattern awhile ago, challenging him to stop his many tiny tortures. He’d been slowly getting better, gradually allowing little pleasures back into his life, beginning with the biggest one—relocating to Waikiki.

  What he needed to do was get a good knife and a few pans, and go to the store for something other than coffee and seltzer water. He needed to cook himself some decent food.

  Then he might have something to eat worthy of inviting Sophie over to share . . .

  “Merde!” He had no room in his life for anything but enjoying his supposed Hawaii retirement and the occasional thriller novel. He hadn’t had a relationship in four years, and he wasn’t about to start now. Once he got sober, he’d decided he was done with that shit. He’d never risk that kind of heartache again.

  Raveaux opened the nearest container and ate mechanically, his growling belly overcoming repugnance at the quality of the cuisine. He focused on the footage as it flowed by on his laptop’s screen, scanning the boring video as it wound by on fast forward. He had gotten the second half of the video, after the jewels were supposedly in their “vault”—but he didn’t think they had ever made it there at all.

  Various employees entered and exited the video’s capture as they stored and removed different items from the room’s shelving, always with a partner. He’d taught himself lip reading, and he amused himself discerning the conversations—mostly useless information about football scores and the weather, along with an occasional off-color joke.

  Raveaux made it through three hours of review before succumbing to utter boredom.

  He formulated his case notes, provided a quick electronic signature, and logged his hours into the Security Solutions payment database.

  And now there was nothing further to do.

  Raveaux wasn’t ready for sleep, though he brushed his teeth and stripped to his boxers. His mind, once again, ran down the rabbit hole of memory.

  Lucie had always had difficulty with bedtime, too. He and Gita had worked hard to get their daughter to bed at a reasonable hour, fighting her many protests and calls for water, and hugs, and having her night light turned on, or off, or the door open or closed. At four, Lucie had been bright, sassy, full of energy. She’d had the incredible vocabulary of her mother, who spoke four languages, and the curiosity and persistence that Gita said were Raveaux’s main traits.

  Lucie would be eight now, if she had lived . . .

  Raveaux threw the bedding aside and got up, once again battling the urge for a drink. Drinking had turned off mind and memory—he hadn’t found a substitute that worked as well since he got sober. He would just have to go down to the beach and swim. Swim until he was too tired for the memories, or the nightmares.

  Swimming was the real reason why he’d chosen this spot; not its over-bright sunlight and infernal crowds during the day.

  The ocean took him into its dark embrace, warm and welcoming as a lover’s arms. He snapped down his goggles, rolled on the nylon shirt he wore to trap a little body heat from escaping his lean frame, and slid on his swim fins.

  He dove into the gentle waves and inky water and began laps, swimming parallel to shore. He focused on his form as his arms slashed through the water; stroke, stroke, turn, breathe, kick, kick, kick. The water was silk fabric he cut with scissoring arms; he was just a machine, mindless, soulless, heartless, as he moved like a sea creature through black water lightly kissed by the reflected lights of skyscrapers that shadowed the beach.

  And gradually the soothing metronome of his strokes banished the heartache, at least for a little while.

  Chapter Ten

  Sophie: Day Two

  Raveaux was already seated in a chair in front of her desk when Sophie walked into her office. He sat in his characteristic pose, one ankle cocked on the other knee, and that thriller novel he was reading open before him. As she walked around the desk, a touch
of the light cinnamon aftershave he seemed to favor hit her nose. Though nattily dressed in a black button down and trousers over woven leather loafers, Raveaux’s dark eyes were bloodshot and circled by purplish skin. “Rough night, Raveaux?”

  “Bonjour, Sophie.” Raveaux ignored her comment, slipping a piece of coconut fiber between the pages of his book.

  “You’re in early.” Sophie set a thermos of hot, strong Thai tea on her desk and sat down in her chair. “Can you give me a few minutes? I have a routine in the mornings. I’m surprised Paula let you in.”

  Raveaux shrugged. “Paula was not at her desk when I arrived. Take all the time you need.” He opened the book again.

  He did not offer to leave and give her privacy.

  Sophie suppressed a surge of annoyance. Jake used to invade her space too. She didn’t like it any better from this man.

  Sophie turned on her computers with her key fob and opened her tablet, checking the day timer app for her appointments. She answered a few urgent emails and shot Paula some instructions.

  She picked up her thermos, unscrewed the cap, and poured some tea into the shiny cup that was a part of the lid. She took a sip of her favorite beverage and realized she’d forgotten Raveaux was even in the room, so completely had he withdrawn his presence.

  Unlike Jake’s physical restlessness and magnetism, Raveaux seemed to be able to render himself invisible—a handy skill for an investigator.

  She sipped her tea and sneaked a glance at her new partner from beneath her lashes.

  Raveaux’s eyes on the pages of his book were sunken in bruised-looking pouches. His cheeks seemed hollow, as if he hadn’t eaten well either. His black long-sleeved shirt was top quality, but wrinkled today, and sand packed the tread of his loafers.

  The man obviously had sleep and stress problems—probably PTSD from his wife and daughter’s murder. When she’d contacted Paula for the gossip on him last night, Paula had said that several of the other Security Solutions female contractors, and even one of the men, had made romantic overtures toward Raveaux—to no avail. “He’s a grieving widower,” Paula had said. “About as much fun as a bag of wet cats.”