The system did run into several more resilient security barriers, but it’s smart enough to stop at government networks locked down with newer encryption protocols. The system would also stop at networks capable of identifying the subtle intrusions and violations it could inflict upon digital victims. There are ways to hack through those without raising alarms, but it wasn’t necessary to get what I was after. The biggest challenge I usually faced was when the data wasn’t on a machine connected to a network. Most people don’t know this, but the only really safe computer is the one that’s powered down. There are ways around that, too, but it’s a lot more complicated. As I dug into SolCon, I found links back to DiMarco, so I dug into those, too.
I kept digging for three hours, and as I did, several pictures took shape about SolCon, Natalia, and DiMarco. DiMarco’s accessible network was pretty straightforward, and I got most of what I wanted. I was surprised, however, to run into not one but two inner networks at SolCon that my system shied away from. The first was heavy-duty encryption, and the second involved security protocols much beefier than any run-of-the-mill chemical company required. My digging still unearthed a great deal of data, but the pictures were not complete. I also added a new name to add to the list of players—Pyotr Nikolov, head of SolCon’s U.S. operations. As I read, a dangerous picture of the Russian formed—more sketch than picture, but he was clearly into a lot of shit. I wasn’t after him, though. I wanted DiMarco. Finally, with every reasonable search-point for DiMarco accessed, the screens stopped flashing.
“End left and right,” I said as I breathed deeply, trying to make sense of all the data. I’d culled a lot of data, even for me. The boxes disappeared, leaving the original logos. I removed the circlet and returned it to its cubbyhole. “Close panel.”
The monitors went black as the panel silently folded back into place. I turned, walked out onto the patio, and stood next to the fountain. I stared fondly at the sky for several long minutes, wishing I could see the stars beyond the glow of Los Angeles. I sat down, crossed my legs and positioned myself comfortably, palms resting on my knees. I closed my eyes and began processing the data roiling through my skull.
For two hours, I sat motionless. Eventually, my internal clock told me it was eight-thirty. I went back into my room, got dressed in the clothes from the night before, and walked out into the kitchen.
Draping my coat over a tall chair in front of the breakfast counter, I pulled out the makings for omelets. I chopped up everything I needed and set some orange juice on the counter just in time to see Natalia walking down the hall in the clothes she’d worn the night before. She carried Xen’s sneakers.
“Good morning!” I said cheerily. “Sleep well?”
“Like the dead,” she replied. “And good morning to you, too. Breakfast?” She sat in the chair next to my coat and dropped the sneakers on the floor.
“If you like omelets, it is.” I turned around and ignited two burners of the gas stove. I pulled down two small skillets from the hanging rack and placed them on the blue flame. A splash of oil went into each, and then I turned to face Natalia. I poured juice into both glasses, handed one to her and added three teaspoons of sugar to my own, mixing it up with a spoon. “SolCon is a front,” I said bluntly.
She looked at me, mouth agape, but she quickly regained her composure. Wary, her eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch and shoulder muscles tightened. I watched gears start to turn behind her eyes.
“What makes you say that?” she said as she picked up her glass.
“Let’s just say I did more than sleep last night.”
“A front for what … or who?”
I smiled at her, enjoying the façade. “Four layers back sits Solntsevskaya,” I explained. “In Russia they’re the biggest boys on the block, aren’t they? I mean, they go way beyond ‘mob,’ right?”
I could see that she knew I was dead on. A barely perceptible look of impressed fear fluttered across her face as she sized me up.
“Yes,” she said quietly, exploring my face over the lip of the glass. She set the glass down and placed her hands under the counter.
“What I can’t figure out is why SolCon would be paying Xen to research a new dry cleaning fluid that has no other application,” I said, giving her my best confused look.
“Diversification.”
Plausible, I thought. I knew SolCon had already developed the advanced tetrachloroethylene product for abatement—and body disposal, if the truth be told.
“Really?” I said a bit suspiciously. “SolCon is into explosives—nice irony there, considering their owners—military-grade fuels, a bevy of industrial adhesives and acids, space-age polymers and a whole slew of other high-tech molecular applications. But there isn’t a single product in their repertoire that even closely resembles something as insignificant …” I changed my voice to that of a commercial, “… as commercial applications for making evening gowns last longer and look brighter after you take them to the dry cleaners.…” I spoke normally again. “The silicon molecule won’t, for example, dissolve bodies. It has no other application,” I emphasized.
I took a long swig of my orange juice—perfectly sweetened—and set it on the counter. I wanted to let her mull on all of that, so I turned around and grabbed the two containers of chopped vegetables, quickly tossing each into the pans with a satisfying hiss. I went about sautéing them, glancing back to see her face. I caught her hands sliding nervously underneath the countertop as she eyed me with a calculating gaze.
While the vegetables cooked down, I grabbed three eggs, wacked each with the edge of a knife, and poured the contents into a mixing bowl. I whisked them to a froth, threw in some spices, and with a final whisk, poured half of the beaten eggs into each pan. I waited silently while the bottoms cooked.
“Perhaps they’re trying to increase the perception that they’re widely diversified,” she offered.
“Perhaps,” I nodded, smiling broadly with my back to her. After a minute, the tops of the omelets began to solidify. I grabbed a pan in each hand, lifted them up, expertly flipped both omelets simultaneously, and caught them as they landed neatly into their respective pans. I set them down, threw on some grated pepper-jack cheese and folded them over into perfect half-moon shapes. A few quick flops melted the cheese inside. Turning off the burners, I lifted the pans once again and, spinning around with a dramatic flourish, dumped a perfect omelet onto each of the waiting plates.
“Voilà!” I said triumphantly. “Breakfast is served!” The pans went into the sink next to me. I placed a fork on each plate, slid one in front of Natalia, grabbed my own, and leaned up against the stove, waiting to see if she would add anything. Seconds ticked by as I took a couple of bites, grinning widely despite mouthfuls of egg.
“Delicious,” I said mostly to myself. The smile on my face was openly victorious, expectant, and accusatory all at once. I didn’t take my eyes off her.
“As I said, diversification,” Natalia said evenly, not touching her plate.
“Would it surprise you that Xen was being paid as a consultant for research and development into jet fuel? On the books, at least.” I took another bite, chewed it and swallowed, smiling the whole time. “As far as SolCon is concerned, they’ll be getting more efficient planes, assuming the fuel ever works. And if it doesn’t, the cost of the project gets written off. Xen pretty much had carte-blanche and reported to only the project stake-holder.”
“Interesting.” she said slowly. I could see her wondering how I could have learned all of this … and learned it overnight. We both knew I was spot on, and I could see it scared the hell out of her.
“It is interesting,” I said cheerily. “And do you know who the stake-holder of the project was?”
“Who might that be?” she said, smiling uncomfortably but knowing what I was going to say next.
“Why, you.” I took another bite of the omelet and chewed thoughtfully. “The back of the car was empty last night. I didn’t think of it in the
heat of the moment, but if someone had been back there, I’d like to think you would have mentioned it. People don’t just forget that their bosses are still in the car being shot at. They forget purses, not people. There was no mysterious employer in the car, because there’s no mysterious employer at all. You initiated the project and never told SolCon what you were doing.” She looked nauseous. “You haven’t touched your omelet,” I said with a cheery smile. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve lost my appetite,” she grumbled, staring down at the plate in front of her. She looked up into my face, searching for something—anything—that would get her out of the conversation, but I could tell she came up short. “How could you possibly know all of this?” She finally asked incredulously. “About the project.”
My face finally turned serious. “Like I said, I have a lot of tools.” I smiled brightly again and took another bite of my omelet. “But don’t worry. I think we’re on the same side … well … sort of. You have nothing to worry about from me. Now eat up.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” she said quietly. Clearly defeated, she picked up the fork and took a small bite. I let her pick at her omelet for a few more minutes while I finished mine, chasing it with the sweetened orange juice.
“You know,” I started, “I took a pretty thorough look into your background as well.”
“Did you?” she said, her disappointment only lightly veiled.
“Yeah. Born Natalia Ludmila Voinovich in Tbilisi, Georgia, schooled at the University of Warsaw with a Bachelors and Masters in finance, both cum laude, and on to the Bank of Switzerland for three years. Then you had a two-year stint at Proviron as a Product Manager, four years at Fidea as a Senior Product Manager and now VP at SolCon. That’s an impressive career.”
“Thank you.”
“You know,” I continued, “it’s interesting.…”
“What is?” she asked, clearly not wanting to hear the answer.
“Every phone number listed in your resume … I was able to dig that up, too, by the way … they all seem to go to the same central office in Lyon, France. I think INTERPOL is based out of there, isn’t it?” I asked suggestively.
“That is interesting,” she said in a flat tone. She looked ill.
“Isn’t it? It’s a funny thing, too,” I continued mercilessly.
“What?” She didn’t look like she could take much more.
“There’s no mention of combat training,” I said in an overly confused tone. Then I looked her square in the eyes and was very serious. “You handled that Kalashnikov last night like the Spetsnaz … those are Russian special forces, but I’m pretty sure you already knew that.” She gave me a blank stare. The seconds ticked by.
“What size are you?” I asked out of left field, a smile lighting up my face.
“I beg your pardon?” She blinked in confusion. I could see her mind racing, trying to figure out what my game was.
“What size are you?” I repeated. “Say, for example, in a swimsuit.”
“What has that got to do anything?” she replied in a classic are-you-a-pervert tone.
“We have to attend a brunch,” I said as if it was the most reasonable answer in the world.
Baffled and frustrated, she blurted, “We just ate!”
“You hardly ate anything.” I pointed to her plate.
“You ruined my appetite!”
“Not my fault. Besides, we’re not eating brunch, we’re watching it.”
Her face went blank in utter confusion, and she blinked her eyes a few times. “We’re watching brunch?” She was clearly getting tired of feeling confused.
“Well, watching someone else eat it.”
“We’re watching someone else eat brunch,” she repeated, all hope for reason abandoned.
“Someones, actually.”
“Who?” She gave me an if-you-don’t-tell-me-right-now-I’m-going-to-shoot-you-with-my-Glock look.
“Does the name Gino DiMarco mean anything to you?”
“Of course it does. Everyone knows about Gino DiMarco.”
“How about … Pyotr Nikolov?” and I got the accent right. “Does everyone know about him?”
Natalia’s eyes got wide, and I might as well have coughed up a rat and spat it on the counter top. “No,” she said quietly with a trace of fear.
“Well, it seems as if there’s a brunch meeting … today … between the SolCon folks, specifically one Pyotr Nikolov and the head of VeniCorp, namely …”
“Gino DiMarco,” we said together.
“How do you know all this?” she asked. “It’s ridiculous. You couldn’t possibly.”
“It’s not ridiculous. Like I keep telling you, I have a lot of tools. You’ll have to get used to that … and this is just hacking mail servers, mostly. Well … maybe a bit more than that … But still … easy peasy.”
“For you, maybe,” she accused, sounding almost jealous.
“Well, I do have a little help.”
“Such as?”
I paused, smiling that knowing little smile I have when people ask about my personal life. “That’s a long story … and we have to get going.”
“Where?”
“My boat. That’s why I asked you what size you were.”
“We’re going to watch other people eat brunch … from your boat?” she asked, sounding as if I was making less and less sense with each passing moment.
“Precisely!” I grinned like a madman, which I think she suspected was the case. “It’s perfectly simple.”
“I hate you Case,” she said. “I guess I’ll have to accept that I’m stuck with a lunatic, at least in the short term. I might as well make the best of it.”
Sighing, “I get that a lot.” I gave her a coy look. “And I liked it better when you called me Justin.” Coyness turned into a provocative grin, and I flexed my eyebrows at her like Groucho Marx.
“Case it is then,” she said.
“Eight,” I blurted, pointing at her.
“What?” She simply couldn’t keep up with my style of conversation, although, thinking about it, I hadn’t met anyone besides Rachel who could.
“I bet you’re a size eight,” I clarified.
“Yes. Good guess.”
“Educated one. You’re a little taller and somewhat better endowed than my assistant. Back there,” I pointed down the hallway leading to where she had slept. “Last bedroom on the left this time, with the waterbed in it … There’s a shower and some women’s things. Get cleaned up and check the closet for a swimsuit that will work. You’ll find some wigs in the walk-in as well. See if there’s one you like.”
“You’re out of your mind, Case. You know that?”
“You won’t be the last to say so,” I said grinning as she walked off. “Oh, and quickly. Brunch is at ten-thirty, so we have to be out of here by nine-thirty.”
“Whatever you say,” she said, standing up and grabbing the sneakers.
“You don’t mean that,” I said and winked. “Wear regular clothes. Take anything from the closet you like. You can change into the suit on the boat.” I smiled at her retreating legs and swinging butt. “I promise I won’t look.”
“You’re right on all counts,” she said flatly, and kept heading down the hall.
While she got ready, I went back to my bedroom and took a fast shower. When I finished, I pressed a door-sized wall panel just inside the bedroom door. The panel moved in slightly and swung out revealing a walk-in closet. I grabbed a black, skin-tight t-shirt from the closet and a baggy pair of blue jeans, putting them both on.
I walked to the bedroom door, but paused with my hand an inch from the handle. I returned to the closet and opened it again. A black touch pad decorated the back wall. I placed my palm on it and lifted my fingers and thumb in a sequence to unlock the safe. A small, hidden door set at face level swung outwards. Among an assortment of gizmos and data drives lay a sheathed, edged weapon—a combination of combat-knuckles and two blades. Closing the safe, I pul
led the weapon out of the sheath and slid my fingers through the holes in the combat knuckles.
The dull, black hilt felt smooth and natural in my hand. As my fingers wrapped around it, the weapon made a high-pitched humming sound that increased, quickly going beyond the audible range.
It was called a vlain, a combat vibrablade common in the military where I come from. Made from a single piece of ceramic polymer, it’s harder and lighter than titanium and impervious to metal detection. A six-inch, stiletto blade with a serrated edge along the back protruded from the end of the hilt closest to my thumb, a blood-runnel etched down both sides. Another six-inch blade curved out from the end closest to my pinky and extended forward in line with the knuckle spikes, which were each about an inch long.
I slid the blade back in its sheath, the whine spinning down when I released it. I hooked the sheath over my belt, securing it tightly. I walked back to the kitchen, collected everything from breakfast, and dropped it casually into the sink. Then I went to the living room and waited for Natalia to finish getting ready.
Natalia finally walked out. She had selected black, loose-fitting gaucho pants with a black belt and a light, baggy green blouse. She’d slung a small red purse over her shoulder—one of Rachel’s favorites, I recalled, which made me feel a little guilty. Xen’s sneakers were back on her feet, and a short, red wig topped off the ensemble.
“You look great,” I said. “C’mon, we’ll take my truck.” I stood up and put on my coat, making sure she didn’t see the vlain. “Do you still have the Glock?” She pulled it out from the back of her belt and held it up. “Good. The truck is through there,” I indicated a door to the left of the foyer. With Natalia in the lead, we walked into the garage. Natalia headed towards my beat up, blue ’03 Ford F-250 4x4. It was raised about six inches, had oversized, off-road tires, a roll-bar, and bumper guards. Grabbing a beat-up, straw cowboy hat and pair of Ray Bans off the shelf just inside the door, I got into the truck. Natalia clicked in her seatbelt as I sat down.
Chemical Burn Page 4
