They sat in silence for a while, looking out the window at the passing traffic. When the food arrived, Malone started the conversation and soon brought the topic around to Daniel's history. Daniel seemed happy to talk.
'I can't remember anything about my parents. My earliest memories are of an orphanage in San Francisco. Apparently I was dropped off there when I was only, like, one or two. Over the years, I've heard a few stories about where I was born and who my parents were, but I still don't know the truth.' Daniel took a slurp of Coke. 'I was never very clever at school, certainly not when it came to the three Rs, but I was good at art. I was always doodling or sitting in the corner of the room with a sketchpad and pencil. One of the sisters took me under her wing and helped me develop my skills.'
He was telling the story without much thought, and was tucking into his burger and fries along the way. 'As I got older, she introduced me to the world of computer design, and in particular, animation. The hours in front of the screen ruined my eyes,' he pointed at his glasses, 'and made me more of a loner. I was never that good with people anyway, so it was no great loss. Apart from the sister, I had no friends.' He seemed to dwell on this a bit. Malone couldn't work out if it was the lack of friends or the sister that was responsible for the moment.
'At sixteen, I was sent out into the big, wide world. I managed to get plenty of little jobs like packing groceries and part-time store work, and it was at one of these jobs that I made some friends. Hanging out with people was a change. I didn't realize personal contact with people of the same age could be so much fun. Shopping malls were a cool place to meet, and that's where I first got arrested.'
They both ordered dessert and Daniel asked for an Oreo cookie shake. 'If that's okay,' he added.
Malone nodded, keen to keep the story flowing.
'I thought shoplifting was a petty crime, but my upbringing, and my difficulty in keeping the same address, meant that an officer in the SFPD kept a close eye on me. I didn't really worry about it because I thought my life of crime was over.' He stopped the story at this point and seemed to be reliving a difficult time in his mind. The desserts arrived and he started talking again.
'A couple of years later, I got word that the sister had died. I was devastated. My friends were there to help me through it . . . They helped by teaching me how to jack car stereos and then cars. My career as a criminal was short-lived though, and I did an eight-month stint in a juvenile detention centre. As part of my re-entry to the public world, I was relocated to LA and placed in a halfway house.
'My parole officer got me the job at the Computer Warehouse, which meant I got close to computers again. I've built up my computer skills and even learned how to hack.'
Malone had listened to the story with great interest, although he had only the vaguest notion what hacking was. He was curious about the sister, and how such a strong bond had formed, but he knew that would be a story for another night.
'Tell me more about the animation work,' he finally asked.
Daniel told him about the processes involved in computer animation.
'So, you could do all this from an office?'
'Yes, of course.'
'What equipment would you need?'
Daniel ran through a list of the basic equipment required to set up an animation company.
'Well, that's it then. We'll set you up as an animation company; you can work from HQ. You'll be able to earn the money to pay me back, and I can keep an eye on you. I think they call that getting two birds with one stone!'
Daniel's face glowed with excitement — until reality hit. 'Do you have any idea what it would cost for all the equipment and stuff I just reeled off?'
Malone sat quietly for a moment. He wasn't thinking about the money directly; it was the thought of where it had come from that was upsetting him. His mind went back to a day many years ago. The salesman — dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt and patterned tie — was sitting in his living room. He'd been gathering information from Malone and his wife: what were their dreams and aspirations? When did they want to retire? Did they want to pay off the house early? He'd gained all their financial information, and showered them in a range of scenarios. The coffee table in front of them was covered with papers and charts. There were index-linked mutual funds and investment funds; most of the terminology and figures went way over Malone's head, but his wife Barbara seemed to follow the salesman all the way. Malone had taken to thinking about his day's events and the things he had to do the next day, nodding happily at the appropriate times. At the end of the meeting, he found himself signing forms and shaking hands. The policies they'd taken out had given each of them a death cover of half a million dollars.
Malone hated the money when it was paid out, and hadn't touched it. He had just nodded again and signed the paperwork when the insurers suggested it should be deposited into a high interest-bearing account. Only recently, after using up his savings, had he started to use the interest for living expenses — mainly his bar tab — but vowing never to use the principal.
The slurping sound as Daniel came to the bottom of his shake brought Malone's attention back to the table. 'You leave the finances to me, and I'll leave the hard work to you. Do we have a deal?' Malone had a smile on his face although he felt shredded inside.
'Are you kidding? Doing my dream job and working for myself; where do I sign?' Daniel held his hand out as if waiting to get a pen.
Malone grabbed it and shook it. 'Your handshake is signature enough for me.'
Daniel put his hand on his chin as though thinking. 'I reckon that since I am my own boss, my first duty is to offer myself a pay rise for being such a great employee,' he joked.
Malone laughed. 'Tell you what, your first expense has been this business meal and I guess that since you have no money, it'll go on your tab. I'll let you know the interest rate soon.'
Daniel's face dropped.
Malone stood up, and as he picked up the bill he smiled at Daniel. 'Cheer up partner, just an incentive to make you look for work quicker.'
10
CHAMPAGNE REGION, FRANCE
Through the open window of his study, Jean Caviette heard the crunching sound of tires on the gravel of the driveway. He went to the front door to check on his unexpected visitors.
'Good morning, Monsieur Caviette. I am Inspector Monique Binoche of the Serious Crime Division. These are my colleagues, Detectives Havier and Chevalier. Monique flashed her badge and held her hand out to shake his. Caviette took her hand, shaking it uneasily. She was a stunningly attractive woman, and looked to Monsieur Caviette to be in her mid-thirties; rather young to be an inspector, he thought. Her flowing red hair was pulled back from her face and into a ponytail; her high cheekbones, tight jaw line and deep brown eyes made her a classic beauty, more suited to the pages of a fashion magazine, and not the sort of person he would expect to see standing on his doorstep flashing a police badge.
'What is the Serious Crime Division doing here? It was just a bungled theft that left the thief worse off than me,' Monsieur Caviette said. He looked fatigued and unwilling to discuss the break-in any further.
'I know you've had our officers all over your beautiful château for the past few days, and I hear our forensic department has been more than thorough in their work. But we're here to talk about the burglar himself rather than what he was after. Do you mind if we come in?'
It was more of a statement than a question; she had already picked up her case and pushed her way over the doorstep. Monsieur Caviette moved aside and gestured the others in, closing the door behind them.
'Come through please,' he sighed.
'Havier and Chevalier.' As he muttered them to himself he found the detectives' names odd.
'We'd rather make this a little less formal if possible. We have some photos to show you and it's already been a long day. Do you have a table we could sit at?' She already knew there was one, but waited for him to answer.
'It's a little untidy, wha
t with the local gendarmerie setting up shop here, but I don't mind if you don't.'
The kitchen was large enough to furnish food for a large restaurant, with a huge Aga cooker taking pride of place. In the middle of the room stood an eight-seater country table, its pale wood a stark contrast to the deep burgundy of the tiled floor. Monique sat at the head of the table, placing her briefcase gently on the floor, while the two detectives stood guard behind her.
'May I offer you a drink? Wine, or a coffee perhaps?'
'I'll take a coffee, thank you. My colleagues are fine.' After another quick look around the kitchen, she continued. 'Would you have any objections to my agents leaving us here and getting a feel for the house?'
Monsieur Caviette shrugged his shoulders and turned to the coffee machine. 'Not sure what they'll find, but fine, go ahead.'
Monique nodded to the two men and they left.
Monsieur Caviette poured the coffee and brought the cups over, returning for the cream and sugar.
'Your jewels have been well documented, Monsieur Caviette'
'Please, call me Jean,' he said, sitting beside her. His animosity was diminishing quickly now that they were alone.
'Well, Jean, as I said before, we are more interested in the robber than in the robbery.'
Jean looked perplexed. 'What has he got to do with me? As I've told your colleagues — numerous times, I will add — I don't know the man, I've never met him.'
She let him speak while she brought her case up to the table. Pulling out a file, she placed it on the table and returned the case to the floor. 'Did you get a good look at the robber's face, Jean?' she asked as she added cream and sugar to her cup.
'He was a little messed up in the picture but, as I said, he was no one I've had contact with.'
She opened the folder and slid the top photo over to him. 'So then, how do you account for this, Jean?' The picture showed Jean Caviette in what appeared to be deep conversation with another man.
'Who is this . . .? I've never . . . Where did you . . .?'
His stammer brought a small smile to her face, but she hid it well. She slipped another photo in front of him. 'And this one, Jean?' she drew out his name as she said it. The picture showed the two men in a different location, but very close to each other.
Jean Caviette composed himself before continuing. 'I do, well, sort of remember this man now,' he blurted.
Monique leaned forward.
'This man asked me for directions to somewhere. But as for the other picture, I don't remember . . .' Jean Caviette seemed to struggle to recall the two encounters.
'So, the man you said you never met has suddenly become your best friend!' Her goading was hitting the spot. 'You see, Jean Caviette, we think you do know the criminal, Mr Jenson,' she barked.
'Mr who? What the hell is going on here?'
'Mr Jenson was one of Interpol's most sought-after career criminals, and from what we can see in these pictures, you seem to know each other quite well.'
He picked up the pictures and looked at the man again. 'I have no idea who this man is. I certainly don't know his name.' His agitation had returned and he was starting to get angry.
'Calm down please, Jean.' Her tone was soothing; she wanted to push him, but not too far. 'Why don't you come clean and confess? We think you staged the robbery to get the insurance, but you forgot to switch off the silent alarm. Tell me, Monsieur Caviette, how did you think you were going to get away with this?' She'd gone back to using his surname.
They were interrupted by the return of the two agents. Detective Havier nodded to Monique as the men took positions by the door. Monique turned back to a speechless and confused Jean Caviette. 'I think you're going to need a lawyer, Monsieur Caviette. We should defer our business until you have one present.' She picked up the photos and put them back into the folder. 'All I can say is, be sure you get a good one. And Jean, don't leave the country; we'll be back in touch soon.'
Monique got up to leave, and Jean began to rise at the same time. 'Please don't get up, Monsieur, we'll show ourselves out.' Picking up her case, Monique walked past her two agents; they looked at Jean, shook their heads, and followed her out.
Eager to get away from the house, their pace quickened as they walked to the car. Both men sat in the front seats while Monique took her position in the back.
Havier started the car and pulled away.
'Did you see his face?' Chevalier joked. The tension broke as they laughed together.
Monique unzipped her case and dropped her badge inside. 'Okay, Monsieurs, pass me your ID badges.' She took them and dropped them into her case.
'The one thing I don't understand is, how did you know to follow Mr Jenson?' Havier asked Monique as he looked at her in the rearview mirror.
'Protection of my client's investment, my special-agent friends, as simple as that. It was the first time I'd used Mr Jenson, and I always follow new contractors. The photos were a complete bonus and, as it turns out, a ticket to the ball. Now, tell me, did you get it?' she asked.
From under his jacket Chevalier pulled out a silk-wrapped package, and slowly unfolding it, showed her the precious piece of dark wood. 'Like candy from a baby,' he smirked.
'Be careful with that, it's worth a fortune. Put it in here.' She held open a silver case and — once the piece of the cross was placed inside — she closed the lid and locked the catch.
She pulled the hair tie from her ponytail and ruffled up her hair, her face relaxing a little with the release of pressure. Turning and looking back at the château for the last time, she gazed at the sheer beauty of the building, its perfect symmetry, the turrets at each end framing its magnificence. The place made her life feel unfulfilled; she vowed to herself that one day she would have something just like it. Sighing, she sat back in her seat and clutched the case; it had been a good save.
11
LOS ANGELES
Although the week had passed quickly Travis was glad to be out of the office. It was a beautiful California day and as he stood beside his car, his hands on his hips, he stretched his spine backwards, feeling the sun's warmth on his face. Even though the journey was going to be relatively short in terms of mileage, the extra heavy morning traffic meant he was going to be in his car for a couple of hours. He didn't mind the drive; in fact, as usual, he was looking forward to it but the Aston's leather seats, although comfortable, still played havoc with his back. In truth though, the destination more than made up for the discomfort of the trip.
Apart from his office, Simon Travis had one other passion and favourite workplace, the Communication and Teleportation research lab just north of San Diego in the Sorrento Valley. It was where he left his pessimism at the door, dressed himself in a lab coat and let his imagination take over. The possibilities of teleportation were endless; with it he could immediately control the freight and transport market; goods could be transferred door-to-door around the world as easily as sending an e-mail. All the usual costs involved in shipping — planes, boats, trains, and trucks, to say nothing of fuel costs — would disappear with teleportation, and that was just the tip of the iceberg.
His company had been involved in the early successes with shifting protons. He remembered, as if it was only yesterday, the intense feeling of achievement as he watched the experiment progress to the point where all the theory and speculation met reality: actually seeing it happen. Their experiment had mimicked the ground-breaking achievement at the California Institute of Technology in 1998. In that experiment, physicists successfully teleported a photon to its new position one metre away and the original photon simply ceased to exist. In Travis' team's experiment, they increased the distance and overall size of the project and got the same result.
Travis didn't understand all of the science behind the experiment, but his desire for a successful outcome was enough for him to have more than just a passing interest. His real ambition was to transport people, not just around this world, but around the universe. A pipe drea
m perhaps, but he had a feeling that if anyone could do it, it would be him. He'd often wondered if the great scientists, Bell or Newton perhaps, had felt the same sense of absolute conviction that drove him. He guessed they probably did.
As Travis understood it, for a person to be teleported successfully the science must be exact, the machine must analyze all of the seven times ten to the power of twenty-seven atoms that make up the average human body (effectively, seven followed by twenty-seven zeroes — a number beyond comprehension), move them, and then reconstruct the person/atoms again, precisely. The slightest deviation would result in huge physiological defects. And of course, having the cleanest of environments was paramount. The archaic technology and basic horror of the movie The Fly effectively portrayed to Travis the nightmare scenario of miscalculation. Meaning that — aside from himself — Travis was hard-pushed to find anyone eager to become a guinea pig in his future experiments. Travis often thought that Hollywood had played a large part in manufacturing peoples' fear of sharks and birds — even of showering in remote motels!
If the whole human teleportation thing were to work, it would open up several cans of worms regarding theory and practicality. Theoretically, there were a number of ways it could be done. Some people believed it would work in the same way as sending a fax. You sent your genetic blueprint to a new frame at the receiving end, but the original still existed at the place from where you were sent; so, in a way, it just duplicated the original. An argument against this was that received faxes were usually a degraded version of the original — and of course, what became of the original?
The other, more popular, option was somehow to break down the atoms and transmit them to the desired location, rebuilding them like a giant jigsaw puzzle at the other end. This was a method made popular by Star Trek and similar science fictions.
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