by Randy Dutton
Anna still hasn’t told me where she’s taking me. The road had cut across the peninsula and now came back to the coast. Sven’s thoughts drifted to his surroundings. Such a beautiful day! The sky is hazy blue, the sun’s angle is behind us and the temperature’s perfect. The breeze, well, in a convertible, who knows which way it’s blowing? The wind blew stands of her hair not contained by the scarf. She started pointing out landmarks in her adopted region. The Promenade des Mariners, on the left; Maeva Le Palais de la Marine—the Palace of the Navy—to the right; then pointed up the mountain, and said, “and way up on top is villa Anna Fleur de Tina Turner.”
“Tina Turner’s villa?”
“Un huh? If you were in town longer, I’d introduce you.”
His eyes narrowed in skepticism—his mind questioning her name dropping. Silently he thought, You’re pulling my leg aren’t you? When her expression didn’t change and she continued pointing out landmarks, he decided she sincere.
As they started driving through Villefranche sur Mer—Free Town on the Sea—the roads took on slope and twists. She always took the closest main road to the coast, which added time to the drive, but Sven shrugged it off. He had decided to relax and just accept everything she said and did. She’s a pro in everything else, why not in driving?
They soon rounded the Cap du Nice—Nice Cape—and came to the Port of Nice. She pointed to a chapel ahead on a hill just past the port. “We’ll stop there.”
Minutes later she parked the car in a lot guarded by an elderly man who gave her a nod. The car was left with the top down, and Sven’s luggage in the trunk.
“Let’s walk.” She took his hand in hers and silently led him up the walkway toward the hill top.
“Bonjour madam,” a woman under the shade of a floral stand umbrella said, recognizing Anna as a frequent buyer of her flowers, said, “Voulez-vous achetez des fleurs?” Anna stopped and bought two bouquets of lilies.
Within minutes the couple was walking among thousands of ornate tombstones, Anna’s warm hand still holding his. Some of the tombs were miniature buildings, recreations of famous places with classical facades, both ornate, and column-supported. Here were the past nobility of Nice, possessing possibly the best view of the city. They wandered past a small chapel along one edge of the cemetery looking as if it was straight out of a storybook. It was mustard-colored, with two green domed towers, and was surrounded by ancient trees and the white markers of the dead. Anna mood turned somber as they made a beeline to an area under a copse of trees where conservative flat markers dominated.
Sven wondered about her interest here.
She stopped at a small headstone, and was momentarily lost in thought at the grave of ‘Pierre Picard, 1901-1944’. There were no graves next to it, no kin. “My great-grandfather,” she said softly, and put one bouquet into a bronze vase mounted in front of the marker.
“What’s FFI?”
“French Forces of the Interior,” she said sadly. “He was a partisan leader.”
Sven remained quiet, not really knowing what to say. Finally, “Why’s he alone?”
She sighed, and bit her lower lip. After another moment, she took his hand and led him down a path. Soon they were at the War Memorial of Nice. Here, too, she took a moment of silence, then lay the second bouquet at the base.
“Why here?”
“For those who died fighting for a cause and then were forgotten by most.... I, however, will never forget.” She turned and looked at him with damp eyes. “Do you feel you are fighting for a cause?”
“Yes, of course…I wasn’t sure you were that committed to it.”
“But I am. Our motives, though, are different,” and she slipped her right arm in his left and walked him to various viewpoints on the hill, finally settling on the Collini du Chateau—the castle hill—and walking to a secluded corner so as to not be overheard. They looked like any other group of tourists—or lovers. It had a 360-degree view of Nice and the surrounding area. She turned to face him. “I’m sorry if I was a little harsh with you back at the villa.”
“A little harsh? I think you threatened to kill me!”
Anna glanced around, then cocked her head slightly and looked up into his eyes. She showed neither anger nor embarrassment. Softly, she explained, “Sven, perhaps you don’t understand the... implications of a security breach.... There are tens of trillions of dollars at stake in this game. The players are the top financiers in the world. They’re making a play and they’ve been setting this up for nearly a hundred years. They don’t trust many, including their own. This is about more than money, though. We’re talking about global dominance, billions of lives, and the direction of the human race. You are a small part of this and they’ll trust you...until they don’t.”
Sven was taken aback. Anna was laying out a scheme so vast that he had never quite grasped the global implications. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” she said in a whisper and looking him straight in the eyes. “When they don’t trust someone...they contact me...or someone like me.”
Sven’s eyes widened, and then showed understanding, “So when you said some targets would disappear, you mean...”
She nodded slowly.
“I think I understand now. I’m sorry.”
Anna regained her cheerfulness, and eagerly gave Sven a little history of Nice on one side and the port on the other. She looked at her watch. “It’s time to go.” With her arm linked through his, she led him back to the Alfa. The remainder of the drive to the airport was quiet as they drove along the Promenade des Anglais—the boardwalk English aristocrats built long ago that helped make Nice a famous gathering place of the world’s glitterati and wealthy.
She drove the Alfa to the departure gate curb and killed the engine. Anna pulled out from behind his seat a bottle of the very expensive wine they had had the night before. “Bruno wanted you to have this. He thought you were a great tipper,” she chuckled, and passed him the foil-wrapped bottle with a large red bow. She lightly brushed his left arm with her right hand, sending a shiver through him. Then their eyes locked, and the most vertiginous woman he had ever known softly said, “Bon voyage, mon ami.”
Sven got out of the car and pulled his bag out of the trunk. She gunned the engine and pulled out.
He stood there a moment, bag in his right hand, bottle in his left, and said with an emotional sigh when she was out of sight, “Au revoir, ma chérie.”
Chapter 26
June 30, 1300 hours
Eurécom, France
Anna was wistful after leaving Sven. She, too, was conflicted, but was intent on not giving in to it. Her departure from the gate had to be quick, before Sven could notice her vulnerability.
Get a grip girl, and get to work, her mind told her.
Back on the coast road, Anna drove westward toward Cannes. She knew Sven was confused by her. There were times when she wanted to give in to his magnetism, and other times she was angry that she ever gave it a thought.
Odd, I didn’t even ask him about his social life. Was it because I already generally knew, or that I didn’t want to know? No doubt he’ll have a girl in his bed tonight. He’s probably got a string of women, and his attention toward me was just momentary lust.
With that thought, a twinge of jealousy overcame her.
Well, with me about to initiate Operation Prion, this is no time for entanglements.
Darker thoughts intruded.
I have to consider the options if Sven tells someone about the dead drop. God, how could I have let him see it? I know better. At least he didn’t see the one at the cemetery…. I’ve let him get to me, and I’ve told him too much. I hate it when I let someone in too close. Something always goes wrong.
She connected her iPod to the entertainment system to distract her. We’re one month away from Operation Prion and the start of my financial independence. Focus on the job, she repeated as music flowed out the speakers.
But the message she ha
d received from the dead drop the night before kept intruding, eating at her. It had said that a separate investigation in the Maldives was being conducted by an oil company investigation team.
I need more details.
As a distraction, she focused on the name, prion, the propagating, misfolded protein strain that contains genetic coding and gobbles up the brain. It was noted most popularly for causing ‘Mad Cow Disease.’ As she often did during long stretches of isolation, she played a mental game by merging biology with her philosophy. When a prion enters a healthy organism (the economy, in this instance), it induces existing, properly-folded proteins (citizens) to convert into the disease-associated, prion form (true believers); the prion acts as a template (indoctrination), to guide the misfolding of more proteins (conversion) into prion form (slaves). These newly-formed prions (minions) can then go on to convert more proteins (followers) themselves. Prions usually are only detectable during an autopsy. Yes, it was a good choice of names!
Her expression turned worried. Except, eventually, prions kills the host. Her mind drifted back to the painting and memories of her past.
About 12 kilometers from the airport, she stopped at a small grocery for supplies, then drove into the hills. There, 10 kilometers inland, was her destination, Eurécom. Anna had been traveling to this technology campus almost weekly, spending a couple days each time.
It was from this base she employed hackers from the Eurécom graduate school and associated government agencies surrounding the campus. Noted for its information and communications technology, Eurécom’s status as a preeminent research center for communication systems made it a natural center for her hacker operation. Within a year, her operation had become self-financing.
But first she had to make a transition. She pulled into the garage of a small, efficiency apartment near the Residence Saint Exupery and immediately went to work. This apartment was a hidey-hole she set up for contingencies. Nobody at Snath knew about it, including Swanson. From here she could walk to Operation Prion’s computer operations center.
After stocking the kitchen and eating what might be the last normal meal for a while, she began her transition to the ‘emo’ Claire. To get in the mindset, she put on music that appealed to her hackers. She pulled out and stood on a chair to remove a false compartment hidden behind a ventilation grate. From within the storage box, she pulled Claire’s identification, and large photos of her alter ego. The suitcase from the Alfa contained the necessary clothing and jewelry.
First Anna showered.
It may be the last opportunity for a few days, she thought. And the body attachments and makeup adhere better to clean skin. The water flowed over her body as she reflected on why she had chosen an emo persona. Who better to bend to our needs to save the earth than people who are depressed or see the dark side of life, or who just react to people and situations with intense emotion? Putting on a drama queen act is hard to maintain for 48 hours without sleep. I’ve got to take some breaks this time to recharge.
After thoroughly drying off, she started the process. First she studied the photos that showed her appearance the last few times she went emo. Mustn’t forget permanent scars or piercings. Anna had some scars, but those were from fights and injuries, some nearly fatal. Her anger rose as she considered the faint scars around her wrists and ankles...from that bloody day so long ago when I struggled to be free of the ropes! Thank God, most people think they’re from bracelets and anklets. She closed her eyes to regain her composure.
Since emos often cut themselves, temporary scars had to be placed that showed self-infliction. A scar along a wrist usually was convincing. Claire also had some tattoos and a nose piercing. For the latter, she first put a small dot of permanent ink to give the appearance of a hole if the piercing fell off. Then she put a clip-on ring that appeared to pierce the skin. The temporary tattoos were simple, perfect placement wasn’t usually necessary except when convincing a lover.
To affect a more Irish appearance and to reduce her own tan, she applied an ivory cream foundation. On that she added light freckles to her cheeks, but none that would stand out or create a pattern, and finished with a translucent powder.
Now for the hair. Anna took the wig from the box and checked it for problems. The delicate French lace, on which the natural hair was attached, did the best job of blending skin tones and providing the most natural look, but it also was particularly susceptible to damage. She had worn the wig dozens of times and it was becoming an old friend. It was cut in a way that implied it had been hacked off randomly, yet was carefully contrived to emphasize the bizarre shades that colored the layers. She first put on a nude stocking cap to protect and hide her long blonde hair. In a pinch she has used a queen-sized knee high stocking, but a custom-made cap gave her a more satisfactory appearance. She then placed the wig over the cap and, carefully reviewing the result in opposing makeup mirrors, then secured it with large bobby pins.
Her hair now was dark brown underneath, shifting to bright red and ending in platinum. It was formed in spikes along the sides, with a bigger spike hanging out over the forehead that revealed the right eye while partially obscuring the left. Some of the dark hair from the back was then flipped forward. To protect the wig, she used a special brush, wig shine, and holding spray especially designed for it. A black hair band held it down. Just in case.
To mask her dark blue eyes, she inserted dark brown contact lenses, then penciled very dark, very long eyebrows. After adding long dark eyelashes she applied pink lip gloss. Green eye shadow then was applied heavily over her eyelids and black eyeliner. Nearly done, she used a fingernail polish to match the lip gloss and touched up the blush. Voila! after two hours of work, I’m Claire, the Irish hacker queen.
She looked into the mirror with a critical eye.
My minions think I’m the radical Irish environmentalist known for using economic sabotage to stop environmental exploitation and destruction. They’ll never know that girl died unceremoniously years ago in an ‘assisted’ heroin overdose…but not before I learned Claire’s foibles and how she operated. It’s the perfect cover.
Truth be told, my computer hacking skills are mediocre, but at least I understand the culture and know what to look for. That’s more than most government agency bureaucrats. And, of course, I’ve used Swanson’s money to buy the best tools of the trade.
Finally she dressed for success, putting on a black t-shirt with a ‘Panic at the Disco’ logo over a depressing black and white scene of devastation. Tight fitting black leggings, a black studded belt and black Keds tennis shoes finished her costume. She accessorized with a clumsy black metal chain collar and a matching chain bracelet that sported a small padlock.
Sometimes Claire’s dark persona better fits my mood than I want to admit, but I hate the make up! Claire put the necessary personal items in a black canvas carrying bag and walked the half kilometer to a nearby office building basement she had rented years earlier.
Chapter 27
June 30, 1700 hours
Dark Energy Computer, Eurécom, France
Claire walked through the front entrance. The sign behind the desk read Sombres Societe d’informatique de l’energie—The Dark Energy Computer Company—a name that tried to explain the rather oddly decorated people coming and going. There were only two doors for this lower floor operation, one for routine use, and the other in back, restricted for emergency evacuation—just if the facility was raided. And to use the emergency rear door required detonating explosive bolts, which only a few supervisors knew how to set off.
Other than employee access, the front office was mostly for show – to give the appearance of conducting legitimate business. In the back wall was a steel security door designed to protect against even a battering ram. A sign stating ‘Pas d'entrée sans autorisation gouvernementale de sécurité appropriées’—‘No entry without appropriate government security clearance’—deterred the curious.
The young man at the front office was t
here both for both show and security. Dressed in a coat and tie, he was the only non-emo styled employee in the company, but he was computer savvy, and an effective combatant.
He welcomed Claire with deference, pressed a hidden access button, then went back to watching a computer security screen. The door mechanism buzzed, and Claire had five seconds to swipe her card and pass the biometric scan of her right palm.
She entered the darkened computer center of the windowless basement. Inside, dozens of powerful computer terminals cast blurs of light and emitted a constant whirling of cooling fans. Walking down one corridor, she peaked through a window into the hermetically sealed data server room. Thousands of tiny blue LEDs twinkled. Continuing across the raised floor she looked in conduit gaps to see the ropes of computer umbilical cables connecting the workstations to her network. This was normal for any computer operation but her cable spaces had additional locked metal storage lockers strategically placed. Only she and her supervisor knew what was in them.
Like most days, the working atmosphere at Dark Energy was casual with low general lighting and blaring music over the speakers. Each worker got to contribute to the musical selection, which today included, ‘Eyes Set to Kill’—a popular emo album.
Air conditioning kept the facility cool, and on this summer day was running full blast to compensate for the vast heat generated by the computer equipment.
Claire walked a quick perimeter past the work stations. Cans of power drinks and containers of junk food were scattered on the desks. She bought this stuff in bulk and stored it in the break room for whoever wished; figuring her workers burned a lot of energy and worked long shifts. She made sure there was lots of power food for these guys.
I don’t care so much about their health, just their commitment, she often reminding herself.
