BETA - Project Avatar, page 35
“So what do I do when I get to the Caymans?” she said. “I don’t even know where to start!”
“After you get there I’ll put you in contact with an old man I know on Grand Cayman. You’ll like him. He’s ex-British Foreign Service, from way back in the Cold War. Substructure, too.”
Dee hesitated. “Speaking of British Foreign Service, have you heard anything from John?” She hoped her voice sounded casual.
Abe gave a huge yawn. “Oh, yeah—John. I talked with him yesterday afternoon. He looked a lot worse off than me. Said you drugged him?”
“Drugged? No, I just gave him some . . . oh, all right, I guess I drugged him. Was he okay?”
“Hungover. I’ve seen worse.”
“What’d he say about me? Anything?”
Abe tilted his nose several degrees into the air, in a parody of snooty refinement. In a hokey English accent, he said, “She certainly was a handful of trouble. I suppose that if I see her again it will be quite too soon.”
Despite herself, Dee immediately felt tears stinging her eyes. She applied considerable force of will to keep them from spilling over. “Oh. Well, I guess that takes care of that.”
“All right, then,” he said, “just stay out of sight. Remember you’re still a Priority Alpha target even if you’re trying to stop a war and save innocent lives. Now, I really have to go get some sleep, but I’ll be here when you need me.”
She smiled sadly. He had always been there when she needed him, even if he often wasn’t in a condition to do her much good. “Thanks, Abe. You’re the best,” she said.
They signed off, and she switched off the screen. She looked around herself at the sooty tarpaper roof, which was beginning to reveal its gritty texture in the pallid glow of the encroaching dawn. The air had finally turned cool, the city silent, though neither would stay that way for long.
Dee glanced out over the water again. She suddenly felt exhausted. Finding a comfortable seat with her back to the wall, she hugged her knees to her chest and sat for some time. A handful of trouble. She had to agree on that much. Tears welled in her eyes. She had never felt so alone in her life.
Chapter 34
Dee stole a couple of hours of restless and uncomfortable sleep, curled up in a shaft of early morning sunshine on the rooftop. She awakened feeling as tired as when she had gone to sleep, and in addition her beautiful dress was now thoroughly rumpled.
Dee took a deep breath, stood up and tried to make herself look presentable—fixing her hair and smoothing her dress.
She called a contact number for Lygia. Fifteen minutes later, they met at a café where they were the only customers. The sidewalks were empty except for a few stragglers who hadn’t been to bed yet, and that strange minority of morning people who are found in every city on earth, dressed in jogging suits, bright-eyed, out running or walking their dogs. Dee greeted Lygia with an exhausted smile, then wordlessly slid a shopping bag across the table to her, returning the borrowed gun.
Abe had already filled Lygia in a bit, and she seemed happy enough to help out. Seeing the state that Dee was in, she took matters firmly in hand. Dee followed Lygia passively out into Ipanema’s fashionable shopping area, where the stores and salons were just rolling up their fronts. She had her natural auburn hair shortened a bit, straightened, and accented red. Then she bought a generic-looking carry-on suitcase and began filling it with travel wear. She dressed herself for a trip to the Caribbean, in silk gaucho pants and a light top with a ruffled collar.
These proceedings, which would have seemed so exciting a week ago, were now nothing more than a burden and an inconvenience. “What’s the matter with you?” Lygia teased her, trying to buck up her spirits. Lygia knew only that Dee was on her way north to Cancun. She laughed, “I wish I was going to Quintana Roo! So beautiful and relaxing.”
Dee smiled as bravely as she could. Lygia obviously thought she was travelling to Mexico’s Quintana Roo state for recreation rather than as a stopover. For the fifth time this morning, she thought about checking on her travel bookings, and her hand wandered up to her ear only to find that the Bluetooth insert wasn’t there anymore. There would be no more relying on Beta. How am I going to do this on my own?
Lygia called a cab on her cell phone and had it take them directly to a graphic artist, who proved to be already at work preparing Dee’s fourth identity in the past week. This forger worked at home, and from his grouchy demeanor, Dee gathered that they had pulled him out of bed for this. Not for the first time, she wondered how much all this was costing her.
Waiting for her passport photo, she looked at the title page he had already prepared, checking it for errors. Apparently, she was now Australian. She was relieved to find that she was now to be known as Denise McKenzie, a name she found much more agreeable than the last one.
Armed with her new papers, Dee sincerely thanked Lygia, jumped in a taxi and waved good-bye through the window. On arrival at the airport, she paid the driver his extortionate rate, went to the Varig Air check-in line, and tried not to fall asleep on her feet as the line slowly shuffled toward the counter. The flight to Mexico left from the domestic wing, and security was lax. She sat around in a sort of trance until boarding, then slept dreamlessly for six hours, awakening just before the plane touched down in Cancún.
Things were pretty casual at Cancún International. The Mexican immigration officer had no hat and was chewing a tiny cigar. He barely glanced at her passport.
She already knew that Caribbean Air offered a tiny island-hopper air link to Grand Cayman, leaving in about two hours. She found the kiosk and paid cash for a ticket.
Dee slept with her head vibrating against the window as the little propeller-driven plane made the short flight over the Caribbean. When she awoke, it was evening and they were buzzing down out of the sky toward a small, sandy island in the big, dark sea.
She dragged her little bag out of Grand Cayman’s tiny airport and hailed a cab. The driver, a big, grinning black man who spoke English with a nearly incomprehensible accent, asked her if she was going to Seven Mile Beach.
“Yes,” she said, with no idea what that was. “That’s where I’m going.”
The cab drive couldn’t have been much over a mile, and it took her straight to the nearest beach strip. When she paid the driver and stepped out of the cab, she found herself in paradise.
It was a beachside neighborhood of quiet seaside inns and restaurants, where cheerful tourists milled among laid-back locals, everyone looking pleasantly intoxicated on a day’s sunshine and an evening’s rum. The sky over the ocean was velvet black except for a great silver halo around the plump gibbous moon, and the air was warm and clean—purified by long travel over the open sea.
Dee just stood there by the roadside for a minute or two, blinking in stunned surprise at the world around her. All she had ever known about this flyspeck island was its status as the fourth largest financial center in the world. Its reputation in her circle was as a notorious tax haven where money was hidden and laundered by shady governments, criminal syndicates, and other unsavory operations, all on a titanic scale. She certainly hadn’t expected this.
She strolled down the plank sidewalk in a sort of daze, pulling her little piece of luggage behind her, and found herself wandering into a pleasant bar and grill with an idyllic view of the harbor. Fortunately, she had dressed herself just right to mix in with the tourists. She doubted that a single person on the whole block would understand what she had come to the Caymans to do, even if she explained it to them slowly. She sat down at a table overlooking the sidewalk, luxuriating in the peaceful murmur of small talk and the sound of lapping waves.
Surrounded by the pleasant aroma of food, Dee realized she was famished. She ordered a local cocktail called Planter’s Punch and turned her full attention to the menu.
Dee’s week as an international fugitive must have awakened some latent survival skills inside her, because after a few moments at the table, she suddenly had the feeling that she was being watched. Looking up sharply, she saw a man in a heavy suit, standing in the shadows between two cars on the street. His shaded face was staring at her fixedly.
She was startled but not frightened. The man seemed familiar from her first glance, and became more so with each second that she studied him. Her heart pounded as it dawned on her that, unlikely as it might seem, it had to be John. She was certain, even before he stepped forward into the light.
When he did, he gave her a pleasant, easy smile and then headed along the sidewalk toward the door of the restaurant. A moment later, he was standing beside her table.
“Fancy meeting you here! Mind if I sit down? I’m perfectly exhausted.”
“How . . .?” Dee was so relieved to see him that speech failed her. Overwhelmed with happiness, she stood up and kissed him on the cheek. He responded by putting his arm around her and kissing her forehead. He felt strong and warm.
“Really should’ve worn something more suitable. My God, it is hard to keep up with you. I’m still dressed for Iceland. What are you drinking there? Oh, that will never do, I can’t possibly drink anything with an umbrella in it, not when I’m in tweed. Excuse me, my man, would you bring me a double of the Glenlivet with plenty of ice? There. That takes care of the hard part. You may as well put that menu down, Melody, because I’m going to insist you try the marinated conch.”
“It’s Denise,” Dee said as she sat back down. She was on the verge of telling him how glad she was to see him, then decided to err on the side of prudence.
“Very well, Denise, we shall dine on marinated conch. You’ve simply traveled too far to miss it. What’s more, if you’ve never tried a Caribbean rum cake, then I’m also not going to allow you much choice about dessert. In fact, why not just leave the whole business to me?”
She made a defensive effort to put on a shrewd expression. But she found her rebellious face giving him an unguarded smile. “I can’t believe you’re . . . here.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Yes, well, I’ve always relished a challenge. I suppose it’s the same sort of thing that used to make all those mad chaps run around India chasing tigers and whatnot.”
The waiter arrived, and John ordered while Dee sipped her drink and composed herself. The rational side of her brain kept telling her she was feeling far too happy at seeing this man. When the waiter left, she said, “I suppose you found me by tracking the passport you made for me. But only as far as Rio?”
“True enough. Then, I’m afraid, it was Abe who told me you’d be coming to the Caymans.”
“Traitor,” Dee said mildly.
“Ah! Well, I told you, you couldn’t trust him. I’m joking, of course. He filled me in on what you’ve uncovered about the Avatar software. He also sent me the Operation Hydra briefing. Nasty business that. He was looking around for a man with field experience to help you with some risky business you’ve cooked up. Naturally, I stumped myself up for the job.”
“Naturally,” she smiled.
She sipped at her cocktail, hiding her momentary urge to throw her arms around his neck and weep for joy. In measured tones, she said, “Thank you. I really appreciate your offering to help. I’m a little surprised, though. Abe told me you said you wouldn’t mind never seeing me again.”
John looked surprised, “Preposterous! I suspect that wasn’t the real Abe speaking. Probably just some illicit substance, controlling him.”
She smiled. “I guess that’s a pretty reasonable theory. But he said you had told him that if you ever saw me again, it would be quite too soon.”
John straightened in his chair. “I say! There’s a misquote, if ever there was one! You must remember, I was wobbling about under the weight of a whopping hangover, directly attributable to your own mischief. If memory serves, I only mentioned to Abe that you could be a handful of trouble at times, and that I would no doubt be seeing you again quite soon enough.”
“Really? You said ‘quite soon enough?’ Not ‘quite too soon?’” She nodded to herself. “I really must kill him.”
“Steady, now! Let’s limit ourselves to one rash operation at a time.”
She leaned back a little, starting to feel relaxed for the first time in twenty-four hours. “But how did you get here so quickly?”
“I was in Washington—Virginia, actually. I flew there from Iceland yesterday on business. It’s a very short hop from there to here. I had to spend a few hours hanging around the Cayman airport before you showed up, keeping an eye out for your arrival. It’s tricky—one never knows exactly what you’re going to look like, from day to day.”
She smiled. “Well, I’m very relieved to see you. Now, did you follow me in a cab, or do you have a car?”
“Using a loaner again, from an old mate of mine at the local branch of the Service. You know these islands are a British Overseas Territory. Possibly the unruliest corner of the Commonwealth, albeit in a high-finance sort of way.”
She shook her head, looking out at the languid tropical vista—not even the coco palms seemed motivated to stir a frond. “That’s what they say, though it’s hard to picture this place as a hotbed of criminal activity.”
“Indeed. All the crime happens on computers. Here in the physical world, the Caymans are the humblest, most peaceful corner of the planet, but in cyberspace it’s the Wild West and medieval Italy, all rolled into one.”
She leaned over toward him. “A little chaos in the background is probably useful for what I have to do. At the moment, my plans are pretty rough. I’m not sure how much Abe has told you?”
He made a small, halting gesture with his fingertips. “Let’s not discuss too much here,” he said quietly. “We’ll eat, and then speak in the car. I can tell you that Abe has already commended you to the most useful person on the island.”
“He did mention someone. An old man? British Foreign Service?”
“Quite. That would be Sir Arthur. It’s imperative that we see him tonight. I suspect that without his help, an operation like yours would be nearly impossible.”
The food arrived. She was ravenous and attacked the conch dish with a vengeance.
John ate with a more sedate appetite, but seeing her enthusiasm, he called the waiter over and ordered several side dishes and appetizer plates. Over Dee’s objections, the table was soon covered with small plates of food, and she ate pretty much everything.
John’s “loaner” was a Bentley convertible—a bit dulled by the salt air but still sporty. They drove out the east end of George Town and deep into the lightless central portion of the low island, then took a side road aiming for the northern shore. The drive took longer than one might have expected, given the island’s small size. The roads were old and unlit, their surfaces ravaged by the scars of old hurricanes, and there seem to be little rhyme or reason to their meanderings.
By the time they pulled up at Rum Point, near Grand Cayman’s northern tip, they had talked matters over, and both of them were in a serious mood. They stared out through the windshield at the broad sweep of the northern bay: a long arc of white coral sand embracing a broad vista of warm night ocean, sparkling in the moonlight. The soft chirring of tree frogs drifted on the balmy air.
“That’s his bungalow, over there.” John pointed down the beach, past a couple of thatch-roofed huts, to a small bungalow with a light in the window. It was the only electric light in view in any direction.
“You think the whole thing’s impossible, don’t you?” she asked.
“Likely enough. Even so, let’s look on the bright side, shall we? Perhaps the sheer improbability of such a venture will lull the opposition into dropping their guard.”
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“I’m afraid so. Listen, there’s no point in getting too solemn about all this. From the facts at hand, we don’t really have a lot of choice. Abe’s right. If we don’t sneak you into the Clearinghouse or some similar facility on the U.S. mainland and get you access to the NSA command database, we will never discover what level of authority has been given to the operation. Once we know who is behind it we know what action to take. There’s no other way to find out—at least, none that I know of.”
They walked up to the front door, where a tall man with wrinkled, sun-browned skin greeted them. He had snow white hair, and shaggy white eyebrows that seemed bent on taking over the rest of his face, but despite his age, he seemed fit and vigorous. He shook John’s hand warmly.
“Henley-Wright!” Sir Arthur boomed. “My Lord, but the sight of you does bring back memories! We parted ways in Bhutan, if memory serves? And this, of course, must be Dee Lockwood. I’ve heard of your work, young lady. Come in, both of you; I’ve just put on the tea.”
The interior of the bungalow was set up as a strange amalgam of rural English cottage and tropical beachcomber hut. The living room was a cozy cluster of well-worn furniture and rugs, with shelves of books and extravagant seashells side by side with pewter mugs and English porcelain. Sir Arthur served Earl Grey tea with fussy care and evaded conversation until everyone was settled and served.
At last, he took his seat in the largest chair, looked around the room with satisfaction, and delicately sipped his tea. “Well, then, let’s not waste time. What can I do for you?”
John gave him a rather guarded summary of the situation, focusing on the matter at hand: the necessity of gaining clandestine entrance to the Clearinghouse facility in its secure compound in George Town. Sir Arthur didn’t seem at all surprised. Perhaps he had been briefed by Abe, or perhaps a lifetime in the Service had inured him to even the craziest schemes. As John spoke, the old man fired up a Meerschaum pipe with a bowl the size of a child’s fist. He puffed thoughtfully, his thick brows lowered so far that they completely obscured his eyes.
