T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

“Her security authorization is weak. Low grade defenses. Single port of entry. Good data trail, no question of false identity. On-line data capture is set up to retrieve as soon as I come in.”

“Details,” the newcomer pressed. “Good data is in the details.”

“About a month ago, Hayek mentioned a concern about a hunter going after in-house data. He said there could be a tie-in to accusations leveled by one Graham Hutchings, former U.S. Congressman and now active vegetable. I set up a hunter-sniffer in the form of a closed-access website. When we were struck, I automatically inserted a virus that grants me ongoing access in the worst way.”

“Your design?”

“From the basement to the tower A/C. It zip-compresses all new files and ships them over every time she goes on-line.”

“Tell me about her.”

“A definite keeper.” Colin tapped in the command, drew up the photo file he had downloaded early, and selected one of the lady on a sailboard. “Jackie Havilland. Orlando native. Twenties, single, great lines.”

“So what do you call the virus?”

“The cookie monster. On account of it’s a voracious feeder.”

“Totally quantum. Plaudits, dude.” A fractional pause, then, “So what was in your latest download?”

“Sorry,” Colin was firm here, meeting Burke’s glare head-on. “You want more, I need a direct okay from Mr. Hayek himself.”

Again there was communication between the pair and on a frequency barred to Colin. Then the newcomer said, “This guy redefines clean.”

Burke checked his watch. “I have to travel to Miami with Pavel.” He glowered at Colin. “Let me see if I can put this in a code you comprehend. The balcony is off limits. You go upstairs again, you leave here in little pieces. Are we clear on this?”

“Absolutely.”

Burke left without another word. The deadhead rose to follow. At the cubicle’s entrance he turned, did a final scan, sniffed his disdain. “All these toys, you don’t have idea one which prize is worth pursuing.”

Once certain they were gone, Colin slumped back into his seat and stared at the ceiling. Too many questions, too many dangers. A conflict vector had been established. A menacing course of off-line events.

Tuesday

Wynn stood by the Hassler’s rooftop bar and searched the evening sky, not for a sign so much as a way out. He had slept hard and woken unrefreshed. The air remained compressed by all that loomed up ahead. His chest fought for breath and room to maneuver. He was certain that Sybel had brought him here for a purpose. And equally certain that whatever the purpose might be, he was going to hate it.

The elevator doors opened, and Jackie stepped out. The failing light seemed to gather about her blond hair, encasing her in a brilliance not even the worst of his shadows could invade. “You look great.”

“Thank you.” But her gaze was already captured by the world beyond the balcony. The ma" tre d’ greeted her with ill-disguised admiration. The waiters graced her with the glazed look of smitten Romeos. She seemed utterly unaware of the commotion she caused. Jackie passed through tables and lingering gazes without taking her eyes from the view. “This is incredible.”

“Yes.” Hard as it was, Wynn could not help but accept a morsel from the day. Sunset painted the scene with strokes so gentle no imperfection could be found. But for Wynn, to look meant to see only his own tightly morose state, as though he viewed the golden world from a cage he had learned not to acknowledge. “Very nice.”

Jackie took joy from everything-the menu, the meal, the very air. He observed her openly, knowing she was here yet elsewhere, too absorbed with the moment to be bothered by his gaze. Her skin seemed flawless, at least from the distance of casual acquaintance. Upon closer inspection, he could see a faint mist of freckles across the high-boned cheeks and ultrastraight nose. Tiny lines ran from her eyes, faintest indicators of her many secrets. Hers was a good face, with a gaze that saw all and expected nothing. Strength and goodness in a gentle form. Big wide-open green eyes, ready to accept whatever life gave with little more than a blink.

Jackie refused dessert, accepted coffee, silently toasted the lingering twilight, and focused upon him. “Can we talk?”

“If you like.”

“Esther Hutchings is convinced you’re working for the enemy.”

“I don’t know enough,” Wynn replied, “to even know who that is.”

She set down her cup, toyed with her spoon. Waited.

He recognized it as the only chance he might ever have to convince her. “Do you want the sugar-coated version, or the truth?”

“Hard and fast.”

“Dianne, my wife, died from aggressive rheumatoid arthritis. It choked her to death. A terrible way to go. We’d been separated six weeks. She was preparing to file for divorce. Esther was her best friend. Dianne used to meet Esther once or twice a month, pour out all the details of our life together and describe just what a louse I was.”

“Were you?”

“Oh yeah.” He stopped while a waiter placed a candle on their table. Somewhere in the distance a church bell began to chime. The sound rose pure and courtly, shimmering in time to the candle’s flame. “My business had become a parasitic animal, a worm I swallowed one day at a time. It grew in my mind and my heart and it poisoned them both. I started thinking the most absurd things were true. Like how everybody was out to get me, and the only way forward was to get them first. Or how love was just another word for being weak. Lies became my only reality.”

“But you got rich.”

He stared out to where the world below was now enveloped by flickering lights, earthly reflections of the stars overhead. “That’s right. I did.”

“So what happens now? I mean, here in Rome.”

“You’ll have to ask Sybel. All I can say for certain is she’s brought me here for a reason.”

“You don’t know what?”

“No idea.” Whatever conjecture he might have would only mock his lack of choices, the absence of personal mobility. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“I suppose not.”

“How did Esther link up with you?”

“My brother worked for the Hayek Group.”

“The finance group that moved from New York down to Orlando, right? I remember reading about that.”

The conversation’s turn hardened her gaze and tone both. “The proper term is hedge fund.”

“Sounds like you know about them.”

“I was a graduate student at UF in international finance. My area of study was the currency markets. Usually referred to as foreign exchange, forex for short.”

“Your brother does currency work for Hayek?”

“He did.” There was something more to Jackie’s wary tension than Esther Hutchings and any warning she might have passed on. Something so intensely personal it robbed the night of magic and flavor. Jackie sat across from him, awaiting his next question as she would a heavy blow.

Yet Wynn had no intention of inflicting further pain on anyone, if that were possible. “Can you tell me anything about Hayek?”

Her anxiety eased only a notch, as though disbelieving she would get off so easily. “Very secretive. A real powerhouse in the derivatives and forex trading worlds. The only time he’s ever been quoted was in a Journal article on the rise of U.S. hedge funds. He said, and I quote, ’Every trader is probing, looking for the opponent’s weak point. If you want to understand currency trading, study war. They are the same thing, only the blood on the trading floor remains unseen.’ That’s Hayek.”

Wynn pushed his cup to one side. Leaned across the table. “I want you to do something for me. Pretend I’m telling you the truth. That I don’t want ever to be your enemy. That I don’t know a thing. And that I really do want to learn.” He stopped then, giving her a chance to back off, move away, brush off the appeal. Instead she simply gave him that wide-open look. Measuring. Cautious. Full-on alert. “Okay. Who is Hayek and how does he tie into all this?”