Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

“But Google’s been working on image-matching technology for years,” said Lambe. “They can’t seem to get it right.”

“I’m going to use a different technology: old-fashioned elbow grease. I’ve got thousands of programmers and researchers I can put to work on it, 24/7. I’m going to build the largest online multimedia database on the web.”

“How?”

“Images can be linked just like web pages. People searching images go from one similar image to the next. Don’t analyze the metadata or the images: analyze the links . Once they’re in your own database, you can build on billions, trillions, of user-generated links. Then I’ll grab the images themselves, super-high-res, and use algorithms and mathematical signatures to compress them. I’ve got a dozen server farms, idling, just waiting to be filled with data like this.”

“But the copyrights to the images—how will you deal with that?”

“Screw copyright. Copyright’s dead. This is the web. Information should be free for the taking. Everybody else is doing it—why not me?”

A reverent hush fell on the group.

“And to kick it off, I’ve got an ace in the hole.” He raised his glass and gave a deep-throated chortle. “

And what an ace it is

.”

Then he took a three-hundred-dollar swallow of wine, closing his eyes with sheer orgiastic pleasure.

“Mr. Blackburn?” a low, deferential voice sounded at his elbow.

Blackburn turned, annoyed at having his enjoyment interrupted. A man in a rather indifferent suit stood there. He was short and ugly and had a Boston accent.

Blackburn frowned. “Who are you?”

“Pat Kemper’s the name. I’m chief security officer of the

Britannia

. May I have a few words with you privately?”

“Security? What’s this about?”

“Don’t be alarmed, it’s routine.”

“My friends can hear anything you have to tell me.”

Kemper hesitated a moment. “Very well. Mind if I take a seat?” And glancing quickly around the dining salon, he took a chair at Blackburn’s right.

“My deep apologies for interrupting your dinner,” Kemper said, his Boston accent already grating on Blackburn’s nerves. The guy looked and talked like a cop. “But protocol requires that I ask you a few questions. It’s about the staff member who was first assigned to clean your suite. Juanita Santamaria.”

“The maid?” Blackburn frowned. “I have my own private maid, and she’s supposed to supervise your people.”

“Santamaria cleaned your room twice. The second time was on the first night of the voyage, around eight-thirty P.M., when she went in to turn down your beds. Do you recall her coming to your suite?” “Eight-thirty last night?” Blackburn leaned back in his chair, took another sip of wine. “Nobody was there. My own maid was in medical, seasick and puking her guts out. I was at dinner. And on top of that, I gave strict instructions that no one was to enter my suite unsupervised.”

“I apologize for that, sir. But you don’t know of anything that might have happened in the suite that evening? An incident, someone she might have interacted with? Or perhaps she might have broken something, or . . . perhaps stolen something?”

“What, did something happen to her afterward?”

The security officer hesitated. “As a matter of fact, yes. Ms. Santamaria had a breakdown shortly after leaving your suite. She subsequently took her own life. Yet those who knew her, bunkmates and the like, saw no sign of impending trouble. She was, they say, a well-adjusted, religious person.”

“That’s what they always say about a mass murderer or suicide,” Blackburn said, with a scoff.

“They also mentioned that, when Ms. Santamaria left for work that day, she was in good spirits.”

“I can’t help you,” Blackburn said, swirling his wine and raising his glass to his nose again, inhaling. “Nobody was there. Nothing was broken or stolen. Believe me, I would know: I keep track of my stuff.”

“Anything she might have seen or touched? Something that might have frightened her?”

Blackburn suddenly paused in the middle of the oenophilic ritual, the glass arrested halfway to his mouth. After a long moment he set it down without having sipped from it.

“Mr. Blackburn?” Kemper prodded.

Blackburn turned to look at him. “Absolutely not,” he said in a thin, emotionless voice. “There was nothing. As I said, no one was there. My maid was in the infirmary. I was at dinner. What happened to this woman had nothing to do with me or my suite. She wasn’t even supposed to be there.”

“Very good,” said Kemper, rising. “I assumed as much, but you know, protocol and everything. North Star would have my hide if I didn’t go through the motions.” He smiled. “Gentlemen, we’ll speak no more about this subject. Thank you for your patience, and have a pleasant evening.” He nodded at each man in turn, then quickly walked away.

Lambe watched the security chief thread his way among the tables. Then he turned to Blackburn. “Well, what do you make of that, Scott old boy? Strange doings belowdecks!” And he struck a melodramatic pose.

Blackburn did not reply.

The waiter glided up to their table. “May I recite the chef’s specials for the evening, gentlemen?”

“Please. I’ve got two days of eating to catch up on.” And Lambe rubbed his hands together.

Abruptly, Blackburn stood up, his chair tilting backward violently.

“Scott?” Calderón said, looking at him with concern. “Not hungry,” Blackburn said. His face had gone pale.

“Hey, Scotty—” Lambe began. “Hey, wait! Where are you going?”

“Stateroom.” And without another word, Blackburn turned and exited the restaurant.

25

THAT SOUNDS JUST AWFUL,” SAID THE KIND, ATTRACTIVE STRANGER. “Would it help if I spoke to the old lady?”

“Oh, no,” Inge replied, horrified at the suggestion. “No, please don’t. It isn’t that bad, really. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“As you wish. If you change your mind, just let me know.”

“You’re very kind. It just helps to have somebody to talk to.” And then she paused, blushing furiously.

Nothing like this had ever happened to Inge Larssen before. She’d always lived a cloistered existence, been painfully shy. And here she was, pouring her heart out to someone she’d just met half an hour before.

The large, gilt-edged clock on the wallpapered wall of the Chats-worth Salon read five minutes to ten. A string quartet was playing quietly in a far corner, and couples strolled by at infrequent intervals, arm in arm or holding hands. The lounge was lit by a thousand tapered candles, and they freighted the evening air with a mellow golden glow. Inge didn’t think she’d ever been in a place quite so beautiful.

Perhaps it was the magical atmosphere of this place and this night that had helped her let down her guard. Or maybe it was simply the nature of her new friend: tall, self-assured, radiating confidence.

At the far end of the sofa, the stranger languidly crossed one leg over the other. “So you’ve lived in convents all your life?”

“Almost. Ever since I was six. That was when my parents died in an automobile accident.”

“And you have no other family? No siblings?”

Inge shook her head. “None. Except my great-uncle, who was the one who put me in the convent school at Evedal instead of one of the state schools. But he’s gone now. I have some friends from school. They’re almost like family, in a way. And then there’s my employer.” My employer , she thought. Why couldn’t I work for somebody like this? She began to speak, then stopped, feeling herself blushing again.