But time was a luxury he seemed to have too little of, so he caught the jet shuttle, and what would have been a relaxing all-day ride became a two-hour hop. Not counting the forty-five minutes they circled the airport, waiting to land.
He rented a car at the airport. The car was a full-sized sedan, as big as they had, and he took out full insurance coverage on it. The name on the card he used matched the name of his fake driver’s license, both of which had been issued to a man in Georgia a few weeks ago. The card and license had not been used before, and the man whose name was on them had not reported them missing, since he had been dead before they were issued. It was a wonderful way to move around semi-legitimately. Somebody in CyberNation’s computer hutch had figured this out, applying for credit cards and duplicate licenses in the names of the recently departed who already had such things before the family thought to let anybody know. The geeks rented post office boxes, applied under several different names, and had the cards sent there. Once they had been used for a few days, the IDs could be tossed into the nearest trash bin. Very neat, no way to trace them.
He drove to a local hotel. He wore a suit and tie, carried a briefcase, and registered at the hotel, which catered to businessmen, looking as if he was one of them. Just another middle-class white-collar worker earning his living, no one to remember.
The briefcase contained not papers, however, but the gold coins he had gotten at such a bargain rate. While the guards at the metal detectors in the airport had been curious, they hadn’t even bothered to open the case to look. And if they had, they could have done nothing, because there was no law against carrying such things onto a plane. It wasn’t as if he was going to beat somebody to death with them, although technically that was possible. Slip fifteen or twenty of them into a sock, it would make a nice, hefty blackjack.
Once he was checked into the hotel, he took a stroll, ducked into a big drugstore, and bought a cheap disposable cell phone with thirty hours of credit on it. He used this to put in a call to his friend at the Brazilian Embassy. Morgan, who could always used a little extra money, was happy to hear from him, and they arranged to meet for supper at a restaurant not far from the hotel.
Between now and then, Santos had plenty of time to study the information he had about his target. This one would be simple, nothing complex about it at all. As soon as he had the gold transported, he would locate his quarry, and then it was merely a matter of waiting for the proper moment.
Two tall and well-muscled black men in different NBA uniforms played one-on-one basketball in a gym bathed in supernal beams of sunshine pouring in from big skylights in the gym’s roof. There was just enough dust in the air so the beams stood out, hard-edged and brilliant.
The men were the hottest small forwards from both teams in last year’s championship finals, all-stars, guys who routinely got triple-doubles when they played — ten or more shots, assists, and rebounds.
The one with the ball was dressed in black shorts, shoes, and tank top, the other player in white-on-white-on-white.
The offensive player jinked left, then right, dribbled behind his back, and stutter-stepped, trying to get into position to shoot at the goal.
The defensive player stayed with him, slapping at the ball. Two fine athletes at their peaks, beautiful to watch, even if you didn’t follow the game.
Both men sweated, fat drops that rolled and flew with their sudden moves.
The offensive player faked right, then twirled around to his left and got past the player in white…
Time slowed to a crawl. The ball bounced slowly, took two seconds to come back from the floor to the shooter’s hand. The sounds of heavy breathing grew louder, and when the ball hit the floor again, it sounded like a cannon—boom! — deep and vibrant. The ball bounced up. The shooter caught it, jumped for the dunk, moving in glacial slow-mo, as the player in white leaped to block…
The pair drifted through the air, seemingly as weightless as the dust motes in the gym’s air, floating oh-so-slowly toward the basket…
Time speeded back up to normal.
The offensive player slammed the ball down, playing well above the rim, and the net ka-thwipped! in that way it does only when the dunk is perfect. The two players came down and smiled at each other.
White Suit said, “Good move, brother.” He slapped the shooter on the shoulder, went to fetch the ball.
Black Suit said, “Yeah, I still got a few. Here’s another one for you — who’s doing your Internet service?”
White Suit shrugged. “Same provider I always use.” He tossed the ball to the other man.
Black Suit shook his head. “Naw, you need to lose that, man. I’m tight with CyberNation, it’s the only place to be.”
“CyberNation? I heard of them.”
“I’m telling you, it’s the way to go. They got VR so good, it’d help even you with your defense.”
“I got a cramp in my foot, is all. Try it again.”
Black Suit laughed and walked away, dribbling. White Suit dropped into a defensive crouch as the other player turned and started back toward him.
The words CyberNation appeared under the screen, with the URL. The scene faded to black, leaving the words alone on the black background with the sound of the dribbled ball echoing in the gym. The sound and image held for five seconds, then faded out.
PART TWO
The Butterfly’s Wings
21
Jasmine Chance liked to be in charge, a big part of the reason she had taken this job. Here she was, with a corporate budget as big as the treasury in some small countries, on a gambling ship she had named herself, and after a fashion, for herself. She could, literally, decide matters of life and death. If that wasn’t control, what was? But at the moment, with Jackson practically wetting himself, she felt a definite loss of mastery here.
They sat on the bed in her room. She’d thought sex was going to be the main thing on his mind, but she quickly realized she was wrong.
“He’s going to beat the crap out of me,” Jackson said. “I know it.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“You didn’t see him, how he looked at me. I’m telling you, this is not somebody to mess around with. He might as well have sent me an invitation: You are cordially invited to a major ass-kicking — yours.”
“Jackson…”
“I’m not joking around here, Jasmine. This guy isn’t civilized. Yeah, he wears a suit and smiles and can make small talk, but that’s no thicker than a coat of paint. Underneath, he’s a savage. He’s a killer! He wouldn’t think twice about sending me to the hospital, or the morgue.”
“He’s just trying to rattle you, hon, that’s all. He knows how much we need you. He’s playing with your head.”
“And he plans to be playing soccer with my balls. I’m telling you, I know.”
“You need to relax.” She put her hand on his shoulder. The muscles there and in his neck were bunched like wet, knotted ropes.
“Easy for you to say. Listen, I want off the ship. Let me go to the train.”
The train was one of the other two locations for CyberNation’s mobile computer centers. Currently, it was on a siding in Germany, somewhere near the French border.