Anderson listened to chatter in a dozen languages at the poolside tables around her. She felt eyes upon her in her relatively modest bikini. There were few other women about, but no one was making a move-unsure of which underworld figure she belonged to. She smiled to herself. Her man was about as underworld as you could get…
The Hotel Menon looked like an upscale Motel 6. Casa Blanca in stucco and plywood. Most of the people conducting business here never had to physically set foot on the island, so appearances didn't matter much. Those who did make the journey typically came to the edge of the world just to exchange briefcases. Most of these transactions were technicallylegal, but they weren't the sort of thing participants wanted on the evening news back home.
Pale- faced, tubby Russians in impeccable Armani suits sat with Arabs in robes so white it hurt to look at them. Ruddy-cheeked Australians and Nipponese in silk suits looked down through their sunglasses to examine the spotty glasses before drinking to the health of their business partners. Most tables sported two or three expressionless Terminator types scanning the patio for trouble and thumbing the handles of metallic briefcases. Anderson was finally doing serious journalism. If only her friends knew.
Of course, she wasn't here as a journalist. She was undercover as CFO of a Hong Kong fiber optic concern. She smiled. Her business card was spectacular, with a holographic cross-section of a bundle of fiber, glittering with light.
Her new satellite phone emitted a melodic ringtone. She lifted up her sunglasses and pulled a small encryption chip from its location, clipped invisibly in her hair. She grabbed the phone from a nearby end table and fitted the chip into a slot on the side. Then she answered it. No need to say anything. She knew who it was.
It was The Voice with her clipped British accent. "Can you get to a satellite news channel? Yes or no."
Anderson glanced around. She saw a television mounted over the hotel bar beyond tinted glass. It was always tuned to business news. "Yes."
"Go to it. CyberStorm Entertainment." The line clicked off.
Synthetic bitch. She liked Sobol's voice better. Anderson yanked the chip and stowed it, as though fixing her hair. She saw a Ukrainian enforcer staring at her longingly. She pointedly ignored him and wondered what sort of dental hygiene was prevalent in the former Eastern Bloc nations. She also wondered what physical security the Daemon could offer her.
She gathered her things and clicked across the tiled patio to the refrigerated air of the bar. An Australian satellite news feed was already on, but muted. Anderson smiled brightly at Oto, the Tahitian bartender, in his starched collar and black vest. She wondered what horrific thing he did to deserve exile on Nauru. Probably hacked someone to death with a machete. "Oto, can you turn the volume up?"
"Yes, Ms. Vindmar."
Her cover name-a deliberately amateurish attempt at privacy, since she was traveling under her real passport.
The crawl at the bottom of the cluttered TV screen flashed "CyberStorm Entertainment." The newscaster's Aussie accent came up, "…from the American NASDAQ. CyberStorm Entertainment's share price has plummeted 97 percent in the four hours following a press release by the deceasedCTO Matthew Sobol, in which he claims to have placed a back door in the company's Ego AI engine. Share prices of third-party game companies using CyberStorm's software have also been punished since the news-and lawsuits are already in the works as products are yanked from store shelves worldwide. Analysts expect a cloud will be hanging over the entire PC gaming sector until the full extent of the problem is known."
Oto smiled in that good-natured way South Seas islanders have when noticing how fucked up the mainland is. "The dead are punishing the living, eh?"
Strangely, Anderson swelled with pride. That's my boss for you.
But why had the Daemon phoned her about it? Something was up, and it had everything to do with Tremark Holdings, IBC. She was sure of it. She was also glad she didn't have to figure any of it out-since the Daemon was handing her both the clues and the answers in its own sweet time.
"May I join you?"
Anderson jerked her head to see a handsome, square-jawed American in a floral print shirt and khakis standing over her. He was in his mid-thirties, but he had a trim waist, broad shoulders, and rugged good looks that made Anderson imagine a string of broken-hearted women stretching from Minnesota to Sumatra. He had that cool, self-assured air that effective people have.
Anderson acted cool right back. "Can't you see I'm catching the business report?"
He straddled a bar stool next to her. "There are more convenient places than Nauru to do that. So what brings you way out here?"
"An intense desire to be left alone."
He laughed. Then he leaned close and spoke sotto voce, "The better question is: what is Anji Anderson, previously of KTLZ TV, doing in Nauru?" He laid his FBI credentials on the bar in front of her.
Anderson's eyes widened for a moment as she nearly panicked. She should tell him. But what would that do? The Daemon was taking care of her. It wasn't her enemy. This was leading somewhere. Betraying it could ruin everything.
She got ahold of herself. The Daemon had sent her here, and it knew everything. "I should have figured you for a spook."
He collected his badge and grabbed her by the hand as he pulled her over to a red vinyl booth in the corner of the deserted bar. He was a man of action. Pseudo-romantic scenes from a dozen cable soft-porn films entered her mind. She tried to concentrate on the real situation.
"Oto, another drink for the lady."
Oto nodded and got busy.
The FBI agent slid into the booth, pulling her in alongside him. She couldn't help but see the bulge of a pistol holster in the small of his back as he slid across the bench seat. He smiled and extended his hand. "Call me Barry."
She shook his hand warily. "All right, Barry,what's this all about?"
"I want answers."
"Such as?"
"What's a lifestyles reporter recently let go from a San Francisco affiliate doing asking questions about Tremark Holdings, IBC, in far-flung Nauru?"
"What's a big corn-fed frat boy like you doing so far from a Hooters?"
"I asked first."
She acted coy. "Okay. I'm trying to launch a career as an investigative journalist. I'm tired of being the stewardess of the evening news."
"Not an answer."
"You mean, why am I so interested in the names of the officers of Tremark Holdings?"
"Yeah. That's exactly what I mean. You know, of course, that asking questions around here is a good way to wind up missing."
"Then why are you asking so many questions?"
He pointed a finger at her and let out a slow laugh. "I think I like you, Anji. Are you going to help me?"
"Help you how?"
"What does Tremark Holdings have to do with the Daemon?"
"What makes you think it has anything to do with the Daemon?"
"Because Matthew Sobol moved money into Tremark Holdings on the day he died."
A wave of shock sent goose bumps over Anderson's skin. God, this was fun. She couldn't have faked that surprise. "Really? That answers a lot of questions."
"How did you get wind of Tremark Holdings?"
"Let's just say I have my sources."