He looked at her levelly. “Dagmar,” he said, “refusing this invitation would put your people in danger. And yourself. And the hundreds of civilians you’re carting around the country by plane and bus. Not to mention the millions invested in the game.”
“I don’t want to be used to validate this government in any way.”
“You can say whatever you like after you leave the country,” Lincoln said. “But two nights from now, you’re going to talk to Bozbeyli about what a wonderful time you’re having in his country, and compliment him on his choice of ties.”
Fear and fury pulsed through Dagmar with every throb of her heart. She gave an angry laugh.
“I have a personal history with military governments,” she said, “and it’s not good.”
“Last time,” said Lincoln, “they didn’t invite you to the palace.”
“Ha. That’s supposed to make me feel safer? I-”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” Dagmar snarled. She didn’t want an interruption now, not when she had a full-blown tantrum she wanted to throw.
Mehmet opened the door far enough for his head and his baseball cap.
“The crossword puzzle has been solved,” he said. “Time for the update.”
“Did they find the wreath?” Dagmar asked.
“Yes.”
“And the coded message on the back of the ribbon?”
“Yes, they did.”
Dagmar grabbed her hat and her water bottle and rose. The players had done their part; now she would have to do hers.
The players had solved all available puzzles, and now an upgrade would refresh some established Web pages with new information, and this information-much of it in puzzle form-would lead to other Web pages and other puzzles, all newly uploaded.
Dagmar would stage-manage the update from the trailer in Ephesus, but the update wouldn’t actually be happening from there. Her staff in the Simi Valley offices were much better able to handle the technical details, but she wanted to be on hand in case there were problems.
Not that she could fix them; she just wanted to fret anxiously alongside her team.
She took her phone out of its holster and pressed the speed dial for the Simi Valley office, where-after midnight, California time-Helmuth and Mike and the others were presumably standing by. Her phone used Voice-over-Internet Protocol, which made sense because it could grab the signal from only a few feet away, right in the trailer, and because the phone came right out of the box with military-grade encryption, which minimized the chance of any of the players stealing her signal and trying to read game clues.
As she passed the door she turned to look back at Lincoln, who looked pointedly at her faded T-shirt and khakis.
“Buy a nice dress,” he said. “Shoes, clutch purse, et cetera. And put the boys in suits and ties.”
Dagmar glared at him.
“This is so going on your bill,” she said.
CHAPTER THREE
Dagmar spent much of the next two days in a frantic search for appropriate clothing-and not just for herself but for the two members of her team who were to accompany her. Tuna Saltik, her Turkish co-writer, at least owned a suit, even if he didn’t have it with him, but Richard, her tech and security specialist, had never worn a suit and never even owned a tie. She not only had to find her own outfit she also had to shepherd Richard through the process.
Richard was known in the office as Richard the Assassin, a name derived from the highly imaginative acts of vengeance he carried out upon players who tried to hack illicit information out of Great Big Idea. He was a trim, olive-skinned young man who favored white Converse sneakers that contrasted with the ninja-dark shade of his T-shirts and jeans. Dagmar couldn’t remember when he’d dressed otherwise.
It was only to be expected that on his first trip to a boutique he revealed himself as a closet fashion slut and, furthermore, a fashion slut with luxurious tastes in fabric and style. He’d chosen a gorgeous suit of cashmere, gray with a subtle blue pinstripe, a tie of hand-painted Chinese silk, and Italian wingtips allegedly made by hand. Dagmar had flat refused to authorize the shoes for the expense account, but Richard had brought out his own credit card for the shoes and had then gone on to accessorize himself with a Girard Perregaux chronograph on a gold band-“chronograph” being what you called a watch when it cost over ten thousand dollars. Dagmar wasn’t aware that she paid Richard enough to afford such things.
Dagmar was even more surprised to discover that this was the first watch he’d ever owned.
“Up till now,” he said, “I just looked at my phone when I wanted to know the time.”
“You do know you can get a Timex for under fifty bucks, right?” Dagmar said.
He held out his arm to admire the glittering object on his wrist.
“I’ll never have to buy another watch, ever,” he said.
“At these prices,” said Dagmar, “you’d better hope so.”
“By the way,” Richard said, “can you teach me how to tie my tie?”
Auditing Richard’s luxurious tastes wasn’t Dagmar’s only problem. Tuna Saltik, the novelist and essayist she’d hired to make certain the game worked in Turkish, hated the new government and didn’t want to go to the reception; he balked at being dragged to the boutique, and he made Dagmar pick out his clothes for him.
“Maybe I’ll be sick tomorrow,” he said.
“You’d better not be,” Dagmar said. “The generals are going to know who shows up and who doesn’t. You don’t want to end up on the wrong list.”
“I’m not afraid of them,” Tuna said.
“Yes, you are.”
He glared at her, and she realized that she’d made the mistake of challenging his machismo, or whatever it was Turks possessed that filled the same slot as machismo on the mental motherboard.
He was a big man, broad shouldered, shaped like a brick. He had a mustache and heavy brows and big hands, and maybe-just maybe-he actually wasn’t afraid.
“Look,” she said. “You’re a writer. Writers have more ways of subverting the dominant paradigm than anyone else on the planet. Come to the palace with me, pay attention to what happens, and then you can write savage satire about the generals, their wives, and their taste in furniture. Or whatever. Just don’t put the rest of us in danger.”
“This is not acceptable,” he said, weakening.
“This is what has to happen. We’re in business; it’s not our job to go to jail.”
Tuna turned sullen. “My friends will learn about this, and then they’ll think I’m one of them.”
“Tell your friends,” Dagmar said, “that your Nazi boss made you do it.”
Which was, she thought, precisely what she was going to tell her friends about Lincoln.
Time was running out on Thursday when she heard a knock on her hotel room door. She opened it to find a young man dressed soberly in a tan blazer and tie and carrying a netbook in a shoulder bag. He was, she figured, in his late twenties; he was slim and a little bit boyish and had studious brown eyes behind dark-rimmed spectacles.
“Lincoln sent me,” he said. “We haven’t met, but I’m your advance man. I’ve been doing publicity for you for weeks now.”
He spoke American English, with only a trace of an accent.
“You’re Ismet Kadri?” she said. She’d spoken to him on the phone, and they’d exchanged a lot of email.
“Yes. Pleased to meet you.”
Dagmar shook his hand. “Come in,” she said.
Papers, belongings, and electronics were scattered over her hotel room. Ismet gazed at the disorder with mild eyes.
“Can I help in any way?” he asked.
“That depends. What can you do?”
“I can translate for you at the palace. And I can… help arrange your schedule.”
“Do you have a car?”
“I have a rental.”
“Do you know Ankara?”
“Pretty well. Not like a native, though.”
“Right. I need to get Tuna and Richard to the tailor for the final fitting. I need to buy some shoes, and get a haircut. And I need to pick up my dress, which should be ready by four o’clock.”