“Is it Applebee’s?”
Ten feet away, Dasha could smell the lavender lotion he used. Saw that his red bow tie was crooked-which might mean Mr. Earl was already a little drunk. He drank mojitos in public, vodka in private.
“This is his computer. But you told me not to open it, that you wanted to get the first look. So I can’t confirm it.”
Mr. Earl stood, took the computer as he fitted spectacles on his nose-the lenses were dime-sized.
“Go! Get food, drink, go for a swim, whatever you want.” The man was excited. He might have been accepting gold, not a laptop. “I’ll meet you here later for cocktails. Eightish is cool.”
Dasha had hoped to fly back to the island that night with Aleski and Broz, but she answered, “As you wish.”
At her staff apartment, Dasha shaved her legs. Chose white satin slacks, no underwear, a gauzy blue blouse, no bra, just in case the tall man wanted something special in trade for closing the deal. Her read, though she had nothing to prove it: Mr. Earl dressed like a homosexual but wasn’t. Not full-time, anyway.
Disgusting, if he insisted, but necessary.
That was Dasha’s impression. The two of them were about to agree on a way of leveraging Mr. Sweet. Wealthy people sometimes have accidents; disappear-there’s nothing suspicious about that if their assets are undisturbed. Creating an independent cash flow after a wealthy person vanishes, though, required unusual opportunity, plus planning.
She had her theory about how Stokes hoped to profit from introducing exotic parasites into Florida. Mr. Earl maybe knew. Or had a theory of his own.
An important meeting. It required giving thought to appropriate dress.
When Dasha returned to the little mansion, minus Aleski and his idiot cousin, she got a surprise. Mr. Earl was no longer smiling. He was on the porch, pacing beneath the yellow light, smoking a cigarette in an ivory holder.
Mr. Sweet didn’t allow tobacco on his islands. Smoking was a Florida indulgence.
“The good news?” Mr. Earl told her before she got seated, even before asking her if she wanted a drink. “You got the right computer. There’s no doubt about who the software’s licensed to. I also checked the applications system, and you told me the truth. You didn’t take a secret little peek at his files. Like I would have bet you would.”
Dasha stood comfortably, pleased with her own professionalism, but curious about where he was going with this. She hadn’t opened the computer because she’d guessed the man had a way to check. He was shrewd, always a step ahead of everyone. The first time she’d realized for certain how smart Mr. Earl was was the first time Dasha suspected she might have an ally. Someone to help her displace Mr. Sweet.
“The bad news?” Mr. Earl’s tone was a mix of irritation and amusement. “The bad news is, that lil’ fool who went and hung himself, wasn’t a retard like our boss man claims. Applebee was a damn genius, far as I can tell. Let’s go sit inside, have a look at the computer. I’ll show you what I’m saying.”
There was only one folder on the computer’s desktop. Labeled EPOC/TROPICANE.
Mr. Earl said, “Watch this.” He opened the folder. One by one, he opened the files within.
“Numbers,” he said. “The little man didn’t write with letters. He wrote with numbers. Jesus Christ, it had to take him forever to learn how to write this way. His own language.”
During intelligence training evolutions in the Russian Army, Dasha had gone through a three-week school on encryption and secret writing. It had mostly dealt with computers, how to hide and recover data.
A portion of the evolution had been called “Forensic Computer Analysis.”
“Is that code? Or cipher?” She was looking over Mr. Earl’s shoulder at columns of numbers, seeing his face in the screen’s reflection, her eyes two dark spaces next to his left ear. She didn’t think he’d have a clue.
He pushed himself away from the desk. “You tell me. You’re head of security.” The man leaned, lighted a cigarette, smiling-playing a game with her, giving a test. Blew a cloud of smoke into her hair; touched his fingernail to her back and traced a horizontal line typically covered by her bra strap.
That was something else unexpected. More than two years they’d worked together, and this was the first indication the man was interested in having fun.
Dasha sat, rebooted the computer with system extensions off. She checked the software’s kernel version, the boot volume, and the amount of memory available.
They all told her something. There was a lot more data stored on this computer than was visible on the desktop, or hard drive.
She restarted the computer, then went to system preferences and opened security options, feeling Mr. Earl out there next to the porch window, watching her, smoking, expecting her to fail.
Security vault activated. Master password required.
One after another, Dasha typed in default passwords. She’d memorized several during training. All declined.
Yebat!
She looked at the laptop’s cover as if to remind herself. This was a Mac, a system she’d never used. Russian Intelligence-its three-week encryption school had dealt only with PCs. All IBM clones that used Windows. Never a word about Macs.
Typical. Myopic bureaucrats still ran the government. Mother Russia. A gigantic country inhabited by small losers.
Outside, Mr. Earl lit another cigarette. She could hear his throaty chuckle.
Dasha called, “We need an expert to look at this.”
Mr. Earl opened the door. “You want a third person involved?” His tone asked if she wanted a third person to share the score.
No doubt now. The man was on the make. Maybe he knew about Applebee’s guinea worm study, or had a theory similar to her own-lots of money at stake.
“How else are we going to find out what’s on the computer?”
Mr. Earl held up a skinny index finger, then leaned over the computer’s keyboard, the odor of lavender and tobacco potent. He typed for several seconds, then said, “Look.”
On the screen appeared rows of blue folders, each labeled with words, not numbers. Many dozens of folders, some with interesting tags. Several had to do with Autism: Autism/mercury. doc; Autism/panic.
Some strange, angry ones that referenced Disney World: Dis/conspiracy. doc; Satanicmouse.
There was a long list of topics that indicated the quiet little man had had a busy, busy world going on inside his head.
Another folder was labeled: DR.D. STOKES/PRIVATE FILES. DOC.
Interesting.
Dasha hesitated, not sure she should risk it, before saying, “There they are, Stokes’s private files. Applebee copied them-I had my doubts. What do you think’s in there?”
Mr. Earl looked at her frankly. “I just finished going through it. It’s written in plain English, not numbers. You’re in there, I’ll tell you that much. All that the cops need to put you away for murder. Or me-for something I did a long time ago.”
Dasha widened her eyes, telling him she’d like to know more. For personal reasons.
Big grin. “Years back, I was what they called a ‘political subversive.’ What I was into, though, was drugs. Money. Dropped acid, screwed teenyboppers, hung out with LSD freaks. They made crazy predictions that, at the time, got a lot of press. They’re still getting press, thanks to yours truly and Dr. Stokes. Makin’ us even more money. Understand? Which is very, very cool.”
Dasha knew he’d been busted for more than that, because he added, “The Bahamian police, the FBI, Interpol. If any of them get a copy of this file, we’re both gone. When the time’s right, maybe I’ll let you have a look.”
She was impressed that Mr. Earl had beaten the computer’s security system so quickly but was also suspicious. Why was the man sharing the information with her?
Mr. Earl let her think about that for a moment before he said, “May I tell you something in confidence? Between us. Only us.”