Cayman was in mid-sentence, resuming his lecture to Alex. "… foolish enough to work with you again. Information is food. Eat all you can and only crap out what's bad. Keep the good stuff inside."
Then he let Alex go home.
FRENCH TOUCH
by Anthony Bruno
August, Saturday 11th 2063 – 02:35
The night was as dark as coal but the freeway was well lit, and the Eurocar Westwind was speeding up to a hazardous 150 kph on the Autoroute-50. The driver would have been glad to push the pedal to the metal, but the French Gendarmerie had built a reputation on clamping down heavily on highway jockeys; there had been too many frenzied riggers on the French Riviera roads in previous years, wreaking havoc among the sometimes dense traffic. It wasn't good for France's image, and repulsed tourists.
Except that for now, Laurent Artaud didn't give a frag. He was fleeing from enemies that concerned him far more than the police, driving via the sports car's virtual dashboard, jacked in the onboard computer. He was tired, but at least he didn't have to hold the wheel. For the hundredth time he tried to call Celine or Nolwenn, to no avail.
He was now leaving behind him the war harbor of Toulon, which was sheltering most of France's naval fleet. Above the dark waters of the Mediterranean Sea, lights were twinkling as helicopters were flying to and fro between the ships gathered around the Valery Giscard-d'Estaing aircraft carrier and the land-based facilities.
They'll be leaving soon to join EuroForce operations in the Aegian Sea… there's no doubt the Marine Nationale is feeling nervous, Artaud thought.
As he was driving fast westwards through the easternmost parts of the Marseille sprawl, he tried to recollect the events of the night.
Monsieur Dupont had hired them through their regular fixer, a troll named Marius, an ex-mafioso from the Marseille Milieu and famous arts dealer. Nothing exceptional, they just had to find a specific file at a specific date on the personal computer of a corporate yuppie. The only problem was that the place would be so crowded that they would never have a chance to insert a decker. Plus, they had no idea where the computer would be. And naturally, they couldn't just steal it. They could have decked the place's host from the outside, but the inner security systems and the doors' maglocks were rigged with a CCSS system and not connected to the PLTG. It sounded hard, but in fact it was Laurent Artaud's specialty. He was an ork in his mid-thirties, and that made him very old for one of his kin indeed. But great age meant great experience, and experienced he was. Although he was an ork, he was well-educated, very clever, and a highly social person. And sometimes, fast talk and charisma worked where blazing guns or even stealth could only fail.
So there they were, in front of the Casino de Monte-Carlo, while the Grand Tour events were in full swing in the free city of New Monaco and the security thicker than black IC on a Z-OG glacier. Every summer, the Grand Tour went for weeks throughout several of Europe's social hotspots, gathering the corporate, political and cultural elite of the Old World as well as some figures from over the Pond, especially some famous ones boasting an aristocratic heritage. This was the perfect cover of social events to conduct backroom agreements and strike deals among aristos, corp execs or politicians. It also drew media sharks by the dozens, getting 24-hour coverage on some of the specialized trid channels.
Celine was at Laurent's side as they were crossing the gardens surrounding the luxurious building. Her role was perhaps the most dangerous: she would have to plug a miniature satellite dish onto the computer, allowing their decker, a young elven woman from Nantes street-named Nolwenn, to access the files. It would probably take only a few seconds, then she could get the dish back and walk out as if nothing had ever happened. Nolwenn was safe in a Renault-Fiat Eurovan, parked a few blocks away. She could follow Laurent's and Celine's moves through the micro-cameras set in his tiepin and her necklace. Accompanying the decker in the vehicle was the team's magician, a German witch with a disturbing, gloomy demeanor. His name was Kern, and he would provide astral overwatch for them all, leaving a spirit to watch the van. The whole place was warded, but he had managed to bypass it by attuning his aura to the magical barriers.
As the couple was stepping up the large stairs leading to the front door, going through the two discreet but very present and efficiently manned checkpoints, they were aware of the various security and surveillance devices scanning them. Artaud tried to remember who had once said that Casino security was like an onion: layer after layer after layer, and the more you peeled it back, the more you wanted to cry.
Artaud stirred in his seat, and sighed. He would soon reach the outskirts of Dragonville proper: there, he would be safe. Or at least safer.
They had walked inside after presenting the invitations Marius provided them. I got them from a friend who's a regular, so null sweat guys, he'd said. You're supposed to be a high-ranking exec from ESUS's PR department and her husband. Artaud prayed this was true. They went in without further complications, taking a first glance at the gigantic hall. It was crowded with the creme of Europe's elite. While heading to the back of the room, Artaud spotted at least five members of the Royal Family of Orange, including Queen Amalia, Saeder-Krupp rep at the New European Economic Community Julian Sergetti as well as French Minister of Culture Thierry Lang. Artaud wasn't sure, but he also thought he saw the beautiful Ga‘lle de Rohan before she got lost in the crowd. Few people knew yet that she had a romance with a recent expatriate from North America who was none other than Aithne Oakforest. And the king of the hill, the lord of the city, Spinrad Industries CEO Johnny Spinrad was surrounded by Sol Media and DeMeko paparazzis while ending his thanks speech.
– Looks like all the crowned heads of all Europe have gathered here, Celine muttered in his ear.
– Yes, and even more: the corp suits are here, too, he answered with a smooth nod towards a CATCo executive speaking with a dwarf and an older woman.
– Did you locate our Mr. Yuppie, Laurent?
– Not yet… Maybe…
They were interrupted by a trio of men in their late forties, early fifties.
– Don't tell me it's…, Artaud thought.
– Yeah, Nolwenn answered in his head. Piotr Dabrowski. The drek has hit the fan.
– No, Artaud thought. I think this fan was already full of drek. It stinks of treason.
Artaud turned to face his old enemy, who was smiling broadly, offering Celine and him flutes of champagne.
"My old tusky friend… If I had only thought I would find you here. Let me introduce you to His Highness the Cardinal Mazotti, of the Roman Catholic Church, and to General Hermann Reuber of the German military. But who is that delicious person that accompanies you?"
Artaud didn't hesitate. For years he had learned never to look embarassed. "My wife… "
"… Celine Chaumont," she completed. "Delighted to meet you, Your Highness… General… And Mister…?"
"Ivan Davidowicz," Dabrowski answered, his eyes on Artaud.
– Abort? Nolwenn asked in his mind.
Artaud slowed down as he was entering Marseille. He wanted to get to the Tunnel du Prado, the decaying walls of which ran like a hollow snake of concrete and metal underneath the Old Port.
Yep. I should have cancelled the run right there and then.
"Honey, why don't you go and look for our friend, while I talk to these gentlemen?" Artaud said.