| From: | ShadowTK@********.demon.co.uk (Paul J. Adam) |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Covert Merting |
| Date: | Wed, 16 Oct 2002 00:18:36 +0100 |
>>>>>[+++++begin video
The camera is waiting in front of a door, in a forgettably-decorated,
deeply-carpeted corridor. The neat rows of identical doors proclaim it
as a hotel: the silk wallpaper, set with good prints, and the thick wool
rug hint at its quality.
Room 628 opens, revealing a man on the wrong side of middle age. His
clothes (a steel-grey wool suit, with a mulberry silk shirt and
contrasting ginkgo-green tie) are a good fit with the discreet opulence
of the hotel, and he is looks right to be wearing them: the wrong side
of middle age, with hairline and waistline expensively maintained by
medical science. "This is so..." he mutters.
"Secure." The camera sweeps past him, into a typical hotel room.
"Sleazy. Now everyone here thinks I'm calling hookers to my room." The
suited man closes the door, locks it. "Why couldn't we just set up a
secure e-conference?"
The camera catches a glimpse of its wearer (female, attractive) as she
removes her overcoat. She's just the wrong side of stylish: the dress is
cut a little too short in the hem, too low at the front, to be classic.
Her shoes, likewise, are only slightly too high in the heel. Enough to
hint at 'classy escort', but not so much as to completely rule out
'ambitious executive'. "Firstly, I swept straight through, and nobody
knows which room I went to. Secondly, anyone who knows you would never
assume I was going to _your_ room. Third, there's no such thing as a
'secure e-conference', our enemies have deckers as good or better as we
do."
"We're only talking about civil servants, Soraya-"
"We're talking about Cyberspace Special Forces, the Chrome Berets. And
about shadow talent, the very people who run the networks we'd use." The
woman - obviously, known as Soraya - gestures in frustration. "Didn't
you check the records and the histories? The Children of Thunda thought
their system was unbreakable. It wasn't, it was broken. The shadow
networks will co-operate with the Feds if refusal means they're hunted
instead of tolerated. Those systems can be cracked, and have been. So,
minimal use of the shadow networks."
"What does that leave?"
"Face to face meetings. Telephone messages. Open-net messages with
low-profile encryption. The God-damned postal service. We hide in the
light and noise, Keenan, using the bustle of real life to hide us."
Keenan nods slowly. "Okay. I can work with that. We probably won't need
to communicate that much anyway."
"After we're certain you can deliver what we want, and that these
unwanted complications are dealt with, no. Now you've seen what we are
asking for, can you deliver?"
"I can. I'm not sure I should." Keenan replies after a pause.
"And why the sudden concern, Keenan? Conscience, or fear?"
Keenan sighs. "I'm just... not sure this is real. It's like a sim. A
_bad_ sim."
That gets him a snort of disgust. "It's a routine transaction, as far as
you're concerned. It happens to be illegal, but that's why you're being
so well paid. You should be worrying about whether I'll kill you rather
than pay you, when you bring me the goods."
He turns pale at that. "Would you?"
"It's highly economical, but in this case it would be stupid. A man with
your access and connections... if you died suddenly, questions would be
asked. Difficult questions that I would prefer to avoid. Just as if you
abruptly began to flaunt your new wealth." Soraya goes to the mini-bar,
selects a miniature and pours herself a drink. "One more thing the
simsense shows are wrong about... it's routine details that get people
arrested. Not detectives grubbing about in dark rooms, but accountants
following the money."
"I'll be careful." Keenan promises.
"You have been so far, with your advance payments. Because if you
further compromise this operation, I imagine my employers will be *most*
vindictive."
"And who _do_ you work for, Soraya?"
The woman smiles. "Even if I knew, I would not tell you. I can guess at
their purposes, but all I know is that I'm being paid to make this deal.
I should _thank_ you for letting Calfo blackmail you, it's brought a lot
more money to the table and my cut will be much bigger for it."
Keenan looks... tired, old and a little ill. "Couldn't you put even a
little sugar on it for me?"
"No. You're a scientist, you deal with the truth. You knew your...
hobbies were illegal, you persisted with them, now you're dealing with
the consequences. You chose money and gratification over conscience, and
now those chickens are roosting. I need you alive, secure, safe,
employed.. and you need my money and help." The woman shrugs. "You
should have been briefed that you would be in demand, if you worked on
bioweapons. You should certainly have taken the first blackmail demand
from Calfo's men to your security officer. Now, you're too embroiled.
And you know that I can - I _must_ - wipe your slate... and I am
probably the only player left who cares about leaving you alive,
employed and apparently clean."
There is a long, painful pause.
"I'll get you your damn cultures. Soon as the Jam Jar's off my back and
I get the money." Keenan says at last. "You know what they're worth?"
"Precisely, because I am writing the cheque." The woman grabs Keenan's
jaw and, with surprising strength, forces him to look him in the eye.
"You can blame no-one but yourself for this. Concentrate on survival,
unless death or a cell in Abilene appeal to you."
Keenan is silent: and the woman retrieves her coat, and leaves.
+++++end video]<<<<<
-- Soraya <00:18:42/10-16-63>
