paths a few times. “And what does he do?”
A gull appeared out of the fog and snow, and dove past the window of the Helsinki restaurant. Its raucous cries grated like rusty hinges. “The Signal on Port 950.”
“That’s nice, what the hell does that mean?”
Jaako shook his head. “That’s his name, his handle, not his power. But it suggests his power.”
“Would you get to the point?”
“You sound just like Niemi,” Jaako complained, referring to the head of the Finnish secret service.
“You don’t have to be insulting. Niemi is a nasty piece of work.” Noel dished up more caviar.
“And Flint was such an angel?” Jaako asked. “I think you have to be a perfect shit to run one of these agencies.”
“I’d agree with that,” Noel said.
“So, why pull this heist on the Nshombos? Why not get them hauled up in front of the Hague? Rumor has it you put Flint there.” Noel just smiled, and Jaako looked disappointed. “Oh, come on, give me something?”
“No.” Noel paused for a sip of vodka. “Now tell me about the Signal. What’s his power and why do we need it?”
“The guy can project his consciousness into any computer on the Internet that is listening on Port 950. When he’s inhabiting a computer, he can use it like any user-copy files, send jobs to a printer, connect to another computer. But here’s what’s useful for us. He can also use any peripheral devices as if he were the interface software.”
Noel slowly set down his glass. “He can control the security devices in the vault.”
Jaako formed a gun with his fingers, pointed it at Noel, and pretended to pull the trigger. “Bingo.”
“Yes, we definitely need him,” Noel said.
“Which brings us back to me avoiding that whole security office issue. If you can find the guy-he’s a total recluse-you need to convince him to let me into his space so I can enter the vault from his computer screen in the United States.”
“And if I can’t find him or convince him?”
“I won’t join your party.”
“I’ll find him.” Noel paused for a moment, then added softly, “Do I need to remind you not to mention this little endeavor to anyone?”
“I won’t. A chance for a couple of mil. Mum’s the word.” He made a zipping motion across his lips.
“Yes, and just to assure your silence…” Noel slid an eight-by-ten envelope across the table.
Jaako opened it, pulled out the photos, blanched, and quickly shoved them back into the envelope.
Noel knew what they contained. A particularly horrible variety of child pornography, and he’d downloaded them from Jaako’s computer.
“How did you get these?” Jaako demanded. He tried to sound threatening, but it came out breathless.
“I stole your computer. And I’ll deliver it to Niemi if you don’t play nice.”
“You’re a bastard. Talk about Niemi or Flint. You could be running one of these agencies.”
“And you’re a pervert, but I’m going to make you a rich pervert.” Noel stood, threw down money, and walked out into the Finnish blizzard.
Saigon, Vietnam
Bugsy pressed the cell phone against his ear. The rumble of traffic was almost enough to drown out Barbara Baden’s voice.
“No,” Bugsy said. “I’m in the middle of this thing for Lohengrin.”
“You’ll need to take a break from it,” Babel said. “Jayewardene wants as many members of the Committee as possible to be at the conference for security detail. I’ve arranged a private flight for you. How soon can you be at Ho Chi Minh Airport?”
Bugsy pressed the phone to his chest, leaned forward, and asked Billy the same question. Around them, the highway was buzzing with traffic following no recognizable traffic laws Bugsy had ever seen. Semis screamed past them at a hundred kilometers an hour. Granted that wasn’t so bad when you put it in miles per hour, but three digits still made him nervous.
“Five hours,” the joker said with a shrug of his desiccated shoulders. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
Babel must have heard, because as soon as Bugsy put the phone back to his ear, she was speaking.
“I’ll have the flight ready for you. It will be official UN business, so you can skip all the customs and airport security.”
The line went dead. Bugsy closed the phone. Nick, sitting beside him, raised Cameo’s eyebrows. The guy still hadn’t forgiven Bugsy for knocking the hat off on the plane into Vietnam. “Change of plans?” Nick said.
“How would you feel about a lovely few days in Paris watching the Caliphate stall for time? Turns out there’s a peace conference that they want us to be at.”
Billy shouted something that sounded obscene and swerved violently. The tires squealed, and the car fishtailed for a few heart-stopping seconds before shifting back into a recognizable lane. Nick looked a little pale.
“Sounds fine, assuming we get there.”
Coeur d’Alene, Idaho
There was another blizzard in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. Noel peered through the windshield of the rented car. The wipers were in a losing battle with the snow. He’d tried to teleport to the Steunenberg farm, but Google Earth had failed him. This place was so remote and the shot from the satellites so cursory that Noel had found himself standing in ankle-deep mud with a bitter wind slicing through his topcoat, surrounded by fallow fields.
So he’d teleported to Barcelona and warmer climes, used an Internet cafe to check a location for a Hertz in Coeur d’Alene. He then teleported back to Idaho and rented a car. While he waited for a young pimple-plagued boy to bring up the car he perused through the file on his iPhone about Mollie Steunenberg, aka Tesseract.
He skipped past the downloads of season two of American Hero. It had been painful to watch. Mollie hadn’t had a good run. Her power was formidable. Her tolerance for backstabbing limited. She’d been voted off in the fifth week, and her final confessional had been filled with anger, confusion, and a desire to get even with “the Heathers.” Noel had to do a bit of research to understand that reference, but once he did, it was just another angle to use with Ms. Steunenberg. That and her age. At seventeen she’d either be idealistic or a completely self-absorbed teenager.
Noel made the last turn through an open gate in a long white fence, and then the house appeared out of the storm. It looked like a Norman Rockwell painting, complete with a Christmas tree twinkling in a front window and smoke pouring from the stone chimney. A big barn lay off to the left, and as Noel stepped out of the car he heard the lowing of cattle.
Since he wanted to test her power in a real world setting rather than the artifice of American television, he locked his keys in the car.
The brass knocker on the front door was etched with the words “Bless This House.” It was All Americana perfection. Noel considered the file he’d compiled-nuclear family, mom, dad, nine kids, eight boys and one girl, grandma and grandpa living in the house, and all of them farming the family land. Noel began to despair of ever attracting this young woman into a life of crime.
There was the sound of many running feet, and the door was flung open to reveal a long hallway filled with a sea of young boys ranging in age from seven to seventeen. “I’m looking for Ms. Mollie Steunenberg,” Noel said. “Is she in?”
“MOLLIE! THERE’S SOME GUY HERE FOR YOU!” one of the boys shouted.
“HE SOUNDS LIKE A FAG!” another yelled.
“Mollie’s got a boyfriend, and he’s a fag,” the smallest boy lisped in a singsong.
There was a clatter of boots on the stairs at the far end of the hall. Mollie Steunenberg was short, plump, and cute, with curling red hair and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. She had dark brown eyes and they were brimming with anger. “Shut up, you jerks.” She pushed through the gaggle of boys. Now Noel could see the family resemblance, and his flagging hopes soared. “I’m Mollie,” she said, and stood, arms akimbo, and stared challengingly up at him.
“I’m Mr. Fontes with the Brookline Agency.” He handed over one of his fake cards. “We’re in the business of developing and utilizing wild card talents in a variety of industrial settings.” Noel had a feeling that a hardheaded
