Chapter 1: the setup

David Basheer sat down and pressed the power button on his computer. As the machine booted up, he poured himself a glass of apple juice, pausing to connect to the Internet before replacing the cap on the bottle.

He looked at the Internet window. The mail icon was flashing. He took a sip of his juice with his left hand while his right dragged the mouse over to the icon. He clicked, and several messages listed themselves on the screen. The only one that interested him, of course, was the one offering him a chance to win one thousand dollars.

Down at the bottom of the advertisement was coding that looks like gibberish or computer graphics code. But David knew better what it was. David knew how to look and what to look for, and soon found the coded collection of letters. If you know how to decode those letters, if you had recognized it as a code, and you could translate the code from Russian, then you might find the name of an email address and password for an otherwise unused server. Of course, you’d also need to know the address for the server. But David Basheer, naturally, knew all of these things.

David refilled his cup as he opened this new mailbox. Inside, down towards the bottom, but not all the way down, was a link. The link was black text written on a black background, so you needed to first know it was there, and then search for it a bit. When David clicked the link, a chat box opened up.

The box was empty, just black space with a white cursor blinking away. David took another sip of his juice. He didn’t have to wait long.

‘Hello Leon.’ The words printed themselves up on the screen before David. He smiled.

David flexed his fingers and put them on the keyboard. ‘Bonjour Monsieur Ballentine.’ He replied.

‘You are well rested I trust. Are you ready for more work?’

‘Always, Mon Capitan.’

There was a brief pause. David knew it was not caused by any connection problem. ‘Outstanding Leon. I have several jobs that need tending to, but most of them are playing the wrong tune for you to be dancing to.’

‘And those that remain, Monsieur Ballentine, how many and how large are they?’

‘There are three, Leon. One of them has eight variables, one has nine, and one only six.’

In his apartment, David Basheer let out a low whistle. ‘Monsieur Ballentine, those are large variables.’ Eight digits, nine digits, six digits. Tens of millions, hundreds of millions, and hundreds of thousands. That was a lot of money.

‘Yes, they are Leon. Are you up for them?’

‘As the American’s say, Just Do It.’

‘Very well, Leon. We shall start with number six and work our way up. Number six is a cleaning job for a taxpayer.’

David made a face, not that Ballentine, whoever he was, would see it. ‘I’ll pass on that, Monsieur Ballentine. I do not clean unless I must.’

‘I did not think so, Leon, but I had to offer the possibility. On to number eight?’

‘Lead on, Mon Amie.’

‘Number eight is for an artist rendering for one Chuck M. Interested?’

Charles Monet. Interesting. ‘What is number nine?’

‘Number nine is a scavenger hunt. Unfortunately, there can be only one winner. Otherwise the number is only eight.’

‘Hmm… How many eights?’

‘The first eight is four eights. The nine is either twelve or six eights.’

‘Send me the info for both of them.’ That was a lot of money. Which meant a lot of risk. Interesting. ‘I will consider them both.’

‘Within the hour.’ Another pause. ‘The usual location?’

‘That will suffice, Mon Capitan.’

The important part of the conversation was over. All that was left was ceremony and circumstance. David waited for the next line of text to appear.

‘Leon…may I ask you a question?’

‘Of course Monsieur Ballentine.’

‘Do you even speak French?’

‘Only what I see in magazines, Mr. Ballentine.’ David smiled, and imagined that Ballentine, whoever he or she was, was chuckling on the other end of the connection.

‘Until next time then.’

‘Indeed.’

David Basheer disconnected from the Internet and finished his juice. He then rose from his chair, put away the bottle, and slipped on a suede jacket. He walked out of his apartment, turned on a security alarm that was little more than a joke for anyone who knew even half what David knew, and headed for the elevator. “Good morning Mr. Crane,” the doorman said as David walked out of the room.

David gave the doorman a quick glance. He didn’t expect the man to be wearing a wire or carrying a gun, but he checked anyway. “Good morning Charlie.” David returned the man’s smile. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s great Mr. Crane.” The doorman painted a smile on his face. “Enjoy your day.”

“You too Charlie.” David smiled back. “You too.”

David Basheer walked down the street in the sunshine. He whistled softly, acting as if there was nothing in the world that could bother him. All the while, his mind raced with what little he already knew of the jobs. The money was enticing. The risk nearly irresistible. He’d been out of work far too long.

The first was a museum with a Monet painting, forty million dollars. The second job was some kind of information theft, worth one hundred and twenty million if all other copies are destroyed, or sixty million otherwise. Minus Ballentine’s ten percent. Even divvied up among four other people, sixty million was still quite a bit of money. Besides, Basheer knew he or one of his people could probably get more from some other contractor. Ballentine would still get his ten percent, but only of the original price.

Basheer moved through the city casually, all the while passing name after name through his head. The Monet would require two entry men, one computer man, and a face man. That meant three other people. It was a simple job, as far as these things go. The security was just going to be details. What really mattered was who the other men were, and how difficult it would be to work with them. A list of old friends was already forming in his head.

Basheer read the file from the back of a taxi. It was time to see the details. The details were none too exciting. When the museum was closed, there were two guards, passing through the exhibit at a rate of one every six minutes. Other than that, everything was predictable.

When it came to a face, there was only one person he would want, and she was easy enough to get. They had a history. She owed him more than just one, and she’d jump on a job that size anyway. Con artists usually went with lower stakes. And best of all, she was good with cars.

As long as he was going with history, he had another entry man to help him out. If he could convince the guy to come out of international waters and stick his head up again. Shouldn’t take much, though. All he had to really do was tell him the deal. And if that didn’t work, he just had to push his buttons, tell him how dangerous it could all be.

Which only left the computer guy. Ever since that thing back in the early nineties that he would never ever talk about, David had hated computer guys. Pretentious pricks who think they know everything. Most of them didn’t deserve being thrown the tiny bones he gave them when he did need their help, let alone something as big as this job. Every one of them was horribly arrogant, annoying, and barely worth his time. Maybe there was one. One that might at least be handled; one that might be worth working with. One who knew what he was doing, and knew it well enough to not have to brag.