Ciudad del Este, Paraguay
A city of two hundred thousand hustlers, whores, hoodlums, revolutionaries, thugs, drug traffickers, drug addicts, murderers, racketeers, pirates, mobsters, extortionists, smugglers, hit men, pimps and wannabes, Ciudad del Este is a cesspit. A useful cesspit, an incredibly useful one, but still a cesspit; built in a jungle and choking on the traffic fumes.
Fortunately, none of the airstrips are regulated, and it's only the work of a quick conversation and few slipped notes before Dominic's jet is refueled and on its way.
By the time it's in the air again, she's vanished into the city.
-
She is not Camille Montes Pisavera, sleekly groomed analyst and part-time socialite. she is Dava Giron, with an Argentine drawl and better things to do than straighten her hair. Thanks to make-up applied just so and a pair of coloured contacts, with her broad cheekbones and olive skin, people are quicker to think of a Asian mother than a Russian, and the immigrant populations from Korea and Taiwan are large enough that she doesn't get a second glance. Clothes are a compromise, with an aim to be practical; cargo pants, sneakers, denim jacket hiding a shoulder holster and a 9mm (not her beloved Rohrbaugh R9, but something more visually impressive). Blend in, be unremarkable, but in this city it also pays to have an edge of don't mess with me without it being an overt challenge
-
It is a pleasant café; cool blue walls, geometric motifs around the floor and ceiling, dozens of little tables and discreet booths. Mirrors, too, but only because the clientele tend towards justifiable paranoia. Camille is one of them. The man she is meeting is another.
Roman Sokolov, alias Krill (no matter how many krill the whales eat, there are still billions left), couldn't be anything other than a computer geek. It's the glasses, and the Hawaiian shirt, and the sense that people just aren't as interesting as binary and code. Still, he's a useful computer geek, a trustworthy one (to a certain extent, anyway), and one worldly enough to know what to look for.
Still, there is a reason she hasn't done up all the buttons on her white blouse.
-
Tracking down information - emails, gossip, anything - on Claudio Rodriguez will cost US$15, 000. Krill only has a few days, after all, and it is the standard fee. But even if his gaze had been somewhat concentrated on her cleavage, he isn't stupid.
"That's not everything, Dava", and maybe he knew her more than she'd like.
But even with that brief unease, she replies, "No, it isn't", and slides a card across the table. It is blank, except for an ISP number. "Can you track that?"
"What's it to you?"
Not looking away, she runs a slender finger down her collar, down the neck of her blouse to that last button between her breasts.
"Just a favour."
-
Business concluded, she does what women the world over do when they have spare time; go shopping.
Of course, most women don't hunt around for hacker software and false passports. And information, don't forget that. Ciudad del Este is a market town at the junction of three countries, and information is a commodity like everything else.
-
There is only so much she can do with what she has, though, and by the time Krill calls her, those finely-tuned espionage nerves of hers are starting to stretch. She's also always had a quick temper, and when the taxi driver starts going in the wrong direction...
Well, guns are useful weapons, even when you don't pull the trigger, and it is amazing what compliance the feeling of a gun muzzle on the back of the neck can achieve.
She also meant the threat. Just because she's never been called on it doesn't mean that she wasn't being perfectly sincere when she said that if he didn't follow the normal route, she was going to splatter his brains across the windscreen.
-
...she really can't wait to get out this place.
-
An hour later, and she is perched on a glass desk, feet resting on a pile of boxes as she flicks through a manilla folder.
"I couldn't get into the case file itself. Interpol still have a bunch of systems closed off, so unless you want to go to Switzerland..."
"I don't need to know that badly," she says, dryly.
"And, about that other thing..."
Camille looks up.
Krill's mouth pulls a little to the side. "The signal bounces around half the fucking planet."
"So, you couldn't track it."
"No."
"Shit."
Still watching her, he leans back in his chair. "So, uh, you're not going to..." He runs his eyes up and down her body. For a moment, her gaze is flat. Then, with a tight smile, she slides off the desk, takes the two steps towards him, fists his shirt and kisses him.
Hard.
"No," Camille says, lips brushing his jaw, "You just tried." She slips the slim stacks of money into his breast pocket and steps away. "Fifteen grand, as agreed."
"As agreed." He's still watching her, but now with a cynical smile. "Until next time you need me?"
"...Until next time," and she shuts the door firmly behind her.
Fortunately, none of the airstrips are regulated, and it's only the work of a quick conversation and few slipped notes before Dominic's jet is refueled and on its way.
By the time it's in the air again, she's vanished into the city.
-
She is not Camille Montes Pisavera, sleekly groomed analyst and part-time socialite. she is Dava Giron, with an Argentine drawl and better things to do than straighten her hair. Thanks to make-up applied just so and a pair of coloured contacts, with her broad cheekbones and olive skin, people are quicker to think of a Asian mother than a Russian, and the immigrant populations from Korea and Taiwan are large enough that she doesn't get a second glance. Clothes are a compromise, with an aim to be practical; cargo pants, sneakers, denim jacket hiding a shoulder holster and a 9mm (not her beloved Rohrbaugh R9, but something more visually impressive). Blend in, be unremarkable, but in this city it also pays to have an edge of don't mess with me without it being an overt challenge
-
It is a pleasant café; cool blue walls, geometric motifs around the floor and ceiling, dozens of little tables and discreet booths. Mirrors, too, but only because the clientele tend towards justifiable paranoia. Camille is one of them. The man she is meeting is another.
Roman Sokolov, alias Krill (no matter how many krill the whales eat, there are still billions left), couldn't be anything other than a computer geek. It's the glasses, and the Hawaiian shirt, and the sense that people just aren't as interesting as binary and code. Still, he's a useful computer geek, a trustworthy one (to a certain extent, anyway), and one worldly enough to know what to look for.
Still, there is a reason she hasn't done up all the buttons on her white blouse.
-
Tracking down information - emails, gossip, anything - on Claudio Rodriguez will cost US$15, 000. Krill only has a few days, after all, and it is the standard fee. But even if his gaze had been somewhat concentrated on her cleavage, he isn't stupid.
"That's not everything, Dava", and maybe he knew her more than she'd like.
But even with that brief unease, she replies, "No, it isn't", and slides a card across the table. It is blank, except for an ISP number. "Can you track that?"
"What's it to you?"
Not looking away, she runs a slender finger down her collar, down the neck of her blouse to that last button between her breasts.
"Just a favour."
-
Business concluded, she does what women the world over do when they have spare time; go shopping.
Of course, most women don't hunt around for hacker software and false passports. And information, don't forget that. Ciudad del Este is a market town at the junction of three countries, and information is a commodity like everything else.
-
There is only so much she can do with what she has, though, and by the time Krill calls her, those finely-tuned espionage nerves of hers are starting to stretch. She's also always had a quick temper, and when the taxi driver starts going in the wrong direction...
Well, guns are useful weapons, even when you don't pull the trigger, and it is amazing what compliance the feeling of a gun muzzle on the back of the neck can achieve.
She also meant the threat. Just because she's never been called on it doesn't mean that she wasn't being perfectly sincere when she said that if he didn't follow the normal route, she was going to splatter his brains across the windscreen.
-
...she really can't wait to get out this place.
-
An hour later, and she is perched on a glass desk, feet resting on a pile of boxes as she flicks through a manilla folder.
"I couldn't get into the case file itself. Interpol still have a bunch of systems closed off, so unless you want to go to Switzerland..."
"I don't need to know that badly," she says, dryly.
"And, about that other thing..."
Camille looks up.
Krill's mouth pulls a little to the side. "The signal bounces around half the fucking planet."
"So, you couldn't track it."
"No."
"Shit."
Still watching her, he leans back in his chair. "So, uh, you're not going to..." He runs his eyes up and down her body. For a moment, her gaze is flat. Then, with a tight smile, she slides off the desk, takes the two steps towards him, fists his shirt and kisses him.
Hard.
"No," Camille says, lips brushing his jaw, "You just tried." She slips the slim stacks of money into his breast pocket and steps away. "Fifteen grand, as agreed."
"As agreed." He's still watching her, but now with a cynical smile. "Until next time you need me?"
"...Until next time," and she shuts the door firmly behind her.