Ark Storm (7 page)

“Vorsprung Durch Technik,” said Gwen before she could stop herself.

Messenger frowned. “I like technological capability,” he replied, not letting the humor breathe today. “Especially when aesthetically pleasing. The BMW satisfies both criteria,” he added.

And people too, wondered Gwen. Form and function. Everything had to do its job, and prettily. He was no exception in his immaculate, body-molding leathers, which appeared to have been hand-tailored for his tall, lean frame. Gwen reckoned the consistently exquisite tailoring was not personal vanity, merely the appropriate adornment for a well-formed machine. He wouldn’t put crap in his car, so why on himself? It was a curiously egoless kind of vanity. The man was distant even from himself.

“How’s Oracle coming along?” Messenger asked as they walked into the Lab.

“Sensors and buoys are all ordered. Should be in Peru by the weekend, and now that I can afford more data I am playing with the model a lot, refining it, trying to increase the accuracy.”

“Good. Keep at it. Don’t try,” he intoned with a sharp sideways look at her. “Succeed.”

Gwen laughed. “Sounds like a business-school mantra.”

Messenger said nothing, his displeasure evident in the way he studiously ignored her as he walked on ahead.

Two hours later, Messenger strode into her office, in bonhomous mood this time. Maybe he’d pulled off a good deal, made another few millions in the meantime, mused Gwen.

“Play backgammon?” he fired off, bracing his arms on her desk, leaning toward her. His lips curved in a smile, but his eyes were narrowed in speculation.

Gwen eyed him back, wondering if this were some sort of code.

“Sometimes,” she replied cautiously.

Messenger clapped his hands together. “Excellent!”

He wheeled round, strode to the atrium, called out.

“Tournament time! Let’s ramp it up today. Since I, and Falcon Capital, have just made a killing in the markets this morning—”

“How much?” called out Kevin Barclay.

Messenger paused.

“Not a great deal. But not bad for a few weeks’ work.”

“And?” prompted Peter Weiss.

“Thirty-eight million dollars,” announced Messenger, to whoops all round. “So I’m feeling generous. Let’s call it fifty thousand dollars to the winner!”

Gwen watched in what she feared was openmouthed amazement. Messenger’s words set off a feeding frenzy. Mandy let out an alarming war-cry whoop, while Barbieri and the grunts, chattering excitedly about Falcon’s killing, rushed from their offices, pulling chairs with them. Weiss and Barclay, with practiced fluency, inverted the smooth wooden tops of what Gwen had thought of as five oddly placed occasional tables to reveal the backgammon boards on the reverse. Randy Sieber, as if again displaying some sixth sense, though more probably alerted by Mandy’s war cry, which could have pierced steel, appeared at the door at the top of the stairs, closed it smoothly, and trotted down, muscular legs bulging through the tight trousers of his suit. Mandy scurried round with a cowboy hat in which were crunched little pieces of paper.

“Doctor M., Weiss, Kevin, Randy, and Gwen, lucky dip. Pick your opponents,” she instructed. Excitement had raised the pitch of her metallic voice, making it sound to Gwen only marginally better than nails scraping down a blackboard.

“Let’s rock and roll!” bellowed Mandy. She pointed a remote and a pounding rock anthem by Foreigner boomed out.

“This is surreal,” murmured Gwen, picking her paper.

“Looks like you and me, Atalanta,” she called out with a smile. Atalanta said nothing, just gave Gwen an appraising glance as they took a table and laid out their pieces. She pushed back her black braids with a long, manicured finger, all cool elegance, just a tad too studied to be natural, thought Gwen. Pose, not poise. Underneath all that polish the woman was nervous.

The atmosphere in the office had gone from businesslike to electric. Pieces clack-clack-clacked and slammed down, dice rolled and clattered on the wooden boards punctuated by hisses, curses, and
Yesses!
as they fell, dispensing their random fate.

“What’s the deal here?” asked Gwen above the throbbing bass. “This all feels just a tad gladiatorial.”

Atalanta frowned at her, as if conversation were not done.

“It’s all part of Dr. Messenger’s metrics,” she answered, winning the opening throw.

“Metrics?”

Atalanta cocked her beautiful head and looked at Gwen like she were an imbecile. “You don’t know what metrics are?”

“So shoot me. Just tell me first.”

The hint of a smile played round Atalanta’s eyes. “Testing yourself. Measuring yourself. Improving. Competing.”

“What, like
every day in every way I’m getting better and better
?”

“Ridicule it all you like, it’s how the office works.”

“Part of all this survival-of-the-fittest stuff? Part of weeding you guys down to one at the end of the year? Or to none?” Gwen added with a sweet smile.

“Exactly. And you’re immune due to your fancy model. Lucky cowgirl in your jeans and tee. So go ahead, scoff all you like, but don’t mind me if I focus on my job. I wouldn’t mind getting a quick fifty K. But it’s more than that. You can’t afford to lose around here. You think this is just a game, but it all gets marked down on your record, how you play, win or lose, your attitude, the whole deal.…”

Phew, thought Gwen, a touch of paranoia, maybe? She looked around. If so, they all seemed to feel it. All the players were concentrating with a kind of joyless determination, even those who were trying hard to affect an image of relaxation. All so desperate to win, to shore themselves up, to stay in the game and have themselves a bite at the cherry that was Silicon Valley, to get their share of the money that on occasion flowed just like milk and honey, even if they poisoned it with their own fear and greed. And you, Gwen, she asked herself. Are you so pure?

She glanced at Messenger, the puppetmaster, felt a quick stab of shock as she saw his eyes on her, watching her as she had watched everyone else. She met his gaze until he looked away. Was this some kind of game for him? He seemed to be enjoying himself, eyes flickering round the players with a slight smile of amusement. Uncomfortable, she turned back to Atalanta.

“Is Dr. Messenger married?” she asked, twiddling her jade ring.

Atalanta spluttered. “What? You want the position?”

Gwen let out a throaty laugh, garnering a scowl from Mandy, who was locked in what appeared to be mortal combat with Jihoon.

“I’m just wondering how any wife could put up with this?”

“Word is she didn’t,” replied Atalanta. “Hightailed her bony ass back to Germany with their three sons.”

So that would explain the lack of photographs on the desk.

“So, enough talk. Ready to play?” asked Atalanta testily.

Gwen stifled a smile. So let’s go up a few gears. See what happens.

“Oh, yeah,” she drawled. “I’m ready.”

Gwen beat Atalanta with brutal efficiency. The dice ran well for her, but Atalanta was cautious, conservative, hadn’t learned, despite the aggression she wore like a badge, that sometimes attack was the safest way. As Gwen got up, Atalanta glared at her with a new and deeper hostility. Gwen gave a low chuckle, moved round to watch the other games.

Mandy was playing a wild game against Jihoon. A few lucky throws spurred her on to wanton play. She popped three Tums during the remaining five minutes of the bout, scenting the air with peppermint as she chewed furiously. Ruthlessly, Jihoon dispatched her.

Peter Weiss was playing Randy Sieber. The security man leaned forward over the board, shirtsleeves rolled back over bulging forearms, eyes locked on Weiss as he threw, as if he could win by intimidation. Peter Weiss affected blithe indifference. He lounged in his chair, as if he were in a late-night bar shooting the shit with his buddies. A faint, almost feline smile played on his lips as he watched Sieber roll and play. Then, in competition with the booming music, perhaps to drown it, he started whistling quietly, almost under his breath. R.E.M., “Losing My Religion” again. This seemed to infuriate Sieber, who flicked angry glances at him. Unsurprisingly, thought Gwen, feeling a flash of sympathy for the security man. Weiss ignored him. Still whistling, dressed as always, in his head-to-toe black, he made his moves with rapid precision, slamming his pieces down, wiping Sieber’s from the board.

A gaming ninja, thought Gwen, eyeing this new, martial side of his character with interest. He was obviously an expert compartmentalizer. He kept his pain locked away. He’d let it out to make her feel better, she acknowledged with a pang. She watched him, willing him on, but feeling too her usual sympathy for the underdog. Sieber didn’t stand a chance.

Weiss played with the speedy confidence and studied disdain of the regular winner. Glancing in amusement at Sieber, he smoothly and professionally moved all his pieces off to victory while Sieber was still evacuating his last eight pieces from the far quadrant of the board. Weiss got up before he’d finished, a deliberate if casual insult. Sieber swore at his departing back.

Gwen moved on to watch Kevin Barclay lose to NFL Curt with a throaty “
Goddamit
,” the Harvard charm not quite so bulletproof. Curt met Gwen’s eyes with a conspiratorial nod of triumph.

Messenger walked up to Gwen, smiling easily. He stood close enough for her to smell the lemony cologne. He glanced down at her with a look of complicity she did not wish to buy into.

“Enjoying your little experiment?” she asked sharply.

Messenger raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Throw scraps to the sharks, watch them fight.”

“It’s interesting, is it not?”

“If you like that sort of thing.”

“I do. Human nature. The human brain, emotion. Backgammon is a good tell.”

“A tell?” asked Gwen.

“It reveals character, the aspects we normally hide. Did you win?”

“Yes,” replied Gwen, conceding Messenger’s point in the smile of triumph she was unable to hide. “I did. But why tell me, if you are using this as some kind of assessment? Am I immune?” she asked, thinking of Atalanta’s words.

“No one’s immune. But you knew anyway, didn’t you? Your question gave you away, but I saw it in your eyes before that. I saw you watching everyone else, assessing.”

Gwen shrugged. “Guilty,” she replied, wondering what other means he would use to analyze her.

“Time for Round Two,” he declaimed, moving away.

Ten minutes later, Gwen beat Curt in the semis, noting that he was a gracious loser, the only one she’d witnessed today. Only Weiss and Messenger were still playing, locked in a long drawn-out back game, Weiss a few throws ahead of Messenger. He wasn’t whistling now, noted Gwen.

Messenger for the first time played with a kind of rigid concentration. Then, as if the tension finally got to him, he pulled off the wedding ring he still wore and spun it compulsively on the wooden board as he considered his moves. Gwen gave a slight jolt. He had her nervous tic, only worse. She could see the irritation in Weiss’s eyes and his struggle to mask it. He wasn’t slouching anymore. Gwen could smell his desire to win; it was there, veiled by the habitual whiff of the spicy cigar smoke, pungent and male. In eight well-played moves, Weiss won.

Messenger jumped to his feet, shook Weiss’s hand warmly.

“Good job, Peter. Nice game!” Messenger seemed genuinely delighted by his protégé’s triumph, Gwen was pleased, and surprised, to note.

Weiss looked ecstatic. He beamed up at his boss, and Gwen saw in his look the delight of a son praised by a beloved and admired father. Messenger was a substitute and, evidently, a hell of a good one.

Gwen wished, protectively, that Weiss would veil his feelings for his own sake. His delight was too naked to share with an office where most everyone seemed to wear a bit of a mask.

“Looks like you and me, Surfer Girl,” said Weiss, sauntering over and patting Gwen on the back.

Gwen gave a smile of relief. His mask was back on. “Bring it on, Techie Boy,” she replied, patting him back.

The game played out, almost perfectly matched; both Gwen and Weiss rolled well and played better. Weiss was guarded, Gwen aggressive. Playing it safe bored her more than losing. Fifty thousand dollars was on the table, but Gwen tried to ignore it. She felt sure that, like the booming music, it was designed to distract.

It all came down to the last two throws. Weiss was behind Gwen. He needed to throw two successive doubles, three or above, to beat her. And he threw double six, followed by double four, to general uproar.

“Hell! What were the chances of that?” cried Barclay, frowning with indignation.

Gwen laughed. “One thousand, two hundred and twenty-five to one, actually, lucky bastard’!” Messenger turned to her, whipping out his phone. He tapped out a few numbers, then gazed down at Gwen.

“You just worked out those odds in your head?” he asked, eyes wide with unmasked admiration. It was as if he were seeing her properly for the first time.

Gwen looked around. Everyone was watching her. Weiss, his victory forgotten, looked furious.

Gwen wished she could hit the rewind button. “It’s no big deal,” she said with a shrug. “The numbers just sort of arrange themselves in my head. It’s almost involuntary.”

She heard Atalanta mutter something and realized that she’d just made it worse. She got to her feet, stuck out her hand.

“Well done, Peter,” she said. Slowly, he reached out, shook her hand, and silently pocketed the check Messenger wrote out to him. Mandy clicked off the music, and Gwen walked back to her office through the suddenly silent room.

Rule number one on the savannah,
she told herself,
don’t be conspicuous
. Do well, but not too well, unless you’re ready for the knives. Judging by the looks sent her way, there was a point at which “survival of the fittest” gave way to “kill off the competition.”

17

MONTEREY, TUESDAY NIGHT

The room smelled of sweat and dust baked on the halogen strip lights. A fan turned listlessly in the ceiling, cutting the silence with a soft whirr. Gwen faced off to the man. He paced round in a circle; she paced with him, keeping the distance between them, eyes fixed on his. Six foot five, two hundred and fifty pounds of lethal African American. His hair was cropped short. Tattoos bulged on both biceps. He started to dance on his feet, taunting her.