"Nothing." Then she remembers. "Blue Ant expense card. Visa."
"Then you might want to assume they have that number. I'd ask for a fresh one."
"The guy who tried to take my bag, in Tokyo—"
"Franco. A potential weak link." He takes a phone from his pocket and checks the time on its screen. "But he's on his way to Heathrow now to catch a flight to Geneva. Bigend's ticket. He's going to recuperate and have a really expensive Swiss surgeon take a free look at his nose. Out of the way and handsomely remunerated for it. The other guy gets two weeks in Cannes plus a nice bonus. Less likely to talk to Cypriots, whoever. We hope. These hired-help situations always have the potential for problems."
"And what will Dorotea tell the man from Cyprus?"
"That Bigend has hired her. No way to hide it. The press release is going out now. They'll suspect he's buying her off, of course, but she's a player."
"What about her phone, the one Bigend got her on? How do you know that wasn't bugged?"
"He'd given it to her himself, at some point, and told her not to use it, just keep it charged and turned on, in case he needed her. Although the problem with cellular isn't that your phone's been bugged, usually, but that someone's got your frequency. Inherently insecure, unless you're encrypted."
"And you came to Damien's at one in the morning to see if I was safe?"
"I couldn't sleep."
She puts her coffee down. "Thank you."
"Are we even, now? Do you think you can work with me?"
She looks him in the eye. "Only if you keep me in the Boone loop. I have to know what you're actually doing. Can you do that?"
"Within practical limits."
"What's that mean?"
"I'm leaving for Columbus, Ohio. This evening. If I get lucky, I may not be able to risk telling you exactly what's happening. You may have to read between the lines, until we get face time."
"What's in Columbus?"
"Sigil Technologies. Watermarking for all forms of digital media. Website very pointedly doesn't say who their clients are, but friends of mine say they have a few big ones."
"You think they watermarked the footage?"
"Seems like it. I sent Taki's number to my friend at Rice. Once he knew what he was looking for, he could come at it from a different angle. That number is definitely encrypted in segment seventy-eight. But the way it's done, he says, is distinctive, and points to a certain school of thought. He says that a part of that school of thought is known to have found a home at Sigil Technologies."
"And what do you do when you get there?"
"Shoulder-surf. Social engineering."
"Are you good at that?"
"In certain contexts," he says, and sips his coffee.
"You sent your friend Taki's T-bone?"
"Yes. Using what he's learned about seventy-eight, he can try a number of different things. It might link each one to a point on the map. If it is a map."
"It looks like a map. I know someone," thinking of Darryl, "who's going to try giving it to a bot that only looks for maps. If it's been lifted from some actual city, we might get a match."
"That would be good, but what I'm after, now, is the nature of Sigil's involvement. Do they get each segment from somewhere, watermark it, and send it back? If they do, and we can find out where it comes from, or where they send it, we might have your maker."
"Would they have to actually view it, to watermark it?"
"I don't think so, but I want to find out."
"How do you propose to do that?"
"I'm turning up on their doorstep as the representative of a small but very successful firm that's recently developed a need for nondetectable digital watermarking. That'll be a start. Why do you want to know whether they'd look at it?"
"There are footageheads everywhere. Or someone doing that work could become one, through exposure. There might be someone who already knows what you're looking for."
"There might be. But we'd have to advertise, wouldn't we?"
He's right.
He checks the time on his phone again. "I've got to go."
"Where?"
"Selfridge's. I need a suit, fast."
"I can't imagine you in a suit."
"You don't need to," he says, standing, small leather suitcase already in his hand. "You're unlikely to ever see me in one." He smiles.
But I'll bet you'd look good in one, something in her says. It makes her blush. Now it's her turn to stand, feeling incredibly awkward. "Good luck in Ohio," she offers, reaching to shake hands.
He squeezes, rather than shakes, simultaneously leaning quickly forward to kiss her lightly on the cheek. "Take care of yourself. I'll be in touch."
And then she's watching him go out the door, past a girl with Ma-harishi parachute pants embroidered with tigers who, seeing the expression, whatever it is, on Cayce's face, smiles at her and winks.
- /
