"But he has a bloody pension from the CIA," protests Magda. "I don't believe this caravan! And he buys those Curta things, they cost fortunes. He's hiding something. Secrets." Drinking deep of her retsina.
"NSA," Ngemi corrects her. "Disability pension, I imagine, though I'd certainly never ask him. He has perhaps ten thousand pounds in net worth, I believe. Most of it, at any given time, in calculators. No fortune. Not even enough to keep them, really. A collector, he must buy, but a poor man, he must sell." Ngemi sighs. "It is that way for many people, not least myself."
But Magda isn't having it. "He's a spy. He sells secrets. Voytek told me."
Flustered, her brother looks from Cayce to Ngemi, back to Cayce. "Not a spy. Not government secrets. You should not say this, Magda."
"Then what does he sell?" Cayce asks.
"Sometimes," Voytek says, lowering his voice slightly, "I think he locates information for people."
"He's a spy!" declares Magda, gleefully.
Voytek winces.
"He perhaps has retained certain connections," Ngemi qualifies, "and can find certain things out. I imagine there are men in the City…" His wide black brow creases with seriousness. "Nothing illegal, one hopes. Old-boy networks are something one understands, here. One doesn't ask. We assume Hobbs has his own, still."
"Sig-int," Magda says, triumphantly. "Voytek says he sells sig-int."
Voytek stares gloomily at his glass.
SIGINT, Cayce knows. Signals intelligence.
She decides to change the subject. Whatever this is about, it's detracting from what pleasure she's able to take in the evening.
AFTER leaving the restaurant, they stop at a crowded pub near the station. Cayce, remembering from college that retsina is not a good mix with any other species of alcohol, orders a half shandy and leaves most of it.
Sensing that the patronage-hustle is probably about to be more overtly launched in her direction, she opts for preemptive action. "I hope you find a backer soon, Voytek. I'm sure you will. It makes me wish I had that sort of money myself, but I don't."
As she'd somehow expected, they all glance at one another.
It's Ngemi who decides to have a shot. "Is your employer perhaps in a position to—"
"I couldn't ask. Haven't been there long enough." Thinking, however, not of Bigend but of his credit card, in her wallet. She could indeed buy Voytek's load of rusty scaffolding for him. She will, she decides, if it looks like nothing else is going to turn up. Let Dorotea's Russians, who she isn't quite sure she believes in, figure that one out.
- /
Climbing the stairs, she reflects on how she feels no interest now in doing the Bond thing.
No spit-secured hair waiting to be checked. Less
She unlocks the door, twice. Opens it, seeing she's forgotten to leave a light on. "Fuck you," she calls, to anyone who might be waiting.
Turning on the light. Locking the door behind her, she has a look upstairs.
Cayce Pollard Central Standard indicating that sleep is not yet worth attempting.
She powers up Damien's G4, opens Netscape, and goes to F:F:F, watching the keystrokes required to get there. If Dorotea is telling the truth, her Asian Sluts boy had installed software on this machine that records the user's every keystroke. The recorded sequences can be retrieved from elsewhere, via some sort of back door. Does it give them mouse-clicks as well? She wonders. But how would they know what you were clicking on? Perhaps all they see is keystrokes, or keystrokes and URLs?
F:F:F is starting to look unfamiliar, after her relatively long absence. She doesn't recognize most of the handles of the posters on the current page. She remembers something about a recent television special having generated a wave of newbies. Are these unfamiliar names then? She scans a few threads without opening any posts, judging them by titles alone. Segment 78 is still a hot topic, as is the Brazilian Satanic Footage thing.
She sits back and stares at the screen, hands in her lap (the keyboard spooks her, now) and imagines more shadowy figures, in another room, a sort
She lets them wait, then closes Netscape and powers down.
