The Red Room by Ridley Pearson Page A

must be patient. As in a video game, there are dragons and demons lurking, traps set, awaiting a misstep on her part. Having extracted Mashe Okle’s password from the bank server, she uses it here, hoping he’s a man of convenience, and gains entrance to his investment portfolio.
    She laughs at the irony of the Iranian’s savings being heavily invested in the U.S. stock market. She’s feeling the vodka.
    He’s a wealthy man, but it’s not the kind of money she might have expected. The stocks and mutual funds favor scientific companies. She is annoyed by the worming thought that this doesn’t pass the sniff test for an arms dealer. Did Dulwich ever confirm that, or was it her assumption? She’s eager to speak with Knox; he knows Dulwich better. At the very least, he’ll have a keener sense of what’s at play. Knox is not one to take on in a game of cards.
    She clicks through to the portfolio’s history, increases the time sample and prints to a PDF file. On point, she flies through menus so quickly another’s eye would be unable to keep up. Multiple files are saved and archived in a matter of seconds for later analysis. This is not a time for window-shopping. She prides herself on the speed and agility with which she extracts every morsel of relevant data. When she logs out of Mashe’s account, she’s at forty-seven seconds. She closes the firm’s web page at forty-nine, giving her a total of under a minute. She celebrates by throwing her arms in the air, an Olympian sprinter at the tape.
    “Three hundred seventy-one.” It’s Xin from the video window in the corner of her screen.
    “Within fifty meters?”
    “Affirmative.”
    “Of those, how many have called or been called by known law enforcement, domestic or foreign, in the past ten days?”
    “Published, or known to us?”
    “Known to us,” she says.
    “Back at you.” His line mutes. Xin loves this stuff as much as she does.
    She pours herself another drink, this one on the rocks. Warns herself to take it easy. She likes vodka a little too much. Has no remorse about drinking alone. She’s always alone. Even in a mixed group she feels isolated, believing her mind more facile than most, her personal history more complicated. The truth is, most people bore her.
    “No joy,” says Xin.
    The trouble with vodka: it skews her sense of time. Ten minutes have passed. She’s been surfing Mashe Okle’s investment files offline. The vodka level is halfway down the ice.
    “Calls and texts placed outside Turkey in past ten days,” she states.
    “Hang on. That shouldn’t take but a moment.”
    She finds the British accent on her fellow Chinese appealing. It’s either Xin or the vodka warming her.
    “Fifteen.”
    “Better,” she says. “We can work with that. You’ll need a phantom caller ID. Untraceable. Australia. UAE. Israel. UK. Washington. Maybe a rotation.”
    “Copy.”
    “I want you to ring each of the fifteen numbers in thirty-second intervals. Wrong number, but sell it. Maybe a child’s voice asking for mother.”
    “Copy.”
    “Let me know when you’re ready. I’m here.” She mutes the video window. Considers another three fingers of vodka. Convinces herself it doesn’t negatively affect her thought process—if anything, it enhances it. Knows damn well it’s a lie. Pours more anyway.
    Yum.
    She calls Besim. “Can you see him?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “He can see you?”
    “Not probably. My seat low whole time. Resting. Who knows?”
    “I’m going to keep you on the phone. You need to tell me if he answers his phone. The moment he answers his phone. You un . . . derstand?” She slurs. Thinks nothing of it. Checks the glass. Half of what she poured is gone. She obviously shorted herself. Wouldn’t mind topping it off.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Good. Stay on the line please.”
    Feeling incredibly good, she closes her eyes, celebrating the vodka’s ability to cleanse her fatigue, settle her racing mind and warm her limbs.