Dirty Deals: Olesia Anderson Thriller #1 Free Epub Edition (4 page)

"Sparks," Olesia said. "You got this data yet?"

"I see it. Eight million dollars. Remind me, is that a lot, or a little?"

"For corporate espionage, it's incredible. Guy got caught selling state secrets in '04, and he was only making fifty k per drop. Not surprised that Mister Young decided to risk all."

"What did this Zero Error guy offer?"

"Six hundred k. Very badly outbid."

"So, what are we assuming? Zero Error found out about Young trying to double-deal, and decided to wrap things up before the schematics vanished entirely?"

"Sounds about right. But until you track down that car..." Olesia rubbed her temples. It was hard to make sense of anything in the close confines of the van. "Sparks, can you follow those emails back and try to get a rough handle on where Zero Error and Haskel are based?"

Sparks clucked on the other end of the line. "I can see already that they were bouncing through a pretty heavy TOR-type setup, so that might take a while."

"Quick would be better, seeing as those two guards might still be alive in the trunk of that car."

"Sure, sure." Sparks hesitated. "You're doing that thing where you have a plan, but you don't let on until it's too late to stop you. Don't pull that trick again. Please, Eight-Oh-Six?"

He knew her too well. A plan was forming, although only in broad strokes... but was there time for anything else?

"Sparks," she said, "I'm going to need to chat to headquarters. Also, how quickly do you think you can fake up a set of schematics?"

* * *

Jean watched disapprovingly from the far side of the bedroom as Olesia stripped down, setting her pistol on the bedside-table along with her collapsible baton, her phone, her earpiece and her taser. "I don't like this."

"You never like my plans. You never like anybody's plans except your own."

He crossed his arms and scowled. A vein bulged above his left eye. "My plans are solid. This is just stupid. You've got both emails, Haskel's and Zero Error's. You can cut a deal without getting into the line of fire."

"Zero Error, whoever the fuck they are, shot Young in his own house. You think they're up for negotiations?"

"Haskel, then! Tell him... tell him the contact is dead. Tell him Zero Error is gunning for him, too. Let him come to us, then we squeeze the info."

"Jean, listen. If Haskel knows Young is dead, he'll already have skipped town, in which case I get a night at the Garden Inn restaurant on company expense. If he hasn't heard about Young yet, then he'll still want those schematics. I can flash some tits and figure out who he's working for. Hell, I might squeeze out some info on Zero Error as well. And it's safe, okay? Nobody's going to start a firefight in a hotel lobby."

"You have. Twice."

"Sue me, I'm a maverick." She slipped out of her underwear and ducked into the bathroom for a thirty-second shower. Jean's pump soap smelled like lime. She hated lime, but it had to do. "You don't think I can do simple negotiations?"

"I just don't think it's in your best interests. Or Blackrock's. Have they approved this?"

"Full clearance. They mailed over a new concealed carry kit, too. So long as I don't run off with the eight million, I'm in the clear. They trust me, so why don't you?" She towelled off and sat on the end of the bed, legs crossed, waiting for Jean to nod, to frown, to say anything. Instead he stared at a point over her shoulder, refusing to meet her eyes. She sighed. "You want to come along, don't you?"

"I'd just feel better if-"

"You're out of the spy game, Jean. Better you stay that way. I don't want to have to carry you home with your head half off."

"Fuck you," he said, but he grinned. "Sure you don't want me as a getaway driver, at least? I'll wait in the car, I'll bring a book, I won't make a fuss-"

"You're a dear, Jean." She had to go up on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. "But let me do my job."

She dressed in a spare short black skirt and tight cut jacket with her taser hung on an inside pocket. The SP-01 was too large for the suit and her handbag, but the kit Blackrock had sent over included a Beretta PX4 which slotted snugly into her purse. Finally, the schematics. Sparks had faked up a convincing set of engineering diagrams, complete with circuitry and code, chopped together from a hundred different sources - she'd have to remember to follow through on that lunch deal, some day. They were stored on a micro-SD, into which was also packed a near nano-scale tracking device which would hopefully keep beeping all the way back to whatever corporation or country Haskel came from.

Jean sat beside her on the bed and took her hand. "Just... don't get killed. Please?"

"You worry too much. This is a standard drop-off. We trade schematics for cash, I ask about Zero Error, and then I stick this to his back." She held up another tiny tracking device; this one was a small black dot in the centre of a tiny square scrap of paper. The instructions were attached on a flyer - the paper would dissolve as soon as it touched liquid, after which the dot would stick to cloth or skin like glue. Even if Haskel passed on the schematics, they could still follow him all the way home. "God, for all your talk, you'd think I was going to fuck him."

"Well." Jean stared at his hands. "Are you?"

"If he's cute. If he's a he. If he even turns up. You're thinking ten steps ahead, Jean. That's your problem. You get trapped in plans and when things go wrong you shut down. You have to adapt."

He stood and turned away. "There's only so much a man can change," Jean said, and left the room.

* * *

She arrived outside the Garden Inn at a quarter to nine and parked the car around the corner, trying to stay unobtrusive as she crossed the road. A valet at the door directed her through the lobby. She kept her head down and her purse clutched to her chest, feeling the hard lines of the PX4 against her skin. There were so many pairs of eyes to watch at once: the man behind the counter, the couple in grey slacks smoking behind the plastic fern, the two children fighting over a can of coke by the vending machines. None of them returned her gaze.

She crossed through into the bar, a dim space lit by yellowed bulbs. A large glass window faced out on to the street. Businessmen in faded suits sat alone sipping beers with foreign labels. The woman behind the bar wore her shirt rolled up over her elbows, and she eyed Olesia suspiciously. "You need something?"

"Meeting someone," Olesia said. "Haskel. He'd have been waiting a while."

"Haskel? German, isn't it?" The woman polished a tall glass and held it up to the light. "Don't know him."

"Anyone strange? Someone looking uncomfortable?"

"Only you, honey."

Olesia grumbled. She was about to retreat back to the lobby when a man sat down beside her. He wore a jacket and grey suit vest, gold buttons done up tight. His black hair was combed back in a James Dean quiff. Tanned, wide across the shoulders. A big, hooked nose and deep-set eyes that glittered in the lights of the bar. Greek, perhaps, or Middle Eastern. He wore a silver watch and little silver earrings that shone as he turned to meet her eyes.

He said, "You are looking for me?"

Olesia's breath caught in her throat. "You're-"

"Mister Haskel. And you would be Steven Young? Not what I expected."

Olesia took a quick breath. "Steven is indisposed. He sent me."

"Of course he would." Haskel's accent was hard to place. The clipped vowels of the Syrians, maybe? "But he did not email to say he would send anyone to do his business for him."

"A sudden loss of nerve. He didn't want to miss the opportunity, but..." Olesia waved one hand. "Are we here to make a transaction, or to chat?"

Haskel folded his hands and peered over the steeple made by his fingers. He looked Olesia up and down, and in the glare of that gaze she suddenly felt very small and vulnerable. There was a scar on his upper lip, she noticed, and another down his right cheek, ending at his chin. War wounds? The veins on the backs of his hands were huge. Black hair curled from the ends of his sleeves.

Haskel nodded. "The transaction, yes. But first, drinks." He raised one hand and the bartender materialised. "Smoky martini, thank you. For the lady, a-"

"Vodka, Beluga, no ice." She waved the bartender away. "So, Mister Haskel. These plans... am I allowed to ask where they'll be going?"

Haskel's lips twitched into something that might have been a smile. "No."

"Can you, at the very least, assure me that they won't be used against my country?"

"Your country? Which country is that? I see many countries in your face. Perhaps some Polish, some Irish, some Czech... and please, call me Rostam."

"Rostam? Where is that from?"

"Mister Young did not ask so many questions as you, Miss..."

"King. Anita King." Olesia extended one hand across the table, and Rostam took it, squeezing very gently. His palm was warm and dry and strong. There was something about his handshake that reminded her of Jean, and it made her shiver. "I ask because Steven was contacted by a second buyer."

Rostam raised one eyebrow. "But he did not choose to deal with this buyer?"

"Would I be here if he did?"

"Yes. Of course." Rostam touched one finger to his lips. "Do you have the material?"

Slowly, careful not to show the butt of the Beretta in her handbag, Olesia drew out the envelope and passed it across the table. Rostam rested one finger on the paper and was about to pull it back when Olesia coughed. "And your half?"

"In time." He flipped the envelope open and poured the MicroSD onto the bar. From inside a satchel bag came a netbook. Rostam set it down on the bar and hummed as it booted. "You must tell me, Miss King. In what capacity are you working for Mister Young?"

"Just a companion, helping him along. He needed some support."

"Then why did he not come as well, with you for such support?"

"Some people aren't meant for big deals, Mister Rostam."

Again, he smiled. The netbook was booted, and he plugged the MicroSD in the side. "Are you his lawyer?"

"Perhaps."

"Because it is a big thing, to trust a man, and then find he does not trust you so much that he sends someone in his place."

"I'd never want to ruin your trust, Mister Rostam."

"No. I said, no Mister. Just Rostam is enough." He smiled as circuit diagrams poured across the screen. "This is all correct," he said, and popped the card out, tucking it somewhere deep inside his jacket. Their drinks had arrived, and he took his gin and sipped. "I assume the data cannot be transferred wirelessly."

"There's a lot of security embedded in those files. Don't let them anywhere near an internet connection, or they'll locate you in an instant."

"Understood. To good deals, Miss King."

Olesia took her vodka, clicked it against Rostam's glass, and downed it at a shot. She wiped her lips. "And the money?"

"It will be transferred. Mister Young provided us with his account. Your job is done here, I think."

"But-" She had to keep from grabbing Rostam's arm. "There's... more we had to discuss."

"Is there?" He sipped his cocktail and stared at her over the rim of the glass. "What is there to talk about, then?"

"More jobs," Olesia said. "Steven, he... he said he can get more data, if you need." She lowered her voice to a bare whisper. "More defence schematics."

Rostam glanced at his watch. "And what would he want for these?"

"That depends. The second buyer is still interested, too. But we... he... doesn't trust them. Perhaps you've heard of them?" She leaned in close. "Zero Error?"

If Rostam was surprised to hear the name, he didn't show it. "And who are they?"

"He was hoping you could tell him."

"I've never heard of these men. They don't interest me." He finished his drink and set the glass down with a clunk. "I am interested in business."

"So am I." Olesia rested her hand on Rostam's knee and squeezed. She felt Rostam stiffen in his seat. "I want to make money. To do that, I need my friend-"

"Client."

"-yes, fine, client, I need Steven to sell his wares. And for that, I need a buyer. I'd rather you than these Zero Error guys, whoever they are. But I need to convince Steven of that. They're offering big money, more than he can refuse, so unless you can give me a reason otherwise..."

Rostam nodded slowly. He reached into his bag, and Olesia's hand crept to her purse, caressing the butt of the Beretta. But Rostam only drew out a small silver phone. He tapped out a quick message, and waited.

The phone beeped. He squinted at the reply. Then he said, "Yes. We can discuss this. But not here. Somewhere more private."

"Got any suggestions?"

"My room, perhaps. Not in this hotel, but-"

There was a sharp crack beside Olesia's ear, like the snap of a whip, and the mirror behind the bar exploded.

It took a moment for the screams to begin. Rostam reached inside his jacket, shouting, "Down, down!" Olesia had already dropped flat, her purse clutched to her chest, the Beretta in hand. "Stay down!"

Another bullet snapped past, this time taking a chunk the size of her fist out of the top of the counter. The front window of the bar shattered and sheared across the tiles. The bar was a confusion of people running, people shrieking, people crouching behind their chairs as if that would somehow protect them. Olesia scrambled behind one of the booths and grit her teeth against the noise. "You see them?"

"I don't see anything!" Rostam was behind a booth on the opposite side of the bar. He'd thrown the satchel bag over his shoulder and drawn something compact and black from his jacket. "We have to run."

"Where?"

"Anywhere!" He looked up over the booth, but only for a moment, and then dropped flat against the bench seating. There was a series of high cracks, and bullets stitched a pattern across the wall. "There are three, outside. One in a car."

"Zero Error?"

"I don't know!" He clicked the safety off. "The back door, behind the counter."

"On three?"

"No. Now." He popped up over the table, gun in hand, and loosed five quick shots across the bar. Olesia didn't wait to see what he was shooting at, or whether they hit. She was on her feet in moments, sprinting as best she could in high heels through the panicked crowds, past the cowering barkeeper, to the door marked STAFF ONLY. She slammed through shoulder first, almost slipping on the polished kitchen tiles. The kitchen was packed with staff in white aprons, and they stared at her as she pushed past the steaming ovens to the back door.