A secure screen popped up. Charlie leaned forward and typed in his password by hand-for the crucial stuff, he preferred as little software interface as possible-and then reached for his Coke as his account balance came up on the screen.
Four point three billion dollars.
Charlie’s heart gave a sideways lurch in his chest. He was suddenly aware of the whisper of the ventilation duct, the sound of a semitruck on the highway outside the office building, the texture of the fine leather upholstery against his bare forearm.
He looked at the number again, counting the zeros.
Four point three billion.
He stared at the screen and spoke aloud into the silence.
“This,” he said, “must stop.”
CHAPTER TWO This Is Not a Vacation
Dagmar lay on her bed in the dark hotel room in Jakarta and listened to the sound of gunfire. She hoped the guns were firing tear gas and not something more deadly.
She wondered if she should take shelter, lie between the wall and the bed so that the mattress would suck up any bullets coming through the big glass window. She thought about this but did not move.
It didn’t seem worthwhile, somehow.
She was no longer interested in hiding from just any damn bullet.
The air-conditioning was off and the tropical Indonesian heat had infiltrated the room. Dagmar lay naked on sheets that were soaked with her sweat. She thought about cool drinks, but the gunfire was a distraction.
Her nerves gave a leap as the telephone on the nightstand rang. She reached for it, picked up the handset, and said, “This is Dagmar.”
“Are you afraid?” said the woman on the telephone.
“What?” Dagmar said. Dread clutched at her heart. She sat up suddenly.
“Are you afraid?” the woman said. “It’s all right to be afraid.”