Islands in the Net (6 page)

Suddenly the Ishtar woman drew near and spoke to her. “You're with Rizzome, aren't you?”

“Rye-zoam,” Laura said.

“Well, then, you'd be waiting for Sticky and the old man?” Her eyes sparkled. It gave her bony face a strange vivacity. “Did the Rev'rend Morgan talk to you?”

“I've met the reverend,” Laura said carefully. She knew nothing about anyone named Sticky.

The woman smiled. “Y'all's baby is cute.… Oh, look, there they are!” She raised her arm over her head and waved excitedly, the deep-cut neckline of her blouse showing fringes of red brassiere. “Yoo-hoo! Sticky!”

An old-fashioned Rastaman in dreadlocks cut his way out of the crowd. The old man wore a long-sleeved dashiki of cheap synthetic, over baggy drawstring pants, and sandals.

The Rastaman's young companion wore a nylon windbreaker, sunglasses, and jeans. The woman rushed forward and embraced him. “Sticky!” The younger man, with sudden wiry strength, lifted the Church woman off her feet and spun her half around. His dark, even face was expressionless behind the glasses.

“Laura?” A woman had appeared at Laura's elbow, silently. It was one of Rizome's security coordinators, Debra Emerson. Emerson was a sad-looking Anglo woman in her sixties with etched, delicate features and thinning hair. Laura had often spoken to her over the Net and had met her once in Atlanta.

They exchanged brief formal hugs and cheek kisses in the usual Rizome style. “Where are the bankers?” Laura said.

Emerson nodded at the Rastaman and his companion. Laura's heart sank. “That's them?”

“These offshore bankers don't follow our standards,” Emerson said, watching them.

Laura said, “Do you realize who that woman is? The group she's with?”

“Church of Ishtar,” Emerson said. She didn't look happy about it. She glanced up into Laura's face. “We haven't told you all we should yet, for reasons of discretion. But I know you're not naive. You have good Net connections, Laura. You must know how things stand in Grenada.”

“I know Grenada's a data haven,” Laura said cautiously. She wasn't sure how far to go.

Debra Emerson had once been a high muckety-muck at the CIA, back when there had been a CIA and its muckety-mucks were still in vogue. Security work had no such glamor nowadays. Emerson had the look of someone who had suffered in silence, a sort of translucency around the eyes. She favored gray corduroy skirts and long-sleeve blouses in meek beiges and duns.

The old Rastaman shambled over, smiling. “Winston Stubbs,” he said. He had the lilt of the Caribbean, softened vowels broken by crisp British consonants. He shook Laura's hand. “And Sticky Thompson, Michael Thompson that is.” He turned. “Sticky!”

Sticky came up, his arm around the Church girl's waist. “I'm Laura Webster,” Laura said.

“We know,” Sticky said. “This is Carlotta.”

“I'm their liaison,” Carlotta drawled brightly. She pushed her hair back with both hands and Laura glimpsed an ankh tattooed on her right wrist. “Y'all bring much luggage? I got a van waiting.”

“I-and-I have business up-the-island,” Stubbs explained. “We be in to your Lodge later this night, call you on the Net, seen?”

Emerson broke in. “If that's the way you want it, Mr. Stubbs.”

Stubbs nodded. “Later.” The three of them left, calling a luggage trolley.

Laura watched them go, nonplussed. “Are they supposed to be running around loose?”

Emerson sighed. “It's a touchy situation. I'm sorry you were brought here for nothing, but it's just one of their little gestures.” She tugged the strap of her heavy shoulder bag. “Let's call a cab.”

After their arrival, Emerson vanished upstairs into the Lodge's conference room. Usually, Laura and David ate in the dining room, where they could socialize with the guests. That night, however, they joined Emerson and ate in the tower, feeling uneasily conspiratorial.

David set the table. Laura opened a covered tray of chile rellenos and Spanish rice. David had health food.

“I want to be as open and straightforward with you as I possibly can,” Emerson murmured. “By now, you must have realized the nature of your new guests.”

“Yes,” David said. He was far from happy about it.

“Then you can understand the need for security. Naturally we trust the discretion of you and your staff.”

David smiled a little. “That's nice to know.”

Emerson looked troubled. “The Committee has been planning this meeting for some time. These Europeans you've been sheltering are no ordinary bankers. They're from the EFT Commerzbank of Luxembourg. And tomorrow night a third group arrives. The Yung Soo Chim Islamic Bank of Singapore.”

David paused with a fork halfway to his mouth. “And they're also—?”

“Data pirates, yes.”

“I see,” Laura said.… She felt a sudden surge of chilly excitement. “This is big.”

“Very,” Emerson said. She let that sink in for a while. “We offered them any of six possible locations for the meeting. It could just as easily have been the Valenzuelas in Puerto Vallarta. Or the Warburtons in Arkansas.”

“How long do you expect this to last?” David said.

“Five days. Maybe a week at the outside.” She sipped her iced tea. “It's up to us to supply airtight security once the meeting is under way. You understand? Locked doors, drawn curtains. No running in and out.”

David frowned. “We'll need supplies. I'll tell Mrs. Delrosario.”

“I can take care of supplies.”

“Mrs. Delrosario's very particular about where she shops,” David said.

“Oh, dear,” said Ms. Emerson sincerely. “Well, groceries are not a major problem.” She picked carefully at the skin of her stuffed pepper. “Some of the attendees may bring their own food.”

David was stunned. “You mean they're afraid to eat our food? They think we'll poison them, is that it?”

“David, it's a sign of their great trust in Rizome that the three banks have agreed to meet here in the first place. It's not us that they distrust. It's one another.”

David was alarmed. “What exactly are we getting into? We have a small child here! Not to mention our staff.”

Emerson looked hurt. “Would you feel better if this Lodge was full of armed guards from Rizome? Or if Rizome even had armed guards? We can't confront these people by force, and we shouldn't try to. That's our strength.”

Laura spoke up. “You're saying that because we're harmless, we won't be hurt.”

“We want to reduce tension. We don't mean to arrest these pirates, prosecute them, crush them. We've decided to negotiate. That's a modern solution. It worked for the arms race, after all. It has been working for the Third World.”

“Except for Africa,” David said.

Emerson shrugged. “It's a long-term effort. The old East-West Cold War, the North-South struggle.… those were both old fights. Struggles we inherited. But now we face a truly modern challenge. This meeting is part of it.”

David looked surprised. “Come on. These aren't nuclear arms talks. I've read about these havens. They're fleabag pirates. Sleazy rip-off artists who won't pull their own weight in the world. So they call themselves bankers, so they wear three-piece suits. Hell, they can fly private jets and shoot boars in the forests of Tuscany. They're still cheap rip-off bastards.”

“That's a very correct attitude,” Emerson said. “But don't underestimate the havens. So far, as you say, they're only parasites. They steal software, they bootleg records and videos, they invade people's privacy. Those are annoyances, but it's not yet more than the system can bear. But what about the potential? There are potential black markets for genetic engineering, organ transplants, neurochemicals … a whole galaxy of modern high-tech products. Hackers loose in the Net are trouble enough. What happens when a genetic engineer cuts one corner too many?”

David shuddered. “Well, that can't be allowed.”

“But these are sovereign national governments,” said Emerson. “A small Third World nation like Grenada can profit by playing fast and loose with new technologies. They may well hope to become a center of innovation, just as the Cayman Islands and Panama became financial centers. Regulation is a burden, and multinationals are always tempted to move out from under it. What happens to Rizome if our competitors evade the rules, offshore?”

She let them mull over that for a while. “And there are deeper questions that affect the whole structure of the modern world. What happens when tomorrow's industries are pioneered by criminals? We live on a crowded planet, and we need controls, but they have to be tight. Otherwise corruption seeps in like black water.”

“It's a tough agenda,” David said, thinking it over. “In fact, it sounds hopeless.”

“So did the Abolition,” said Emerson. “But the arsenals are gone.” She smiled. The same old line, Laura thought. The old baby-boom generation had been using it for years. Maybe they thought it would help explain while they were still running everything. “But history never stops. Modern society faces a new central crisis. Are we going to control the path of development for sane, human ends? Or is it going to be laissez-faire anarchy?”

Emerson polished off the last of her chile relleno. “These are real issues. If we want to live in a world we can recognize, we'll have to fight for the privilege. We at Rizome have to do our part. We are doing it. Here and now.”

“You make a pretty good case,” David said. “But I imagine the pirates see things differently.”

“Oh, we'll be hearing their side soon enough.” She smiled. “But we may have some surprises for them. The havens are used to multinational corporations in the old style. But an economic democracy is a different animal. We must let them see that for themselves. Even if it means some risk to us.”

David frowned. “You don't seriously think they'll try anything?”

“No, I don't. If they do, we'll simply call the local police. It would be scandalous for us—this is, after all, a very confidential meeting—but worse scandal, I think, for them.” She placed fork and knife neatly across her plate. “We know there's some small risk. But Rizome has no private army. No fellows in dark glasses with briefcases full of cash and handguns. That's out of style.” Her eyes flashed briefly. “We have to pay for that luxury of innocence, though. Because we have no one to take our risks for us. We have to spread the danger out, among Rizome associates. Now it's your turn. You understand. Don't you?”

Laura thought it over, quietly. “Our number came up,” she said at last.

“Exactly.”

“Just one of those things,” David said. And it was.

The negotiators should have arrived at the Lodge all at the same time, on equal terms. But they didn't have that much sense. Instead they'd chosen to screw around and attempt to one-up each other.

The Europeans had arrived early—it was their attempt to show the others that they were close to the Rizome referees and dealing from a position of strength. But they soon grew bored and were full of peevish suspicion.

Emerson was still mollifying them when the Singapore contingent arrived. There were three of them as well: an ancient Chinese named Mr. Shaw and his two Malay compatriots. Mr. Shaw was a bespectacled, balding man in an oversized suit, who spoke very little. The two Malays wore black songkak hats, peaked fore and aft, with sewnon emblems of their group, the Yung Soo Chim Islamic Bank. The Malays were middle-aged men, very sober, very dignified. Not like bankers, however. Like soldiers. They walked erect, with their shoulders squared, and their eyes never stopped moving.

They brought mounds of luggage, including their own telephones and a refrigerated chest, packed with foil-sealed trays of food.

Emerson made introductions. Karageorgiu glared aggressively, Shaw was woodenly aloof. The escorts looked ready to arm-wrestle. Emerson took the Singaporeans upstairs to the conference room, where they could phone in and assure their home group that they had arrived in one piece.

No one had seen the Grenadians since the day before, at the airport. They hadn't called in, either, despite their vague promises. Time passed. The others saw this as a studied insult and fretted over their drinks. They broke at last for dinner. The Singaporeans ate their own food, in their rooms. The Europeans complained vigorously about the barbarous Tex-Mex cuisine. Mrs. Delrosario, who had outdone herself, was almost reduced to tears.

The Grenadians finally showed up after dusk. Like Ms. Emerson, Laura had become seriously worried. She greeted them in the front lobby. “So glad to see you. Was there any trouble?”

“Nuh,” said Winston Stubbs, exposing his dentures in a sunny smile. “I-and-I were downtown, seen. Up-the-island.” The ancient Rastaman had perched a souvenir cowboy hat on his gray shoulder-length dreadlocks. He wore sandals and an explosive Hawaiian shirt.

His companion, Sticky Thompson, had a new haircut. He'd chosen to dress in slacks, long-sleeved shirt, and business vest, like a Rizome associate. It didn't quite work on him though; Sticky looked almost aggressively conventional. Carlotta, the Church girl, wore a sleeveless scarlet beach top, a short skirt, and heavy makeup. A brimming chalice was tattooed on her bare, freckled shoulder.

Laura introduced her husband and the Lodge staff to the Grenadians. David gave the old pirate his best hostly grin: friendly and tolerant, we're all just-folks here at Rizome. Overdoing it a bit maybe, because Winston Stubbs had the standard pirate image. Raffish. “Howdy,” David said. “Hope y'all enjoy your stay with us.”

The old man looked skeptical. David abandoned his drawl. “Cool runnings,” he said tentatively.

“Cool runnings,” Winston Stubbs mused. “Have nah hear that in forty year. You like those old reggae albums, Mr. Webster?”