Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [61]
“As I said, it’s a hobby, not my business. I don’t have a business, really. My grandfather left me a trust, you see. I live comfortably, but not to excess. I would rather do good deeds with my money than live to excess.”
“Righteous of you.” Spitzer lumbered forward until he was standing behind the seated Rumford’s left shoulder. Hayes took the right side. “Have you been able to find anything on our insistent and avaricious friend Wilbur, with the information we provided to you last night?”
“Oh, I caught up with him this morning. About an hour ago. We’ve been chatting.” He indicated the miniature video camera sitting atop one of the nearby server boxes. “Not face-to-face. He’s adamant, not stupid.” Rumford chuckled as he did things to the ergonomic keyboard in front of him. Screens flashed and on went the huge monitor, the images large enough for both agents to scrutinize without straining. “He has no objection to talking. He just wants his ten million dollars.”
“We can’t give it to him. No government agency would approve it.” Spitzer wanted to ask what several enigmatic metal boxes connected to the main server were for, but decided he could inquire later. All of them were black instead of the usual bland ivory-white. One appeared badly scarred and scorched, as if by fire.
“I suspected as much, but I hardly have the authority to tell him that. After all,” Rumford added modestly, “I’m only helping you gentlemen out. I have no real clout here at all.” Though naturally soft, his voice could take on a certain firmness when he wished it to. “I might mention that he’s already threatened me.”
Hayes looked alarmed. “Threatened you? But he doesn’t know where you live—does he?” Glancing back through the front room, he eyed the front door uneasily.
“I seriously doubt it. I know how to cover my ass online. And I don’t know where he is, either. Not physically. We only know where the other person is on the Net. Still,” he added as he tapped a fistful of keys, “there are a few things we can try. Ah!” He indicated the screen. “Say hello, gentlemen.”
The image on the monitor was a mass of writhing tentacles, bulging cephalopodan eyeballs, and slavering ichorous maws. Well-done for an applet, Hayes decided, but not especially well-animated. Words began to appear beneath the image.
When do I get my money…?
Rumford glanced expectantly at his visitors. “What do you want me to tell him?”
Spitzer and Hayes exchanged a glance. Coming up on the train the previous night, they had already rehearsed a number of possible scenarios. Two-way audio would have made things easier, Hayes knew, just as he knew that unless he was dumber than he seemed, their quarry would not risk committing even a disguised voice to storage that could be studied later. Speech patterns were too easily divined and applied to future suspects.
“Tell him it’s in the works. He’ll have his money before ten tonight, well ahead of his deadline. Provided we can assure ourselves of his sincerity and that his threat is real.”
Rumford typed in the response. Moments later a reply was forthcoming.
Actually, I’m surprised. The government usually isn’t this sensible. Of course, this may be a stall on your part, but I don’t care. You can’t find me, certainly not by tonight, if at all. As for further proof of the seriousness of my intentions, turn on CNN and keep watching.
Spitzer shrugged. A somber-faced Rumford directed them back to the living room and to the TV sequestered there. The big agent switched it on, found the requisite cable channel, and returned to the study. Two hours slipped by before the National Aquarium in Baltimore, an exceptionally sturdy and well-designed building, collapsed into the harbor amid much screaming and panic and death by drowning. Collapsed—or was pulled.
An ashen-faced Hayes relayed a response via their host.
“Enough! We get your point.”
Back came the reply.
I thought you would. There are