The Housewife Assassin's Killer App (30 page)

We’re taking his Lamborghini to the office, where we’ll be meeting with Ryan and our mission team to discuss our next move. Up until this moment, the car’s GPS screen has been a ten-mile-square map of our surroundings. All of a sudden we hear a giggle: one I recognize as belonging to the Mad Hacker.

“This is it—what the Mad Hacker was speaking of before the cabin blew up!”

When the screen comes back on, it shows another
Wonderland
illustration of Alice, standing beside an animal that looks like a dragon.

“It looks like the Gryphon in the story—but it’s not exactly how I remember it,” I point out to Jack.
 

“That’s because the Mad Hacker has substituted the Gryphon for the logo belonging to Gryphon Electronics, the largest U.S. cell phone producer next to Apple.”

I take a closer look. Darned if he’s not right.

Beneath the illustration is part of a poem
from Alice in Wonderland
:
 

When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
 

And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark,
 

But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,
 

His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.

I shoot the screen with my cell phone’s camera and text it to Emma so that her cryptography team can start its analysis immediately.
 

“It should be interesting to see what this means,” I murmur.

Jack must feel the same way, because suddenly we’re traveling at warp speed.

“Wow! Nymphette was the Mad Hacker?” Arnie is in shock. “No wonder she gave me the cold shoulder. It would have blown her cover.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure that was the reason,” Emma mutters under her breath.

Hurt, Arnie storms off toward Abu, Jack, and Dominic, shaking his head.

I throw her a look that should be easy to read:
Lighten up on him.

Emma blushes, ashamed. She turns to go after Arnie, but stops when Ryan bounds into the room.
 

“The Mad Hacker’s death is a loss. No one doubts that,” Ryan begins. “Her final act was to provide us with one last clue. By solving it, we can still salvage this mission before it’s too late.” He walks over to the conference room’s projection wall. With a press of a button, a picture appears.

We’re looking at a verdant island located in the Salish Sea, the body of water between Canada’s Vancouver Island and Seattle, Washington.
 

“Every year, Gryphon Technologies throws an annual by-invitation-only retreat, attended by the tech world’s movers and shakers,” Ryan explains. “Or, as the most aggressive are known, sharks.”

“This conference is known throughout the industry as the Lark,” Emma adds.

“Ah, so that’s the ‘lark’ in the
Wonderland
poem,” I murmur.

Emma nods. “As relayed to Alice by the Gryphon.”
 

“Tickets are coveted because of the business connections to be made—not to mention the setting makes it easy to relax and enjoy one’s self,” Ryan continues. “Lark Island has been tricked out as a sustainable eco-friendly resort and all that implies—a beautiful sandy beach, sumptuous huts and event lodge, an eighteen-hole wild grass golf course, green spa facilities, organic farms, gardens, and wineries used specifically for its guests—and its own airport for all the private jets and helicopters that land there specifically for the retreat.”

Dominic smiles. “Sounds like my kind of mission.”

“I have you down for reconnaissance,” Ryan informs him. “Hopefully, not all of it will take place in your lodge suite.”

“You’d be surprised what tantalizing tidbits come out during pillow talk,” Dominic insists.
 

Jack chokes on a snort.

I poke him hard in the ribs to shut him up.

Ryan shakes his head, then sighs.
 

“Our other persons of interest will also be there,” Emma explains. “One just so happens to be the host for the event: Gaylord Murphy. The other three are Ivan Surkov, the Russian IT mogul. He owns the largest software development incubator on the Eurasian continent. Then there’s Ji Wong, who owns the largest Internet provider in Hong Kong. Our last bidder is Abdullah Ahmad. His banking firm is the largest investor in cloud computing services. He’s also suspected of being one of the largest funders of ISIS, the militant Islamic group.”

“We’re pretty sure that Ji and Surkov are bidding on behalf of their native countries. As for Gaylord, our sources tell us he’s bidding on behalf of Al Qaeda. Their pockets are pretty deep.” Ryan turns to Jack. “The island is part of the San Juan Islands chain. You grew up there, didn’t you?”

Jack nods. “Yes. I was steering boats around the islands by the age of ten.”

“Good, because your knowledge of the area may come in handy.” Ryan takes a deep breath. “By the way, you’ll be attending the meeting as Milton Otis.”

Like everyone else’s in the room, my jaw drops. “But…how can he do this?”
 

“It helps that there are no known pictures of him. Even if there are a few, Donna, your reconnaissance allowed us to take enough photos to build a latex mask of Milton’s face, as well as an adhesive thumb print. George will fly Jack into the resort via helicopter. We’ll make sure it has the i.Me logo and mimics its transponder markings,” Ryan says.
 

“Donna, Abu has you placed as Gaylord’s newest administrative assistant, under the name of Lucy Carmichael,” Ryan informs me. “As soon as you can, grab his golden key, then relay it to Abu and Arnie who will be shadowing the operation. They’ll have a speedboat anchored nearby. Once you, Jack and Dominic retrieve the other three game keys and whatever the mysterious Mr. Babbage has in his possession, you’ll rendezvous with them.”

Abu leans over and murmurs, “You’ll be making a hundo and a quarter—just for handling his personal calendar! The bennies are great too. Besides ten vacation days during the calendar year, in every sixth year you’re entitled to a month-long sabbatical—you know, to climb the Himalayas or stay in a monastery.”

“Abu, you do remember that I can’t hang in with any of these jobs for even the initial ninety days, right?”
 

He shrugs. “Yeah, okay, don’t remind me or I’ll cry. I was looking to build a new deck on my pad.”

“If you’ve read anything at all about Gaylord Murphy, you won’t want to stay there ninety minutes,” Dominic warns me. “His ‘people’ do everything for him, short of wiping his arse. He doesn’t even carry his own smart phone. I presume that will be your job, Donna. At least it will have you at his side at all times.”

“It’ll be an honor,” Arnie pipes up. “He’s a visionary!
 
He thinks it up, and a year later, everyone is using it—hardware, software, apps, devices, you name it!”

I smile. “If I’m in charge of his calendar, I’m in charge of his world. Couldn’t be simpler.”

Famous last words, I know.

But only because Ryan and Jack are trying hard not to laugh.

Oh heck. What have I gotten myself into now?

Chapter 17

Trolls

You’ve just written what you feel is a brilliant essay on your blog—only to get some comment that is rude enough to make you blush.

Newsflash: you’ve been flamed by a troll.

Trolls are the purveyors of (a) snarky jibes about the poster, or another commenter; (b) naughty words or dirty names; or (c) tirades that are incomprehensible.

In other words, his detritus is the equivalent of online
crotte du
chien
.

Should you get flamed by a troll, you can do one of three things: (a) try to reason calmly with this person; (b) throw a few flames yourself; or (c) ignore him.

The first solution is a dead end, because trolls live to be obnoxious and love altercations.
 

The second solution is silly, because we both know your mama didn’t raise you that way. (“If he jumped off a bridge, would you jump too?”)

Obviously, the smartest and most reasonable solution is the third one.

But as your troll has so obstreperously pointed out, you are neither smart nor reasonable.
 

What he doesn’t know is that tracking his true identity and whereabouts is easy enough to do. Just input the comment’s IP code into an online IP tracker, and you’ll soon have the GPS coordinates of the troll’s hovel (probably not a tree trunk, but hey, you never know).

Zapping it with a blowtorch might be an apt lesson as to just how much damage flaming can do.

“It doesn’t bother you, all the travel you’ll be doing, Lucy?” Gaylord Murphy’s first assistant, Serenity Tarpin, scrutinizes me through her Google Glass.

Unless she’s got some app that allows her to tap into Interpol, my fake resumé is solid as a rock. Here’s hoping her eyewear is not equipped with facial recognition software. Considering we are hugging the California coast at fifty thousand feet in Gryphon’s corporate jet—a Bombardier 8000—on our way to the island, I think it’s a little late for her to show me the door.
 

Only because she is Gaylord’s first line of defense, I go into a kiss-ass song and dance. Acolytes R Us, right? “I love travel! Every trip is an adventure—especially with someone as visionary as Gaylord.”
The one rock-solid rule: it’s always Gaylord. Never Mr. Murphy. Never Gay.
 

She cocks her head to one side. (Is she trying to get better wireless reception?) “Good, because Gaylord is a conference whore. Frankly, it’s why he supports three ex-wives—all of whom were, at one time or another, his calendar assistant.” She raises her Google Glass to watch my reaction.

“I’m in a very healthy relationship,” I insist.
 

Her eyes don’t waver. (Is she trying to break me, or is she scanning Sam Biddle’s latest snark in
ValleyWag
for any blasphemies against Gaylord?)
 

I sigh. “Trust me, I’m only in it for the money.”

I must have said something she can relate to because, finally, she nods. “Great, then you’ll love our stock options! I’ve been here only seven years, and with what I’ve made so far, I can retire by the end of the year. Welcome to the most exclusive club in the Valley!”
 

She hands me a GryPad—Gryphon’s version of a tablet computer—and points to the back of the plane, “Gaylord is in his quiet room, prepping for the Lark with Doreen, his personal assistant,” she explains. “She is very protective of his time, but don’t let her talk him out of any of tonight’s meetings. Everyone wants his or her five minutes of fame with Gaylord. We don’t want any Lark sharks to go home unhappy, now do we?”

I smile and shake my head. “Set in stone. Got it.”

She dismisses me with a wave.
 

The plane tilts slightly. I turn around just as a ray of sun catches her Google Glass at the right angle for me to catch a glimpse of what she’s really focused on: A stock ticker reading for GRY, Gryphon’s stock acronym.

She certainly has her eye on the prize.

If Gaylord is part of Carl’s scheme, her nest egg may go up in smoke.