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Lem Jukes stood at the wall screen in his office looking at several dozen mug shots of some of the most lethal men in the world. The photos were projected there in front of him, filling the wall, each accompanied by a window of data: name, languages spoken, skill set, combat experience, references, contact information. Some were in groups. Others were solo hires. It was quite the mixed bag. African mercenaries, special forces units, corporate security outfits. They were all hard men--many of whom, Lem suspected, were no more honorable than the thuggish guns-for-hire coming out of Eastern Europe.
"I don't like the looks of these guys," said Despoina. She was barefoot and sitting in one of Lem's frayed office chairs, hugging her knees to her chest. "They look like criminals, like the kind of guys you'd see on those true crime specials. You know, the guys who break bones for mob bosses." She dropped her voice and adopted a gangster accent. "Hey, bossy, you want I should rip off Guido's fingers here? I'm thinkin' he might of squeaked to the popo."
Lem regarded her. "What does that even mean? That sounds vulgar."
"Popo? It's slang in the U.S. for the police. You know, the fuzz, the badges, the doughnut patrol. Don't they have slang for the police in Finland?"
Lem shook his head and looked back at the screen. "The youth of America."
Despoina gestured to the screen. "All I'm saying is they look like a pack of bruisers. Not a single one of them is smiling."
"They're killers, Des. They're hired by governments to silently snap people's necks in the dead of night. These photos are how they market themselves. They're supposed to look tough. People who hire these kinds of people want tough. Would you hire a strike team that looked like they came from IT?"
"Hey, I know guys in IT who work out and who could pin you in under two seconds flat."
"A maimed bunny rabbit could pin me in under two seconds. I'm a lover, not a fighter."
"I'll say," she said.
He looked at her and saw that she was winking at him. Not in a seductive way, but in a mockingly seductive way. Des couldn't wink her left eye without giving it serious concentration, and it looked ridiculous whenever she tried, as if it took all of her willpower to close that eye without closing the other. It had become a joke between them.
"You shouldn't even be here," said Lem. "You're my father's secretary. People will get ideas."
She slithered out of the chair and sidled up next to him. "Oh really? What kind of ideas." Two of her fingers walked up his arm to his shoulder.
He gently took her hands. "I'm serious."
Her smile faded. "I'm here on official business, Lem. Your father wanted you to review some files. They had to be couriered over. I volunteered."
"You shouldn't have."
She pulled her hands away and folded her arms. "Okay, now you're being rude."
He took a breath and gently took her hands again. "Des, I like you. We have a nice time together. But you don't know my father. If he were to suspect that there was any sort of relationship between us, it would not go well for you."
&nb
sp; "Why? What would he do?"
"Honestly, I don't know, but he wouldn't like it. He thinks women are a distraction."
She smiled. "Good distraction or bad distraction?"
He sighed. "Can we talk seriously here for a moment? This is important."
Her face fell again. "I'm trying to help, Lem. I thought you wanted my help."
"I do, yes, but--"
"It was me who found out about that doctors' clinic at Dragon's Den. You were ready to give up on the MOPs. I found that lead for you."
"Yes. You helped. That was a good idea."
"You thought it was a dumb idea when I first presented it. You said so."
"It still hasn't panned out. We haven't heard from the kid. And you have to admit, putting the fate of the world in the hands of a ten-year-old is a dumb idea. What if he doesn't get through to the MOPs?"
"First of all, he's not ten. He's eight. And secondly, I could say the same about you, putting the fate of the world in the hands of a roguishly handsome, brilliant billionaire seems like a dumb idea, too."
