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“Very. And your wife, your children?”
“Thriving. I have six grandchildren now. The reward for growing old. You should start a family. Children are a man’s truest legacy.”
“Eventually.” Understanding his role, Roarke sampled an éclair. “You’re right. Excellent. It’s a pretty space, Julian. Cheerful and well run. Another kind of legacy.”
“It pleases me. The tangible, the every day, a bit of the sweet.” Chamain popped a tiny cream puff in his mouth, closed his eyes in pleasure. “The love of a good woman. I think of retiring and enjoying it all more. You keep busy, I hear, but have also retired from some enterprises.”
“The love of a good woman,” Roarke repeated.
“So, we’ve both been lucky there. I wonder why you asked to meet me, and share pastries and coffee.”
“We were occasionally associates, or friendly competitors. We dealt honestly with each other either way. We were always able to discuss business, and important commodities. I feel we’ve lost time.”
He watched Chamain’s eyebrows raise before the man lifted his coffee for a long, slow sip. “Time is a valuable commodity. If it could be bought and sold, the bidding would be very steep. Time wins wars as much as blood. What man wouldn’t want his enemy to lose time?”
“If a weapon existed that could cause such a thing, it would be worth a great deal on the market.”
“A very great deal. Such a weapon, and the technology to create others like it, would command billions. Blood would be shed as well as fortunes spent to possess it. Dangerous games played.”
“How much might you be willing to pay, should such a thing exist?”
Chamain smiled, chose another pastry. “Me, I’m old-fashioned, and close to retirement. If I were younger, I would seek out partners, form alliances and enter the bidding. Perhaps a man of your age, of your position, has considered such a thing.”
“No. It isn’t a commodity that fits my current interests. In any case, I would think the bidding would be closed at this date.”
“The window closes at midnight. Games, mon ami, dangerous games.” He gave a long sigh. “It makes me wish I were younger, but some games are best watched from the sidelines, especially when the field is bloody.”
“I wonder if the people at home are aware of the game, its current status.”
“The people at home seem to have misjudged the game, and the players. Shortsighted, you could say, and their ears not as close to the ground as they might be. Women are ruthless creatures, and excellent in business. Persuasive.”
Roarke said nothing for a moment. “If I were a betting man, and on the sidelines, I’d be interested to know a key player has been eliminated, and she’s no longer on the field.”
“Is that so?” Chamain pursed his lips at the information, then nodded. “Ah, well, as I said, a dangerous game. Try a napoleon.”
Within the hour, armed with the cryptic pieces Chamain offered, Roarke sat in his private office. Clearly Buckley intended to make an exchange for the device—or more likely to kill the delivery boy and walk away with it. It was greed and arrogance that killed as much as the blade. Had it been self-defense all along, or a setup for revenge?
That wasn’t his problem, but Eve’s, he thought. His would be to track down Ivan Draski and the device. She’d keep her word on the twenty-four hours, just as he had kept his in not seeking revenge on the operatives who’d been a part of allowing her to be tormented and raped as a child, who’d allowed that child to wander the streets, broken and dazed, after she’d killed to save herself.
He’d destroyed the data on those men, for her sake. But their names were etched in his mind. So, he began the process of hacking his way through the agency, and to those men. On a secondary search he began the hunt for Ivan Draski, and Lost Time.
Well into his tasks, he glanced at the display of his pocket ’link when it signaled.
“Yes, Ian.”
“As promised, I’m tagging you first, and praying Dallas doesn’t skin my ass for it.”
“I wouldn’t worry.”
“Not your ass,” McNab replied. “I got through the shields and fail-safes. This guy’s mega—more mega because it barely shows that he took down some of those shields and fail-safes so somebody with solid skills could get through.”
“Is that so?” Roarke commented.
“That’s my take. I’m saying I’ve got serious skills, but it should’ve taken me a couple days to get through, not a couple hours.”
“Which means he wanted the information to be found.” Roarke scanned his own data, jumbled the information and the theories together. “Interesting. What did you find?”
“He’s got megabytes on this Dana Buckley, a massive file on her, complete with surveillance—eyes and ears. I did a skim, and if half this stuff is true, she was one bad bitch.”
