idea.” He turned back to the headman and they spoke. It took a lot longer than Mariana thought it would, but the headman’s gaze for the first time turned to her and lingered, instead of flickering back to Laszlo. He was considering her properly.
“He says he will let us go, if we pay him what Gabriel would pay him.”
“Ransom,” Mariana said and nodded her head. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Why does that seem to please you?” Laszlo asked curiously.
“Because ransom is just another form of making a deal. One with incentive added, but a deal is a deal is a deal.”
“I don’t have any money on me,” Laszlo warned.
“I have about five credits in Brazilian Reals. It doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t?”
“I’ve done hundreds of deals on behalf of the agency and Nayara Ibarra taught me a lot about squeezing a deal of all its juice.” She smiled broadly at the headman, who was watching her sharply. “Will you interpret for me?” she asked Laszlo.
“If this works, I’ll buy you your own interpreter service.” He turned to the headman. “Go,” he told her.
* * * * *
Mathieu, the headman, was a wily and wise old man. Once he realized that Mariana was negotiating, he waved her to the ground next to the fire and settled back on his crate. The men around him relaxed, their arms crossed.
Business was all one language, no matter where she went, Mariana reflected, as she settled on one hip, her legs folded neatly to the other side and mentally rolled up her sleeves.
Laszlo didn’t seem to mind being relegated to the sidelines. He squatted just to one side of her and Mathieu and translated.
The moon was high over the clearing, a small yellow disk, by the time they got close to an agreement. Mariana held up her hand as Laszlo turned to her to interpret Mathieu’s latest claim. “I got that. He wants the five hundred thousand in gold or hard currency. Yes?”
“Very good,” Laszlo said. “Nothing folding. He doesn’t want Reals. They’re worthless on the black market, I’m guessing.”
Mariana studied Mathieu. “He won’t let us go and get it, either. We have to figure out some way to give him untraceable credits.”
“Everything’s traceable these days.”
“These days, yes—” She caught her breath, excitement flaring. “Oh...” She pressed her hands together, holding back hope, as she thought it through. “Do you have the time?” she asked Laszlo.
“It’s about seven, I guess.”
“No, I’m going to need the exact time. The exact hour and minute.”
“I’ll ask Mathieu.”
“Ask him if he would accept completely cold, untraceable credits, too. Guaranteed to be so old, cold and dusty that not even a forensic crypto team would be able to find their source.”
Laszlo frowned. “How—”
“Not now,” Mariana said quickly. “I think Mathieu understands more Standard than he’s letting on. Ask him. And ask him what the time is, too. The exact time.”
They exchanged words once more and one of the bodyguards jog-trotted over to a nearby hut and disappeared inside. He came running back, a very modern reading board in his hand.
“Thought so,” Mariana said, pleased. “They’ve got the technology they need to do deals. No self-respecting criminal would deprive himself of transaction power, no matter where he is.”
There was a brief exchange between the guard and Laszlo, then the guard handed the board to Mathieu. Laszlo turned back to her. “It’s eight-twenty-eight exactly. Mathieu agrees that if the funds are completely untraceable, he will release us.”
“What account?” Mariana asked. “Give me the number.”
Before Laszlo could speak, Mathieu moved his fingers over the board, then held it out to her. There was an account number on the screen. Thirteen letters and digits. She studied it, memorizing the sequence.
“Now tell him to check the balance in that account,” she told Laszlo.
“I don’t understand....” But Laszlo turned
“He says he will let us go, if we pay him what Gabriel would pay him.”
“Ransom,” Mariana said and nodded her head. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Why does that seem to please you?” Laszlo asked curiously.
“Because ransom is just another form of making a deal. One with incentive added, but a deal is a deal is a deal.”
“I don’t have any money on me,” Laszlo warned.
“I have about five credits in Brazilian Reals. It doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t?”
“I’ve done hundreds of deals on behalf of the agency and Nayara Ibarra taught me a lot about squeezing a deal of all its juice.” She smiled broadly at the headman, who was watching her sharply. “Will you interpret for me?” she asked Laszlo.
“If this works, I’ll buy you your own interpreter service.” He turned to the headman. “Go,” he told her.
* * * * *
Mathieu, the headman, was a wily and wise old man. Once he realized that Mariana was negotiating, he waved her to the ground next to the fire and settled back on his crate. The men around him relaxed, their arms crossed.
Business was all one language, no matter where she went, Mariana reflected, as she settled on one hip, her legs folded neatly to the other side and mentally rolled up her sleeves.
Laszlo didn’t seem to mind being relegated to the sidelines. He squatted just to one side of her and Mathieu and translated.
The moon was high over the clearing, a small yellow disk, by the time they got close to an agreement. Mariana held up her hand as Laszlo turned to her to interpret Mathieu’s latest claim. “I got that. He wants the five hundred thousand in gold or hard currency. Yes?”
“Very good,” Laszlo said. “Nothing folding. He doesn’t want Reals. They’re worthless on the black market, I’m guessing.”
Mariana studied Mathieu. “He won’t let us go and get it, either. We have to figure out some way to give him untraceable credits.”
“Everything’s traceable these days.”
“These days, yes—” She caught her breath, excitement flaring. “Oh...” She pressed her hands together, holding back hope, as she thought it through. “Do you have the time?” she asked Laszlo.
“It’s about seven, I guess.”
“No, I’m going to need the exact time. The exact hour and minute.”
“I’ll ask Mathieu.”
“Ask him if he would accept completely cold, untraceable credits, too. Guaranteed to be so old, cold and dusty that not even a forensic crypto team would be able to find their source.”
Laszlo frowned. “How—”
“Not now,” Mariana said quickly. “I think Mathieu understands more Standard than he’s letting on. Ask him. And ask him what the time is, too. The exact time.”
They exchanged words once more and one of the bodyguards jog-trotted over to a nearby hut and disappeared inside. He came running back, a very modern reading board in his hand.
“Thought so,” Mariana said, pleased. “They’ve got the technology they need to do deals. No self-respecting criminal would deprive himself of transaction power, no matter where he is.”
There was a brief exchange between the guard and Laszlo, then the guard handed the board to Mathieu. Laszlo turned back to her. “It’s eight-twenty-eight exactly. Mathieu agrees that if the funds are completely untraceable, he will release us.”
“What account?” Mariana asked. “Give me the number.”
Before Laszlo could speak, Mathieu moved his fingers over the board, then held it out to her. There was an account number on the screen. Thirteen letters and digits. She studied it, memorizing the sequence.
“Now tell him to check the balance in that account,” she told Laszlo.
“I don’t understand....” But Laszlo turned
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