“All over. Caracas, Corpus Christi, Lagos, Amsterdam. We moved a lot.”
“That accent sounds more Cambridge than Corpus Christi.”
“Millfield and Oxford, actually. I only lived in Corpus Christi for two years. What about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes; where are you from?”
Caine felt a sudden disorientation: where do I say I’m from, now? An unlisted refrigerator? He gargled out an awkward laugh. “The stars. I’m from the stars.”
He could feel her looking at him. She laughed along, a second too late. Have to change the topic: I’m weak here. “Bad joke. D.C. area, most recently. Lots of places before that. Sounds a bit like you.”
“Yes—we have that gypsy background in common, then.” Consuela’s voice made him think of her fingers working their way between his: wiggling in, sliding and writhing around index and middle fingers, the occasional graze of a well-sharpened nail reminding that half of the excitement was in the peril.
And she was indeed peril. Caine couldn’t be sure whether Helger had sent her as a spy, a distraction, or a peace—or should that be “piece”?—offering, but it was plain that she had been hand-picked for the job of escorting him. She was too striking to be a spy, so she was either intended as baffling bait or as a bribe. Or both. Yes. That was the way Helger would work. She was a gift that was meant to divert not merely his senses, but his attention—and she was too clever to be an ignorant cat’s-paw: she had to be a knowing accomplice. Good: now I’m thinking straight again.
He looked up, seeing the foliage for the first time. They were speeding under a canopy of—well, not exactly trees: more like oversized ferns and sponge-sheathed goldenrod of gargantuan proportions. Oddly angular vines wound around and hung between them, speckling the shadows with impulsive constellations of small fuchsia and indigo flowers. Amazing that any world could be so habitable and look so different. Amazing that anything could be so biologically compatible with species that evolved 19.9 light-years away.
“Beautiful, no?”
Caine wondered if Consuela were talking about the flowers or herself—and thought: that’s exactly the way she wants me to think. She doesn’t want me to like her: she wants me to be mystified, intrigued, aroused, maybe even a little resentful of the titillation—anything to keep my mind off my job.
“The flowers are unlike anything I’ve seen before. All of it is. How long have you been here?”
“About a year. It’s been—”
“And what do you do? What is your job?”
She almost stuttered. You’d decided I was a gentleman—wouldn’t interrupt, sure to be susceptible to a slow seductive dance, out of good manners, if nothing else. But here’s where the game changes.
“I’m assistant director for new product marketing.”
“What new products?”
“Well,”—sweeping around a corner and out from under the foliage, they came to a dusty stop in front of a lightly-built oil rig—“petroleum.”
The action of the sudden halt sent the inevitable reactive shock waves undulating through the upper part of Consuela’s torso. Caine did his best not to notice. Instead, he smiled: “Venezuela, Corpus Christi, Amsterdam: Exxon?”
She smiled: it was a predatory leer, but honest, and—he intuited—a species of grudging congratulations on his deduction. “So you must be an investigative reporter, then. Yes, Exxon. Daddy, his dad before him, now me: crude runs in the family.”
And in your veins, I’ll bet. “So, that’s the part of CoDevCo that you hail from.”
“Guilty as charged. I am one of the she-wolves of energy corporation notoriety. The despised of the earth.”
Because you create the wretched of the earth, you supercilious bitch. You’ll be telling them to eat cake, next. It was becoming rapidly easier to find her less captivating. But I can’t show that. This is my opportunity.
He swung his legs over the side of the Rover, shaded his eyes, looked to either side: dozens of light-framed derricks in both directions. A thin, steady stream of black-smeared workers—most silent, a few muttering in Farsi, others in what might have been Uzbek—straggled toward the access road. Caine noted a profusion of unmended tears in their clothing, and the dull-eyed stares of the perpetually exhausted. “I suppose you’re aware that I flew over this area yesterday?”
“Did you? I didn’t know.”
Liar. “Yep—but I didn’t spot these as oil rigs. They looked—well, too flimsy. I thought they were construction frames for towers of some kind.”