The rest of the executive’s security piled into two cars, one behind and one in front. The executive sighed as his ungainly security force began the journey through the crowded streets back to his hotel.
The executive checked his watch. “Ah, running a bit late.” He wiggled his fingers at Duanphen. “Let’s get to business, shall we?”
Ostensibly, the executive was in Bangkok to sign some paperwork on a hotel he’d invested in. But while that work had made the executive rich, it was no longer his true occupation.
Duanphen offered him the briefcase. The executive unlocked it with his thumbprint, then lifted out its contents—a sleek tablet computer. This, too, the executive unlocked with his fingerprint, followed by a nine-digit code that he kept hidden from Duanphen. The tablet connected to a secure server via satellite uplink. The executive settled back, waiting to connect.
“A good turnout,” the executive said approvingly. He liked showing off, so he didn’t mind if Duanphen peeked at the tablet.
There were twenty people waiting for the executive in the e-conference. They were represented by icons—an infinity symbol, a snarling fox, a silver-and-blue star that Duanphen thought was the logo for an American football team. The mundane avatars of the very rich people in the executive’s club.
A slithering blob of shadows appeared among the icons. That represented the executive himself. That was always how the auctioneer looked during one of these Foundation events.
“Good evening, all,” the executive said, after unmuting his side of the conference and activating his voice modulator. “On the block tonight, we have the services of Salma G., for the weekend of January third through the fifth.”
The executive called up Salma’s picture and sent it out to the bidders. The girl had wavy brown hair that was long and unruly, plus a thick unibrow that made her look like she was deep in thought. In the image, Salma wore a tangle of scarves that were nearly indistinguishable from her billowy dress, patterns upon patterns. She sat cross-legged, fingers pinched together like she was meditating, her eyes gazing into the middle distance.
He muted the conference so he could smirk at Duanphen. “Nice costume on her, eh? The lads in marketing thought it’d be clever to give her a sort of gypsy fortune-teller vibe.”
“I see,” Duanphen replied.
“Don’t need any of that when you’re on the block, eh? Your face conveys exactly what you’re for.”
Duanphen touched her crooked nose but didn’t reply. The executive had already unmuted the video conference and was again speaking to his international audience.
“The following specs were included in your dossier, but I’ll summarize. Salma is sixteen years old. Moroccan. Speaks fluent Arabic, passable French and passable English. No health concerns. Buyer must provide a halal diet. Salma’s telekinetic control remains middling at best, so, if that’s what you’re interested in, we’ve got better assets available. Her real allure is her precognitive ability. She’s perfect for a visit to the track or the casino, although we don’t recommend attempting to use her Legacies to choose stocks or other long-term investments. Salma is geo-restricted; you’ve already been provided with lists of approved locations. Bidders are also reminded that you are purchasing only the use of Salma’s Legacies and that any behavior viewed by the Foundation as untoward or detrimental to the asset will result in swift expulsion from the organization.”
Duanphen knew that expulsion, in this case, meant death. It didn’t matter how wealthy and powerful the Foundation’s members were; if they broke the rules, they’d be punished.
“Righto.” The executive cleared his throat. “As there’s a great amount of interest in dear Salma, I believe we shall start the bidding at five million euros. Do I hear five million?”
Immediately, a handful of the icons logged out of the conference. The price was too high for some, but not all. The bidding went back and forth. Each time one of the icons pulsed, a little beep sounded and the bid increased by 250,000 euros.
Five minutes later, the auction was over. A weekend with Salma had gone for 10.6 million euros. The executive checked his account. The payment had already come through.
“Bastard’ll probably make that back in a night.” The executive sniffed. He handed his tablet back to Duanphen and she returned it to the briefcase. “We ought to take a percentage of what the girl makes them at the tables, eh?”
“It is a lot of money,” Duanphen said, in awe of the price the Moroccan Garde commanded.
“Eh.” The executive shrugged. “Not so much.”
They arrived at the executive’s hotel. It was a lavish place, where the staff wore silk vests and bow ties and were always underfoot with warm towels and glasses of rose water. The executive loved it. He had the penthouse suite all to himself. Well, not quite all to himself. Duanphen slept in an adjoining room and a handful of the other bodyguards were always camped out in the hallway.
Some of the guards stayed in the lobby to keep an eye on things; the rest piled into the elevator with them. When they reached the top floor, they met two more bodyguards who were stationed outside the executive’s suite.
“Keeping watch on an empty hallway,” the executive groused. “What a great use of our resources.”
But, as he neared his suite, the executive suddenly began to whistle a jaunty little tune. Duanphen raised an eyebrow. The little man was practically swaggering, swinging his arms back and forth like he was in a wonderful mood. Maybe he was drunker than she thought.
“Aw, you lads are just doing your jobs,” he said. “I don’t mean to be such a bastard. I just made a tidy pile of quid tonight, y’know? Ought to spread the wealth, as the poors love to say.” He stopped abruptly in the middle of the hallway. “Come on, ya blokes,” he said. “Gather round, eh?”
The guards did as they were told. Normally, they were a stoic bunch, but now they looked as upbeat as the executive. Some of them grinned as they formed an impromptu huddle. Duanphen arched an eyebrow. The Blackstone mercenaries were usually much more professional.
“It isn’t easy work, what you do. I want to show my appreciation.” The executive pulled out his overstuffed money clip and started slapping high-denomination Thai baht into the outstretched hands of his security guards. “Bangkok’s a damn fine place for strapping bucks like you lot. Take the night off. Go out and enjoy yourselves. On me, of course.”
As if the money wasn’t enough, the executive handed over his Black Card to one of the guards, then tossed his entire wallet to another. He winked and waved them off, watching like a generous father as the hardened mercenaries jostled their way back to the elevator, arm in arm, laughing and cracking jokes.
Duanphen watched it all happen with her mouth half-open in disbelief.
“What . . . ?” She sounded bewildered. “What the hell are you doing?”
The executive grinned at her. “What’s the matter, Dawn? You sure you don’t want to join them? Go on, then. Have fun.” He slapped his pockets. “Afraid I’m out of money, though . . .”
Duanphen stared into his eyes, which had a wide and spacey quality. “You’re—” She gave up on the stupidly grinning executive. “Hey, wait!” she called after the mercenaries, but the elevator was gone. Had they all gone crazy?