Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Forty-Seven

The plan had been for us to probe, under guise of a marketing tour, the low-level Enterprise Software staff on CyberParle. Had the recent work introduced any known vulnerabilities? How significant had Thérèse Laurent's involvement been?

Were the changes reversible?

This was dangerous enough, intelligence gathering in a building Human Rights Watch considered "a de facto detention center." Now I had to meet Fabienne Rivard face-to-face?

What if the wig didn't work and she recognized me from Davos? What if she had sniffed out the coded messages between the guys and Yves Pomeroy?

The elevator zoomed skyward, trees blurred in the glass sides.

In hushed tones, Yves said, "Total confidence is required when one deals with Fabienne Rivard. The woman can smell dishonesty—it is her gift."

As the floor indicated climbed, I set my jaw. I thought about Hatch at the Nowhere tattoo parlor, and faking it with Piper Jackson at eDeed.

No sweat. I can beat her.

I had to beat her—to help Zach stay out of trouble, to keep Karen tethered to the real world instead of swallowed whole by doll escapism.

The elevator stopped at Eighty-Three. I was surprised Fabienne's office wasn't on the top floor (there were 117), but Yves explained that its precise location rotated every six weeks to thwart assassination plots.

They found Fabienne reading a slim novel.

"Yves, bon," she said. "I am told you have a visitor. Please introduce us."

She laid her book face down, cracking its spine, to take my hand. Fabienne was every bit as tall as she'd seemed onstage in Davos—I felt like I was shaking the foreleg of a praying mantis.

"Blapblap.com," she said.

I waited, but she said no more.

"Right, that's what we're calling it," I volunteered. "We're going for a younger demographic, and the name polled well with eighteen to twenty-five year olds."

Fabienne looked to Yves, which made his palsy worsen again, then back to me. "Your company is in Silicon Valley, where the best programmers in the world live. Yet you would outsource antivirus protection to Rivard. Why?"

"Uh, well, CyberSafe is the leading product in the space. Our programmers don't—that is, they aren't virus experts."

Her angular face turned to show a different side, the skin seeming purple here. "What is your strategy for the data loss?"

"Obviously we hope to avoid it," I said. "So far our code's been strictly in house and we've had no issues, and we're hoping with CyberSafe to keep it that way."

I liked the answer—it'd left my tongue smoothly and sounded like a line from a commercial—but Fabienne didn't relent.

"Doubtless you have heard rumors," she said, "that our software plays some role."

"Role?"

"Oui. In the data loss."

I hadn't been expecting her to come out and articulate this, but it was a perfectly valid question. I needed an answer.

"I—I was told by Mr. Pomeroy"—opening my shoulders, inviting Yves to chime in—"these were slurs propagated by competitors, jealous of Rivard's growth and dominant market position."

The answer seemed to please Fabienne. She circled back around her desk, a slim oval of some semitransparent alloy, and picked up her novel.

She read for three minutes.

Yves said, "If there is nothing more, perhaps we will begin our tour..."

Before Fabienne could answer, the door opened and an impressive woman with platinum blond hair entered.

"Excusez-moi," she said, "it couldn't be helped, I have just learned—"

She stopped at the sight of me and Yves Pomeroy. "A tour, Pomeroy? You are giving a tour?"

Yves took a step back—she had him by three inches and a good thirty pounds. "Yes, Thérèse. A tour."

"As your director of technical operations," the woman said, "I must be included in all client tours."

"You declined several invitations last week, so I only thought—"

"Last week, yes." Thérèse Laurent's consonants boomed about the room. "Since then, my schedule has freed up considerably."

Yves's throat quivered. He balked for another moment, then seemed to buck himself up.

"We were just speaking of CyberSafe. I was preparing to explain our recent improvements, which have made the suite more secure than ever—but I am sure you know the technical aspects best."

His eyes twinkled, set deep in wrinkled sockets. "Being, as you are, director of technical operations. Oui?"

Thérèse shifted between solid legs. "It is true, we have closed many vulnerabilities. I won't bore the woman with details."

"Bore her!" Yves insisted. "She is of Silicon Valley, she will understand. The codebase migrated to a different programming language last fall, n'est-ce pas? Do you recall which?"

Thérèse said, "Perl, I believe."

The old man filled his cheeks jovially. "In fact, Python. So close you were! Same first letter."

Fabienne Rivard watched them bicker with a relishing smirk. She walked to stand behind Thérèse, laying one hand on the shoulder of her dress and slipping the other in other palm.

Have you ever gotten stuck in the middle of weird office politics, and wished you could melt into the carpet? People ten levels above you taking passive-aggressive shots at each other while the rest of the meeting attendees twiddle their thumbs?

That was me now.

Thérèse closed her eyes at Fabienne's touch, then answered, "You are the man, Yves. Naturally you are correct, and know the best."

Yves blushed furiously at the suggested of gender insensitivity. "No, that is not fair, I merely—"

"You merely attempt to humiliate and discredit me before a client." Thérèse said. "It is sad, from one with your tenure at Rivard. This is why we must never stop fighting for change."

She and Fabienne withdrew a step from the old man, as though his billowy hair were a toxic cloud.

A chime sounded from somewhere below my chin. When I glanced down, my badge had changed color to yellow.

Yves, seeming happy for the distraction, said, "Eh bien, one carries on! The tour must begin. Will you be joining us, Mademoiselle Laurent? Or do the two of you have more pressing business?"

The women shared an extended look. Thérèse Laurent made a brush-off gesture and we turned to go.

Fabienne called after us, "I hope you will be impressed. In these times, no company can match the offerings of Rivard LLC."

I pivoted at the threshold to smile my assent, or understanding—whatever I needed to do to escape this bizarre situation—and didn't see the brawny man until we slammed into each other.