Daemon

stay.
    The entire population of ten thousand South Sea islanders now lived on a narrow band of sand and palm trees ringing the island – a quarter of which was taken up by an airfield – and tried to ignore the ecological nightmare of the interior.
    Anji Anderson had never toured an entire country in twenty minutes before. Afterward she realized there were only three things to do on Nauru: drink heavily, lament the past, or engage in international money laundering. Judging from the private jets at the airport and the forest of satellite dishes, the latter was Nauru’s future.
    The community of nations officially took a dim view of money-laundering centers with lax banking and incorporation laws and powerful privacy regulations – but then again, at some point every government had need of such things. The Daemon had directed Anderson to an informative Web page prior to her whirlwind tour of offshore tax havens, and it opened her eyes. Tax havens were tolerated – and in some cases facilitated – by powerful nations and global corporations. Intelligence agencies needed to wire untraceable money to informants or to fund operations in various troubled or soon-to-be-troubled regions. Corporations needed to incentivize key people without interference from investment groups and regulators. All of this was possible in areas far from the public eye. At twelve hundred miles from the nearest neighboring island, Nauru was both incredibly remote and, due to decades of mining, physically unsightly. And tourists and journalists weren’t allowed: Nauru issued only business visas. No rebels could take to the hills here, either, because the Nauruans had sold the hills years ago.
    Anderson smiled as she lay soaking in the sun, poolside at the Hotel Menon – one of only two hotels on the island. If she kept her chaise lounge pointed in this exact direction, she could avoid seeing rusted derricks as she looked out over the ocean.
    Evenings were the best time. The sunsets here were huge pyrotechnic displays with towering clouds that melted intothe distant horizon. It almost made up for the rusted ruin of the place and the fact that the air was so humid that standing in the ocean breeze was like taking a shower. But in the time she’d been employed by the Daemon, her world had taken on a dimension of true adventure, and this was part of it. Forget Machu Picchu or Prince Patrick Island – that was soo bourgeois. She was in a country probably none of her well-traveled and educated friends had ever heard of, much less been to. One that was not on any commonly used map. She laughed to herself from behind her Lemon Drop martini. She had just left the Isle of Man two days ago – the Nevada of the British Isles – and she had no idea where she’d be going tomorrow. She didn’t care. She didn’t have to. She felt oddly secure for the first time in her life. A kept woman. As a well-paid consultant on retainer to Daedalus Research, Inc. – no doubt owned by the Daemon – she was making more money then she’d ever made in her life. All her travel expenses were being paid on an apparently bottomless company credit card. Her airline tickets were all first class, and she had a chartered private jet for this little jaunt out to Nauru. She was bewildered and excited. Every day was filled with surprises. What a change from the network affiliate. Her new boss was an undead automaton from hell, true, but no job was perfect.
    Anderson listened to chatter in a dozen languages at the poolside tables around her. She felt eyes upon her in her relatively modest bikini. There were few other women about, but no one was making a move – unsure of which underworld figure she belonged to. She smiled to herself. Her man was about as underworld as you could get …
    The Hotel Menon looked like an upscale Motel 6. Casa Blanca in stucco and plywood. Most of the people conducting business here never had to physically set foot on the island, so appearances didn’t matter much. Those who did make the journey typically came to the edge of the world just to exchange briefcases. Most of these transactions were
technically
legal, but they weren’t the sort of thing participants wanted on the evening news back home.
    Pale-faced, tubby Russians in impeccable Armani suits sat with Arabs in robes so white it hurt to look at them. Ruddy-cheeked Australians and Nipponese in silk suits looked down through their sunglasses to examine the spotty glasses before