Viral Games

PROLOGUE

Wednesday afternoon, November 26, 2008, in Paris

It is a quiet Wednesday afternoon in Neuilly, a posh Parisian suburb, at the headquarters of En Avant , the popular economics magazine that gives the big-name publications a run for their money with its aggressive and inspirational coverage of otherwise dry subjects. In his spacious, smartly decorated office, Jacques Chevalier, the president, checks his watch. He slips into a little corner that is cleverly shielded from visitors’ eyes by a bulky bookcase to the left of his desk. The hideaway houses his personal La Pavoni espresso machine on a little table—standing-room only.

Chevalier loosens his necktie and leans against the wall while awaiting Louis Dujardin, who is on his way to join him for a brief break. These intermezzos are deserved and useful.

Chevalier turns to see his assistant, Martine Dumoulin, hurry past Louis as they both enter his office. Martine is carrying a sheet of paper, and her hand is shaking. She puts it on the table in front of him.

AIDS Kills! High Functionary of Worldwide Donor Organization Shot Dead in Santo Domingo!

It’s the headline of today’s El Nuevo Diario of Santo Domingo, copied and highlighted on a printout of an e-mail from Mathieu Timonier.

Chevalier brings his glasses down from his forehead to read the rest of the text. After a couple of seconds, he decides the espresso ritual can be interrupted. He slaps the paper off the table.

Martine, run four copies and ask Monsieur Blavier and Mademoiselle Francard to come to my office. Tim wants extra days in Santo Domingo!

I noticed. He writes the murder will have social and economic ramifications and background for a good story.

He knows the victim, he says? Anita Tavares?

Yes, and she has a great network of friends and contacts in the Dominican Republic. So does Tim. He wants to follow the story. I’ll make the copies.

Three minutes later, M. Blavier and Mlle. Francard enter the office. Martine hands everyone a copy of the e-mail.

Take a seat at my desk. Chevalier motions. I think Tim is out of line. He’s one of our best writers, but doesn’t he know how this impacts us?

He studies Blavier’s and Dujardin’s faces as they read. He tries to detect in their faces the same unease he feels about the message. He cannot let them finish their reading, so he interrupts.

Tim is in Chile for the copper market study. It’s his job. He’s our man for Latin America. He flies home via Miami and decides to go and see his old buddies in the Dominican Republic. Does anybody know about the girlfriend he’s hiding there?

There isn’t one, Mlle. Francard opines. We know what he does there: he volunteers time to help the Alliance organization fight AIDS. It’s a French organization. He’s done it for a few years—his real vocation.

Dujardin snickers.

Anyway, Chevalier goes on, he throws this Tavares murder news at us. And he wants to stay longer to unravel things. Do we know her? What does the shooting have to do with our work?

She was highly regarded in the AIDS world and in her organization, the WAS, the World AIDS Support Group out of Stockholm, Mlle. Francard says. It’s a huge donor organization, and she controlled and monitored tens of millions of their dollars going into the Caribbean and Latin America. It’s a big loss.

Yes, a big loss, Blavier adds. And AIDS isn’t without impact on the economy. I can see that Tim feels there may be an economics story there. And our French readers are interested in Caribbean matters. There are still some old ties and French blood in lots of veins on some of those islands.

Do you see that Tim’s e-mail talks about personal relationships and corruption in the same sentence? Dujardin says. Know what I mean? He can report about who screws whom to get funds, legally or illegally. It can make us a good euro.

Louis has a knack for calling a spade a spade, the polished Chevalier thinks.

Gentlemen, Mlle. Francard says, let’s talk in human terms about the HIV/AIDS plague. Every twelve seconds, a person somewhere in the world gets infected with the HIV virus. Every seventeen seconds, a person dies from it.

Chevalier gets it.

Mademoiselle, thank you. We hear you. Martine, get Tim on the phone.

Yes, Dujardin says, let’s hear what he’s really up to. I wish I could see his face when he lies about the girls.

Chevalier gets up and offers espresso from the bar behind the bookcase. In a moment, Martine comes over and says, I can’t get through to Tim. His phone is off.

Dujardin looks around.

Anybody surprised? he asks.

Frustrated but intrigued, Chevalier dismisses the meeting and dictates a message for Tim to Martine, "Tell Tim, ‘Okay, one week. Watch expenses. Need focus on the ultimate economic impact. Do not choose sides in conflicts. No travel to remote locations without armed protection. Daily progress reports. Bonne chance, Jacques.’"

CHAPTER 1

Tuesday afternoon, November 25, 2008, at the Miami International Airport

The plane roars down the runway, and Mathieu Timonier feels it when the pilot lifts the old workhorse skyward to reach cruising altitude. A married couple he saw in the airport is in front of him. He hears the man murmur, " Amor , we’re ready for a drink."

All is quiet and peaceful; pretzels and Coke have been served. An older lady in seat 15D, blissfully unaware of rules, proudly shows off her texting skills to an admiring neighbor. Some serious napping is underway; snoring here and there vouches for that. Peace.

In his 16C aisle seat, Tim has tried to block out the surroundings as much as possible. Earplugs from his swim kit help him steal a couple of ten-minute naps, but no more. His six-foot-three frame is not an asset in this cramped space. He intermittently moves his long legs into the aisle so they can have brief moments of relief. The exit seats, the long-leg seats, were all taken when he booked the flight.

With an eye signal downward and a frown upward from his seat, he tries half-heartedly to dissuade an unsuspecting blue-eyed tourist from proceeding to the restroom in just his socks. Tim lacks the conviction to argue the case. He shrugs his shoulders and mentally wishes the poor youngster well. He seems to be in a bit of a hurry. Don’t want to stop a man on a mission. Nobody’s perfect, and after all, the air is very dry in airplanes."

Tim’s Dell battery called it quits a while ago. His BlackBerry is off-limits. The American Airlines in-flight magazine has nothing to offer that he has not seen or read a few times before; he knows of all the bargain-priced apartments in Miami and the plethora of superb—so they say—plastic surgeons roaming the city and skimming bank accounts.

The heavyset man in the seat beside him asks, Do those things work?

Tim looks up.

Things?

Those earplugs you got out of your bag. Good-looking bag. From Paris, I guess? Saw your Lafayette tag.

Tim guesses that his neighbor is from the Deep South.

Yes, Paris. Plugs don’t work well enough, not today anyway. From Georgia?

Oklahoma. Muskogee. John Sanders. First Baptist Church.

Tim. Nice to meet you. Oklahoma, you said. I wasn’t even close.

Business trip?

Yes, kind of.

How do you make a living so far away from Paris?

Writing.

Tim shows sudden interest in his travel documents, those nagging immigration and customs forms. He has a sweet escape this time. For now.

The overnight flight from Santiago to Miami wore Tim down. His four-hour layover in Miami did not make matters better. He’s tired. He wonders why En Avant sent him all the way down to Santiago to find out what’s going on with copper. Some guys active on the London Metal Exchange could have told him the same things he had learned in Santiago. There are more copper-knowledgeable Chileans in London than there are in Santiago. But then, he could not have bought his lapis lazuli at such a Chilean bargain price in London.

John volunteers that he is on his way to Barahona in the southwest of the Dominican Republic.

I assist as a minister in the spiritual care of AIDS victims. Many of them around there. Global Mission operates two clinics in the area.

So we’re partners in crime. I’m also working on AIDS, in a way.

Really? Great! Partners. AIDS where?

"Dominican Republic. For the last seven years, I’ve covered Latin America as an economics reporter for a French magazine by the name of En Avant. Now here we are, you and I. It’s all quite a coincidence. While covering Latin America for the magazine, I’ve spent many months, on and off, on AIDS work."

How so? And in the DR? So we are partners and neighbors. The questions keep coming.

Tim hides a sigh and continues, While working as a reporter, I’ve been simultaneously active as a volunteer in the Santo Domingo offices and operations of the Alliance du SIDA, French for AIDS. In the DR, they just call it the Alliance. You know them?

I’m sorry, I haven’t heard of them. Where are they headquartered?

In Paris.

Also, Paris! My apologies, I don’t know much about the network of NGOs. I work mostly on the inside.

No problem.

Tim feigns interest in Nexos, a magazine he has already read.

A reporter from Paris working on AIDS in Santo Domingo? How does that work? What can you do for AIDS patients?

I take days off from my regular job and help out at the Alliance with the writing of small brochures, some translation. Sometimes, I assist with proposals to donors, even budget writing in emergencies. Now and then, they ask me to sit in on strategy discussions that could benefit from my global experience. Occasionally, I’ve had the opportunity to visit clinics, orphanages, and Haitian ghettos.

But you never made it to Barahona.

Unfortunately not.

"Your employer—Avant, right?—keeps footing the bill for you?"

"They do. They’re great people. The arrangement suits En Avant well, since I can provide unusual angles, a welcome reprieve from routine, dry economic language. The DR is a pretty interesting economic case; just compare their development to that of Cuba or Haiti. And AIDS has an economic impact. I can say I’ve gotten some good stuff for the magazine."

John hands him a card and says, Nice to know you, Tim. Ah, thank you. Nice card. Mathieu too, I see. Paris. Come and see us in Barahona. I’d love to show you the place.

CHAPTER 2

With thirty-five minutes until landing, the pilot announces that passengers might want to visit the restrooms while they have the chance.

Tim looks forward to reuniting with his old DR friends. One of his comrades will be in the arrival hall in Santo Domingo to pick him out of the crowd being spewed out of the customs hall.

I need my friend in the airport, Tim knows. Just jumping in a taxi, even in the afternoon, is a no-no for a Frenchman like me who looks like a gringo, is tall, forgets that he chews gum, and has this long brownish hair. Robbers have no idea and don’t care what a French accent sounds like in Spanish. What counts is that Frenchmen and gringos have the same wallets.

There are lines at the bathrooms in the plane. Tim works his way into and through first class to use the facilities there. There’s not much of a trick to it—just make it clear he belongs in front. Back on his way down to row sixteen, he notices Anita Tavares tucked into 5C, half dreaming.

This way she looks better than usual, Tim thinks. Nature has not been kind to Anita. She was not in the front row when God distributed faces, but friends, a good network in high circles, a good brain, and a PhD in health sciences from Yale have helped her career a lot. Even so, Tim admires the way she landed her enviable spot in the WAS. He knows that, as a Mexican with excellent family connections, Anita has worked her way into the circle of executives who monitor, manage, or seem to manage the flow of the hundreds of millions of dollars in money provided to the group by international institutions and major private organizations.

He pauses and says, "Disculpe for spoiling your dream, Anita."

Anita sweeps her hair back. Then her dreamy, half-sad smile comes back. Tim knows she has a lot on her plate.

"Mathieu, qué tal? How are you? Long time no see."

"Sin novedad, Anita. Nothing special. Didn’t see you at boarding time."

I came in late.

Tim knows Anita is on a four-country tour that will take her from the Dominican Republic to Jamaica and the Bahamas and then on to Nicaragua. He knows of her challenges and her strategy for the WAS. They have discussed Anita’s analysis of the strengths and shortcomings in the national and sometimes local institutions that handle the care and the funds. He even knows about the rumored personal preferences she has shown for certain players in the field.

In personal matters, he believes she shows smart discretion. That is obviously also part of her portfolio. She will be in the Sofitel Hotel in the old city. Its location is secure and conveniently close to the spots where Anita likes to enjoy after-work activities. Tim knows that Anita appreciates those, and that is a kind of understatement. The nearby Atarazana area with its open-air restaurants and its museum, the five-hundred-year-old former residence of Christopher Columbus’s son, is one of her most cherished spots in the region. She loves the restaurants’ inviting hosts and the simply excellent guy-watching at night when the sun sets and colors get vivid. She usually prefers to close business meetings no later than six p.m. Who is professionally productive during the later hours anyway? she has said. She then has the time to take a break and prepare to enjoy the local culture.

Tim will be at the Hispaniola, on the corner of Avenida Lincoln and Avenida Independencia, which fits a lower budget and is a bit run-down, but okay as long as he disregards the unappealing gamblers packing the casino that is part of the hotel. He also has to trust the age-old elevators with their noisy metallic double screen doors operated by security personnel close to, or actually past, retirement age. For acceptable food, a good swim, and a little rest in a quiet pool setting there is always the Santo Domingo Hotel, across the parking lot and Avenida Independencia.

A flight attendant glances at Tim’s worn Dockers and sneakers—not so first-class—and Tim moves back to the higher numbers. He will see Anita at the baggage pickup.

He works his way into his seat. Fifty percent of it has been claimed by his oversized neighbor John, the minister with the clean conscience who is deep in the arms of Morpheus, without earplugs.

The flexibility in Tim’s young limbs and mind is a great asset. Just ten more minutes and the race to immigration will be kicked off. The ten-dollar-bill for the tourist visa sits in his shirt pocket with his passport and the immigration and customs forms. From row sixteen, he will beat some first-class passengers to the immigration desks, and he will not break any courtesy rules. This matters. It is actually a serious matter of pride. The wide and smooth wheels on his new carry-on case are his allies.

CHAPTER 3

The pilot shows his skill as he puts his machine down with a smooth touch at Aeropuerto las Americas. There is a roar of approval and light applause in the back of the plane.

Tim loves to observe the scene as the few seasoned travelers switch on their phones, feverishly read messages, respond, and check on their pick-up arrangements with quick calls. Simultaneously, they look around and disdainfully watch the nonpros who anxiously await the announcement that all can get up from their seats. A couple of young and lucky ones get up a split-second earlier to prepare for a quick dash forward, which will put them one or two rows closer to the exit. At the luggage pickup, all will then patiently wait together for their bags to show up.

The luggage carousel looks newer and cleaner than the last time Tim visited. Anita gets there before Tim. She’s a pro, so there is no shame in being beaten by her. He can take that. And it is at least a couple of minutes, in terms of getting out of the plane, between row five and row sixteen. In about fifteen minutes, with any luck, bags will show up on the carousel, and all hell will break loose. Fortunately, there is air conditioning to cool air and tempers.

The first bags to appear on the belt spark frantic action. Shopping trophies and more shopping trophies must be recovered, and then passengers have to go to the line for customs. In fact, it is not a line but a huge triangle, gradually transforming itself into a line after passengers wrestle their way through.

Anita and Tim chat a few steps away from the crowd. The bags are taking too long. Anita clearly worries about her appointment in about two hours with Dr. Enrique Cuevas, the head of AVISIDA, the Acción contra el VIH y el SIDA, an NGO headquartered in Panama City and working throughout Latin America. Cuevas’s assistant, Dr. Emilio Guzmán, will be waiting for her at the airport to get her to the hotel and then to the appointment, which is one that she cannot miss.

Dr. Guzmán helps Dr. Cuevas maintain the relationship between the WAS and AVISIDA in the Dominican Republic. Donor-recipient relationships can be delicate, Anita explains.

That’s a crucial task; the WAS must be by far AVISIDA’s biggest source of funding.

Yes, it is. Guzmán handles the bulk of the interaction, leaving Cuevas to intervene only in basic policy matters and final reviews.

The carousel stops—no más. Anita’s luggage has not made it. Tim and Anita check the bags that have been put aside next to the carousel.

Look for a gray polycarbonate Rimowa, new and with a TSA-accessible lock system, Tim. Thanks.

No luck—there’s no Rimowa. There is another triangle line to the luggage claim service desk. Tim stays with Anita throughout the ordeal. With him and his elbows, the line shortens pretty fast.

The person at the desk has no trace of the Rimowa. It’s probably stuck in Miami. Anita fills out forms, accepts perfunctory apologies, not really, and then goes out through customs with Tim into the arrival hall, where Dr. Guzmán is expecting Anita. Julio Diaz, who heads the Alliance operation in the DR, is there waiting for Tim.

CHAPTER 4

As Anita and Tim emerge from customs, hugs and " Hace mucho tiempo (it’s been a long time), Luces bien (Hey, you look good), Let me take your bag, and Let’s go are exchanged between Anita and Guzmán. Tim has always wondered how the quasi-bald Guzmán, who is five foot six and has a visible potbelly, can be one of Anita’s rumored romantic companions. And he knows that the same rumor does the rounds about Anita and Guzmán’s boss, Dr. Cuevas, who is not exactly an Adonis either, with the two hundred pounds he carries on his five-foot-eight frame.

This young Mexican petite with long, jet-black hair can do better, Tim thinks. He sighs.

Walking out, Anita apologizes to Julio Diaz and Emilio Guzmán for the delay caused by her missing bag. They all proceed into the stationing area in front of the airport where both drivers, Rodrigo from the Alliance and his brother Arnaldo, who works for AVISIDA, wait for them with their cars.

The oppressive heat hits them as they step outside, and Tim feels it creeping up his legs. He likes the feeling of humid air invading his pant legs.

Rodrigo and his car are closest. They exchange more quick abrazos and then split.

See you in the next couple of days, Tim, Anita says. You know where I’m staying.

Rodrigo drives away with Julio and Tim in the Tahoe.

*   *   *

Anita and Dr. Guzmán see Arnaldo and his Montero a bit farther down the line of waiting vehicles.

Once in the backseat of the Montero with Guzmán, Anita pays scant attention to the little stories he tells her and which he has to limit to small talk because of Arnaldo’s presence. Her mind wanders back to the recent WAS meeting in Stockholm, which had provided an unforgettable opportunity for Dr. Juan Enrique Cuevas and Anita to add two memorable nights to the list of romantic experiences they have shared. The little islands around the city provided a perfect setting. She also thinks of the discussion she must have with him as soon as they get to the AVISIDA offices.

The long ride from the airport is particularly difficult because of a couple of accidents on the freeway that lead to chaos and wars of words left and right.

CHAPTER 5

Julio Diaz has made it a point as a good friend and quasi-host to meet Tim and accompany him safely to the Hispaniola hotel, which Julio does not approve of because of the many smokers there, but Tim watches his expenses. As soon as they are seated in the car, Julio hands Tim a local cell phone. Expenses and communications are important matters. As the chief of the local Alliance organization, Julio Diaz feels responsible for Tim’s safety.

Rodrigo gets the Tahoe on the freeway headed toward the city.

You must have visited here a hundred times, Tim. Welcome again.

Thanks. I‘ve stopped counting, Julio. I visited here long before your time. How are things?

Julio lowers his voice—Rodrigo knows a few words of English—and complains, Not my best day. Lost a good guy today. He wants to start a family and must make real money. Can’t do that in the Alliance.

Who’s leaving?

"Silvio. You don’t know him.