Episode Eighteen: Bartering

    On sandy beach the north side of lake, Troy watched the flames of his fire dance in the wind.  The moon added an eerie light to his already depressed mood; its rays reflecting off the lake's shifting surface.   The beginnings of a gale added its howling to the waterfalls deafening roar. Troy Lombardi, unmoved by either the beautiful sight or the awful din, sat almost motionless on a piece of driftwood, facing the fire, stroking the stubble on his chin.
    He didn't know much about computers and how they worked, and he had never filled up the in-box on his e-mail account.  The simple PC in his office told him he could play music for a month strait without hearing the same song twice.  A company he started had backed up most of the web with a computer that didn't even take up half of a warehouse.
    William should have accepted Deans offer.  They desperately needed someone on the outside, even if he was a prisoner.  On the outside there was a least a hope of escape.  By staying here, William sentenced them all to death, unless by some miracle they actually found the horizon. Even that was sketchy; Death had failed to get them out, would the horizon be any better?
    Mr. Lombardi resumed pacing.  His feet followed the trail they had left in the sand earlier, circling around the fire and along the base of the cliff then back along the shore.  There had to be another solution.
     Once during the night, he lay down trying to get some sleep, but his mind would not let his body rest.
    When the sun came over the mountains he shouldered his pack and climbed the familiar stairs.  Familiar stairs that were leading him to an unfamiliar place.  A void that was yet to be filled.  The grasslands of a few weeks past could be a jungle, a desert, or a glacier field.  What land the computer generated didn't matter: only seeing it mattered, ensuring that computer was forced to use a little more of its vast memory.
    How many horizons did they have to cross in the short time they had before Dean killed them?    Maybe if they had another month, Troy admitted, they might make it, but six days?
    As he climbed he stone stairs, Troy looked out over the tranquil lake on his left, the solid wall of the cliff on his right.
    As he neared the top he stopped.  Looking up he saw a tuft of grass clinging to the edge of the shear drop silhouetted against the clear blue sky.      If those green stalks could look toward the north, he wondered, what would they see? From their vantage, those weeds could peer into the unfilled void,  the escape that continually fled before his own eyes.
    Sighing heavily Troy turned around and sat on a stair.  His hand strayed to the cell phone still on his belt.  It was his only link to the world, and it only connected to one person.  He toyed with it, opening and closing it, turning it around in his hand.  All the while his eyes were focus on the barely discernible rooftop of the lodge.
    An idea that had been slowly forming ever since he learned Dean was running out of money began to clarify in his mind. He knew it was a long shot, but he was tired of chasing the horizon.  He would tackle the problem his way.
    Standing he began walking down the stairs, back to the lodge and away from the horizon. Later as the sun passed its zenith and began to descend in the sky; Troy, who was cruising across the lake, played with words, rehearsing in his mind different turns the coming conversation could take.
    Once he reached the Lodge he went straight to his room and pulled a suit out of the closet.  After dressing, he looked for one of the hidden cameras, finding one was much easier than he thought.  He had only mildly examined his room before noticing a small white box the same color as the wall paint hanging just above a large painting.  Standing on a chair he examined it closely and decided it was indeed a camera.
    The multi-billionaire pushed the chair into the center of the cameras view and took a seat.  In one swift motion he opened the cell phone, pressed the send button, and lifted it to his ear.  The phone rang.  Once—twice—a third time. Slightly impatient, Troy adjusted himself in the chair.  After a counting over a dozen rings he hung up.
    Not allowing himself to be disturbed by the minor set back, he found paper and wrote a note.

Dr. Dean Senoma,
I will give you $300,000,000 in return for my freedom. My plan ensures the exchange will happen with minor risk for both of us. Call me to work out the details.
Troy S. Lombardi

    After placing the note on the chair, he pushed away his nervousness by visiting the kitchen.  He spent the afternoon wandering around the lodge.  In a half hour he found around thirty different cameras, most mounted on the walls like the one in his bedroom.  He placed a few more copies of the note in front of cameras, so that Dean would see it even if he didn’t check them all.
    Troy was still in the business suit when Dean called, sitting in front of the great fireplace trying to decide if it was cool enough to merit a fire.
    Dean spoke quickly and with only a hint of interest. “I saw your message.  What do you have to say to me?”
    The suddenness of the question caught Mr. Lombardi off guard, but his rehearsed words were ready and he recovered quickly.  He explained to a seemingly dead line how he had many bank accounts and other assets under assumed names worth about three hundred million dollars.  Because he had been unable to keep track of all the account numbers and passwords he had created a personal website with a very strong encryption that contained all the information needed to access the money.
    He told Dean that after he took him out of The Endless Frontier and transported him—even if it had to be in the trunk of a car—to a remote wilderness area, then he would tell him the URL and password to that website.  While he was finding his way back to civilization, Dean could get all the money and use it to buy a new identity and cover his tracks.
    By the end of this explanation, Troy wasn’t sure if Dean was still listening on the other end of the line.
    After a moment of silence, Dean said, “You are a desperate man.  How do I know you aren’t just lying to me about the money?”
    A familiar excitement rose in Troy’s chest.   He had expected the question and immediately responded.  “Because if I am lying you can kill me.  You will know where you dropped me off and where to find me.  Especially if you drop me off somewhere without much cover.”
    Troy knew it was a weak answer, but he had been able to seal business deals with less to work on.  The wooden armrests of the chair he sat in were slick from his shiny palms.
    “No,” said Dean, “That isn’t good enough.  There are too many ways it could go wrong.  Prove to me that I can trust you—tell me what William is looking for.”