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Isaac wasn’t happy with himself. He had the luck to speak with a potential co-conspirator but he blew it, being badly prepared. It was clear that he wouldn't get any result on the telephone, he had to make personal appointments. The word 'accomplice' is a little scary. What is he doing?

I have more than enough of my own problems. But something was telling Isaac that if he drops the case, then he won't forgive himself. Someone needs to start this fight, especially once he lucked out to obtain such valuable information.

Isaac concentrated and wrote emails to other candidates, trying to find a personalized

approach to each one. To the owner of an IT-company he introduced himself as a research associate, to a deputy bank manager – a rich client. Speaking to another lawyer, he asked for legal advice concerning a head trauma he had received during the attack, along with his imprisonment. He sent eight letters in total. All candidates he had picked possessed both high creativity rating and a considerable fortune. “Good thing my folks had brought me to Monaco, there are plenty of rich people here. It's not for nothing that my parents moved me to Monaco, there are a lot of rich people here, and with money everything is much easier,” shot across his mind. Feeling content, he went to bed early, looking forward to the replies.

Morning started with a surprise – an unpleasant one, as it proved to be. Robert called

from the police and asked him to stop by. Isaac cautiously inquired what was the matter. It turned out that Rulph Bongardt had reported on him.

Now, he certainly could have done without that! Saying he had a bad headache, Isaac

promised to come over after lunch. Knowing that his neighbor had left for a long time, he hid the board in his mailbox. Now he had to clear the computer. Dammit, not a single reply yet! Once the police see who the letters had been sent to or the replies, they might get it all. Isaac didn’t know if they had the base or not. Could they extract the search history or temporary files? Who knows what on earth could give him away. The computer certainly had to be got rid of… But what if someone spots him throwing the thing away? Who could be sure he wasn’t being

watched? What the heck could this Bongardt-guy have told?

Isaac tried to recall every single detail of the conversation, looking for a possible way to explain it as an innocent chat.

Well, he had to erase everything suspicious, defragment and format the hard drive,

download as much junk as he could and format it again. Done! Defragmentation over, now

formatting. While the computer was running the task, Isaac attempted to have breakfast but it turned out that there was nothing to eat. He hadn’t been planning to come back; after the downloading center he was supposed to go directly to a temporary boarding house. So the only sustenance available was a cup of coffee.

After the format process had been over, Isaac created a new mailbox, forwarded all

potential replies there and started downloading some data from the Internet. Now he had at least an hour and a half of a free-time, enough to take a walk, look around and think it over.

There was no sign of surveillance, so he calmed down a little. Well, and why would there be? He hadn’t said anything suspicious on the phone, they had nothing for pinning him. Feeling a surge of courage, he headed straight to the police.

Catching Robert on his way to lunch, Isaac told him he had an appointment later on and

asked if they could talk at once. The Captain glanced at his watch and agreed, saying it wouldn’t take long.

“We got a statement that you threatened Mr. Bongardt, Isaac.”

“Excuse me?” Isaac sounded genuinely surprised.

“Well, you called him, introducing yourself as a member of a terrorist attack, was it so?”

Isaac could remember that this was what he said.

“Well, I meant to say, I was a witness, you know. Or rather a victim! He’s a lawyer and I have trouble with my sister now. I wanted to know what I could count upon. I had a bad

headache, so I might have been a little incoherent, all right, however I definitely didn’t say that I was a member of a terror group or any of the kind, no, sir.”

“Right. That’s what I thought. I calmed him down all I could, but still, you’ll have to write an explanatory note. A short one – he added, throwing another glance at his watch.”

It took Isaac three minutes to give a short version of the conversation, adding in the end that he hadn’t meant anything illegal, blaming the slight brain concussion he had.

The captain seemed satisfied. He put the paper into a file and set off to lunch, letting Isaac go.

Isaac felt quite calm, although admitted to himself that he had to be much more careful.

He checked his mail on the mobile phone and saw two replies.

The first one was from the bank, quite predictably. They made him an appointment,

however, not with the person he needed but some manager. This didn’t work. The other reply was predictably from the lawyer and Isaac also had to brush it aside. No more trust for lawyers.

The rest were silent. Well, there was a need to change the tactics, indeed. He decided to take a closer look at those who, like him, had nothing to lose. The people of his age.

At home Isaac picked up the board from his neighbor’s mailbox and copied the data to a

flash-card. After that he threw the piece away, carefully paying attention to not being watched.

Having come back home, he sat at his computer to continue the analysis.

The first one he plucked out of the list was a young guy with technical education, a local programmer, Laurent-Marie Affre, working as a barman. He wasn’t the only one with talent who had been dumped overboard, or behind a bar counter. Coincidentally, Isaac had technical education too. Maybe the search engine would tell him what the techie barman had on his mind.

The candidate called himself Bikie in social networks and was crazy about motorbikes.

Isaac found his blog, in which Bikie was scathingly abusive about Collective Mind, Einsteiner, as well as Link, and mocked everyone who offloaded their creativity. He had posted various photographs including his own and of his Harley’s. Looking out at Isaac was an awkward, longhaired clodhopper with big round eyes. Plumpish and ungainly, Bikie’s build was

frighteningly heavy-caliber who also possessed thoroughly good-natured air, which could not be said of his posts. “I hope he really is good-natured,” Isaac chuckled. The last entry was fairly old and very short: “No one reads me here, what a Down-steiner!”

Isaac clicked on a different link and found another of Bikie’s blogs, which consisted of very short messages. None of the words in them could be used in polite society except “down with”, “Veggies”, “people in coma” and prepositions, like “up” and “off”.

A plan was finally coming together in Isaac’s mind: summon a team of people like this

Bikie and find Jeremy Link since he seems to be alive. And then see what happens. What

mattered was not to goof up the choice of the candidates.

Money was needed. “Damnit, money. Forgive me Vicky, I really will earn the money for

your surgery, just hang on a little bit longer. Right now I have to ask the database a question. My dear ladies and gentlemen, potential accomplices, preferably, young heirs, which of you has money?” Isaac thought as he searched through the lists and through the social networks before he finally found some candidates. Half of them got cut down immediately – some turned out to be in America, some in Hong Kong or what not. What left were three.

The first was Peter Wolanski, a German who had lived in Monaco since he was a child. A

member of a prestigious scientific society, the same one that Isaac had once belonged to. There weren’t any photos of Peter in the internet and Isaac decided to look for them later. Peter’s blog consisted of beautifully layed out articles with a scientific slant. A couple of them were devoted to discussing why no one should download their OE. An ideal candidate he was, better start with him.

In one of the latest articles Peter told his father’s story: his life and his achievements as a successful entrepreneur. And finally Peter Wolanski talked about his own grief and boundless sense of loss since he was alone now. “This guy is already rich,” thought Isaac and wrote Peter’s

details into his notepad. “Lord, I’m like a gold-digger looking for a sponsor! It's disgusting, but there is no choice. Money is the lubricant of any operation.”

The second candidate was a girl. What a beauty! And with a name right out of a song:

Michelle Blanche. Long, shapely legs, a beautiful face, a great figure, and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes too. “A beautiful girl, and to judge from her rating, very intelligent too. I’ll never cope with a girl like that: beautiful, and rich into the bargain. How do you come on to someone like that?” Isaac started dreaming, but he was forced to admit that it was a non-starter. He wouldn’t have the nerve for it. “She’d tell me where to get off before I could even start telling her anything. Or she would think that I was a psycho. I’d love to screw a girl like that. Only high flyers like that don’t come into our bar,” Isaac chuckled despondently. But he wrote down the address anyway, just in case. The idea of giving up without even trying made him want to despise himself. Isaac fantasized for a little while longer and closed beautiful Michelle’s blog.

The third candidate was somewhat dubious. Father, a military man, had got downloaded

one of the first. The son was obviously willing to follow his father’s steps, seemed like he was proud. There was a risk that the guy would turn out too righteous and give Isaac away. So he should be left only for the worst case.

“If I think like a character from a movie,” Isaac thought, still fantasizing. “A strong team means people who think alike, who are also friends. It’s a thousand times harder for a loner. I’ll try to do things that way too. For now I have enough candidates with the techie and the guy who has money. Maybe they have friends who can fill out the team, that’s less risky than chasing after strangers and inciting them to commit a crime. And it would be best to keep my mouth shut about the database.” 

Isaac found himself unable to resist the urge to get to know Michelle Blanche. He got the idea that he ought to start with her. That night he dreamt about the leggy brunette. Isaac almost completely forgot the dream, but he thought he remembered them getting together, and Michelle smiling at him and caressing him. Then they were in this beautiful room, and she was wearing a bathrobe, and Isaac spotted black, lacy underwear lying over at the side. He tried to kiss her, but she beckoned him towards the bed. After that, unfortunately, there was a gap, but Isaac woke up feeling aroused. He was in a really great mood, and he tried to recall if they’d had sex or not. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn’t reconstruct the dream in his memory, but he decided it was a good sign. Intellectually Isaac realized that signs were beside the point here, that with his creativity level he could find a good sign in any corner. Living was easier with good signs; they were an additional reason for optimism.

Pinning down Michelle proved not to be easy. She had moved to Monaco a year and a

half ago, and before that, from the look of things, she had lived in London. The address given in the database turned out to be valid only for correspondence, and her English mobile number had been disconnected. Michelle didn’t use geolocation in social media networks, and she didn’t reveal where she really lived. She often published her photographs, where she’d been, the get-togethers and the parties, but generally only on the following day. In the photos she was either posing, or always with the same young man, also not a local. Isaac kept looking at her Instagram, hoping his eyes would spot some familiar place. In some of the photographs Michelle was flaunting herself in a swimsuit on a yacht that had her name on it. After his erotic dream, Isaac feasted his eyes on her as if she were his girlfriend while imagining her naked. “If only the dream would happen again, then I’d definitely see things through.” Having gone to bed he reviewed her most explicit photos. That made him feel horny, but he couldn’t summon up any more erotic dreams.

Good thing Michelle didn’t just sit at home every night, but Isaac couldn’t afford to do the rounds of the most expensive spots in Monaco hoping she would show up, and anyway, the effectiveness of that approach was quite doubtful, she could be anywhere at all. It might seem like he could just show up and drink coffee every evening in the Sass Café or the Cipriani Restaurant, but if you didn’t order anything on the third day, they would politely ask you not to come back there again. Isaac couldn’t have afforded more than two dinners in a fancy place like that. He finally managed to find out what appeared to be her real whereabouts and decided to give it a try.

In anticipation of meeting Michelle, Isaac shaved, abandoning his beautiful stubble, and put on a t-shirt with a deep neck and short sleeves. His wrist was adorned with a vintage diver’s watch – not expensive, but very stylish. He even changed the ringtone on his mobile to a melody by INXS. Isaac liked himself like this. Damned if he knew whether Michelle would like him, but after his dream he believed in some kind of sexual connection. If creative energy existed, then why shouldn’t there be some other kind, responsible for dreams and attraction? Isaac dismissed all his thoughts about Michelle never having seen him before. Maybe she had seen him some time, and even taken notice, but he simply hadn’t spotted it.

Having arrived at the upscale condominium where he thought Michelle lived, Isaac first

tried to strike up a conversation with the concierge. The man examined him suspiciously and asked if Isaac mind not pestering him with questions about the residents. If he wanted, he would be glad to pass on a note. Taking pity on Isaac after all, he did hint that Michelle rarely spent the night there. Privacy had always been highly valued in Monaco, but the concierge saw Isaac as just a young man desperately in love and thawed out a bit. Only what could Isaac write in the note? “Please contact me in connection with…” or “I’m not an admirer, that is, you are beautiful, but I know what a high level of creativity you have”?