Free The Garden of Betrayal by Lee Vance

down her paper as I approached and offered me her hand.
    “Theresa Roxas.”
    “Mark Wallace,” I answered, feeling slightly dazzled. Up close, she looked even better.
    She lifted a small silver pot to fill two cups with steaming coffee as I sat down, and then nudged one toward me.
    “Congratulations on the Nord Stream story. Your name’s in all the papers.”
    “Thanks.”
    She lifted her cup to her lips and blew on it lightly, eyes fixed on my face. I had the sense she was waiting for me to elaborate, and wonderedif my first instinct had been correct. Maybe she was a journalist, and everything she’d told me had been a calculated ruse to draw me out.
    “I’m sorry to seem brusque,” I said, “but if you’ve been reading about me in the paper, you must realize that I’m unbelievably busy right now. So, if you have information for me, I’d really appreciate getting to it.”
    She held my gaze for another long moment, sipping from her cup. Setting the coffee down, she bent and retrieved her portfolio from the floor. One of the side pockets contained a clunky white iPod without headphones. She took it out and put it on the table in front of me.
    “There’s no backup copy of this data,” she said. “You need to be careful.”
    I lifted the iPod and turned it over, seeing a fun-house version of myself reflected on the silvered back. Flipping it faceup again, I tentatively pressed the central button on the front. I wasn’t even aware you could put data on an iPod—I thought they were only for music.
    “You need to connect it to a computer.”
    “Right.” I dropped the iPod into my pocket, hoping I wasn’t blushing. “I have a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”
    “Such as?”
    I hesitated, unsure where to begin. Everything about our encounter felt wrong. The vast majority of unsolicited tips I’d collected in my career had been from drunk guys bragging about their importance or from disgruntled staff looking to nail their employers. Outside of the movies, beautiful women didn’t disclose confidential information in fancy restaurants.
    “I’m still interested in knowing how you and Alex are acquainted.”
    “I lived in New York briefly when I first got out of college. I was taking graduate classes at Columbia. Alex and I met at a party and became friends.”
    Her tone was cool, but I got the sense she was suggesting they’d been more than just friends. It was possible. Alex had been a very different person ten years ago, and the Buddy Holly look had been surprisingly effective with the ladies. He always seemed to have a good-looking girl hanging around back then.
    “Graduate classes in what?”
    “Operations research.”
    She’d surprised me again. OR was a complex branch of math thatdealt with decision making, usually the exclusive purview of the pocket-protector set. Based on her appearance, I would have pegged Theresa as a French lit major.
    “Is that your field?”
    “No. I took an MS in petroleum engineering from Texas Tech and then went to work for Halliburton. They sent me to Columbia for six months to brush up my analytic skills.”
    “Which would make you an expert in reprocessed seismic analysis.”
    She shrugged. It was an impressive résumé, if it was true. Alex could presumably vouch for her later, but I figured there was no harm in a quick test.
    “Maybe you can help me out. I’ve had to skim through a number of seismic studies, and I’ve never been completely clear on the difference between pre-stack time migration and depth migration.”
    “Because you’re not an engineer.”
    It was my turn to shrug. Not being an engineer didn’t mean I hadn’t picked up a few things.
    She shook her head, looking put-upon, and took a sip from her cup.
    “It’s a question of the vertical axis and the traveltime approximation. Any assumption of rays within a vertical plane qualifies as time migration. Is that good enough for you, or would you like me to elaborate?”
    Any