Charlie had met the Elf Lord at the H2K2 hackers’ conference twelve years ago. They had hit it off right away, drank small-batch whiskey all night long, and talked nonstop for three straight days, after which Charlie collapsed in her hotel room and slept for a solid fourteen hours.
The Elf Lord lived in a section of a Georgetown residence that used to be a stable. Her landlords were a couple who worked for the CIA, which was a hoot, since they were under the impression that the Elf Lord made her living solely as a handbag and accessories designer by the name of Helene Riche, as did most of the world. Occasionally one or the other would visit her wholly legit website to order a present for Christmas, Valentine’s Day, or the occasional wedding. They hadn’t a clue who she really was or what she really did.
Physically, the Elf Lord looked like a Valkyrie: big, blond, blowsy, with an expansive sense of humor that had allowed her to make her den in the heart of enemy territory, as it were. The Elf Lord was always happy to see Charlie, never charged her for work, no matter how complex or time-consuming. Every year, whether she had done work for her or not, Charlie sent the Elf Lord a case of carefully curated whiskeys, all beautifully aged and from the world’s best distillers. In short, theirs was a perfect relationship, not the least because each knew all the other’s darkest secrets. Charlie trusted the Elf Lord like no one else in her life.
“They can’t know about my time in prison,” Charlie said when she and the Elf Lord had finished their first whiskeys and got down to business. “Or anything else, for that matter.”
“Goes without saying.”
The Elf Lord spoke in a controlled soprano so rich Charlie often imagined her on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera, singing arias in Manon or Eugene Onegin.
“My darling, you have had a life that should never be made public.” She gave a wry smile. “You would be so misunderstood!”
“I’m not ashamed of my stint in juvie, brief though it was.”
“Good god, after what you’ve been through why would you be!” The Elf Lord, sitting in her handcrafted task chair in front of quadruple tiers of monitors, often spoke with an emphasis that demanded exclamation points. “As far as I’m concerned it’s a badge of honor. You did what you needed to do, you went through the system, and came out the other side.”
“Right. They shit me out.” Charlie laughed. “Thank you very much.”
As they spoke, the Elf Lord’s fingers danced over her keyboards and touch screens. Monitors and peripherals were all she lived with; her powerful server banks, protected by complex algorithms that changed hourly, resided in Gibraltar, where no one could find them, let alone pry open their secrets. What Charlie wouldn’t have given to spend even five minutes delving through their troves of what must be invaluable data on the Elf Lord’s clients.