The IRIS Algorithm, page 17
Wobbling slightly, Obadiah stood, steadying himself with his right hand on the table. “I’m not interested in the details of how you secure the algorithm. It’s time the three of you take responsibility for the success of this mission-critical operation.” A wave of nausea washed over him then receded. “There’s no time left for half-hearted attempts and cautious plans. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on his pallid forehead. “We must not be deterred, nor delayed. The noble cause of the AEM is the last silken thread of hope for this country, and indeed, the world.” Obadiah’s face warmed with the color of conviction, his voice rose against the hematic rasp in his throat.
“This very day I’ve spoken to my highest placed asset inside that band of half-witted louts, calling themselves the intelligence community. The poisonous toads who sold our great nation to the Chinese—those nugatory politicians and think tank eggheads in Washington—have indeed accelerated the transition plan. The public relations campaign will slowly begin to take form before the end of this week.” Obadiah straightened himself against the pain, looking out over the conference room as if a crowd of ten thousand watched and waited for his words.
“The American public will gradually acclimate to the idea of a closer relationship with China, the ever increasing trade deficit, the sheer necessity of Chinese financing to perpetuate our government largess and individual dependence on the ever growing cancer—the governmental ruling class. The American public will soon forget the roots of our independence, having succumbed to the gradual descent into mindless socialism, a docile herd of citizen servants, sheep for the slaughter. At that point, no one will care about the origin of the shepherd, only that the feed trough and water bucket is replenished on a regular basis.”
Obadiah swallowed against the rising bile. A great man should live forever, but the illogical design of his mortal husk would take him too soon.
Virtue looked at him with such pride and admiration; he almost regretted what had to be done. Patience was restless and unafraid. “Effective immediately, operational control of AEM is transferred to Patience. That includes mission planning and execution of Mimosa. I must spend my time preparing for the aftermath of the operation and the inevitable global chaos that will ensue.”
Obadiah turned regally on his heel, walked steadily toward the office door, the breathless silence unfit for the grandeur of the moment. Grasping the brass doorknob, he stared at his frail sickly hand, a dead man’s hand.
There may be a God after all. An angry vengeful God.
CHAPTER 40
Virtue plummeted into the abyss. She knew this day would come, but she hadn’t fully conceived its impact. Friendless and ruined, she understood for the first time just how unprepared she was. She gathered the reddish-brown, classification folders, closed her laptop, and chanced a furtive look at her watch: two twelve in the afternoon. She wanted to remember the exact time when she realized death would be a welcome relief.
When she dared to look, Patience stared at her, a sneer floating just below the surface. Her cold blue eyes watched some lurid image, sick and hateful, a reality that would occur late in the night when there was no one to cry out to, no God to save her.
“Congratulations, Patience.” Fagon smiled with eerie calm. “I’m happy to be at your service.” For no discernible reason, confidence rose off him, a rank vapor.
“Yes. Quite.” Patience drug a long red fingernail in slow circles on the table. “I’ve been looking forward to having you work under me. I certainly hope your performance is up to your bravado. Rumors are so often exaggerated.”
Fagon blinked slowly, deliberately, inhaling the moment, a man smelling the morning rose. “The rumors of my abilities are quite understated. I look forward to giving you a private demonstration. It’s a different experience when the other person isn’t duct taped to a chair.”
Virtue recoiled at Fagon’s oily black eyes glistening with expectation. Another person without a soul was in their midst. Patience arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow, neck muscles taut. Virtue considered whether Fagon was a mastermind or a fool. Not that it mattered. With Patience, the outcome would be the same either way. The antique clock chimed through the partially open door to Obadiah’s office, breaking her trance.
“I’m sure the two of you will have fun sorting that out later. At the moment we have important decisions to make.” Accepting her fate, Virtue felt emboldened. The moment fled as quickly as it appeared.
“Oh, my dear Virti. Always the little worry wart. Decisions, decisions. The only important decision has been made.” Patience stood to leave. “Didn’t you understand Father when he announced that I am in control of AEM.” Patience sauntered past Fagon, dragging her nails lightly across the back of his three-button, Italian suit. “Mr. Fagon has no problem understanding the new and improved arrangement. Be in my office at three o’clock. We’ll make the call to mommy dearest.”
Fagon slithered out of the room with Patience.
Virtue quickly gathered her folders and laptop, pale arms straining under the weight, and rushed after them. They descended the ornate curved stairway, past two armed guards in black fatigues and ball caps bearing the AEM emblem.
“Wait!” Virtue stumbled on the second stair, almost careening headfirst with her heavy load. “We need to discuss the changes to the plan, the resources, everything.” She caught up to them at the foot of the stairs, stepping off the polished marble steps behind Patience.
Patience replied casually over her shoulder, “You’re welcome to join us in my office. Umm. That does give me some ideas.”
Virtue shivered violently, almost dropping the laptop, but she kept herself together. Following them to Patience’s spacious office, Virtue obediently took her place at the small round table. The office, more contemporary than Obadiah’s, still kept within the scuffed dignity of Old Mobile. It was a forest of heavy wooden furniture, though Patience preferred darkly stained and intricately carved oak over mahogany.
Virtue was taken aback by Patience’s threat of deviant behavior with Fagon. As far as she knew, Patience kept her indiscretions out of the main AEM office building. Perhaps that would change now that Patience was in charge of almost everything. Almost everything. Father had said operational control. He was still ultimately in charge of the entire mission of the AEM. At least Virtue hoped so.
Virtue chose her words carefully and delivered them respectfully. “Patience, you and I have always known you would be someday be in charge of AEM operations.” She knew all too well how volatile Patience was before she was in charge of a multi-billion dollar global organization. The future made her cringe. “You are uniquely suited for the role. I will do everything in my power to assist with the future of The Movement. I want to understand your thinking on this change of plan. It would help me to not be such a worry wart, as you say.” She tried a smile and failed. The new threat was dumbfounding.
Patience appeared satisfied with her obeisance, real or feigned. “I’ve spent quite a bit of time with our young guest. He’s quite a remarkable young man. Oh, the things I could teach him.”
“He’s not a young man. He’s a boy.” Virtue immediately regretted taking the bait. “He’s only ten,” she finished meekly.
“Please, little sister. Though he does impress me as being very open minded, for the time being, his talents are better utilized elsewhere.” Patience turned her evil brain towards Fagon. “I want to know who this highly placed resource within the intelligence community is. Where is Father getting this ultra-secret inside information?”
“I don’t know,” Fagon replied flatly.
“That’s not a good answer from the man in charge of AEM’s entire intelligence and counter-intelligence division. Let’s try again, Mr. Fagon.”
“I’m happy to tell you about all the sources I know. The particular source of which you speak is a mystery to me, though I’m totally convinced the source is real. Everything Obadiah has ever related to me from this source was corroborated by other sources. Sometimes much later, but I have no reason to doubt the veracity of the information.”
Virtue rubbed her forehead. She never doubted anything Father told them, but not because his source was corroborated, his story vetted, his methods certified. Father was the leader of a great cause, forced to be father and mother, and the authority figure to tens of thousands within the AEM worldwide. Something bothered her.
“Why would someone at the top levels of the U.S. intelligence community be willing to help AEM?” Virtue asked. “With all due respect, Mr. Fagon, I’m well aware of how much money we pay you versus what you made at the CIA. I assume that is your motivation?”
Fagon didn’t appear offended. “Money aside, I do believe in the underlying cause of The Movement. I saw too many things done in the name of global cooperation that were not in the best interest of the United States. When I became aware of the China plan, it was too much. I knew I could do some good at AEM.”
Fagon was smooth as silk. So smooth, it was hard not to believe everything he said. But she was beyond believing in the Good Fairy. “Mr. Fagon, that doesn’t answer my question. Why would someone who ranks high enough to be privy to this kind of intelligence information choose to share it with AEM, with my father?”
Fagon pondered the question. “A believer? Disillusioned government employee? A patriot at the end of his wits? Virtue, I can’t tell you for certain.”
A wry smile crept across Patience’s sumptuous lips. “Mr. Fagon, you’re a hard nut to crack, but I have a lot of experience in nut cracking.”
Virtue watched Fagon, his black eyes glistening, his polished façade impervious to the verbal darts and vain imaginations of her sister. Almost imperceptible, she saw a slight narrowing of his eyes, the neat beard riding up over his clenched jaw, his slow deep breath. She saw a man willing to consider an alternative to having his nuts cracked by Patience.
CHAPTER 41
Each time Jason forced himself to sit down, to act natural, to appear cool and collected, his legs sprang up, and he found himself pacing in Lester’s living room. The call was only minutes away. It was nerve racking to watch Simone walking about unaware. He didn’t feel guilty. He was the one person who could fix all of this. But, it was nevertheless nerve racking.
Simone acted stranger than usual since returning from the barn with Logan. After Logan left in a huff and Simone followed him, Jason watched between the thin dusty slats of the vinyl blinds. When they went into the barn, he joked to himself they were going for a roll in the hay. When Logan closed the barn door, meaning they actually were going for a roll in the hay, Jason felt a momentary emptiness. Disappointment? Resentment? He almost felt jealous, which was weirdly stupid. He had been a little turned on when Simone came into his hotel room in her nightshirt. She had great legs, but that was where it ended. He jumped when Simone called from the kitchen.
“Jason, would you like some iced tea?”
There it was again. Strangeness. What happened to: “Glunt, if you’re thirsty you can get yourself some tea in the kitchen?” Before he could respond, Simone stepped into the room carrying two tall sweating glasses of the brown elixir. He’d lost count of how many glasses of tea he’d consumed in the past twenty-four hours, but he was pretty sure there was a twelve-step program in his future. Southerners and their iced tea.
Simone handed him the cold glass, her face did not share the affliction of friendliness in her voice. Worry, fear, and loathing splashed across it, waves on a tossing sea of desperation. The sight of Simone’s excruciating anguish, made worse by her forced attempts at pleasantries, drove home the rusty spike of dread that had dogged Jason since the phone call in Houston. Nobody said anything about kidnapping her son, about killing the nanny. Who knew what else those morons had done? He nodded a thank you and looked away. He could fix this deal and everything would be all right.
Logan appeared from the hallway, a mound of silent violence on two feet. He gave Jason a look with no attempt to disguise his complete and utter contempt for all things Jason Glunt. “The ftp site is ready.” Logan spoke to Simone but never took his eyes off Jason. “We need to talk about how this thing will go down.”
Simone nodded. “I’ll get you some tea.”
“I’m fine. I’ve had enough sweet tea to piss popsicles. Where’s Lester?”
Jason shrugged. “He said something about cocoons and inventory and headed toward the woods. I guess that’s the butterfly collection.” He didn’t care where Lester was, as long as he wasn’t left alone with him.
“That’s what he calls the bunker,” Simone said. “The cocoon.”
Logan grudgingly released his stare and turned to Simone. “I need to talk to Lester about that when we get done here. I’m going to need some of his…supplies.” Logan took Simone gently by the arm and guided her to the plaid couch where he took a seat beside her.
Jason saw it, brief, but distinct. When Logan touched Simone or looked at her face, his demeanor changed. For all Logan’s strength and cunning, his battle-hardened steel persona, he was powerless when it came to her. Simone was Logan’s kryptonite.
Jason resisted the temptation to look at his Swiss watch and sat in the cracked, fake leather recliner, trying to look at ease.
Simone spoke with the detached authority that comes from knowing. “Jason, I cannot let you take Samuel’s place. I will do it. He is my son; this is my problem. It is statistically unlikely that you will be able to respond appropriately to changing variables as we proceed.” Simone paused awkwardly as if an afterthought entered her mind. “Thank you for offering to help. I do think your idea, in general, is the best way to rescue Samuel.”
Jason panicked and looked at his watch. Seven minutes. “Look, Simone, nobody’s unhappier than me about going over to those yahoos, but we’ve been through this. You will put a locked, compiled version of IRIS on the ftp site today for them to download. When they exchange me for Samuel, we give them the first key. That key will let them unlock the app and test it. After three decryption tests that prove the algorithm works, it will lock up again. You give them the second key in exchange for me. If the second key is not entered within twenty-four hours, the app self-deletes.”
“The second key causes the application to decompile into source code, so they can be sure they will be never locked out again,” Logan added. “At that point, the assholes will truly have possession of the IRIS algorithm.” Logan avoided looking at Simone.
“That’s when it becomes Logan’s job to find them and shut them down before they get a chance to use it,” Jason said. Logan could smash him like a rotten grape, but he couldn’t help himself. “I can do my job. Can you do yours?”
“Jason, I cannot—”
“Simone, listen to me. You’re a genius with numbers. I’m a deal maker. It’s what I do. This is the best chance we have. It’s a shitty hand, but it’s the best cards we have.”
Simone dropped her head. Logan stared in contempt. Jason continued.
“Besides, if they have me, what have they got? Something they will certainly want to trade for that second key. If they have you, they have it all. No need to trade.”
“They already have me,” Simone said.
“As bad as I hate to say it,” Logan sighed. “Jason’s right about that last part. You can’t be the one, Simone.”
After more discussion, arguing, and fact challenging, Simone succumbed to the logic of it all. Three minutes after three o’clock. Jason worried that his fidgeting would start to be obvious. He sprang up to pace again just as the phone rang in the next room. The shock almost caused an ice tea leak in his pants.
Logan looked at Simone, resolute, businesslike. “That’s your call. I routed the phones. You’ve got the ball.”
Simone walked quickly into the next room. They followed close behind. In the middle of the second ring, she pressed the speaker button on the IP phone. The adjacent computer began recording the call. Simone leaned in close to the speaker as Logan had told her. She didn’t want to sound like she was on speakerphone.
“Yes,” Simone said.
“You will deliver the IRIS algorithm within the next hour or the boy dies.” The electronic voice was curt, agitated. Jason thought it was more rapid than before. He hadn’t expected the ultimatum.
Simone didn’t hesitate. “It will take more than an hour to get the application onto the ftp site we have set up, but probably not more than two hours. I will not give you the key to open the application until you release my son.”
“You’re in no position to tell me how this is going to work. You will deliver the application in working condition or the boy dies.”
“Actually, bitch, I am in a perfect position to tell you exactly how this is going to work. Listen carefully.”
A loud cracking noise sent Jason into crouch position. A melting ice cube had popped in the pitcher of tea. Looking cool was out of the question, so he listened intently as Simone described the exchange scenario. She must be terrified beyond belief, but she delivered the information with the stern authority and detachment of a college professor relating the scope of tomorrow’s calculus test. The gold burst around her dilated pupils flashed like lightning as her eyes ticked rhythmically back and forth. He wished he could see the numbers through those glassy portals, the formulas, the data being crunched and concatenated. She was magnificently inhuman, like nothing he’d ever witnessed. He grew cold and drained just being near her raging brain.
Simone finished and there was silence for a minute or more.
When the voice returned, it was calmer, almost whimsical even with the modulating voice changer. “Start driving west on I-10 at precisely five o’clock in the morning. You will receive instructions en route to the exchange point.” They heard a noise that may have been a garbled laugh. “We know where you are. We can find you as we did your recently deceased colleagues from the IRIS project. If you don’t deliver the application precisely as planned, you can be sure we will come for you, and the boy will die. Even your hotshot husband won’t be able to stop us.”
