The IRIS Algorithm, page 2
“Well, I am nervous and upset. It does not matter. The important thing is we have to get my laptop back.”
“Don’t take it so hard. The company will provide you another one if we can’t find it.”
“This is not a company computer. This is my computer. My computer has a lot of things on it that do not belong to the company.” Rachael and her long, shapely legs paced barefoot on the worn carpet, a panther gone stir crazy at the zoo.
Jason frowned and tried to look extremely thoughtful and concerned. He mostly tried not to look directly at Rachael’s nipples, formed in perfect outline on the time-softened tee shirt. “VTI doesn’t allow the use of non-company equipment.”
“Martin is aware. We have an understanding.”
The illustrious Martin Stafford was the ultimate trump card. “You know, we have the other laptop.” He nodded at the laptop on the desk. “We could use it for the conference tomorrow while we work on getting yours back. The person with your laptop is probably just as eager to get this straightened out as you are. ”
“That laptop belongs to the kind of people who do not want anyone else using it. I am positive they are as anxious as I am to switch back.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There is some kind of heavy duty encryption routine that runs on start up. I have not seen anything like that since…in a long time. We cannot just load our prototype on there and use it for a day. It will not work.”
“You have to use it,” Jason said. “We’re going to lose the biggest deal of the year if you don’t. As far as cracking the encryption code, you can do it, right?”
Rachel’s look could fry eggs.
“I’m just saying,” he whispered.
“I do not need to waste time screwing around with somebody else’s laptop,” Rachel said. “I will have the company send one by overnight delivery, but we have to postpone our demo for a day or two.” She looked at Jason’s undersized tablet PC and arched her left eyebrow. “That little thing of yours will not get the job done.”
Jason resisted the urge to cross his hands over his groin.
“I have done the math,” Rachael said. “If we act immediately, there is better than a 72 percent chance I will get my laptop back intact. And, if you are wondering, there is zero percent chance company information is compromised in any way. I have taken care of that.”
“You really are just about the numbers, aren’t you?”
Without the slightest hesitation, without malice, Rachael repeated what he’d heard her say a hundred times. “Numbers do not lie. Only people do.”
CHAPTER 3
MOBILE, ALABAMA – 3:07 A.M. CDT
Obadiah Skeffington was officially an old man, eighty-four years in the making. It was a difficult and unsavory thing to admit that the ticking in his head was the game clock winding down on his quintessential life. An important life. A disciplined life. An enlightened life. So much left to do and only imbeciles to do it.
He moved past the state docks where Royal Street dead ended, past the coal barges tied against the sooty quay, past the marshalling yard to the decrepit building squatted at the end of the oyster shell road. The humid air hung heavy with the smell of muck and marsh and spilled diesel. The abandoned warehouse was well off the road, a shambled collection of corrugated tin held together by rust and rot. The owner didn’t mind if they used it for a while, because the owner was one of the many shell corporations controlled by Skeffington, LLC. How delightfully convenient, he mused, brushing a tad of lint from the shoulder of his navy blue pinstripe suit.
Good Christians, sleeping soundly in their cozy homes in the suburbs, never dreamed of such places. They never considered what it took to win a war, a war they didn’t know they were in.
Eventually, they will thank me.
He looked at his watch. Just after three o’clock in the morning. He would have what he came for by first light.
Inside the creaking structure, Obadiah found his two daughters, Patience and Virtue, standing close in the semi-darkness. A dingy circle of light spit from a large bulb of small wattage and kept the sweating darkness at bay. The rickety light fixture hung precariously from a corroded wire in the stale air above them. Not far away, in the cavernous darkness beyond the pale yellow light, the sounds of weeping and vomiting reverberated against the metal walls, the concrete floor, and indeterminate hard things. The inconsolable song of the damned floated upward in the darkness, like a nightingale.
Virtue Skeffington folded one thin arm across her midsection and propped the elbow of her other on it thoughtfully. “Father, is this really the best way?” She unconsciously tapped her full pink lips with her manicured index finger, the glossy, clear nail polish glistening like icicles in the dim light.
Her father, feeling every day of his eighty-four years, sighed and stared into the darkness. The decades encircled him. The days conspired against him. The minutes licked their lips preparing to devour him, soul and all. Fortunately, he didn’t have a soul.
“Virtue, my dear, I thought by now you understood that in all wars some must perish. Fate is a cruel certainty.” He regarded the younger of his two daughters with benevolent disdain. The kind of pity reserved for runt puppies and orphans past their cute.
“Father, you underestimate me.” Unconsciously, Virtue tugged at a tuft of her straight, blonde hair escaping from the orderly French braid. “I couldn’t care less if they perish. I only wonder if this is the best way to get the information we need. Time is running out, and the other two expired before giving us anything useful.” Virtue’s revulsion showed as she steeled herself against the commotion in the shadows. The anxiety on her narrow face made her pale skin translucent in the weak light.
Bile rose into Obadiah’s throat. How could he have sired such weakness?
“She has a point, Father. Sometimes fast is slow.” Patience Skeffington, thirty-nine years of age, the older sister by eighteen months, ran her long, red nails through a silky shock of her black hair. Cropped short in the back and dyed black as pitch, it swept past her chin in front. Her plunging sleeveless blouse, revealed the lean muscular form of an athlete; the kind of body one inherited not created. “Apparently, extending their pathetic lives a little longer isn’t sufficient incentive to assure cooperation. We need better leverage.”
The sound of heavy boots shuffling on dirty cement echoed in the darkness, a sadistic dance between the unwilling and the unmerciful. Something bumped hard, wooden table legs screeched across concrete followed by the wet thud of a sweaty back thrown with indifference onto solid oak. The weeping turned into a woman whimpering, her pleas cut short by smothered gagging. The sound of water pouring relentlessly spattered the hard floor. The questions kept coming even as the woman drowned on dry land.
In his practiced way, Skeffington eyed his oldest daughter, first smiling then frowning, knowing and not telling in his same frightening glare. “Patience, my dear, enlighten us. I see from the look in your eye you have a plan. Overcoming an unwarranted sense of propriety and fair play is an important step toward enlightened leadership. Important qualities for The Movement.”
The tinkling sound of a belt buckle being unfastened floated from the darkness. More shuffling. The loud smack of leather against bare skin. The questions stopped, the gagging stopped, and helpless groaning began. A deep growl, harsh and guttural, kept time with the slap of skin on skin.
“I believe our interrogators are succeeding more in sport than results.” Patience craned her neck and strained to see past the stacked crates separating the world of the living from the soon to be dead. “Enjoying themselves a bit too much.” Patience’s ice blue eyes danced with excitement.
“Come now, dear sister,” Virtue said, “you enjoyed the gentleman you interrogated last week quite a lot, poor fellow.” Virtue tried unsuccessfully to mimic the look of disdain she had endured so many times from her father.
“Oh, don’t be such a prude.” Patience stepped forward, peering between the crates for a better view of the action. “He liked it. Well. Some of it. I’m not so narrow-minded that I wouldn’t do the same, more or less, for this poor woman if there’s anything left after Father’s goons finish.” Patience looked over her shoulder, a pout on her red wet lips. “Terribly sorry. I meant Father’s security specialists.”
Obadiah checked his watch. The incessant ticking in his head seemed louder with each grunt and moan from the nearby darkness. He wouldn’t let on, but he felt ill. This new weakness made him angry. The time to hand over the reins grew near.
“You both disappoint me!” Despite his age and ailments, Obadiah rose to his full six-foot-three-inch height. His voice reverberated off the corrugated tin walls. “The pivotal moment for The Movement is upon us. The world is poised to be reborn, wrenched from the clammy hands of traitorous and vile politicians who wish to sell us into bondage. And the two of you, my own blood, who shall be responsible for carrying forward the global operations of The Movement, stand here like hapless goats. I spent over forty years waiting for this moment. I will wait no longer. What is your plan to retrieve what we need?”
Obadiah watched Virtue clench her teeth and struggle to find a response. She was smart and focused, but she needed time to analyze what went wrong with prior attempts to gain the information they desperately needed, then develop a viable alternative. She did not think well on her feet.
Patience turned from the crates and walked toward him, slowly, deliberately, unafraid. Muscles, twitchy and taut, her eyes bored into his wrinkled forehead. “The woman in Houston, the one with our laptop, has a son.”
CHAPTER 4
HOUSTON, TEXAS – 7:37 A.M. CDT
From time to time, I wondered exactly how God determined what kind of tragedy to visit upon a person. Most victims of God’s perfect love probably thought it had something to do with the terribleness of their offense. Logical, but the facts did not support that theory. I had begun to question whether God had a system.
Three hours ago, I called the front desk from Jason’s room to get my key. A skeptical fellow in a black shirt with a gold nametag displaying M. Garcia brought it to me. Mine was indeed a skeptical story, but I refused to go to the front desk wearing nothing but the free, five-year-old, tee shirt I got at a project launch party. M. Garcia nodded his head five times—a nice low prime number—each time I answered one of his inane questions. Most people only nod three times, indicating they were not listening, which made me wary of M. Garcia. Finally convinced that I was just a near naked, thirty-eight-year-old woman trying to regain entry to my own room, M. Garcia gave me the key.
It was awkward to be vetted without the reassurance of underwear.
New key in hand, I left Jason to play with the weird laptop. I could not sleep. There were plenty of good reasons not to travel. The mathematical probabilities of unfavorable outcomes were staggering. More than that, I felt uneasy away from my ten-year-old son, Samuel. Rosalita, the nanny, was a wonderful woman. I knew he was in good hands, but I was sure they would feel better if they could talk to me. If I had brought them with me, I could probably sleep. The advantages of home schooling were not advantages if you did not take advantage of them. The numbers in my head made me punchy. I had this argument with myself two weeks ago, and lost. Samuel missed the last two monthly outings with the home school group because of me. He would not miss the one this week due to his needy mother.
I looked at my watch, again. I looked at the clock bolted to the side table, again. I looked at the time on the weather channel, again. Even the most ambitious timekeeper advised me to wait another twenty-three minutes to call home. It was 7:37 a.m. local time in Houston, two hours earlier in California. Rosalita was an early riser but calling before 6:00 a.m. seemed desperately neurotic. I was, but did not have to appear that way. On the other hand, Rosalita knew I was neurotic.
When I got back to my room, I tried to relax in a hot bath. I shaved my legs up to my armpits in case Jason spread rumors about me making cricket noises rubbing my legs together. I slathered myself from head to toe with the hotel body lotion and learned why it was free. The slimy stuff smelled like a mix of coconut, mint, and wet dog. I walked around naked feeling like an escapee from a Taiwanese eel farm, hoping air was a sufficient deslimification agent. It was not. I showered, dug out my stash of Sun Ripened Raspberry body cream from Bed Bath and Beyond, and used it sparingly.
I am not cheap—just frugal in a decidedly Spartan sort of way.
I had no personal affection for my missing laptop. Having an emotional attachment to a piece of hardware, especially a laptop, would be kinky. Of course, my friend Marcy seemed to have a symbiotic relationship with some of her personal hardware. She bought me one of her favorites and delivered it in a brown paper bag. She thought the bag was funny. I thought it was appropriate. I could not get past the paranoia that I might have to explain myself to an EMT if something was stuck or there was a short circuit. How could they possibly perform quality assurance testing on those things?
I think too much.
One thing I did not do was lose things. Okay, so I lost my mind temporarily about a decade ago, but I mostly found it again.
The forecast had been revised to 40 percent chance of rain with the possibility of afternoon thundershowers, some possibly severe. My heart sprouted wings, flapping in my throat ready to fly out of my mouth.
“Weathermen are all alike. I wish I got paid for being wrong 87 percent of the time.” I was momentarily dizzy. My astraphobia—intense fear of thunder and lightning—got worse every year. “That’s just great. This is shaping up to be a banner day. What’s next, locust?”
I resisted the urge to throw the remote at the television. After an object was thrown, the mathematical possibilities, especially when it involved electronics or jewelry, defied any reasonable model to predict a statistically sound list of likely consequences. If you had to throw something, fruit and vegetables were a better choice. Where was a rotten banana when you needed it?
I decided to join Jason for breakfast. The thought was no less nauseating than when he asked me earlier, but I needed something to do. I reversed the sequence of steps that brought me to my room and arrived at point of origin. The registration area was awash with conference goers: minty fresh smiles, power suits, canvas shoulder bags, and fancy credential wallets dangled on adjustable cords around eager necks. As a rule, I refused to wear name badges, conference chic or not, and that earned me a few edgy stares as I blew past the registration desk. It was understandable. Only nobodies and ultimate somebodies roamed unbranded. It was difficult being both and neither.
“Rae Lo!” Jason called from the continental breakfast café.
So much for anonymity.
“Rae Lo! Glad you changed your mind.” Jason beamed, a mouthful of perfect teeth bleached to the color of fluorescent light. “Have a seat.” It was a small round table with only two chairs.
“That will be awkward since somebody is sitting in the other chair.” Another fellow VTI employee smiled up at me.
“Oh, Dave is leaving. Hey man, I’ll hit you back later today.” Jason winked. Dave winked. I winked involuntarily. “I have some extra drink tickets for the reception tonight.”
Dave got up with slight nod and a smile so sharp you could shave with it. His full cup of coffee and untouched croissant gave me the impression he had planned to stay awhile.
“That’s Dave Luster, marketing. You’ve met him, right?”
“I have seen him. Social security number 717904511. I do not think we have been introduced.”
“Come on. You expect me to believe you know his social security number but don’t know his name? You’re a hoot.”
It occurred to me that I had never considered what a hoot was. Maybe knowing employee social security numbers made me one. It was not as if I tried. A mean and borderline stupid idea entered my brain.
“I can see you’re an unbeliever. Give me your hand.”
Jason cautiously stretched out his left hand, which was odd since he was right-handed. Maybe he was saving his good hand in case I did something unsavory. I held his four fingers in my right hand, palm upward, and traced a circle in his palm with my left index finger. It seemed dramatic and mystical, although, from the look on Jason’s face he got somewhere else in a hurry. I killed the mood.
“Social security number 495892976.”
Jason snatched his hand back. “How did you do that?”
“Aw, Jason, if you had given me twelve more seconds, I could have recited your personal demographics, including your various body dimensions. I was getting something, but it seemed small even for someone of your diminutive stature.”
“Very funny. My stature is just fine. As a matter of fact I’ve got—”
I had a sudden flash of Jason standing up, unzipping his pants, and proving the state of his stature. That image alone was sufficient punishment for my meanness.
Yes, God, I get it. I am a work in progress. You know that.
“Oh, please! I give up. I will tell you the trick.”
“Remember the hullabaloo a few years ago when the company promised they would not use our social security numbers as personal identifiers and issued everyone new employee numbers?”
“Sort of,” Jason said.
“They used some, childish, deterministic, Caesar cipher to convert everyone’s social into a new employee number. I mean really. A substitution cipher? I figured it out before lunch. When I see VTI employees with their employee ID blazing on their security badge, I cannot help but see their social security number. Get it?”
“Not really. So, the hand thing… that was—?”
“Absolutely nothing at all.”
Jason sprouted a pornographic grin and I added that particular act of theatrical nonsense to my list of things never to do again.
