The IRIS Algorithm, page 26
“You assume that you and Logan have the same mission,” Martin said. “Burns made a connection between AEM and Ricky Jackson’s death. He discussed this with Logan on my plane. I believe Logan’s mission changed. Think about it Simone, Logan has sought revenge for ten years.”
“He would not risk his own son’s life for revenge?” I meant it as a statement; it came out a question. In turmoil, my mind flip-flopped. I wanted to ask about his reference to Burns, but I was trying to process more information than my deteriorating mind could manage.
“Last week Logan didn’t even know he had a son,” Martin said.
“I left!”
“He could have easily found you.” Martin sighed. “Simone, that’s what he does. Logan knows who he is and what he is. That’s why he didn’t look for you. I’ve known him longer than I’ve known you. You have to trust me when I tell you he’s on his own mission now.”
“He loves me and—”
“No, he doesn’t, but I do. I always have.”
To escape the dizziness, I closed my eyes and sought comfort in the numbers. My mind was chaos. Random numbers collided, desperate in their search for relief. Flashes of white light pierced the dark corners of my mind. Tendrils of pain pushed from the back of my head and curled down my spine.
“Simone? Are you there?”
I could not speak. I tightened my closed eyes and worked hard to line up the jumble of numbers and broken shapes into something meaningful. I thought back to the old man tapping cobblestones.
“Simone? Can you hear me?”
I peeked from my eyes, squinting against the painful light of day. “Yes, I hear you Martin.” The weakness in my voice pissed me off. “You are wrong.”
“I hate that I’m the one to tell you about Logan, but remember, no matter how bad it seems it’s never—”
“No. And, you are wrong about loving me. Even God does not love me.”
Martin prattled for five minutes, his mom-and-apple pie voice store bought and warmed over. He spoke about the special bond he had felt for me since the first time we met. He reminded me that our great minds worked together to create something even greater. He rambled about making an investment in the future all those years ago, which I assumed was a reference to how much money he spent to get me through the nuthouse phase of my life. There was something about statues and sea nymphs. It sounded like the gawky confessions of a post-nerd-stage, schoolboy. I doubted he was shooting for that image. I was vaguely aware when he changed to placating me.
“Think of it, Simone. When word of IRIS gets out, the whole world will beg for a solution, a solution we can give them. It will take time, of course, but everyone will understand that the only person who can create an IRIS proof, encryption system is the person who created IRIS. We’ll own the entire global security architecture for at least the next twenty years.”
He honestly believes the world will tout me as their messiah? He is crazier than I am. The world will hate all of us.
“Twenty years,” I mumbled. “Hopefully, you can arrange for a few good computers and a decent Internet connection in my jail cell. You seem to be forgetting IRIS was a top secret NSA project and is in the wild because of me.”
“IRIS is in the wild because of AEM, because a dangerous cyber-terrorist organization kidnapped your son and killed numerous people to steal it. Leave that part to me. We have to get you out of there before things get irrevocably worse. Before Logan crosses lines we can’t recover from.”
“Martin, listen to me very carefully. I care about one thing. Getting my son back.” My voice quivered but not from weakness, fatigue, or pain. The numbers in my head had settled into comfortable patterns and shapes. My determination rose with angular precision.
“Of course. We’re doing everything humanly possible to rescue Samuel. I’ll get the proper authorities involved as soon as we’re off the phone. You can tell Logan or not. It’s up to you, but I’m not waiting any longer.” Martin paused, the sound of a seagull squawked in the background. “What I’m about to say is going to be difficult for you to hear. If you want Samuel to survive, you must do exactly what I say.”
His words fell from somewhere far above me, strings from the puppeteer. How long had he manipulated me? How long had he controlled my thoughts? How long had he limited my movements?
Then, I knew.
CHAPTER 61
After I relayed my conversation with Martin, Logan stopped talking. I thought I did a reasonable job of relaying the information. Logan appeared not to appreciate my commitment to accuracy. I included Martin’s lame declaration of love, which was, of course, nothing more than his childish attempt to win my support. Oddly, Logan appreciated that information least of all. I began to think Logan hated data. I was not sure if we were following some security protocols that forbid talking on the street, or if we were no longer on speaking terms. The dour look on his face, and the fact that I had to jog to keep up, were data points supporting the latter.
The walk from Marienplatz to the Hotel Torbräu was quick Hurrying down the crowded street, Logan scanned left and right, up and down. I was not sure what to look for, but I did it too. There were odd little statues like those glockenspiel figures on the town hall built into the second and third story corners of some buildings. Common sense said they were supposed to be good luck or artistic, maybe subliminal advertisements for beer halls, but I did not like the way they looked at me.
Part of my brain puzzled over the new data from Martin. The model would not work no matter how I shoved the data around. Martin loved me? What a load of crap. He was a friend, a mentor of sorts. What was this gushy love inference? First, it was not like Martin. Second, it was not true. For once, I ignored what the numbers said. Whatever Martin wanted, it had to be big, big, for him to make a declaration of love.
Logan and I blew through the sleek wood paneled lobby of our hotel. I followed in his wake, immune to the efficient “Guten tag” declared from behind the front desk. It was not a good day. It got worse by the minute. There was no use arguing with people paid and trained to ‘guten tag’ no matter what.
Alone in the elevator, I tried again. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“I already did. Martin is right. You should leave Munich immediately.”
“I didn’t ask you that question. I will decide for myself when I leave Munich.” Logan was pissing me off. I calculated an 84 percent chance that it was intentional. “I asked you if you had anything to do with killing Obadiah Skeffington.”
On the fourth floor, Logan exploded into the hallway before the elevator doors fully opened. I jogged to catch up. As we rounded the corner to our room, we nearly bowled over an elderly woman walking a miniature Schnauzer. The shaggy-faced dog barked and snarled at Logan. They stared at each other, deciding who was going to bite whom and where.
I apologized to the old woman who had the clearest blue eyes I had ever seen. She cheerfully babbled in German, said something to the dog, yanked the leash, and moved down the hall. The schnauzer’s eyes followed Logan with a it-is-your-lucky-day glare.
The most direct path from the hotel’s revolving front door to our room had not changed. Right, left, right, right. Given a choice, I prefer to turn left. I have no idea why. Our step count was off because of the long strides required to keep up with Logan, and the incident with the old woman completely ruined the equation. Somehow, we still made it to our room.
Logan snatched out his cell phone, dialed, and after a brief delay, spoke. “We’re here.” He hung up and scanned the suite, looked in the closets, bathroom, out the window through a narrow gap in the curtain. I checked under the bed.
“Günter will be here soon. We don’t have much time.”
“Then talk to me. You know ignoring me never works.”
“I’m not ignoring you. I’m trying to decide which of us is the bigger idiot.”
I have never been good at identifying sarcasm, but I was pretty sure this was not it. Before I could assemble a proper argument to explain statistically why it was likely he was the bigger idiot, he continued.
“He was right there under our nose the whole time, the arrogant son of a bitch. Played us all the way.” Logan kicked the desk chair, and it smashed against the desk, sending the lamp rattling to the floor. “He did this, Simone!”
“Who? Martin?” The power march from the Internet café did nothing to improve his opinion of Martin. “I do not understand why you think Martin is behind all this. We need to stay focused on facts. Please answer my question about Roland Blax.”
“Is that how it works, Simone?” Heat crashed off Logan. “You want to check my data against Stafford’s data, see which set bears up under your analysis?”
That was how I typically approached problems of data disparity. The thunderous weight of Logan’s glare convinced me it was not a prudent time to share the advantages of that critical thinking methodology. “Why are you so angry at me? We need data to solve this problem.” I waved my hand in the air as I marched and talked. “Not all this emotion. Not revenge.” I should not have added the last part.
“Stafford is already in your head, planting seeds, nurturing them, watching them grow.” An eerie calm spread over Logan’s surface, though fire blazed in his eyes. “He thinks he knows how far I’ll go. He has no idea how far I’ve already gone for things far less important than this.” Through the gap in the curtains, the afternoon sunlight slashed a thin saber line across Logan’s body. “Simone, you need more than data to solve this problem. You have to have faith. Listen to your gut.”
“I do have faith, faith in the data.”
Logan shook his head. “Faith is belief without data. Do you trust me?”
“Of course I do. I…I love you.”
Logan turned away from the window, his face hard and certain, his eyes no longer filled with murderous rage. “Tell you what. You can choose. I’ll answer your question about Blax with 100 percent brutal honesty, or you can choose to trust me. Have faith that whatever I’ve done, whatever I’m doing, is completely for the benefit of you and Samuel.”
It was a test; one I was poised to fail. Logan wanted me to trust him, to have faith in him, to believe in him without data. He wanted me to believe in him in spite of the data. He acted just like Martin said he would. I tried my best to be different, to make the computations stop, to remember the blind euphoria of my love for Logan. I failed.
“I need the data.”
Logan’s shoulders dropped slightly. A slow blink. A deep breath.
“Okay. I’ll give you your precious data. You’re going to be very disappointed.” Logan stepped closer, the smell of August heat under his cotton shirt. “I had nothing to do with killing Obadiah Skeffington. I did not contact Roland Blax. I was not involved in any way, directly or indirectly. Happy?”
Oddly, I was disappointed. I was prepared to hear him confess that he had done it for any number of logical reasons. It was all part of some grand plan and out of necessity, withheld from me. Now I had more unknowns in the equation. If not Logan, who? Was he lying? He didn’t look like he was lying, but that was part of his skill set.
“You think Martin is responsible for killing Skeffington? Responsible for all of this?”
“Stafford has enough contacts in the intelligence community and more than enough money to get someone like Roland Blax involved.” Logan found a thought floating in the fog. “Would VTI encryption work against IRIS?”
“No. The VTI encryption method, like all the others, is based on the difficulty of factoring the products of large primes. Brute force cracking would take a hundred years for a supercomputer.”
“VTI’s products would be useless if someone possessed the IRIS algorithm?”
I could almost see his brain calculating.
“I finally agree with you… you were the target ten years ago. Not Ricky.”
“Why didn’t they try again?”
“You went off the radar. Changed your name.”
“Martin helped with all of that. He paid for Glenn Haven. He personally picked me up when I checked out. Gave me a job. He always knew—”
“Exactly where you were,” Logan said.
I appreciated him not smiling.
“My guess is he decided it was better to keep you close instead of eliminating you. You improved his VTI encryption products. He paid you a fortune, gave you anonymity, kept you like a caged bird.”
A puppet. The pain in my head reignited. Sharp-edged numbers pierced the tender walls of my brain. Flashing pangs of light impaled the back of my skull. My personal, sickening, lighting attack. “Why would he do all this now? Why would he be involved with AEM?”
“I don’t know. We’re missing puzzle pieces.” Logan paced and tried to rub the fatigue from his face. “Did Martin ever ask you about your NSA work? IRIS specifically?
The IRIS algorithm had been a major point of contention between Martin and me in the early years of my VTI employment. It did not seem like the right time to discuss that with Logan. From the time I met Martin, he knew more than I thought possible about the inner workings of NSA and about IRIS. What the hell; Logan could not hate me more than he already did.
“Yes. Martin knew about IRIS—not from me.” The words crackled in my mouth with a metallic tang and the pungent smell of ozone, signs of impending lightning. “He knew the objective of the project, which was a decryption master key.” I could barely look at Logan. “We argued a lot about it in the first couple of years. Martin wanted me to build an encryption engine that could not be defeated by IRIS.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I would have to use the principles of the IRIS algorithm to design new encryption architecture. I would have to give him the IRIS algorithm in the process.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“No. He probably surmised as much. I told him the truth. The IRIS Project failed to deliver a workable solution.”
“Didn’t Martin know it worked one battery of tests? The one you made work for Dr. Yu’s funding?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you wonder how Stafford knew so much about a secret NSA project?”
I knew the answer should be yes, but it would be a lie. I shook my throbbing head.
“Why did you agree to go to Houston? I know it wasn’t because Jason asked you.”
“Martin said there was an enormous, potential client there who wanted to meet his most senior, technical architect.” The heaviness in my chest, a sad weight of undeniable facts, squeezed and shoved me through a narrow funnel of inevitability.
“Martin knows Dr. Yu.” I stared down at the carpet and noticed for the first time the wear and stains. “No matter how bad it seems, it can always get worse.”
CHAPTER 62
Logan accepted the black leather satchel from Günter without checking the contents. He trusted everything would be there. Their conversation was short, standing just inside the hotel room. Pummeled with too much new data, Simone watched from across the room. She struggled to analyze and bare the hidden laws of a probable outcome. It was a mistake to take counsel of your fears when the battle was inevitable, especially when the odds against you were overwhelming.
“It is a most terrible plan,” Günter’s lips curled in a half snarl that passed for a smile. A row of crooked teeth, stained and chipped, emerged in his meaty face. “It may be stupid enough to work.” His husky laugh didn’t break Simone’s concentration. “Besides, no schwanzlutscher lives forever.” The air in the room shifted as Günter turned his mountainous form and left. The stale scent of unfiltered cigarettes and bitter espresso triple shots hung in his wake. No matter what, Günter and his people would do their part.
Logan faced Simone. After getting past the shock of hearing from her, there had been a fleeting moment when he thought he had been given a second chance. A chance to get it right. A chance to cleanse what was left of his polluted heart. He should have known better. In fact, he knew better. He just forgot for a moment. It came down to this.
“That was less than a robust endorsement of the plan,” Simone said. “Are you sure this is what we should do?”
As she done on the plane, she had eavesdropped. “Hell no! I’m not sure. Are you sure you want to trust me rather than that worthless bastard, Martin Stafford?” Logan fought to regain his composure. He reached into the satchel, pulled out two spare clips of 9 mm hollow points, and stuffed them into the pockets of his jeans. He checked the tail of his loose fitting shirt to make sure it covered the Sig Sauer P226 tucked in the small of his back. If there was any chance of pulling this off, he had to keep it together. “This plan is all we’ve got. With Stafford going to the authorities, we don’t have time for anything elegant.” He looked at his watch and shook his head. “I’m going in at four o’clock local time, which means we have less than thirty minutes. You should take Martin up on his offer and leave.”
“I do not fully trust Martin. Your theory raises some serious questions.”
“Yeah, well, not trusting Martin is not the same as saying you do trust me. Leave. I don’t need you for this.” He avoided her searching eyes. He took the battery out of his cell phone and made sure the satellite phone Stafford gave him was switched on. Stafford was tracking them with it, so he needed to toss it—like in the back of a moving garbage truck.
“You know I am not going to do that. I am not leaving here without my son.”
“Our son. And yeah, I thought that’s what you’d say. I don’t have time to argue with you.” He reached into the satchel and withdrew a spare Sig and two clips. “Here, stick this somewhere.” He slung the satchel over his shoulder, the strap across his chest.
