The IRIS Algorithm, page 5
Dr. Blinky said excessive sarcasm was a sign of antisocial behavior. I thought it was kinder than pointing out how stupid most people’s questions were. Forget their answers. This time, maybe Dr. Blinky was right. Plus, there was something fermenting in the back of my brain; it felt like full on hysteria. For Samuel’s sake, I had to keep that contain it.
As much as Jason irritated me, it was not a good time to be alone. He was trying to help. The sadness in his eyes looked painfully familiar to me, a child trying to measure up, trying to help, and longing for validation. For once, I saw Jason as a real person, one who experienced real life with details I knew nothing about. I knew what that was like.
“Jason, I am sorry. That was uncalled for.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. It was a stupid question. I meant…oh, I don’t know what I meant.”
I knew Jason needed something else. Not an apology, more like forgiveness. I knew what that felt like, too. Forgiveness from others meant very little when you cannot forgive yourself.
Jason recovered something that approximated confidence. “What did she sound like?” The honesty that had accidentally floated to the surface was gone.
“Her voice was electronically altered. Sounded like Darth Vader.” I was not trying to be flippant. It did.
“Then how do you know it was a woman?”
“Only a woman would be observant enough to notice Samuel’s eyes and then be cruel enough to tell me.” My voice sounded distant, foreign. “It was a woman—a very mean, sadistic, and dangerous woman.” I fought hard to keep it under control. If I lost it, Jason probably would too. Then, Samuel had no hope. “If I do not find her soon, Samuel will die. I am certain of that.” I could not pretend to be Rachael Logan anymore. I had taken drastic steps to protect the ones I loved. For some idiotic reason I thought it would work, at least for them. I knew what was in store for me.
We argued for several minutes about what we should do. The arguing gave me something to focus on besides the haunting, endless loop of my son crying for help. I was grateful that Jason talked about what we should do. He was still on my side, at least for now. When he realized the profound and irreversible depth of my predicament, he would not be.
There was no logical way to explain why going to the police was a bad idea. If I was in jail, I could not help Samuel. Jason did not know I had options that were far more effective than the FBI. That is, I had options if Logan Ranes, my tragically-lost-but-not-quite-dead husband, could be convinced to help. If Logan could get past hearing from me after a decade of silence, he would help.
The thought of speaking to Logan weighed on me, thick memories sweet as cane syrup and equally sickening. I knew this day would come. I still was not prepared. I needed to talk to Martin first. Jason agreed though probably for different reasons. Like most VTI employees, Jason revered Martin as the lofty and somewhat mystical CEO, the visionary leader of what had become a multi-billion dollar, international, technology corporation. For me, Martin was my friend, my protector, my savior.
I could never repay him for all he did for Samuel and me—the money, the job, the flexibility of working from home so I could spend time with Samuel. Martin had been integral to turning my life around at the lowest point of my arguably low existence. He was not the father I never had, because I most definitely had one. He was the father I had not let down yet. He was the father who did not see his dead son every time he looked at me.
I got through to Martin’s private line immediately. In one long, run-on sentence, I babbled out what had transpired. I got lightheaded a few times and sat on the corner of the bed. I hoped I would not wake up to Jason giving me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I kept Martin on speakerphone, so I did not have to repeat the conversation. Martin was one of those people who exuded confidence and commanded respect in any circumstance.
“All right. I think I’ve got the picture,” Martin said. He was a good listener with a mind that latched onto the important points like the proverbial steel trap. “I agree that we don’t need to contact the FBI right now. If you change your mind at any time, Simone, let me know. I will personally call the Director of the FBI. I assure you he will take my call.”
“Thanks, Martin.” I desperately needed to factor a few Mersennes primes, but with Martin involved, the urge lessened. Samuel and Rosalita were in the hands of some very bad people who wanted something far more valuable than money.
Why could they not just want money? I have more money than I know what to do with.
“I don’t know what else to say, Martin, but thank you so much.”
“Simone, you keep your head about you,” Martin said. “We’re going to get Samuel back, and we’re going to tie this thing off once and for all. Jason, listen carefully. Whatever you had planned, cancel it. I need you to stay with Simone until further notice. Your corporate credit card is now programmed to have no limit. Simone’s already has no limit. Whatever you need, get it. Any questions?”
The certainty in Martin’s voice was like a salve for my battered soul. It spun me back to a day, over ten years ago, when I stood with him in the flower-adorned vestibule of Glenn Haven. I was enjoying the divine geometry repeated in the flower petals while the smell was making me nauseous. The mathematics of flowers restored one’s soul; the stench was for the funerals of little boys. After six months in residence, I knew Dr. Blinky and the rest of the staff were ready for me to leave the restorative solitude and ethereal bliss of Glenn Haven. It did not matter to them if the world was ready for me. They did not know what to do with a seven-month pregnant woman in the nuthouse no matter what the glossy brochure said.
Martin held my right hand in both of his, looked me right in the eyes, and said in that same reassuring voice: “No matter how bad it seems, it’s never as bad as it seems.” He did not know all my secrets, but he knew more than enough. My boss at the Puzzle Palace, Dr. Yu, introduced me to Martin about the time the IRIS Project hit full stride. Martin was not an employee of the National Security Agency, at least that was the way I understood it, but he certainly held high-ranking connections within the agency. He participated in lots of meetings that regular citizens were not invited to attend. He knew all about Logan. As it turned out, a lot more than I did.
“Any questions?” Martin asked. He always gave two chances to ask questions or voice concerns. After that, you were expected to get with the program and make the project happen.
“No sir. Actually, yes,” Jason replied, cautiously. “I’m still a little foggy on Logan Ranes, and I, uh, kind of don’t have a clue as to what I’m actually supposed to do next.” Jason was uncharacteristically honest, his pretense gone. Being before the great and powerful Oz often had that effect on the uninitiated, even if it was via a tiny cell phone speaker.
I listened as Martin gave a rousing and reassuring speech about commitment to mission, teamwork, company loyalty, friendship, and standing up to be counted when it mattered. There were thinly veiled suggestions of rewards, which sounded like bonus payments down the road. Martin gave his final instructions and hung up.
It was time for the hard part. Calling Logan.
The room seemed smaller, stuffy, and confining. A confused zombie who had been ordered to go vegan, Jason muttered while he closed the mystery laptop. I heard a toilet flush in the next room and wondered how much they could hear from my side.
I paced as I planned the next call, weighed the possibilities, the probabilities. I ran the numbers in my head. The results were not encouraging. “Jason, I need to concentrate.” I nodded towards the door. "If you do not mind.”
“You want me to go?”
“Yes.”
“No problem.”
“Wait. No. Don’t go.” I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what a normal human being would say. “Please stay. I want you to stay. I need to concentrate. Just do not say anything.” Acting like a normal human was not my normal. “Don’t make any noise.” Jason stared at me helplessly. “And maybe you should not look at me.”
As a friendly gesture, I pulled out the desk chair and rolled it to him. I turned it toward the wall, which seemed helpful, but Jason did not look appreciative. He let out a long sigh—an asthmatic wheeze—and faced the wall, a doomed man with his hands in his lap.
I turned around, faced the other wall, and dialed Logan’s number.
God does love irony.
CHAPTER 11
MOBILE ALABAMA – 9:03 A.M. CDT – AEM HEADQUARTERS
Though it was only midmorning, Obadiah could feel the August heat pulsating from the street up to his third floor office window. Like most things in downtown Mobile, the building was old and tired. The oppressive heat swelled like a ripe melon, sickeningly sweet and ready to burst. In an attempt to ward off the smothering heat, he replaced the turn-of-the-century, casement windows years ago with insulated fixed windows, which also reduced electronic eavesdropping. Facelifts, however, are only skin-deep. The very pores of the building reeked of age, strife, and history best forgotten. Obadiah sniffed at the odors of hot brick and dried virgin pine, the secrets, death, and hidden things that forced their way into his opulent office, dripped from the Carpathian crown molding, clung to the Victorian furniture.
It smelled like home.
As usual, the webcast went well. In the war against the enslaving lies of the government’s ruling class, the Internet had proven to be Obadiah’s most effective weapon to date. How ironic that soon he would destroy everything connected to it. He turned to his oldest daughter seated across the office.
Patience fiddled with her cell phone. She sat up straight in the mauve wingback chair. Long muscular legs escaped defiantly from her short, black leather skirt.
“If you’re looking for the webcast it won’t be posted on the site until this afternoon,” he said. “It takes time to complete the editing, adding the intro, background music, that sort of thing.”
“I don’t know why they bother,” Patience purred. “You are always magnificent, Father. No need for notes or teleprompters, no need for handlers to later explain what you really meant.”
With a slight nod of his head and a hook of a smile, he acknowledged her adulations.
“I wasn’t looking at the website, though. I was admiring the photos I took of our young guest.” Patience’s blue eyes sparkled. “He’s quite adorable.” She bit her lower lip.
Obadiah’s little hook of a smile immediately disappeared. “You shouldn’t have his photo on your phone. It’s a tremendous security risk.”
“I considered that,” Patience said with a mixture of contempt and uncertainty. “My phone is password protected, and I can remotely delete everything should I accidentally lose it.” She forcibly regained her composure. “Based on my recent conversation with his mother, I expect to have to turn up the heat a bit to get her to cooperate. I thought it best to get to know the young man a little better.”
“The call didn’t go well?” He swallowed the bitter taste rising from his gut.
“The message was delivered. The woman’s reaction was not what I expected. She was quite…mm…defiant. Hostile and assertive.” An evil smile crept across her face. She tried to suppress it, but it just wouldn’t stop. “I’m quite looking forward to meeting her, live and in the flesh, as it were.”
“Be careful what you wish for, my dear.”
“Don’t patronize me, old man,” Patience blurted. “My dreams are my own and my destiny is inevitable.”
“Bravo. Well done.” He smiled with pride. “You were only four years old when I taught you that. I must say that your clarity of purpose has exceeded my expectations. You are almost ready to replace me at the helm.”
Patience looked suddenly lost. Unsure. A four-year-old in a pole dancer’s body. She searched the floor for the confidence that had mysteriously escaped her. “Father, no one can replace you. No one can ever replace you. The whole world needs you.”
Patience’s volatility annoyed him. Despite years of conditioning, neither of his daughters had reached the level of leadership proficiency befitting his blood. It irked him that their mother was weaker than he’d realized. Since then, personnel screening for The Movement had improved significantly.
“Don’t worry. You still have time,” Obadiah comforted Patience. “I said you were almost ready. I’ll tell you when you’re ready to lead The Movement.” The fire returned to his tired eyes, clarity of edification surged in his veins. He watched as her dark eyebrow arched over her left eye, shoulders pulled back, jaw clenched. The sadistic bitch was back. Good.
“My dear you have many strengths,” he said. “Even your cruelty is strength. Strength is required for the difficult road ahead, a road without me to protect you. Unfortunately, your compulsions are exploitable weaknesses, which your enemies will use against you. You must master them, control them at all costs.”
Patience rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that what I have a little sister for? To keep my compulsions, as you call them, under control?”
“Your sister is smarter than you. You need her. She doesn’t have the essential skills required to lead The Movement. We are, after all, at war, but you will need her.” He casually examined a financial report. Donations to the AEM were up over 15 percent so far this year. “Eventually, we’ll dispose of the boy. In the meantime, you must show restraint. Set an example for the underlings.”
Patience faked a yawn and looked casually toward the red, black, and blue flag of AEM. “Father, why do we need Simone Dancing? Some of the finest minds in the world have joined The Movement.” A thin baleful smile danced behind her lips. “Given the circumstances, her cooperation will no doubt be extremely temporary.”
He watched Patience absorbing the image of the draped flag, hung helplessly from its polished oak pole set in a gilded base. She traced the satin curves and sumptuous waves with hungry eyes sharp as daggers. “I think you’re keeping secrets from me old man.” Her voice was low and breathy, steeped in carnal darkness. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I am your father. You are my oldest daughter whom I love most of all. I’ve taught you everything.” He felt the sardonic smile crawl across his face. “Of course I don’t trust you.”
CHAPTER 12
HOUSTON, TEXAS – 9:10 A.M. CDT
I do not know why I was surprised when Logan answered on the second ring. Very few people have his private cell number, the one he would never change, the resultant of the square root of 3.0963 x 1020 divided by the fourth prime. I used the number in one of my factoring algorithms as base offset. Trivial really.
When I heard Logan’s voice, I could not squeeze a word out. This conversation was going to be problematic. Out of nowhere, our vacation in Germany popped into my head. The day I planned to share the wonderful news that I was pregnant. The day we almost died, and Ricky Jackson did. The day Logan told me the truth.
“Hello, Logan. It’s me.”
The absolute silence was confusing. If he hung up, I would have heard something, a terminal click. What I heard was nothing. “Don’t hang up, Logan. This is important.”
Nothing.
Logan was always better at saying nothing than me. How else could someone look you in the eye and tell you how much they loved you, but not tell you they were part of the government’s Extraordinary Rendition Operation and not part of the geek squad like the rest of us at the Puzzle Palace.
“Oh, I’m not going to hang up. I might have to wait another ten years to have a conversation with my wife.” Logan’s voice was low and smooth, silky nectar and hints of lavender. Underneath, the once beautiful bouquet had gone to weed. “I can’t wait to hear what was finally important enough for you to call.”
My heart banged against my chest, trying to escape. It was not all anger. Hearing his voice, even taunting me, was hypnotic. The fortress of ice protecting my shrunken heart threatened to melt. That made me angry. I needed to think clearly, precisely, and rationally. Samuel’s life depended on me getting this right. An eight-year-old child again, I refused to have another dead child on my conscious because I miscalculated.
“Logan, I’m sorry I haven’t called you sooner. I know I should have,” I said. “When this is over, I promise I will explain. Then you can decide if you hate me or not.”
“When what’s over?”
“Something terrible has happened.” I told him almost everything.
It seemed we were on the phone a very long time, but Jason, who had the irritating forethought to time the conversation with his fancy Swiss watch, informed me afterward the conversation lasted four minutes and seven seconds.
When I got to the part where I explained how Logan had to help, had no choice but to help, because Samuel was his son, Logan growled at me.
“Shut up and don’t say another word.”
We sat in silence.
I spent the quiet time berating myself for not using more words, different words to soften the blow before dropping the Samuel bombshell. When I rehearsed the conversation before I called, I could not figure out how to tell him he had a son. It fell out of my mouth with its own propulsion. Logan had a ten-year-old son he knew nothing about.
I knew some things in life just fall out of the sky without sufficient warning, learned it the hard way. You have to decide to be bull headed enough to survive. When he finally broke the silence, Logan gave me curt instructions on where to meet him in thirty minutes and hung up. Most people object to curt. I find it elegant in its efficiency. There was the distinct possibility Logan planned to efficiently choke the life out of me. While I would not blame him, I counted on that plan being revised in route to something less constricting.
Jason looked ill. “Did you just tell your husband, for the first time, that he has a ten-year-old son?”
“I told you not to listen to me.”
“No. You told me not to look at you.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you’re agreeing I could listen but not look? Or, yes, this is the first time you told your husband that Samuel is his son?”
