The IRIS Algorithm, page 8
Logan towered over him, teeth clenched. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? People like you smell from a mile away. And I’m not talking about that sissy cologne you bathe in.”
“Dude, I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m a colleague of Rachel…er…Simone. I don’t appreciate this intimidation thing you’ve got going. Take your macho routine and back off, unless you would like to get introduced to my attorney.”
“You don’t understand, Jason. I’m not a special ops hit man. I’m far worse than that. I’m a garbage collector. I pick up and dispose of the kind of trash nobody else will touch.” He reached out his left hand and rubbed the lapel of Jason’s fine suit between his fingers and thumb. “What you don’t understand is that you can bag the trash, but it still smells the same. What I don’t understand is why Martin thinks he needs one of his spies following Simone around. Especially in a situation like this.”
Jason cleared his throat and tried to stand a little taller. “I don’t know either, but he’s the boss. I’m guessing he wants to help one of his most valuable employees get what she needs to succeed. I’m sure you realize how important she is to the company.”
“Yeah, I understand how important she is,” Logan barked over the rain pounding the metal roof. An angry knot of words choked in his throat. He held Jason in a murderous stare, “I completely understand how important she is, but you don’t.”
The storm raged as Logan walked away before he gave in to the overwhelming urge to lay hands on Jason. He had someone else to deal with first.
CHAPTER 18
As Logan crossed the gray painted floor of the hangar, he measured distances and looked for exits. Instinctively he took inventory: red toolbox on wheels, industrial black portable floor fan, fire extinguisher mounted on the wall next to a red telephone.
A puffy man stuffed into an ill-fitting, beige jumpsuit had let them into the hangar. His thinning black hair looked like it was slicked back with a handful of axle grease. The insignia on his jumpsuit said Jack above the AirCo Services & Sales logo. Given the generous prepayment of the charter, courtesy of Martin, Jack required only the final paperwork, only mildly interested in that. Jack instructed them to dial #707 on the red wall phone when they were ready to depart and waddled off toward the small suite of nondescript offices next door.
Logan stood before the restroom door. The fast moving storm rumbled at the edge of his consciousness. After all these years, Simone was here, just on the other side of the door. If only he had the courage to open it. He started to knock then stopped. His fist unclenched slowly, and he gently touched the door with the tips of his fingers, cautiously pressed his warm palm against the cold metal. The words wouldn’t come. Too many years of smoldering hatred for his enemies had molded his sooty heart into a lump of coal. A man only gets so many chances at redemption. Simone had been his, and he missed it. After she left with the efficiency of the damned, he’d made sure atonement was forever out of reach.
Simone was talking to someone. He couldn’t make out everything, but he clearly heard: “This was not part of the deal.” So that was it. She faked a panic attack to make a phone call. He was tired of being played. He shoved the door open with enough force to break bones.
“Who did you call?” The accusation hung dingy in the air. Simone was under the bare sink, knees drawn up close to her chest, hands clutching the exposed plumbing. No cell phone. No stall. It was a one-room restroom with an old mop and some cleaning supplies in the corner. Then he remembered. Simone put her cell phone in the backpack, which she didn’t take to the restroom. He was a bullheaded fool.
“I have a confession to make,” Simone said. “You might want to sit down.” Never letting go of the drainpipe, she nodded at the toilet.
“I don’t usually hear confession in a public restroom.”
“This will be a first for both of us.” She shifted her weight on the speckled tile floor and gripped the drainpipe a little tighter.
He closed the door and lowered the toilet lid, then sat down cautiously. In his line of work, he’d heard many confessions, followed by pathetic pleas for forgiveness and mercy, neither of which he was equipped to offer. Those were never good scenes. This would be worse. This wasn’t a mission. Simone wasn’t some murdering lowlife about to be rendered—the intelligence community’s term for covert capture and transfer of terrorists to black sites around the world.
“I did a bad thing when I left the NSA.” Simone froze as another boom of thunder rumbled through the hangar. Logan recognized the sound was more distant, the worst had blown through. He doubted Simone heard the subtle difference. “I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. Things were not going well for me—inside. She absently touched her forehead. Even before Germany.”
Munich. His shoulders dropped. His eyes bored a ragged hole in the white door. Because of Munich, she would always have this power over him. He’d faced death far too many times and knew the truth. In the last moments, it’s not a list of what you did wrong that flashed before your eyes. It’s the things you didn’t do at all.
“We needed to make progress on the project,” Simone continued. “Dr. Yu could not keep the funding without some interim results. We needed to show that we were not just down in the basement of the Puzzle Palace contemplating our navels.”
“All of that was classified information,” Logan said. “We didn’t talk about it back then. I don’t see how we can legally talk about it now.”
“There are a lot of things we did not talk about back then.” Simone nodded and her voice trembled slightly, but Logan didn’t think it was fear of the storm. “Things we should have talked about. You could have told me about your involvement with the Extraordinary Rendition Team. I had SCI clearance. I was your wife. I read the regulations, Logan. You could have legally told me.”
“I was protecting you. I was getting out. There was no point.” He rubbed his forehead. “There’s no point in having this conversation. By the way, technically, you are still my wife.”
Simone closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly and appeared to reset the spinning wheels in her mind “Logan, I was not the one who needed protection. You were.” She tried to slide out from underneath the sink but a low rumble of thunder pushed her back. “You needed to be protected from me. From what can happen because of me. I had to do it.”
“Had to do what, Simone? Had to walk out on me when I needed you most? Had to change your name and move across the country? Had to keep my own son a secret from me?” He stood and willed himself to walk through the white door and keep on walking. His feet did not obey.
Simone let go of the pipe and slid from underneath the damp porcelain sink. “Yes, that was part of it. I had to protect you and Samuel.” She moved in front of the door and steeled herself against it. “I created a backdoor. A way to get back into the IRIS project computers. That is what this is about. These people want the IRIS algorithm.”
If anyone but Simone had said it, he wouldn’t have believed it. Wouldn’t have believed they could actually pull it off technically. She would do at least twenty years in federal prison if caught. From this point on, if he didn’t report her to the Feds, he would be an accessory after the fact. Ten to twenty in federal prison. It didn’t take much imagination to see the shabby end of this mission.
I guess it is a mission.
From the pungent Pine Sol confines of a restroom south of Houston, Texas, Logan saw the end: a desperate, miserable, failure of an end.
Simone’s glassy, gold-flecked eyes pierced him with hope, faith in a dead man that still walked around in his skin. He looked into her eyes, and for the first time, he saw a woman who trusted him. More than that, he saw a mother who refused to believe the simple fact that these lunatics would never return her son alive. Their son. He saw the end. They all died. This would be one regret that didn’t flash before his eyes when his time came. He would go with her to the end; for her, he would pour out whatever was left. It meant he had to do something he swore he would never do again. He had to lie to Simone.
He took her hands and looked into her hopeful eyes, “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to get Samuel back.”
CHAPTER 19
CORONA DEL MAR, CALIFORNIA – 10:04 A.M. PST
From the balcony of his third floor, home office, Martin Stafford took in the sweeping view of the Pacific Ocean. He didn’t want to go to the main office today, at least not yet. This terrible business with Simone weighed heavy on his mind. The troops must not see him as anything less than perfectly focused, perfectly in control.
On the rocky Corona del Mar shore, the midmorning air was crisp and clean, the way he liked it. His private view of the Pacific Ocean filled him with a sense of accomplishment. It had been difficult to create the illusion of privacy on the crowded Southern California coast. He pulled a few strings and got permission to build his modern mansion on a jutting spit of land that clung to the rocks. As a concession to the wealthy homeowners on the other side of the coastal road, he built his sprawling structure entirely below the top of the bluff. His house couldn’t be seen from the road, and it didn’t obstruct the view of the other well-to-do residents of the quaint beach community. Despite their original complaints, he knew most of the residents enjoyed bragging that Martin Stafford lived in their community. It helped property values.
He watched the lazy, ocean swells wash over the rocks below, knowing he had to make the phone call. Simone most definitely would not approve, and he understood why. There simply was no other logical choice. He had already put it off for an hour, considering how he would eventually explain it to her. Surely, in the end, she would understand. He hoped she would understand and appreciate it. Martin admired his bronze, naked, sea nymph, perpetually frozen in mid dance as she rose from the lower rocks on one foot, hair swirling above her and between her uplifted arms. The statue was covered in a soft, emerald green sheen, forever beckoning Martin to the sea, calling him to her slender arms and lithe body.
Thinking himself clever and artistic, he had the statue specifically built and mounted on an inaccessible rocky outcrop. It was a thing to admire but never approach closely, always just out of reach. He’d cursed that decision a thousand times. It was his, and he wanted to approach her, to touch her bent knee, to study her fluid lines more closely. He smiled ruefully. He’d erected his own tormentor. One day, when he was tired of being tormented, he would bring her close; have her mounted at the foot of his bed.
Eventually, he always got what he wanted.
There was no point in putting it off any longer. The number was in his phone’s contact list, though he hadn’t called it in a very long time. He looked out to the kelp line, the gentle swells pulsing, the sea nymph calling, and calm settled over him. He was doing the right thing. He pressed the green send button.
After two rings, a man with a ragged deep voice and a thick Southern drawl answered.
“This is Martin Stafford. I’m calling for Lester Dancing.”
“You got him. Who did you say this was?”
He repeated his name and explained he was the CEO of VTI, but Lester Dancing didn’t seem to make the connection. The man seemed utterly unimpressed. That was odd.
“Mr. Dancing I realize it has been quite some time since we spoke. About ten years to be exact. I’m calling about Simone.”
The line went silent except for labored breathing on the other end. Martin waited for a response, but none came. “Mr. Dancing, are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m… did you say you were calling about Simone? My daughter?”
“Yes, Mr. Dancing. This is Martin Stafford. If you will recall, you and I spoke when Simone had some difficulties. I took care of the arrangements at Glenn Haven.” He paused for a response. Again, none came. “Simone works for me now—at VTI,” he felt awkward. “She’s done quite well.”
Another long silence. Damn, how did this hillbilly get the best of him?
“Yeah, I remember you. The name didn’t register at first.” Lester Dancing heaved a deep sigh. “It’s been a long time. We had to… you know her mother and I had to… you know, come to grips with the situation with Simone. Like you said back then, do what was best.”
“I understand completely. I know it’s quite a shock to hear from me out of the blue.” Martin was gratified there was a spark of intelligence from the redneck Neanderthal. It was unfathomable that this moron spawned someone as brilliant and gifted as Simone. “There’s a problem. I called to let you know Simone is on her way to see you. I thought it would be best to give you some warning.”
“On her way here? To see me? When?”
“Now. She should be in DeFuniak Springs late this afternoon. I don’t know her exact itinerary.”
There was another long pause, soft scuffling, a cheap wireless phone struggling to maintain the connection. “Mr. Stafford you said there was a problem. What kind of problem? Is Simone sick again?”
A seal, graceful and efficient, glided through the kelp line below. “No, it’s nothing like that. I’m sorry, but I can’t give you the details. I’ll leave that up to Simone.” Martin adjusted the small headset as he slowly walked the length of the balustrade. “She doesn’t know I’m calling you, and I think it would be best for everyone, to keep it that way. Mr. Dancing, as you know, Simone is a very special person. She’s very important to VTI and, quite frankly, she’s very important to me personally. I’m trying to do the right thing under the circumstances, but honestly, I don’t think she would appreciate me calling you.”
“I reckon you’re right about that.” More shuffling. A yard hound bayed in the background. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“Don’t do anything. Just wait there. If anything changes, I’ll call you.” He made the briefest parting gestures and ended the call. It had been as repulsive as he’d imagined. Distasteful, but necessary. That’s the way it was in life. It took a man of great vision and unrelenting determination to achieve great things. Few were intelligent enough to understand, but Simone was special. His poor Simone. She must be a wreck.
He looked longingly at the sea nymph, so graceful, so unusual, so unapproachable. As always, when he gazed upon his bronze beauty, he thought of dear, precious, unique Simone.
One day he would bring her close, mounted at the foot of his bed.
CHAPTER 20
MOBILE, ALABAMA – 12:07 P.M. CDT– AEM HQ
As his two daughters entered his private conference room, Obadiah suppressed a wave of anger. The lunch meeting was to start at noon, and they were precisely seven minutes late. Imprecision and inattention to detail were precursors to intellectual decay, an incipient dulling of the senses, a disease that must not flourish within The Movement. He would speak to them later on this matter.
In the finely detailed conference room, six, wingback, leather chairs were arranged around the polished mahogany table. Expensive oil paintings from a more civilized time adorned the walls. A partially opened, beveled, wooden door led to Obadiah’s spacious office. He sat at the head of the rectangular table in his usual chair, which, by design, was three inches higher than the other chairs at the table. Virtue quickly and quietly took her seat at his left side. Patience sat casually to his right.
At the far end of the table, a man of dark complexion with shiny, obsidian eyes waited calmly, hands on the table, fingers interlocked in a position of feigned indifference. His tailored, three-button, Italian suit rode him perfectly, a second skin: dark charcoal over a burnt red shirt, a blazing torch of gold paisley was tied in a perfect Windsor knot at his neck. The man’s coarse black hair swept back from his forehead with only the slightest hint of pomade. His carefully trimmed beard crept along his angular jaw line, attaching itself to his immaculately groomed goatee. Confidence wafted from him like the smell of sweet olive in summer.
Obadiah gave the younger man an almost imperceptible nod of approval and subconsciously smoothed his own red silk, striped tie.
Unspoken explanation, or at least the muted pleas for one, swelled glassy behind Virtue’s tired eyes. “Father, I’m very sorry for being late,” she said. “It won’t happen again.”
Patience flicked a dangling lock of black silk hair from the side of her face. “Yes, father. We are both terribly sorry.” An undertone of mirth and sarcasm floated with the words, whimsical, almost musical. “We were working hard together. So hard and vigorous in fact, we lost track of time.”
Virtue looked pale and ill. Such a weak child. Fortunately, she overcame her physical frailty with a much higher than average IQ. Virtue would have an important role in the future of The Movement, if for no other reason than to be a reliable administrator for Patience. It was good to see they had found a way to embrace each other’s better qualities.
“Let’s waste no further time,” Obadiah said. “As you’ll soon see, the pivotal moment for the American Edification Movement, and thus the very survival of our republic, is upon us and requires the full measure of our collective minds.” His voice resonated with the strength and timbre of enlightened authority. Over the decades, the unmitigated rightness of his observations and conclusions had built and sustained the AEM, events finally reaching the only logical and sane conclusion. “As you know, Mr. Fagon is the Director of Counterintelligence and Security for The Movement. He’ll be intimately involved in the next phases of the operation. Additionally, I’ve asked him to work closely with both of you, to get to know you better, so as to effect a smooth transition of power when that becomes necessary.”
“I’m honored, Mr. Skeffington.” Fagon’s voice was silk on glass. His tone, remarkably civilized, flowed from the same face that housed the unforgiving black eyes of a vicious predator. “As always, I’m at your service twenty-four hours a day.” Fagon nodded reverently toward the head of the table, then acknowledged Patience and Virtue with the faintest breath of a smile.
