The IRIS Algorithm, page 9
“Intimately involved?” Patience raised an eyebrow. “That sounds exceedingly dedicated. I certainly hope you are up for the rigors of the assignment, Mr. Fagon.”
“I assure you Mr. Fagon has demonstrated his capabilities and unwavering loyalty in many important and competent ways.” Obadiah sat forward in his chair. “Peter, I consider you, in the enlightened words of Plato, to truly be a golden soul who can think and also act. You can do what needs to be done.”
If there actually was a God, Peter Fagon was certainly a suitable gift from heaven—the son he deserved. Fagon had just turned forty, but he looked years younger thanks in part to his rigorous physical training regimen. The rest was obviously genetic, a superior combination of genes and hereditary, a pureness of mind and constancy of purpose. The highly trained and intelligent Fagon spent the first twelve years of his career in the CIA’s National Clandestine Service, making his contribution to The Movement that much more valuable.
If Fagon had been his son, he’d be the one to take control of The Movement, not Patience. Fate really was a cruel certainty.
“Father,” Virtue said respectfully, “there are many aspects of the current operation that we still don’t understand. I realize you have kept certain aspects compartmentalized, for security purposes, but it seems that we’re very near execution now. Couldn’t we help more if we knew more?”
“Poor Virti,” Patience said with a fake pout. “It’s on a need to know basis and obviously you don’t need to know.”
“I think I do.” Virtue found her spine and glared across the polished mahogany, veins rippled in her white swan neck. “Furthermore, I don’t think you understand the operational goals any more than I do; probably less. Your interests are far more salacious in nature.”
Obadiah smacked the table with the palm of his hand. “Enough. Virtue is correct.” He paused and took command of the room. Even the dust motes in the air obeyed him. To be right is to be destined; and to be destined is to be obeyed.
“It’s time for you all to have more information. That’s why we’re here today.” The antique grandfather clock in his adjoining office chimed a quarter past the hour. “Today is the beginning of understanding, a warning of things to come, if not today, then early tomorrow.”
The three sat in rapt attention, hungry dogs waiting for his morsels of wisdom. After a moment of agonizing silence, Obadiah was satisfied they were prepared to receive their destiny.
CHAPTER 21
Obadiah knew he was right. It was one thing to think you were right—fools often did—but to know, to realize within the very essence of your quivering molecules that you discovered the silver thread of truth, wound it deftly around an enlightened mind, and used it to change the world forever was another thing entirely. He vibrated with the knowing, the intensity of change he’d wrought, his adroit restructure of a world gone mad.
If there was a God, Obadiah knew he sent this latest sign: the faint, coppery tang of blood on his tongue. Time was short.
“Over the interval of four decades, I’ve endeavored to enlighten the serious minded citizens of this republic and the world at large. I’ve excelled beyond all my known rivals. AEM has over 100,000 sanctioned members and over fifty offices worldwide. What other proof could anyone want? Countless numbers of competent and sane citizens afraid to support openly our cause, fearing jack booted government thugs, stand ready. They’re prepared to join The Movement and contribute to our great service to humanity when the time is right. We receive tens of millions of dollars in donations from these silent followers every year.
“Those who threaten our very humanity, which I alone have dared to expose, are now poised to enact measures that, by design, will cause the civilized nation states of the planet to plummet into a New Dark Age. If we do not act now, this will be a time far worse than the cataclysmic degradation of reason and intellect following the decline of the Roman Empire. This chain reaction is not fifty years away; it could happen some early tomorrow unless we intercede.”
Now his blood was up. Every time he thought about the closet goose-steppers, the pseudo fascist politicians and their bloodsucking trans-national bankers—whores who flung themselves into the arms of Asian communists—he knew how critically important it was for his destiny to be fulfilled immediately. It was a pity his accomplishments to save the world would only be recognized after his death.
Fortunately, he had the forethought to document his work thoroughly through writings, webcasts, video recordings, and audio files. His words and instructions would live forever. The words flowed effortlessly off his gifted tongue.
“The trans-Asian serpent, who hypnotized the brain damaged pack of scalawags known as the United States Congress, is already striking in a venomous attack against the technologically advanced nations of the world. China, along with its suckling sycophants in the region, most notably North Korea, are systematically attacking, eroding, and permanently compromising our cyber infrastructure. Using the unbridled force and power of our Central Intelligence Agency and National Security Agency, it’s happening with the aid and assistance of the malicious and mentally depraved members of our own congress.” He continued unabated for another fifteen minutes, detailing with uncanny insight the problems and the solutions for the world at large.
He sensed a problem. Doubt? The unpardonable sin.
“You do understand there’s no turning back,” he said.
No one spoke. The antique clock ticked, a lumberjack chopping wood. “Does one of you doubt what I’m saying?” What treachery was this? How could someone in his inner most of inner circles harbor any doubt of his rightness and resolve after all he taught them?
His own wife, the mother of his children, succumbed to doubt. In the dark tunnels, below Conception Street and the three saints, he worked for three days to purge her of her misdirected ideas. How wide her eyes were, how clear and piercing they locked onto his, but he could not convince her. Though she couldn’t speak with his strong hands squeezing her delicate neck, he knew, in the end, all her doubts faded. She had those last moments of ultimate edification.
Peter Fagon delicately broke the room’s trance.
“A number of years ago, the National Security Agency undertook a project called IRIS, or Iterative Reduction Integration Sequencing. A small team was assembled—gifted mathematicians, physicists, and computer scientists—with the goal to develop an elegant factoring algorithm for complex primes. I don’t pretend to understand the mathematics behind it, but I do understand their goal. If successful, the IRIS algorithm would, in effect, be a master key to unlock any cyber security methodology currently in use.”
“This is hardly news, Mr. Fagon.” Patience sat up, unimpressed, and leaned on her elbows. “IRIS was disbanded almost ten years ago. We’ve spent the last six months collecting the principal scientists from around the globe who worked on the project. Unfortunately, none of them could be persuaded to provide any truly useful information.”
A thirsty smile grew within the perfectly trimmed boundaries of Fagon’s goatee. “That’s because none of them had any truly useful information.”
“Then the kidnappings and killings were pointless,” Virtue revealed her anger. “We took serious operational risks for no reason.”
“Not entirely,” Fagon said. “Our inside sources confirmed that one of the team members, in exclusion to the rest, holds the key to resolving the IRIS algorithm. Until recently, we didn’t know which one. By process of elimination, and now confirmed with recent intel, we know who it is.”
“The mother of the boy,” Patience said, subconsciously licking her sensuous lips. “I simply can’t wait to meet her.”
Obadiah smiled. Fate may be a cruel certainty, but history favored the victor. The harshness of his methods would be forgotten; the genius of his vision would be lauded, yet his instincts told him there was doubt in the room. Doubt of his resolve. Doubt of the inevitability of his ultimate success. Doubt of his manifest destiny in this historical moment.
It had to be Virtue. Poor Virtue. She had her mother’s eyes.
CHAPTER 22
DEFUNIAK SPRINGS, FLORIDA – 4:00 P.M. CDT
You knew I would return one day. I guess that is why you are God—All Knowing. Lord knows I do not mean to be disrespectful, but it seems like that would get old quickly.
Jason only puked twice on the bump-a-thon flight from Houston to DeFuniak Springs. Thankfully, both were polite little burp-ups, easily captured in a barf bag. I do not get airsick. Then again, most people do not hyperventilate and nearly wet themselves over a little thunder and lightning. I have my reasons. I suppose Jason has his. We all have our reasons.
“Where to now?” Logan gripped the steering wheel of the rented Chevy Suburban. It was a simple question.
Instructions were an efficient answer. “Stay on Baldwin Avenue until we get through town. I will tell you where to turn. It is not far.”
“This is town?” Jason said from the backseat. “We’re still in America, right?”
“There are differing opinions on that.” I did not offer any defense for the tired little storefronts lined in a row. “We are in central Florida.” From the car window, I stared at another life, painted brick buildings of DeFuniak Springs, brick boxes from a forgotten era holding each other upright, shoulder to shoulder, like old men who had forgotten their dreams along with their teeth.
Before I dared recollect my early life in DeFuniak Springs, we drove east out of town, passing Murray’s Café and The Book Store. Too soon, I told Logan to turn left onto Norwood Road. A fist full of tension balled in my gut. A little further, I pointed at a battered rusted mailbox perched defiantly on a creosote post. Logan turned in and stopped. The long unpaved driveway stretched out and curved beyond sight. I knew what was at the end of the road. So did God.
“I suppose this is where your not-quite-deceased-parents live,” Logan deadpanned.
Jason chimed in, “That’s a hoot coming from a man lost in a tragic accident.”
I considered a number of responses, some mildly violent. I concluded that, at least for now, I would ignore Logan’s sarcasm and Jason’s fixation with the word hoot. I got out of the car, closed the door with my foot, and counted my steps as I walked the sandy drive. It had obviously been a while since my father conned the county into spreading gravel and backhoeing the shallow ditches on either side of the narrow road. Uncle Walt must not be a county commissioner anymore.
At step twenty-nine, a nice prime number, Logan pulled alongside and lowered the car window. “Are you going to stay mad or get in the car?”
Mad? I might not have any choice in that matter. Angry I was not. Weary and leery, I was. I pointed to the turn fifty feet ahead on the left. “You can park over there.”
The property on the left side of the drive was once pasture: first for cows, then for horses. When none of that panned out, my father got creative. I am not sure if it was the llamas or the ostriches that finally convinced him animal husbandry was not his calling. Thick woods of stoic oaks, whispering pines, and fragrant magnolias stretched along the right side of the drive; one hundred and sixty acres of virgin forest, green and brown, fresh as rain, a quiet place of death and terror, and unspeakable horror—God’s country.
Logan parked, and he and Jason waited for me beside the Suburban. Logan leaned against the back of the car, muscular arms folded across his broad chest, jaw set in permanent determination. He looked good. Although, that probably was not the look he was going for. Jason looked pale, lost, and woefully out of place. He kept checking his expensive shoes as if touched by the real earth, they might spontaneously combust.
It was now or never. I had counted on never for a long time. It finally caught up with me. “I have to take a little walk.” I nodded toward the woods. “You guys stay here.”
“So, if you’re not back in fifteen minutes,” Jason said hopefully, “we should leave without you. Right?”
“It may take longer than that. Make it thirty minutes, then you are free to go.”
“Jeez, Rachael…I mean Simone.” Jason looked at Logan for support, got none. “I was just kidding. Are you serious?”
“Deadly serious,” I said.
Logan pushed himself away from the car. “I’m going with you.”
“I don’t think so, cowboy. Jason might get lonely.” I was going for brave and sassy, but my words reverberated as weak and stupid.
“I didn’t ask for your permission.” The word, bitch, at the end was implied. “Let’s go.”
Jason asked for the keys and Logan tossed them over his shoulder without breaking stride. We had not gone 37 paces down the deer path before the sandy drive and the long black Suburban were obscured from sight. The deep hungry forest of my childhood eagerly swallowed us. We did not speak.
It took less than five minutes and 181 paces to reach the clearing. While I had been gone, everything got disturbingly smaller and closer together—the airport, the town, the buildings, the road, even the dark woods. If I came back in twenty years, I would be Godzilla on a Japanese movie set.
“Wait.” I held Logan’s arm as he came up beside me at the edge of the clearing. “I need to check something first.” I pulled out my smartphone and pressed the icon for The Weather Channel. Nothing. No signal. “Damn! I should have known.”
“Simone, there’s not a cloud in the sky. You checked the weather forecast as soon as we landed. I don’t think this part of the country gets any less than thirty percent chance of rain every day year round.” I nodded and for some reason, squeezed his hand. Surprisingly, he squeezed mine back. It felt good.
“This is a dangerous place, Logan. You should not be here.” I stepped cautiously forward toward the oddly deformed oak tree in the center of the clearing.
“Simone, what is this place? Why are we here?” A sudden breeze caught the tops of the pines and a gentle swish rolled across the green canopy. “On the plane you said we had to come here. You said you had to get something that would save Samuel. Is this where you hid what you took from the NSA?”
I chose to ignore him.
Everything else may have changed, but the old oak tree looked the same. The half that died that horrible day had broken away, fallen off, and decayed before I escaped. The half that lived bent and deformed, still strained to survive against the irreplaceable loss.
The wooden slats, nailed into the trunk for a ladder, were blown off when the lightning struck. In the great fork of the ancient oak, a small part of the tree house remained. A few boards of treated lumber where once a grand castle, a pirate ship, a space station on a different planet—anything a happy eight-year-old could imagine—stood. That horrible day so long ago, I awoke at the base of the tree in my mother’s arms. She was like an angel. I knew because I had just talked to God. It was a very disturbing conversation, which I had tried to reconcile for thirty years. My mother’s eyes bore the impossible burden of love and pain, joy and suffering. The rain mixed with her tears and ran down her face. I explained that God said it would be all right. God had shown me something. She did not believe me and sobbed even more.
My father stood where half the ancient oak lay smoldering. His eyes were dead, and so was his son. Rain drenched him, rolled down his unblinking face like rivulets on a statue. My little brother’s limp body was draped in his arms in a pose only the dead assume. My loving father turned to stone before my eyes.
From that day, I knew what it meant to be hated of God and man.
“Simone, tell me now. What’d you come here to get?” Sweat rolled down Logan’s face like rivulets on a statue and gave me chills.
It would always come to this. The one thing I had to get, the one thing I could not live without, the one thing God would never give me. I looked into the eyes of my tragically lost-but-not-dead husband.
“Simone, for the last time, what did you come here to get?”
“Permission.”
CHAPTER 23
DEFUNIAK SPRINGS, FLORIDA – 4:14 P.M. CDT
Logan’s blood trickled cold through his veins, a shiver searching for deliverance, a tingle looking to crawl. The throbbing sun filtered through the moist, green canopy, golden shafts of light stabbing the ground around the gnarled live oak. Rotting branches shed in past storms lay in quiet repose before the great tree, skeletons sleeping on a thick carpet of dead leaves. A whispering dread, laced with morbid fascination, told him it was too late to turn back.
“Permission? Simone, why are we here? The people who took Samuel are not the kind who wait around before they do something. Something permanent. Do you understand?”
“I understand.” She stepped forward slowly, marionette legs traipsing over a fallen branch; feet so light they made no sound on the moist detritus and orphaned twigs. “That’s the problem. I understand too much.”
Logan had seen people come unhinged. Battle fatigue. Shell shock. Traumatic stress. This was unimaginably worse. She was pulling him down with her into a swirling vortex of filthy water, a muddy death he surely deserved, but not Simone, not a kid.
“They’ll kill him if you don’t give them what they want.” He didn’t add that they would kill him even if she did. That was how low-life operated.
“He will kill him if I do,” Simone said. “And me, too.”
“Who will, Simone?”
“God, of course.” She knelt down, eight feet from the base of the big tree. With shaking thin fingers, she raked aside the damp leaves. She was looking for something.
“Why would God care about the IRIS Project?”
“He doesn’t. God cares about very little.” She found something in the dirt. “This thing I’m talking about; he cares about it a lot.”
Logan put his hand gently on her shoulder. Maybe it was an airtight box with a disk in it, or some access device taken when she left NSA. There had to be a reason to be here, other than the one he didn’t want to consider. He saw it in her dirty hands and realized it wasn’t anything useful.
