The Tree of Knowledge

by Daniel G. Miller

  Albert nodded.

  “I looked at Kojuki and guessed what I thought he was likely to do and the steps I would take to thwart him, and so we began. Of course, you can imagine how the battle between me, a man with no self-defense training, and a black belt in jiujitsu turned out. I was soundly beaten in a matter of seconds. I tried again and again to defeat Kojuki, but his reflexes, balance, and technique were impeccable, and he dispatched me with ease. Out of respect, he maintained a serious demeanor, but I could tell he was laughing inside. It wasn’t enough to understand what a man was likely to do in a fight and what the response should be; one must train the body to be able to implement that knowledge in an instant.

  “It was at this point that I reached out to my friend Sergeant Travis. I knew that if I were going to maximize the Tree’s power in self-defense, I would need training from someone of the highest caliber, and a total commitment to secrecy. Fortunately, shortly before my beating at the hands of Sensei Kojuki, I had delivered a cryptography lecture at a recent cybersecurity conference and met Sergeant Travis. Travis is widely considered to be the father of modern hand-to-hand combat. He’s a former sergeant first class army ranger who literally wrote the manual on modern combatives. After several tours of duty, he got tired of the rough and tumble and moved to a beautiful old farm in Washington, Vermont.”

  “So, you’ve been trained by a Special Forces guy,” said Ying, propping herself in the middle of the back seat and leaning her head in between the two professors.

  “I’m getting there, Ms. Koh,” said the professor with slight impatience. Turner enjoyed spinning a yarn and didn’t particularly appreciate interruptions.

  “As I was saying, I called Sergeant Travis and explained to him that I was doing some research on hand-to-hand combat and was wondering if he’d teach me a thing or two. He agreed, and over the next few years, we trained regularly. He would share his knowledge of combat and give me training programs to utilize in his absence, and I would occasionally give him my insights from the Tree. Not the whole Tree methodology, mind you, but I created various exercises that I thought might improve cadets’ rational thinking and in turn help in the field. We’ve been friends ever since.”

  Albert stared absently at the professor. During Turner’s story, he had been absorbing what was being said, but in a state of dreamlike removal. His rational gray matter couldn’t accept that this kind old professor, whom he’d known for years, could be moonlighting as a Special Forces–trained brawler—one who could physically defeat three bar thugs like children.

  Albert couldn’t stop himself from laughing. It all seemed so absurd.

  “So, how good a fighter are you, Professor? I must admit that was a pretty impressive display in the bar back there.”

  “I’m really quite good,” said Turner. “In the vast majority of situations, I will be able to defeat my opponent and, normally, multiple opponents. Where I would have difficulty is against an enemy who was both younger than I am and well trained. For example, Sergeant Travis would be able to defeat me easily. Luckily, we have the Book Club on our side, so I don’t anticipate us having a problem.”

  “How long are we going to hide from the police?”

  “We’re not hiding from the police, Albert,” Turner snapped.

  The professor pulled the Buick over to the shoulder of the road, shifted the car into neutral, and looked out the driver’s side window. His sudden change in demeanor shook Albert and Ying.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with both of you. I was trying to protect you, but . . . Albert . . . the people who hold my journal hold the key to absolute power. Do you understand? Absolute power. Fortunately, they haven’t been able to decipher it yet. The only reason you and I are alive right now is because for some reason they decided that they wanted us alive. But at some point, that will change, and when that day comes, I won’t be able to stop them alone, and neither will the police. And if they are coming for me, then that means they are coming for you, and there will be no classroom, no place that will be safe from them. Our only hope is for you two to lay low out here with us while we figure out how to get that book back and clear your name.

  “If you stay close and keep an open mind, you might learn something.”

  Chapter 7

  It’ll all be over soon, thought Eva as she opened the door to the underground R&D lab. Eva loathed the “code lab,” as they called it. Deep under the ground and completely absent of natural light, the code lab echoed confinement and isolation, two of Eva’s least favorite words. The woman in the black pinstripe suit made sure to take shallow breaths through her mouth to prevent the dank, musty smell from seeping into her nostrils. As she walked along the cold, rugged cement floor and approached the two men in front of her, she attempted to mask her scowl.

  Eva nodded at the pale, gaunt, craggy military man and the corpulent scientist in front of her. “General . . . Dr. Belial . . . how are you?”

  “I would be better if the burglary at Princeton weren’t front-page news,” said the scientist in his nasal lisp. Every movement the cryptographer made, from his heavy nose breathing to the sweat under his double chin, screamed of ill health. Eva found this deeply unappealing and representative of a profound character flaw. That Belial was willing to levy criticism at everyone but himself heightened her disdain.

  “You let me worry about the issue with the police, Doctor. You worry about cracking that code,” snarled Eva.

  “Yes, Doctor,” growled the general. “Give us a summary of your progress.”

  The code-breaker snorted as if reporting on progress were somehow beneath him, but then continued in his sardonic manner. “Well, thanks to the fine work of Ms. Fix here, we now have the book that we need. Unfortunately, it is written in an extremely complex cipher. I can solve it—if I don’t get any more interruptions from detectives.” He paused and threw a smug gaze at Eva and the general. “However, I have grave concerns about moving forward with this project due to all of the public scrutiny.”

  “What did you just say?” countered Eva, her voice reaching a crescendo.

  Once again, the general intervened. “What are you getting at, Doctor?”

  “Well, the whole point of us stealing the book was so that nobody could trace it back to us, but now, because of Ms. Fix’s bumbling, people know. In addition, it’s difficult to solve the cipher unless I have the whole book. You’ve given me a mere five pages.”

  “Doctor, I appreciate your concerns, but the only people that know of the theft of the Tree are the people in this room, an overmatched police officer in Princeton, and a couple of fugitives who will be behind bars or dead shortly. I assure you, everything is well in hand. As far as the book is concerned, five pages will have to do. The full text is far too sensitive to share and will remain in my safekeeping for now.”

  The large, lizard-like scientist with the patchy hair adjusted his tie. “I don’t know, General,” he said, rubbing his scaly hands in overly dramatic fashion. “Maybe if my compensation for this project weren’t so limited, I could take the risk.”

  Eva crossed her arms to prevent them from reaching out and choking the scientist.

  The general smiled a shallow, yellow-toothed grin, and his eyes glittered. “Ah, so that’s what this is about . . . Money . . . You want more money?”

  “It might help grease the wheels,” said Belial, now slightly unnerved by the general’s grin.

  “Well, you have completed most of the job, correct? I mean, you know what type of cipher it is, right?”

  The scientist nodded his head and began rubbing his hands.

  In an instant, the general’s smile vanished, and he reached into his military jacket to produce a black service revolver. “Then what do we need you for?”

  The general held the revolver up to the scientist’s temple and discharged a single shot.

  The crack echoe
d throughout the subterranean laboratory and was followed by the sickening sound of the scientist’s body crashing against the cement.

  Eva flinched from the specks of blood flecking her face, then stood motionless. No decision tree would produce this result. This was madness.

  The general placed his pistol in his holster and moved his tall, steely frame toward the exit of the code lab. The staff watched his every move in horror. As he passed Eva, he put his arm around her shoulder, guiding her to walk with him. She could feel the weight of his bones around her neck. The general ate very little, and there were times when he reminded Eva of an animated skeleton, like some sort of grim reaper.

  He removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped the blood from her face. “You’re probably wondering why I killed that poor excuse for a human being. It wasn’t in today’s tree, was it? Well, if there is one thing I know, it is people. And that was a person who would have been a problem for us. You see, he believed that we needed him. And when someone thinks you need him, that’s when he starts walking all over you. One thing I can’t have—I won’t have—in my unit is people walking all over me. You understand?”

  Eva nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She had disliked Belial intensely, but his death was hardly a comfort. She hadn’t quite admitted to herself before that the general was a psychopath. He was just logical, she had thought. But it was not logic that drove the general to shoot Belial. It was something far less predictable. Would she be next?

  “Now, what’s the status on your boy Puddles and that Professor Turner? Have the police got them yet?”

  Eva shook her head and swallowed, attempting to regain her voice. “Um, no—no, they haven’t. Apparently, they’ve gone missing.”

  The general pivoted and grabbed Eva by both shoulders. She could smell the stale nicotine on his breath. “I find that extremely disappointing, Fix. Until this boy Puddles is in jail or dead, he’s a threat to us. I want you to call one of your buddies down at the FBI and get this wrapped up.” He released his grip and turned to walk away. “I don’t want to kill that professor of yours, Fix, but if he remains a threat, I’ll be forced to. Understood?”

  Eva whispered, “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 8

  The Travis Farm rolled and tumbled across the Vermont countryside in bucolic splendor. The term “farm” was a bit of a misnomer since the land yielded no crops and was overgrown with woods. The white-and-gray farmhouse stood atop the hill like a watchtower.

  As Turner’s Buick pulled up the dirt road to the weathered wood gate, Albert immediately sensed the powerful loneliness of the country. It was now three o’clock in the morning and the rain had stopped, but the trees slowly, quietly dripped rainwater like blood from a wound. Through his cracked window, he could hear the aching moan of crickets and other unknown creatures in the woods. The gate stood hauntingly under a single light in the darkness, a light that was steadily and constantly being devoured by the maples above. The call box outside the gate looked as though it were hovering in a trap that would snap shut, consumed by the darkness and forest.

  Turner pushed the intercom button, setting off a loud buzz. Silence. He tried a second and third time.

  “Who is it?” barked a voice over the intercom.

  “Sergeant Travis, I’m so sorry to disturb you at this ungodly hour, but I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

  “Turner?”

  “Yes, dear friend. Do you mind letting us in?”

  “Ha, this is a first. Of course, sir. Come on in.” The gravel voice paused and chuckled.

  “But first, as punishment for waking me up so damn late, you have to pass a little test. The main house is down one of three roads, but you have to guess the right road. One road leads to the main house and the other two lead to maintenance sheds.”

  “Ah, the shoe is on the other foot now,” said the professor with a grin.

  Albert did nothing to disguise his irritation. “Angus, it’s three in the morning. Are we seriously playing a guessing game right now?”

  Turner put a conspiratorial hand on Albert’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, my boy, it’s merely payback for my teaching him about the Monty Hall game.”

  “What’s the Monty Hall game?” asked Ying.

  “It’s a probability puzzle based on the game show Let’s Make a Deal,” said Albert.

  “Oh, you mean the show with Wayne Brady? That’s good television.”

  “Who’s Wayne Brady?”

  “I think we’re getting off point here,” interjected Turner. “The point is that there is a game show called Let’s Make a Deal that was originally hosted by Monty Hall, and is now apparently hosted by Wayne Brady. In the show, contestants are given different opportunities to select prizes or trade those prizes for a potentially better prize. One particular version of the game is a wonderful veridical paradox.”

  Albert added, “That’s a situation in which the result of a problem seems to go against common sense—”

  “But is mathematically true. Yes, I’m aware,” said Ying.

  Turner resumed. “In this particular game, you as the contestant are asked to choose between one of three doors. Behind one door is a brand-new Mercedes; behind each of the other doors are goats. You first pick a door—say it’s door number one—but the door is not opened, and the host, who knows what’s behind the doors, opens another door, say door number three, which has a goat. He then says to you, ‘Would you like to switch to door number two or keep your original choice?’ Is it to your advantage to switch your choice?”

  Ying thought back to her days in undergraduate statistics. She was a little rusty. “Ahhh, yes, I remember this one . . . it seems like it’s a fifty-fifty choice, because there’re two doors left. But it’s not.”

  “Once again, Ms. Koh is at the head of the class,” said Turner with a glint in his eye. He pivoted to the speaker box and said, “We’ll take road number one.”

  “Road number three leads to the maintenance shed and shooting range. Would you like to stick with your original choice or choose road number two?” squawked the box.

  Albert shook his head. He was tired, and the last thing he wanted to do at three in the morning was go through an old math puzzle that he barely remembered.

  Ying plowed ahead unfazed. “I got this one, Professor. Let me talk this out. When you first pick door number one, there is a one-third chance that it is the door with the car, right? Well, then it logically follows that there is a two-thirds chance that it is not behind door number one and that the car is behind doors two or three. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then, continuing on that logical path, when the host shows you that door number three does not have a car behind it, but we know that there is a two-thirds chance that the car is behind either door two or door three, then it logically follows that there is now a two-thirds chance that it is behind door number two since we now know for a fact that it’s not behind door number three. Consequently, we should choose to switch to road number two because there is a two-thirds chance that road two is the correct road and a one-third chance that road one is the correct road.”

  “Correct again,” grunted the speaker, and the gates opened.

  “You’re welcome, Albert,” said Ying.

  Albert raised his hands in mock enthusiasm. “Thank you so much. Can we go now?”

  “Yes, we can go, you big stick-in-the-mud,” said Turner. “Well done, Ms. Koh.”

  Turner took road number two through the blinding darkness. Upon reaching the main house and exiting the car, Turner pulled Ying and Albert aside.

  He whispered, “Just so you know, Sergeant Travis is a military man who’s lived hard and does not put much stock in pleasantries and small talk, so if he seems somewhat gruff and rude, don’t take it personally, and don’t try to small talk him or soften him up. He won’t appreciate your efforts.” />
  The two nodded their consent, and as they entered the large wood building, both Ying and Albert knew exactly what the professor had meant.

  Standing before them in the middle of a beautiful great room that looked like something out of a hunting lodge stood a man who resembled a monument more than a human being. To his left crackled a beautiful fire. The flames lit up his face and skin as though he had been created out of molten rock and the left side of his body was just now cooling off. His face was that of a man in his late forties, but a rugged strength belied those years. He wore brown boots, starched jeans, and a shirt that clung to him like a second skin. Underneath him was a rug made of an animal skin that Albert couldn’t readily recognize, and he was flanked by leather couches from a time when men smoked cigars, drank brandy, and thought great thoughts.

  “Hello, Sergeant. Thank you so much for taking us in,” said Turner, offering a fake salute and scampering over to the man of rock.

  “It’s good to see you, Professor,” said Sergeant Travis, though his face failed to provide any hint of pleasure or welcome.

  “Sergeant Brick Travis, I’d like to introduce you to two of my colleagues: Ying Koh and Dr. Albert Puddles.”

  Despite himself, as he approached the sergeant to shake his hand, Albert let out a small smirk.

  “Is something funny, Doctor?” asked Travis, grabbing Albert’s hand and bringing it toward him in a way that made Albert yearn for the crushing shake of Detective Weatherspoon.

  “I’m sorry, is your name really Brick? It just sounds like something out of G.I. Joe,” said Albert, looking around to Turner and Ying like a comedian searching for a laugh from his audience. The second the words dropped from his lips, Albert realized his mouth had disassociated from his brain. This occasionally happened when he was nervous, but until right now, he had thought he was overcoming it.