“I don’t know how you got this information but you have somehow obtained non-public information about matters that you, sir, are not entitled to know. But we will put that aside for a moment. You can explain how you did that to the FBI at their convenience after I report you to them. As a federally funded and managed program, security is a sensitive issue and the FBI folks will undoubtedly want to get to know you a little better.”
Alan continued, “All data including yours, if I have it, is scanned, digitized, processed and uploaded into a government operated computer but not the immense DL Main, as we call it. Not right away, anyway. First there is an “interim data upload” of the primary source materials where we perform some tests, check for viruses, if formatted digitally, confirm the accuracy of the scan and rescan any documents or data in any format if an error occurs. Only then, when the data is in pristine digital format, is it uploaded to the DL Main.
“It’s months before any original data is disposed of and then only under the strictest of guidelines. All primary data that is scanned is retained as a conventional scan in its original format. Even if the original primary data, such as a book or newspaper is then lost or destroyed through inadvertence, incompetence or neglect that data still resides in the DL Main. Digital data in the DL Main always exists in a form that can be accessed by new software and manipulated for any reason permitted by law.”
The young man paused for emphasis, then said, “So, let me make a couple of comments so we can end our little chat.
“First, get a lawyer. I don’t know what you’re up to but I suspect you may need some legal advice in the next few months.
“Second, I harbor deep reservations about the accuracy of your story, who you are or why you want these dusty old boxes of junk. I really don’t know what you’re up to but the smell test tells me something here just doesn’t add up.
“Third, and this is critical, I don’t even have your damn crates. These materials are not even scheduled to be received for another week or so. Believe it or not, we have a schedule we like to keep to whenever possible. I don’t give a rat’s ass if this is your stuff or not, whether you’re lying to me or not, or whether you wind up going to jail or not. I just don’t care. You may think I’m being a jerk but in point of fact, I am being your friend. So, Counselor Bennett or whatever your name is, are we done?”
“No sir, we are not done. I need access to your system and the name of a contact at your processing facility. I will take this up with them and someone senior to you. This is essential, and I demand you give that information to me immediately.”
Bennett continued his bluster. “And, I’ll see you in Court this afternoon at the Hearing. The one in Probate Court before Judge August Ames.
Bennett waited for a reply as if the young man would suddenly come to his senses and do exactly as he would demand. He was used to great deference from his colleagues and was both unfamiliar with, and insulted by, a young man telling him ‘no’.
“As you wish,” said Alan. “In that case, I’ll see you in Court.” The grad student was completely nonplussed.
The threats now fully played out and his bluff called, all Bennett could do was get more information about the whereabouts of his library collection.”
“You bring this on yourself, young man. It will end badly for you. I can assure you of that.”
“Give me your email and I’ll send you the particulars you require just so you can do whatever you need to do. In the meantime, let me share a number from my rolodex. 210 425 8987. Feel free to call our lawyers in New York City and I wish you well. I’m calling the FBI. But don’t you ever call me again. Goodbye.”
Alan hung up, finished his fried rice and left the office. His job was now almost finished, and he was going home. Right after the Hearing later in the day. Assuming Bennett or any of his toadies showed up. Possible, but he doubted it.
After a month or so in a miserably hot Tucson, while waiting for someone to call claiming this library, Alan was now both tired and anxious. The call, according to the Tucson FBI field office, was supposed to come from a mafia Don seeking to recover incriminating evidence of long time East Coast criminal activity. The Special Agent who asked him to take the assignment would be dreadfully disappointed.
He wouldn’t be the only one disappointed that day.
Alan had learned much on his assignment, but he had stayed in Tucson one weekend too long. The consequence of this gigantic misadventure would change his world. He just didn’t know that yet.
But he would, and very, very soon.
Chapter 7
The real Alan Sarmiento was in Miami visiting family, an unexpected but much welcomed perk of his minor role in the DataLab Project. Alan was in fact a U of A grad student – in microbiology. He had worked part time for the DataLab Project as a data processor for just over three years, which earned him valuable time on the DL Main which he used to continue his own Ph.D. research. He still had a week of vacation left and Faux Alan was quite hopeful that the real Alan Sarmiento, given the alleged connection of the Library to organized crime, would eventually make it back to Tucson alive.
The real Saldiano Bennett had been a well-respected lawyer in Kansas City, Missouri as well as a highly visible community leader and activist. He died of natural causes in October 2012 quite unexpectedly at the age of eighty-seven.
***
Two men boarded flights later that day.
One man, on family business in Chicago, was headed home, intent on reclaiming what he and his people called the ‘Library’ from the DataLab Project regional data processing center in Tucson, Arizona. He thought it was scheduled to arrive in a week or so, according to his most recent information. Unfortunately, the shipment to the Tucson processing facility would never arrive because that shipment didn’t exist. All six containers had already been sent secretly to the DataLab Project regional processing facility in Portland, Oregon days ago at the request of the FBI field office in Seattle.
Faux Bennett would then depart the following evening for Princeton, New Jersey, where he lived with his family, his three Pugs and two pet iguanas his son and two daughters he just couldn’t live without.
The other man, in Tucson, was on his way to Barrows Bay, British Columbia, Canada via Seattle. He was going home to his family: his parents, brother and the rest of his local and extended family scattered between Seattle, Tacoma and Blaine, Washington to the south and Vancouver, Victoria, and Barrows Bay, British Columbia to the north.
But his first stop would be to see his girlfriend, Hannah Andrews Parker, resident of Mercer Island in Seattle, to plead with her to take him back. Again. He would tell her he was sorry, so very sorry for being the worst boyfriend on the planet. He would admit to being self centered, selfish, thoughtless and irresponsible in their relationship, taking serial advantage of her capacity for forgiveness and understanding, and her huge heart. He loved her very deeply but was uneasy and apprehensive this time, and rightly so.
While Faux Alan had no real insight into the toxicity of his own behavior, Hannah, by contrast, knew exactly why “this time” was the final straw. She loved him madly for everything he was, and some things he wasn’t, even after many frustrating years of unfulfilled promises, last minute cancellations and a plethora of no shows.
He believed that his family loved and appreciated Hannah, at times more than him. He would try to make things right with everyone he had let down, if he could, but mostly with Hannah.
The name of the first man was Paulo Ronaldo Fortizi, an Italian national permanently residing the United States. A geneticist by vocation, he worked for the US subsidiary of the global Swiss conglomerate, BioGen International, PLC. But most of his work was done at the highly secretive lab of BioGen International (America), Inc., in Princeton, New Jersey.
The name of the second man was Adam Stephen St. James, the arrogant, petulant and reputedly obstinate man-child of his large extended family. He was a notoriously
irresponsible boyfriend and yet the possessor of an amazing, complex and brilliant mind.
He worked on interesting and important computer software projects for governments related to artificial intelligence. Little else was publicly known about him. The details of his life and work were considered top secret by authorities in the United States, Canada and every other member of NATO.
***
Adam St. James had been amused by the pathetic story that “Sal” told. It was, of course, a fantastic pack of lies, though an interesting yarn and one, he thought, that was quite well told. Adam had known from the beginning that this man, or some man, would call him on this day. In about four hours he was expected in Probate Court to attend an emergency hearing before Judge August Ames. A high priced and high-pressure New York lawyer, through local counsel in Tucson, had filed a Motion to Vacate the judge’s previous order confirming the sale of Lot 721 to the Southwest DL Holdings, LLC. New facts had suddenly surfaced alleging that a family member had recently been located who was legally entitled to the assets just sold. In the Motion, the New York lawyer claimed a distant cousin had come forward to claim the estate and was therefore entitled to the property contained in Lot 721 pursuant to the Arizona version of Uniform Probate Code and the laws of intestate succession.
However, that allegation was a lie. The Hearing would be unnecessary and would never take place.
Paulo Fortizi understood he had no chance to recover this property at the court hearing on Monday, or on any other day. In an odd twist of fate, Lot 721 did in fact belong to him and his people. However, he couldn’t reveal his true nature or his true relationship to Thomas Beneviste, the decedent. As well, he had no legal proof of any relationship to the decedent anyway. Instead, he asked his New York lawyers, at $1000 per hour, to file a motion with the Probate Court in Arizona to buy time for him and his colleagues. All he needed was a couple of days to assemble and send teams of his “Trackers” to locate “Alan” and recover the now missing Lot 721.
Then he would do what had to be done: he would steal his property back. Paulo would probably have this insolent Alan Sarmiento killed at the same time just for being such an arrogant prick.
Alan/Adam was in fact every bit the arrogant prick that Fortizi believed him to be. But, fortunately for Alan/Adam, such was not a capital offence in Arizona or anywhere else in the US.
Adam’s Probate lawyer in Tucson had gotten a Court Order permitting Adam to take possession of Lot 721 a few days earlier. Just as he was about to leave for home, he received news of the emergency hearing scheduled for early the following week. Adam called his contact in Seattle, explaining the situation to him but the man was unmoved. Adam must stay in Tucson, he admonished, and finish the job. He wasn’t to leave the city; he had to be in Tucson to assure nothing would go wrong. The man said he would send some of his local men to guard the precious records. Lot 721 was a huge find and everything possible needed to be done to assure it wasn’t lost or stolen.
So, contrary to his better judgement, Adam stayed.
Adam then called his lawyer to discuss the situation. Did Adam really need to be there? His lawyer was suddenly unavailable having failed to show up at his office just before the weekend. His secretary was worried; Fenton Leary was a careful and meticulous lawyer who took his job seriously. She had, had to cancel three meetings, and a court date on Friday. It wasn’t like him to just disappear without any warning.
But she also mentioned she had received a call from a lawyer in New York asking for the phone number and location of Alan Sarmiento, so his client could get in touch to settle the matter before the hearing. He would call no later than the following Monday, when the hearing was scheduled for late in the afternoon.
Alan/Adam knew that “Sal” was lying, but his contact in Seattle said it was imperative that Adam talk to him anyway. Since Alan/Adam would have stay to attend the hearing, Adam decided he would continue work on other pressing matters for the US Department of Defense over the weekend. He would talk to this mystery man at some point over the weekend, then finish up Monday.
The man didn’t call “Alan” until the following Monday at lunch time.
By then, “Sal” was furious. His teams hadn’t found either Alan or Lot 721. Alan wasn’t at the main University of Arizona Computer Center, and never had been. Lot 721 was already on its way out of town, transported by an undisclosed trucking company recently arranged by Alan/Adam. The trucking company originally scheduled to take the containers from storage to the DataLab Project processing facility had been discharged and a new long-haul company substituted. With the Court Order in hand, the storage facility holding Lot 721 had no choice but to release all six containers of materials.
The storage facility that had held the Library knew nothing of the Motion to Vacate, or the present location of the six containers.
Nothing was as it appeared, and the entire episode had been a tremendous burden. Adam remembered something about something he was supposed to do that weekend with Hannah. He thought they were supposed to get together with her parents for dinner but in all the excitement he couldn’t remember why or why it was so important. His personal cell was off and stowed in his back pack. The cell provided by his friend in Seattle was on. As soon as he got the call and spoke to the mystery man, that cell would be tossed.
Adam was in a pissy mood and preoccupied with both urgent work matters for the US DOD as well as this “tool” from New York who was supposed to contact him. He was stuck in town with nothing else to do. So, he worked on a DOD project he was already behind on delivering.
When was that thing that he and Hannah were supposed to do? Was it Saturday or Sunday? When he finally remembered what that nagging commitment was, late Sunday night, it was already far too late.
Damn he thought to himself. Damn, damn, damn.
Chapter 8
Across the continent, on a flight arriving just after midnight in Newark, Paulo Fortizi was an angry man. A very, very angry man.
He had just heard from his brother Enzo that the real ‘Alan Sarmiento’ wasn’t in Tucson and that he, Paulo, could not possibly have spoken to him earlier in the day. Worse, the information he received about the location and shipment of Lot 721 was bogus.
Paulo could feel the pressure mounting in his brain as the depth of his anger intensified the more he contemplated this very accomplished deception. In a fit of pique, he decided he would personally kill this man, this Human, when he found him, in the old way. Slowly, very slowly, and with exquisite and expert skill developed over many decades of practice.
But for now, he would have to channel his anger and frustration into something more positive, something with a more rational bent. “Creative destruction” was Paulo’s adopted term for the process of replacing old thinking of his species, the Gens of the Gens Collective, with new more progressive adaptations of ancient skills to achieve previously unimagined contemporary results. Joseph Schumpeter would have been proud of the distinctive adaptation of his concept by an undiscovered species to the unique challenges and rapidly evolving circumstances of the modern age.
Paulo’s fury at this human insect completely dominated his thoughts as the plane touched down. He was blinded by his own lack of self-discipline but knew his rage would eventually subside. His wrath would cool just enough for him to return to a sufficient calm and a minimal operating rationality.
His younger brother and chief lieutenant, Enzo Fortizi, was anxiously anticipating his brother’s arrival at the airport, lingering with the human families awaiting the arrival of their loved ones at Baggage Claim.
Enzo spied his brother coming through the secure area of the Arrivals section. They looked at each other, seemingly and oddly aware of each other’s thoughts. Each said little. Enzo knew his brother well and had himself experienced the pure and intense cold ferocity that was Paulo Fortizi when crossed. When so antagonized, something that a member of the Collective only did once, the unfortunate Gens indivi
dual would be lucky to still be drawing breath afterwards. Human vermin would almost certainly be dead.
He loved Paulo, an emotion not native to the species of the Gens Collective, and Enzo understood the importance and weight of the tasks which burdened his brother. New and previously undisclosed events had risen to the fore, and worse, had come to the attention of the Great Council of the Gens Collective. The degree to which Enzo, Paulo and all his people could be in imminent danger and great peril was only now becoming fully appreciated at the highest levels of the Gens Collective leadership.
And, like his brother, he was shocked by the events of the past year and couldn’t comprehend how or why any of it had come to pass.
Careless, Enzo thought. Tomas had been so careless and forsaken his people for a woman, a human female and an outsider, with whom he had mated so many years ago. When she died, as they always did, frail as they were, this is what can happen. Too many years among them, acting like them and thinking like them. It’s a bad business and never works out well. Why had Paulo let Tomas remain as Chief Custodian of the Great Library? Why?
It didn’t matter now and trying to understand Tomas and his woman was now wholly irrelevant, or so he thought. What was done was done, and we must now move on from blame to accountability and resolution. Then we must rectify this mistake. Enzo had great faith in his brother, whose leadership of the family and the Gens Collective was still unquestioned. At least for now.
But this mistake, this particular mistake, was unbearable. Paulo, his wife, children and the entire wing of the Fortizi family could easily be disappeared as punishment, according to the old ways. Their existence could easily be erased if this sin wasn’t rectified and rectified soon. They still had time, but time was growing ever shorter.
Discovery Page 5