by Robert Berke
Alice looked around for the camera and found it just above the monitor on the wall. She held her fingers up in front of the camera and made quotation marks in the air and repeated, "lunch." She made the quote marks in the air again before saying, "if you know what I mean."
Smith interjected, "Well, they're professional colleagues. Professional colleagues can go out to lunch together, that doesn't mean there's something going on between them."
Alice chuckled, "Oh, boss, you're not a woman! I'm a woman! A woman know. He come back a little too happy. She come back a little too happy. Dr. Bayron, he the daddy, I think."
"What about me?" Smith clipped in.
"What about you? That silly rumor start in the lab, but I know that silly. Everyone in the lab thinks that its you. But you know what. Not enough women in the lab." Alice frowned. "Couldn't be you. The baby born in September. That mean conceived in December, you... you still had your body. Artificial heart just started up. Involuntary muscles were working again because of the computer, but your voluntary muscle control was non-existent," she said, revealing that she had a nuanced understanding of the procedures and an excellent memory. "How you going to seduce a girl if you can't talk or move your arms?"
Alice laughed at how silly that ridiculous rumor was before continuing, "For it to have been you, Hermelinda would have had to ... " The smile faded from her face as she returned to thought for a moment, before saying, "Oh, Mr. Smith! You sly. It was you?" Alice asked in the hushed tone of a midnight bandit.
"Listen, Alice, I'm just suggesting that there are more possibilities than you have considered. As Sherlock Holmes used to say, 'to solve a mystery, first eliminate the impossible.' All I'm saying is that it's not impossible. I don't want to feed any rumors." Smith lied. He did want to feed the rumor and he knew Alice was just the person to start it.
Kitty had not left Takahashi's side since their strange encounter with his old friend Elijah Smith. In fact, in the few days that had passed, she proved to be a valuable assistant. She had an innate sense of showmanship that Takahashi lacked. And her mere presence actually helped Takahashi focus on the task at hand. Her ideas for how the "memorial service" would unfold seemed, somehow instinctively, to mirror Smith's own twisted and manipulative sense of humor. She also seemed to know a little something about lighting, and P.A. systems, and seating which all proved inordinately valuable when dealing with the decorators, the caterers and the technicians. "You'd be amazed what you learn working as a dancer," she said. Takahashi reported every action to Smith via e-mail and Smith often responded with unchecked joy at each good idea that Takahashi attributed to Kitty.
"You know she's the first new person I've met since I got myself all bottled up like this..." He wrote at one time.
The funeral notice was written, and the mailing list had been checked over and over, the date was set. Takahashi and Kitty were laboring over the wording of the press release announcing the memorial service and finding it very difficult to make it sound perfectly ordinary when they knew it was not.
A new e-mail came in from Smith.
"Sam, now that we're in the home stretch with this memorial service, I want you to start on the other project I told you about." What followed was in code, "7:90,16,45,18,3,14,72,11.." Takahashi turned to page seven of a book he'd kept since high school and began counting off the letters. The 90th letter was a "K", the 16th letter was an "O", and so on until Takahashi had spelled out three names: Kovaretsky, Vakhrusheva, Ashkot.
The red phone in Gonzales' study rang. It was a rare night for him because he was actually at his home. The red phone was a secure line. Cell phones could not be secured. When the red phone rang, he knew he would be leaving home again soon. He was actually glad to hear that phone ring. Being at home didn't feel right to him anymore. He was made for field work. Age was no consequence and sitting still made him nervous. Socializing offended him. At cocktail parties he would cringe when somebody would say that something interesting had happened at their office, or on the golf course, or at the market. He had once accidentally crushed the skull of a gunrunner in Oman with his bare hands while unsuccessfully trying to extract information regarding his source. No one could tell him anything about their last fishing trip that could interest him, and he hated smiling and pretending that it did. The red phone was his salvation from this hell. He was eager to be working.
He picked up the phone and answered curtly, "Gonzales. Identify."
The voice on the other end stated in an equivalent clip, "Cruz."
Gonzales pressed a button on a device wired to the phone and a red light came on. He held the button until the light turned green. "Okay, the line is clear. Talk."
"We got a very, very interesting intercept from right here in the United States," Cruz said.
The communication that Cruz was talking about was an e-mail sent from one anonymous remailer to another.
"Eyes only, I assume," said Gonzales.
"Eyes only," was the quick response.
"20 minutes, at Point Charlie," Gonzales said referring to a prearranged meeting place.
Gonzales arrived in exactly twenty minutes by the statue of Moses in the center of the park. Cruz was already there.
"Show me," Gonzales said.
Cruz handed Gonzales a printout containing a series of punctuated numbers.
"This looks like an old-fashioned Civil War era book code. It's completely useless if you don't have the book." Gonzales said dismissively.
"We have the book," Cruz said proudly.
"How did you figure it out?"
"Look at the address it was sent from: [email protected]. Hhgttg. It's the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. One of our geeks downstairs recognized that on sight and he was right. Look what it says."
Cruz handing Gonzales another printout which read: "Kovaretsky, Vakhrusheva, Ashkot."
Cruz thought for sure that Gonzales would react. Maybe a double-take, maybe a moment of silence while the implication set in, maybe even a cartoon-like bulging of the eyes. Cruz prided himself on never losing his cool, but even he had reacted to the three names with a semi-silent, "oh wow." Now he was impressed with Gonzales' complete lack of reaction.
"Who?" Gonzales asked simply.
"Its an anonymous remailer, Sir. We don't know who. We do know where."
"Okay, give."
"SmithCorp."
"Now that's interesting." Gonzales said, almost to himself.
"I'll get warrants for Hushmail and SmithCorp." Cruz volunteered.
"This is a black-op, son, nothing goes beyond you and me until we know more." Gonzales warned. "Find another way."
CHAPTER XII.
Bayron had hoped that the day would pass quietly and that he could be left to his thoughts. He had started writing his speech many times and then abandoned his ideas to start over. The pressure of the coming date bore down on him like a Sisyphusian stone.
Equal to or greater than the doctor's fear of making himself public was Smith's fear of being isolated for eternity.
"Doc, you have to let me out. I need to be mobile. I need access to information. You know that no one understands better than I do what your concerns are, but I am literally alone with myself all the time. You cannot imagine how much worse this is than solitary confinement. I'll go crazy soon." Smith was actually rambling a little bit and it concerned Dr. Bayron.
"Besides, Doc," Smith continued, "What if something happens to you? What if something happens to the building? I am extremely vulnerable here. You can't imagine the gravity of being locked in a bottle for all eternity. I'm a human being, Doc, I need to be engaged."
Bayron frowned and tried to frame his thoughts. Smith didn't let him.
"Doc, I know you're not happy about this. I have back-up plans if you say no, and I will get out. I just want it to be with your blessing. I guess I need to make myself eminently clear: I'm not really asking. I'm just offering you the opportunity to participate."
Bayron sighed. He knew better
than to assume Smith was bluffing and he was too scared to let someone else take his monster out. If Smith was going onto the ‘Net, Bayron knew he'd better be holding the leash. "Okay," Bayron relented. "Give me a couple of days to put it together. Anything else?"
"Yeah, one other thing. No one sent me my Wall Street Journal yesterday. Where's Myra?"
"I just saw her yesterday. She's fielding all kinds of calls about the funeral announcement."
"If you see her again, remind her that her first obligation is to me and I need my Wall Street Journal everyday."
"Okay." Bayron said.
Smith changed the subject. "By the way, have you given any thought to your remarks at the service?"
"Some," Bayron replied.
"Just have fun with it," Smith said. "You can be as silly or over-the-top as you want. Your remarks are just part of the prank. I'll do all the heavy lifting. You can just wing it if you want."
"That's probably what I'll end up doing. I'll talk to you again before the service" Bayron said as he disconnected the communications port and headed out into his lab.
Prank! Be Silly! Have Fun! I'm announcing the god damn end of the world and he tells me to have fun! Bayron dialed Sarkis on his cell phone.
"Doc!" Sarkis answered.
"Smith told me you're coming back. I am so happy to hear that you don't even know. Smith is hellbent on getting out. You're the only one who I think understands the scope of the problem here. And Smith is convinced that you do. I really need you here."
"I'll be there in the morning." Sharky assured him.
"Oh, and Sharky, if I'm not there for any reason, you'll find my black notebook in with the phonebooks. Keep it in a safe place, will you?."
"That's a strange place to leave your notes, Dr. Bayron." Sharky said.
"I didn't want to leave them at my desk." Bayron replied.
Sharky arrived at 8:00 in the morning and was glad that none of the other engineers were there yet. He didn't want to answer a bunch of questions about why he hadn't come in for the last few weeks since he wasn't really sure himself. He was, much to his own surprise, relatively excited to get started on the project. He walked to Dr. Bayron's private office and looked inside.
Alice looked up in surprise and then smiled broadly. "Oh Hi, Mr. Sharky!" She beamed. "Dr. Bayron such a slob. I straighten things in here for him or he not even find his desk. He's not here yet. I not seen you in a long time. Where you been?"
"I had the flu," he lied. It sure looked like she was looking for something, he thought. Maybe that explains why Dr. Bayron put his notes with the phone books.
Meanwhile, on the far side of the planet, Vladimir Vakhrusheva stood on a little bridge and looked out over the river. It hadn't snowed in weeks, but there were still traces of the winter from which the Russian countryside on the outskirts of St. Petersberg was now emerging. Vakhrusheva wondered why he continued to work. There were no goals left for him to pursue. He was already wealthy, respected, and feared. In his days at the KGB he had proven himself over and over to be a skilled field operative and as politicians became mobsters and mobsters became politicians, Vakhrusheva discovered the power of the open market and the blessings it could bestow on men of experience and talent like himself.
His principal at the present time, Sergei Kovaretsky, was a man for whom Vakhrusheva had completed many missions. Kovaretsky had been a high ranking member of the Communist Party when being a member of the Communist Party opened doors and created opportunities in a country which, at one time, offered dread few opportunities. When the Soviet Union ceased to exist, he too found himself uniquely situated to benefit from the open market. He had the good fortune not only to know the locations of some of mother Russia's most dangerous weapons, but also to possess an invaluable code. Code Two. One of three codes needed to activate Ashkot's now dormant fraction of the Soviet nuclear arsenal.
Kovaretsky had been fortunate to avoid the public scandals that plagued so many Russian businessmen after the fall of the Soviet Union. Unlike those caught by the press with blood on their hands, Kovaretsky was merely the subject of speculation and insinuation. His ability to stay out of the news, permitted him to openly proclaim himself to be a decent, honest, caring and philanthropic man even though wise men knew to fear him. Even his philanthropic endeavors occasionally left an unidentifiable body in the morgue.
Vakhrusheva, on the other hand found his opportunities not in a sparkling public image, but in his reputation as a cold-blooded killer, loyal only to whatever mission he had been paid to do.
He no longer needed to work. In fact, as fifty had turned into sixty and sixty began to push its way into seventy, every little crick and creak in his bones warned him that he had better start making other plans. The arthritis in his hands had twisted his bones, and his knee hurt when it rained. It was about to rain, too. He took a Tylenol and washed it down with a swig of Vodka from his flask as he waited for Kovaretsky to join him on the bridge.
"Should I be struck by lightening on a golf course!" he whispered to the wind as he laughed at the idea of a quiet retirement. He stroked his jacket near his chest and felt the handgun snuggled comfortably in the shoulder holster where it had snuggled everyday for as long as he could remember. It reminded him that he was no armchair warrior and that he would never be happy sitting on the sidelines. Though his movements had grown stiff and slow, the gun reminded him that he was a warrior at heart and that he would die a warrior's death.
Seeing Kovaretsky coming across the footbridge reminded him of something else too. It reminded him that there were armed and functional truck mounted long range nuclear missiles hidden at Kovaretsky's airplane parts factory outside of Irkutsk that were worth more than a billion dollars on the black market. Missiles that were useless without Code 3 which was holed up in the brain of his dead friend, Yuri Ashkot. Kovaretsky had already spent millions of dollars to bring Ashkot back to Russia. American politicians are not as cheap as Russian ones and there were many, many hands out. Someone would yet be held accountable for delivering him a dead body, when he had been clear that he wanted a live one. Maybe a lot of people. Vakhrusheva stroked his handgun as if it were a beloved pet and took comfort in feeling it against his chest.
Kovaretsky walked up alongside Vakhrusheva and the two men exchanged a nod. Vakhrusheva spoke first. "The news is good. The American's were successful. The old man is dead, but our source says he is actually alive and well and living in the computer. The brain is apparently intact and functional and all the memories are preserved."
"Proof of concept," Kovaretsky said. "And has Bayron kept his end of the deal?"
Vakhrusheva swallowed hard. He was not going to be giving the answer to this question that he wanted to give. "We think so," he said as confidently as possible.
"Thinking is not knowing..." Kovaretsky observed.
"Dr. Petrovsky believes that he has been provided all of the data and has assured me that Bayron diligently uploaded all of his progress and notes as he promised in exchange for the scans he provided. Our contact, on the other hand, says there are certain hardcopy notes kept in a separate notebook..."
"That could be anything," Kovaretsky cut Vakhrusheva off. "A diary, a journal, anything. If Dr. Petrovsky says he has the data he needs to proceed, we'll give him the money he needs to bring Mr. Ashkot back to life. Go do it. I'm not getting younger." Kovaretsky paused and thought for a moment, then added, "If something is missing, Dr. Bayron will be brought here to explain. Perhaps he is unaware of who he is doing business with."
"There is something else," Vakhrusheva said. "There is going to be a memorial service tomorrow. Word is that they are going to reveal the technology at the service."
"In that case, time is even more so of the essence." Kovaretsky replied.
Vakhrusheva walked back to the footbridge. Letting Dr. Petrovsky know that more money was on its way to the lab was a call he was looking forward to making. It was rare that he had the opportunity to convey good new
s. He was also hoping that maybe Dr. Petrovsky could recommend something for the pain in his hands before he left for America. The pain had been getting worse.
Sharky waited for Alice to leave Dr. Bayron's office. She was so friendly and energetic; she always brought a lightheartedness into the lab when she was there. Sharky was wondering why she had made him feel uncomfortable. He had learned to trust his instincts, though, and waited until she was well out of sight before he went looking for Dr. Bayron's notes by the phone books.
On top of a filing cabinet on a far side of the lab were half a dozen yellow-spined phone books. Sharky couldn't remember the last time he had even used a phone book. That's what makes this a good hiding spot, he thought, admiring Dr. Bayron's choice. He didn't see any notebooks with the phone books, so he started taking the phone books down. Behind the phone books he found Dr. Bayron's black-covered spiral notebook of the type used by college students. Nearly all of the notebook's pages were filled with Dr. Bayron's signature scrawl. On first glance the notes appeared to be the same as the notes which were uploaded every night for the lab. He wasn't sure why Dr. Bayron had gone through such great pains to hide them or why he wanted Sharky to have them. Maybe there was something in there about the security system he would have to build to give Mr. Smith the modicum of freedom he so craved.
Sharky didn't want to start reading the notes with Alice still milling around and acting suspicious, so he put the notebook in his backpack and went to his workstation to figure out how to free Mr. Smith from his prison.
CHAPTER XIII.
The employee dining room in the SmithCorp Building was designed to do double duty as a banquet hall. The tables had been cleared out and the plastic dining chairs were draped in black slip-covers and arranged in rows. A portable stage had been erected at the front of the room with a podium and a microphone. The chairs were set in groups. Those closest to the stage were reserved for the mourners who consisted mostly of Smith's business associates, a few friends, and some of the higher ranking executives at SmithCorp. Only Hermelinda's baby carried the same blood as Smith as all of his other close relatives had long since passed.