Mastermind: A Theo Cray and Jessica Blackwood Thriller

by Andrew Mayne

  “Dr. Cray, thank you for joining us,” says the justice official who greeted me, Benjamin Elliott. “You had a chance to hear Mr. Heywood’s claims. What do you make of them?”

  “I think the phrase is, ‘Big, if true,’” I reply.

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “Everything he said made sense, in its own right. If you had access to that amount of processing power, and if you had the right data, you could make some interesting discoveries. The key is putting them to the test. Knowing which ones worked.”

  “And do you think they worked?”

  “I’m not a medical doctor. I haven’t examined anyone he claimed was cured.”

  “You saw the patients in Chernobyl,” says Elliott. “Heywood says that he’d asked an outside organization for independent verification. He claims that those patients were cured.”

  Interesting. So Heywood’s claiming that he asked some folks to check his numbers and they’re the ones accountable for the horrific treatment those men suffered?

  “I saw malnourished people who were the victims of cruel experiments,” I explain.

  “But ambulatory and showing no signs of the diseases they had been suffering from,” says a woman named Dr. Wheeler.

  “I have no idea what they were suffering from,” I answer.

  “What about the chimpanzee facility? What was the condition of the animals?” Wheeler asks.

  “They, too, were in a malnourished state.”

  “Were they ill?”

  “Again, not my area,” I reply. “I know the ones buried out back were pretty ill. And I suspect the Chernobyl facility has more skeletons. But I don’t think you brought me here to get my opinion on those horror shows. You have experts on the ground.”

  “We wanted your assessment, Dr. Cray. We have some very challenging decisions. We’ve looked at eighty of Heywood’s so-called miracle cures and found what appear to be eighty spontaneous remissions. When we ran the pharmaceutical combination that Jessica suggested in our own computer model, we came up with a pattern match.”

  “I’m sorry. Jessica suggested . . . ?” I look to Jessica.

  “Not me.” She shakes her head. “That’s what Heywood named his computer model.”

  “Jessica in Aramaic means ‘to see,’” says Wheeler. “He claims he chose the name before he knew Agent Blackwood.”

  “We’re aware of Mr. Heywood’s criminal activities,” says Benjamin Elliott, taking the floor again. “We’re not here to discuss them. We’re trying to determine the viability of the computer model.”

  “Then take a look at it,” I tell him. “Have it make some predictions. Test them on mice.”

  “Before we can do that, we need to come to an arrangement with Heywood,” says Wheeler.

  “Oh. He’s extorting you. I got it.”

  Wheeler’s not having any of that. “Actually, Dr. Cray, he’s been very forthcoming with the data from his neural network model. In order to implement the full model, we’d need considerable help to get it running.”

  “You seem persuaded,” I remark.

  “I’d say that he has provided us with an overwhelming amount of supportive evidence. And I’ve examined the ‘angel’ cases myself. I believe he’s made a breakthrough. My question is, do you, Dr. Cray?”

  “Like I said, it’s within the realm of possibility. His approach is sound, albeit illegal and unethical, but it doesn’t contradict anything I know.”

  Prior to the meeting, I’d been given a two-page document outlining how Heywood built and trained his network. It was a good thumbnail sketch, but it didn’t get into specifics. I sent a copy to Hailey for her take, since she’s more knowledgeable about this than I am. Her response was, “Yes, in theory. But too vague. This looks like bullshit meant to fool investors. This is how Theranos happened,” referencing the crooked health start-up that promised to detect hundreds of diseases from one drop of blood.

  “And what is your opinion of the research summary?” asks Elliott.

  “If he actually used the resources he said he did, then it’s possible,” I suggest.

  A man in the corner with a thin crew cut and five-o’clock shadow speaks up in a British accent. “We’ve managed to verify that part of it.”

  “Using NSA and CIA computers? How did he pull that off without inside access?” I ask.

  “We’re not here to get into specifics of legality,” says Elliott.

  I can see that Jessica is fuming at them. I decide to say what she can’t. “It sounds to me like you’re ready to give him a free pass on being a mass murderer for this.”

  “Mr. Heywood may have had a condition that impaired his judgment,” says Wheeler.

  “Was it contagious?” I ask.

  “Can we get back to the discussion at hand?” asks Elliott. “I’ll be forthcoming. Mr. Heywood has offered convincing proof that his system has discovered effective treatments for Kaposi’s sarcoma and myxofibrosarcoma, using off-label medications. He’s also shown that the model has the ability to create entirely new classes of pharmaceuticals with tremendous impact. Pursuing this will take a considerable effort and his cooperation.”

  “His cooperation . . . ,” I echo. “Let me guess. A pardon?”

  “The specifics aren’t your concern, with the exception of one matter. But first, a philosophical question: If what he says is true, what is the value of his system?”

  “Something that could save millions of lives a year,” adds Wheeler.

  “What sacrifice wouldn’t be justifiable?” Elliott chimes back in.

  “I guess you have to ask whoever is making that sacrifice,” I explain.

  “We are, Dr. Cray,” says Elliott. “Mr. Heywood’s terms are for the most part understandable. But he appears to have a grievance with you.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Heywood claims to have evidence that you’ve done unlawful network intrusions into government computers. His condition is that you be convicted for this.”

  I can’t keep the smirk off my face. “The guy who was using NSA computers for his science fair project is calling me a hacker? That’s just incredible.”

  “Did you show Agent Blackwood an application that tracked the device IDs of cellular phones belonging to federal agents?” asks Elliott.

  “I think that’s a question for a lawyer. But would said app work in exactly the same manner as a contact-tracing app and within the same legal boundaries?” I ask.

  “That would be a question for a courtroom. Let me put it this way: right now, the only thing standing between us and Heywood granting us access to his system is you. He wants a conviction. Obviously, we can’t promise him an outcome,” says Elliott.

  I know where this is going. “But you can ask me for a confession, a guilty plea, and a waiver of my right to a trial.”

  “This is bullshit,” says Jessica.

  “Agent Blackwood, you were allowed to sit in on this on the condition that you remain quiet,” snaps Elliott.

  She stands and points at Elliott. “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Blackwood!” shouts Gerald, jumping to his feet. “Out of the room, now!” He ushers her to the door.

  “Don’t do it, Theo. There’s another way. There has to be,” she says before the door shuts.

  “As you know, Dr. Cray, there is another way. That way is called time,” says Wheeler. “Unfortunately, as we wait for alternatives, people die. What Heywood has presented us could accelerate research by decades. If we can prove the model works, we can get funding to build quantum clusters and systems much more powerful than what he could cobble together.”

  “We’d ask for the federal minimum,” says Elliott, returning to the issue at hand. “We can expedite you to a minimum-security prison.”

  “We can give you access to research,” says Wheeler.

  “All I have to do is take one for the team?” I ask.

  “There’s another matter,” adds Elliott. “When Agent Blackwood retrieved you fr
om Myanmar, she forged several government documents to get you out of the country.”

  I look over to Gerald. His expression is stone-cold. Did he know about this? Jessica may have intercepted a request, but I’m not aware of any forgery she committed. She’s too smart for that.

  I notice that Gerald has underlined something on his notepad and is tapping his pen lightly on it for me to see.

  THEY ONLY WANT YOU.

  I understand. If I don’t make the choice they want, they’ll come down hard on Jessica and force me.

  Fine.

  I was ready to die in prison before she found me. I’m ready to die in prison for her now.

  “Whatever you want,” I tell them. I feel like adding in that if Heywood’s system doesn’t work out the way they plan, then maybe they should spring me sooner than later. But that’s not the way it works. Worst case, he’ll show only modest improvements to the tech and they’ll keep hoping for a miracle. Best case, his system delivers. Either way, these folks will forget about their promises to me.

  “Director Kieren, tell your agents that the IDR can take Dr. Cray into custody,” says Elliott, already breaking one promise.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  COLD STORAGE

  Lagrange comes to move me. That’s not his name. None of the guards in the Death Star have names, at least not ones they tell us. And by us, I mean the other inmates I assume are in this black-walled detention center. I’ve only passed by the others in the halls. Or at least I assume I have. When they move you from one room to another, they put a hood over your head.

  Shortly after Kieren had me escorted out of the conference room, I was hooded, placed on an airplane for three hours, and brought to this facility. A government lawyer explained from the video screen behind the thick sheet of glass in my cell that I would be held indefinitely as a security risk because I had access to state secrets.

  Apparently, you can have your citizenship taken from you when the right judge signs a certain document. I’m sure it was a well-intentioned rule to help fight a war on terror through a legal system not meant to fight wars, but like any power, it has the potential for abuse, and whoever holds that power will avoid relinquishing it at any cost.

  Lagrange shoves me against a wall. “Stay here.”

  His footsteps fade on the concrete floor, and a door closes. My hands are still bound and the hood is still secure around my head.

  The Death Star is an interesting place. It’s incredibly efficient, cruel in certain ways, but not in others. I’ve never been brutalized by a guard. The meals are adequate, and my health is checked weekly by a physician. I get the feeling that this is the product of the government learning from other black sites and detention centers.

  Somewhere in this facility, I’m convinced there’s an office where they have Christmas parties and plan baby showers. The inmates are numbers on a board and somebody types up a weekly report, then checks Facebook.

  It feels like a prison built by a machine. There’re no shower sexual assaults or illicit drugs that I’m aware of, but there’s also no library, classes, or church services. I have a cell with a toilet and a shower. At the end of my bed is a television that I can only control with my voice.

  With a little human interaction, it could be a model for prisons everywhere, except for one detail—it has to cost a ridiculous amount of money to keep me here. This is a place reserved for a certain kind of criminal, though I haven’t a clue what that kind of criminal is supposed to be.

  Maybe like me? I don’t know.

  There are footsteps that sound like heels. I can smell a whiff of perfume. This would be Dr. Diane. She’s one of the psychologists who interview me twice a week. She’s never been formally introduced as a psychologist, and I’m sure Diane is merely the name she shrinks under. I can tell from her questions that she is highly educated but horrible at statistics and has only a weak understanding of world events.

  She asks me questions, usually through the television, about my well-being, then random ones about potential network vulnerabilities or whether I’ve communicated with certain hacking groups.

  I imagine that somewhere at the other end of those questions is an intelligence analyst typing into a web form like they’re ordering Korean food.

  “Dr. Cray, you have a visitor,” says Dr. Diane. “I’m here to remind you that we’ve made you aware that the procedures and practices in this facility are national secrets. You may talk about your well-being, shows you’ve watched, and books you’ve read. But you may not discuss our conversations or any other aspects of our facility. May I get a verbal yes from you before you’re allowed to see your visitor?”

  “Yes, Dr. Diane,” I reply.

  Diane’s footsteps retreat, and I hear the heavy plodding of Lagrange as he enters the room.

  He tightens the hood on my head, puts a hand on my back, and walks me to another room.

  “Sit down,” says Lagrange, using a powerful hand on my shoulder to remind me which way is down.

  “Face forward.”

  I look straight ahead as the hood is pulled away. When my eyes adjust, I see my reflection in a pane of glass. The room around me is white, like the interior of an Apple store.

  A light flickers to life on the other side of the glass, and I see a mirror version of the room I’m in. A door slides open, and I see the face that I’ve been thinking about constantly—and feeling guilty about it.

  “Theo,” says Jessica as she steps forward and sits opposite from me across the glass.

  “Hey, Jessica,” I reply, giving her a smile to let her know I’m perfectly fine.

  “I am so, so sorry,” she says. I can tell from the puffiness around her eyes and the dark circles she’s tried to cover with concealer that these last three weeks have been worse on her than on me.

  “It’s not so bad. Last time I was in a jail, I was pretty sure I was about to be killed or one of the guards was going to try to make it all the way to third base with me. Possibly in that order.”

  She shakes her head. “Theo, Theo. I’ve been trying to get you out of here and to the minimum-security prison. I’ve also reached out to Heywood . . . ,” she adds hesitantly.

  “What?”

  “I want to talk him out of this.”

  “No! That’s what he wants. You can’t put him in a position of power. He’s a cruel man. He’ll just use that to torment you.”

  “Knowing you’re in here is tormenting me. It’s not right.” Tears start to well up in her eyes.

  “Hey, it was only a matter of time. I deserve worse than this. I’m okay. More importantly, how’s your father?”

  “My father? What do you know about my father?” she asks.

  “You had very specific knowledge of Weir’s wife’s cancer medications, and I’ve seen you receive texts on multiple occasions from someone named Dad on your phone,” I reply.

  “I didn’t know you knew.”

  “I didn’t think you were ready to tell me. It’s a heavy burden to put on someone,” I say. “And I suspected you didn’t want me to revisit what happened to my dad.”

  “He’s doing okay. We think he has a good chance of remission. That could give him several years.” Jessica pounds her fist on the counter. “That asshole.”

  “Your dad?”

  “No. Heywood. He made sure I saw the list of diseases they wanted to test for once the system was up and running. He wanted me to know my father’s form of cancer was one of them.”

  “I only see that as a good thing. Assuming it works.”

  “Assuming it works,” she repeats. “I’ve been looking into the miracle-cure cases. There are a hundred and twenty of them now. Something’s still bothering me about them.”

  I raise my eyebrows and wait for her to tell me.

  “I was thinking that maybe he looked for spontaneous remissions and then tried to take credit for them, but that’s not the case, as far as I can tell.”

  “How exactly did he administer his treatments?”
I ask.

  “Well, that’s one more reason that it’s frustrating that you’re in here instead of him. He hacked the medical diagnostic software hospitals were using and added in the recommendations for off-label treatments. A number of doctors just blindly followed what the software told them. Most of the senior oncologists didn’t, but the younger ones were willing to try it in dire situations.”

  “And it worked? Have you looked to see if there were cases where it didn’t?”

  “Some people didn’t react as strongly, but that’s the extent of it. We’ve been calling around to hospitals trying to find out if any doctors tried recommendations that didn’t work out. So far none.”

  “You wanted to see if he was randomly trying different treatments.”

  “Not randomly, but off-label therapies the FDA hasn’t approved,” she replies. “The scary part is how many people are okay with this. Heywood broke just about every ethical and legal law you can imagine, yet people in all these agencies are rushing to evaluate the results. I don’t understand.”

  “Well,” I say, “you have to accept the idea that this could be real. Bad people sometimes do brilliant things. The Soviets starved millions of people but put a man in space. Columbus discovered a new world at the expense of the people who already lived there. This could be the real thing. I hope it’s real.”

  “Yeah, I understand. I just have trouble separating my feelings. I want him to be wrong because he’s so vile. But I understand that also means that millions of people would die.”

  I point to the ceiling, reminding her that we’re being listened to. “I understand the philosophical quandary.”

  “The part that really gets to me is his obsession with you,” she replies. “You threaten him. I’m not sure why. He already got what he wanted. We didn’t stop him.”