“What—”
“I’ve got to find a funeral director.”
July 5
There was a graveside service at Arlington Memorial Park the next day. The NOAA
people were there in force, but left the cemetery as soon as propriety allowed. Sheila and Larson stood beside the open grave. The gravediggers and a backhoe were
partially hidden behind a pair of large cypresses.
“It wasn’t much, was it?” She said.
“No.”
“It was the best I could do. He had wanted to donate his body to scientific research,
you know.”
“I would have thought so.”
“But—but it was too late.”
Larson nodded.
She squared her shoulders and started for her Volkswagen.
“What now?” Larson said.
“I’m going to look into how and why Aaron died.”
“What about the police.”
“No help there. They’re only too ready to write off Aaron’s death as stupidity
regarding water temperature.”
“So?”
“The FBI. Special government computers were stolen. Files important to NOAA
were stolen. And a scientist of importance died under what should be considered very
suspicious circumstances.”
Larson nodded.
“I also have Aaron’s estate to deal with.” She paused. “And I’ve run out of excuses
for not finishing the changes to The Sophisticated Maiden. I’ll be busy.” She paused.
“You?”
“I’ve got to inform the people at the Trust that I’m out of business.” She shook her head. “That’s the most important thing you can think? Money?” He looked away.
She shook her head. “I’ll never understand.”
He opened the Volkswagen’s door for her. “I’d say we should stay in touch, but we
won’t, will we?”
“I can’t think of a single reason.”
Larson was staring down the street long after her Volkswagen had disappeared.
July 6
The following morning Sweet and Hazlett both stood to shake Larson’s hand. Hazlett spoke first. “We’re glad to see you, but what’s the emergency?” “It isn’t easy to explain.”
“Come on, Sam,” he said, “we’re family, remember.”
Larson explained how he had been able to predict the market and how he had lost the
capability.
“You had me fooled,” Sweet said. “I thought you were in fact the world’s greatest
stock researcher.”
“I was always pretty good, but not at this level.”
“No chance of recovery?” Hazlett said.
“No. Professor Rubenstein’s secret died with him.”
“It isn’t my style to admit to such things,” Sweet said, “but I had grown attached to
you personally.”
“One mustn’t allow personalities to interfere with business, but you were a special
case,” Hazlett said.
Larson nodded. “I felt the same way.”
He shook hands with both men again.
Later that afternoon, Larson was nursing a Budweiser and staring at nothing when the
telephone rang. He waited, then at last picked up.
“Sam, it is Ivan.”
“Hey.”
“Norm just told me the news. I was right, was I not, Sam? There was something
special about your technique.”
“Sure was.”
“What can I do?”
“Well, visitors to my office may not rate use of the Trust’s helicopter anymore, but
suppose you find a way to get over here and help commiserate.” He paused. “And bring
some really good vodka.”
“Soon.”
July 10
Hazlett located Larson on a practice court at the Surfside Racquet Club the following
Sunday. “Found a new way to spend your days, Sam?”
“Old way, Norm. I’m having a much needed lesson from a kid less than half my
age.”
“Is Ivan there with you?”
“Left a couple of hours ago. Said he had to get back, but I think he was tired after a
long weekend.”
“Probably. Anyway, I just called to tell you all funds have been recovered. That was
quite a network you had.”
“It was necessary.”
“Well, you can close all of your accounts.”
“Thanks, Norm, thanks for everything.”
Chapter 26
July 12
By the time Staranov took his seat behind the ornate desk in the apartment on the
Frunzenskaya Embankment, Marina Pavelovna Ammonova had counted the vanes in the
air conditioning outlet cover plate a hundred times and had reduced her handkerchief to a
series of small knots.
“Good afternoon, Marina Pavelovna.”
“Sir.”
“You had no trouble in finding the apartment?”
“The message was quite clear—though odd, if I may say so.”
“Odd?”
“I wonder why I am meeting you here rather than at the dacha.”
“I am engaged in a very delicate work.”
“This apartment is a long way from Usovo.”
“Not all of our associates can be trusted in this matter.”
She hesitated. “So I am to use my computers at the office, but report my results to
you here.”
“Yes.”
“And if a question arises regarding my workload?”
“Valubin and Grashchenko are well aware of the project, but you should refer any
questions to me.”
“Very well.”
“You received the materials from Romanidze?”
She nodded. “He seems bright. May I know why he was relieved of the task.” “He lacked the necessary incentive. Can you do it?”
“May I restate my tasks?”
Staranov nodded.
“I am to program my computer to watch for the operation of a certain investment
technique.”
Staranov nodded.
“I must then find the user.”
“Yes. Can you do it?”
“Another question?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure the technique is being used?”
“No.”
“No? So it is not unlike listening for radio transmissions coming from space. I am
awaiting something that may never appear?”
“Yes. Can you do it?”
“I do not know.”
“How do the Americans do it? Does their Securities and Exchange Commission not
watch for evil doers?”
“Yes. They have what are called market watch people and computer programs.” “So?”
“I have neither.”
Staranov stared at her as she found a new way to twist her handkerchief. “You forget
by whom you are employed, Marina Pavelovna. You are no longer a slave of the FSB.” She nodded.
“Return in not less than fifteen days and tell me that you will be able to find an
investor employing the subject technique.”
She threw her ruined handkerchief in Staranov’s wastebasket and hurried from the
room.
July 24
Sheila’s throw wasn’t close enough to disturb the rattlesnake. She threw again, this
time taking it in the head. She couldn’t have the snakes thinking it was acceptable to
climb onto the plain.
She returned to the IBM Control Workstation, waited for the connection to
NOAA/Georgia Tech, and inserted the last CD-ROM disk Aaron had given her. She had
not looked at his architecture since he had completed his last working model, but he had
not mentioned any changes in the program. He had been looking for improved
processing, but had only added new inputs.
Most of Augur’s coding was concerned with receiving data and formatting the results.
The CHAOS-based prediction software at NOAA/Georgia Tech manipulated the data and
so was not in question. She stared at the lines of coding rolling down the screen. After another hour’s frustration, she turned off the machine and walked to the edge of
the plain. The rattlesnake was asleep again in the sun. She tumbled it onto the rocks
below.
She tried Larson’s cell phone again.
“Sam Larson.”
“This is the fourth time I’ve called in the last hour. Do you usually neglect your
telephone?”
“Sheila! Well, it depends on the score.”
“The score?”
“There are situations in which I claim I’m expecting an important call and have to
answer and others in which I want to keep boring in. This time I wanted to keep boring in.”
“Boring in? What does that mean? Where are you?”
“Court six, the Fairmount Hamilton Princess Hotel.”
“Which is where?”
“Bermuda.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to bore into Billy Caldwell some more. Swim. Lunch. Nap. Hang around the pool. Dinner. Hang around the saloon. Maybe go—”
“Enough!”
“Enough of what?”
“What are you going to do when you complete your current round of hedonistic delights?”
“Why do you ask?”
She hesitated. “I’m thinking about reconstituting Augur.”
Larson laughed. “You short on cash?”
“I’ve become involved with Aaron’s foundation.”
“With all you told me you were going to do with your life and now you’re worrying about a foundation?”
“I’ve become a trustee. Money’s short.”
“And you want to restore Augur so you can provide—”
“Exactly.”
Larson paused. “I suppose that’s in character.”
“I like to think so.”
“So you’ve tracked me down to enlist me?”
“Yes.”
He took the telephone away from his ear and stared across the tennis courts toward the clubhouse.
“Larson. You there?”
He didn’t answer.
“Larson. Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what—”
“I was thinking about Aaron. The last time I saw him.”
She waited.
“Rebuilding the network will take some time and effort.”
“You seem to have plenty of time and you know how to do it.”
He hesitated. “Okay. I’ll be in Atlanta day after tomorrow.”
“I want to work here. T-shirts and shorts are all you need.”
“Okay.”
“Call me from Parrott’s.”
Larson hesitated. “Wait. Before you go, tell me what the FBI found?”
“Nothing. During my last communication, I was treated to comments regarding possible paranoia. I’m alone with my concerns.”
July 26
Larson took a break in his packing.
“Sheila?”
“Yes?”
“Sam.”
“When will you be here?”
“I’ve been thinking it over and—”
“Larson, are you coming or not? I don’t want—” “How about listening for a minute?”
“Very well.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t you want any more money? How much do you have?” “Enough.”
“You don’t want any more monetary trophies?”
Larson didn’t respond.
“How about helping Aaron’s foundation? Aaron, the man who made your money
possible?”
“Okay, okay. Three hours.” “Welcome, Mr. Sam,” Sara Beth said. “Sheila called a few minutes ago. Told me I was to throw out a red rug.” She shrugged. “We don’t have one, but there’s an old brown one—”
Larson laughed. “I get the picture, Sara Beth, and I’m glad to be here.” She was wearing her baseball cap, work shoes, work shirt, and jeans.
“Thought the uniform was cut-offs and Tshirts,” he said.
“This is my gardening costume.”
He stacked two boxes on the Jeep’s back seat. “Ready.”
“Doesn’t seem like much equipment.”
“Laptop, portable satellite link, and a little printer.”
Sheila shrugged and started the Jeep.
“What about power?”
“I have TVA power. The output is steady, except for thunderstorms and the
occasional construction-related outages. And I have a back-up generator that comes on line in the event of a power failure.”
“What about the inputs?”
“They’ll continue to arrive at NOAA while I hand over Aaron’s work to one of his associates.”
“He’ll know what Augur can do?”
“No. As far as he’s concerned, the inputs are simply data for the computer to process. He won’t know whether they’re financial data or medical information or geological readings. The NOAA research at Tech is concerned with how to solve problems using CHOAS, not the use of the results. NOAA doesn’t know about Augur.”
Larson frowned.
“Remember that Augur began as a hobby. Although what he found was simpler than what’s required for weather prediction, Aaron’s general CHAOS theory was proved when it became operational.”
Larson frowned.
“But when he realized the harm that Augur’s publication might cause, he decided not to report his findings immediately. He was both improving Augur and preparing to transfer its technology to weather prediction when he died.”
“But he employed it himself.”
“To determine if it would work in the real world.”
“Then he continued.”
“He became attached to you—didn’t want to disappoint you. And then he had his foundation to fund.”
“Okay.”
“And so the inputs and processing capabilities remain in place.”
“For how long?”
“A long time—maybe a year, maybe longer.”
“Good.” He paused. “And the data you need?”
“The inputs are transferred from an IBM AP Power3 at Tech, via satellite, to an old IBM Workstation I have here.”
When Larson had stored his equipment and placed his luggage in his assigned room, he returned to the living room.
Sheila brought him a cold beer.
“Tell me, do we eat here or—”
“Here. The alternative is a fortymile roundtrip drive to the McDonald’s in Peabody. You’ll find me to be an adequate cook and perhaps you have skills in that area?”
“If you could see my refrigerator, you’d think otherwise.”
“We’ll be all right.” She sat again at a window overlooking the view to the south and patted the seat beside her. “Please join me while we discuss what we’re going to do.”
Larson sat.
“I’ve tested Augur’s output for the last two hundred trading days. It’s not producing the output I provided to you in those days. I don’t know why.”
“No change in the program? An error. A bad copy?”
“No errors. I’ve compared the CD Aaron installed here with his file program at NOAA. They’re congruent.”
She turned from the view to Larson. “Now, I want to make sure we’re off to the right start here—no misunderstandings.”
Larson nodded.
“We’re here to work together with the goal of making Augur run again. Are we agreed?”
He smiled. “What else could there be?”
July 27
&
nbsp; Larson descended the wide stairway at seven-thirty the following morning. Sheila was wearing her uniform of cut-off jeans, a yellow Georgia Tech T-shirt, and
sandals. She was hunched over her computer. Her hair was loosely braided, the right braid hanging down her back, the left one over her shoulder. She waved in the general direction of the kitchen. “Bagels on the counter. Orange juice in the fridge. The coffee might be a little old. Can you make coffee?”
“Expert. What if I had something a little more substantial in mind?” She looked up. “What are you planning to do today?”
“Think about getting my operations running again.”
“A bagel should be enough.”
“And if I want to go for a walk this afternoon?”
“Two bagels.”
He closed his computer soon after lunch. “All I can do for today. I’m going to take that hike I mentioned.”
She didn’t respond.
He returned at dusk. His tennis shoes were muddy and there was a rip in the sleeve of his T-shirt.
She met him at the door. “You’ve been exploring?”
“Yes. I walked to the edge of the forbidden rock pile, then climbed a while.” He inserted his fingers under his waistband. “And I believe I’ve found a world-class concentration of chiggers.”
“Nothing but the best for our visitors. It’s a good thing you didn’t run into any of our bigger neighbors.”
“You told me about the snakes. I didn’t see—”
“Bigger. We have a few black bears around here.”
“Do they—”
“Come to the house? Not yet, but I’m careful not to leave anything to attract them.”
“Good thinking.”
“If you need some exercise, maybe you’d like join me in my little morning run.”
“I didn’t know you ran.”
“It happens before you wake up. And before most creatures begin moving around.”
“What do you do?”
“I’ll wake you a six tomorrow and show you. Running shoes and shorts.”
Sheila knocked on Larson’s door the following morning.
“Yes?”
“Six o’clock. Running shoes and shorts.”
“Uh, maybe tomorrow.”
She chuckled. “The exercise will get you ready for the day. Come on.”
It was full daylight when they reached the top of the road.
“A comment?” he said.
“Comment away.”
“Your track suit.”
“Yes?”
“Good thing you’re wearing it up here. They’d put you in the pokey in Atlanta.” She turned to him. “One, we are not in fact in Atlanta, and two, what I choose to
wear in these mountains is a part of the freedom I cherish.” He raised a hand. “Don’t get bent out of shape. My comment was meant t o be a compliment.”
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