A Girl Named Digit

by Annabel Monaghan

  John’s mother was tall and serious. She had that polished but no-nonsense look that French women have, suggesting that they’d been born beautiful and had to exert very little effort to stay that way. “Johnny, we could not get in touch with you through the L.A. Bureau and finally heard you were away on assignment. But this morning we got a call from William saying that you had arrived here last night injured. Of course, we had to come. Are you all right?”

  Okay, here’s a way to make a good first impression. Don’t get up—just stay crouched behind the topiary as if you are still expecting gunshots. John started to explain that it had actually been me who was hurt and gestured to where I should have been standing, casually next to him, fully dressed and ready to make an awesome first impression. When I wasn’t there, he spotted me—Crouching Tiger, Hidden Idiot—and reached out his hand to help me up.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Farrah Higgins.” I managed to stand all the way up, brushed the potting soil off my hands, and said hello. “Farrah, these are my parents, Henry and Margaret Bennett.” I had the feeling they were not the sort of people I’d be calling Hank and Marge after the wedding.

  “Hello, dear,” the missus said quickly, eyeing her now-wrinkled pajamas and then turning back to John. “So you are here with a young woman?”

  “How old are you, young lady?” asked his father.

  “Seventeen,” I managed.

  Proving that no matter how chic and worldly, all moms are alike, John’s mom leaned in to him and said, “Darling, this is hardly appropriate, such a young girl and unchaperoned, and while you are supposed to be on a case . . .”

  “Mom, stop. It’s nothing like that! This is my case. Farrah has cracked a major terror plot, and I am hiding her while we get to the bottom of it.”

  Nothing like that? I thought it was starting to be something like that. It really felt like it was exactly that. Maybe I’m underage and this is a major misdemeanor, but come on! Own up!

  So I stood there feeling like a stray cat that Johnny Freakin’ Do-Gooder was hired to escort home. “I am the love of his life, actually. We just spent the last twelve hours snuggled up in your Egyptian cotton sheets. I even used your razor! So if you think I am some charity case the FBI has picked up, you are sadly mistaken.” So that’s what I felt like saying. But instead I said, “We have made a lot progress on the case.” Lame, I know.

  Mrs. Bennett looked relieved, as if she was making a mental list: Son not a pedophile—check.

  John was acting maddeningly casual, like his parents were always walking in, unannounced, to his love nest. “Should I have William send up some more coffee? Can you guys join us for breakfast?”

  John’s parents exchanged a glance, and Mr. Bennett said, “Just for a minute. I’ll have coffee and blueberry pancakes. Your mother will have the same but make her pancakes whole wheat.” What I wouldn’t give to see that magic kitchen.

  We all sat down on the terrace, looking out over the tops of other Park Avenue buildings. In the distance, the perfect tree line of Central Park calmed my nerves a little.

  Mr. Bennett was a man of few words, but I could tell he was well schooled in the spy business. He seemed to take in every detail around him without moving his head more than five degrees in either direction. I saw him notice how close together John’s and my chairs were at the table, and the way John had to move his to even out the foursome when we all sat down. He was on to us, and his mental checklist was reading: Son is a pedophile—check.

  He started quizzing us. “Farrah, how did you get hurt?”

  “We were hiding out in a middle school Friday night. It was locked up for the weekend, so we were sure we were safe—”

  John jumped in. “But we weren’t obviously. Four guys got in and held us at gunpoint and nearly marched us to our deaths—”

  “Until John had the bright idea that we jump, me first!” I was laughing and so was he.

  “Lucky for me, Farrah broke my fall . . .”

  “And protected him from the sprinkler that was sticking up from the grass below. I cut my arm, the same arm I bruised earlier when John dragged me out of a moving taxi . . .”

  “She’s heavier than she looks,” he teased.

  “Hey.” I smacked him in the arm playfully. I looked over at the Bennetts and realized that we had totally blown it. We were being way too cute. John looked up and saw it too. His mother had her arms crossed, and her eyebrows were threatening her hairline. His dad had a faint smile on his face, slightly amused.

  We both recovered and straightened ourselves up. John started talking a mile a minute, and I started shoving croissants into my mouth. It seemed like the only way to keep me from speaking. And it was clear that, as long as I was within two feet of John Bennett, if I was speaking, I was gushing.

  Mrs. Bennett scolded John. “You were crazy to go hide out in a school when you could have been completely safe here. Why would you have gone there?”

  Wait. That was a good point. John looked down as he spoke. “I just wanted to do this on my own. I wanted to successfully complete my first field assignment without leaning on you guys.” He glanced at me. “And I nearly got her killed.”

  “But you didn’t,” Mr. Bennett offered. “Now, what is this case about? Who wants to kill Farrah?”

  John explained, “I can’t give you all the details of this case, of course, but Farrah and I are starting to think that we have been compromised in some way. We are being found in normally secure locations, when no one has been informed about our whereabouts except for my team at the FBI. It’s possible that my cell phone is tapped or that there is a leak from within the Bureau. We were safe last night, but it was the one night that I did not call the office to check in.”

  “That’s not like you, John. Why wouldn’t you have re- ported in?” His mother’s eyebrows were now reaching an unprecedented latitude.

  “We were really tired, and Farrah was hurt, and, well, I forgot.”

  Mr. Bennett jumped in to save his son. “It sounds like you’re right—you may be compromised in some way. And it may be key to your investigation to determine who is sympathizing with the criminals. I don’t think you have any option other than to set up a sting and try to catch them.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” I brushed the crumbs off my face.

  Tree-Hugger

  Which is how I found myself at the top of an oak tree at dusk in Central Park. It was two o’clock by the time we finished the most awkward possible breakfast with the Fockers. At 5:30 John called Steven from the tree to check in. Helen told John that Steven was not in the office but that she had orders to transfer John to his cell phone immediately if he checked in.

  “Where the hell have you been!?” I could hear how angry he was from across the tree.

  “Farrah got hurt last night, and I had to get her inside quickly, and I lost cell service at our location.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “We are walking, on our way to a more secure spot. I am going to try the equipment shed in Central Park after six p.m. when ops close for the day. We should be secure there for the night.”

  “Which shed?” Weird question, right?

  “The one right off of Sheep Meadow.”

  “All right, be safe and call me in the morning.”

  Sitting in an oak tree at dusk in Central Park in April with the crush of your life is something I’d recommend to anyone. The air was crisp, there were pink and white blossoms on the trees, and we had found two perfect branches to accommodate us. I could see across Sheep Meadow and above it the Midtown skyline. I wondered if I could see the top of the building we’d stayed in. I wondered if I’d ever go back there. I wondered if John was for real or if this was a stress-induced romance. I decided I didn’t care. Even though my life was for sure in danger and I was dealing with a side of humanity that I’d rather not know about, I felt happier than I had since I was a kid.

  Two hours later it got dark and much less fun. I was freezing, my
butt was numb, and my nerves were shot. Central Park is filled with a variety of animals during the night, human and otherwise, and they are all a little scary. But none were moving toward the shed with any intention of killing us and taking our precious diaper bag.

  “This is ridiculous. Can’t we just go back to your secret lair?”

  “No, my parents are there. And we have to wait this out to see if the operation is secure.”

  I rolled my eyes. I’d had enough. “Right.”

  “You getting a little sick of this particular branch of the legal system, Digit?”

  “Don’t.”

  “You feeling a little up a tree?”

  “Please.”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb here . . .”

  Mercifully, the murderers arrived just then. Leaves rustled under the Japanese maple that was to the right of the shed. I couldn’t make out how many there were, but I could see movement in the darkness. John grabbed my arm and motioned for me to be quiet. Duh, like I was the one making the corny jokes.

  We sat, barely breathing for an excruciating ten minutes while whoever was there searched the shed and gave up. They walked back toward us, passing under our tree, and we could see that there were three of them, well covered in black clothes and baseball hats. There would be no way to identify them, except the first one stopped directly under our tree to make a phone call.

  “Nothing to see here. They’ve disappeared.” Shudder, shudder, punch.

  Alcohol and Calculus Don’t Mix. Never Drink and Derive.

  We waited exactly fifteen minutes before we jumped out of our tree and raced back to safety on Seventy-ninth Street. We paused, listening for John’s parents, when we got back into the warm foyer. We were relieved to see they were out, and John kissed me exactly six times before making a beeline for the intercom to the magic kitchen. I headed straight for my favorite spot in front of the fireplace, hoping someone would come light it for me. “I’m going to have another look in the diaper bag,” I shouted into the next room. “It looks like nothing but pages of numbers, and the terrorists don’t seem to want it. But if it was worth compromising Scarlet’s whole suicide bombing and may have something to do with people wanting to kill us, it has to mean something to someone.” I sat on the floor and spread the pages out in front of me. John called down to William for tea. Now, I feel like I’m old enough for an occasional beer, but tea? Am I really old enough to be sipping tea?

  “You ready to fill me in?”

  I jumped at the voice. John’s dad had walked in off of the terrace and stood behind the wing chair across from me. He was a very scary man, a fact that was amplified by his King Kong frame and his laser eyes. I imagined being interrogated by him and confessing to excessive body hair and impure thoughts about his son.

  He saw that he’d terrified me and softened. “Listen, Farrah, I have a feeling you guys are in worse trouble than you bargained for. If you’re hiding from the good guys and the bad guys, you’re in over your head.”

  John walked in with an actual silver tea tray and froze when he saw his dad. “Hi, Dad. I, uh, we didn’t know you were here. Where’s Mom?”

  “Your mom got called out on a job. She’ll be out about three weeks, classified location.”

  “Of course.” There was an awkward silence while John looked for someplace to put the tea and tried not to meet his dad’s eyes.

  “Johnny, I think you need my help. You can’t hide here forever, and you have a lot of people looking for you, your girlfriend, and whatever’s in that bag.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.” Ouch. “She’s underage.”

  “Until June.” Jeez! I wait this long to say a word, and this is what I come out with? Does anyone have a muzzle in this mansion? I might as well have said, “Mr. Bennett, right now I am seventeen, but in a few weeks I am going to legally jump your son.” No more talking for me; I went back to the papers.

  Mr. Bennett was smirking like he was reading my mind. Maybe he could—doesn’t the CIA employ people who can do stuff like that? I didn’t stand a chance.

  “June twenty-second, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t say anything. He must have run a check on me while we were up our tree. It made sense. I was a stranger in his house who was compromising his son’s career.

  “There are a few benefits to being in the CIA.” He let me sit with that for a bit and turned his attention to John. “I know your operation is compromised. And you have, as you well know, an underage girl in your care and are responsible for her well-being. Her parents could sue the Bureau or you. It’s not like you to deviate from operating procedure, and, as this is your first real field assignment, I’m more than a little curious as to the details of this operation and why you’ve picked now to go AWOL.”

  “Dad, I have it under control.”

  “You have a group of terrorists trying to kill your girlfri—sorry, your assignment—and you seem to be hiding from the FBI. Is that what passes for under control in your book?” Mr. Bennett was trying unsuccessfully not to raise his voice.

  “No.” John sat down and put his head in his hands. He looked like it physically hurt him to ask for help. “Okay, Dad. This is what we know: There was a terror organization communicating through a Los Angeles television station. Farrah’s involvement began when she cracked their communication system. She can make a positive identification of one of their operatives, who is a known member of the Jonas Furnis organization. The FBI staged a fake kidnapping to get her into protective custody. This group was responsible for the recent events at JFK, and Farrah and I believe that two of their operatives working out of New York were at the heart of the operation. They’d been under suspicion, and their calls had been remotely monitored by the FBI for some time. We believe that the woman was the suicide bomber and that she left the diaper bag for her partner so he could continue to blackmail the person they call Britney, who’s been helping them but is also double-crossing Jonas Furnis in some way. That’s where we get a little murky.”

  “What are those papers? They just look like numbers, no text?”

  I realized he was talking to me. “Oh, yeah, they are just streams of numbers. The left column is a stream of nine-digit numbers. The right column has numbers of various lengths ranging from four to seven digits. At first I thought that these numbers were an encoding of names or locations, but now I see that the left column is a list of eight-digit numbers with a check digit at the end . . .”

  Mr. Bennett shot John a Huh? with his eyes. John smiled a little. “She’s not normal, Dad.” He got up and started stacking wood in the fireplace.

  Like it’s the first time I’ve ever heard that. I ignored him. “So the left column is probably a list of nine-digit bank routing numbers. Yes, you can see here that some of them appear more than once. The right column is probably the amount deposited to each bank. This could be some sort of accounting of how they are financing their operations.”

  “So, that sounds incredibly valuable to the FBI—why don’t you just hand all this over to Steven and go home?”

  John and I were quiet for a second. I finally spit it out. “Because Steven’s trying to kill us.”

  John was squirming in his big leather chair. Not only was the chair oversize, but John seemed to be shrinking under his dad’s amused gaze. “I’m sorry, son. I’m trying to follow you, but now you’re telling me that the real villain is your boss? I’ve known Steven a long time . . .”

  “I know. We don’t understand it either. But every time we tell him our whereabouts, a bunch of goons comes after us. It’s almost like he sent us to New York to get us out from under the FBI’s protection and into harm’s way. And the last time we checked in, we gave him a phony location and guess who showed up leading the goons?”

  “Steven?” John’s dad was horrified and sat quietly for a while. “I remember how concerned everyone was when he was taken prisoner by those eco-nuts. He came home a hero when he was finally released, but he was never the same.�
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  John answered, “And isn’t it kind of weird that he was released? Why would they torture him and then send him home? I keep wondering if there was some reason that they wanted him safe and sound, back running the hunt for terrorists inside the FBI.”

  “You’re saying Steven is a spy for Jonas Furnis.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement as Mr. Bennett ran through all the facts. “You’re going to have to come up with some pretty solid proof before you find yourself fired, arrested, or dead.”

  “I’ve got none.” John looked exhausted.

  “I might.” They seemed to have forgotten all about me, sitting by the fire, buried in paper. “Well, sort of. I don’t know how we prove that Steven is working for Jonas Furnis. Steven’s trying to kill us and Jonas Furnis is trying to kill us, so it’s safe to assume that he is working for them. He’s been trying to kill us ever since we got this diaper bag, and the only living people who know about this diaper bag are Luke and Britney.” Light bulb. I looked over at John and saw that he’d had the same thought. “Steven’s Britney. And I think he’s stealing from them.”

  “Okay. Go on.” John’s dad was incapable of treating me like a fruitcake. I was starting to love this man.

  “These papers are definitely a financial record. They are lists of bank routing numbers, as I said before, accounting for money going into international banks. On their own, I can see why the bad guys would want them back because they probably show how they’re paying for all their bombings and stuff.”

  “Okay, so if Steven’s working for Jonas Furnis, I can see why he’d want those back. But why do you think he’s stealing from them?”

  “Like I said before, bank routing numbers have nine digits, with the last number being a check digit at the end. The error-checking system requires that the sum of the check sequence has to be zero on a mod-10 clock. That’s how you know if it’s a real bank ID or not.”