“Lost you.” John was giving me the fruitcake look again, but his dad was expressionless.
“I might need paper.”
John got up to get paper and a pencil from a writing desk in the corner. Before he handed it to me, he turned to his dad and smiled. “You’re not going to believe this.”
We all gathered around the coffee table, and I started writing the numbers out as I was talking, going through each formula. I knew they were not going to take my word for it. “A mod-10 clock is like a regular clock, numbered 1 through 12, except that it’s numbered 1 through 10—10 and all of its multiples being equivalent to zero. Just like you never get to 13 on a regular clock, you start over at 1 instead, making 12 just like zero.” They were nodding. I went on. “If you label each of the nine digits as n1, n2, n3, n4, n5, n6, n7, n8, n9, and then you multiply each number by 7, 3, and 9, repeating three times, you get the formula:
7n1 + 3n2 + 9n3 + 7n4 + 3n5 + 9n6 + 7n7 + 3n8 + 9n9
When you work that out, the sum should be equivalent to zero mod-10. Or more simply, just divisible by 10. So look at this one. The bank routing number is 114706225. It’s a fake routing number.”
Mr. Bennett looked at John for a reality check. “I saw the SAT scores but . . .”
“She’s amazing, right?” John smiled at me, and I completely forgot what we were talking about.
“Go on.” Mr. Bennett was on the edge of his seat, like he was waiting for the punch line.
“You looked up my SAT scores?” I felt completely naked.
“Farrah, I’m sorry, but I had to know whom I was dealing with. It’s part of my job. And they’re certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Now keep going.”
I let it go. “Well, some of the check digits don’t check. This one in particular shows up six times. If you use the formula you get:
(7*1) + (3*1) + (9*4) + (7*7) + (3*0) + (9*6) + (7*2) + (3*2) + (9*5)
The sum is 214, not divisible by 10. The check digit should be 9, making the sum 250.”
“Let me try.” To my surprise, Mr. Bennett took the pencil from me and worked through the formula both ways, with 5 as the check digit and then with 9. Satisfied, he put the pencil down. “Okay, I see. And you’re telling me that you did all that in your head?”
“Yes.”
Amazing. He called me amazing. In front of his dad. Who knows my SAT scores. I had never been so fully out of the closet. Was I going to be his girlfriend and get invited on family vacations?
“Farrah, you’re saying that you have an accounting of terror financing with some deposits going into fake banks? How much money is missing?”
Oh, I checked back in. I took a few minutes to identify all the phony money orders and added them up. “Almost six million dollars. Someone’s going to be pissed.”
John stood up and started pacing, head down and hands behind his back. He really needed a pipe to make the whole thing work. He was thinking out loud. “And that’s why Steven’s been trying to kill us ever since we got the bag? It’s the only explanation that makes sense. Steven had sent Scarlet an accounting ledger, never thinking that she’d pick up on the fact that there was money missing. Didn’t she say she got it in an e-mail or something?”
I nodded. “I think so. It was supposed to prove to her that there was support for what they were doing. Which makes sense—he’d want her to see how much money they were putting into their operation if she was doubting how important the bombing was to the cause. And Steven would have never thought she’d pick up on the missing money, but then she started blackmailing him.”
We went through our options over and over again, weighing the risks (getting killed) and benefits (cleaning out the FBI and ending world terror). John and his dad settled into a relaxed dialogue, where they were both adults and professionals. It reminded me of how it was with my dad and the respect he showed me when I was working something out. I felt simultaneously a little homesick and a little grown-up. And besides the fact that I was being hunted by friend and foe alike, I liked the feeling of operating in this world where I could jump in and think as hard as I wanted.
John was running scenarios. “If we get a copy of these documents to the terrorists, they’ll have Steven killed immediately. If we get them to the CIA, they’ll spend the next five years conducting an investigation into bank accounts that will be closed in a matter of hours.”
Mr. Bennett agreed. “Going after the terrorists with this information is a waste of time. If we’re lucky, we’ll get three guys arrested. But I’m sure Steven has all the information the CIA needs to break this terror cell up on a large scale. He’d keep records for his own protection. His full cooperation will take years off of any investigation.”
John was pacing again. “But how do we have him arrested? These routing numbers on their own are not exactly a smoking gun. They prove that money is missing, but they won’t prove that Steven was the one stealing it.”
“Can’t you call the FBI with this and have someone rifle through his desk or search his computer or something?” I admit, everything I know about crime fighting I learned on TV.
John looked at me patiently. “We could, but there’s no one to call. We don’t know who else is involved there, and if we show our hand to the wrong guy, Steven disappears and we’ve got nothing. We can’t even try to trap him in the FBI building because anyone in security could be working with him and turn on us.”
“So, we are nowhere?” My spirits were starting to sink. “The diaper bag alone proves nothing; we can’t find more proof without risking getting caught . . . We might as well just hand the bag over to the terrorists and let them have at Steven. At least we’d have removed their spy at the FBI.”
Mr. Bennett smiled at me. “You’re right—the diaper bag only has power to take Steven down in the hands of the terrorists. That’s what we have to threaten him with.”
John sat down next to me in front of the fire. “Right. He has to know we have the ledger, and he has to need our protection. But we have to confront him alone, without any other FBI agents who could be in on it, where he will feel like it’s safe to turn over his evidence.”
“Should we invite him over?” I sounded like my mom.
“Not exactly. But we need to arrange a meeting where he will feel comfortable coming alone.” John refilled my tea like we were recounting the highs and lows of the afternoon’s fox hunt.
“If you guys call, he’ll just bring his friends to kill you. Johnny, I’ve seen you shoot, so let’s avoid a shootout at all costs. We need someone else to initiate a private meeting.” Mr. Bennett looked my way. “How about your mom? I see she’s an accomplished actress.”
There’s No Emoticon for What I’m Feeling
Mr. Bennett announced that we’d leave for Los Angeles in two hours. I assumed he meant we’d leave the townhouse in two hours, until John came downstairs with our bags and called the secret elevator. Two hours? How is that possible? How did you book a flight, get to the airport, clear security, choose a day-old sandwich, board the plane, and take off in two hours? It didn’t make any sense, and I watched the clock as we sped via Lincoln Town Car to JFK. It turns out there’s a whole different world out there, previously hidden from me, called flying private. Mr. Bennett called his pilot from the car, and we pulled up to his plane in forty-five minutes. We were fully fueled with our flight plan approved, and twenty minutes later we were eating crab salad at twenty thousand feet. I could get used to this.
Of course, the irony wasn’t lost on me. What would Jonas Furnis think about our mode of travel? Three passengers on a plane that could easily carry fifty. I didn’t know how many gallons of fuel we were each burning, but I’m sure it would make me sick. But we were in a hurry, and the plane was waiting for us. And we were on a mission that could certainly justify it, right? Maybe. But I’m sure everyone can come up with a reason they’re driving a huge gas-guzzler (I have a lot of stuff to schlep), wearing shoes made out of an endangered rhino (they match my bag), or not recycling the peanut
butter jar (it’s a pain). I was as guilty as anyone.
The flight attendant was cheery and efficient. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she brought us warm nuts and drinks. I pictured Scarlet, dressed much the same way, pouring a little champagne and knowing exactly what she was about to do. Did she feel compassion for those children, or did their little faces fuel her rage? How angry would a person have to be to do something like this? I didn’t relax until the flight attendant took her seat near the cockpit.
John and I sat together in the back row, and his dad was seated at the front of the plane but in a rear-facing seat with a table. He had three newspapers spread out in front of him. He was immersed in the Financial Times, but I could tell he was being careful not to look at us. I don’t know if it was the fact that Mr. Bennett seemed to have approved of me or that it was just so obvious that something was up between us, but John majorly let down his guard. He covered us both in a blanket and held my hand under it in the most normal possible way, like we’d been married for thirty years.
And I wasn’t really that worried about what Mr. Bennett thought, anyway. I was starting to care less and less about what anybody thought. Honestly, I had stopped caring about so many of the things that had been critical to my existence a week ago. Working to fit in had been the central focus of my life, and now I fit with John with no effort at all. And maybe with his dad too. It made me feel like there might be a whole world of people out there, waiting to accept me or even like me. If we could just get through the next twenty-four hours.
Mr. Bennett had called my mom from his scrambled and undetectable CIA phone. He was very careful with what he shared—nothing about the diaper bag or the ledgers, just that it was critical that we got Steven to agree to come to a meeting alone and suspecting nothing. His idea was that she would call his office and tell him that she’d had enough of her daughter being taken across the country hunting terrorists, that she was hysterical with worry, and that she wanted to go to the press and tell them that it was all a sham. He wouldn’t care if she did because he and the terrorists knew it was a fake, anyway, but to keep up Bureau appearances, he would humor her by coming by for a cup of coffee.
She made the call immediately, and we waited during most of the flight to hear back from her. “Jeez, Digit, can your mom talk or what? Why is this taking so long?” John was elbowing me in my seat.
“You have no idea. My guess is that she got into the role of hysterical mom and just ran with it. She’ll call us before we land, but she’ll need time to regroup first. Method acting.”
She called Mr. Bennett about three hours into our flight. “Oh, Henry, it was perfect. He bought the whole thing and thinks I just need a good talking to and a stiff drink. Who could blame me? He’ll be here tomorrow morning to calm my fears. Shall I stay in character?”
“Thank you, Rebecca. We’ll be at your house tonight. No, there’s no reason to be too secretive about it—the terrorists all think we are in New York. It’s just your neighbors we have to hide from to keep the kidnapping story alive. Yes, she’s fine. She’s quite a compelling girl.” He looked over in time to catch John brushing a piece of my hair out of my eyes. “John and I are both quite taken with her. Okay, see you tonight. Call me on this number if you need anything.”
At one point during the flight, John got up to go to the bathroom and his dad came back to sit in his place. “May I?” he asked.
Uh, it’s your plane. “Sure,” I said.
He seemed to start in the middle of a conversation, one I hadn’t been in on until now. “It’s really nice to be with family. John’s made the best of this life, moving around all the time and starting over. He seems to have adapted to it pretty well. I always wonder if he’ll end up choosing a more predictable life.”
I had absolutely no light to shed on John in this respect. “Did you ever think you’d have a different kind of job?”
“Not really. I was with the FBI before the CIA, which is the same sort of job. I was chosen for a very prestigious area of the FBI at one point—Special Sector—a very high-profile position.”
Just then John came back and took the seat next to his dad. “Dad, you’re not really telling this story again . . .”
“It’s my story, John. And I love telling it.” Mr. Bennett turned his body toward me, as if John’s mockery just lost him the right to hear. “When I was offered the position, I had just begun a relationship with Mrs. Bennett. We were wildly in love, and I knew almost immediately that I wanted to spend my life with her. She was living in New York at the time, and I was commuting on the weekends from Washington, D.C. The job in Special Sector meant working seven days a week, and there would be no room for a relationship.”
“So what did you do?” Newly in love myself, I was riveted.
“It wasn’t easy. I had been offered their highest honor, and to refuse it would be career suicide. I knew that if I didn’t take the job, there would be no place left for me at the FBI.”
“Ever?”
“Never. But I just told them the truth. I said this . . .”
“Here we go.” John was rolling his eyes.
“I said this: I’ve fallen in love, and if I don’t find out where this is going, I know I will regret it for the rest of my life.”
I looked over to see John mouthing the last few words like a twelve-year-old.
“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” I meant it.
Mr. Bennett smiled. “You know, Farrah, I’ve told him that story a thousand times, but I don’t know if he’s ever heard me.”
“What do you mean?” John was a little hurt.
“It was a small price to pay for a lifetime with your mother. At some point, you have to make decisions with your heart, get off your plan. Johnny here has had his heart pretty well locked away.”
“Yeah, Dad, I’m a robot. Anything else Farrah needs to know about me? Any baby pictures you want to show her before we get back to work?”
“Nah,” Mr. Bennett said, lifting himself out of the seat between us. “She’s got it all pretty well figured out.”
Did I?
There’s No Place Like Home
We landed at LAX and hopped into a much more subtle ride. It was a Toyota sedan or maybe a Honda. It was the sort of navy blue car that you would never notice driving down your street. It was so strange being back in L.A. I’d only been gone for a few days, but the warm air, palm trees, and strip malls on the ride from the airport welcomed me home. Mr. Bennett sat in the front seat with the driver, so there was no reason why John couldn’t hold me in the back seat all the way to Santa Monica.
“You tired?” he whispered.
“Probably.” More like love-stoned, I thought.
“It’ll be good for you to be home tonight. Sleep in your own bed.”
“I’d rather sleep in your own bed.”
“I hadn’t thought about that.” He laughed and silently kissed the side of my neck. “How are we going to fill your parents in on FBI protocol? I haven’t slept more than two feet from my charge during this whole operation.”
Mr. Bennett turned around and said over his shoulder, “Don’t kid yourselves. They’ll figure you two out in about one minute. You don’t have to be a trained spy to see what’s brewing back there. I’m sure the Higginses have a suitable sofa for you, John.”
So much for whispering. John and I sat silently like a couple of scolded kids. Mr. Bennett turned back around, hiding his smile.
We got off the 405 at the Wilshire Boulevard exit and took the Wilshire West ramp to get to Santa Monica. I flashed back to the last time I’d been exactly here, driving over the speed limit away from that creepy Jonas Furnis guy. I’d made a split-second decision—the kind that was supposed to be your best, the voice of your true inner guidance—and made a horrible mistake to take the ramp that led west, away from the police department. I wondered where I would be if I’d taken the right ramp on that very first day of this ordeal. I would have ended up at the
Beverly Hills Police Department, just as I’d meant to. I would never have seen John again but would have met a guy named Officer Dudley, not cute in a cheap suit, who would have taken my statement and sent me home to certain death. I squeezed John’s hand, grateful for bad decisions, wrong turns, and my quirky inner guidance.
We made our way into Santa Monica and onto my quiet street. I was struck by how beautiful it was. The street was lined with ficus trees that had been there for a hundred years. The houses were a mix; some Spanish architecture, some Cape Cod, some Colonials, some brand-new and ginormous. I smiled when we reached my traditional Colonial-style house, painted French blue with an absolutely asymmetric fig tree in the front yard. It wasn’t Park Avenue, but it was home.
It was nearly ten o’clock and the street was deserted. No cameras, no bad guys. The driver pulled into the driveway, and I led John and his dad to the back door. I hesitated with my hand on the knob. What was John going to think of my parents, my eclectic-at-best house, and my bedroom? Oh God, what was he going to think of my bedroom? And he thought I wasn’t normal before.
My dad was waiting for us, unlocked the door, and ushered us in. All the shades and shutters were closed. I fell without thinking into his arms and held him for a long time. I like that my dad, like me, has a uniform: khaki pants, light blue button-down shirt, brown belt, and shoes. Simple and perfect.
“Dad, this is Henry Bennett and John Bennett, and this is my dad, Ben Higgins. Where’s Mom?”
Always on cue, she made her entrance. Nice choices for a fake kidnapping reunion meeting—I don’t know how she does it. She was in gray pencil skirt that just brushed her knees, with a pale pink cashmere sweater tucked in and cinched by a thin alligator belt. Her slightly heeled loafers were a similar color leather, not matching—no, never matching.
“Hellooo. You must be the Bennetts.” She warmly shook one hand, then the other. “I’m Rebecca Higgins. Welcome to California.”
A Girl Named Digit Page 13