by Dyal Bailey
Complexity was what he lived for. To him, the puzzle was as important as the prize. The more complicated, the better. Thinking of his present endeavor, he smiled broadly, causing his profuse eyebrows to fuse into a thick, dark line. In his most recent game, the prize was as complicated as his acquisition strategy, which was complicated indeed.
Antonio made his way to a large, mahogany desk and tapped on his stereo. Immediately, Juan Diego Flórez serenaded him with his luxurious and bold rendition of Verdi’s La donna mobile.
Taking his seat like a duke surveying his dominion, he pulled out a photo of the beautiful and deadly Dr. Rafaela Ramos. The shot had been taken when she was walking down the street unaware. He was already fully informed of the attempted abduction of her at the airport. Fools—the whole lot of them. His competitors were a pack of simpletons. At least her flight from Atlanta to Augusta had gone smoothly. Still, he would have to make some adjustments.
Pulling out a well-worn, yellow notepad covered in his favorite formulas and puzzles, Antonio flipped to a clean page. He opened an elegant wooden box of colored pencils, and with artistic relish, started drawing himself a mind-map to help him analyze the effect of the recent attack.
With a slight huff of irritation, he wrote the words “Fritz-attack” in glaring red letters inside a large red box in the center of the blank yellow page. He picked up a deep blue pencil and with a swish, he drew a long, curvy river flowing out of the red box with Rafaela’s name written across it. Coming out of this artery were several smaller streams with one word triggers such as emotion, physical, and mental. Out of the emotion’s stream, he continued in blue and drew two short creeks with the words apathy and irritation. He completed the rest of Rafaela’s river with similar positive results.
Using a different colored pencil for each new river, he drew elaborate tributaries springing out of the Fritz-attack box for the CIA as well as several competing terrorists groups. He paused for only a moment before picking up the red pencil again and drawing a long and detailed Fritz river with streams of the man’s possible physical and emotional responses to Rafaela thwarting him. He sneered at the assassin’s outline. Fritz was like a landmine just waiting to explode. But, Antonio was used to defusing bombs, so he didn’t even hesitate before moving on.
Converting each of his findings into short formulas, he opened his laptop to his file of memo-ized calculations. A gentle smile found his face as he looked at the equations that constituted the jewels of his private data dictionary. These formulas were the results of three years of tracking Rafaela’s every move. Be it her choice of breakfast and the outfit she wore on a rainy day, or who she killed on her first assignment. He gathered all the details and converted them into a multitude of reoccurring equations.
His grin widening, he added the new equations to his recursive polynomial time DP algorithm that he had nicknamed Werther. Not only did Werther streamline the trends and patterns in Rafaela and Bailey’s decision process, it gave accurate predictions for what they would do in the future based on what happened in their past. This year alone, every single choice had been seamlessly predicted by Antonio’s program.
He checked and double checked today’s entries. Satisfied, he switched to the program holding his main flowchart of what could be expected from Rafaela over the next six months, and integrated all of the new formulas and details. After perusing the hexagon containing his written declaration, he checked and rechecked all of his decision diamonds as well as the new equivalences in his input and output parallelograms. Then, collapsing the flowchart screen, he started Python, and from memory, converted the additions to his flowchart, line-by-line, into his behavior-predicting computer code.
Minutes later, with prancing fingers, he typed enter and waited for Python to process. When it finished quickly, he sighed at the results. If Werther was correct, and it usually was, all should more-or-less continue as planned.
He rubbed the stubble at his chin. Antonio was perfectly capable of opening Python and typing code off the top of his head on lesser programs, but with his Werther algorithm, he refused to take any chances. Therefore, with tremendous self-control, Antonio always moved from mind-map to algorithm, from algorithm to flowchart, and from his flowchart into programing the code into Python. He also created and sent back-up copies of his data-dictionary, his flowchart program, and the Python computer code to a remote computer he kept hidden deep within the Peloso compound.
Antonio always layered his bets. And with Werther, possibly the world’s most extensive emotional and situational algorithm, he took no chances whatsoever.
Putting Rafaela’s picture away, he considered a very different photo: Miss Carnemuerta, a homely brunette wearing thick, librarian-like glasses. He laid the picture on his desk and checked his calendar. Thumbing to the page of his calculation, with the woman’s name in a preparation-hexagon, he grinned at the thought of how her removal would prepare the way for an even bigger calculation.
He studied her again then double checked his earlier computation. Nodding his head, he quickly sent an encoded email and opening a drawer full of disposable cell phones, selected one, and made a call.
“Günter, I need a remedy. The name and all the details are encrypted in my email.” Picking up an antique dagger, Antonio twirled it in his hand. “No, I don't want any of her fingers mailed to anyone. But I appreciate that you aim to please.” He held the photo of the homely woman. “Miss Carnemuerta is a lab analyst. Really, Günter, are you taking job applications or making a hit?” Frustrated, he began pulling at the bits of hair connecting his eyebrows. “No, she’s not a blonde.” Drumming his fingers on his desk, he replied, “So I’ll give you a boredom bonus.” He clenched his hands. “No, you can't dye her hair before you do the job.”
Antonio exhaled noisily. Taking his dagger, he thrust it into the desk.
…
Dr. Raja Puja, scientist and liaison to Dr. Jacobs at Gen-Bio-Lab, adjusted his trifocals and strolled with Rafaela past several pickup trucks toward the entrance of the oyster bar. He gestured at the venue. “What do you think? You requested something with the full-flavor of Augusta, Georgia and Rhinehart’s is as local as it gets.”
Rafaela glanced towards the entrance to Rhinehart’s Oyster Bar, which looked like a broken-down beach shack that had been through one too many hurricanes. She chuckled, “It seems,” words failed her, “… like a restaurant you might see at the beach.”
“Yes, it is unusual to find a place like this so far inland. Perhaps that’s why they’re so busy. By the way, I took the liberty of having our DNA computer analyst arrive ahead of us to save a table. I can’t wait for you to meet him. He was quite a catch. Dr. Jacobs stole him away from that big sequencing project at Johns Hopkins.” Puja halted, and lightly touching Rafaela’s arm, cleared his throat.
“Dr. Ramos, I realize that this is just a brief visit, but I feel I must say, for however long you stay with us, it is an honor for both Dr. Jacobs and myself.”
She nodded her gratitude. It was difficult for her to accept praise, especially from a stranger. Dr. Puja was competent enough, she supposed. Although, the way he seemed to be constantly examining her from the corner of his eyes made her feel defensive and suspicious. Studying him, she replied, “Dr. Jacobs taught me everything I know. I owe him.”
Puja beamed. “He is certainly worthy of your respect and admiration, but when it comes to viral carrier hosts—he tells me you’ve surpassed him—and the rest of us as well.”
Rafaela recoiled at the compliment, but thanked him with an attempted smile. Sighing, she thought back on how excited she had been when she first made her big breakthrough. Like training a dog to fetch or a cobra to dance to her flute, she became the one person in the world who could fully chemically train DNA specific viruses. Not as the lifesavers she had originally envisioned; what she created now were brutal, microscopic killers.
Infallible, untraceable, and fast.
Yes, I’m ahead of everyone else i
n my field. And because of my discoveries, I’m the target of every freaking terrorist with an agenda and a tranquilizer gun.
If fate hadn’t treated her differently, she would probably be a prisoner of one of them right now.
As it turned out, it wasn’t just her fellow scientists and a few fanatics who got wind of what she was capable of. The CIA had been monitoring her for quite a while as well. Using one of their best agents, they had reeled her in like the gullible fish she had been. Now, the man who had brought her into their fold was dead, but she still remained. No longer just a scientist, she was a Valkyrie, a chooser of the slain. And as soon as they were chosen, they were dead.
Dr. Puja coughed, pulling Rafaela out of her reverie. They entered the casual restaurant and squeezed through the crowd toward the picnic tables in the back. Puja waved toward a large, handsome man with luminous skin, several shades darker than a native of Kenya. Micah Carteret stood and his bulky, muscular frame towered above the crowd. Rafaela took him in, her chin subtly dropping as recognition filled her widening eyes. She started to back away and say something, but it was as if she’d been struck speechless. Following her host to his destination, she held her head high, though her face turned from flush to red.
“How’s it doing, Dr. Puja?” The two men laughed at the double entendre. Rafaela bit her bottom lip while Micah slyly eyed her.
“Micah Carteret, it is my great pleasure to introduce you to the world renowned geneticist—Dr. Rafaela Ramos.” Puja’s head spun as he saw a waitress shoot past them through the crowd. “Hey! Um…introduce yourselves. I’ll be right ba—” He rushed off toward the waitress, attempting to flag her down.
Micah held out his hand. Rafaela crossed her arms, unwilling to accept his gesture.
“Micah, what the hell are you doing here?!” she snapped.
Giving her a crooked, playful smile, he said, “You know me Rafaela. I’m ‘open source’. Anyone can have me.”
“But not for free,” she shot back, tugging at the sleeves of her shirt.
His only response was to wiggle his eyebrows. A moment later, Puja was back, but still anxiously looking around the dining room for a server. He appeared to have missed their exchange.
Micah coughed. “Actually, Dr. Ramos and I have already met, back at the Harvard Research Center.”
“Wonderful. In that case, I’ll leave you two to catch up while I try again to find our waitress.” They took a seat while Puja trotted away.
“Dr. Puja says you were at Johns Hopkins. Really, Micah, that doesn’t sound like your kind of gig.” Her eyes scanned him with a cool perusal.
“Well, I had to find a job somewhere. My former employers up and died from some mysterious virus.” Eyebrows raised, he snorted a dismissive laugh.
“Your employers killed my husband!” she hissed, feeling her chest tighten.
“That CIA empty suit? Like you actually cared. You and I both know you married that spook on the rebound.” Inclining forward, he was inches away from her face.
Rafaela leaned away. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Sure I don’t,” he purred, giving her a very sensual, knowing once over. Her body tensed.
“You are such a jerk. But I’m guessing you didn’t show Dr. Jacobs your complete résumé.” Crossing her arms, she refused to give in to his sexually charged nature.
“And I doubt your beloved mentor knows exactly how you’ve used what he taught you to assist those goons at the CIA.”
She gazed downward and felt an uncomfortable dizziness in her head.
“Oh, your secret’s safe with me.” Squinting, he gave her a hard smile that radiated superiority while he fluffed the collar of his button-down. “Besides, Jacobs has quite a few secrets himself.”
She grabbed his arm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Puja returned with a waitress in tow, and Rafaela quickly pulled back her hand. Micah tilted his head, as he innocently perused the menu.
…
Preparing to leave the massive mansion-dotted compound, Antonio Peloso shuffled the papers on his large mahogany desk and placed them in his leather reticule. He threw his jacket over his arm and headed for his limo.
Just as his chauffeur pulled up to the main entrance, he was met by his uncle, the patriarch of the family. Mezzo Peloso, who resembled a tree stump with a tiny mop of fuzz on top, punched Antonio on the shoulder affectionately.
“So, you still trying to trap that CIA scientist babe? Your cousin, Joey, says you just want to do her.”
Antonio grimaced. “Come on, Uncle Mezzo, you know the plan.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know the plan. Hey, am I not the one who paid for you to get your frigging PhD in chemistry? And I took a lot of crap for it, too. All the family kept saying, ‘Antonio’s a genius; he should be going to law school.’”
“Yes, Uncle. I appreciate all that you do for me. It just gets old listening to Joey and the rest of them act like I’m not contributing. And you know good and well that Günter and I have saved their asses a hundred times over.” Antonio ran his hands through the fur on the back of his neck.
Mezzo’s face broadened into a smile. “Good old Günter. Is he still making his cutesy videos while he paves the way for ‘the plan’?”
Eyes focused on his uncle, one of Antonio’s eyebrows shot up. “What? Is something going on with the family?”
“Maybe a tiny little problem with Joey’s wife and some FBI guy. No hurry though. Whenever you can fit it in.” Mezzo gave Antonio a dismissive shrug, but his eyes narrowed.
Antonio typed a note into his smart phone. “Consider it done.”
Mezzo winked and slapped his nephew on the back. He slid into the back of the limo. His uncle continued to watch as the driver made his way down the drive and exited the main gate.
As soon as they were well on the way, Antonio opened his briefcase. Thumbing past the papers, he took out his yellow notepad. With one smooth motion, he flipped quickly to the page he was looking for. Taking out his pencil, he tapped and sat motionless, staring at the empty box that had been underlined and circled several times. Tonight. Tonight is the key, he reasoned. Then the rest of his pieces could be moved into place.
At the sound of Jonas Kaufmann singing the romantic aria Ach, So Fromm, Antonio reached toward the stereo controls and turned up the volume. He chuckled to himself as he remembered the taunt from his cousin Joey, accusing him of wanting Rafaela. Bah!
Unlike other mere men, Antonio was the one person who was able to take on the project of trapping her from a strictly scientific and intellectual standpoint. He wasn’t in any way tainted by that lesser of all cravings: Sex.
Sex was the problem with society today, and it was the problem with all the imbeciles trying and failing to take Rafaela into their power. Yes, they sought her special skillsets, but they were all distracted by their sexual appetites. And this was why he knew that they would fail where he would succeed.
Antonio didn’t find either men or women sexually attractive. He simply never had an urge in either direction, and he thanked God for the blessing of it. Not even an inkling of desire toward another human being had ever entered his mind. Although, he had to admit, he found the fairer sex particularly repulsive. Unlike men, women just couldn’t seem to keep their hands to themselves.
Some women found his predominant hairiness hideous. That was fine with him. At least they weren’t like the majority of women who tried to pet him like some overgrown lap puppy.
Antonio hated to be touched.
He’d been this way since he was a very small child. And it amazed him that he actually made it to adulthood without being cuddled into a minor nervous breakdown. Sadly, he had been born with chubby cheeks that begged to be squeezed and a short pudgy body that everyone yearned to hug. One of his earliest memories was of hiding in the attic and breaking into a cold sweat, when a particularly affectionate aunt was visiting from the old country.
When puberty hit, his increasin
g hairiness as well as his aversion to touch, became even worse. Every time a new patch of hair popped out, out of nowhere, some gorilla-loving cheerleader would corner him and start running her fingers through it. He could hardly recall a day in high school when he hadn’t had to run to the bathroom to vomit after an impromptu molestation.
A few unusual–– and expensive––oddities did turn him on, however. Like Günter’s videos. Most of the time, he was able to mix his needed work with the pleasure of the assassin’s unique and provocative art of killing, but often he placed a hit, just for the decadent gratification of seeing what Günter could make of them. Sadly, these pleasure kills were bad for his budget. Although he was blessed with a sizable fortune from the estate of the very aunt whose visits he’d dreaded, those funds were, for the most part, inaccessible.
Unfortunately, the words “trust fund” meant exactly the opposite. Because the benefactor didn’t trust their beneficiary with their funds, the trust was doled out in absurdly tiny amounts. But he was philosophical over his circumstance. His aunt hadn’t meant any harm. The elderly are known to be miserly by nature. Why else would she have expected him to survive on a little over a million dollars a year? And in this economy!
Not to worry. He had no problem making do; especially with the vast amount of money he had access to by helping his uncle and the rest of the ever-needy Peloso family. But, thanks to Dr. Rafaela Ramos, soon, very soon, he’d have colossal amounts of capital and his expensive hobbies would no longer be a problem. Until then, he had nothing against earning his keep. Although, he had to admit, the extra hours lately had been a bit of a drain. But this particular project was fairly interesting, and sometimes even very interesting. And before he knew it, it would start paying him outrageously huge dividends.