by Dyal Bailey
After the constant emotional workout that was her relationship with Micah, comfortable was a huge relief to Rafaela’s overburdened emotions, to say the least. Considering she broke up with Micah less than a month after her Abuela’s death, comfort was what Rafaela desperately craved.
Brett had been like an answer to her prayers. Unlike Micah, who treated her unexpected breakthrough in genetic engineering like it was some happy accident, Brett had appreciated her hard work and was fascinated by her discovery. Rafaela tensed. Maybe a little too fascinated.
She shrugged away the negative thought and let warmth fill her chest as she recalled how her future husband had introduced himself while handing her his card. “I’m Brett Hawthorne. I’m here to make everything right.”
And he had.
Not only was Rafaela taken off cautionary notice, she received a groveling letter from the Dean’s office apologizing for the misunderstanding.
Thinking of the long discussions she’d had with Brett over coffee, her heart swelled. She remembered how he’d hung on her every word. How even the minutest detail of her discoveries had thrilled him. How he’d always seemed to know when she just needed to be held, touched, or kissed. Had it all been just a game? Was it just some marvelous set up devised by Bailey to get her on their team?
She pursed her lips and came to a sudden stop. Pulling the clasp off of her ponytail, she ran her nails through her hair. Perhaps, it had been just a little too perfect, but she had loved him and he had loved her. Of that much, she was sure. Brett’s death two years ago had devastated her.
Maybe their marriage hadn’t been as intense, or even as passionate as her relationship with Micah, but it had been beautiful, and it had certainly been real. Whether she’d ever loved her husband as much as she had loved Micah was unimportant. One thing was for certain. Rafaela knew she would never love again.
…
Antonio’s cell phone rang as he exited his underground fortress tucked deep in the woods about thirty miles outside of Augusta. He went through solid door after solid door and headed up the stairs to the surface. Gazing at what was left of the moonlight streaming through the pines, he answered his phone.
He was still ambling through a group of saplings when he finally spoke. “Yes, Günter, I know the added kill will put you behind schedule, but I can’t risk Mr. Tanker tramping around my hideout again.”
He made it through the trees and advanced toward his truck. He stopped and stood for a moment, his fists on his hips. Looking around, he gave his surroundings a crisp nod. He was truly in the middle of nowhere, completely enclosed by dense foliage on every side. “Artistic whiplash?” Listening, Antonio rubbed the back of his neck and continued towards his truck. “Wasn’t it you who almost shaved your head in despair, because life wasn’t offering you enough challenges?” He walked toward the bed of his truck and opened a cooler. A bottle of San Pellegrino sparkling water peeped through the ice. Twisting off the lid, he sipped. “If nothing else, do this for the sake of your latest hair style.” He continued his discourse with enthusiasm. “Of course. It’s done wonders for your leaping-over-the-victim shots.” After drinking the contents of the bottle, he chucked it into the cooler. “Does who have an even tan? Hank Tanker, the forest ranger?” With a deep breath, he tried to control his temper. “Really, can’t you just bring some liquid bronzer and get on with it?” Pulling out a vintage pocketknife, he rolled it up and down inside his palm. “Oh, Günter, you diminish yourself.” He opened the knife and inspected his teeth in the reflection on the blade. “Who else can do what you do with a knife and a high-def. video camera?” He could tell he was making ground. Snapping the blade back, he put it in his shirt pocket, tugging at his sleeves. “Wonderful, I’ll email you my new number in an hour.—Yes, just as soon as I’m back at the boat.”
He tossed his disposable cell into the cooler’s watery ice and his eyes lit on an energy drink. Grabbing the caffeine-infused beverage, he popped the top, and gave it a quick chug. Motivating these artistic types was really too exhausting sometimes. He needed to stay alert. Knowing that he had a long night of work ahead, he hopped into his truck, and drove away.
Chapter Four
Dickinson saw the smoke as it flowed from the crack at the bottom of Bailey’s door at the CIA’s hidden headquarters in the desert of Arizona. His boss was chain-smoking his fragrant Cuban cigars again. He sighed. This meeting was not going to be a good one.
That crazy woman just had to sneak out and go jogging at five in the freaking morning! When did the woman actually sleep? He had kept his men posted on every corner of the block. What was he supposed to do? Stay awake around the clock and place hidden alarm lasers on every door and window?
Surely, Bailey didn’t expect him to stick to her like glue and risk pissing her off. Sighing, he fumbled for his mints, before realizing he still had two in his mouth. He exhaled and tried to clear his head. How could a woman so small and so beautiful, be so vicious and deadly? He laughed to himself. Or maybe he should ask himself, with her reputation, how could she not be lethal? From what he could tell from her file, after her husband’s death, she made a habit of charming men like a snake and tossing them aside without a backward glance.
She was too smart for her own good; that was her problem. Who the hell gets their doctorate at sixteen and finishes Harvard Medical School at twenty-two? She was a freak. No wonder she thought she was untouchable. She’d been leading the pack for so long, she’d forgotten that she was human and, therefore, fallible and killable.
Pacing back and forth outside of Bailey’s office, he crunched his mints. He was scrambling to put two more in his mouth when he heard the buzzer. He jumped up and knocked on the door as he opened it.
“Why the hell do you always do that, Dickinson? I hate people banging on my door. That’s what the dang buzzer is for.” Bailey, a stocky man in his fifties, pointed a fleshy finger toward a chair. Dickinson obeyed and took a seat. He sat in silence as he watched his boss light another cigar.
He sucked until the tip had an amber glow then set a scrutinizing gaze on his agent. “Did you dispose of that beefy Scot that tried to grab Rafaela in the alley?”
Clearing his throat, he started fishing for his mints. “Yes, he was delivered to Interpol this morning.”
Bailey let out a disgusted breath. “And where is Fritz Mittler?”
Mid-pop of two mints, Dickinson swallowed them sheepishly. “My men lost track of him in Atlanta, sir.”
Bailey gritted his teeth. “Well it’s not as if we don’t know where the hell he’s going. Is Rafaela still in Georgia?”
“Yes, sir. We have a team in place and —”
“A team that’s too lazy to jog!” he snapped, cutting him off.
Dickinson took in a slow breath. “Dr. Ramos can be very difficult if we follow her too closely. Remember what happened to our guys in the Caribbean?”
“That’s nothing compared to what I will do to you if you let that bastard Fritz get anywhere near her again. The guy’s a killer, and now he’s ticked. I don’t like the look I saw in his eyes after he murdered those men.” He sat rigid in his chair.
“What kind of look?” Staring at his boss, Dickinson was puzzled.
“He liked it. There is no way to anticipate the actions of a man like that; one that enjoys the kill more than the money.” Bailey’s narrowed eyes fixated on Dickinson.
“But surely you don’t think he would—”
Bailey cut him off. “It’s my job to think of everything he might do!”
He sat up straight. Bailey gave him a once over and continued, “An assassin turned kidnapper is still an assassin. They always return to making the kill. It’s what comes natural. And let me tell you from experience, Fritz is a natural born killer. And he’s a prima donna; he won’t like the fact that Rafaela mussed up his hair and bested him back in Detroit.”
Dickinson’s eyebrows furrowed then released. “What do you suggest?”
“I suggest
that you take a moment to realize what is at stake here. Rafaela is unique. No one can do what she does. Not with the same speed, accuracy, and exactitude. So get back there and do whatever the hell it takes to keep her safe.”
Bailey was silent for a while then picked up a copy of du Picq’s Battle Studies. He opened the book. “Those with no eyes to read readily,” he quoted, “are doomed to the worst errors.” He tossed the book to Dickinson, who scrambled not to drop it.
“You need to tell your men to adapt themselves to different circumstances, Dickinson. Read that book and show them how to control what du Picq calls their ‘disordered impulses’ better than they did with Fritz and the Scot.”
Dickinson glimpsed at the book in his hands. Without a word, he stood up and lumbered like a robot from the room.
Bailey watched him as he went, and shook his head. He contemplated Dickinson. With his tall, lean build, he could be a twin of the great war strategist, but the similarity stopped there. The man did not have what it took. It was obvious by the way he walked, by the way his eyes shifted whenever he endured conflict, and by the way he nervously crunched on those stupid mints.
He was ambitious, but typical. And he was nice. That was perhaps his biggest flaw. From hard-earned experience, Bailey knew that nice didn’t get the job done. His men needed to fear him. Fear him, not respect him. Respect would only get you so far. If they feared you, they would obey you, because they’d be terrified to do otherwise.
God save me from another nice guy.
According to his records, Dickinson had recovered fifteen years ago from a drinking problem. He was probably an over-compensating codependent as well. But, with Steinbeck suddenly transferring to Presidential security last week, Dickinson would have to do for now. At least that pushy cousin of Dickinson’s in the Senate would be satisfied for a while. With a rebellious sneer, Bailey lit a cigar and made a mental note to start drafting a list of possible replacements.
…
Rafaela walked into Gen-Bio-Lab and was greeted by a smirking Micah. She remembered that smirk, and she hated it. She knew he was mentally undressing her. And when her eyes narrowed, his smirk broadened to a full out grin, because he knew that she knew.
What in the world had she ever seen in that idiot? Almost instantly, an image of the two of them together flashed through her mind. Micah, looking like an African warrior, came out of the ocean and ran toward her, dripping wet. He grabbed her and they tumbled together on the sand, entwined in each other’s arms. Enjoying the playfulness of the moment and the light he brought out in her, a passion overcame them.
She shook her head, coming out of her reverie.
Geez! What next?
Still feeling the intense heat of the memory flowing over her, she turned her back so Micah couldn’t see the flush rising in her cheeks.
Attempting to focus on her work, Rafaela fiddled with a knob and gazed into a microscope, but she could still feel his gaze searing into her back. She was trying not to bite her lip when the Nobel Prize winning physicist, Dr. Saul Jacobs, entered the room. What a relief. As always, in her mentor’s presence, all she could feel was warmth. She greeted him tenderly, giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Seeing how this irritated Micah, she hugged the older man again. Jacobs smiled, took her on his arm as if leading his favorite niece onto the dance floor, and together, they sauntered into the main lab.
At first relieved to be in the lab and far away from Micah, she soon sensed a strange tension in the air. She shrugged it off. What could a man as good and kind as Dr. Jacobs have to hide? She chided herself for letting Micah’s random comment, about Jacobs having secrets, get to her. How could she doubt the one person in the world who she knew she could trust? Relaxing, she smiled as they took turns peering into the mass-spectrometer. She picked up her pen and started making detailed notes.
They were almost finished with their work for the day when Jacobs cleared his throat. “Rafaela.”
She looked up.
“I have a confession to make.” He paused, his face flushing red.
Her heart drummed as she gazed at him, afraid of what he might say next.
Clearing his throat again, he continued nervously. “The viral vectors for my enhanced PCR method were just an excuse to get you here.”
She put down her clipboard and tensed. “What do you mean?”
He browsed his pocket and fiddled with his pens. “I’ve been working on a different project, a bigger project—a secret project.”
“A secret? From whom?” She took in a deep breath and stepped back.
“Everyone.” He handed her a folder. “It involves the permanent repair of the ERCC6 and ERCC8 genes.”
Instantaneously, she stiffened. These were the genes she’d been artificially synthesizing under Dr. Jacobs’ supervision when she got the call that her Abuela was dying. She ran to be at her grandmother’s deathbed, but never had the heart to return to work on them after the funeral. Knowing that any life-prolonging breakthroughs she might make would be too late to save the woman who raised her had squashed her earlier enthusiasm.
“You can’t be serious,” she stated, flipping inside the folder and glancing over the lab sheets.
“I am.” He nodded, reaching to clean his glasses.
“That’s impossible. It would—it would be like the Fountain of Youth.” Her head started to spin. The room around her became a blur. All she could see was her hands and the unbelievable data that was staring back at her in black-and-white.
“Or the Fountain of Death.” His gaze darted around the room.
“Yes,” she whispered. “In the wrong hands, it could be.”
With precise movements, he led her to a computer simulation. She sat down and gripped the sides of the table as she watched. After a few minutes, her head shot up. “Mother of God!”
He touched her shoulder. “I need you, Rafaela. Only you are capable of making this happen correctly and quickly. And only you would I trust.”
Her eyes were aglow, the possibilities racing through her brilliant mind. Jacobs saw her expression and smiled.
“This could be the keys to heaven, or a journey to hell.” He formed his hands into a steeple and searched her eyes.
“I’m calling it the Nicodemas Project.”
Overwhelmed, she could only look at him and stare.
…
Slight strains from his Plácido Domingo album filled Antonio Peloso’s beat-up, old pick-up truck as he rambled down the road. As his favorite tenor sang La fleur que tu m’avais jetée, he took a moment to examine his blue-collar uniform and was satisfied. Although he was raised in supreme luxury, he was in no way resentful of his humble attire. In fact, he was as proud of the look and feel of his present clothing selection, as any costume designer would be who’d recreated a medieval knight.
Using one hand to drive, the other twirled a large tuft of hair flowing from the open collar of his shirt. His eyes glanced briefly at the seat beside him and the laptop computer containing his algorithm of Rafaela’s life. Werther, Antonio’s mathematical data prophet, was ready and waiting. It was waiting for a very important decision diamond inside of his flowchart to be filled in.
Antonio smiled, because the details known to the gatherers of big data weren’t what he was using to trap the beautiful scientist. The information he had found searching through the pathways of his creative and calculating imagination were what would let him close in on his target. Grinning, he thought of the formerly incomplete parallelograms, now completed with the variable that stood for Micah Carteret. This was the magic ingredient he’d needed so desperately to finalize. Rafaela’s sudden marriage to that CIA agent just didn’t make sense. There had to be a catalyst. And now that Micah’s name had taken its rightful place as the crown jewel equation inside his memo-ized data bank, hundreds of little if/then scenarios had trickled into place. All thanks to Antonio’s unusual, yet inspired, mind.
Arriving at his destination, he bounced onto the dock
leading to his houseboat. He gazed at it and grinned. It appeared to be ready for the salvage yard. Taking out a set of keys, he unlocked and relocked two thick soundproof, bulletproof doors before stepping inside his inner office. He smiled. With its plush carpeting, ornate and expensive knife collection, and massive Chippendale desk, it was the one part of the boat that revealed his true essence. The rest of the boat had been kept tired and rustic looking, so as to remain inconspicuous.
Reaching over a stack of books with a large, hairy arm, he unlocked a drawer and removed a special box. He retrieved a recently acquired memory stick from his shirt pocket and placed it in the box, locking it away. He picked up the yellow pad with all the mind-maps he had used to build his algorithm. Smiling he thought: If there is one thing I learned from Professor Devadas at MIT, it’s that everything is an algorithm.
The world had once dismissed all the great allegorists like Jacobi and Ramanujan as useless, until Google hit the web. Antonio chuckled. Compared to Werther, most search engine algorithms were child’s play. But, to give credit where credit was due, Google’s Larry Page and Sergey Brin are the visionaries that helped Antonio internalize the fact that the more diverse and out-of-the-box the comparisons, the more dynamic and useful the program.
It took years for Antonio to make his algorithm the analytical clairvoyant that it was today. Strangely enough, over these years, Werther somehow became more than a creation. It became Antonio’s friend.
Actually, better than a friend.
Unlike any human comrade, Werther was a friend he could count on to give him both precise advice and perfect obedience.
Oh yes, Werther was very obedient to Antonio, just as Antonio was obedient to Werther.
When Werther told Antonio that his desired outcome would never happen if he created scenario X, then Antonio would have the algorithm recalculate Rafaela’s equations again, this time using scenarios Y and Z until Werther concurred that Antonio would get the results he was seeking. And if anything or anyone got in the way of Werther’s otherwise perfectly formulated outcome, then Antonio would use his very talented garbage collectors to clear them out of the algorithm’s way.