Jack Be Nimble: Gargoyle

by English, Ben

  Each backpack contained three hard drives taken from DynaSynth’s R&D department. Actually taking the hard drives was quicker than copying all the information to another drive, and besides, there were myriad security programs that made copying impractical–the most common of which caused some part of the program to be copied incorrectly, thus rendering the entire file incomprehensible.

  Since procurement records were kept on the company’s worldwide network, the brothers (with Steve’s help) had spent only an hour the previous month going through DynaSynth’s Material Receiving notes. They learned the vendor, the size of each hard drive, even the serial numbers etched on the individual mechanisms within each drive. Again, Brad had to thank the single admirable trait of his good friend Roland Mmar: obsessive recordkeeping.

  Obtaining exact copies of each hard drive and training the men in a little “aggressive maintenance” had been relatively easy. Now, when the engineers at DynaSynth attempted to access their information, they would universally get an unpleasant message–the disks functioned perfectly well but were empty, and the computer would register any request for information as an error. Heh.

  Initial bafflement would give way to casting blame within the department as quickly as possible, then most would shrug and access the backup information. Everything they worked on was stored weekly at the plant’s mirror location in central Utah, anyway. Brad grinned. With just a bit of luck, the plant manager would try to muffle the report to his superiors, or downplay it at the very least. From the fat man’s mumblings in Nevada, Brad gathered that Mmar had a basic distrust of technology, and was loath to claim responsibility for anything he couldn’t understand. His transfer to the Czech plant was in part an opportunity to redeem himself for some past error–Brad supposed that Mmar had ignored the chance to take advantage of some new technology while employed as the manager of the Utah factory, and as a result the company had lost ground. The marketplace for synthetic diamonds was quietly vicious, he had learned.

  Brad sniffed, picturing the watery-eyed, cherubic face. So many shortcomings in security. Distrust of technology. Intellectually, Mmar traveled in a covered wagon while everyone subordinate to him drove Porsches. In his arrogance, the man painted himself as a target.

  That made something Darwinian about the whole heist.

  But Brad was too fatigued to pursue the thought. Fifteen minutes of rest, and then he, his brothers, and Steve would be in a helicopter flying up the Jihlava river and then across the Austrian border. By the time the darkness had gathered itself into true night, they would be in Vienna, calling buyers for the information they’d taken, and Steve could figure out how to make money off Hradek, whatever that was—All those blueprints . . .

  Brad slipped off to sleep, his mind’s eye overshadowed by mortar ramparts and the statuary of some vast, menacing fortress, topped by a fluttering scarlet flag.

  The Gentle Ogre

  Central Germany

  Solomon Keyes quietly closed the door of the private office adjoining his classroom, his thick dark hands shaking slightly. Of the four English teachers on the high school staff of Wiesbaden Air Base, he alone had been given a personal room–albeit minuscule, considering his physical size--to use as an office. A few members of the faculty had been surprised at this indulgence, and attributed his special treatment to the fact that the enormous man was a minority: his features spoke thickly of South Pacific Islander-African American heritage. Others said the man had recently been in some branch of the service himself. The wildest rumor placed him as a sniper, whose quiet assignment to the American base, home of the 221st BSB, in the middle of Germany nearly two years previous had been a reward of sorts for a black operation that had gone particularly well. Truth of the matter was, he did spend an inordinate amount of time on the base’s shooting range, and sometimes left the base with little warning and often as not in the middle of the night. Odd for a full-time teacher, and often problematic for the principal who had to cover the classes, but no one thought to press Solomon for clues as to his disappearance.

  He was such a nice man.

  Solomon Keyes was overpoweringly gentle. Despite his formidable appearance, children took to the great dark slab of a man, instinctively trusting to his strength and kindly, crinkled face. Adults who knew Solomon found him quietly opinionated but never overbearing; articulate but never verbose. He was the kind of person who radiated a tremendous intellect and physical power but none of the arrogance so common to men graced with such presence. Besides, how do you label a man whose tastes in clothing included bright bowties and fresh carnations in his buttonhole? Dapper would not be too strong a word.

  Those also stationed at Wiesbaden would have been surprised to see Solomon’s mahogany hands, gnarled wedges of sinew, trembling faintly as he turned to face his classroom. The single student, slouched at his desk near the back and closest to the window, hardly glanced up from his book.

  Solomon opened his briefcase and returned the thin computer to its pocket in the lining. A garment bag he kept ready at his small house contained everything he’d need for a three- or four-day jaunt to who-knew-where. Paris, first of all. He curled one hand into a blocky fist.

  He knew he was not a handsome man. Even as a child growing up in American Samoa, Solomon had been large and unwieldy, as if the competing bloodlines of his ancestors were vying for superiority within him. Adults had been mistaken about his age since just after his twelfth birthday, when his family had emigrated to Hawaii. “Angry spirits fight inside you, make you grow too big,” his grandmother said. Though she’d fallen in love with an American serviceman with skin as dark as her own, his grandmother had never approved of her son marrying a Tongan woman. Samoan son and a daughter of Tonga? The old woman spent as much time clicking her teeth in disapproval as she did fussing over Solomon and his brothers and sisters.

  One last thing to tie up before he left.

  The young man drooped over his textbook sighed noisily and slapped his book shut. “This is a waste of time,” he said. He was a study in slovenliness. Everything about him, from the angle of his baseball cap to the slack lines of his shoelaces, showed a careful, studied, purposeful sloppiness. His Tshirt proclaimed the slogan: Pave the Planet. “Why’re you making me read this?” His eyes roamed the room as he addressed Solomon. “Nothing but garbage, anyway.”

  “You really think so, Carl?” Solomon closed his briefcase and sat on the edge of his desk. It groaned underneath him.

  “Yeah, I do.” It was as close as Carl would get to challenging the massive Mr. Keyes. Solomon knew this young man had problems with authority, a record of minor offenses–pointless, half-hearted vandalism, firecrackers in the toilets (did anybody really do that anymore?) at the other bases his father had been assigned, that sort of thing. According to Carl Marcussen’s school file, previous administrators were concerned that the boy’s lack of a mother might lead to overaggression and self-destructive behavior.

  When they had arrived at the base four months ago, both Carl and his father processed through the Army’s F.L.A.G. (Families Learning About Germany) program, spending two days learning about their new surroundings, including attending Wiesbaden's fabled "Great Start" Welcoming Forum. Nothing had eased Carl’s abrasiveness or his adjustment to the new surroundings, and the coordinator over the base’s Relocation Assistance Program had approached Solomon personally, warning him about the boy’s excoriating personality. According to his file, Carl had been forced to see four Army psychiatrists. Each had taken note of his hostility and “resistance to conform to the therapeutic process.” Solomon thanked God the boy seemed to like English. Books often served as a way out for children. Adults, too–though Carl seemed to be lodged somewhere between child and adult. Somewhere painful.

  “I don’t see why I gotta read this stuff. You don’t make anybody else. This is a book for college students.”

  “You understand it well enough though, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” He seemed annoy
ed by the implication that he might not.

  “Good, then you can humor me for a few moments. I’m going away for a few days and I wanted to share something with you before I left. Open your book. Back to page 729.”

  “This is nothing. Who the hell is Gerard Manley Hopkins, anyway? Depressing. You trying to drag me down, man? My dad say’s you’re a spy or a killer or something. You a wet boy once upon a time?”

  “Page 729, Mr. Marcussen.”

  Solomon stood and took a few thoughtful steps before the windows. In the distance, sunlight sheeted greenly off the Taunus Mountains.

  “Read the first part, out loud.”

  The young man sighed noisily again, then began. Even considering his professed distaste, he read with vigor and unconscious passion.

  “‘The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

  It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

  It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

  Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

  Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

  And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

  And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil

  Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.’” He paused. “‘Reck his rod?’”

  Solomon did not turn from the window. “To obey, Mr. Marcussen. To obey the commandments of God. What do you see in the poem?”

  “I see words, old guy.”

  Solomon’s expression changed not a whit. “What do the words mean? To you?”

  “Well, the dude who wrote this uses parallel alliteration and assonance in line four, when he says, ‘Why do men then now not reck his rod?’.”

  “Very good. What’s the poem about?”

  A long pause. “With all the generations of men, I guess with all the people on the earth, everything is covered by our trash. There’s no more beauty, at least that anybody can appreciate. ‘Nor can foot feel, being shod.’ The whole human race is numb. I guess we can’t feel anything anymore. ”

  “Good guess. I suppose that’s exactly what the author meant to say.” Solomon eased his bulk into a nearby desk.

  The boy was quiet, looking intently at the page. Gerard Manley Hopkins had taken hold. “This is true, Mr. Keyes.” He sounded surprised. “The world really does suck.”

  “Go on and read me the last portion.”

  The boy’s voice was even more hushed as he read.

  “‘And for all this, nature is never spent;

  There lives the dearest freshness deep down in things;

  And though the last lights off the black West went

  Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs

  Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

  World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.’”

  Now the pause lasted even longer. “I don’t get the part about a warm breast and bright wings. What’s that mean?”

  “The Holy Ghost is sometimes symbolized by a dove. For some religions, the Holy Spirit Himself, in turn, is a manifestation and symbol of God’s love and grace extended toward us.”

  “You believe in this stuff?”

  Solomon smiled. “I’m a Baptist, boy. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio--’”

  “‘–than are found in your philosophy.’” The boy smiled, a completely unselfconscious expression. “But this guy says that evil, darkness, and sin, like, cover the world, bury all the good stuff.”

  Solomon nodded. “He also says that despite the numbing drudgery of evil, we still have reason for hope. The longer you live, Carl, the more you’ll see what Hopkins means.” He leaned close, hurrying before the boy had a chance to shut himself off again. “You’ve had a rough life, son.” He swallowed. “Mother gone; your father away much of the time; always moving around just because he’s on the fast track; hard to make friends.

  “To be honest with you, considering your high intelligence, your grades, and your chosen attitude, the statistics point you in one of two ways.”

  The boy appeared curious, a response new to Solomon, and he continued. “In ten years you will either be serving hard time in a prison, incarcerated for committing a felony--a failure. Or tremendously successful in whatever field you choose to pursue. You have the drive and the charisma, but your wise-ass, tough guy act prevents everyone from getting to know who you really are, including yourself.

  “Keep your eyes open, and you’ll see that however horrible, however terrifying the bad in your life can become, it is nothing more than a layer over a core of essential good. Evil wins some big battles, son, maybe most--but it never wins the war. That’s a fact that exists separately from you and me, Carl. You’ll see it when you’ve lived long enough; the goodness in the world triumphs.”

  Carl Marcussen blinked rapidly, looking away from his teacher. Solomon could see thoughts piling up like bright clouds behind the boy’s eyes. “Stay here as long as you like, son. No one is scheduled to use this room for the rest of the night.” He stood. The tremors had left his hands. They would not return for the duration of whatever mission lay ahead. “I’ll check back with you when I can.”

  Solomon sighed inwardly. He knew he hadn’t solved all the boy’s problems, or even treated the sad symptoms of the heartache which kept him alone. But a chink in the armor? Perhaps.

  Carl pulled his baseball cap around to a more conventional angle and straightened the book before him. “Hey, Mr. Keyes.”

  “Yes?”

  “You going to do some more secret spy stuff? Blow up some exotic doomsday device and save the world?” The boy smiled.

  Solomon returned the expression. Instead of answering immediately, he said, “Did you really flush a cherry bomb down the toilet when your father was assigned to Fort Stewart?”

  His grin widened. “I sure did.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I made it myself.”

  Solomon laughed, a rich baritone. “Good for you. And Carl, don’t kid yourself. All those doomsday devices are never that exotic.” He closed the door, leaving Hopkins’ poem open beneath his student’s eyes.

  The Artful Woodsman

  Chicago, Illinois

  4PM

  Ambrose Delgado touched his flawless hair furtively and stepped through the doorway to the staccato strobelights of the Chicago press. Overcast afternoon; the background lighting would be just about sinister enough.

  Beautiful.

  Twelve years on the force had blessed him with being on a first-name basis with several of the reporters now waiting to greet him below the steps that led up to the old brownstone. As he exited the apartment he managed to turn his head just so in time to furnish a pensive profile shot for the popping flashbulbs. Ah, yes. They’d been good to him ever since he made detective.

  Delgado loved the press. He was especially good friends with two of the journalists he saw–Browning and Edelblute from the Sun-Times and Tribune, respectively-- in the clamoring crowd that awaited him outside the old building. Work this right and his picture would be all over the front of the Sun-Times tomorrow. He even had a prop–the blood-soaked T-shirt the killer had been wearing now clenched tightly--vindictively, some might say--in Ambrose’s fist. He didn’t want to get any of the man’s filth on his silk suit.

  Pity only one camera crew had arrived so far. The news of the capture of Hubert Caulfield was still breaking, though. There would be more newsmen by and by, and at least two more television crews, then Ambrose would be invited to appear on the local NBC affiliate; perhaps even be offered the coveted position of violent crimes consultant for the network. It was about time. About time he got his due.

  The crowd parted slightly, and Ambrose halted on the lowest step, raising his palms against the clamor. As it lessened he smiled patiently, timing the flashbulbs. “Hubert James Caulfield was taken into custody at 5:45 p.m. with no loss of life.” He paused, raising his hand and allowing the foul rag he held to u
nfurl. “He won’t be stalking any more residents of the Windy City.”

  Though most in the crowd were seasoned reporters of one magnitude or another, a hearty cheer went up at the sight of the bloody cloth. Ambrose shook it once for effect, then slipped into his gravest expression as the first question was asked.

  “Can you describe the raid, Mr. Delgado?”

  Ambrose took on a more serious mien even though inside he was nearly giddy with pleasure. They knew his name! “Certainly, gentlemen. I found several forty-five caliber handguns and more than two hundred rounds of ammunition on the coffee table in Caulfied’s room. Since Caulfield is a proven sharpshooter, it was touch and go from the moment we entered the building. He’d also booby-trapped the entrance to his apartment.”

  “If you call tin cans and baling wire a booby trap.” The newcomer, a stout, hard man in jeans and a plaid chambray shirt, had just exited the building. His eyes were bright behind gold-rimmed glasses, and in his boots he looked as though he’d recently hiked down out of the woods somewhere. In sharp contrast to Delgado’s dapper appearance, the new man seemed steadier, made smooth by much use like a rock in a riverbed. He was also obviously near exhaustion despite his glaring eyes; several days’ worth of beard overlaid his moustache.

  Instantly, the spotlight shifted. “Can you explain that further, sir? Would you describe Hubert James Caulfield as a loner? Mr. . . .”

  “I’d have to say Caulfield is more of a loser, actually. Please, no pictures,” he said to a photographer.

  Edelblute from the Tribune shouted from the front. “What about the weapons? Did he put up a struggle?”

  “No, we found him hiding under his bed, wrapped in a Star Wars bedsheet.” A murmur of laughter ran through the assembled reporters. One near the rear raised his hand.

  “So you don’t see him capable of succeeding in the assassinations he threatened?”