Exit Strategy

by Charlton Pettus

  “Why don’t I just tell him the truth?” she said. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “No, but I have,” he said. “My guy will get kicked off the force and probably be prosecuted if anyone finds out what he’s doing. I was able to convince him to help us because he owes me but I can’t let him go to jail. You agreed to do this my way. Right?”

  Stephanie sighed. “I know, you’re right. I’m sorry. If he calls again, I’ll talk to him.” She turned and recrossed her legs. “Why is it taking so long?”

  “Just waiting for the right guy to be working evidence. Apparently you can’t just walk in there and help yourself. You have to hang in there. It’ll happen.”

  “I’m trying,” she said, wrapping her arms around her knees even though it was warm in the kitchen.

  He smiled. “I know it’s hard but we’ll get there. My friend—we’ll call him Louis—he owes me. We go back a long way. It’ll happen.”

  She nodded. “Okay.” Then, “Why Louis?”

  “You know, Casablanca. The cop. Working for the Germans but helping the good guys? Nothing? The ‘start of a beautiful friendship’ guy.”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Don’t think I ever saw it.”

  “Never saw it? That’s impossible,” he said in mock horror. “Promise me you’ll let me address that. Stat.”

  She smiled under tired eyes, still hugging her knees close. “Okay.”

  * * *

  When he left Stephanie’s, Alex tried to call Sam’s message drop but got a recording saying the number was no longer in service. There was another number. He flipped through his contacts. There it was, a 307 area code. Wasn’t that Wyoming? He’d never called this one. It was listed as “Sam, emergency.” This qualified. Stephanie was unraveling. They needed the DNA now. Alex didn’t feel like Sam appreciated the delicacy of the situation. He dialed. There was a long delay before the phone rang and then the ring sounded, hollow and filtered. Sam picked up on the second ring. His voice was flat and harsh.

  “Hang up and go home, you fucking asshole,” he said and terminated the connection.

  When Alex walked into his apartment the phone was ringing. Unknown caller. He answered, “Hello?”

  “Listen carefully,” Sam said. “Boston Police were asking about the other phone number. That’s why it’s gone. You’re the only person who would have called me from there, which means they’re looking at you. Home phone is clean still but your cell is shit. Get a burner, and do not, under any circumstances, try to contact me again. Am I clear?”

  “I’m sorry. I promise you I never said anything to anybody.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” Sam said.

  “I was just worried about Stephanie. She’s going to do something stupid if I can’t get her Jordan’s DNA.”

  “She’ll have it tomorrow,” Sam interrupted, “and if that’s not the end of it I will kill that fucking bitch myself. This whole situation has become quite tiresome, Alexander. My gut says to kill them all right now and be done with it.”

  “You can’t,” Alex said, almost frantic. “We’re so close.”

  “It’s on your head, Alex.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Alex started to say, but the line had gone dead.

  45

  BIGGER FISH

  It was 5:36. Almost there. Jordan checked the electrophoresis gel. Electrophoresis was used to separate DNA fragments by their length. There was a light band, then the dark clump of the bulk of the strands, then another faint band. He separated out the two aberrant clusters and added the remainder to his sample. Done. He took a sterile swab from its paper wrapper and smeared it across the depression in the sample plate before dropping it into one of the plastic evidence bags Dennis had left him. There was enough left for two more Q-tips, so he prepared and bagged those, as well.

  When Dennis arrived just after six, Jordan was asleep, slumped against the wall with the three evidence bags in his lap. Dennis shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Wakey, wakey, Doc. Time to go.” He took the three plastic bags. “This it?”

  “That’s it.” Jordan nodded.

  * * *

  Dennis dropped him off just as the sun rose. Jordan stumbled up the stairs. He pulled the drapes and fell fully clothed onto the bed.

  * * *

  When he awoke it was dark again. Almost 8:30 at night. He’d slept almost fourteen hours. He felt empty, empty in the most literal sense. He remembered doing a fast once when Stephanie had been trying to lose the last ten pounds of baby weight after Haden was born. He had joined in a show of emotional support. After three days of nothing but lemonade with cayenne and maple syrup he had felt the same sort of hallucinogenic clarity he felt now. Everything seemed overly sharp and yet disconnected; it was like trying to navigate the world through a microscope.

  He took a long shower. The shower, in the French fashion, was a handheld in the bath.

  There was no curtain so Jordan sat cross-legged in the deep, narrow tub. He put the drain stopper in so the tub gradually filled.

  When it was full he turned off the tap and lay back in the gray water with everything but his knees and head immersed. The sound of occasional drops from the faucet reverberated loudly over the distant bustle of the city.

  When the bath cooled to room temperature he pulled the stopper. The retreating water clung to his skin, reluctantly yielding his body to the air. When, with a slurp, the last of the bath drained, Jordan unsteadily got to his feet and took a clean towel off the stack.

  He brushed his teeth. The man looking back in the mirror seemed unfamiliar. He had a set to his jaw and force in his gaze that Jordan didn’t recognize. He was thinner as well, and harder. As he got dressed, his stomach gurgled hollowly. He had to eat. He pulled on a white ribbed sweater and his blue peacoat and headed out.

  * * *

  “Mike, it’s Julie. Listen to me, whatever you’re into, drop it. That 202 is government. I couldn’t get any more specific and that’s a bad sign. Could be CIA, or NSA, or it could be some off-the-books thing, but whatever it is, it’s not something you want to mess with. Let it go. Take care of yourself. I’ll see you around.”

  Herron played the message again, then deleted it. What did that mean? Did it change the story or just mean Prenn hung out with a better class of hitters? Curiouser and curiouser.

  * * *

  “Ça va, Yanqui?”

  “Ça va, con,” Jordan said as he slid into his seat. Gitanes laughed quietly but didn’t look up from his paper. Jordan’s favorite waitress, Virginie, was working and dropped a basket of sliced baguette and a carafe of wine as she whisked by. The dinner rush was in full swing at Le Pré.

  Jordan peeled open a butter packet and slathered a slice of bread. It was the best thing he could ever remember having eaten. He emptied the basket in minutes.

  Virginie laughed when she returned with a plate of boeuf chasseur, a rich stew with mushrooms and carrots. “You are hungry tonight?”

  He nodded and dove in. It was as if he had never eaten before. She brought a fresh basket of bread and he sopped up the last drops of juice from the plate. He had finished the carafe of wine, as well. Any hesitation he might have had about drinking within minutes of waking up was quickly overcome by context.

  The immediate needs sated, Jordan pushed back his chair and sighed deeply. Gitanes was studying him over the top of his paper. Jordan shrugged with a smile and said, “That was fucking good.” His eyes felt as though they were open unnaturally wide.

  Virginie cleared away the empty dishes and said, “Dessert, monsieur?”

  “Sure,” Jordan said.

  “Et mon calva, Virginie,” Gitanes added.

  She returned with two small snifters and a nearly empty bottle of calvados. She poured the glasses and left the bottle. “Santé,” Gitanes said, raising his snifter and giving the cl
ear eau-de-vie a quick swirl.

  “Cheers,” Jordan returned. The spirit was narrow and hot at first; turpentine sprang to mind. But then it mellowed as the warmth radiated throughout Jordan’s body. Virginie put down a steaming slice of tarte tatin topped with a mound of crème fraîche. As Jordan ate, his companion launched into one of his incomprehensible recitations. Jordan nodded when it seemed appropriate but otherwise let the old man’s monologue flow into the sea of muddled eddies and currents that filled the restaurant.

  It was getting late. The rush had passed, though most of the tables were still occupied with groups lingering over dessert or drink. Jordan’s companion, who seemed completely unaffected by the alcohol, waved to Virginie and shouted, “Absinthe, chérie!” She made a disapproving face but brought the bottle.

  Jordan shook his head. “No, I’ve seen this movie. It didn’t end well.”

  Gitanes paid no attention but poured a shot in each of their empty glasses. Then he balanced his fork over one and put a sugar cube on it. He slowly trickled water from the little pitcher so it ran over the sugar and into the glass, blooming in a milky cloud. He pushed the glass to Jordan and repeated the process with his own. They tipped their glasses and drank. A flood of memories rose up all at once, threatening to overwhelm his newfound sense of well-being.

  “Let me tell you a story,” Jordan said. “I was drinking this shit a couple of weeks ago in Tokyo...” Could it have only been a couple of weeks? He felt that he had died and been reborn at least twice since that night.

  “I ended up almost sleeping with this child prostitute. And then I ran.” Jordan glanced up. The old man was fumbling with the pack of cigarettes. He finally shook one out and tamped it against the crystal of his watch. Jordan picked up the Zippo on the table and lit it. Gitanes nodded thanks and sat back, staring off into the middle distance, no doubt lost in his own memories.

  “I should back up,” Jordan went on. “I told you my family thinks I’m dead, right? I was a biologist once upon a time. Hard to believe, I know. My partner, my best friend, screwed me over. He wanted me gone. I think mostly so he could fuck my wife. Shakespeare, isn’t it? And I walked right into it.”

  Over the next hour, as the customers drifted out of Le Pré aux Clercs, Jordan relived every moment of the past six months. “And last night,” he said, “last night I put the message in the bottle and threw it into the sea. But no one will ever find it because I am dead.” His head lolled forward into his hands and his shoulders began to shake. He couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying.

  Gitanes spoke. It took a moment for Jordan to realize he was speaking English. “After the first glass you see things as you wish they were, after the second you see things as they are not. Finally you see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world.” Jordan looked up; the old man was turning the empty absinthe bottle in his weathered hands. “Oscar Wilde, I think.”

  46

  LITTON

  Litton Labs was in a small office park just off Route 128 in Lexington. It was a low brown building with reflective windows like state police trooper shades. Alex pulled into a spot right in front of the door. The receptionist looked up, startled, when he came in.

  “Mr. Prenn, was Dr. Chun expecting you?”

  “No,” he said. It was quiet. The sound of the expressway was muted to a barely discernible hum. The gray mottled carpeting and overstuffed pair of sofas along the wall coupled with the acoustic tile ceiling seemed to absorb all ambient sound. “Is he around?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll tell him you’re here.” She pressed a button on the phone and adjusted her headset.

  “Don’t bother, I’ll find him,” Alex said, pushing through the door to the labs.

  * * *

  Matthew Chun was slurping noodles from a cup of instant ramen while watching columns of numbers scroll down the monitor in front of him. He didn’t look up when Alex came in.

  “How are we doing?” Alex said.

  Chun jumped up. “Mr. Prenn, I had no... Did we—”

  Alex waved him down. “No, just happened to be in the area. Thought I’d check in.”

  “Of course, that’s great. Ah, nothing too new to report. This run looks good. So far they’re right on.”

  “Good. Any progress on cloning the algorithm?”

  “Some, but it would go a hell of a lot faster if we could compare notes with ROBIN, if we had some understanding of how they were running their model...”

  “Sorry. Can’t do it. Double blind, we have to be sure. How close are you to matching it?”

  Chun glanced down at the screen. “It’s hard. Maybe fifty percent. Maybe a little more. We just need more data.”

  “And if there was no more? Could we still crack it?”

  “Why? Why would there be no more? Is something wrong?”

  “No, just trying to get a sense for where we are.”

  Chun looked relieved. “Possible, but we won’t know until we really look at the results of this last run. But like I said, we’re definitely onto something. I hope you’re not having second thoughts.”

  Alex clapped him on the shoulder. “No chance, Matthew. We’re in for the long haul.”

  Chun nodded vigorously. “Good, good. You know how important this is...”

  “I do indeed, don’t worry. Just keep me posted, okay? Running ROBIN is a massive expense. The sooner we can automate it, the better for all of us. If you reach a point where you think you have enough data to finish the algorithm, I need to know, understand?”

  Chun nodded. “Of course.” When Alex left, Chun picked up his soup. It was cold. What had that been about? Genometry had been Litton Labs’ sole client for three years, three pretty lucrative years. They were the lead on the PEREGRINE project. The job was to verify protein folding projections made by another group, ROBIN, and to extrapolate the algorithm ROBIN was using. The method involved designing simple amino acid chain puzzles to tease apart ROBIN’s approach. They had no idea who the ROBIN team was but their work had been stellar, miles beyond everyone else. Matthew would give his left nut to be there. They were winning the race; they were going to be the newest bio-billionaires. And now Prenn was talking about scaling back? It didn’t make sense.

  47

  VICHY

  Jordan looked at the old Frenchman incredulously. “You speak English?”

  “Of course,” he said, still idly turning the absinthe bottle over in his hands.

  “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

  “Why would I? I think you had much that you wanted to say and maybe would have had difficulty saying if you knew you were understood.”

  Jordan shook his head. “And what were you talking about? Did you think I understood you?”

  Gitanes smiled and turned to face Jordan. “No, I was quite sure you did not. I, too, had things I wanted to...how would you say, uncarry. That’s not right, but you know what I mean, I think.”

  “You have me at quite a disadvantage apparently,” Jordan said. “You understand, the things I told you, they could get you killed.”

  “I suppose so,” the old man said. “But I promise you, there are far worse things. My name is Michel, by the way. I gather that you are Jordan, who is called Justin sometimes even though it is not your name.”

  “Nice to meet you, Michel.” Jordan laughed, extending his hand. The Frenchman’s grip was surprisingly strong and Jordan winced, imagining he could feel the tiny transmitter in his palm grinding against muscle and bone.

  “Sorry,” Michel said, “I forget about your hand. Does it hurt?”

  “Not really, usually I forget it’s there,” Jordan said. “Do you live in the neighborhood? You seem to be here a lot.”

  “You are generous. I am here all of the time. You think it must be a sad and lonely existence, no? No, it’s true.” He went on when
Jordan tried to object, “I live upstairs. I own the building so they are very good to me. I come down here because to sit upstairs and listen to life going on below is infinitely more depressing than hovering on its fringes.”

  “I get that,” Jordan said. “I definitely get that. No family?”

  Michel pursed his lips and said nothing for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “I have no one. And you, what will you do now that the bottle is thrown into the sea as you say? Things are in motion. Where will you go?”

  Jordan looked down without speaking.

  They sat in silence for several minutes, each lost in his own thoughts. Finally Michel said, “When I was a young man, there were terrible student riots in Paris. The ’60s. It was a very confusing time. At any rate, I did things, things that I knew were wrong. I betrayed many of my closest friends. In the end I came to own this building, and another besides, but at a great price. I think other men who did as I did during that time turned to the church afterward but for me there was no forgiveness. I found only hypocrisy.” He wrote quickly on the back of a napkin and pushed it across the table. “If it ever should come to pass that I can be a help to you, I would be grateful.”

  Jordan slid the napkin in his pocket and unsteadily stood. “Thank you, goodbye.”

  “À bientôt,” the Frenchman returned.

  As he pulled his coat close against the cold night air, Jordan glanced back over his shoulder and saw Michel sitting in the empty restaurant, lost in his own memories as the two Algerian barbacks stacked the cane chairs and mopped the floor around him.

  48

  VIDEO KILLED THE RADIO STAR

  Kevin Bryce had worked at the Brook House for three months. His cousin Lionel had hooked him up. Lionel had done security there four nights a week for five years. The job had supported him through nursing school. The day Lionel graduated he’d given notice at the Brook House and recommended his young cousin for the job. Kevin had started the next week. It was a pretty cushy job. You just sat at the reception desk and kept an eye on the monitors.