Smythe continued to stare at the computer screen. “Could be.”
St. James admired Smythe’s disciplined, methodical approach to breaking codes, eliminating every possible source one by one in a sequence known only to him, leaving nothing to chance.
Two minutes to six.
“Have to go soon Louis. Meeting Anna for dinner at seven. You’re welcome to stay. In any case, let’s talk first thing Monday morning when I’m due to give Global a progress report.”
Smythe nodded. “I’m going too. Meeting the boys for a beer. I’ll call at nine on Monday.”
Smythe left for an evening with friends at 6:15, St. James at around 6:30 to meet Anna at The Fish Market Restaurant.
As he crossed Sussex to York, St. James wondered if the Stevens code would be the first one to stump Smythe. He couldn’t imagine what that would do to his ego.
Chapter 3
Weeks earlier…
Thomas Stevens sat slumped over his desk, staring blankly down at the grey carpet, his disheveled appearance exaggerated by a wrinkled grey suit, a stained blue silk tie and a white shirt unevenly open at the neck.
Two years ago, this was not Stevens. Then, he was at the top of his game and on every party list along with the who’s who of Washington, everyday dress two-thousand-dollar Armani suits, five-hundred-dollar French cuffs, and eight-hundred-dollar Italian shoes.
It wasn’t enough for Stevens just to be successful: he had to look successful. Expensive clothes, Rolex watches, and fast import cars were necessities of life for anyone competing to be Washington’s most successful professional. Known at all high-end restaurants, Stevens’s counsel was sought by most well-respected Washington entrepreneurs.
Stevens played the professional game well; anything less than well was mediocre performance. And for a man like Stevens who measured everything by gain, mediocrity wasn’t an option.
But in recent months the game began to wear, take its toll, making keeping up appearances more difficult to endure. Tired more often than not, his life was a treadmill with no end in sight.
A feeling of hopelessness had crept over him. Dark and sad sunken eyes and chalky skin contributed to a face belonging to a man much older than forty-five years. Once thick black hair was now thinning, more salt than pepper. Twenty pounds had disappeared from an otherwise healthy body, weight he could ill afford to lose. Thoughts of suicide came and went.
Stevens occupied a large corner office on the fourth floor of an eight-story grey brick building. Plush dark-grey carpet covered an oak floor, and matching handmade drapes enveloped sliding doors that opened to a spacious balcony overlooking downtown Washington. In the distance, the White House.
Stevens’s thoughts suddenly became erratic, a constant stream of consciousness. Professional life. Marriage. Children. Professional life. A jumbled mixture of emotions flickering in and out of focus like a 1920s movie.
He visualized his rise to partner at twenty-eight, a reward for building a profitable practice. The many wonderful client relationships he’d developed, some lifelong friends. Long work hours. Fiery partner meetings. All passing at machine gun speed.
To what end? Where did it get me?
He thought of the $50 million he helped raise for a new hospital wing, $5 million for a homeless shelter, and $6 million for a halfway house for convicts to have a fresh start, each demanding hundreds of personal hours.
Too much for me.
For what? Recognition? A sense of fulfillment? Whatever, it no longer mattered. Now he looked at life through a more balanced lens, having realized he’d missed the most important thing in life: family.
Two daughters now on their own, Emily in university, Sandra working for a large investment house in New York City. Both beautiful, smart young women.
Business had always come between him and the girls. No time to celebrate achievements or console about failures. Could have made time. But didn’t. An exaggerated sense of professional duty somehow diminished the priority of home. Now he realized how shortsighted that was.
Sandra a high school basketball star and a straight-A student. Stevens missed most of her games and, because of a client merger, her high school graduation. Sandra was devastated.
How could I have been so stupid?
Beth covered for him every time, went to everything Sandra was involved in, never missed a basketball game or class variety show, or the three plays in which Sandra starred as leading lady.
He apologized each time; he’d be there the next time. But the next time never came. Something always came up, a meeting, a work deadline. After a while Sandra didn’t hear his apologies. She resented the benign neglect.
My God! If I could do it all over, how different it would be!
Not wanting to feel her sister’s hurt, Emily counted on her father for nothing. Dad was just someone who shared the house, someone who came and went, like a tenant.
At eight Emily took flute lessons, an escape from a dysfunctional family. With time, her passion for the instrument grew to more than the escape it was once meant to be. She was driven to master the instrument, to be the best, and the best she became. At nineteen she was invited to join an orchestra, a brilliant accomplishment for anyone at any age.
And where was I?
His thoughts turned to Beth. Now living separate lives in the same house, their only discussions were major household decisions and matters related to the girls. Education, Emily’s first car, major legal commitments demanding both signatures.
There was never any arguing, yelling, or unpleasantness. Just cold co-existence.
They used to be so happy, did everything together, travelled the world, shared likes and dislikes, goals and desires.
Where did it go wrong?
With time, focus on firm business had grown. Not intentional. It just grew. It was about success, for the family. To have a better life. But somehow the means became the end. An obsession. So consumed with generating wealth he neglected everything and everyone around him.
Somewhere I lost my way, my soul.
Not the first to fall into this trap and certainly not the last. He hated himself for letting it happen. Hate grew into self-loathing, and self-loathing grew into depression. Professional help made little difference; the power work had over him became all-consuming. Medication and therapy were no match for out-of-control, obsessive behaviour.
Should have been there for you, Beth.
Most nights he came home late, tired and irritable. Only natural for Beth to drift away. Choosing work over family cost him his family. A huge price. One he now regretted paying.
So sorry Beth…
He weighed all this against feelings of sadness, trying to make some sense of it. But there wasn’t any sense to be made. It was life, the hand he’d been dealt. Intellectually he knew this; emotionally it was unbearable.
I saw nothing else.
He wiped away a tear and then shook his head like a dog destroying a stuffed toy, as if that would make the pain go away.
For a moment he looked around the office, wondering if he would ever see it again. His desk was bare except for the laptop. He hated cluttered desks.
Eyeing the room he noticed the cleaners hadn’t placed the furniture back where it belonged. Never did. Annoying. He rose and re-positioned the black leather sofa and chairs to their rightful places, smiling faintly at his own compulsiveness. Even depressed, obsession for neatness dominated.
Through beveled glass he could see junior accountants working late, milling about, anxious to finish, to be with their families. For a moment he hoped their marriages would not end like his, that they’d be more aware of life’s purpose.
He ignored a vibrating cell in his pocket, not bothering to see who was calling.
7:45. He felt hungry yet dreaded the thought of eating alone like every other night.
For a moment he thought of the options he had considered and hoped everyone would somehow understand the choice he’d made.
; Chapter 4
Saturday night traffic in ByWard Market was extraordinarily heavy, people heading to favourite bars and restaurants, or the movies, or a play at the newly renovated National Arts Centre.
A chill had crept into the damp air since St. James’s rainy afternoon walk. Skies, though still cloudy, had cleared some but not enough to eliminate the possibility of another shower. This time St. James remembered an umbrella.
The Fish Market Restaurant had two dining rooms. One on the main floor, another upstairs. Downstairs was full to capacity with no sign of Anna, so St. James made his way to the upper level where he found her sitting in an alcove sipping Pinot Grigio.
They embraced and St. James sat in the chair opposite her. A heavy-set round-faced waiter wearing a black suit that was too small appeared instantly to drop menus at the table.
“I’ll have a Barolo, please,” St. James said without looking at the wine list. The waiter nodded and smiled as he wandered off to another table.
Anna reached out and took St. James’s hand in hers, holding it tightly as she stared into his dark-blue eyes.
“You look fabulous tonight, Anna.”
“Thank you,” she replied graciously with a nod, “you’re very handsome as well. One nice compliment deserves another.”
St. James was about to say something but changed his mind. Anna picked up on the body language.
“What?” she said cautiously.
He squirmed slightly. “We’ve been dating for a while now, and I thought it might be time to talk … you know … about where we’re going.”
Anna tensed.
“You didn’t invite me here to break up, did you?” she said, abruptly pulling her hand back in fear of what may be coming.
“No! No!” he blurted, attempting to reassure her. “Not at all! My investigations usually involve travel.” St. James looked pale. “What I am trying to say is my feelings for you have grown. I want more of us … together. I don’t know how you feel … or what you think. Do you want more, or am I just making a big fool of myself?”
Anna was silent, her expression moving from rejection to relief to a smile almost instantaneously.
The portly waiter reappeared with St. James’s Barolo and asked for food selections. St. James gestured Anna to go first.
It took a moment for Anna to shift from her emotional ride to food. “Red snapper, please,” she said finally, “and another Pinot.”
“Certainly Miss, and for you, sir?”
St. James’s focus slowly shifted from Anna’s eyes to the waiter. “I’ll have the citrus-glazed salmon.”
“Excellent choices, both of them,” the waiter said as he gathered menus and rushed off toward the kitchen.
St. James never quite understood how a woman’s emotions could travel from one extreme to another at such lightning speed.
For a moment they quietly drank wine.
Anna tucked strands of rogue hair behind each ear. “For a time I’ve wondered how you felt. It’s wonderful you ask.”
St. James could think of nothing to say.
Anna reached across the table and took his hand in hers once again.
“I feel the same way. I would very much like more of you too.”
St. James let out a long, slow sigh.
Anna’s face brightened. “Hamilton, you’re as white as a sheet. You’re uncomfortable talking about feelings?” she said with a broad smile. “The man who’s frightened of nothing has a soft underbelly.”
“You noticed,” he said sheepishly.
Anna suddenly became animated. “What does all this have to do with travel?”
“I hate travelling alone. Most of my travel has been work related. Lonely. Never been anyone to share experiences with. Hoping you would come on one or two trips with me.”
“Couldn’t think of anything more wonderful,” she said warmly, slowly shaking her head, “but I don’t think Sid would approve. He doesn’t like employees dating customers, let alone running off with them. Then there’s my rent. I have to work to live.”
“You let me worry about Sid and your rent. I’ll deal with him,” he said emphatically.
Anna looked doubtful.
“Very generous, but don’t be so sure. He’s a difficult one.”
“What’s with him anyway? He has trouble just being civil.”
Anna took another sip of Pinot Grigio.
“Peculiar man. Angry most of the time. I don’t know what goes on in his head, how it works. Lately, he’s been asking about you.”
St. James grinned.
“Maybe he likes me.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Anna said laughing. “Sid doesn’t like anybody. I don’t even think he likes himself.”
Minutes later the waiter arrived with the snapper, Anna’s second Pinot Grigio, and St. James’s salmon.
“Will there be anything else for the moment?” he asked, gently placing the plates in front of them.
“I’ll have another Barolo,” St. James said. “Then I think we’ll be fine.”
The waiter nodded and moved to another table.
A noisy group of six seated themselves at the next table, and it became obvious St. James and Anna were about to lose their privacy.
“Hamilton, tonight has made me so happy,” Anna said quietly, tears of happiness forming.
St. James couldn’t seem to find the right words, and even if he could, he doubted they’d come out in any coherent way.
After a few moments eating in silence St. James said, “You know, Anna, I was thinking, you’re way overqualified to be a server. You’re bright and smart, capable of doing more challenging things with your life.”
Anna was surprised by the out-of-the-blue observation.
“Like what?” Her voice reflecting her curiosity.
“For one thing you’re great with computers. You’d be an excellent researcher. And … you’re wonderful with people. You’d make a terrific manager in hospitality.”
Anna was amused by the thought of herself in those roles.
“Most people hold back, consumed by self-doubt. Thinking only of reasons dreams can’t be realized instead of relentlessly pursuing them. They see obstacles everywhere. Nothing but mountains they can’t climb. Anna, you could do anything you put your mind to.”
Anna smiled. “You’re beginning to sound like my father.”
St. James suddenly covered his face with both hands.
The waiter waddled over with St. James’s second Barolo, looking amused by their exchange.
“Oh my God! I don’t want to sound like your father. That’s not what I meant by a closer relationship.”
They both laughed.
Anna was quiet for a beat.
“I have a confession to make,” she said cautiously.
“What’s that?” he said, cutting the salmon.
Anna’s eyes looked larger than normal. “I’m not a server.”
St. James’s forehead furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“Part of my job with a company in Germany when I was in my twenties was research. Mostly corporate research: potential new products, possible new hires, senior management travel arrangements, intel on competitors, that sort of thing. Trained by a very thorough, disciplined woman boss, military style. Brutal, but effective training one never forgets.”
St. James was stunned.
Anna smiled. “You think of me as a waitress because that’s all you’ve ever seen. But I’m not. My profession is corporate research.”
“Then why are you working as a server?” St. James finally managed to say.
“There was nothing available in my field when I moved to Ottawa. Only government research, which doesn’t interest me in the slightest. I needed money to live, and this is how it turned out. I’d have to move to Toronto or the United States to find a job in my profession. But I like it here and have no desire to move.”
St. James nodded, still surprised by Anna’s confession. “Good to know. I may need so
me help from time to time.”
A moment later he said, “How’s the snapper?”
“Excellent. The salmon?”
“Done to perfection.”
Having consumed sufficient wine, the table of six was now louder, making it difficult for St. James and Anna to hear one another speak. So, they finished quickly, and St. James signalled the waiter and paid the bill.
As they rose from the table Anna said, “Let’s go to my place.”
St. James nodded and off they went toward Guigues Street.
When they arrived Anna threw her arms around him before he could even remove his coat and led him down the hall to the bedroom.
Chapter 5
Monday was the beginning of the fourth week of September. It was fifteen degrees, and the sun was streaming through a cluster of cirrus clouds, creating a mystical array of light across the Ottawa skyline. Traffic on Sussex was already building, cars and pedestrians scrambling to face another week of work.
St. James’s phone rang at 8:47.
“Louis here.”
“Right on time, Louis. Good man. What do we tell Global about Stevens?”
“I can say with complete confidence each grouping of the code’s letters and numbers represents something completely different from the rest. Patterns are such that all groupings taken together can’t possibly be for any one thing. The code most likely represents a series of steps or actions. I eliminated every other possibility.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I put this thing through every process known to man. It doesn’t behave like a single code. By about midnight last night I was ninety-nine per cent sure the code was a plan of some sort.”
“Hmm. A plan … A plan for what?” St. James mused.
“Don’t know. Whatever it is we have to look at it differently. A friend of mine lent me the latest probability software. I’ll run each section through that, see what the probable meaning of each could be. One combination could represent a license number, leading to motor vehicle registries, and another could be a street address. I don’t know. These are just illustrations. But it does offer hope. And after days of cyber-groping I’ll settle for hope. It doesn’t seem like a breakthrough, but it’s something.
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