by A. G. Riddle
Desmond gripped her arm. “I remember the Halloween party, and xTV, and that mermaid ornament and the glass heart and Half Moon Bay and that badly carved oil rig I gave you.” He smiled, but she didn’t return it. To his surprise, she looked away.
Gently, he placed a hand on her chin, turned her to look into his eyes. “I remember us being happy. But not what came after. Tell me, please.”
“No.”
“What if it’s related to what’s happening right now?”
“It’s not.”
“Did I hurt you?”
Peyton closed her eyes. “It wasn’t like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“What happened… hurt both of us.”
What does that mean? He was about to ask when Avery glanced back from the pilot’s seat and pointed to the headset.
To Desmond’s dismay, Peyton pulled her headset on quickly. He reluctantly followed suit.
“Let’s talk about what happens when we land,” Avery said.
Peyton methodically laid out her plan. Avery made a few suggestions. Demands, really, but they were all in agreement about the course of action.
With that out of the way, Desmond focused on Avery, asking the first question among so many he wanted answered.
“The people on the ship, in the hospital ward. What were they infected with?”
“I don’t know. I was part of the IT group.” She glanced back at him, a curious, unreadable expression on her face.
“What?”
“It was… It was your experiment, Des.”
“I did that to them?” Desmond felt sick at the idea.
“It was part of the Rendition project.”
“What is Rendition?”
“I don’t know.”
Peyton spoke up. “What do you know, Avery? Why did you rescue us?”
“I wasn’t aware I needed a formal invitation to rescue you.”
They started snapping at each other then, voices escalating. Desmond waited for an opening that never came. With forced calm in his voice, he interrupted.
“Let’s just… back up here. Okay?”
A pause.
“Look, if we keep fighting each other, we have no chance of stopping what’s happening.”
He let another few seconds pass, hoping everyone’s nerves would settle. Then he suggested that each of them share what they knew and see if the pieces fit together somehow.
Taking their silence as agreement, he went first.
The two women sat quietly while Desmond recounted his story, beginning with how he had woken up in a hotel room in Berlin with a dead man on his floor—a security employee with Rapture Therapeutics. How he’d had no memories and no idea what had happened to him. How his only clue had been a cryptic code, a Caesar cipher that, when decoded, read, Warn Her and listed Peyton’s phone number.
“Was the warning about the pandemic or warning me not to go to Kenya?”
“I’ve thought about that. I think the warning was meant to keep you from going to Kenya. I think I knew they would abduct you, that you were personally connected to this somehow. On the ship, did they ask you personal questions—not related to the outbreak?”
Peyton thought for a moment. “Conner asked me when was the last time I spoke with my father and brother.”
“Why is that important?” Avery asked.
“They’re both dead.”
Avery glanced back at her, surprised.
Desmond turned the information over in his mind. There was definitely a larger picture here, a connection he couldn’t quite make.
“Conner also asked about my mother. She’s a genetics researcher at Stanford.” Peyton paused. “They wanted my CDC password. They drugged me. I think they got it.”
Peyton recounted the rest of her time on the ship, being thorough, which Desmond appreciated. When she was done, he continued his story, describing how the police had appeared at his door just as he had called Peyton. How he had spent the next few days evading Berlin’s security forces while decrypting messages he believed he had left for himself. How the codes had led him to a reporter for Der Spiegel who had agreed to meet Desmond at a cafe on Unter den Linden.
“The reporter said I was an informant. I had told him that I was going to provide proof that would expose a network of corporations and scientists working on the largest experiment since the Manhattan Project. He said the project was called the Looking Glass, and that I had told him it would change humanity forever.”
“Makes sense,” Avery said.
“How?”
“You told me you were planning a major move to try to stop the completion of the Looking Glass.”
Desmond studied her, wondering if she was telling him the truth. Was she really his ally and confidante?
He was about to question her, but Peyton asked, “What happened to the reporter?”
“Conner’s men took his fiancée hostage to get to me,” Desmond said. “It worked. They interrupted our meeting and captured me shortly after. I think it’s safe to assume the reporter’s out of play.”
“What is the Looking Glass?” Peyton asked.
“I don’t know. He didn’t either.” Desmond looked at Avery. “Do you know?”
She glanced back at him. “No. I never found out.”
Desmond sensed she was holding back. Was it because Peyton was there? Or was there another reason?
“Did I know what it was?” Desmond asked.
“Definitely,” Avery replied. “In fact, I believe your work was essential to completing the Looking Glass. Your piece was the last component they needed.”
“Conner suggested as much, when he questioned me on the ship,” Desmond said. “Both he and the reporter told me that there were three components: Rook, Rendition, and Rapture. Conner said I had been in charge of Rendition, but I have no memory of it.” He paused. “I have seen all of those names, though: they’re companies my investment firm, Icarus Capital, funded.”
“I think another one of your investments may be involved too,” Peyton said. “The first cases of the outbreak in Mandera were Americans—two men who had recently graduated from college. They were in Kenya to launch a nonprofit startup called CityForge. Icarus Capital funded them. In fact, the two young men had dinner with you. They said it was very eye-opening.”
“How so?”
“They were impressed, described you as larger than life.”
Desmond saw a curious smile form on Avery’s face, but she said nothing.
Peyton continued, unaware. “They said you were into some major next-generation projects and that you believed humanity was on the cusp of extinction.”
“Why?”
“The absence of space junk.”
“Space junk? As in…”
“Interstellar probes. Relics from alien civilizations before us, from around the universe. They said you told them the moon should be an interstellar junkyard, covered with crashed probes and satellites, yet we’ve found nothing.”
“I don’t understand,” Desmond said.
“They didn’t either. Neither do I.”
Desmond leaned forward, silently asking Avery if she knew.
“Hey, space junk isn’t really my department,” she said, eliciting a quiet laugh from Desmond and an annoyed expression from Peyton.
“So what is your department, Avery?” Desmond asked. “How do we know each other?”
Avery hesitated. Desmond got the impression she was asking him whether it was okay for her to answer in front of Peyton.
“We’re laying all our cards on the table here,” he said.
Avery nodded. “Okay.”
Chapter 69
Avery began her story with some background. She had been raised in North Carolina and attended college there, majoring in computer science and minoring in two foreign languages: German and Chinese. During her senior year, she was invited to interview with a new venture capital firm called Rubicon Ventures. It was located just off I-40, in a
n older low-rise building in Research Triangle Park. The office was small, the decorations spartan, most of the walls bare. Her first impression was of a boiler room operation set up overnight, not an established company. She pegged it as a fledgling venture destined to fold, and she had already decided to pass on the offer when the young woman at the reception desk showed her into a conference room.
A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair sat at the table, a closed folder in front of him. He introduced himself as David Ward, and said, “Don’t mind the digs, we put all of our money into our work.”
To Avery’s surprise, he asked no questions. He seemed to already know everything about her. He told her that her unique combination of skills—languages and computer science—would be invaluable to their work. He added that her winning record on UNC’s tennis team was also a plus. That made her curious—just curious enough to ask what sort of work she’d be doing.
“Due diligence,” he replied.
She’d never heard the phrase, which he quickly defined. She’d be researching the startup companies Rubicon Ventures was considering investing in. He said they were high-tech companies with novel products, capable of changing the world.
“You’d be traveling a lot. Meeting with founders and executives to hear their pitches and gather information.”
It sounded utterly boring to her. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do after college, but she now knew it wasn’t “due diligence.”
As if reading her mind, David said, “You wouldn’t be doing it because you like the work.”
“Why would I be doing it?”
“For the money.”
That got her attention. Lately, she’d been doing a lot of things she didn’t want to do—for the money.
He pushed a paper across the table. It was face down. She picked it up, read the job offer. A very strict non-disclosure. A non-compete. And a sum that raised her eyebrows.
“If you decide this isn’t for you, Avery, you can quit at any time.”
She had grown up on a farm in North Carolina—a farm her family had lost to the bank three years before. Her father had always told her not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She was certain that the job offer she was staring at was exactly that: a gift horse. It was too much money—for work she wasn’t really qualified to do. Something was wrong here.
Despite her father’s advice, she looked up, and with three words, she looked the gift horse in the mouth. “What’s the catch?”
Her host broke into a smile. “Very good, Miss Price. You’ve just passed our job interview.”
“How’s that?”
“In a word, guts. You’ve got guts.” He focused on the pages in the folder. “You see, we do our due diligence too. We know you’re an only child. That your mother died in a car accident about four years ago, right after you went to college. We know that your father has late-stage Alzheimer’s, that his care is not cheap. That you’ve been paying for it, any way you can. You teach tennis. You work at a run-down ice cream parlor called,” he peeked at the open folder, “The Yogurt Pump on Franklin Street, and though you’re a straight-A student, you absolutely hate computer science. You chose the major for one reason only: money. You figure you can get a good job after college, earn enough to take care of your father, and one day, just maybe, live your life, which in your mind would involve a lot of traveling and doing something outside, something very exciting.”
She stared at him, unsure what to say. Every word he’d said was true, but she couldn’t imagine how he knew.
“One of the companies we’re interested in is called Rapture Therapeutics. They’ve developed what may just be a cure for Alzheimer’s and other neurodegenerative disorders.”
He slipped another page across the desk: a research brief on Rapture’s latest breakthrough.
“Does that interest you?”
She read while he waited, only half-understanding the science.
“So,” he said. “What’s your answer, Avery? I need to know right now. There’s one position. You’re the first in line, but not the last.”
“You already know my answer,” she said.
“Welcome aboard, then.”
She spent a year after that researching the companies Rubicon was interested in. And as the months went by, a sneaking suspicion grew in her mind. At home, she began to keep separate files from the ones she turned in. She thought about her theory during every waking hour: while visiting her father at the care facility, at the gym, during flights, and in the countless hotel rooms that all ran together. In every meeting, at every company she visited, she began looking for evidence, any clue that might confirm her suspicions—or confirm that she had officially gone crazy.
One morning, she walked into David’s office, closed the door, and prepared to tell him what she thought. In her mind, she had imagined how he might react: laughing out loud, telling her to take a day off, telling her to stop watching so much TV.
She said the line she’d rehearsed a dozen times. “I think there’s something going on at the companies you’ve asked me to research.”
“Like what?” His voice was even.
“I think they’re fronts.”
He still betrayed no emotion. Not surprise; not even interest. “Fronts for what?”
She swallowed. “Terrorism.”
He focused on his computer, began typing, acting as if she had told him their lunch meeting was canceled. “That’s a very serious allegation.”
“I’m aware of that,” she said, unwavering.
“I’m going to a meeting in Virginia tomorrow. I’ll be driving up. I’d like you to come with me. Are you free?”
Avery stood there, confused. It was as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “Yeah, I’m free—did you… hear what I just said?”
“I did. Let’s meet here at nine. I’m sorry, Avery, I’ve got to run.”
The next morning, they got on Highway 1 North, then I-85. At Petersburg, they took I-95 North. To Avery’s surprise, they passed right through Richmond. After the exits for Fredericksburg, David turned off and drove through the country.
He parked in front of a large colonial-era home with a crushed stone driveway.
Inside, he ushered her into a wood-paneled library where several corkboards were covered with names and colored strings. She knew the names. Corporations. There were photos of the companies’ officers and investors. Desmond Hughes. Conner McClain. They were all connected. These were the companies she had been investigating.
She walked up to the montage, her mouth open. It was true. Her theory.
“Congratulations, Avery. Rubicon has a lot of agents. You figured it out faster than anyone else.”
She felt a moment of pride as she studied the photos and logos. “What is this?”
“A new kind of terrorism. These people aren’t religious idealists. They’re not zealots, foaming at the mouth, waving AK-47s in the air. They’re scientists. Technologists. Rational people. Extremely intelligent. Working in the shadows, diligently, planning.”
“Planning what?”
“We don’t know. It’s big, Avery. Change-the-world-forever big. A device called the Looking Glass. The companies you’ve been investigating are creating the pieces—pieces that will be assembled at a later date.”
“Like the Manhattan Project.”
“Exactly.”
“Who are they?”
“Technically, they’re the modern incarnation of an ancient organization called the Order of Citium.”
David walked to the bookshelf, took down a folder, and handed it to her.
“We know the organization was founded two thousand three hundred years ago in the Greek city of Citium by a philosopher named Zeno. History books cite him as Zeno of Citium. People came from all over the civilized world to debate with him. Those conversations grew into something more. A movement. That’s what they were back then: a group of philosophers. Thinkers.”
“What were they thinking about?”
“Pretty deep stuff for two thousand years ago.”
“They were ahead of their time. They applied themselves to three disciplines: truth, ethics, and physics. And they were persecuted for their beliefs. They watched as polytheism, then monotheism, swept the world. They went underground. Stayed there. Waited for the world to catch up. It never did. Apparently, they’re tired of waiting. They’re going to do something about it.”
“The Looking Glass.”
“That’s right.”
“And what is the Looking Glass?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
Avery frowned. “Okay. And when we find out, what are we going to do about it? What is Rubicon Ventures, really?”
“Rubicon Ventures is a front. One of several used by the Rubicon program. We’re a covert organization—funded by the US government. Only a few people in government even know we exist. We have one mission: stopping Citium.”
“People in government—like… what? CIA?”
“No, Rubicon isn’t run out of any official government organization. We don’t have ID cards with a three-letter acronym. No paper trail, no risk of leaks. But every month, seven very highly placed members of our government meet to discuss the Rubicon program. Only they know the truth of our activities. They provide funding and help when needed.”
“So how do we stop the Citium?”
He smiled. “That is the question. I’ll tell you the answer when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
“No. You’re not. Your real training begins today, Avery.”
That training took two years. Every Thursday night, she drove up to Northern Virginia, to the colonial home in the country, where she learned things that had nothing to do with “due diligence.” She learned to fire a handgun. She had gone hunting with her father since she was old enough to walk, but she’d had no experience with military firearms. She mastered hand-to-hand fighting. Close-quarters combat was foreign to her, but she picked it up quickly. On some level, it reminded her of tennis—quick reactions, fending off attacks from opponents, moving her feet, swinging with force.