Zimmerman's Algorithm

by S. Andrew Swann Неизвестный Автор

  Their keeper pushed them toward the stairs. Gideon and Ruth stepped up to the unstable-looking porch. Gideon went slowly, out of fear of putting a foot through a rotten board. Once he stepped onto the snow-covered porch, he realized he needn't have worried. The surface he walked on, under a thin coating of snow, was a new piece of plywood. Once he was on the porch, he could see that there were a number of places above them where metal braces supported what was left of the porch above them.

  The main doorway appeared to be boarded shut, but as they approached, the sheet of plywood covering the doorway opened up, swinging out to reveal a stern looking guy in a turtleneck, carrying another Kalishnikov. If it hadn't been for the Russian weapon, the guy in the sweater projected an attitude reminiscent of the plain-clothes Marines.

  They didn't get to see much of the interior as they were hustled upstairs. From what Gideon saw, this place had been abandoned at one point. But it was being used for something now. They passed a drawing room that seemed to be the final resting place of every piece of furniture that had been abandoned with the house. Just before they ascended the stairs, Gideon looked down a hallway and saw that the warped, water-stained hardwood floor snaked with cables.

  Then they were upstairs, walking down a corridor of cracked plaster and peeling wallpaper. The hallway had once been carpeted, but the carpet, what was left of it, was rolled up and leaning at the end of the hall against a boarded-up window.

  Their keepers took them to a room that held a few cots, a desk, and a small computer terminal. Gideon noticed that the desk had a set of cables that went through a hole in the floor that had been made by removing one of the floorboards. The cables included the power cord that led to the standing lamp that was the only light in the windowless room.

  "Sit," said the man who had led them all the way from the van. He set down his rifle behind the desk and stripped off his parka. Briefly, Gideon thought of diving for the weapon, but the gentleman with the sweater was still with them, his own Kalishnikov ready.

  Gideon and Ruth sat. Gideon couldn't help but sigh with relief as he took the weight off his leg. Both his legs were stinging as ice melted off his too-thin jeans.

  The man hung his parka up on a hook in a wall and pulled a small box out from a drawer in the desk. It looked like a small vinyl briefcase. He opened it to reveal a complex telephone. The whole case was about the size of a brick, but it was larger than any cellular phone that Gideon had seen recently.

  The man with the phone nodded at the man with the rifle. He received a nod in return, and the man in the sweater picked up the extra rifle and left, closing the door on the three of them.

  The man gave them an inscrutable look and keyed a number into his phone. After a few moments he said, "This is Volynskji."

  In response he nodded a few times. After a few moments he said, "Is that wise, sir?" A shake of the head. "Even if the mission is compl—" Pause. "Yes. It is your operation." Look up at the two captives. "I'll take care of that now. I'll give you an update as soon—" Nod. "If you say so. No transmissions. I'll defer the report until you arrive."

  Volynskji slowly put the phone back on the cradle and closed the small case.

  He looked up at the two of them. "I have some questions I need to ask you, but before I do so, I should say something." He walked around the side of the desk. "First, if you're thinking of being uncooperative, you should know that most professionals have the following standing orders—if suicide is not an option, they should cooperate. Every agency who has an operative fall into the hands of the enemy automatically assumes all information possessed by the operative is compromised. Stubbornness on your part will not serve any purpose—except to make things more difficult. For you, not me. All it will cost me is time." He gave both of them a flat emotionless stare that was as bad as any threat. Gideon could look into those eyes and easily imagine what he would do to someone who was "stubborn."

  He sat on the edge of the desk, facing them, and asked, "Now exactly what did you say to Chaviv Tischler?"

  Volynskji questioned them for several hours. Several times, Gideon thought of trying to overpower the man, but he couldn't see how to do it without raising an alarm that would alert the rifle-bearing guard at the door. So, despite what he thought of the man, and despite his reluctance to answer any questions, Gideon played along with Volynskji. He rationalized that he was protecting Ruth. He was responsible for her being here, and he couldn't allow any reluctance on his part to result in something happening to her.

  So, for hours, Gideon answered Volynskji's questions. All of them were directed at him, not Ruth. And the majority were about the old man with the cane and the safe house in New Jersey. Volynskji's questions confirmed Gideon's suspicion that they were Israelis. The name "Chaviv Tischler" belonged to that old man, who was so interested in their conversation in the restaurant. The way Volynskji talked about the man, Tischler was a high ranking member of Israeli intelligence. That didn't surprise Gideon.

  What surprised Gideon was the fact that Volynskji didn't ask him one question about the Colonel and the U.S. government officials who had questioned them.

  Maybe he already knew all he needed from that. The thought chilled Gideon. It implied that his own government's security was compromised way beyond what Tischler had implied. The Colonel and his people knew that Zimmerman was out there, and should know the extent that compromised them. They would be taking active steps to conceal their movements from the perceived threat. If Volynskji knew the contents of those debriefings—and the focus of his own questions implied that— despite the Colonel's precautions, these people—these terrorists—had penetrated the government far beyond what anyone suspected.

  Volynskji kept at the questions until the answers became incoherent because of exhaustion. After that, the guard came in and led them to another room, higher in the building, and locked them in. There was a small window on one wall, an oval about a foot in its longest dimension. The only light came from the moon reflecting off of snow on the sill.

  3.03 Fri. Mar. 26

  L awrence Fitzsimmons was in his office early before the President's daily—and lately, embarrassing—intelligence briefing. He was drinking coffee and looking out at the sunrise, when the intercom buzzed.

  "Mr. Fitzsimmons? There's a gentleman here to see you."

  That in itself was odd. For an unscheduled visitor to get to his office, he would have to pass through four people after building security. Each one had to make an independent decision whether the visitor was worth the director's attention. That usually took a while, so seeing anyone before eight was a rarity.

  He told them to send the man in. Obviously someone thought it was worth his while.

  He turned his chair around and tried to hide his surprise as Chaviv Tischler walked into his office.

  The old man leaned on his cane and smiled. "I've heard a rumor that you're retiring. If that's true, it would be a loss."

  Fitzsimmons sipped his coffee and shook his head.

  "You aren't here to discuss my retirement plans, are you? Or are you recruiting?"

  "May I sit?"

  Fitzsimmons nodded and put down his coffee.

  "I'm here to discuss a current problem of yours. Or to be more precise, to enlighten you about it."

  "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

  Tischler nodded. "And I am certain you do. I know, for instance, that your sudden noises about retirement have to do with this problem. I know that there have been serious differences between parts of your intelligence community about dealing with it. I know that there is a high-ranking member of the NSA, a Colonel Mecham, under 'protective' custody."

  Fitzsimmons leaned back. "Is this some bizarre fishing expedition, Tischler? You know better than to expect me to make some sort of comment about whatever theories you're spinning, much less discuss them with you."

  Tischler shook his head. "Fishing? No, quite the opposite." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a jewel c
ase with a golden CD inside it. "I'm here to cast some bread upon the waters." He placed the disk on the desk in front of Fitzsimmons.

  Fitzsimmons looked at the disk. The early morning light was just beginning to leak into his office, and it caught the CD, casting rainbows across its surface. Fitzsimmons didn't believe in hunches or in premonitions, but he looked at that disk and realized that he felt extremely uneasy about it. In fact, he was afraid of it.

  Fitzsimmons remained leaning back in his chair. He didn't reach for the disk. Instead he asked, "What is

  it?"

  "Something you should know about an organization known as the International Unification Front. I presume they have something, a number of somethings, that you are looking for."

  Fitzsimmons looked at Tischler, then down on the desk. He could believe what Tischler said. The Israelis still had one of the most capable regional intelligence networks in the world. There was little question that they'd have knowledge about the IUF that the U.S. didn't. The question running through Fitzsimmons' mind was, why this? Why now?

  He leaned forward, still not reaching for the disk. "If you want to share intelligence, why aren't you relying on normal channels? There are liaisons for just such things." Fitzsimmons motioned to the disk, the first time he'd acknowledged it.

  Tischler shook his head. "There are reasons not to trust those channels. I suspect you know that, at least partially."

  Fitzsimmons was careful to keep his expression neutral. The evil premonition wouldn't go away.

  Tischler had revealed information that was damaging to the Israelis just by being here. Just allowing Fitzsimmons to suspect the depth of the intelligence the Israelis had about Zimmerman—when they shouldn't, in fact, have any—was threatening to Israel's own security. The admission that they knew anything about this, so-far domestic, "problem" was a diplomatic disaster.

  Tischler knew that reports—some probably already being written by the security people who let him in— would come out of Fitzsimmons' office, detailing this meeting. The reports would go to the President, and would probably chill U.S.-Israeli relations for the rest of Rayburn's term.

  Fitzsimmons looked at Tischler and asked, "Do your superiors know you're here?"

  Tischler nodded. "I've been requesting authority to do this ever since this problem came to my attention. This problem of yours is a direct threat to our national security—but involving ourselves in this, any substantial commitment, would be a delicate matter."

  Fitzsimmons thought to himself, Holy shit, did he actually admit to considering a covert action on U.S. soil? He looked at the CD in front of him.

  Tischler followed his gaze. "I see you grasp the severity of the matter. I finally convinced my superiors that it was best that we give you what we know." He placed a hand on the case and slid it forward as he stood. "You cannot effectively deal with what is happening without this information. For reasons that will become apparent, it must be delivered directly to you. Read and digest it thoroughly before you act to disseminate this information, to anyone."

  Tischler moved to go and Fitzsimmons was almost tempted to call building security to restrain him. He didn't. There was no need to provoke more of an international incident than they already had.

  Instead, Fitzsimmons asked, "What's on this disk?"

  Tischler turned and asked, "Why was Morris Kendal killed?"

  "What?"

  "Morris Kendal was assassinated because he was close to realizing what that disk contains. I think you will also find some interesting facts about the agent—Christoffel his name was, I believe—who handled him."

  With that, Tischler left.

  Fitzsimmons picked up the disk Tischler left him and looked at it. He knew, in his gut, that there was something very nasty here.

  At exactly nine o'clock in the morning, a helicopter took off from Andrews Air Force Base. The helicopter was a military model, but it bore no service markings. It was simply painted a drab olive color. The copter was owned by the CIA, part of a large black budget that no one person had clearance to see completely itemized. The two pilots were both CIA, or at least both of them had been at one point. They were paid out of the same black account as the helicopter.

  In the rear of the helicopter sat four people. One of them was Emmit D'Arcy. Another was a nervous-looking man named Howard Christoffel.

  D'Arcy patted the man on the shoulder. "No need to worry, son."

  Christoffel shook his head. "I'm not a field man. I belong behind a desk—"

  "I know," D'Arcy said. "Your expertise was, and is, invaluable in our Mid-East operations."

  "Thank you, sir." He looked out the window.

  "I don't think it could have been organized without you."

  Christoffel shook his head. "I'm just an analyst, sir. To be honest, when I've discovered what some of my analysis has led to— This all makes me uneasy. Kendal, especially . . ."

  D'Arcy took off his glasses and nodded sagely. "I understand how that must have been difficult for you." D'Arcy squeezed his shoulder again. "But we need you here, Christoffel."

  Christoffel kept watching as the helicopter pulled out over the Chesapeake and began heading toward the Atlantic. Staring into the rippling water, he said, "I can't see why."

  There was a long pause before D'Arcy said, "Because I'm afraid we can't afford you anywhere else."

  Christoffel turned to say something, and stared at the two men facing him and D'Arcy. One had a gun out, and the other was sliding the helicopter's door aside.

  "What?" Christoffel shouted over the sudden wind that whipped through the passenger space. The two men, who had said nothing since Christoffel entered the helicopter, grabbed him and forced him to his knees in front of the open door. "D'Arcy! You can't do this!"

  D'Arcy watched as the man with the gun placed it up to the back of Christoffel's head and pulled the trigger. As Christoffel fell out, into the Atlantic waters, D'Arcy took off his glasses and wiped them off.

  The helicopter began to take a leisurely turn north, toward the hills of Pennsylvania.

  Gideon sat on a military-issue cot and stared at the oval Victorian window, high in the wall. The sky beyond was a livid blue, marked only by an edging of frost on the glass. He had run several escape attempts through his mind, but there seemed very little chance of getting away from this desolate, snowbound place. He didn't even know where the nearest town was. Even if he got himself and Ruth away from this place, they could both easily die of exposure out there on those wooded hills.

  No, he corrected himself, they would die if they escaped on foot. He was a D.C. native, unused to this much snow even when he was in perfect shape. Here, now, once he was off the roads, with his busted leg, he would be effectively immobile.

  They were pretty much stuck here.

  Ruth broke into his fatalistic thoughts by saying, "You know, it's not fair . . ."

  Gideon shrugged. "Nothing fair about this."

  "That's not it. You know me, my family—you interrogated me on the subject. But I know next to nothing about you."

  "Not much to tell."

  Ruth looked at him and said, "You're a liar. Come on. Are you single, married, divorced? What're your parents like? Any little Gideons running around, missing their dad right now?"

  Gideon sighed. "Detective in the D.C. Police Department. Robbery, mostly car theft and such. None of the glamour people associate with Homicide, or—God help us—Vice—"

  Ruth sat up on her cot and rested her head in her hands. "I know what you do. What about your life, your family?"

  Gideon shook his head. He was silent a while before he spoke. "Our mother, she was a legal secretary. Died when I was ten. A bad car accident. . ."

  Ruth prompted, "Drunk driver?"

  "No. Forced off a highway during a high-speed police chase. Some asshole broadsided her in a stolen car, trying to evade pursuit."

  "Did they get the guy?"

  "The guy got himself. He jumped the median and plowed
into the front of a bus. Dead on impact.

  Poetic justice. If they'd prosecuted, he'd probably be out now."

  "I'm sorry . . ."

  Gideon leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "I just saw, later, what it must have done to my father, and Rafe. Dad was an FBI agent. Christ, I don't know if anyone could've idolized my father more than Rafe did. He wanted to be our dad—before . . ." Gideon closed his eyes.

  "What do you mean?"

  Gideon could picture his father's face, the broad smile, the eyes that smile never seemed to touch, that always seemed to grieve. "Dad quit the FBI. Started having twisted feelings about law enforcement. Threw Raphael out of the house when he decided to become an FBI agent."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I think he regretted it, but was too stubborn to back down . . ." Gideon shook his head. "Rafe idolized Dad, but I idolized Rafe. I don't think I ever forgave Dad—even if Rafe did. I tried for Quantico myself—" Gideon shook his head. "I don't know if I was trying to follow my brother's footsteps, or trying to piss off my dad. Doesn't matter though, I couldn't hack it."

  "I can't believe that."

  "Why? Because I'm such a wonderful cop?" Gideon closed his eyes. "I couldn't handle the pressure. Every day was a race against my dad, and against Rafe. Every test was measured against that yardstick, and more often than not I came up short. My whole time there was spent trying to prove something and failing . . ."

  "I'm sorry," Ruth said.

  "I quit. Had to. I suffered a breakdown. Didn't talk to anyone, Dad, Rafe—not for nearly six months.

  As if I blamed them."

  "I know what that's like, living in someone's shadow," Ruth said, repeating her words from the subway.

  Gideon nodded. "I suppose you would—"

  Gideon heard Ruth suck in a breath and he turned to look at her. He could see her eyes moisten. "I blamed her," she whispered. "I mean, she had her reasons for not talking to our folks. Dad never quite understood her, what mathematics was to her. The arguments about college—" Ruth sniffed. "Dad wanted the best for her, he just didn't know what that was. He saw an academic scholarship to an Ivy League university and that was it. They were recruiting her. I think it killed him when she decided to go to Berkeley . . ." Ruth shook her head. "That was the first time I had ever heard Julia raise her voice."