The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1)

by Cole Reid

  He had conquered the world and ordered it into his classroom for the benefit of his students. He was fond of Shakespeare. Macbeth was a staple in his classes. His interest in theft of power seemed almost personal. He was teaching his students to recognize that kind of theft, even amongst themselves.

  “What is on his mind? Why is he convinced of his actions? What is driving Macbeth? Think about how you answer,” said Mr. Li. His room, his rules, students had to answer in English.

  “Shu Tao,” Mr. Li liked to call on students at random, his life had been random but it gave him an edge. He never coddled his students, coddling made them complacent. A girl, shy in demeanor and expression, stood up.

  “Mr. Li,” was all she could manage to say.

  “Did you do the reading?” asked Mr. Li. His English was flawless but his voice was chilly.

  “Yes,” said Shu Tao.

  “So you know that the king is dead,” said Mr. Li.

  “Yes,” said Shu Tao.

  “Do you know who did it?” asked Mr. Li.

  “Macbeth,” said Shu Tao.

  “Does anyone agree with Shu Tao?” asked Mr. Li. Over 30 voices said yes.

  “Wang Shaodong,” Mr. Li called out. A tall boy confidently stood up with a slight smile and slight mustache on his face. A lot of students giggled because the boy was popular.

  “Do you agree with Shu Tao?” asked Mr. Li.

  “No,” said Shaodong. The boy was smart enough to know the game was afoot. He just wasn’t sure what game he was playing. He realized Mr. Li would not have continued with him if he was satisfied with the previous answer. He knew enough to know that it was time to disagree. But he didn’t know why he should disagree. Mr. Li knew as well.

  “Why?” asked Mr. Li.

  “Because she’s wrong,” said Shaodong.

  “Why?” asked Mr. Li.

  “Macbeth didn’t kill the king,” Shaodong wasn’t sure where he was going. He did the reading during lunch hour and he knew Macbeth had killed the king.

  “Ok,” said Mr. Li, “Then who killed the king?”

  “I killed the king!” said Shaodong. The class turned into a riot for no more than fifteen seconds. Riots never lasted long in Mr. Li’s class. It wasn’t that kind of class. Mr. Li wasn’t that kind of teacher.

  “Ok, Shu Tao, do you agree with what Shaodong has said?” asked Mr. Li.

  “No,” said Shu Tao.

  “Why?” asked Mr. Li.

  “Because in the book, Macbeth killed the king,” said Shu Tao.

  “And you believe the book?” asked Mr. Li.

  “Yes,” Shu Tao wasn’t really sure anymore.

  “And you don’t believe Wang Shaodong?” asked Mr. Li.

  “No,” said Shu Tao.

  “Neither do I,” said Mr. Li, “So you say Macbeth killed the king.”

  “Yes,” said Shu Tao.

  “Would you kill the king?” asked Mr. Li.

  “No,” said Shu Tao.

  “I’m going to give you some time to think it over because we know Macbeth and Shaodong would kill the king, right Shaodong?” Mr. Li asked.

  “Yes,” said Shaodong still standing.

  Mr. Li said nothing. A river of calming pause flowed into the room. Mr. Li took advantage of the pause to let it settle his mind. He leaned against his desk and put his hands on the edge for balance. Shu Tao and Wang Shaodong felt awkward as the only students standing. Other students were thinking how awkward it must feel to be standing with no one saying anything. When all the students were thinking this, the silence began to get uncomfortable. Mr. Li had perfect timing.

  “Shu Tao, would you kill the king?” asked Mr. Li.

  “No,” said Shu Tao.

  “Why?” asked Mr. Li.

  “Because I don’t want,” said Shu Tao.

  “So why did Macbeth kill the king?” asked Mr. Li.

  “Because he wants to be the king,” said Shu Tao.

  “And he thinks no one can kill him, correct?” said Mr. Li.

  “Yes,” said Shu Tao, she was more comfortable listening than speaking English.

  “So you can understand why Macbeth kills the king,” said Mr. Li.

  “No,” said Shu Tao.

  “Wang Shaodong, can you understand why Macbeth kills the king?” asked Mr. Li.

  “Yes,” said Shaodong.

  “Why?” asked Mr. Li.

  “He kills the king, then he is become king and no one can kill him,” said Shaodong.

  “In other words, why not kill the king?” said Mr. Li with a pause, “We’ll stop here because we’re out of time but I want you to finish Act III for tomorrow.”

  The rumbling of students loading their bags echoed in the classroom for up to a minute before an electronic bell broke through. The bell was followed by the comfortable hymn of a hongge folksong. A familiar narrator’s voice came out of the same manila speaker box sitting above the classroom door frame. The narrator was undoubtedly female and gave instructions about new requirements from the school’s head office. She also advised about preparations for the upcoming college entrance exams—most students ignored most of what she said. When she finished, another electronic bell sounded and students headed for the door. On her way out, Shu Tao was stopped by Mr. Li. To make his point, he spoke in Mandarin.

  “You know I never asked you if Macbeth killed the king, I only asked if you knew who killed the king. Yes or no was all you had to say. Always regard what’s being asked of you,” said Mr. Li.

  Shu Tao had a surprised look on her face before nodding then leaving with a girl wearing the same blue track suit and quiet character. Mr. Li knew Shu Tao had done the reading. She always did the reading, it was her nature. He had called on her to see the reaction on other faces, to find the perfect combination of relief and anxiety. Those were the ones who hadn’t done the reading—his favorites to call on. To figure out who hadn’t done the reading, he had to read forty-two students’ faces in seconds. It was a unique skill, but he was like a surgeon with it.

  Mr. Li paused and stared at his empty classroom. A room going from packed to empty so quickly would have ushered in feelings of loneliness for most, not for Mr. Li. The emptied space gave him a sort of calm. For that time, there were no more variables: no students’ faces to read; no noises; no gestures. His mind would interpret it all because it had no choice. A constantly turning pen or a blink that lasted too long would send pulses to his brain—data. His brain would analyze the data by compulsion. It was just the way he was. He never had a choice in the matter. He took both the time and the space to inhale and exhale in long deep draws. And he repeated. He reached an inner peace for ten seconds or less, but that was all he needed then he went back to his duties. He grabbed the whiteboard eraser and started to wipe clean the whiteboard. His strokes went up and down constantly until he stopped by instinct. It wasn’t until he heard ringing in his ears that he realized why he had stopped. It took him a split second to realize the ringing wasn’t in his ears but in his shoulder bag on his desk. His brow narrowed causing a deep wrinkle. The phone ringing was odd. It only rang once before, for work, and he was at work. There was no one to call him. He lived alone. All his bills were automatically withdrawn from a regular savings account at Bank of China. He had no family, no wife, no children, no girlfriend. He knew his neighbors’ names and occupations but did not speak to them. He ate all his meals at home and never ordered out or carried in. He ate food from the same fridge, bought from the same store, cooked on the same stove, for over three years. He watched TV with the volume at level five; volume five couldn’t be heard through walls. He barely watched TV, but he watched Sanda boxing as a compulsion—he hated soccer.

  He had no car or footprint. He was just Mr. Li, living on the sixth floor of a building at the end of an alley with no balcony or landing. He was barely seen and never heard from. Only a handful of female teachers at the school even knew his given name. He was so intriguing that they looked in his file to see. But they nev
er called his phone, even though the number was in his file. No one ever called his phone. He had done something wrong. It didn’t make a difference whether he answered or not. It was the phone ringing that was significant. It meant he was back on the grid. The curiosity was getting to him, he had to know where he slipped up. He reached in the bag and pulled out a dated model cell phone. He clicked a green button but didn’t say anything.

  “It’s been a while but you should recognize this voice,” said the woman.

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Li, too slow to be casual.

  “I don’t have much time Ray. You must have a place nearby, get there now and use your secured to call me back,” the voice ended.

  Mr. Li, a man hard to surprise, was in shock. His brow narrowed forcing as many wrinkles as it could. Before he had time to think, his phone sounded off a text message. His shock lasted less than a minute, everything quickly became routine. He began counting variables. He opened the text message. It read: *00B0700AA00Y00π000P. Mr. Li finished erasing his whiteboard and threw his bag over his shoulder. Using his right hand to hold his stomach, he made his way down the stairwell with a grimace on his face. On the first floor, he turned right then rounded the stairwell and headed to the end of the row. He passed through an open door, through a dim-lit foyer into the main office. He stayed near the door as if he didn’t want to walk anymore. Before the school principal had time to acknowledge him, he called her out.

  “Sister Guo, I was feeling a bit off during last lesson. My stomach feels like it’s folded in half,” said Mr. Li.

  “Maybe it’s something you ate,” said Sister Guo.

  “I don’t know, I ate cafeteria food today,” said Mr. Li.

  “Then that’s probably why,” said Sister Guo.

  “Could you get a substitute lined up to take over for me tomorrow? I’m not saying I won’t be here I just want someone ready in case,” said Mr. Li.

  “Bai Heng doesn’t have a third period, so she could cover you then. I think the rest of it can be put together if need be,” said Sister Guo.

  “Thank you, Sister Guo. I’ll call you tonight to let you know if I can come tomorrow,” said Mr. Li.

  “Go home and drink a bit of hot water,” said Sister Guo.

  Mr. Li agreed with the idea, so he walked out of the office and walked outside. He walked diagonal across the paved cement in the school yard, onto the yellow dirt. There were a few students still around the yard making their way toward the gate and one at the bike rack. Mr. Li walked toward the mostly empty bike rack and unchained a simple looking black-framed bike with thin tires and W-shaped handle bars. Mr. Li motioned to some of the students he recognized and waved to the elderly man in the booth. He walked through the half-opened gate. On the other side of the gate, he made a sharp left turn and hopped on his bike.

  Mr. Li rode hard against the wind. It was late March and the air was still dry and cool. The sky was foggy but the fog hung high and didn’t lean much. Mr. Li pedaled slightly faster than normal, but not faster than his folded stomach would allow. He was always conscious of onlookers. Until his phone rang, his life had bordered on non-existence for over seven years. He lived without being alive. He allowed himself no luxury. He biked straight to his building after work with no deviation. At his building, he confined himself to a strict callisthenic workout in his apartment. He did push-ups, sit-ups, mountain-climbers and prisoner squats, but no running or jumping. He didn’t do anything that would make noise. In fact, the occupants of his building would not be able to identify him as a tenant if they saw him outside his apartment. Most thought an elderly man or woman occupied his unit. One who didn’t need a welcome mat because he never had visitors.

  Mr. Li took the direct route home. He rounded a corner with an internet bar next to a clothing shop and pedaled on to a narrow street. He went halfway down the street and turned into a damp alley with a small kiosk guarding it. The man in the kiosk recognized him. Mr. Li came to the doorway of a stairwell to an old building. From there, he hopped off his bike and lifted it until the frame rested on his right shoulder, wheels still spinning. The building didn’t have an elevator. If it did Mr. Li wouldn’t take it. An elevator would give him too much exposure to someone else. If it happened often enough, that person might try a question or a conversation. Mr. Li didn’t do questions, he avoided them. He had answers ready but avoided using them. In fact, he regularly bought beer to pour out in the sink, hiding the fact that he didn’t drink. It seemed to him that most men drank, why he didn’t would be a question. At the base of the stairwell, was a light that was motion activated. It took a good stomp to get the light going, but Mr. Li never stomped. He liked to handle the stairwell in the dark and anonymously. Even while carrying his bike, he felt the light from the first floor was enough. Carrying the bike up six flights of stairs in the dark was part of his workout. It made him practice his balance. He had to stay focused. He always had his key ready by the time he reached the sixth floor. He set his bike down and wheeled it over to the green steel door on the right. He could hear someone ascending the stairs on the first floor. It didn’t matter how far up they were going. They wouldn’t make it to the sixth floor fast enough to see him. Once his apartment door was opened, he wheeled the bike in and shut the door—gently. He never slammed the door, nothing to mark his entry or exit. He had made it home unremembered, that was usually a good ending to the day.

  This day was different. Mr. Li set his bag down and fished his cell phone out of the inside zipped pocket. He reopened the text messages and took another look at the sequence: *00B0700AA00Y00π000P. It was an encoded access key. The sequence looked complicated and that was part of the game. It was a distraction. Only the numbers and letters mattered. The rest were space fillers, designed to make complications. The zeroes were modifiers for counting up or down. The most important thing to remember was first count up. The star sign was meaningless—a head fake. The first two zeroes meant count up two letters from the letter B. The sequence treated all letters and numbers as a scrolling marquis. Counting two letters up from B meant going up to A then back around to Z. The next zero was solitary and meant count down by one. Counting down the number sequence was to count in the normal direction of ordinal numbers. Next in the sequence was the number 8. Mr. Li decoded the sequence of numbers at a subconscious pace. He was left with six digits: Z8YYAK.

  Mr. Li walked toward an old rusted looking steel chair, in the corner of his living room. The chair looked old but sturdy. He pulled out his door key and used it to tear through the stiff green cushion that padded the back of the chair. The cushion shredded easily. He pulled out a sleek-looking titanium casing the same length of his thumb. He used the same key to cut through the bottom cushion of the chair, pulling out a cell phone. It was an eight year-old model. Mr. Li opened the titanium casing revealing a device that looked like half of a cigarette, painted black. At one end of the cigarette, was a plug about a centimeter long with three sharp copper-coated teeth. Mr. Li plugged the black cigarette into the right side of the cell phone. He turned on the cell phone that showed a full charge. It always held a full charge—a two year battery life. In his mind, Mr. Li had remembered the cell phone as a tire that would never pop. It would always roll. It was a device to mitigate the failure of another; he called it his Spare Tire. Mr. Li punched in the sequence: Z8YYAK and pressed the call button. The phone displayed the word ‘LINKING’ followed by one dot, two dots, three dots, then none. The display counted to three dots four more times before displaying the words ‘LINK ACTIVE’ and a button below that said ‘CONTINUE’. Mr. Li hit the call button. Another display box appeared, along with the words ‘ACCESS ID’. This step was designated to fool imposters. If Mr. Li tried to enter an access ID on the phone’s keypad, he would be shut out and the satellite link would terminate. This second step was plugged with voice recognition software.

  “Rainman,” he spoke slowly and clearly into the mouthpiece. His voice was broken into a digital collection of va
riables called a voice print. The voice print was squeezed into countable quantities. When the software looked at the variables, it smiled with satisfaction. The voice print was familiar. It had been a long time since the software had heard his voice. His voice had changed, but the change wasn’t so broad to skew the variables and not be recognized. The software gave a thumbs-ups.

  On a computer screen in a bold-looking office in Langley, Virginia, at the George Bush Center for Intelligence, a silver-haired woman saw the words ‘Reagan Lee Identity Confirmed’. The words were soon accompanied by a file, opened automatically by the same software accessed by Mr. Li. The file stood at attention on the screen, in front of the silver-haired woman. On the computer screen, where images of Chessmaster had been an hour before, was a high-definition headshot of Mr. Li. His face was younger and more activated. His name was listed as Reagan Lee. His date of birth was listed as March 3, 1981. His codename was Rainman. The word ‘Location’ followed by ‘N/A’ was an obvious regret. ‘N/A’ suddenly evaporated and the words ‘Handan, China, Mainland’ condensed. The software was advanced. Any information gathered would automatically be updated in the database. The information could dash. A communications satellite running the voice identification software recognized Mr. Li’s voice and routed the location of the cell phone, vibrating the voice print to a second communications satellite. The second satellite processed the request. The voice being a match didn’t guarantee the location of the man. The voice could be a recording or a relay, a voice signal sent from a different location. Such things happened all the time. The second satellite compared the incoming information against voice data and images being collected by several hundred other satellites. If there were any similarities or overlaps, an attempt would be made to batch them before they were sent to a CIA supercomputer. The supercomputer would decide whether to unbatch any data. The supercomputer processing Mr. Li’s voice print was three levels below a one-room U. S. Post Office in Custer County, Nebraska. The supercomputer was one of five running a precious algorithm. The algorithm could process data loads so large, it could recreate history. The algorithm could search billions of records in seconds and match them against billions more, all while eliminating possibilities. The algorithm used all data legal and otherwise to reference, cross-reference and re-reference.