by A. J Tata
The glasses would be harder, but possible. I prefer to have a keyboard, so I can type faster and move quickly once I’m inside. They always detect you, so you have to be like a chameleon, changing how you appear inside their system. My daddy caught a chameleon in our backyard once, and we kept it in a terrarium.
“So if I get you a computer, you can get back in there?”
“Yes,” she said this time. Then she started typing again. I recorded the inside of the building when I snuck in there. That’s what my glasses are really good for. Storing video and audio recordings, which I can play back.
“You snuck into the building?”
Yes. I mimicked the code from the inside of my pod and then went into the building to find who was with me when I killed my daddy.
That had to have been the sound he’d heard when he was behind the manhole cover and the lights came on. Perhaps it was her movement that had triggered the lights.
“Can you play the video, so that I can see it?”
She twisted her nose and mouth, a thinking pose.
Normally, my daddy and I would play it on our computers in the basement. There’s a simple cable I plug it into. It’s also the charging cable. I have five percent battery power left on them. I recorded the chase scene in the cars and my ride across the river on your back. But I shut it off after that.
“Could I go buy one of these cables?”
These glasses are made especially for me by my daddy. The only charger is at our house.
Her mention of her house made him think of her mother.
“Why don’t you want to be with your mother?”
Because she wasn’t nice to Daddy in the weeks before I killed him.
He took this in for a moment. He didn’t want to press her. She might be mature beyond her years intellectually, but he still remembered that look on her face when the bomb exploded in the school. Emotionally, she was just eleven. Brave but vulnerable.
“Can you tell me how? It might be important to finding the people who killed your father.”
I killed my father, remember? But she met a man. His name is Francisco Franco. He’s from Cuba, and he works in the building that I was in. I have pictures of him on my home computer.
His mind was already telling him that he needed to get her into the Constance home basement and let Misha do her thing, but he needed to call Patch first and see what, if anything, the government was doing with the intelligence he provided. He retrieved his government smartphone from its pouch in his wet suit and sat on the sofa. Misha sat in the chair, staring at him, then looked away when he caught her eyes. She looked up from the burner smartphone and spoke.
“Who calling?” she asked. Her voice was like a musical note, C-flat.
“A friend who might be able to help us.”
She typed again.
I don’t trust many people. Daddy always told me not to trust anyone with my secrets, especially the code I write.
“I’m not going to share your secrets, Misha.”
She said nothing in response as she looked away.
Patch answered on the second ring, and Mahegan asked him, “Status?”
“Homeland sent a team to the site two hours ago and reported back that all was in order. Nothing but a car manufacturing plant.”
“Did they check the R & D building?”
“They did. Saw a bunch of autonomous cars with crash-test dummies in them.”
“No sea-land containers?”
“Five, but they had cars in them. Evidently for shipment overseas. They found nothing out of the ordinary. All the employees checked out on the master roster. DHS descended with a team of inspectors, and a woman named De La Cruz personally led them through the main production building and the R & D building. They spent an hour in each building.”
“They started with the main building?”
“Yes.”
“That gave them time to clean the place up. What about the tunnels? Did they go in those?”
“Homeland reported that there were none. I gave them the exact locations, but the FBI agent that went in there said everything was locked up tight.”
“Special Agent Price? Was he the FBI guy?”
“Think that’s right. Works out of the Wilmington FBI District.”
Mahegan thought about that a second and then said, “Surely they realize it was a Cefiro car that detonated on the bridge across Snow’s Cut.”
“We’ve got satellite imagery of that. We were tracking you on Zebra. We realize it, for sure. There’s bureaucratic resistance, for some reason.”
He knew Patch was tracking him. The Zebra app did more than encrypt their communications. It was a global situational awareness tool for him, Patch, and O’Malley. They could monitor each other’s locations and go into stealth mode when they wanted to be off the grid. Mahegan usually kept his phone in stealth mode because he never fully trusted that any communications system was totally secure, even though he trusted Patch and O’Malley every day with his life. Yet for the past twenty-four hours, ever since he had received the “no broken promise” call, he had the stealth mode switched off since Patch needed to see where he was.
“I might have some more video for you if I can get to a computer,” Mahegan said.
“Just use the business center.”
“Can’t. I’ll explain later.”
“We’ve got an intercept that Mirza is communicating with someone he calls Bouseh, which is Persian for ‘kiss.’ We believe Bouseh is a female and a sleeper agent in the United States. She’s probably spent time abroad somewhere. She supposedly was involved in the attacks on Paris in November twenty-fifteen.”
“Got it,” Mahegan said. Then thought, Bisous. Casey Livingstone. Biarritz. Roxy Pro.
He stuffed those thoughts aside as he clicked off with Patch and looked up at Misha, whose gaze was fixed on him. He didn’t know if she was studying something in her Web Glass or processing his conversation with Patch.
You mentioned my video, she typed.
“I mentioned an anonymous video, and he has no idea where I might have gotten it from. We have to work together if we’re going to solve this thing. The Department of Homeland Security checked the R & D building—the one you were in—and there was no sign of the terrorists.”
They’re in the tunnels, and they put fake stuff in the containers, as you call them.
“Probably. So our plan is to find some new clothes for each of us to wear, so we don’t catch pneumonia, and then find a way to get into your house.”
Mama used to always say that about pneumonia, she typed.
“Your mother is a smart lady.”
Not if she was with Franco.
“How do you know she was with him?” He explored this avenue carefully and only because she had mentioned it.
I watched them on the security cameras in the Cefiro building where my daddy worked. He kissed her, and she kissed him back. These cameras had audio and I heard him call her, “Beso.” I looked that up and it is Spanish for “kiss.”
“Where was your father during this?”
She looked away from him, as if considering how to answer.
He was in the same building. Mama worked as a lawyer sometimes for the car company. Daddy worked there full-time. I think that’s how she met Mr. Franco. She was visiting Daddy one day. Momma’s very pretty, and men always want to talk to her.
“What do you know about Ms. De La Cruz?” he asked.
She seems like a nice lady. She’s been nice to me.
“She came looking for you yesterday, after the school was attacked.”
I think she wants me mostly to finish the code for the new Cefiro cars.
“Does this also have to do with your writing of the code for autonomous swarming?”
Her eyes widened at his question. She seemed surprised he knew about ANTS.
No. My daddy asked me to develop that code. He was super nervous and said he had to have it for work. So I helped him.
&nb
sp; She let out a slight sob. He had taken the conversation too far and reminded himself of her intellectual capability versus the emotional immaturity.
He reached out and lightly took her hand and pulled her to him. He hugged her, and she rested her head on his shoulder, much the same way she had when he was carrying her through the school.
“You’re not responsible for your father’s death, Misha. It’s not your fault.”
She pulled back and fumbled with his phone.
But I couldn’t fix it, and I couldn’t get it to him in time! Then I shot him!
“I don’t believe you shot him. It’s okay, Misha. We will find out who did this.”
She shuddered and then fell into him, holding him as she wept into his shoulder, her soft, cherubic cheeks bouncing on his wet suit. She began rocking again, this time with more vigor. He held her for a minute or two and then gently put her at arm’s length. He noticed the yellow strap and saw that it held her glasses tight to her head. He remembered his Ranger school and Airborne days, when they secured all their important equipment with tie-downs. He went into the hotel room closet and found the small plastic bag for wet items. It had a decent cord running through the top for closing the mouth of the bag. He separated the cord from the bag and then tied a secure knot around the yellow strap and connected it to the zipper clasp on her dress. Given what she had been through, he figured she was lucky to still have them and wanted to ensure she didn’t lose the glasses.
“Do you know how we can get into your basement without anyone knowing? There will be people or cameras watching.”
She steadied herself, wiped her eyes and nose, and nodded. He was amazed at her ability to compose herself and fixate on the problem and the solution. She looked tired, as if the conversation had worn her out. He guessed that she wasn’t accustomed to communicating so much, and she typed with a fury, as if her brain was packed with information and she needed to open a valve before the pipes burst.
Mahegan believed there was a nexus between her father, Roger Constance, the Iranian terrorists, and the attacks on the ships. While he intended to protect Misha, he also had to do everything he could to stop another terrorist attack on American soil.
“Know a way,” she said. She then typed the make-up of her neighborhood. Her home was about a half mile from a Walmart. He used his commercial phone to call Casey. She answered on the second ring.
“Everything okay?” she asked. Her voice was hurried, as if she was expecting the worst.
“We’re fine. We need a ride to Walmart. Can you call one?”
“Why do I get the feeling that’s not all you’re doing?”
“We need new clothes. I don’t want to leave anyone alone.”
He didn’t like omitting the rest of the truth, but there was a good chance that the Iranians were scanning cell phone conversations and listening for keywords, such as Misha or Cefiro.
“I understand,” Casey said after a pause. “I’ll set up an Uber right now.”
Ten minutes later he saw a small Camry waiting in the parking lot. They walked out of the hotel room and got in the back of the privately owned taxi. He was glad they were in a nondescript car. The driver was a blond-haired young man, and he turned around and looked at them.
“Name’s Chad,” he said. He gestured at Mahegan’s wet suit. “Is that a three-two or a four-three?”
No doubt, he was a surfer.
“Three-two.” Mahegan didn’t say anything else, and the driver got the message. He held Misha next to him, and she leaned her head against his shoulder until the driver delivered them to the front of Walmart.
Mahegan used a roll of wet twenties Casey had given him at the hotel to buy Misha a pair of blue jeans, a dark sweater, socks, underwear, and black Keds tennis shoes. He bought Doc Martens work boots, socks, dungarees, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and a dark button-down shirt to go on top. He also purchased a backpack in which to stuff his wet suit, his pistol, and Misha’s clothes. He had Misha wait for him by the door of the men’s room as he changed, and then he untied the security strap he had placed on her glasses and sent her into the ladies’ room to change her clothes. He jammed everything into the backpack, and they made a quick stop at the McDonald’s near the entryway. They took five minutes to eat their cheeseburgers and fries and Misha enjoyed a milkshake. All told, they were out in less than forty-five minutes. As they were walking toward her neighborhood, he stopped Misha. Then he knelt, cut a small hole in the back of her sweatshirt, and tied off the makeshift security string. He didn’t want her losing her glasses.
Sliding the backpack over his shoulder, he clasped Misha’s hand, and they kept walking. She was limping some, and he wondered about the wound on her back. It had seemed to be healing fine when Casey checked it, but he was in new territory caring for a child, much less one with her needs and capabilities.
The sun was low in the western sky, and the parking lot was about half full of cars. Mahegan and Misha hooked around the back of the store and walked into the adjacent neighborhood. The homes looked to be about twenty years old, mostly wood frame and aluminum siding, with maybe a few brick veneers mixed into the development. Mahegan followed the sidewalk, and he wondered how many of the children Misha knew. Had she interacted with them, or had she exclusively hidden in her basement and written code with her father? She was maximizing her mind in a way most others could not, but what was she sacrificing in socialization with her peer group? They passed a few kids tossing a Frisbee, and the kids hardly gave them a notice. Cars drove by, and none slowed to wave. He got the impression that Misha was a loner, connected primarily to her father, whom she mysteriously claimed to have killed.
Misha pulled at him as they turned a corner onto her street. She pointed out her house. It was marginally more upscale than those on the street they had just walked. This was a newer part of the development, maybe by ten years. The lots were at least two acres each. From a few houses away, her home appeared to be a three-sided, brick-veneer colonial-style house with dormers arrayed across the top. The lot sloped down in the back, and it was clear there was a basement.
“This way,” she said. She reached with her hand as they walked. She wanted his phone.
The Daniels moved away about three months ago. We can cut through their backyard. Daddy always left a key to the basement door inside the third brick from the bottom.
As the evening setting sun began to squeeze the orange light into a deep purple, and shade blended with the gray oncoming of night, he watched from a large oak tree as Misha approached from her backyard and knelt by the back corner of the house, where the brick veneer on the side of the house met with the aluminum siding. She wiggled the third brick, and a copper-colored key fell to the ground. She turned expectantly toward him, smiling, proud. He nodded, keeping his eyes on the house, watching through the graying twilight.
His instincts told him someone was home. There were two lights on in what he imagined to be the kitchen and the family room, on the opposite side of the house from where Misha was kneeling. He knelt to retrieve his pistol from the backpack and slid it into the large jeans pocket. He let the long-sleeved dress shirt fall over the pistol, which was, frankly, the shirt’s only purpose.
He closed the distance to where Misha was standing, and she led him down some steps to the basement door. She inserted the key, turned it, and opened the door. She looked at him and held her finger up to her lips, admonishing him to be quiet, even though he hadn’t made a noise. Inside the basement he could hear the whir of cooling fans. Against the far wall he saw servers and lights flashing and blinking, as if they were in the tech room of a major corporation.
Perhaps they were, he considered.
In the middle was a U-shaped series of tables, with two chairs beneath and three large monitors on top. The rest of the basement was modestly appointed with wood paneling, a tan carpet, and fluorescent lights, which remained off.
“Daddy. Me,” Misha said in hushed voice. She seated herself in o
ne of the two chairs, her legs dangling well above the floor. He untied the security string as she struggled with removing her glasses. Once they were free, she plugged one of the stems into a small cable that fed into one of the computer terminals. He noticed that with the glasses off, she became more active or perhaps uncoordinated. Her legs swung beneath the chair. Her arms flapped awkwardly. She grimaced, trying to control her flailing, he believed. It was almost as if the glasses helped her maintain physical stability. A monitor jumped to life and began playing in high speed everything she had seen over the past several days, he imagined.
Beginning with the school shooter.
She paused, a shaky hand atop the MacBook track pad, backed up, and pointed at him. “You,” she said.
He was standing there, talking to the bomber. There were no sounds, but it was clear that she was standing about thirty yards away, watching the scene as children and teachers scurried in either direction. He was impressed at how still she remained at the time, as if she were a war correspondent filming a firefight. He could picture her standing there, unflinching, as she watched.
She pulled up a dialogue box on the computer and typed.
They came for me. To get the rest of the code. I put all those people in danger. And I’m worried about Miss Promise.
The typed words smacked of analytics, not lack of emotion. She processed information devoid of emotion, it seemed, but she articulated feelings, such as feeling bad and being worried. Her range seemed quite deep and mature beyond her years.
He watched her transfer the information on her glasses to a flash drive as she crawled below the desk and grabbed a small briefcase.
“Voices,” he said. There were footfalls coming from upstairs, and before they could retreat through the basement door, the door at the top of the basement steps leading to the interior of the house opened. He heard Misha scamper somewhere as two women descended the stairs, talking. He stood and turned toward the noise, keeping his back to the computers. His hand grazed the outline of the pistol in his pocket.
“All I can tell you is that this is where Roger and Misha did all their computer work,” Layne Constance was saying as she stared at the steps. The next legs he saw were those of Ximena De La Cruz. He heard her accented voice.