The iris algorithm, p.21
The IRIS Algorithm, page 21
It had been three hours since the altercation at Barin Field. Patience, a caged tiger, paced the polished white floor of the expansive airplane hangar. It galled her to be ordered to wait for a call from her father’s mysterious, high placed contact, the one whose identity Fagon didn’t know. The Gulfstream 650 had been fueled and ready before they arrived an hour ago. Still they waited.
Two burly security men in dark suits, along with their special young guest, were already on the plane, rolled just outside the hangar. As though they waited to order brunch, two other security men sat across the hangar at two incongruous round tables covered with scarlet tablecloths and bottles of drinking water. The men were surrounded by four, polished white G-350’s and the other G-650. Against the white girders, white airplanes, white walls, and rows of bright white lights, the five, scarlet-topped tables looked like drops of blood in an operating room.
Patience moved to the wide glass window of the private lounge and folded her arms across the front of her square-necked dress. The royal blue satin slid eagerly over her trim figure. She gazed across the gleaming white expanse of the large hangar below and briefly entertained perverted curiosities. Peter Fagon leaned against a wood veneer column behind her, quiet, thinking, no doubt wishing. She smiled, slowly unfolded her arms, pulling her athletic shoulders back, taut symmetrical lines showing between the straps of the deep cut dress. Her black sequined belt and the black inset hem on the slim-fitting dress were just what she wanted Fagon to see, black and blue. They would both be wearing her favorite colors. Mostly Fagon. Her lower back arched.
“You seem restless.” Fagon’s voice was dangerously soothing as he moved slowly toward her. “As the new leader of a global, multibillion-dollar organization, you need to find ways to alleviate your tension.”
Patience and Fagon were alone in the lavishly appointed lounge. The air was uncomfortably cool, at odds with the sweltering heat outside. “Mr. Fagon, it’s unlikely you are up to the task of relieving my tension. Perhaps if you were taller. Younger. A little less Mediterranean.”
“You could be right.” His relaxed confidence said she was wrong. The heat of his presence radiated against the bare skin of her back as he moved closer. “On the other hand, it’s possible that a collision of equals may be more than you could handle.”
Such insolence. Such asinine and unfounded confidence. She would invent new ways to make him suffer. The warmth spread beyond the small confines of her sheer black thong.
From the center of a round wooden table, a triangular conference phone rang a playful electronic tone. The call they had been forced to wait on. Turning on a black, five-inch heel, Patience brushed her right breast hard against Fagon’s chest, dragging open his unbuttoned blue blazer as she passed. Her finger hesitated over the answer button while she examined her new acrylic nail. With an experienced flick of the finger, Patience answered the call.
“I have our caller patched through on the secure IP network.” It was Virtue’s voice, languid and pathetic. “You may proceed.”
“Yes, do please proceed without delay,” Patience said. “I’ve been delayed and dissatisfied enough for one day.”
“I understand from your father that you are now in operational control of The Movement,” a voice said. “I’ve worked with Obadiah for many years. It remains to be seen whether you and I will have a similar arrangement. For now, I will continue to help you with your immediate problem.”
All at once, the electronic voice processing seemed silly. She wondered how her voice sounded on calls. How had Simone Dancing known it was a woman? Although, the arrogance dripping from this caller’s words made her certain it was a man.
Fagon dutifully reported the details of the morning’s action. Jason Glunt, terminated. Logan Ranes and an accomplice, possibly Simone Dancing, escaped. The assault in DeFuniak Springs failed to discover Simone. Lester Dancing presumed dead after a firefight and the burning of his home. Of the AEM assault team, six killed at Barin Field and three in DeFuniak Springs. All were recovered and disposed of except one who burned inside the house.
“Take the remainder of the assault team to a discreet location for debriefing.” The disembodied voice was flat, unemotional. “Then kill them.”
“Understood,” Fagon said. “The technology facilities in Germany are on line and standing by. We’ll be ready to launch Mimosa globally after the test.”
“We completed the test several hours ago. It worked perfectly.” Even through the electronic processing, the smugness was evident.
Fagon took in the information with no discernible emotion.
Patience leapt toward the phone as if the black triangle were alive. “How did you get IRIS? What do you mean you’ve already tested it? I demand to know what’s going on here!”
“You’re in no position to demand anything.” The voice was calm, cold, certain. Patience recalled using that same line with no effect earlier in the day. Something was very wrong.
Pushing Patience aside as just another annoyance, the voice continued. “A dozen citizens in Oklahoma awoke today without realizing that officially they were never born,” the voice mused. “At a nuclear facility in Japan, they are busy trying to understand why the cooling, water pressure controllers went off line for twenty-seven seconds. The Bank of England lost the accounts of five customers. Bill Gates unexpectedly sold one hundred thousand shares of Microsoft at fifty cents a share less than market value. Disturbing curiosities to be sure, but no one will suspect they are related…until it’s too late.”
Patience’s hard stare at Fagon made him reveal nothing.
Does he think I’m a fool?
It was impossible to know what lurked in those black eyes that took all in and gave nothing back, but she intended to find out.
Are you laughing inside Mr. Fagon? Do you think I won’t know if you betray me?
When the time was right, she would definitely find out.
The disembodied voice broke into her thoughts. “Don’t be alarmed. This is an arrangement between Obadiah and me. Accept the help.”
Patience clenched her teeth. Her jaw throbbed. She swallowed the impulse to hurl obscenities into the passionless conference phone. Now that the full wealth and power of AEM were at her disposal, this sort of outrageous behavior was not necessary. She took a deep breath.
“I always appreciate competent help,” she forced a smile. She was unsure if Fagon would report back to Obadiah or the person on the phone but she had no doubt he reported to someone else. Thoroughly frustrated that she felt vulnerable and childish, she issued one of her first edicts. “I’ll return the favor one day. So far, however, your primary contribution has been to make me late for departure. I really must be going.”
“I delayed your departure for a reason. We needed to be sure Logan Ranes’ surveillance team was in place and observed the boarding. When they report the boy is on board, he will surely follow. Your flight manifest is easy enough for them to obtain. Then you can deal with that particular problem as you see fit in Germany.” The voice disappeared.
Minutes later, Patience and Fagon boarded the plane, followed by the two large security men. The G-650 was Gulfstream’s largest and most lavish corporate jet. With over a seven thousand mile range, it could easily make a non-stop flight to Munich. On board were the pilot, co-pilot, and two blonde flight attendants who looked like Victoria Secret models. Their forest green, front draped, racer-back dresses, stopped mid-thigh and screamed easy access. The security detail sat in the front by the galley. That left the rest of the luxurious aircraft for Patience, the two blondes, and Peter Fagon. She would make the cocky bastard watch. There was the boy, but he was old enough for an education.
Before Patience took her seat, the satellite phone in her hand chirped. It was Virtue again. She was tempted to ignore it1 again, but she knew her pathetic, little sister would keep calling.
“What is it Virti? We’re about to take off.”
“I don’t know why you aren’t taking me,” Virtue whined. “What am I supposed to do? There are important details about the mission that I’m missing. Please let me help.”
“I’m not taking you because you are not needed.” Her voice softened, “If you really want to help, do those exercises I showed you, so you will be ready to play when I get back.” She hung up and turned off the phone. The boy, sedated and probably in shock, watched a movie on the widescreen HDTV, oblivious to the happenings around him. She didn’t care. He was nothing more than bait now. Father was right. You had to be willing to kill what you loved.
The old man had one foot in the grave. Someday soon, a wheeze and a cough, a bloody gag, and it would all be over for dear Father. The day after that blessed event, she would take care of her weakling sister.
She had so much to look forward to, but first, she had to get rid of Logan Ranes and his savant, bitch wife.
CHAPTER 49
DEFUNIAK SPRINGS, FLORIDA – THE BUNKER – 9:17 A.M. CDT
Uncle Walt and two men wearing tan Sheriff Department shirts over blue jeans retrieved the man my father referred to alternately as the ‘unfortunate asshole’ or ‘sergeant dumbshit’. I didn’t ask where they were taking him and neither did he. The unfortunate asshole seemed glad to leave.
The painted concrete walls of the bunker comforted me in ways I did not understand. As a child, I helped my father apply coat after coat of pale green paint in the silent emptiness of our subterranean vault, our hardened cocoon, our secret asylum. With nothing more than the squish and squeak of cheap paint rollers as comfort, I longed to tell him how sorry I was. He would tell me not to cry; it was not my fault. He would tell me it was nature misbehaving killed my little brother. Instead, through the years, the gulf between us filled with tears never cried and words never said.
We usually came to the bunker early on Saturday mornings after silently watching the sunrise together. Possibly that was why we never said what we wanted to say. Sleep was no refuge for minds that never stopped remembering. There was a brief and fleeting moment, just before the sun displayed its golden crown, when every dread hushed. There was no past, no future, only the moment. God, if it is not too much to ask, please let me have one more peaceful sunrise with my father before I die.
Like balls in a brass bingo cage, the events of the past two days incessantly rolled around each other in my head. I pulled them out by the handful, looking for a pattern, desperate for a winning number, but I was rewarded with annoying randomness. A disturbing hypothesis wanted to pop out of my mind, a sneering Jack-in-the-Box, but I would not let it. I refused to accept the notion that we were just numbered Ping-Pong balls in God’s intergalactic bingo parlor.
I knew, have always known, destiny wasn’t random. The destiny that stalked me would eventually force me to choose, and every choice would be the wrong one. If I had listened to my little brother and chanced running through the rain, chanced defying what mathematics told me, would it have been different? Numbers did not lie. Did they?
Rosalita was dead. Jason was dead. IRIS was in the wild. If God kept his promise, I would soon be dead. My husband, who was tragically lost but never dead, was risking his life for his son. My father, whose son I killed, was here to witness me fail to keep my own son alive. Just last week, the weather was beautiful in Southern California. The dahlias were blooming. Samuel and I were programming fractals together.
“I’ve got a fifty-kilowatt diesel generator running and a twenty-five kilowatt gasoline backup,” Lester’s jovial façade was giving way to the broken-hearted man underneath. “We’ll have plenty of power down here.”
Logan stared into the small shaving mirror from Lester’s kit and put the last butterfly bandage in place on his forehead. “Uglier by the day. Well, at least I’m still alive to get uglier.” Logan tossed the metal mirror and remaining bandages into the field kit. “Oh, and Martin took the news of Jason Glunt’s tragic end rather well. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, I suppose he did.” The more Jason’s betrayal sunk in the angrier I got. Logan was reminding me, not subtly, that Martin was the one who insisted Jason stay with me every step of the way. That didn’t make me feel better. “Are you implying that Martin Stafford is in on this, too?”
“I don’t know who is doing who. But I would hope someone as rich as Martin could get someone better than Jason.”
“Yes, that logic is sound, though not particularly helpful.” I struggled against the inner cocktail of emotions and exhaustion. “I don’t know how to feel about Jason. I never liked him. Then I kind of started liking him, just a little, when I thought he was helping. Then I find out he is helping the bad guys. Then dies, badly.” The next words came out wrong. “You have probably had to kill people you work with because they turned out to be bad. How did you reconcile that?”
“Actually, no I haven’t had the pleasure.” A small amount of blood seeped from one of the butterfly bandages. He took a slow, deliberate breath. “You shouldn’t feel bad about Jason. He deserved worse than what he got. And to be clear, if someone I worked with did what Jason did then, yes, I would kill them. That’s why I’m careful about the company I keep.”
I didn’t want to talk about Jason anymore.
The pole mounted satellite dish wasn’t damaged by the house fire, so we still had internet connection from the bunker. Lester had a portable backup if required. The two computers in the bunker were older than the ones in the house, but they were more than sufficient. Logan made Skype calls to Farki and others. We were about to have another call with Martin. Hopefully, better than the first one. While Martin seemed more annoyed than sad about Jason’s death, the tone of the call had been particularly icy between him and Logan.
“You okay?” Logan put a hand on my shoulder.
“No. Of course not.” I was not angry, but I have never understood why people ask such inane questions. I changed the subject to avoid damaging his man feelings—those hardwired instincts to protect, to shield, to pacify the neurotic woman. “Farki and your other tech boys need to isolate AEM’s computers for me. I need to access them and maybe find something useful. At a minimum I can start wreaking havoc on their systems, maybe slow them down.”
“AEM headquarters is in Mobile, Alabama. They have a data center there also. We’ll have the particulars for you within the hour. They have facilities and data centers around the world. Some we know about, and probably many we don’t. It will be like trying to put out a forest fire with a garden hose.”
I nodded. Time was not on our side.
The computer was on an eight-foot, folding table. Logan wiggled the mouse. “Time for our call.”
I took his hand in both of mine. “Martin is trying to help in his own way.”
“I know,” Logan said. “We need his help. I’m glad he’s sending his corporate jet down. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you should go stay with him in California until this is over.” Logan stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers, eyes locked with mine. “I just….” His words stopped. His eyes changed, grew colder. The veil returned.
“Go back to California. I’ll get Samuel for you. Whatever it takes, I’ll get him back.” He turned away, leaned down, and clicked a button to start the video conference.
I wondered what it would be like to give into the madness, accept my destiny. Always floating in the darkness just behind my eyes, the numbers and shapes churned and convulsed more with every passing hour. Since this began, I had felt the heaviness of them. At times, my neck felt like it would break with the weight. And God was still not on speaking terms with me.
One time, thirty years ago, He spoke to me clearly and distinctly. For those who argued that God was a woman, His silence proved them wrong. I stood behind Logan while the connections were made. Little boxes appeared on screen, then webcam images with their names underneath. I would have guessed Farki without his name on the screen. Might as well be named Dorki: yellow-lens computer glasses too wide for his narrow face, carrot-red hair gelled and tousled, scraggly growth like Spanish moss hanging from the end of his chin. In the box next to Farki was the back of a head above the name Martin Stafford. He never wasted time with the administrative preliminaries of meetings. He worked unapologetically until it was clear the meeting was underway. Time was something he refused to waste or cede to someone else’s agenda. I liked that about him. It was honest. Not nice. Honest.
“Burns will join us momentarily,” Logan spoke into the webcam attached to the top of the computer screen.
Sheldon Burns was the general manager of IronSite Security, a retired Colonel with SOCOM—Special Operations Command. We had agreed we needed as much help as we could get. Logan was the founder and majority owner of IronSite, but he preferred to let someone else be the visible leader of the company. Maybe Logan got too accustomed to living in the shadows, the light of day too harsh, the public face too painful. I understood, but it made me strangely, overwhelmingly sad for him. I knew a completely different Logan Ranes. Maybe that Logan did die. Maybe I killed him too.
Another box appeared filled by a face chiseled from raw granite. His salt and pepper flattop looked like it was trained to grow that way since birth. Sheldon Burns’ eyes were winter dawn gray, cold. He did not look happy.
“I apologize for the delay,” Burns said. “Our surveillance team was reporting in with critical information. The game has changed again, and we must react immediately.” Burns spoke in that clipped, just-the-facts tone one expected from a career military leader, a man paid to get up every morning and find a way to win, no matter the circumstances. His was a world of facts, objectives, targets, resources, and results. A type of mathematical precision I appreciated.
His next words were brutally calculated; my mind spiraled in an endless loop of division by zero. The formulas refused to compute.
CHAPTER 50
I heard Burns’ words. They were in grammatically correct English, but my brain was in overdrive. It could not process the enormity of what he said. I floated above the urgent discussion flying past me. Logan asked something filled with fear and loathing, deadly intent. Martin protested some indecipherable point. Farki quoted information that sounded like engineering specifications and miles or was it time? His face a bird of prey, Burns listened. His eyes drilled into the camera, across the ether, and through the mush in my skull.
