The code breaker, p.1
The Code Breaker, page 1
part #2 of New Beginnings Series
The Code Breaker
M.A. ROTHMAN
Primordial Press
Copyright © 2020 Michael A. Rothman
Cover Art by Allen Morris
Internal Art by Paul Pederson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Also By M.A. Rothman
Technothrillers: (Thrillers with science / Hard-Science Fiction)
• Primordial Threat
• Freedom’s Last Gasp
• Darwin’s Cipher
Levi Yoder Thrillers:
• Perimeter
• The Inside Man
• Never Again
Epic Fantasy / Dystopian:
• Agent of Prophecy
• Heirs of Prophecy
• Tools of Prophecy
• Lords of Prophecy
• Running From Destiny
• The Code Breaker
• Dispocalypse
Thank you to the readers, you’ve made this journey possible…
Contents
Starting a New Life
Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti
Starting Over
Three-Card Monte
The Baker’s Men
The Hacker’s Challenge
An Unexpected Visitor
Company Man
A Bizarre Encounter
Bone Scans
Nicosia
The Prisoner’s Escape
Yemen
The Bomb-Maker
Breaking the Barrier
Empty Quiver
From Strange to Bizarre
A New Team Member
She’s Not What She Seems
A Shocking Encounter
Lilith
Breaking the Code
Preparing for the End
Battle at the Portal
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Preview - Dispocalypse
Addendum
About the Author
“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
J.R.R. Tolkien
Starting a New Life
My name is Jeremiah Samuelson, and Father Carlos sent me. I repeated this in my mind over and over as if somehow I would become a total idiot at the last second and forget who I was and why I was sitting in the air-conditioned hallway.
I had two hours before Correo Industries even opened. Savoring the crisp cool air that smelled faintly of pine-scented cleaning products, I drew a shuddering breath.
I felt nervous.
More nervous than I remembered ever being, but I knew that if things worked out, I’d be able to change the direction not only of my life, but Mom’s as well.
I pulled out my trusty old notepad, the same one that I’d found under my bed years ago. It was what I always did when I felt nervous. Over the years I’d come to think of the ragged leather-bound notepad as a friend, my brown confidant who always listened to my secrets and never said a word about anything to anyone.
I scribbled a few words on its only page and watched as the blue ink faded into nothingness. I’d never understood how or why the notebook absorbed whatever was written on it, but I always felt the resulting blank page was a welcoming sight, saying, “It’s been a while, tell me your troubles.”
I began writing to my bookish partner, the only friend I trusted not to divulge my secrets. And over the years, I’ve definitely shared lots of secrets with my leather-bound friend, but there are some I haven’t shared.
It’s not because I don’t want to, it’s because I can’t. I’m an amnesiac, and I can’t remember the first thirteen years of my life. I’m twenty now, and I’ve spent the last seven years relearning so many things that other people take for granted.
I’ve had a relatively challenging life, especially dealing with the amnesia. School was particularly tough, not because I did poorly, but just imagine what’s it’s like to not remember how normal things work. Having to ask how to use a pencil sharpener, or just relearning how to deal with people again. I’ve always been pretty big for my age, so I never got bullied, but the jokes and teasing were nonstop for the first year or two. I’ve lost count how many times people joked about me having lost my mind.
It’s a weird thing to joke about, especially since it’s true; but my memory loss isn’t even the most bizarre thing about me.
I can also read minds.
You might think that mind-reading is a gift, but it’s actually disgusting. I shudder when I think about the oily sick feeling I get when I hear what’s crawling around inside some people’s heads. Almost everyone is tainted with thoughts that they keep hidden away, ashamed of who and what they are, and it’s sometimes the most angelic faces that veil the most hideous beliefs or perverted fantasies.
Even Father Carlos, whom I consider to be as close to a saintly man as I’ve ever met, struggles with things that force him to run to confession.
Hearing people’s thoughts has been my own personal hell. That’s why several years ago, I taught myself to at least muffle the minds that constantly bombard me with thoughts. That way I avoid the worst of what humanity’s turned into.
Yet here I am, I scribbled and watched the words disappear, sitting in the hallway outside Correo Industries, fully intending to use my mind-reading to help Mom and me improve our lives. The thought of purposefully using my abilities sets my stomach to gurgling, but it’s better than the alternative.
I’ve spent the last two years working crappy part-time jobs within walking distance of our apartment. Jobs with meager pay, and often I’d be paid late. I’m never going to get anywhere with jobs like these, certainly not in South Florida. But now Father Carlos has thrown me a lifeline—he’s arranged for me to get this job. It’s a way out of the projects. An opportunity for a new life.
I heard the ding of the elevator and looked up from my notepad. A hulking man stepped through the elevator doors and walked toward me. This must be the man I was supposed to meet: Mr. Cross.
I stood, stuffed my notepad in my back pocket, and tried hard not to look as disheveled as I felt. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass Father Carlos—or myself.
Mr. Cross looked at his diamond-encrusted gold watch. “Are you Father Carlos’s boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You realize it’s only seven in the morning? You didn’t need to get here until nine.”
“I understand, sir. I just didn’t want to be late.”
He frowned. “That’s admirable. You do realize that this job doesn’t pay by the hour? It’s a commission-only job. The more you sell, the more you can make.”
I nodded. “Sir, I’ve been counting on that. I hope to do as well as possible.”
He smiled as he unlocked the office door. “Ambitious—good! There are two classes of people in this world, young man. There are hard workers and there are slackers. I’m thinking you’re probably hungry enough to be a hard worker. The question remains, are you a hard worker with talent?”
When Mr. Cross labeled me as a person who was hungry enough to be a hard worker, he couldn’t possibly have understood how right he was. I was highly motivated. Mom—my only family member—was succumbing to dementia, and we were barely surviving. If I didn’t do well at this job, I wouldn’t even be able to afford another of the one-month passes for the train to get here. Come to think of it, I probably wouldn’t have labeled myself “hungry”—desperate was probably a better term.
For the next two hours I kept busy by reading through the telemarketing manuals Mr. Cross had given me. Around eight thirty, people began filing through the waiting area to begin their day. Finally, promptly at nine, Mr. Cross returned, with a dark-haired Hispanic girl at his side. She was stunningly beautiful. Smoldering dark-brown eyes, full lips, thick, shoulder-length black hair. Her makeup had been applied perfectly. I could easily imagine her face on a fashion magazine.
She didn’t look particularly happy about meeting me. In fact, she eyed me as if I were a cockroach who’d invaded her clean workplace. The expression of disdain was nothing new to me; I’d seen that look from lots of others. Most simply hid it better.
I heard her thoughts in my head. “Oh great, we’re hiring vagabonds off the street now.”
No doubt that was because of my clothes, which had come from church donations or hand-me-downs that Mrs. Rivera’s grandson had stopped wearing. I felt grateful to have them. Sure enough, as I read her thoughts, I realized that my hand-me-down clothes reminded her of her past. A past she didn’t like to think about.
Mr. Cross put his beefy hand on my shoulder. “Jeremiah Samuelson, I want you to meet Miranda Lopez. She’s going to be your mentor today. Take your cues from her, and you’ll do fine.”
“Yes, sir.” I nodded to Miranda and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Miranda’s eyes flashed with anger, and her thoughts betrayed the smile pasted on her face. She felt annoyed that she’d been given a crap assignment. My stomach tightened as I realized that she was the type to try and make me miserable. I was going to pay for “wasting” her time.
She looked up at Mr. Cross with a brilliant smile. “Should I put him on the phones right away?”
He waved dismissively as he walked toward his office. “Just give him a script and listen to see how he does. Give him some pointers and show him why you’re my best girl.”
Miranda led me into the call center—a giant room filled with the chatter of hundreds of people on the phones, all doing the same thing: selling stuff. This wasn’t the sexiest job in the world; I knew that coming in. But Father Carlos had insisted that it was a very large business with an honest, church-going owner who was enormously successful. Many church members made a decent living by working for Mr. Cross. And seeing as this job was all about connecting with a buyer—and convincing them that they needed one of the hundreds of products this company sold—I knew my mind-reading ability gave me a huge advantage. Or at least I certainly hoped that was the case.
It was when I worked at the local bodega, a small grocery in a Spanish neighborhood, that I figured out I could read someone’s thoughts over the phone. It had been a surprise, because normally I had to be close to someone to read their thoughts, and we never had a phone at home. I had no idea why it worked, since I couldn’t sense anything when watching someone on TV or a video. But nothing about mind-reading made sense; I just gradually stumbled into learning how it worked, and rolled with it. I just prayed that it worked on these phones.
Miranda pointed at an empty cubicle. “Grab a seat and put the headset on. I want to see what I’m working with.”
I took a deep breath and did as she instructed. While I adjusted my headset to fit properly, she handed me a catalog that listed products, prices, and some sample scripts for telemarketers to use.
“Study that when you get a chance. It’ll help you make sales. Just go to the section that shows the telemarketing scripts.”
I almost always kept my emotions to myself, but as I flipped through the manual, I smiled. It was the booklet I’d been studying for the last two hours in the waiting area.
Miranda’s biting thoughts intruded on my mind. “I can’t believe I’m wasting my time on this guy. He probably can’t even read the thing.”
I wondered why she felt so angry at having to train me—so I peered into her mind deliberately, searching for the answer. It was like sifting through a bowl of spaghetti, each strand having a different thought. The ones on the outside were less important. Surface thoughts. Things that anyone might be able to read on her face. It was the ones at the center, the thoughts that influenced her behavior, those were the things I wanted to find. I burrowed deeper even as I pretended to look at the booklet, and suddenly I knew.
“I know you probably aren’t being paid to train me, and I’m sorry,” I said. “I swear that with my first paycheck, I’ll pay what I can to compensate for your trouble.”
Miranda’s eyes widened. For a moment she wasn’t sure what to say. The ice princess warmed a bit, and she shook her head, giving me a wistful smile that seemed almost genuine. “There’s no need. It’s part of my job.”
“He probably won’t make anything on his first paycheck anyway. If ever.”
She tapped at the computer console on my desk, and it showed the first call. “Look here,” she said. “It’s really simple. People from all over the country are responding to flyers they’ve received. Just read through the script. If someone hangs up, mark it down as such. If there’s a sale, verify the contact and billing information.” She looked me in the eye. “You ready?”
I nodded, and she tapped the “pickup” button on the keyboard.
The screen displayed the person’s contact information, and I heard a phone ringing through my headphones. Miranda donned another pair so she could listen in.
When the call transferred to my headset, I read the script from the booklet.
“Hello, Mr. Taylor. My name is Jeremiah with Correo Industries, and I’m here to help you redeem your free night at one of our resorts.”
“Listen to me, Jerry. I don’t need you selling me any of your crap. Just tell me how I get this free night at the hotel, and maybe I’ll go ahead and use it.”
“Yes, sir. All I need to do is confirm your preferred destination and your contact information, and I’ll let you know about a few offerings that might be of interest to you.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I don’t want any of your ‘offerings.’ Just how do I get the free night at your place in Miami Beach?”
“I understand, but if you are interested in Miami, you might be interested to know that we have some amazing Miami-based offerings—”
The line went dead.
Miranda smirked. “Mark that as a hangup.”
I clicked on the “hangup” checkbox, then turned to Miranda. “How would you have handled that differently?”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, first of all, you stuck exactly to the script. I wouldn’t have done that. If it was a guy, I’d probably be a little flirtatious. Congratulate him on his upcoming vacation stay. Joke with him that I wished I could go on such a trip. If it was a girl, I’d talk about how much fun their family would have. Things like that.”
What she’d said made sense. She’d have tried to make a personal connection. But I doubted the way Miranda did her job would work for me. I needed to do things my own way.
I pressed the “pickup” key, and the information for the next call popped on screen. I began the script again.
“Hello, Mr. Williams…”
As I spoke to the caller, I was relieved that I could tap into his thoughts as if he were sitting next to me. I sensed that he wanted to go fishing, but his fiancée liked to hike. He was a sportsman, but he hated having to lug all of his gear around. My mind raced through possible things I could offer. I took a deep breath and used this information to try and make a sale.
By the time I closed the conversation with this customer, I felt a warm sense of accomplishment.
“Mr. Williams, I just wanted to confirm what I’ve got here for you: One week at our Rocky Mountain Lodge. A one-week rental of a four-wheel-drive vehicle with the collision insurance. Our all-inclusive fishing package on the Colorado River, with boat rental, fishing equipment, bait, and waders for two. And a guided tour of the backcountry, with the beginner’s rock-climbing option included. All equipment provided.
“All of the above is booked on your American Express, and I’ve given you a fifteen-percent discount on the entire package. Does that sound right, Mr. Williams?”
“Yup! I can’t wait to tell Mary. I hadn’t planned on this for our honeymoon, but it’s going to be perfect. I can’t thank you enough for the suggestions, Jeremiah.”
“Well, I’m happy to be of service, and congratulations on the wedding. You’re a lucky guy.”
When the caller hung up, I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d done it! For the first time in my life, I felt good about having listened to someone’s private thoughts. I’d actually used those thoughts to help this man get something that made him happy.
I turned to Miranda. “How’d I do?”
She stared at me with wide eyes, and her chaotic thoughts reminded me for a moment of my mother’s. “That sale’s as big as some of my best bookings. It was great that you picked up on him wanting to figure out what to do for his honeymoon. Just realize that most of your calls are going to be more like that first one. You can’t count on the kind of luck you just had.”
I allowed myself the luxury of a smile, knowing that luck had had nothing to do with it. My customer had been struggling to figure out what kind of outdoor activities he could do with his soon-to-be wife, and Correo Industries had offerings in their catalog that were a perfect match.
