Zimmerman's Algorithm

2.00 Fri. Mar 13

In a small windowless briefing room in the Executive Office Building, Emmit D'Arcy put down the page he was reading and looked at the other two members of President Rayburn's National Security Council. They were Lawrence Fitzsimmons, Director of the CIA, and General Adrian Harris, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and titular head of the military intelligence network.

Both men watched D'Arcy, Fitzsimmons with resignation, and Harris with an undirected anger.

"So? Are we any closer to Zimmerman?" asked Harris. Of the three men, he was the one who was most disturbed by Zimmerman's disappearance, not that he appreciated the damage she could do, but because she had disappeared on his watch.

"Yes and no," D'Arcy said.

"What do you mean?" asked Fitzsimmons.

D'Arcy took off his glasses and used them to point at the paper in front of him. "Our chief problem is that Zimmerman can compromise our entire intelligence network. Even if she isn't working for a hostile power, as long as she has access to a computer, we might as well hand her every plan we make. There's no such thing as a secure operation."

"We're that deeply compromised?" Fitzsimmons asked.

"How else was she alerted to your little sting, Larry?" D'Arcy looked back at the papers in front of him. "She's been a step ahead of you all the way."

General Harris shook his head and tossed down a folder that he'd been looking at. "Christ, I want to know how we allowed a single individual to be responsible for critical security measures in so many systems. I don't understand this math crap, but that much information in one head was a security risk from

the get-go—"

D'Arcy nodded. "That's obvious in retrospect. But given the algorithms she developed, she was the only individual qualified to develop security measures against them. Apparently the psych profiles—or the people who interpreted them—confused Zimmerman's dedication with loyalty."

Fitzsimmons shook his head. "We were probably asking for this to happen."

Harris looked across at D'Arcy. "What are we doing to find her?"

D'Arcy nodded. "Quite right, blame is counterproductive. Our concern is retrieving Zimmerman, or, failing that, preventing her knowledge from falling into enemy hands. As I've said, operations within the community are compromised."

Fitzsimmons frowned, recognizing D'Arcy's reputation. "You mean you want to contract this job out? Like Nicaragua in the eighties?"

"No." D'Arcy opened a file in front of him and passed a photograph around to the other two men. "You both should know this man."

Fitzsimmons pulled the picture over toward him. The photo was of a grave-looking blfxk man in a police uniform standing in front of an American flag. 'This is the cop who stumbled onto the Daedalus operation?"

He slid the picture to General Harris. Harris looked at the picture, "Malcolm, isn't it?"

"Detective Gideon Malcolm," D'Arcy said. "He's received several commendations from the District police department, and his work reports are uniformly excellent. He is currently on a six-month disability leave stemming from the gunshot wounds he received."

"Okay," Fitzsimmons asked, "What does he have to do with Zimmerman, other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

"Good Detective Malcolm is attempting to do our job for us." D'Arcy leaned back. "And he may have gotten just as close to Zimmerman on his own as we've managed to get."

"That's impossible," Fitzsimmons said.

General Harris looked up from the photo and said, "I understood we've contained the nature of what we've lost."

D'Arcy looked down at the pages in front of him. "Despite that, Malcolm is investigating the Evolutionary Theorems Lab."

The other two men appeared shocked at the news.

General Harris turned toward Fitzsimmons and tore into him. "You gave us all assurances that, at the very least, you contained the news of Zimmerman's defection. Now I hear a street cop is digging into her past—What the hell were you Agency boys doing?"

"Detective Malcolm was following some unanticipated leads," D'Arcy took out another picture and passed it over. This one was a black-and-white telephoto shot, showing Malcolm with a crutch and his cast, knocking on a door to a dark brownstone. The picture was tilted, showing that the photographer was working at an awkward angle. "This picture was taken in Cambridge on Monday."

"Who?" Fitzsimmons looked at the picture, as if trying to make sense of it.

"He paid a visit to Doctor Michael Nolan, Zimmerman's former partner in the Evolutionary Theorems Lab. We've had all the former lab members under surveillance—those we could find."

"Christ," General Harris said. "Can't we keep a lid on this thing?"

"There's more," D'Arcy said. "I have a report here that we intercepted a sensitive request from the Forensic department in the District. Someone was trying to run a set of two prints through the FBI computers. The prints belong to Dr. Zimmerman and a Mister Michael Gribaldi, one of the post-grads from the lab. Zimmerman's on file for her Security Clearance, Gribaldi for an arrest for marijuana possession—"

"What'd we miss?" Fitzsimmons shook his head.

"Malcolm never got those results," D'Aracy said. "But he still ended up on Dr. Nolan's doorstep asking questions—"

"We have to bring him in," General Harris said. "Debrief him, he already knows enough to damage—"

D'Arcy held up his hand and replaced his glasses. "This is an opportunity, and we should view it as such."

"What are you talking about?" Fitzsimmons asked.

"This man is exactly what we need to close in on Zimmerman. She's demonstrated her ability to stay ahead of us. She knows too much about how we operate and how to determine what we're doing." D'Arcy took back the uniformed picture of Gideon Malcolm. "This man is a wild card, an individual with his own agenda. Zimmerman is so busy watching the lumbering elephant of the intelligence community, she might miss this little mouse."

General Harris shook his head. "I can't say I like this idea. This is too sensitive a matter to leave in the

hands of a civilian."

"Exactly what are you proposing? Recruit him?"

D'Arcy shook his head. "Even if he would work with us, no. That would make him part of the intelligence community that Zimmerman's compromised. Detective Malcolm must remain a loose cannon if he's to be of any use to us."

"Even if we do that," General Harris said, "how can we hide the fact we're using him to flush her? Zimmerman has us compromised. As soon as there's any internal intel from us watching Detective Malcolm, Zimmerman's going to know we're using him."

"That, too, is simple."

"Explain it, then," Fitzsimmons said. "Adrian is right about how exposed we are. How's this going to be different from any internal operation?"

"It's this," D'Arcy said. "We have access to an unofficial means to keep track of Malcolm."

"How do we know that Malcolm is going to continue in the direction we want him to go?" Fitzsimmons asked.

"His psych profile shows a deep attachment to his brother. He followed him into law enforcement, even tried to join the FBI. He is prone to take responsibility for the incident. He has a powerful personal motive to uncover what happened with the Daedalus." D'Arcy smiled. "And the man we have to watch him can also prod him in the right direction, again outside normal channels."

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Kendal isn't in the office today. Can I take a message?"

"No," Gideon said, "I'll call back later."

He hung up the kitchen phone wondering where the hell Kendal was. His former partner had been AWOL since Gideon had come back from Cambridge. Gideon didn't want to leave town again until he touched bases with him and found out what he'd discovered about the computer thieves, the ones who were trying to sell the Daedalus to Zimmerman.

Kendal's disappearance was ominous.

Gideon made his way slowly up the stairs to his computer. It had been exactly a month since he'd been shot, and in a few days the cast on his arm would come off. He was still doing physical therapy exercises for his leg, but it seemed to resist getting better. He would never have gone downstairs if it wasn't for the fact the kitchen, and all his food, was down here.

It was a relief to take a seat in front of the computer.

He had spent the last few days in this seat, putting together what he could about Julia Zimmerman. She had done her graduate and her undergraduate work at UCLA. Her family came from Brooklyn.

It had been fairly easy to trace her, from all the academic information on the Internet. What was hard, nearly impossible, was to find her after she left MIT. After that she had vanished from the academic community, leaving no traces. There wasn't any direct way he could confirm Nolan's assertion that Zimmerman went to work for the National Security Agency. . .

That didn't stop him from looking up information on the NSA. The more he read the information the NSA made public on the web, the more likely it seemed that Zimmerman had ended up working for them.

The NSA gave out grants for mathematical research in algebra, number theory, discrete mathematics, probability, and. statistics. On their own page it said, "Because of the universal applicability of these areas to cryptology, it is not necessary for the mathematical research in these five areas to have any immediate connection to cryptology."

That made Gideon wonder what kind of application Zimmerman's work had. It also made Gideon wonder what kind of funding the Evolutionary Theorems Lab might have had.

Predictably, the NSA grant had a stinger in it. Research under the grant required disclosure to the Government before public release, and in certain cases required a review to see if the results would be classified.

Gideon checked the NSA employment recruiting pages, and saw that it seemed pretty likely that Zimmerman might find a job there. They were looking explicitly for computer scientists and mathematicians. A PhD with teaching experience could pull seventy-five grand a year according to the NSA's figures.

While he was plumbing what he could at the NSA, which wasn't much, his voice line rang. Gideon cursed and pushed the chair over to the other side of the office, where the phone was. He caught it on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Gideon?"

He recognized Kendal's voice immediately. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Never mind that. You have to meet me—"

Gideon could hear stress in Kendal's voice, "Sure, I'll come down to the office right now."

"No, meet me at the Vietnam Memorial in two hours."

"What's this about?"

"I can't go into it over the phone. Just be there." Kendal hung up, leaving Gideon with a dial tone.

What had scared Kendal?

Gideon looked up at the computer screen which still displayed "Employment Opportunities at the National Security Agency," and had some idea.

Kendal slowly set the cellular phone back in the cradle. Next to him, Christoffel—his long-time contact in the CIA—bent over and began rummaging in the built-in bar. Through the windows, Langley slid by the limousine.

"You look as if you could use something to drink," Christoffel said, pulling out a bottle of amber liquid. Kendal looked at him with distaste. "This is blackmail, you know that."

Christoffel tsked him. "You're aiding your country. The fact that you're preventing the Arabs from discovering your double-dealing—that's incidental."

Kendal looked away from the man, and out the window. He had done some legwork tracking down the history of the Daedalus thieves, and he'd ended up in the custody of the CIA. Now they were letting him

go—

If he played their game for them.

To encourage his cooperation, they threatened to leak his special relationship with Christoffel to the Saudis and the other Arabs he worked for. That would mean slightly more than a loss of business. . .

"Do you understand what you're going to tell him?" Christoffel pressed a glass into Kendal's hand. Kendal looked into his glass and nodded, feeling a vague disgust with himself for going along with them. Even if what he was supposed to tell Gideon was God's own truth—what he was supposed to leave out was just as important.

He couldn't even figure out why they were having him do this. It was as if they wanted Gideon to dig into this mess.

It was growing dark as Gideon limped up to the black wall of the Memorial. He was early, and he was one of only a few people out here this late. Soon the darkness would claim the District entirely, leaving the monuments to the homeless.

Gideon walked alongside the wall, exercising his leg. He could, with a little effort, walk without the crutch now. He walked a few dozen feet carrying the crutch before his leg ached with fatigue. It still felt as if it wasn't getting better, but it must be.

Along the bottom of the wall were collections of dying relics, candles, flowers, letters. He even passed a purple heart medal that someone had left.

It made him think of Rafe, before he'd moved on to New York, gotten married. He remembered standing next to him as they lowered Dad into the ground. Rafe had cried, silently. Gideon remembered catching sight of the reflection on his brother's cheek, and envying him the tear. Gideon hadn't been ably to cry, not then, not for months afterwards.

He realized that he had yet to visit his brother's grave.

Gideon had been standing there, looking into the dark granite for nearly fifteen minutes before the large shadow of Morris Kendal walked up next to him. By now, the only other people here were the homeless transients that seemed to multiply at night. There was one man lying on a sheet of cardboard only about twenty yards away sleeping on the grass of the Mall.

Gideon turned to face Kendal. "So what is this? Where'd you disappear to?"

Kendal looked over his shoulder, back the way he'd come. "You have no idea what you're involved in here—"

"So you've told me. What's going on?"

"There's more than the Government trying to keep a lid on what happened. Dangerous people. The truck driver, the guy who was shot up on the Metro, they were trying to cover their tracks. . ."

"Who?"

"The Doctor the bartender was talking about in The Zodiac— "

"Doctor Zimmerman."

Kendal looked surprised. "You know, then?"

"She's involved, that's all. And that was just a gut feeling until you confirmed it. You're saying she had a hand in those deaths?"

"The people who're using her do. The men in that warehouse weren't Secret Service, they were a covert military antiterrorist unit. They were there for the people Zimmerman's working for."

"Shit."

"Neither of us is safe. On one side you have the Government tied in knots because of all the classified knowledge Zimmerman is supposed to have, and on the other, you have the terrorists protecting Zimmerman."

"Who?" Gideon asked. He imagined a surreal image of the New Pythagorean Order with guns.

"I investigated the thieves, and found a connection back to the International Unification Front. Colonel Ramon's lawyer—" Kendal broke off and suddenly had an arm out, pushing Gideon back toward the granite wall of the monument.

Gideon turned when his back slammed into the wall. Past Kendal he saw the homeless man standing on top of his cardboard. The streetlights glinted off the automatic he held in his hand.

"Bastards!" Kendal bellowed. His voice was barely audible over the report as the homeless man emptied three shots from his gun.

The gunshots echoed through the Mall as the impact pushed Kendal's body into Gideon. Kendal's massive body collapsed against him.

"Set me up . . ." Kendal managed to whisper.

Gideon pushed himself sideways with his crutch and got to his feet, his wounded leg shooting pain up the side of his body. The gunman was running away, across the Mall. Gideon, spurred by adrenaline, tried to run after him, but he barely got a hundred feet before his leg gave out on the grass beneath him.

When he got up from the fall, the gunman was lost in the darkness.

It seemed to take an eternity before he got back to Kendal. His damn leg just wouldn't work right. He fell down twice, and when he reached Kendal, he collapsed against the wall and slid to his knees.

He reached out and took Kendal's hand and said, "You'll be all right. We'll get you to a doctor."

Kendal coughed and spat up some blood. "Ain't happening," he wheezed. The gunman had hit him in the gut, the chest, and near the throat. The only movement was in Kendal's face, in his eyes. He didn't even turn his head to look at him. "Funny," he whispered. "Don't feel anything."

Gideon tried to put pressure on his wounds, but it was a hopeless task to stop the bleeding. The flowers at the base of the monument were turning red.

"They killed me—" Kendall was saying.

Gideon tried to quiet him. "Save your strength." Gideon was pressing on the wound near Kendal's throat. His cast had turned almost a black shade of crimson.

"Sent me here," he wheezed. "Blackmail. Theft. Setup—" Kendal started coughing and Gideon could hear sick wet sounds in his chest.

"—Bait."

"Come on," Gideon whispered.

"Not all. . ." Kendal started wheezing, and his expression drooped as his body went into shock. There was nothing Gideon could do. In a few moments he heard sirens in the distance, but by then Kendal was already gone.