Zimmerman's Algorithm

3.03 Fri. Mar. 26

L awrence Fitzsimmons was in his office early before the President's daily—and lately, embarrassing—intelligence briefing. He was drinking coffee and looking out at the sunrise, when the intercom buzzed.

"Mr. Fitzsimmons? There's a gentleman here to see you."

That in itself was odd. For an unscheduled visitor to get to his office, he would have to pass through four people after building security. Each one had to make an independent decision whether the visitor was worth the director's attention. That usually took a while, so seeing anyone before eight was a rarity.

He told them to send the man in. Obviously someone thought it was worth his while.

He turned his chair around and tried to hide his surprise as Chaviv Tischler walked into his office.

The old man leaned on his cane and smiled. "I've heard a rumor that you're retiring. If that's true, it would be a loss."

Fitzsimmons sipped his coffee and shook his head.

"You aren't here to discuss my retirement plans, are you? Or are you recruiting?"

"May I sit?"

Fitzsimmons nodded and put down his coffee.

"I'm here to discuss a current problem of yours. Or to be more precise, to enlighten you about it."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

Tischler nodded. "And I am certain you do. I know, for instance, that your sudden noises about retirement have to do with this problem. I know that there have been serious differences between parts of your intelligence community about dealing with it. I know that there is a high-ranking member of the NSA, a Colonel Mecham, under 'protective' custody."

Fitzsimmons leaned back. "Is this some bizarre fishing expedition, Tischler? You know better than to expect me to make some sort of comment about whatever theories you're spinning, much less discuss them with you."

Tischler shook his head. "Fishing? No, quite the opposite." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a jewel case with a golden CD inside it. "I'm here to cast some bread upon the waters." He placed the disk on the desk in front of Fitzsimmons.

Fitzsimmons looked at the disk. The early morning light was just beginning to leak into his office, and it caught the CD, casting rainbows across its surface. Fitzsimmons didn't believe in hunches or in premonitions, but he looked at that disk and realized that he felt extremely uneasy about it. In fact, he was afraid of it.

Fitzsimmons remained leaning back in his chair. He didn't reach for the disk. Instead he asked, "What is

it?"

"Something you should know about an organization known as the International Unification Front. I presume they have something, a number of somethings, that you are looking for."

Fitzsimmons looked at Tischler, then down on the desk. He could believe what Tischler said. The Israelis still had one of the most capable regional intelligence networks in the world. There was little question that they'd have knowledge about the IUF that the U.S. didn't. The question running through Fitzsimmons' mind was, why this? Why now?

He leaned forward, still not reaching for the disk. "If you want to share intelligence, why aren't you relying on normal channels? There are liaisons for just such things." Fitzsimmons motioned to the disk, the first time he'd acknowledged it.

Tischler shook his head. "There are reasons not to trust those channels. I suspect you know that, at least partially."

Fitzsimmons was careful to keep his expression neutral. The evil premonition wouldn't go away.

Tischler had revealed information that was damaging to the Israelis just by being here. Just allowing Fitzsimmons to suspect the depth of the intelligence the Israelis had about Zimmerman—when they shouldn't, in fact, have any—was threatening to Israel's own security. The admission that they knew anything about this, so-far domestic, "problem" was a diplomatic disaster.

Tischler knew that reports—some probably already being written by the security people who let him in— would come out of Fitzsimmons' office, detailing this meeting. The reports would go to the President, and would probably chill U.S.-Israeli relations for the rest of Rayburn's term.

Fitzsimmons looked at Tischler and asked, "Do your superiors know you're here?"

Tischler nodded. "I've been requesting authority to do this ever since this problem came to my attention. This problem of yours is a direct threat to our national security—but involving ourselves in this, any substantial commitment, would be a delicate matter."

Fitzsimmons thought to himself, Holy shit, did he actually admit to considering a covert action on U.S. soil? He looked at the CD in front of him.

Tischler followed his gaze. "I see you grasp the severity of the matter. I finally convinced my superiors that it was best that we give you what we know." He placed a hand on the case and slid it forward as he stood. "You cannot effectively deal with what is happening without this information. For reasons that will become apparent, it must be delivered directly to you. Read and digest it thoroughly before you act to disseminate this information, to anyone."

Tischler moved to go and Fitzsimmons was almost tempted to call building security to restrain him. He didn't. There was no need to provoke more of an international incident than they already had.

Instead, Fitzsimmons asked, "What's on this disk?"

Tischler turned and asked, "Why was Morris Kendal killed?"

"What?"

"Morris Kendal was assassinated because he was close to realizing what that disk contains. I think you will also find some interesting facts about the agent—Christoffel his name was, I believe—who handled him."

With that, Tischler left.

Fitzsimmons picked up the disk Tischler left him and looked at it. He knew, in his gut, that there was something very nasty here.

At exactly nine o'clock in the morning, a helicopter took off from Andrews Air Force Base. The helicopter was a military model, but it bore no service markings. It was simply painted a drab olive color. The copter was owned by the CIA, part of a large black budget that no one person had clearance to see completely itemized. The two pilots were both CIA, or at least both of them had been at one point. They were paid out of the same black account as the helicopter.

In the rear of the helicopter sat four people. One of them was Emmit D'Arcy. Another was a nervous-looking man named Howard Christoffel.

D'Arcy patted the man on the shoulder. "No need to worry, son."

Christoffel shook his head. "I'm not a field man. I belong behind a desk—"

"I know," D'Arcy said. "Your expertise was, and is, invaluable in our Mid-East operations."

"Thank you, sir." He looked out the window.

"I don't think it could have been organized without you."

Christoffel shook his head. "I'm just an analyst, sir. To be honest, when I've discovered what some of my analysis has led to— This all makes me uneasy. Kendal, especially . . ."

D'Arcy took off his glasses and nodded sagely. "I understand how that must have been difficult for you." D'Arcy squeezed his shoulder again. "But we need you here, Christoffel."

Christoffel kept watching as the helicopter pulled out over the Chesapeake and began heading toward the Atlantic. Staring into the rippling water, he said, "I can't see why."

There was a long pause before D'Arcy said, "Because I'm afraid we can't afford you anywhere else."

Christoffel turned to say something, and stared at the two men facing him and D'Arcy. One had a gun out, and the other was sliding the helicopter's door aside.

"What?" Christoffel shouted over the sudden wind that whipped through the passenger space. The two men, who had said nothing since Christoffel entered the helicopter, grabbed him and forced him to his knees in front of the open door. "D'Arcy! You can't do this!"

D'Arcy watched as the man with the gun placed it up to the back of Christoffel's head and pulled the trigger. As Christoffel fell out, into the Atlantic waters, D'Arcy took off his glasses and wiped them off.

The helicopter began to take a leisurely turn north, toward the hills of Pennsylvania.

Gideon sat on a military-issue cot and stared at the oval Victorian window, high in the wall. The sky beyond was a livid blue, marked only by an edging of frost on the glass. He had run several escape attempts through his mind, but there seemed very little chance of getting away from this desolate, snowbound place. He didn't even know where the nearest town was. Even if he got himself and Ruth away from this place, they could both easily die of exposure out there on those wooded hills.

No, he corrected himself, they would die if they escaped on foot. He was a D.C. native, unused to this much snow even when he was in perfect shape. Here, now, once he was off the roads, with his busted leg, he would be effectively immobile.

They were pretty much stuck here.

Ruth broke into his fatalistic thoughts by saying, "You know, it's not fair . . ."

Gideon shrugged. "Nothing fair about this."

"That's not it. You know me, my family—you interrogated me on the subject. But I know next to nothing about you."

"Not much to tell."

Ruth looked at him and said, "You're a liar. Come on. Are you single, married, divorced? What're your parents like? Any little Gideons running around, missing their dad right now?"

Gideon sighed. "Detective in the D.C. Police Department. Robbery, mostly car theft and such. None of the glamour people associate with Homicide, or—God help us—Vice—"

Ruth sat up on her cot and rested her head in her hands. "I know what you do. What about your life, your family?"

Gideon shook his head. He was silent a while before he spoke. "Our mother, she was a legal secretary. Died when I was ten. A bad car accident. . ."

Ruth prompted, "Drunk driver?"

"No. Forced off a highway during a high-speed police chase. Some asshole broadsided her in a stolen car, trying to evade pursuit."

"Did they get the guy?"

"The guy got himself. He jumped the median and plowed into the front of a bus. Dead on impact.

Poetic justice. If they'd prosecuted, he'd probably be out now."

"I'm sorry . . ."

Gideon leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "I just saw, later, what it must have done to my father, and Rafe. Dad was an FBI agent. Christ, I don't know if anyone could've idolized my father more than Rafe did. He wanted to be our dad—before . . ." Gideon closed his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

Gideon could picture his father's face, the broad smile, the eyes that smile never seemed to touch, that always seemed to grieve. "Dad quit the FBI. Started having twisted feelings about law enforcement. Threw Raphael out of the house when he decided to become an FBI agent."

"I'm sorry."

"I think he regretted it, but was too stubborn to back down . . ." Gideon shook his head. "Rafe idolized Dad, but I idolized Rafe. I don't think I ever forgave Dad—even if Rafe did. I tried for Quantico myself—" Gideon shook his head. "I don't know if I was trying to follow my brother's footsteps, or trying to piss off my dad. Doesn't matter though, I couldn't hack it."

"I can't believe that."

"Why? Because I'm such a wonderful cop?" Gideon closed his eyes. "I couldn't handle the pressure. Every day was a race against my dad, and against Rafe. Every test was measured against that yardstick, and more often than not I came up short. My whole time there was spent trying to prove something and failing . . ."

"I'm sorry," Ruth said.

"I quit. Had to. I suffered a breakdown. Didn't talk to anyone, Dad, Rafe—not for nearly six months.

As if I blamed them."

"I know what that's like, living in someone's shadow," Ruth said, repeating her words from the subway.

Gideon nodded. "I suppose you would—"

Gideon heard Ruth suck in a breath and he turned to look at her. He could see her eyes moisten. "I blamed her," she whispered. "I mean, she had her reasons for not talking to our folks. Dad never quite understood her, what mathematics was to her. The arguments about college—" Ruth sniffed. "Dad wanted the best for her, he just didn't know what that was. He saw an academic scholarship to an Ivy League university and that was it. They were recruiting her. I think it killed him when she decided to go to Berkeley . . ." Ruth shook her head. "That was the first time I had ever heard Julia raise her voice."

"It was bad?"

Ruth nodded. "They were doing things at Berkeley that interested her. Dad didn't understand. He just saw the name, 'Harvard.' He thought she'd be throwing her life away. There was a three-hour argument that ended with Julia slamming the door. The episode left Mom in tears. It was like none of us in that house could breathe. Waiting-for the other shoe to drop—"

"What happened?"

"The shoe never dropped. Julia never walked back through that door. Somehow, I'm still not sure how, she managed to get Berkeley to pay for a flight out to California. She left home with just the clothes on her back and a full scholarship."

"Hell of a runaway."

Ruth chuckled, but there wasn't much humor in it. "She had lined up a job on campus before the plane landed. The next I heard from her, she was in California. She was still a minor, and I think Dad was prepared to have the cops drag her back, but Mom started losing it. . ." She shook her head and put her face in her hands. "I think I can understand why she did what she did. I can even understand how Berkeley could 'overlook' her age. But I'm the one who stopped talking to her."

Gideon sat up. "I thought she cut herself off from her family."

Ruth shook her head. "Our folks, yes. But she tried to stay in contact with me—maybe because I took her dreams seriously. But what her leaving did to our parents, I couldn't forgive." She paused. "No, that's wrong. When I'm really honest with myself, what I can't forgive is the way my parents were stolen. After she left, it was as if she became an only child. I became irrelevant."

Gideon reached over and touched Ruth's shoulder. He could feel her shaking under his hand.

"I cut her off. We talked maybe a half-dozen times since she left. Never once did I call her—" Ruth leaned against him and whispered. "Could this be my fault? Would she have done this if I hadn't abandoned her? If she wasn't alone?"

"No," Gideon whispered. "It isn't your fault."

We ’re all alone.