Elixir (4 page)

Pine lets out a sarcastic belly laugh. “We’re sitting on quite possibly the generation’s biggest threat to national security and we’re trusting the secret to a fourteen-year-old?”

“If I may,” Patrick says. “Sean signed the same agreement as the rest of us. His age makes him no more likely to leak it than anyone else. The probability of disclosure is equal with everyone at this table.”

“No Goya,” Pine says. “I’m the least likely to let it out. Because ultimately this all boils up to me. Can you wrap your head around the political nightmare that’ll happen on my watch if this was exposed? Imagine what the President would do.”

One of the other attendants, the chief of the Drug Enforcement Administration’s Intelligence Division, says to Pine, “It’s important to consider that this is not only a burden, but an opportunity. Yes, in the hands of foreign intelligence many of our systems would be vulnerable.” He raises his index finger. “However, with the algorithm on our side those fortunes flip. The math can be used to crack the codes that have been holding back our more...stubborn...DEA initiatives.” He looks at another face. “I’m sure the same is true with the CIA.”

“Of course I’m aware of the opportunity aspect,” Pine says. “I advise you all talk about ways it can be used in each of your branches. The possibilities I’m assuming are...bountiful.” He turns to the DEA representative. “Do you see it having an immediate impact anywhere?”

“Absolutely. In fact, earlier Goya and I were talking about it in the context of Operation Golden Bear down in Mexico. If the NSA could break that code we’d have enough information at the DEA to bring the mission to...completion.”

“I see,” Pine says, gathering the seven documents. He bangs the bottom of the stack on the table to square it off. “Get to it then.” He rises, marches to the exit, and leaves.

The federal employees grin, invigorated by the chance to apply the formula in the field. Sean seems bothered by this though. He thought they were just going to bury his work. Nobody ever mentioned using it.

The next day Sean swings and misses in an indoor batting cage back in Pasadena, ball thumping a chain-link fence. He bangs the head of his bat on the rubber plate, then lifts it, eyes on a pitching machine sixty feet away. The metal arm spins, scooping up one more and hurling it at him. He takes a cut, no contact, another thud behind.

His coach, a fit black guy in his late thirties, says from the other side of the fence, “All right Malone. Let Stutzel get his rips in.”

Aluminum Louisville Slugger dragging, Sean flips the gate open and exits while a husky teammate with shaved red hair enters. “What’s the matter?” the hefty kid asks in an insulting tone. “You couldn’t write a physics formula to show you where to swing?” He laughs, along with a few other players waiting their turn.

Glaring at him, Sean says, “Eat shit Stutzel.”

“Watch the mouth Malone,” the coach says. He motions to Sean with his clipboard. “Get over here.” He wanders to him. “What’s going on? You’re dropping your shoulder when you swing. I didn’t catch you do that once all last season.”

“I’m rusty I guess.”

“You look like you got something on your mind. You hardly said three words all practice.”

“I’m fine.” He’s not, still anxious about everything with the NSA. After the Defense Secretary left, the meeting ended, Sean and the professor escorted out of the building without any additional information about them using the algorithm.

“First game’s only two months away. Now’s not the time to lose sight of the fundamentals. Stand in front of a mirror tonight and do a couple dozen practice cuts.” The coach grips a pretend bat. “Check out your reflection.” He points at his own eyes with his index and middle fingers. “See if anything breaks. You’re smart enough. You should be able to fix it.” He gives the brim of the kid’s hat an encouraging slap. “All right?”

“Yeah coach.” Peeling off his batting gloves, Sean walks to his equipment bag, in a heap with a dozen or so others against the cement wall.

Kyle, another boy on the team, Sean’s best friend, smacks him on the back. “Yo,” Kyle says, shaking strands of his pin-straight black hair from his face.

“Hey.”

“Stutzel’s an asshole.”

“Whatever. What’re you doing later? Can you hang out?”

“Yeah definitely. Pizza?”

“Your mom’s not making dinner for you guys at the house?” Sean asks, surprised.

“She is. But...I’d rather get pizza.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean? It tastes good. I don’t know. We’ll go to Gino’s.”

“Gino’s is cool for a couple slices, but your mom makes a feast. And your dad’s funny.” Sean’s expression glows. “I liked that story he told about that one guy at work. The one who goes to New York a lot and forgets to reset his watch when he gets back to California and is always super early to meetings.”

“Yeah he’s pretty funny. For a dad I mean. Try living with him though. He’s a pain in the ass.”

“Come on. He’s pretty cool.”

“Do you want to go to Gino’s or not dude?”

“You sure you’re not gonna eat with all them?”

“Let’s get pizza.”

“All right man. I’ll text you after I get home and shower and stuff.”

“Solid.”

About an hour later practice is done. Sean pushes open the front door of the facility and steps into the February air. He crosses the parking lot, kneeling at a bike rack, twisting the combination on his lock. He stuffs it and his chain in his equipment bag, climbs on his ten-speed, and pedals off the property.

He cruises along a sidewalk, cracks every few feet, blades of grass protruding. The sun is setting, goose bumps running up his forearms as the night takes hold of Pasadena. He advances for a couple blocks, thinking about the NSA, wondering what it’s going to do with his algorithm.

His thoughts are interrupted when his handlebars start shaking and his front tire kicks to the side. Squeezing the brake, he skids to a stop. Spinning his head behind, he sees five spots of blood on the gray cement leading to a sparrow on its back.

He throws down the bicycle and sprints to the wounded bird, a gash on its yellow coat, wings fluttering as it hangs on for life. He yanks the zipper on his bag, grabs his mitt, and scoops the animal in it, crimson specks dotting the leather. He mounts the bike and pedals, one hand guiding the handlebars, the other supporting the glove, sparrow wobbling inside.

About twenty minutes later he rides up to the Pasadena Animal Clinic, a one-story brick building with a paw-print logo on the front. He chucks his bicycle to the asphalt and dashes toward the entrance, mitt steady in front of him. Stare on the bird, he notices its wings aren’t moving anymore. Panicking, he bolts inside and up to the counter. “I need help,” he says with urgency to everyone in the place.

A curly-haired woman wearing a white lab coat over jeans saunters to him and glances at the sparrow. She slides a rubber glove on each hand and pokes its chest, then wings, then head. “It doesn’t appear he made it. I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean? All you did was touch it. How do you know?”

“It’s pretty...apparent...you can...see yourself.” He can’t look. He sticks his hands on his hips and takes a few anxious breaths. She taps her knuckles, getting his attention. “When people lose pets we usually put them in receptacles they can bring home and bury. I can give you one free of charge.” She studies his face for a couple seconds. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“No.”

In two hours or so he’s in his backyard, a flat-tip shovel in his clutch, the sun down, air much colder than it was before. He jams the head in the ground, rips it out, dumps the dirt onto a pile, and repeats for a while. Soon a hole about three feet deep is in front of him.

His phone, on the grass by his feet, lights up and vibrates. He notices “Kyle” on the screen. Reaching down, he clicks a button on the side, ignoring his best friend’s call. He digs some more, then grabs a black container about the size of a shoebox. He places it in the ditch with care, then begins pouring dirt on top. “Sean,” Aunt Mary says from behind, confused.

“What?”

“What the heck are you doing?” Stepping to him, she spots the hole, eyes widening. “You’re ruining the lawn.”

“I’m burying something. You bury things in lawns.”

“Burying what?”

“A bird.”

“A bird?”

“Yes.”

A couple moments pass. “You don’t have a bird.”

“I ran one over coming back from practice. I killed it.”

She watches him fill the pit for about a minute, a light sweat on his forehead. “It sounds like an accident. Animals die a lot from coincidences like that. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“That’s not how things work,” he says, sure of himself. “I was there. I wasn’t paying attention. And I hit it. And I couldn’t save it. It’s my fault. So just let me bury it, okay?”

“Things aren’t so black and white,” she says in a soft voice.

“They are. It’s logic.”

She doesn’t speak for about ten seconds, then in an even softer voice says, “Maybe you’re being a little too logical right now.”

He dumps another mound of dirt inside. “No such thing.”

As she processes this all, a trace of understanding gleams on her face. Based on certain things from his past, as strange as this scene is, it makes sense to her in a way. “I’ll be inside,” she says retreating toward the house, no reply from him, noise of the shovel persisting.

A black limousine with federal-government license plates idles in front of the Pentagon the following Monday afternoon in Washington, DC. Patrick and the DEA’s Intelligence head from Sean’s meeting, both in suits and wool overcoats, approach from the curb, winter wind cutting into them. The driver, wearing dark sunglasses and an earpiece, steps out and opens the rear door, nodding as they climb inside.

Heat on high, they take their jackets off. Secretary of Defense Paul Pine, only other person inside, sits across immersed in a piece about an Iraqi election in the
Washington Post
. “I have a press conference with the Vice President in an hour,” he says, attention still on the article. “This better be as urgent as you said it was.”

The DEA representative unclips the latches on his briefcase and takes out a manila folder. Leaning forward, he hands it to Pine and says, “My team on the ground took that last night. We have reason to believe Carlos Salinas has been hiding inside.”

Setting down the newspaper, Pine opens the folder. He examines a night-vision photo, a grainy image of a white mansion with closed shutters, a man in front with an Uzi, mountains behind. “How confident are you he’s actually here?”

“With the...new mathematical tool we have at our disposal...we were able to decrypt the code he uses to communicate with his lieutenants. Nearly all the thumb-drive messages we retrieved trace Salinas to Taxco, an old mining town in central Mexico. I sent three of my best surveillance experts down there yesterday. They got a visual on one of his security men. They tracked him back to that compound.”

Pine shuts the folder and tosses it on the seat, the late-afternoon sun coming through the window glimmering on his pockmarked neck. Reaching to the mini bar, he grabs a bottle of bourbon and a glass. He unscrews the top with slow spins, pours, and sips, the limo filling with the smell of liquor. He makes eye contact with them for the first time, jumping between each. “So,” he says. “What’s the plan?”

“The Mexican Federal Police are ready to pounce on this prick,” the DEA man says. “They’ll make a move when I confirm the intel. I wanted to of course notify you first since this would be an official engagement brought on by...a certain academic paper you have a vested interest in.”

Patrick doesn’t seem comfortable. He hunches forward and says to Pine, “Though we’re confident about the intelligence, we’re not entirely sure what kind of muscle and arsenal Salinas has in the compound. I’d expect it’s not light. We need to keep in mind he’s in a residential neighborhood. We can’t make a war zone of it.”

“This drug-lord piece of shit has been making a war zone of South Texas for the last three years,” Pine says.

“I want him just as bad as you, but we should maybe consider luring him out of the area first, then apprehending him in a more stable location.”

Pine swirls the bourbon for about ten seconds. His squinty brown eyes locked on Patrick, he asks, “How many enemies did you kill when you fought in Afghanistan?”

“None sir.” He pauses. “I wasn’t in the war.”

“How many when you were in Desert Storm?”

“I wasn’t in that war either.”

“How many in any other wars?”

“I was never in a war sir.” A long pause. “As you know.”

“I killed seventeen men in Vietnam,” Pine says with pride. He turns to the DEA man. “How about you?”

“Ten.”

Pine looks back at Patrick. “Twenty-seven dead enemies of the United States between the two of us. None from you. If I have a question about a computer, I’ll ask you. If I have a question about eliminating a threat to the nation in a real, physical way, I’d prefer if you kept your mouth shut. Is that clear?”

Patrick doesn’t speak for some time. “Clear.”

“Good.” Pine shifts to the DEA man. “What’s your call?”

“He’s a sitting duck in that compound. Baiting him out is only a risk. I say we mobilize our friends south of the border tomorrow morning and put an end to Operation Golden Bear inside the house.”

“That’s what I figured you’d say.”

Early the next day machine guns ring through the misty hills of Taxco, Mexico. A black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows speeds out of the garage of the mansion in the surveillance photograph, turning onto a quiet mountain road with a screech. An unmarked white van follows, three Mexican federal officers in body armor inside, one driving, two hanging out pointing assault rifles.

The chase rumbles down to flat ground, where dozens of people are strolling among shops and restaurants. Everyone turns to the commotion. Pedestrians dive out of the way as the vehicles roar by at about eighty miles per hour.

A policeman blasts the rear right tire, hollow-point lead ripping through the rubber, sparks dancing around the hubcap. The incapacitated truck destroys five cafe tables, then slams into a brick restaurant front. Smoke rises from the wreck, no more than a few blocks from the Santa Prisca Church, an ornate cathedral towering above town. Bystanders rubberneck from the periphery.