Protocol 7 (5 page)

Hayden arched an eyebrow. “What the hell are you talking about? Through this? The diary?” He leafed through the pages, frowning at what he saw. “You know how absurd this all sounds?”

“Yes.” He felt an unexpected flush of heat to his cheeks, like he was blushing in front of a demanding teacher.

“When was Oliver supposed to have written all this?” Hayden asked, his voice dripping with skepticism. “He was on a demanding—no, a grueling—expedition with UNED. Do you really think he had the time to sit down and create a diary of chess games just to secretly communicate with you?”

“I don’t know, Hayden. That’s the point. I just cannot shake the feeling that Dad is trying to tell me something that he couldn’t come right out and say. That’s why the silly, contrived video. And the chess diary.”

Hayden leaned back in his chair and looked up at an empty spot far beyond the ceiling. He was very thin; Simon could see the muscles of his arms, like twisted ropes, as he stretched and put his hands behind his head, remembering. “There was a lot that Oliver never shared with anyone, Simon. I don’t suppose he ever told you about those mysterious visits to the Middle East, back when you were a little boy? Or that month-long disappearance into the Canadian wilderness when you were off at boarding school?”

“Wait a moment,” Andrew said. “Are we still talking about Professor Fitzpatrick? The old Professor Fitzpatrick?” He blinked at the thought of his cozy little college teacher going off on an international mission of mystery. “That’s mental.”

A cold current ran through Simon. He had never heard a word about either one. “No,” he said. “He didn’t tell me about them.”

Hayden huffed. “I didn’t think so.”

“But this is different, Hayden. Clearly, he went to a lot of trouble to record this video and get it to me. And if he didn’t keep a chess diary before, then he went to even more trouble now, creating one from scratch…and why? To keep a secret.” He shook his head, feeling a rock-hard, immutable stubbornness rising up inside him. “No. I’m sure, that if there is a code, I’m certain that once it’s cracked, it could lead us right to him. I know he is alive, Hayden, and my gut tells me he may be in danger.”

Hayden didn’t respond. He just leaned forward, handed the diary back to Simon, and stared at the game in front of him, frowning deeply, eyes narrowed.

Simon waited a long moment, hoping for something—anything—from his father’s old friend. Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Hayden…?”

Hayden just kept staring blindly at the game. “That sneaky little bitch,” he said.

Simon blinked. “What?”

“She beat me. The little tart beat me.” He took a scrap of paper from a nearby stack and jotted down a note, shaking his head in disgust.

“And not for the first time, sir, if I may say so,” the robot said as it trundled back into the room, pushing a cart with a full tea service.

“Hayden. Please. This is my father—”

The old man stood up suddenly, almost upsetting the game. “It’s a lie,” he said.

Simon gaped at him. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What?”

Andrew stood as well, looking alarmed. “Hayden. Wait a tick, it’s—”

“A fraud. A clever forgery of that thing, and a lot of not-so-clever CGI.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look at him, Simon! Skin tone, eye contact—and that laugh! That’s not Oliver! It couldn’t be!”

“But—”

“No! I won’t hear it!”

He snatched the black memory card from the chessboard, almost upsetting the pieces. He all but threw it back to Simon. “Take it! I don’t want it here.”

Simon hesitated, shocked at the man’s behavior. Then he stood up and glared over at Hayden, completely confused. He’d never seen Hayden like this. He truly didn’t know how to react.

“I said take it,” Hayden said, and shoved the card toward him. Simon accepted it, his fingers almost numb from shock.

Hayden turned away. He walked past the robot he loved so much and kicked the stool away from the staircase. The path was clear.

“Get out,” he said.

“Hayden. I—”

“Get out. I don’t want to see you again, Simon. Not until you can put this behind you and move on. You understand me? Get going.”

Simon stared at him for a long moment, the memory card still clutched in his hand. The fury on the older man’s face, his belligerent stance, his trembling hand as he gestured toward the staircase that led up and out—it all conveyed a single, tragic message.

Simon gave up. “All right,” he said. He shot a glance at the younger student and wondered for an instant what he must be thinking.

Andrew looked both shame-faced and confused. “Sorry,” he said softly, then looked away.

Never mind, Simon told himself. He turned and walked out of the lab, up the stairs and through the disheveled house without breaking stride. His years of martial arts training had given him superb discipline, and he needed every ounce of it that moment. What he really wanted to do was tear the lab to pieces.

He didn’t. Instead, he didn’t stop moving at all, until he was free of the cottage and halfway across the courtyard.

He couldn’t recall being so bitterly disappointed in years.

The cold wind tugged at his jacket as he stood on the green, head down, shoulders hunched. Simon had no idea what to do next—who to turn to, what to say. He stared blindly at the black memory card still gripped in his fist—his only connection with his lost father—and for the first time he saw the scrap of paper that Hayden had passed to him along with the card.

He stared at it for a moment, his mind whirling. He remembered the scientist had jotted something down right after he’d seen Oliver’s message; Simon had assumed it was something about the chess game—Hayden made it seem as if it was—but then he had passed it to him as if he was passing a secret note, trying to avoid detection. But detection from whom? What? Hidden cameras? Security?

Teah?

She had re-entered the room just moments before Hayden had blown up. She hadn’t seen the message or the book, but Simon had been about to talk about them both when she’d arrived with the tea.

Why had Hayden stopped him? Why the scene?

He opened his fingers and plucked out the crumpled note. He smoothed it out and saw there was, indeed, writing on it—a single word, big and bold, scrawled in Hayden Bartholomew’s inimitable hand:

YES.

Simon sat in his favorite wingback chair in front of a fragrant and crackling fire and stared at the note Hayden had slipped him. He had been staring at it for half an hour.

YES.

His father’s friend had believed him after all. Something was wrong. And whatever it was, Hayden didn’t dare speak about it—not in that room, not in front of that AI…maybe not at all.

During his time in that chair, looking into that fire, he had thought of many things—many reactions, many explanations, many things to do next. But he kept coming back to one thought—one ridiculous, extraordinary, insane idea that called to him like the relentless, seductive song of a siren.

One idea.

Go get him.

“Simon,” Fae said gently, right at his ear as always. “You need to have something to eat.”

“Not quite yet, Fae,” he said. “Soon, I promise.”

He put the note aside and picked up a pad of paper, smiling briefly at the recent memory of how hard it had been to find such simple tools: a pad, a pencil, a gum eraser. People didn’t need such things anymore. They had virtual keyboards, holograms, airborne AIs and many other gadgets.

No, Simon decided in that moment. Rule number one for this project: nothing on the net, nothing on a hard drive, nothing recorded. Everything face to face, pen to paper, nothing more.

He still didn’t dare to write down his insane idea. It was too big, too fragile. He was afraid if he saw it, the mere words would make him turn away, change his mind, throw the pad in the fire and move on.

But he couldn’t forget the last words that Hayden had spoken to him.

Get going, he had said.

Get going.

Very slowly, thinking with every stroke, Simon wrote down five names on a single sheet of notebook paper:

Max

Jonathan

Hayden

Ryan (?)

Samantha (?)

Simon thought of the hundreds of people he had met in his personal and professional life. There was only one, one he trusted above all others:

Max.

Maximilian was Simon’s oldest friend, but he was much more than that. He had been a highly trained and decorated member of the British Special Forces for most of his twenties; today he was an explorer and adventurer. Simon had no idea where he was at the moment; he could be climbing a mountain in Africa or heli-skiing in the Colorado Rockies. But he had to talk to him next. Now.

“Fae,” he said. “When was the last time I talked to Max?”

“Just about a month ago, Simon.”

“Where was he at the time?”

“He didn’t specify, but the call came from Argentina near the Falkland Islands.”

Simon nodded at the fire. “That’s right. The Falklands. Why don’t you try connecting and see if you get a visual?”

There was a miniscule pause, a bare two seconds, and Fae said, “No visual available, Simon, but I may have an open line to him.”

He nodded again. “Okay. Try connecting.” A moment later the room was filled with the strong, resonant and very controlled voice of his oldest friend.

“Don’t tell me! An urgent call from my friend in the gloomiest college town on earth!”

Simon grinned. “The very same.”

The mere sound of Max’s voice brought back a flood of memories: years in boarding schools together, getting into all sorts of trouble. Summers spent with Max’s family in the highlands, spring vacations in Oxford with Oliver, and long, leisurely trips to the Fitzpatrick vacation house in Corsica. He remembered them all and loved every recollection.

“You know, you always seem to catch me at the very best times, old man. If I’m not in the restroom, I’m sliding down a mountain or diving off a helicopter.”

Simon laughed out loud. “It’s your own freaking fault, man! If you’d settle down and have a normal life, I’d know when it was safe to call.”

“‘Safe?’” Max echoed as if he’d never spoken the word aloud before. “Sorry. Don’t know the meaning of the word.”

He shook his head. “So what the hell are you up to now?”

“You’d never believe it, I got my hands on an old American SUV—I can’t believe engines used to work like this! And I’ve been messing about with it for a while now. I don’t have any idea how I’m going to pay for the fuel; I could run it more cheaply on Dom Pérignon. But I thought it would be fun to play with…and lord, is it! Hang on a bit, let me pull myself out from under this thing…”

Simon ran a hand over his short auburn hair, imagining his lithe, athletic friend sliding out from under the chassis, rising easily to his feet and wiping his hands on the nearest bit of cloth. “So where are you now?” he asked. “You know how Fae enjoys tracking you down.”

“Oh yes,” Fae said. “Anything for Max.”

Max laughed easily. “Still in the Falklands. I was sent here on a special project; now I’ve been stuck on this damn rock for almost four weeks. So how the hell is life in the Big Smoke, anyway?” It was one of his many less-than-affectionate terms for London.

“Well, it’s definitely not getting any younger or cleaner,” Simon told him. “In fact, I’m willing to bet the weather is much nicer wherever you are.”

“Undoubtedly.” There was a short pause and Simon closed his eyes. The time for small talk was over, and Max knew it, too.

“All right, then,” his old friend said. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Truth to tell, Maxamillian…I don’t know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning. That seems to be where we are.”

Simon found himself groping for words. Suddenly the entire affair sounded completely bizarre to him—absolutely mad.

“Look, Simon,” Max said, not unkindly. “If this is about Dad…you already know my answer. It’s time to let it go. I miss him, too, but it’s not—”

“No, it’s not that. Not exactly.” It didn’t bother him at all that Max referred to Oliver as “Dad.” Max’s own father had died when he was four, and Oliver had exerted a very strong influence over him for years. Just weeks ago, he had mourned Oliver’s “death” almost as much as Simon himself, though he was never one to express it openly. He was a soldier, and a good one. From what Simon had learned, he was, in fact, one of the most dangerous men on earth when it came to hand-to-hand combat or weapons of almost any kind, and the display of emotion was not easy for him—Simon knew that. Still, he knew from personal experience—almost thirty years of it—what a good man Max really was.

“I just received some…personal effects.”

“Good, I…guess. Are you sure they’re actually his?”

Always the skeptic, Simon thought, smiling. “Positive,” he said.

“How did you get them?”

He was hesitant to say it, but caution gave way to eagerness. “Jonathan Weiss,” he said.

Max made a disgusted sound. “Ach. I never trusted that guy.”

“I know. But…Max, it’s a diary.”

“You know as well as I do, Simon. Diaries can be manipulated. It’s not like the old days.”

“It’s not a digital diary. It’s analog—hand-written, hand-bound. And I know his handwriting.” Simon stood up and took a deep breath. He knew how much he was asking. “Look, I need you to fly out. I’ll discuss it when you get home.”

There was a pause—a very long pause. He could almost hear his best friend’s mental wheels turning in his head. Finally he spoke.

“Simon,” he said. “I can’t do this.”

“Max, please. I need you more than ever. This is Dad we’re talking about. We need to discuss it.”

“Are you serious?” he said, sounding harsher with every exchange. “Are you actually suggesting I drop everything I’m doing and fly halfway around the world because you want to have a chat?”

“Yeah, Max,” he replied, dripping sarcasm. “That’s exactly what I want you to do: come skipping on home for a fucking chat.”

Max didn’t answer. The moment of silence stretched and stretched, until Simon couldn’t stand it anymore.