The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

“It’s been a while but you should recognize this voice,” said the woman.

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Li, too slow to be casual.

“I don’t have much time Ray.  You must have a place nearby, get there now and use your secured to call me back,” the voice ended.

Mr. Li, a man hard to surprise, was in shock.  His brow narrowed forcing as many wrinkles as it could.  Before he had time to think, his phone sounded off a text message.  His shock lasted less than a minute, everything quickly became routine.  He began counting variables.  He opened the text message.  It read:  *00B0700AA00Y00π000P.  Mr. Li finished erasing his whiteboard and threw his bag over his shoulder.  Using his right hand to hold his stomach, he made his way down the stairwell with a grimace on his face.  On the first floor, he turned right then rounded the stairwell and headed to the end of the row.  He passed through an open door, through a dim-lit foyer into the main office.  He stayed near the door as if he didn’t want to walk anymore.  Before the school principal had time to acknowledge him, he called her out.

“
Sister Guo, I was feeling a bit off during last lesson.  My stomach feels like it’s folded in half
,” said Mr. Li.

“
Maybe it’s something you ate
,” said Sister Guo.

“
I don’t know, I ate cafeteria food today
,” said Mr. Li.

“
Then that’s probably why
,” said Sister Guo.

“
Could you get a substitute lined up to take over for me tomorrow?  I’m not saying I won’t be here I just want someone ready in case
,” said Mr. Li.

“
Bai Heng doesn’t have a third period, so she could cover you then.  I think the rest of it can be put together if need be
,” said Sister Guo.

“
Thank you, Sister Guo.  I’ll call you tonight to let you know if I can come tomorrow
,” said Mr. Li.

“
Go home and drink a bit of hot water
,” said Sister Guo.

Mr. Li agreed with the idea, so he walked out of the office and walked outside.  He walked diagonal across the paved cement in the school yard, onto the yellow dirt.  There were a few students still around the yard making their way toward the gate and one at the bike rack.  Mr. Li walked toward the mostly empty bike rack and unchained a simple looking black-framed bike with thin tires and W-shaped handle bars. Mr. Li motioned to some of the students he recognized and waved to the elderly man in the booth.  He walked through the half-opened gate.  On the other side of the gate, he made a sharp left turn and hopped on his bike.

Mr. Li rode hard against the wind.  It was late March and the air was still dry and cool.  The sky was foggy but the fog hung high and didn’t lean much.  Mr. Li pedaled slightly faster than normal, but not faster than his
folded stomach
would allow.  He was always conscious of onlookers.  Until his phone rang, his life had bordered on non-existence for over seven years.  He lived without being alive.  He allowed himself no luxury.  He biked straight to his building after work with no deviation.  At his building, he confined himself to a strict callisthenic workout in his apartment.  He did push-ups, sit-ups, mountain-climbers and prisoner squats, but no running or jumping.  He didn’t do anything that would make noise.  In fact, the occupants of his building would not be able to identify him as a tenant if they saw him outside his apartment.  Most thought an elderly man or woman occupied his unit.  One who didn’t need a welcome mat because he never had visitors.

Mr. Li took the direct route home.  He rounded a corner with an internet bar next to a clothing shop and pedaled on to a narrow street.   He went halfway down the street and turned into a damp alley with a small kiosk guarding it.  The man in the kiosk recognized him.  Mr. Li came to the doorway of a stairwell to an old building.  From there, he hopped off his bike and lifted it until the frame rested on his right shoulder, wheels still spinning.  The building didn’t have an elevator.  If it did Mr. Li wouldn’t take it.  An elevator would give him too much exposure to someone else.  If it happened often enough, that person might try a question or a conversation.  Mr. Li didn’t do questions, he avoided them.  He had answers ready but avoided using them.  In fact, he regularly bought beer to pour out in the sink, hiding the fact that he didn’t drink.   It seemed to him that most men drank, why he didn’t would be a question.  At the base of the stairwell, was a light that was motion activated.  It took a good stomp to get the light going, but Mr. Li never stomped.  He liked to handle the stairwell in the dark and anonymously.  Even while carrying his bike, he felt the light from the first floor was enough.  Carrying the bike up six flights of stairs in the dark was part of his workout.  It made him practice his balance.  He had to stay focused.  He always had his key ready by the time he reached the sixth floor.  He set his bike down and wheeled it over to the green steel door on the right.  He could hear someone ascending the stairs on the first floor.  It didn’t matter how far up they were going.  They wouldn’t make it to the sixth floor fast enough to see him.  Once his apartment door was opened, he wheeled the bike in and shut the door—gently.  He never slammed the door, nothing to mark his entry or exit.  He had made it home unremembered, that was usually a good ending to the day. 

This day was different.  Mr. Li set his bag down and fished his cell phone out of the inside zipped pocket.  He reopened the text messages and took another look at the sequence:  *00B0700AA00Y00π000P. It was an encoded access key.  The sequence looked complicated and that was part of the game.  It was a distraction.  Only the numbers and letters mattered.  The rest were space fillers, designed to make complications.  The zeroes were modifiers for counting up or down.  The most important thing to remember was first count up.  The star sign was meaningless—a head fake.  The first two zeroes meant count up two letters from the letter B.  The sequence treated all letters and numbers as a scrolling marquis.  Counting two letters up from B meant going up to A then back around to Z.  The next zero was solitary and meant count down by one.  Counting down the number sequence was to count in the normal direction of ordinal numbers.  Next in the sequence was the number 8.  Mr. Li decoded the sequence of numbers at a subconscious pace.  He was left with six digits:  Z8YYAK. 

Mr. Li walked toward an old rusted looking steel chair, in the corner of his living room.  The chair looked old but sturdy.  He pulled out his door key and used it to tear through the stiff green cushion that padded the back of the chair.  The cushion shredded easily.  He pulled out a sleek-looking titanium casing the same length of his thumb.  He used the same key to cut through the bottom cushion of the chair, pulling out a cell phone.  It was an eight year-old model.  Mr. Li opened the titanium casing revealing a device that looked like half of a cigarette, painted black.  At one end of the cigarette, was a plug about a centimeter long with three sharp copper-coated teeth.  Mr. Li plugged the black cigarette into the right side of the cell phone.  He turned on the cell phone that showed a full charge.  It always held a full charge—a two year battery life.  In his mind, Mr. Li had remembered the cell phone as a tire that would never pop.  It would always roll.  It was a device to mitigate the failure of another; he called it his Spare Tire.  Mr. Li punched in the sequence:  Z8YYAK and pressed the call button.  The phone displayed the word ‘LINKING’ followed by one dot, two dots, three dots, then none.  The display counted to three dots four more times before displaying the words ‘LINK ACTIVE’ and a button below that said ‘CONTINUE’.  Mr. Li hit the call button.  Another display box appeared, along with the words ‘ACCESS ID’.  This step was designated to fool imposters.  If Mr. Li tried to enter an access ID on the phone’s keypad, he would be shut out and the satellite link would terminate.  This second step was plugged with voice recognition software. 

“Rainman,” he spoke slowly and clearly into the mouthpiece.  His voice was broken into a digital collection of variables called a voice print.  The voice print was squeezed into countable quantities.  When the software looked at the variables, it smiled with satisfaction. The voice print was familiar.  It had been a long time since the software had heard his voice.  His voice had changed, but the change wasn’t so broad to skew the variables and not be recognized.  The software gave a thumbs-ups.

On a computer screen in a bold-looking office in Langley, Virginia, at the George Bush Center for Intelligence, a silver-haired woman saw the words ‘Reagan Lee Identity Confirmed’.  The words were soon accompanied by a file, opened automatically by the same software accessed by Mr. Li.  The file stood at attention on the screen, in front of the silver-haired woman.  On the computer screen, where images of Chessmaster had been an hour before, was a high-definition headshot of Mr. Li.  His face was younger and more activated.  His name was listed as Reagan Lee.  His date of birth was listed as March 3, 1981.  His codename was Rainman.  The word ‘Location’ followed by ‘N/A’ was an obvious regret.  ‘N/A’ suddenly evaporated and the words ‘Handan, China, Mainland’
condensed.  The software was advanced.  Any information gathered would automatically be updated in the database.  The information could dash.  A communications satellite running the voice identification software recognized Mr. Li’s voice and routed the location of the cell phone, vibrating the voice print to a second communications satellite.  The second satellite processed the request.  The voice being a match didn’t guarantee the location of the man.  The voice could be a recording or a relay, a voice signal sent from a different location.  Such things happened all the time.  The second satellite compared the incoming information against voice data and images being collected by several hundred other satellites.  If there were any similarities or overlaps, an attempt would be made to batch them before they were sent to a CIA supercomputer.  The supercomputer would decide whether to unbatch any data.  The supercomputer processing Mr. Li’s voice print was three levels below a one-room U. S. Post Office in Custer County, Nebraska.  The supercomputer was one of five running a precious algorithm.  The algorithm could process data loads so large, it could recreate history.  The algorithm could search billions of records in seconds and match them against billions more, all while eliminating possibilities.  The algorithm used all data legal and otherwise to reference, cross-reference and re-reference.

Each supercomputer was responsible for processing data from over 100 satellites.  If no data was contradicting, it would be fed as fresh meat to the monster.  The monster was the Agency’s living database.  It was a monster, not only because of its size but because of its power.  It could do anything; no request would upset it.  Because of its ability to retell history based on voluminous record, it was called Herodotus or Hero.  The supercomputer in Custer County was Hero 4.  It processed data sent from 108 satellites covering all of Asia and the Subcontinent.  It took the voice print of Mr. Li and crossed it, through Hero’s entire database, with all other voices processed in the past 30 months.  It came up empty-handed.  Hero also matched all satellite imagery, for five years, with its last known image of Reagan Lee and came up empty-handed.  It meant that Reagan Lee had spent most of the last five years indoors and that he was now in Handan, China.

Mr. Li’s Spare Tire hesitated for two seconds.  The word ‘Verified’ flashed so quickly anyone not expecting it would have missed it.  The Spare Tire rang.  The same woman’s voice answered after one full ring.

“What took you so long?” asked the woman.

“I go everywhere by bike here,” said Mr. Li.

“You do recognize my voice, don’t you Ray?” she asked.

“I do,” said Mr. Li.

“Why was it earlier you said you didn’t know?” she asked.

“It wasn’t I don’t know who you are, I was...it was I don’t know how you found me.  How did you find me Standing?”

“I didn’t find you, an algorithm did,” said Georgia, “A supercomputer did.  It operated the most likely places and then we made inquiries.  Don’t worry, it took a while.”

“What supercomputer is this?” asked Mr. Li.

“Our new one,” said Georgia, “We can ask it to do anything for us, like you once.”

“Once,” said Mr. Li., “These days I’m not so nostalgic.”

“These days, neither am I,” said Georgia.

“Then why call?” asked Mr. Li.

“Because I was asked to,” said Georgia.

“Who asked?” said Mr. Li.

“I think you know,” said Georgia.

“Him?” asked Mr. Li.

“Who else?” said Georgia.

“Is
Caprice
still running?” asked Mr. Li.

“No,” said Georgia, “You showed us we didn’t have what we thought we had.  If
Caprice
couldn’t be beat, it would have been worth the money.  But you beat it.”

A long pause ensued between Georgia and Mr. Li.  It was the kind of pause that was long for an ongoing conversation, but not long for a chess match.
 

“How
did
you beat it Ray?” asked Georgia.

“If
Caprice
is no longer running, what difference would it make?” said Mr. Li.

“It would make a difference to an old woman,” said Georgia.

“I’m sure it would,” said Mr. Li, “There were always secrets between you and him.  I’ll let that stay between me and her.”