Quantum Lens

by Douglas E. Richards

  “No. You summed it up nicely. The guy is delusional, but you can’t say he’s not brilliant. Or that he’s boring. He seems to go from one freaky pursuit to another, without rhyme or reason.”

  “Is that everything?” said Alyssa with a crooked smile. “He’s not the star of his own reality television show or anything, is he?”

  Elovic ignored her sarcasm. “There’s more that we know about him, but I’ve covered the important details.”

  “So his angle has to be hypnosis, right?” said Alyssa. “He suddenly developed a thing for it. After everything else he’s been interested in, why not? How did he find out who I am, and what I do?”

  The major shook his head. “Good question. It’s not impossible to do, but it’s very, very difficult.”

  “So he wanted access to some of the narco-hypnotics I’ve helped develop, and access to my results. But instead of kidnapping me and holding me at gunpoint, why try a . . .” she paused. She really did detest, not just the concept, but even the phase, Honey Trap. “Why try the romantic angle?”

  “You get more comprehensive, and more reliable, information with sugar than with vinegar,” he replied simply. “But while Craft has been able to accomplish things that would make a master spy envious, approaching you like this on a dating site is a stupid move. Strictly amateur hour. Anyone who knows anything at all about this game would know we’d be monitoring this approach.”

  Alyssa frowned. “You mean, other than the hopelessly naive like me?”

  Elovic clenched his teeth. “Sorry,” he said, forgetting this had been news to her, as well. “But the point still applies.”

  “Okay. So he wanted to get the most reliable information. But even if I gave him everything, told him everything, this helps him very little.”

  “We know he was researching—as ridiculous as this sounds—world domination. He must think your narco-hypnotics can help. You know, Manchurian Candidate style.”

  Alyssa frowned. “Hypnosis is the most mythologized, exaggerated, exploited, overhyped, and over conspiracy-theoried branch of science ever,” she said passionately. “Yes, my group is trying to improve it and perfect it for certain uses. But as you well know, Major, it only works on willing subjects. You still can’t make someone do something against their own self-interest. And you can’t make a person do something that he doesn’t already want to do. If a man wants to lose his fear of flying, we can now make this happen with absolute perfection. As long as he really wants this to happen. But we can’t make him kill his wife.”

  “Well, assuming he . . . you know, is against that.”

  Alyssa laughed. She didn’t think Elovic had it in him to make a joke, and a successful one at that. “You can’t even make him cluck like a chicken if he doesn’t want to. So you certainly can’t hypnotize him to become a traitor to his country. With the proper drugs and electrical brain stimulation, we can greatly enhance behaviors a subject wants to acquire. But you can’t use hypnotism to turn someone into a zombie slave, despite what the sensationalism of the Internet, movies, and conspiracists would have you believe.” She shook her head. “Craft must have had another motive.”

  “No he didn’t. He’s delusional, remember? He probably bought all of the Manchurian Candidate stuff hook, line, and sinker. We both know the science isn’t there. Yet. But Craft doesn’t know that.”

  Alyssa pursed her lips and shook her head firmly. “You didn’t just have lunch with him. He is very impressive. And from the background you’ve given me, not only is he absolutely brilliant, but he does his homework. He might be delusional, but he gets his science right.”

  Elovic shrugged. “You may be right, but I can’t think of any other explanation for his interest in the field.”

  “Me either,” said Alyssa. She took a deep breath. “So now what?”

  “We can’t be sure,” said Elovic. “But now that his Romeo approach failed,” he continued, and Alyssa couldn’t help but cringe as he said this, “he’ll likely go to plan B.”

  Alyssa looked confused. “Plan B?”

  “I think he’ll try to take you by force.”

  She barely kept her mouth from falling open. “You’ve got to be joking. After you attacked him at my house? No way.”

  Elovic shook his head. “Craft needs you. We don’t know why, but he went to heroic efforts to make the play he just made. He took a lot of chances to resurface in Bloomington, Indiana just to ask you on a date. I’ve researched his past. Here’s someone who became interested in fasting and almost killed himself, twice, trying to mimic a few crackpots. He’s as stubborn as he is delusional. And for some reason, you’re important to him. I don’t think he’ll give up. I could well be wrong, but I think we need to plan accordingly.”

  Alyssa’s stomach tightened. Would Craft really try to take her? And if so, for what purpose? The scariest thing about it was that a raving lunatic didn’t have to have a rational purpose for the things he did.

  She eyed the major anxiously. “So how do you plan to prevent this,” she asked.

  “I don’t,” said Major Greg Elovic, the hint of a sly smile coming over his face. “I plan to let him,” he finished simply.

  11

  The nice thing about being holed up for an extended period, thought Brennan Craft, was that it gave one plenty of time to plan. And to think.

  And he had done a considerable amount of both while at IU, in between plumbing the depths of the State Department’s knowledge of Al Yad, and learning more about Alyssa Aronson.

  He had been borrowing the office of a Professor Sumner Saeks for several days now while Saeks was at a chemical engineering conference, and had hijacked his desktop computer, which was now a conduit to the IU supercomputer as well as other, supposedly, well defended computers around the world.

  He had also gradually discovered the best way to live as a shadow in the belly of the beast. He had learned where to find private showers, when to take them, and had managed to maintain high standards of personal hygiene.

  He had just a few more things he wanted to accomplish before his reunion with Alyssa Aronson. But this reunion wouldn’t be far off. It couldn’t be far off.

  A message came in through his secure e-mail address. He clicked on it eagerly, and began reading:

  The great Brenan Craft. I’ll be damned! How the hell are you?

  I have to admit to being surprised and thrilled—overjoyed—to hear from you. I had heard through the grapevine that you had been killed four months ago. What a relief to learn that this report proved to be, shall we say, less than accurate.

  And not to worry, you put plenty in your comprehensive message to convince me this is really you. Not to mention that you’re the only one who could have hacked into my secure e-mail address to leave this message in the first place.

  With respect to the contents of your message, they were beyond remarkable, beyond incredible, as you well know. Earth-shattering isn’t a strong enough word. If this had come from any other man I wouldn’t buy any of it, no matter what . . . but because it’s you—what can I say? I’m prepared to be blown away.

  I cannot wait to meet up with you—as soon as you give the word. In the meanwhile, I will do exactly as you ask. If you need anything else, it goes without saying that there is nothing I won’t do for you.

  Your friend,

  Eben Martin

  Brennan Craft nodded to himself. He still wasn’t sure if he had set the correct steps in motion when he had written Eben Martin, but he had known there would be no turning back after he had hit the send button.

  But prior to this he had done his homework. He had hacked Martin’s private computer, read his e-mails, his notes, and about his activities. Just to learn what the man was like now. It had been a long time since he had communicated with Martin, and Craft wanted to get a feel for how his status of billionaire and industry titan might have changed him.

  He wondered if his decision would end up being brilliant or disastrous. Given how badly he h
ad blundered with Alyssa Aronson, he had lost a measure of confidence in himself. But only time would tell. There were just too many unknowns to even hazard a guess as to how things might turn out.

  But no matter what, he had just introduced a huge variable into his ever-evolving strategic calculations.

  12

  Alyssa Aronson couldn’t believe her ears. She glared at the Black Ops major across from her. It was Saturday, and no one had come in to disturb them. Alyssa wondered if Elovic had put out the word to the researchers that any pressing work they had could wait until Monday.

  “Did you just say you plan to let Craft abduct me?” said Alyssa. “By force? Please tell me I heard that wrong.”

  “You just told me there was no way he’d come back for you. So you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Probably not. But if you are right, I’d like to think you don’t see me as expendable.”

  “Expendable?” said Elovic in surprise. “Not at all. More like invaluable.”

  Alyssa digested this for a moment. “Regardless, are you telling me that if Craft tries to abduct me, you won’t lift a finger to stop him?”

  The major shook his head. “Of course we will. We can’t make it look too easy. After the raid at your house, he knows we’re on to him. So he’ll expect us to heighten security around you. If we made the bait look too easy, he’d suspect a trap. Having you wear a sign that says, ‘here I am, please kidnap me’ would probably tip him off.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I love the idea of being referred to as bait,” she said.

  “Look, no matter what, we’ll have a homing beacon on you. And a bug. You’ll be as safe as you can possibly be. And you think I’m wrong anyway. Maybe I am.”

  Alyssa looked at the major in disgust

  “You said yourself he’s never broken a law,” continued Elovic. “So kidnapping you would be out of character for him. And we’ve seen that he doesn’t kill, even under extreme provocation.”

  “So far. But then again, you don’t have a single clue as to what makes him tick.”

  “We’ll have two bodyguards assigned to protect you,” said Elovic. “They’ll have orders to prevent you from coming to any harm. By capturing anyone trying to do so, if possible. Or by killing them, if not.

  “I thought you wanted me abducted.”

  “I do. But again, we have to make it look good. And if they can capture Craft, which would be astonishing after the crack team I sent after him failed, this is the best outcome of all. As it is though, after the events at your house, I can’t imagine Craft will have much trouble dealing with them.”

  “Are you telling them the end game? That you want him to take me?”

  “No. Who knows, maybe they’ll succeed where we failed. That would be ideal. And we need them to go to heroic measures to save you. We can’t risk Craft seeing through a deception, so we’ll play it straight.”

  “Great. I’m sure these guys will appreciate not being told what’s up when their lives are on the line.”

  “Again, we don’t know they’ll be in any danger. And we’ll tell them everything we know about Craft’s capabilities and methods. Which isn’t much. Basically, we’ll tell them to be careful and be prepared for anything.”

  Alyssa considered. “So let’s assume Craft does come for me. And that your men can’t stop him. So then he whisks me off somewhere. What then?”

  “We’ll set you up with a homing device, implanted in your thigh just under the skin. Press on the right spot, and you can activate a distress signal through it. And you’ll have a digital recorder you can activate at any time, with a three hour capacity. Very tiny. Neither device will trouble you at all.”

  “Handiwork of other Black Ops research teams?”

  “Yes. Very reliable. So we’ll know exactly where you are. We’ll have a team poised near wherever you end up. If you’re in trouble you can signal a strike.” Elovic shook his head. “But I don’t think this will be necessary. Because I want you to be Craft’s friend. Help him. Go along with whatever he wants from you. Try to work the Honey Trap in reverse if you can.”

  “Sure, that’ll work,” said Alyssa sarcastically. “Craft knows that I’m aware of his deception on our, supposed, date. Then he abducts me. And then I try to seduce him?” She rolled her eyes. “Sure, he’ll believe that.”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Elovic. “Maybe he’ll think it’s the Helsinki Syndrome. Maybe he won’t ask too many questions. But get him in bed if you can. It’s the best way to cement trust.”

  Alyssa knew that this was true. Oxytocin was released during intimacy, even after a short hug, and it did induce trust.

  “Pretend to be falling for him,” said the major. “You can cooperate fully because he can’t get your narco-hypnotic agents anyway. Even if he could, unless he knows your neuronal stimulation protocols, this won’t help him. So tell him what he wants to know. Be honest. He’s smart enough to see through bullshit.”

  Alyssa Aronson remained silent.

  “Learn what you can, and we’ll be waiting in the wings. We haven’t been able to capture and interrogate him. But for whatever reason, he tried to play you romantically. And he failed. Now it’s your turn.”

  “I’ll fail as well,” said Alyssa evenly.

  “I’m not so sure. I told you that the two of you share eerily similar interests. And there is one other thing. If you examine his past girlfriends since he left the priesthood, which I have, you’ll see that you’re exactly his type. You combine the physical features and personality type he most seemed to seek out in other women.”

  Alyssa chewed on her lower lip as she pondered what he was asking. “And what if I refuse to prostitute myself?” she said finally. “Assuming, of course, that he does capture me.”

  “Obviously, there is no way we can control this. If your conscience won’t allow it, so be it. Ideally, you can win his trust without sleeping with him.”

  “And if I refuse to be the bait?”

  Elovic sighed. “You can’t refuse,” he said. “You are what you are. A wounded zebra can refuse to be a lion’s prey all it wants, but that won’t stop the lion. I didn’t make you vital to Brennan Craft. He came to that conclusion on his own. And, as I’ve said, I’m going to honestly try to protect you. But if I fail, as I expect, I’m making your life easier. I’m not asking you to hold out. I’m asking you to tell him whatever he wants to know. To gain his trust. So you can find out what we want to know. About him, and about his friend the Muslim god.”

  Alyssa rolled her eyes as Elovic’s description of Al Yad brought home the absurdity of her entire situation. How did a nice Jewish girl like her get into a mess like this? There was a great joke in there somewhere.

  A Jewish girl, an ex-priest, and a Muslim god go into a bar . . . .

  Her state of amusement lasted for a few seconds longer, but then quickly dissipated as she considered the job ahead.

  She was still furious that she had been conned so completely. The fact that Craft had toyed with her emotions, made her fall for him, made her hopeful, and was just manipulating and using her, made her want to spit blood. Could she really put this out of her mind and pretend to fall in love with him? Sleep with him?

  What the hell did he want from her? And who the hell was he to put her through all of this? Screw him, she thought bitterly, and became even more bitter as she realized that this sentiment could end up being more literal than figurative.

  13

  Lieutenant Stan Wacksman stood near the entrance to the Starbucks and marveled at the steady flow of customers that ensured the roiling line, as far as he could tell, was inexhaustible. The stream of bodies parading by represented the most eclectic group of humans he had ever seen in one place. Men and women in professional business attire, most of them yakking into their phones, stood next to joggers and bicyclists in shorts and tight lycra pants. The young and the elderly stood side by side. The clean cut and the tattoo-covered. Bubbly cheerleader personal
ities and Goth types alike. Multiple ethnicities. All stood together in harmony. Waiting to give their orders to the blur of green-aproned employees swarming behind the counter.

  What a business, thought Wacksman enviously. So that was the secret. Serve something that was relentlessly addictive, and yet legal and socially acceptable, and shatter all class, social, geographical, and political boundaries.

  Make coffee, not war, he thought, as a smile spread across his rugged face.

  The sea of green employees behind the long counter worked with an efficiency that a military drill instructor would envy, and names were called out every few seconds to the gathering of lost souls who had already ordered and were milling about on the other side of the cash registers, awaiting their fixes.

  Wacksman’s eyes shifted from individuals in the crowd to Alyssa Aronson, and then to the outside of the store, every minute or so. His partner, Lieutenant John Gorgas, was doing the same from the other end of the store.

  This was their third day on protective duty, and so far it had been uneventful. But that was the nature of protection. Days of routine and even boredom, punctuated by seconds of intense life-and-death action.

  Well . . . sometimes.

  The truth was that just because someone was important enough, or at-risk enough, to need bodyguards, didn’t mean that an attack was inevitable. Actually, hostiles rarely made a play for those being protected.

  He and Gorgas were more like . . . car seat-belts. The vast majority of the time they served no real purpose. Even bad drivers could go years between accidents. But when an accident finally did occur—in that precise instant—a seat-belt became the only thing standing between a chance for life and a grisly death.