by Sarah Lovett
“You think this is funny?”
“No.” Sweetheart’s gaze was direct. “I think too many people have died because of this man.”
His straight, dark brows accented piercing eyes. “I prefer hard, clean, clinical data to your moth-eaten Freudian repression. Give me an MRI, even a PET scan; give me Planck’s neuron transistors, and the latest superresolution scans of interneuronal connections, synapses, neurotransmitter concentrations—show me where these repressed emotions light up the brain, give me fingerprints on the cortex, and then maybe I’ll begin to listen to your theories.”
“That’s your bailiwick,” Sylvia said, gesturing toward humming computers and scanners.
“Agent-based data-mining is the foundation of my specific profiling analysis, yes.” Sweetheart’s eyelids creased at the outer corners. “We’ve developed MOSAIK, building on what the Feds accomplished, capable of comparing collateral data, behavioral scripts—”
“Whoa.” Sylvia held up both palms, planting her feet. “You’re losing me.”
“Simply put, MOSAIK makes it possible to sort through gigabytes without losing data through the cracks—the problem with Unabom. We’ve taken the crucial step in data-based profiling.”
Sylvia selected a strand of grapes from the table; she pulled the fruits off, one by one, adding punctuation to her words. “You can play with the FBI, CRI, Holmes, and Catchem databases until the cows come home; you can search for linking information; map, chart, and play with patterns; your analysis is based on national data sets to ensure statistical validity; you can infer, enhance, hell, you can even intuit . . . but only if the offender makes you a gift of his signature.”
“M exists, he lives, in our data—I guarantee it. We will extract him—and more important, we will link him to John Dantes.”
“Great. If you’re so perfect, why am I here?”
He eyed her quizzically for a moment; long enough to make her uncomfortable. Then he offered a half smile. “You’re my wild card, Dr. Strange.” His brows rose, lending him a rueful air. “Cognitively, you leap crevasses.” He shrugged. “Although I have great faith in MOSAIK, that’s still a very human trait.”
“It really puzzles you, doesn’t it? The idea that the human mind is capable of something the computer can’t achieve?”
“AI will catch up tomorrow—the day after tomorrow, humans will be left in the dust.” He smiled. “But for the moment, you have a knack for creative links; it was evident in your recent paper on psychopathy, child abuse, and object-relations theory. I may disagree with your means and methods—but I’m intrigued by your end results.” He moved toward the door. “Shall we?”
Following him into the inner sanctum, Sylvia felt like a child in a fun-house maze, traveling deeper, each threshold adding another layer of complexity to the issue of escape.
She found herself inside a large office crammed with books, files, and two additional computers. Sweetheart closed the door, shutting out the noise from other rooms. The lighting was dim, the space close, and the computers glowed amber like cybercoals.
“Take another look at the data we’ve extracted from M’s written communications. Gretchen’s been playing for the past twenty-four hours.” Sweetheart’s fingers skimmed over the keyboard. “Our first step is to analyze each communication, extracting salient details; second step, search for similarities, mirrors, and matches in the existing database; third step, develop our profile.” He scowled. “Something beyond the obvious—white male, loner, antisocial, paranoid ideation.”
Sylvia moved to Sweetheart’s side, noticing the rather delicate shape of his hands as she gazed down at the messages displayed, enlarged—and variously highlighted—on screen.
dear feds
babbel, babbel, babbel
no more Limbo
2nd circle soon complete
release yr prisoner DaNTes, prophet apocryphal
or hungry for next
Vvv
M—
dear john, prodigal son . . .
message received
will follow orders to the letter
on our journey to 4th circle
they shall be punishd for sins of other
sacred city seen sacifice
remember our relentless thoughts bk 9, M
The professor clicked a key and flipped screens. He said, “Sort, associations, three-level,” and a series of word associations began to race across the monitor face in endless loops like cyberized tickertape.
babbel = [error, grammatical] = ?words = gibberish = ?Dantes’ Inferno
babbel = babble = babel = Babylon = tower = tower built to heaven
Dantes = prophet apocryphal = false prophet = fallen angel = apocalypse = ancient seer
yr = ?your [repetitive error] = you are = you’re = lexicon = query
yr = you are = form of address = Dantes addressee = relationship = query
yr = ?year abbreviation = error punctuation = lexical error = data search in
yr = yur = ?Ur = city of Sumer, ancient Mesopotamia = trading city = height of
yr = Ur = city fell to Babylon = city under rule of Nebuchadnezzar = query
yr = Ur = code of Ur-Nammu, world’s oldest code of law = older than Hammura
Vvv = [numerical] = Roman = 15/5 = ?cuneiform = ?four = ?4 = [alphabetical]
prodigal = wasteful = lavish = spendthrift = prodigy = child marvel = monster
punishd = [error, grammatical] = ?punished = punitive = vengeful = revenge
Limbo = outside gates of hell = Divine Comedy = Dante, Alighieri = Inferno
sacifice = [error, grammatical] = ?sacrifice = sacred = sacrilegious
sacred city = holy city = angels = Los Angeles = scared city = cite = Ur = Babylon
seen = experienced = map = known = map = revealed = scene
M = maker = maestro = master = god = ?God = ?initial, surname = query
relentless thoughts = anger = unbearable = unmerciful = obsessive
As Sweetheart bit into an apple, the fruit’s sharp scent was released into the air. Between bites, he asked, “Care to leap?”
“My mother told me to look first,” Sylvia answered. “Babel, as in tower, as in the hubris of humankind to believe they could reach heaven. God’s punishment in the form of language reduced to babble, or gibberish, which isn’t that far removed from schizophrenic word salad.”
“Not to mention the myth of the Tower of Babel,” Sweetheart interjected.
“The skewing of language as punishment.” Sylvia was enjoying the riff. “For that matter, M definitely babbles.”
The professor examined the now exposed apple core in his palm. “Ur . . . if it is Ur . . . fallen cities.”
“Babylon—fallen civilizations. Los Angeles—fallen city.”
“I’ve given some thought to M’s Polaroid of the bomb—the timing device, the setting on the clock face,” Sweetheart said. “Eighteen minutes, thirty seconds past one.”
“There was no explosion at one eighteen.”
“I believe the numbers pertain to where, not when. One eighteen point thirty is the latitude of Los Angeles. M’s got big plans for the City of Angels.”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
Ignoring her testy reply, Sweetheart said, “The triangles embossed on the threat note . . . they’re sexagesimal symbols, the oldest example of place value numeration, predating the Sumerian-Akkadian system—”
“Sumerian as in Mesopotamia?”
“As in Babylon, the ruin, nothing but sand, rock, wind. I’ve been there.”
“So you’re saying our guy wants to facilitate the fall of New Babylon, bring it to rubble.”
“It’s a thought—which begs another question.” Sweetheart watched her closely. “Suicidal ideation?”
Sylvia frowned; her delivery was suddenly hesitant. “Dantes equals false prophet and his work equals gibberish.” She kneaded the muscles in her neck. “If God equals M, and fallen angel equals Dantes, then this story is about e
nvy and narcissistic rage.”
“Narcissistic rage?”
“As in, rip their balls off.” She shrugged. “As in projection defense.”
“Rage,” Sweetheart confirmed. “Aggression turned outward.”
“But that doesn’t eliminate the possibility of suicide-slash-homicide.” Sylvia’s mouth formed a tight line, and she picked up a pen and twiddled it between thumb and forefinger. She was silent for more than a minute. Sweetheart just waited.
Finally, she said, “I’ll give you a leap—hell, I’ll leap the Grand Canyon.”
She squeezed her eyelids shut; excitement fired her up. “The second message begins with an implication,” she said, catching her lip between her teeth. “‘Dear John, I will follow your orders to the letter.’”
She gripped the pen tightly, oblivious to the ink staining her fingers. “Or . . . ‘John will follow my orders to the letter.’” She stared up at Sweetheart. “And . . . ‘they shall be punished for sins of other.’” She dropped the pen on the table. “What if John Dantes equals M’s other?”
“Then Dantes and M are enemies,” Sweetheart said, cool and matter-of-fact.
“That’s not all they are.” Sylvia stood abruptly, scattering books and papers. “M is holding Los Angeles hostage—the city is the victim in this scenario.” She kept her eyes on the professor. “John Dantes isn’t our perpetrator, he’s M’s puppet.”
“I don’t buy it,” Sweetheart said sharply, dismissing her speculation.
Sylvia pulled back as if she’d been slapped.
8:44 A.M. Luke and Gretchen stared at a monitor while a series of maps flashed lightning-fast across its face.
Without looking up, Luke said, “I’ve been running M’s spatial pattern against the obvious base map—”
“LA,” Sylvia finished. She noticed a series of flashing neon orange dots overlaid on the screen. They looked like large grains of red pepper scattered at random: five spread out like petals, and a faint linear series.
“Right. But it’s needle-in-the haystack stuff because we’ve got no idea of scale . . . whether it predates nineteen twenty-seven’s standardization ratios or whether—”
But Sylvia was focusing on Gretchen. “You’re the linguistics tech . . . your program obviously came up with Dante Alighieri and the Inferno for the reference to Limbo. Are they mentioned in Dantes’ Inferno? As in John?”
“Give me a nanosecond.” Gretchen moved to her computer and plopped down, fingers already flying across the keyboard. “MOSAIK already devoured the entire text of Dantes’ Inferno, along with Dantes’ thesis, his student papers, the trial transcripts, the psychological files, just about everything and anything.” She held up a well-thumbed copy of John Dantes’ book as the computer purred into action, too high-tech for lights, bells, or whistles.
Sylvia took the book from Gretchen, then leaned over the other woman’s shoulder. “At the hospital, Dantes said something like Karen knows . . . ask the master.”
Gretchen frowned. “In verbal communications, it’s important to consider the influence—”
“Fallen civilizations—and lessons in literature,” Sylvia murmured, her mind booting up and zigzagging at hyper speed. Silently, she turned over phrases: ask the master . . . the one who has mastered the field . . . ask the master, ask the teacher.
Line up the elements: guilt, repression, stress, conversion . . .
Gretchen began to patter in Swedish but caught herself.
Thumbing through Dantes’ Inferno, Sylvia found herself gazing down at the dedication: “This is for my mother, Bella Dantes, who said good-bye much too soon . . . and for James Healey, Head Master, Oxford Academy . . . two who introduced me to Dante Alighieri, his Heaven and Hell, his Paradise and Purgatory.”
“Ask the master. Take a lesson in lit,” Sylvia whispered. “Master James Healey.”
9:27 A.M. As Sylvia splashed water on her face in the small copper-and-bamboo bathroom, she thought about the interaction with Sweetheart. He was rude, arrogant, aggravating. He was also very smart. She muttered to herself as she peed—muttered to herself as she dug through her briefcase. Lipstick and a comb made her feel better.
In the dining room, waiting for her host, she downed a cup of dense black coffee. By degrees, her cloudy mood was lifting. She left a message for Matt asking him to cancel his flight from New Mexico; she wanted him to stay very close to Serena until this mess was over. She was about to boot up her laptop to send e-mail and to review her notes on Dantes when Sweetheart appeared.
He signaled he was ready to move. Downing the last of the coffee, she gathered briefcase and computer, and she followed him along a corridor to a heavily secured garage. A dark green Mercedes purred in response to an electronic greeting.
As the professor revved the car’s engine—and the garage door lifted smoothly—Sylvia said, “Before we go any further, I want to clear something up. You were an asshole back there. You owe me an apology.”
“You’re right.”
“I know I’m right.” She waited.
“I apologize.”
She was silent for a moment before she nodded. “You asked for my intuition. Here goes: For all intents and purposes, Dantes is sick. He’s withdrawn himself from the game, he’s a passive participant.”
Sweetheart was listening carefully.
Sylvia continued, “Either Dantes is faking conversion disorder—and it’s part of the plan with M. Or he’s not faking, in which case M will blame us for taking Dantes out of circulation.” Sylvia pushed black sunglasses over her eyes.
“Here’s my prediction: M is going to strike closer to home now. He’ll go after one of us.”
“The sun gave me a frightful headache and I have to wear smoked glasses all the time. In other words, phooey on Cal. . . .”
Nathanael West
10:13 A.M. On the winding canyon road, M tracks the green Mercedes from a distance.
Sweetheart’s baby is a beauty—and she’s custom fit for an antiterrorist cowboy: fast, fully loaded, 350 horses; vibration sensors, ultrasensitive radio alarm and paging system, bullet-proof glass, sheet-metal chassis undercoat, locking hood, locking wheel covers, locking gas tank, exhaust barrier.
If you sneeze within thirty feet of baby, she’ll start bawling.
She needs a gentle touch.
M, a connoisseur of sophisticated technology and machinery, strokes his fingers lightly over the steering wheel of his truck.
Patience . . .
In this business, a man who wants to survive bides his time.
He also knows enough to remember those who were less than patient in the annals of explosive history . . .
1605: Guy Fawkes—arrested for hiding copious amounts of gunpowder under the House of Lords, London.
1886: Four anarchists—hanged for the deaths of seven officers in Haymarket Square.
1903: Lieutenant Joseph Petrosino, New York City, director of the first official bomb squad, which focused on fighting the Mano Nera, or Black Hand—assassinated in Italy.
1922: Bomber John Magnusson—identified and captured through handwriting analysis and comparison.
A moment of silence, please . . .
M has no intention of joining the ranks of the impetuous, the foolish, the dead.
He’s not about to mess with Sweetheart’s fully armored baby.
And he doesn’t have to.
Because the work is done—the bomb is in place, the timer is set, the clock is already ticking.
Many of the “estates” up along Outpost Drive belonged to people who conceived of themselves as homesteaders who happened to have six-figure incomes. . . .
Randall Sullivan, The Price of Experience
10:33 A.M. Just a stone’s throw from the other bastion of southern California preppy WASP elitism, Oxford Academy had hosted the sons of LA’s finest for a century.
Sweetheart guided the Mercedes off Mulholland onto Coldwater, and the shape of the landscape shifted markedly, as if
the groomed trees, the acres of manicured lawns, the gardens—exotic even by LA’s standards—belonged to another, more civilized stratum of the urban ecosystem.
When he turned again onto a long, winding drive shaded by jacaranda, gnarled olive trees, and scarlet flame trees, Sylvia gazed out the open window, absorbing a retinal montage of wild color splashed against turquoise sky.
Here, they had risen above the layer of smog blanketing the Valley and nuzzling the flanks of the Santa Monica Mountains.
Here (one could easily come to believe) life for the chosen few was elevated to an entirely new and splendid level of entitlement.
They passed under an arched gate where a life-sized stone statue seemed to note their progress with fierce disapproval.
“Plutus makes an appropriate guardian for Oxford Academy,” Sweetheart commented dryly.
“Wasn’t he the Greek god of wealth?” Sylvia asked.
“He was Demeter’s son. He was also the challenger in Dante Alighieri’s fourth circle of hell, which was reserved especially for the greedy.”
“Terrific.”
“Lambs to the slaughter?” Sweetheart finished.
The road continued for more than a mile, past an unmanned security station, past a cluster of single-story buildings, past several discreet student parking areas filled with showcase automobiles: Corvettes, Porsches, Rollses, Bentleys.
Neither Sylvia nor Sweetheart spoke as the Mercedes crept another hundred feet to come to a standstill in front of a Spanish-style administration building. Two willow trees framed the sloping red-tiled roof. A gleaming path led from the parking lot to the building. Date palms flanked the walkway. Clusters of hot orange ginger blossomed around each whitewashed tree trunk. Cruising his domain—three acres of lawn—a small man in safari gear, respiratory mask, and goggles straddled a sleek mower, leaving behind the faint scent of gasoline and a trail of perfectly cut quarter-inch blades of grass.
Sweetheart made no move.
Sylvia glanced at him sideways as she climbed out of the Mercedes. She leaned against warm steel. “You ran a profile on me?”
