by Sco Thorson
The Twins Paradox
by
Sco Thorson
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© Copyright 2011 by Arch Media LLC
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The Bomb
Friday 10:47 a.m.
The bomb exploded at 10:47:21 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. It was a cold, miserable day, icy rain mixed with snow. The fireball was visible through the heavy clouds for miles around. Some thought the sun had come out.
And then the District of Columbia - what was left of it – burned in the blizzard.
He was concerned. Monitoring the news from the United States, it was clear that the Americans had no idea who had blown out the brains of their government. Any clues as to the source of the bomb where vaporized in the fireball. But their desire to take their revenge on someone, anyone, was clear even to him.
He monitored a news transmission from a helicopter flying in to what was left of the city. He found the heroism of the crew inexplicable. They would all surely die. He did not understand what could motivate a person to risk death.
“The White House should be here,” a crewman shouted above the roar, but the camera showed only blackened ground.
He watched as the copter moved on to hover over a pile of crumbed masonry, the Capitol. The first building that he recognized on the screen was the Pentagon, shrouded in smoke and flame. Then the picture circled out from the blast, showing cars flung like embers about burning buildings, charred bodies, and endless desolation. Fires raged everywhere, illuminating the occasional groups of survivors waving frantically for help.
He felt no sympathy for the survivors except to note that they would die. He was concerned about his own survival. This would not end well, even for one safely on Grand Cayman,
Perhaps the helicopter crew went because they had no choice. It was a military helicopter. They may have been forced – ordered to go. Perhaps one could risk danger when there was no other choice. He contemplated the idea, and reached a decision. Carefully he looked at all the possible outcomes, and decided on a plan. There was great risk to him, but greater risk if nothing was done. He composed a message, checked it, and sent it. 75 hours earlier, a phone chirped.
The Good Life
Three Days Earlier, Tuesday 10:58 a.m.
Dave Richards stepped from the elevator into the trading room on the third floor of his villa and flipped a switch. Immediately, the opaque window walls cleared, revealing the dazzling blue waters of the Caribbean to the west. He smiled, comparing the idyllic scene out his window with the huge photo of Union Street on the University of Minnesota campus, buried in snow, that he had hanging next to the elevator.
“This is living,” he muttered to himself.
He started a jazz play list and sat down to work, studying trading trends that had been crunched by his server farm and placing occasional small trades. The former PhD candidate wasn’t especially good at trading, but that didn’t matter. He just had to trade a little so that his money trades didn’t look unusually. Besides, he enjoyed it, the analysis, the psychology, the gambling.
After an uneventful hour, he noticed the mystery buyer was back in the US markets. Someone was betting heavily that they would fall. The trades appeared unconnected, but his software showed a clear pattern, orders hitting trading systems across the globe at different times from different trading houses, but for the same sizes, and at the same prices. Whenever prices started to adjust to this new demand, the orders just stopped. His mystery buyer had been at it for two weeks now, and no one had seemed to notice.
Still, someone knew something was going to happen. He was sure of it. The mystery trader was behaving exactly like he did when he know what was going to happen, and needed to hide just how sure he was.
He carefully checked all the trading screens. There was no news and no rumors, yet. His phone chimed.
Dave smiled, knowing the mystery was about to be solved. He pulled the phone from his pocket, unlocked the display, and read the message.
“Blonde at Next Level, red dress, balcony, Monique, great sailor. Rowdy will pick her up at 10:40 if you don’t hurry.”
He smiled, the trading mystery forgotten. Rowdy’s girls were always a treat. If he hurried, he could be there at 10:25, plenty of time to strike first.
He took the elevator to the ground floor and headed for the garage, wondering why Dave 2 had given him so little time. Perhaps this Monique was so hot that he would have no time over the next three days to send the message. He broke into a trot.
As the garage slide open, another thought struck him. All Dave 2 ever tells me to do is make money and pick up easy women. Why didn’t he ever get messages that would stop a school shooting or warn or a tsunami? It was a good question, and deserved serious consideration. He glanced at his watch, 10:10. The blonde in the red dress was waiting. He would think about saving the world after he got the babe.
Buying Sunrise
Tuesday 11:02 a.m.
“And there you are,” Max drawled, affecting a Brahmin accent. He pushed the signed contract and bank draft across the conference room table. “My due diligence team will take possession in two days, and I will transfer the remaining two hundred million when their review is complete.”
He tilted his head back ever so slightly, peering down his nose at the executive and attorneys across the table.
“I trust there will be no delays.”
The executive extended a hand and smiled. “Mr. Simon, I can assure you that this will all go off without a hitch.”
“Please see to it,” Max smiled coldly and shook his hand.
Max’s own attorneys gathered the papers as he strode from the room. Outside, Jorge opened the rear sedan door. Max slide into the seat and pulled a phone from his pocket. His call was answered on the second ring.
“It’s done. We get the keys in two days,” Max paused to listen. “There will be no issues,” he replied curtly, and rang off.
As the car pulled onto the street, he placed a call. “Accelerate the options purchase. Everything must be complete in two days.
He listened impatiently as the broker protested.
“Of course I know what I’m doing,” he snapped. “Place the orders now.”
“The airport,” he instructed the driver.
The driver half turned and asked, "what about the girl?"
Max thought for a moment.
"I think it's time to part company with the lovely Miss Lisle," he decided. “Best not have her around at this stage of the operation.”
He considered a moment further. Best not to have her around at all he decided, and made another call.
“It’s me,” he began. “I need you to remove a lady friend of mine, today.”
He paused, listening as the man made an obscene speculation.
“No, she’s still attractive and lively, but I’m afraid she is also too knowledgably about my recent affairs.”
He rolled his eyes to the ceiling as the man continued talking crudely. The worst aspect of this otherwise highly profitable business was working with the very dregs of society.
“I don’t care what you do with her first. Just make certain she is dead today.”
He listened again, impatiently as the man rambled on.
“The usual price. She’ll be sitting on the balcony of the Next Level. Red dress, Monique, Monique Lisle.”
With that, he rang off and turned to the next detail.
Saving Monique
Tuesday 11:33 a.m.
Dave spotted her immediately. Her shoulder length blonde hair was pushed back by a large pair of sunglasses. She wore a short, strapless red cocktail dress that accentuated every luscious curve. It was a little over the top, e
ven for Grand Cayman, but she looked like a woman who could fall in love with a bank balance. He hoped it would be his. All he needed now was a pickup line. Right on cue his phone chirped. He pulled it phone from his pocket.
"I've come to get you out of here. Max has sent someone to kill you," was all it said.
How do I come up with these things?
He swaggered across the balcony to her table, spun a chair around, and sat down leaning forward against the back.
"I've come to get you out of here," he deadpanned, "Max has sent someone to kill you."
To his surprise, the woman sprang her feet, cursing in French. She grabbed his hand, dragged him into the main dining room, and headed for the front door. Seeing two men in red shirts, she suddenly reversed directions, ran back across the main dining room, and pushed her way into the kitchen.
"You have a car?" She demanded.
He grinned, "Just outside."
A waiter moved to intercept them. Monique's face lit up, her face dazzling.
"My husband," she gasped, tossing a glance over her shoulder.
The waiter smiled sympathetically and stepped aside. She led Dave out a back door.
"Where's the car?" she asked, serious again.
