by Jack Gardner
“This is Sammy, from operations,” said Kirsch with his rich bass voice.
I shook Sammy’s outstretched hand. He had a good grip, the kind that leaves a memory of insistence with you. He smiled a calm, friendly smile. My senses were heightened.
“What’s up with you?” asked Kirsch.
“At the moment, I’m appended to the office,” I replied, “you know how it is.”
“Yes.” He knew.
It wasn’t customary to discuss work in the dining hall and he quickly changed the subject.
“Sammy,” he talked to the guy next to him, “what you don’t know about Ram is that he is our in-house expert on the lottery.”
“Not anymore,” I said.
“What do you mean?” his face showed traces of real surprise.
“I was disillusioned. Or to be more exact, was forced to be disillusioned.”
“You better explain…it’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?”
“Well, I’ll give you the short version, the bottom line. My model completely collapsed in the millennium lottery, missing so completely that I realized I was living in an illusion all these years. On the other hand, good thing I realized it now rather than living in a fantasy forever.”
“What do you mean, ‘collapsed’? It was a proven statistical model with a history of success!” Kirsch seemed unable to accept things as they were. He was a mathematician, a computer man, he believed in proven statistical models.
“I see you won’t let go,” I said. “Well, I’ll tell you. I already said it was last week, the millennium lottery. My model utterly failed.”
Sammy, the guy from operations leaned forward, curious. “Would you guys mind letting me in on the conversation?” He asked in a soft and friendly voice, which, for some reason, did not help my uneasiness.
“I have no problem with it,” I said, unconvinced.
Kirsch volunteered to explain. “For years, Ram has been following the Millionaires’ lotteries. He developed a unique and high quality statistical model, which proved that he can predict at least 50 per cent of the numbers that would come up in a random Millionaires lottery. You’ve been working on this for over five years, if I’m correct?” he looked at me for approval.
“Closer to eight,” I said.
The man known as Sammy stroked his chin, and his eyes narrowed a little as he approached me and asked: “So what do you mean by ‘the model collapsed’?”
“As I said, the model determined the number of forms that assured, according to my analysis, numerous series of right guesses of at least three numbers, as well as four. This time it missed throughout the forms, insomuch that it only generated one series of three numbers. Moreover, it even generated only few columns with one or two right numbers…something like five right guesses of one number…” I didn’t finish the sentence and picked up my spoon, but Kirsch was not going to let go.
“Let’s talk about the guess of one single number,” he said, “in the number of series you sent, how many right guesses did you expect?” I dipped my spoon in the thick lentil soup. “According to the model, for a guess of one number out of six, there should have been over one hundred forms.” That was the end of my sad speech.
“And out of a hundred only five were right? Is that what you are saying?” he seemed unconvinced.
“Sadly, that is what I’m saying.”
“Well, I guess that’s what the lottery is like,” Sammy tried to end the conversation, “I personally know nothing about statistics, but it isn’t an exact science now, is it?”
“If you mean that statistics is no more than another kind of lie, I guess you are right,” I said glumly.
Kirsch did not agree. “When we discuss probability with such high numbers, it is quite close to an exact science.”
He took a paper napkin and thoroughly cleaned the lenses of his glasses while quietly thinking. I knew that motion and could guess what was coming. He looked at the clean lenses, placed the glasses back on his nose, looked straight at me, and slowly said: “I’d even say—had I not known that it was impossible—that I do not believe the lottery’s results were random.”
“You mean someone set it up?” Sammy wondered.
“Yes, but as far as I know it’s impossible. On the other hand, I cannot believe the model failed that way.” he turned to me, “Were the results even within the margin of error?”
“Not even close,” I confirmed, “but there can always be a one in a million chance that…”
“I think you’re talking about one in a billion, not to say ten billion,” said Kirsch. “And we’re not talking about a single column. After all, you sent a few hundred columns.”
“A few thousand…”
“And still, these models—as sophisticated as they may be—are never 100 per cent accurate,” Sammy summed up his opinion of statistics in general and predictive inference more specifically.
“It seems that you are right, or that my theory had a fault in it all along,” I contributed my part to ending the conversation. My soup was getting cold. It seemed that we had exhausted the subject. In the following minutes, each one of us focused on the food in his plate. Then we parted ways.
As I was walking back to the office I suddenly had the strange feeling that that wasn’t the end of it all.
9
“What’s so urgent?” L, the Head of Operations, sounded quite irritated while speaking on his private phone line. “Why can’t it wait for the weekly meeting?”
“It just can’t wait.”
“Can you at least tell me what it’s all about?”
“Only when we meet.”
“One minute.” The Head of Operations looked at his schedule. “Okay, be here at eight o’clock sharp.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there.”
***
“I’m listening,” said the Head of Operations, holding his pipe in one hand, blue smoke lazily rising to the ceiling. Sammy, who chose to sit in the middle seat, let his elbows lean on the black leather table and looked directly into the Head’s eyes.
“I apologize for the urgency,” he said, “but when you hear what I have to say you’ll agree that I was right in asking to meet you in such a short notice.” He paused for a minute, allowing his words to make an impact. The Head of Operations looked at him silently.
“Incidentally, I discovered that one of our men has an interesting hobby, that, according to what people say, may no longer be a hobby but somewhat of a profession. I’m talking about the development of statistical models meant to beat the lottery system. To be more specific—the man is an expert in the Millionaires’ lotteries.”
The Head leaned forward and took the pipe out of his mouth. Now he was really listening. “Go on,” he quietly said.
“Apparently he spent a long time preparing for the millennium lottery. Built and verified his model for years and received good results. Even more so—excellent results.”
“What do you mean by ‘excellent results’?”
“According to what I gathered, his model was successful in continuously predicting, for the past year and a half, between 40 and 50 percent of the winning numbers. In absolute terms, there was no case where he did not have at least three right guesses out of six numbers.”
“Obviously though, the question is of the number of forms one sends. It is a question of investment!” declared the Head.
“This is true, and this is the beauty of it. Apparently his model calculated and reached these results for a moderate investment. I made some calls, and apparently there is a term called ‘economic value added,’ where the net gain has to be positive in comparison with the sum invested. The profits are the sum gained times the probability of gaining it.”
The Head put the pipe back in his mouth, and thought for a long moment. “Let’s assume a random gambler, one who does not use the model, sent the same number of forms, how many right guesses would he have?”
“As I understand it, had he sent the same number of forms ea
ch time, for a year and a half, he would not have reached even 15 percent of what the model guessed.”
“I see…go on.”
“Well, as I said, he was preparing for the millennium lottery, and considering the prize he increased his investment. So in fact he decreased his risk by sending a much larger number of forms. He had total confidence in the model and hoped to return his investment, along with a nice profit. This, of course, did not happen.”
The Head leaned back, first signs of suspense showing on his face, “And he does not accept the fact that his model failed?”
“For the moment, he does. The problem is that others, who understand statistics, do not accept it. I believe that he might suspect that something is out of the ordinary. And you can never know what course these kind of things will take.”
The Head was deep in thought, his eyes accompanying the blue smoke emanating from the pipe. When he finally spoke, his voice was decisive. “The risk is too large. If he started snooping he might risk everything. This is intolerable. We cannot take this risk.”
Sammy nodded in agreement, “Exactly what I was thinking.”
“I am sorry to say that there is only one way,” the Head looked at his vice, “the end is too important and it justifies the means. All means,” he emphasized.
Something was missing and Sammy looked directly at his boss. The Head seemed to have read his mind and looked up at the ceiling. When he spoke, his voice was entirely neutral: “No. I don’t want to know his name. Do what you have to do.”
“Of course,” said Sammy. “It will be taken care of.”
He rose and walked to the door, tense, waiting to hear if the verdict would change. There was no sound behind him. As he turned to close the door, he noticed that the Head was already busy reading some brief.
‘The show must go on,’ he thought.
10
It started with the surveillance. Even someone as experienced as I am has a hard time seeing that he is being followed. They kept their distance and used a team that was not local, as none of the team members were familiar to me. The vehicles too—two cars and a motorcycle—were unfamiliar to me. Not only the registration plates, even the models. Someone was very thorough in orchestrating this, someone was not trying to save money in this attempt to keep me under surveillance.
The first sign was on Friday, when I was finishing my workout at the unit’s gym. I was putting my clothes on after a soothing shower, and as I put on my shoes I felt a slight itch in my right foot. I felt my shoe with my finger and discovered a little paper ball glued into the inside the sole with masking tape.
I was all alone in the locker room, concealed between two lockers. I pulled out the little paper ball and straightened it, while keeping it hidden in my hand all the time. It was three printed words: “You’re not alone.” No signature, no sign who sent it. I crushed the piece of paper between my fingers and went on with my daily life. Someone was trying to tell me that I was under surveillance. “You’re not alone” was an inside joke in the handbook of surveillance. Whoever bothered to write that note and hide it in my shoe also knew that this surveillance team was incredibly professional.
Training sessions in surveillance were held at times by our agents in order to coach new trainees. But this was no exercise. I was the object of whatever this was, and I had no idea why.
In the next few days, I did not change my routine whatsoever. I did not try to see who was following me, and indeed, I could not see them. There was always the possibility that whoever sent me that clue was under surveillance as well. I did not know who it was, but I did not want to put my only comrade, whoever it was, at risk.
In those days I was wrecking my brain trying to understand how I became a target. I thought about everything from every possible angle. My last operation was over a few months ago, and at the time was considered a success. I examined it from every angle and saw no reason for anyone to think that someone should keep an eye on me. And since that operation I was busy with regular office work and training to keep in shape.
I was supposed to leave on a mission in about four months, all according to regular procedures. If I was exposed to anything harmful, I was unaware of it.
So passed two days of a headache with no actual results. I had to verify if the information I received was correct. I planned a move to uncover the surveillance.
I prepared three routes for myself, in three different areas. I planned in which places I will try to see who is following me. I chose a photography lab, a pharmacy, a small dance school, a store that sold fishing equipment, a coat seller, and a small publishing house. I created an alibi for myself for each one of these places—which took me two extra days of work: I took a routine test at my doctor’s and had a prescription to care for my blood pressure, at the coat seller I was planning to buy a new winter coat, I burned a CD of digital photographs, a number of harmless landscape photographs, that I was going to have printed at the photo lab, and so forth.
As odd as it may sound, it is easier to recognize stalkers at nighttime than during the day. That is assuming that you know they’re there. On the eve of the third day, I wore dark clothes and walked toward the pharmacy, making sure I was walking at a regular pace and not looking back. I looked like any innocent person running errands and not in a rush. I chose a pharmacy that was close to where I lived, but one that I had never gone to before. Considering the darkness and the fact that the team was not local, I guessed the stalkers would have to keep close.
The pharmacy was located in a one-story house with a front yard and a twenty-foot long pathway leading to it from the gate. The gate had two large bushes on its sides, which were tall enough to hide whatever was happening inside the pharmacy—unless one stood right at the gate. I walked into the pharmacy, but in lieu of talking to the pharmacist right away, I stood and looked at some health products that were stacked on shelves to the left of the door, hiding me from the gate. Thus, I was at an angle that allowed me to see the gate and the sidewalk across from it.
I imagined the surveillance team. The surveillance car would not drive into the small street, because then it could not be used for future work on this case. Three men on foot closed the streets around and were holding on to their walkie-talkies in order to hear where their target—myself—was headed. I waited for a close stalker, who was supposed to be right behind me. This is the man who was supposed to get most of the pressure, as all the rest are dependent on his descriptions. I assumed that as I headed into the pharmacy, he was looking at me from the street, about sixty feet away from me. Now he was waiting there in the shadow, knowing where I was, but cursing the high bushes that do not allow him to keep eye contact with me.
I was counting on the fact that the team does not know whether there is a possibility of leaving the pharmacy through a back door. It was an educated guess, based on the fact that the team was not local and was assigned this surveillance just a short while ago. Had they known this in advance, they would have closed the exit and waited patiently until the end of days.
Time was passing slowly and I was standing there, picking up odd products from the shelf, looking at them carefully and then putting them back. One could think that any disease had a natural solution: natural medications for a cold, against infections, a sore throat, cough, skin and hair diseases, pain relief, sleep problems, weak memory, high cholesterol, blood poisoning, high blood pressure, and so forth. Only that I was of the non-believers, a huge fan of proven artificial chemistry, and mainly antibiotics. Go argue with beliefs.
Time passed. Seven minutes later, my stalker’s nerves were tested, and he decided to take action. He may have also received direct orders to ensure that I was indeed in the pharmacy. A target that “fades away” leaving no suspicious traces leaves behind it a team flagged by “operational failure.”
I saw him walking down the sidewalk, looking in and trying, while walking, to recognize me. He had about three seconds because he had to walk on and I stood in such a wa
y that I was not in his field of vision. He couldn’t see me—but I saw him—and I memorized the way he walked and his posture, two things that are hard to change. I knew he was nervous. He was wondering what to do. To act correctly, he had to report that he hasn’t seen me, to ask for stand-in, and get out of the area. On the other hand, he is tempted to peep in again. Good for one’s self-confidence, if it works. He made the mistake and went for the confidence. He walked back on the sidewalk close to the pharmacy, walking very slowly and looking to the right in an unnatural angle. I let him cross the gate and walked into his field of vision, turning toward the pharmacist. I could almost hear him exhale in relief.
‘So that’s the situation,’ I thought to myself, ‘I’m surrounded by guardian angels.’ But these must have been dark angels, guarding me for all the wrong reasons.
***
After my recovery, I went back to work without taking a single day off. I felt that I had more than enough time to calm down and now all I wanted was to return to doing things and assimilate as quickly as possible back in the unit’s operations. They gave me a new role that required a four-month training program. I finished it with honors, which did not surprise me, being that I was without a doubt the most experienced of all the trainees in everything that had to do with confidential work.
Once training was over, I had a two-week leave before I would be assigned to a new mission, and I decided to use this vacation to examine the big question that stood in front of me. I bought a plane ticket to California. In the Holiday Inn, I waited anxiously for my beloved. I knew that as soon as she walked in the door, as soon as our eyes met, at that instant, I would know whether love is eternal, or whether time and the events that took place since our dramatic break up had made our love fade away.
