by Dima Zales
3
I start my post-Labor Day Tuesday morning feeling like a zombie. I couldn’t fall asleep after the events at the casino, but I can’t skip work today. I have an appointment with Bill.
Bill is my boss, and no one ever calls him that—except me, in my thoughts. His name is William Pierce. As in Pierce Capital Management. Even his wife calls him William—I’ve heard her do it. Most people call him Mr. Pierce, because they’re uncomfortable calling him by his first name. So, yeah, Bill is among the few people I take seriously. Even if, in this case, I’d rather nap than meet with him.
I wish it were possible to sleep in the Quiet. Then I’d be all set. I’d phase in and snooze right under my desk without anyone noticing.
I achieve some semblance of clear thought after my first cup of coffee. I’m in my cubicle at this point. It’s eight a.m. If you think that’s early, you’re wrong. I was actually the last to get into the office in my part of the floor. I don’t care what those early risers think of my lateness, though. I can barely function as is.
Despite my achievements at the fund, I don’t have an office. Bill has the only office in the company. It would be nice to have some privacy for slacking off, but otherwise, I’m content with my cube. As long as I can work in the field or from home most of the time—and as long as I get paid on par with people who typically have offices—the lack of my own office doesn’t bother me.
My computer is on, and I’m looking at the list of coworkers on the company instant messenger. Aha—I see Bert’s name come online. This is really early for him. As our best hacker, he gets to stroll in whenever he wants, and he knows it. Like me, he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks about it. In fact, he probably cares even less than I do—and thus comes in even later. I initially thought we would talk after my meeting with Bill, but there’s no time like the present, since Bert is in already.
“Stop by,” I message him. “Need your unique skills.”
“BRT,” Bert replies. Be right there.
I’ve known Bert for years. Unlike me, he’s a real prodigy. We were the only fourteen-year-olds in a Harvard Introduction to Computer Science course that year. He aced the course without having to phase into the Quiet and look up the answers in the textbook, the way I did in the middle of the exams. Nor did he pay a guy from Belarus to write his programing projects for him.
Bert is the computer guy at Pierce. He’s probably the most capable coder in New York City. He always drops hints that he used to work for some intelligence agency as a contractor before I got him to join me here and make some real money.
“Darren,” says Bert’s slightly nasal voice, and I swivel my chair in response.
Picturing this guy as part of the CIA or FBI always puts a smile on my face. He’s around five-four, and probably weighs less than a hundred pounds. Before we became friends, my nickname for Bert was Mini-Me.
“So, Albert, we should discuss that idea you gave me last week,” I begin, jerking my chin toward one of our public meeting rooms.
“Yes, I would love to hear your report,” Bert responds as we close the door. He always overacts this part.
As soon as we’re alone, he drops the formal colleague act. “Dude, you fucking did it? You went to Vegas?”
“Well, not quite. I didn’t feel like taking a five-hour flight—”
“So you opted for a two-hour cab ride to Atlantic City instead,” Bert interrupts, grinning.
“Yes, exactly.” I grin back, taking a sip of my coffee.
“Classic Darren. And then?”
“They banned me,” I say triumphantly, like it’s some huge accomplishment.
“Already?”
“Yeah. But not before I met this chick.” I pause for dramatic effect. I know this is the part he’s really waiting for. His own experience with girls thus far has been horrendous.
Sure enough, he’s hooked. He wants to know every detail. I tell him a variation of what happened. Nothing about the Quiet, of course. I don’t share that with anyone, except my shrink. I just tell Bert I won a lot. He loves that part, as he was the one who suggested I try going to a casino. This was after he and a bunch of our coworkers got slaughtered by me at a friendly card game.
He, like most at the fund, knows that I know things I shouldn’t. He just doesn’t know how I know them. He accepts it as a given, though. In a way, Bert is a little bit like me. He knows things he shouldn’t, too. Only in his case, everyone knows the ‘how.’ The method behind Bert’s omniscience is his ability to get into any computer system he wants.
That is precisely what I need from him now, so as soon I finish describing the mystery girl, I tell him, “I need your help.”
His eyebrows rise, and I explain, “I need to learn more about her. Whatever you can find out would be helpful.”
“What?” His excitement noticeably wanes. “No, Darren, I can’t.”
“You owe me,” I remind him.
“Yeah, but this is cyber-crime.” He looks stubborn, and I mentally sigh. If I had a dollar for every time Bert used that line . . . We both know he commits cyber-crime on a daily basis.
I decide to offer him a bribe. “I’ll watch a card trick,” I say, making a Herculean effort to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. Bert’s attempts at card tricks are abysmal, but that doesn’t deter him one bit.
“Oh,” Bert responds casually. His poker face is shit, though. I know he’s about to try to get more out of me, but it’s not going to happen, and I tell him so.
“Fine, fine, text me those aliases you mentioned, the ones that ‘fell into your lap,’ and the address you ‘got by chance,’” he says, giving in. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Great, thanks.” I grin at him again. “Now I have to go—I’ve got a meeting with Bill.”
I can see him cringing when I call William that. I guess that’s why I do it—to get a rise out of Bert.
“Hold on,” he says, frowning.
I know what’s coming, and I try not to look too impatient.
Bert is into magic. Only he isn’t very good. He carries a deck of cards with him wherever he goes, and at any opportunity—real or imaginary—he whips the cards out and tries to do a card trick.
In my case, it’s even worse. Because I showed off to him once, he thinks I’m into magic too, and that I only pretend I’m not. My tendency to win when playing cards only solidifies his conviction that I’m a closet magician.
As I promised him, I watch as he does his trick. I won’t describe it. Suffice it to say, there are piles of cards on the conference room table, and I have to make choices and count and spell something while turning cards over.
“Great, good one, Bert,” I lie as soon as my card is found. “Now I really have to go.”
“Oh, come on,” he cajoles. “Let me see your trick one more time.”
I know it’ll be faster for me to go along with him than to argue my way out of it. “Okay,” I say, “you know the drill.”
As Bert cuts the deck, I look away and phase into the Quiet.
As soon as the world freezes, I realize how much ambient noise the meeting room actually has. The lack of sound is refreshing. I feel it more keenly after being sleep-deprived. Partly because most of the ‘feeling like crap’ sensation dissipates when I’m in the Quiet, and partly because outside the Quiet, the sounds must’ve been exacerbating a minor headache that I only now realize is there.
Walking over to motionless Bert, I take the pile of cards in his hand and look at the card he cut to. Then I phase back out of the Quiet.
“Seven of hearts,” I say without turning around. The sounds are back, and with them, the headache.
“Fuck,” Bert says predictably. “We should go together. Get ourselves banned from Vegas next time.”
“For that, I’ll need a bigger favor.” I wink at him and go back to my cubicle.
When I get to my desk, I see that it’s time for my meeting. I quickly text Bert the information he needs to search for Mira and t
hen head off to see Bill.
Bill’s office looks as awesome as usual. It’s the size of my Tribeca apartment. I’ve heard it said that he only has this huge office because that’s what our clients expect to see when they visit. That he allegedly is egalitarian and would gladly sit in a cube with low walls, like the rest of us.
I’m not sure I buy that. The decorations are a little too meticulous to support that theory. Plus, he strikes me as a guy who likes his privacy.
One day I’ll have an office too, unless I decide to retire first.
Bill looks like a natural-born leader. I can’t put my finger on what attributes give this impression. Maybe it’s his strong jaw, the wise warmth in his gaze, or the way he carries himself. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. All I know is he looks like someone people would follow—and they do.
Bill earned major respect from me when he played a part in legalizing gay marriage in New York. My moms have dreamed of getting married for as long as I can remember, and anyone who helps make my moms happier is a good person in my book.
“Darren, please sit,” he says, pulling his gaze from his monitor as I walk in.
“Hi William, how was your weekend?” I say. He’s probably the only person in the office I bother doing the small-talk thing with. Even here, I ask mainly because I know Bill’s answer will be blissfully brief. I don’t care what my coworkers do in general, let alone on their weekends.
“Eventful,” he says. “How about you?”
I try to beat his laconic response. “Interesting.”
“Great.” Like me, Bill doesn’t seem interested in probing beyond that. “I have something for you. We’re thinking about building a position in FBTI.”
That’s the ticker for Future Biotechnology and Innovation Corp; I’ve heard of them before. “Sure. We need a position in biotech,” I say without blinking. In truth, I haven’t bothered to look at our portfolio in a while. I just can’t recall having biotech-related assignments recently—so I figure there can’t be that many biotech stocks in there.
“Right,” he says. “But this isn’t just to diversify.”
I nod, while trying to look my most serious and thoughtful. That’s easier to do with Bill than with most other people. Sometimes I genuinely find what he says interesting.
“FBTI is going to unveil something three weeks from now,” he explains. “The stock is up just based on speculation on the Street. It could be a nice short if FBTI disappoints—” he pauses for emphasis, “—but I personally have a hunch that things will go in the other direction.”
“Well, to my knowledge, your hunches have never been wrong,” I say. I know it sounds like I’m ass-kissing, but it’s the truth.
“You know I never act on hunch alone,” he says, doing this weird quirking thing he often does with his eyebrow. “In this case, maybe a hunch is understating things. I had some of FBTI’s patents analyzed. Plenty of them are for very promising developments.”
I’m convinced that I know where this is leading.
“Why don’t you poke around?” he suggests, proving my conviction right. “Speak with them and see if the news is indeed bigger than what people are expecting. If that’s the case, we need to start building the position.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I say.
This generates a smile from Bill. “Was that humility? That would be a first,” he says, seemingly amused. “I need you to do your usual magic. You’re up for the challenge, right?”
“Of course. Whatever the news is, you’ll know by the end of the week. I guarantee it.” I don’t add ‘or your money back.’ That would be too much. What if I get nothing? Bill is the type of person who would hold me to the claim.
“The sooner the better, but we definitely need it before the official news in three weeks,” Bill says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Knowing that I’m dismissed, I leave him with his computer and go to my cube to make a few phone calls.
As soon as they hear the name Pierce, FBTI is happy to talk to me. I make an appointment with their CTO and am mentally planning the subway trip to their Manhattan office in SoHo when Bert pings me on Instant Messenger.
“Got it,” the message says.
“Walk out with me?” I IM back.
He agrees, and we meet by the elevator.
“This chick is crazy,” Bert says as I press the button for the lobby. “She leads a very strange life.”
Outside his card tricks, Bert knows how to build suspense. I have to give him that. I don’t rush him, or else this will take longer. So I just say, “Oh?”
“For starters, you’re lucky you have me,” he says, his voice brimming with excitement. “She’s long gone from that address you found ‘by chance.’ From what I can puzzle out, that name—Mira—is her real one. Only that name disappeared from the face of the planet a little over a year ago. No electronic trail at all. Same thing with some of those aliases.”
“Hmm,” I say, giving him the encouragement I know he needs to keep going.
“Well, to get around that, I hacked into some Vegas casino databases, going on the assumption that she would play there as well as in Atlantic City, and sure enough, they had files on some of the other aliases that you mentioned. They also had additional names for her.”
“Wow,” is all I can say.
“Yeah,” Bert agrees. “At first, only one led to any recently occupied address. She’s clearly hiding. Anyway, that one alias, Alina something, had a membership at a gym on Kings Highway and Nostrand Avenue, in Brooklyn. Hacking into their system, I found out that the membership is still used sometimes. Once I had that, I set a radius around that gym. People don’t usually go far to get workouts.”
“Impressive,” I say, and mean it. At times like this, I wonder if the business about him being a contractor for some intelligence agency is true after all.
“Anyway, at first there was nothing,” he continues. “None of the aliases rent or own any apartments or condos nearby. But then I tried combining first names of some of these aliases with the last names of others.” He pauses and looks at me—to get a pat on the back, I think.
“That’s diabolical,” I say, wishing he would get to the point already.
“Yes,” he says, looking pleased. “I am, indeed . . . She, on the other hand, isn’t very imaginative. One of the combinations worked. She’s partial to the first name of Ilona. Combining Ilona with a last name of Derkovitch, from the Yulia Derkovitch alias, yielded the result I was looking for.”
I nod, urging him on.
“Here’s that address,” he says, grinning as he hands me a piece of paper. Then he asks more seriously, “Are you really going there?”
That’s an excellent question. If I do, she’ll think I’m a crazy stalker. Well, I guess if you think about it, I am kind of stalking her, but my motives are noble. Sort of.
“I don’t know,” I tell Bert. “I might swing by that gym and see if I can ‘bump into her.’”
“I don’t think that will work,” he says. “According to their database, her visits are pretty sporadic.”
“Great.” I sigh. “In that case, yes, I guess I’ll show up at her door.”
“Okay. Now the usual fine print,” Bert says, giving me an intense stare. “You didn’t get this from me. Also, the name I found could be a complete coincidence, so it’s within the realm of possibility that you might find someone else there.”
“I take full responsibility for whatever may occur,” I tell Bert solemnly. “We’re even now.”
“Okay. Good. There’s just one other thing . . .”
“What?”
“Well, you might think this is crazy or paranoid, but—” he looks embarrassed, “—I think she might be a spy.”
“What?” This catches me completely off-guard.
“Well, something else I should’ve said is that she’s an immigrant. A Russian immigrant, in case you didn’t get it from the unusual-sounding names. Came here with her family about a d
ecade ago. When combined with these aliases . . . You see how I would think along these lines, don’t you?”
“Right, of course,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. A spy? Bert sure loves his conspiracy theories. “Leave it with me,” I say reassuringly. “If she’s a spy, I’ll deal with it. Now let me buy you a second breakfast and a cup of tea. After that, I’m off to SoHo to meet with FBTI.”
4
I make the trip to SoHo. The security guard at the FBTI building lets me in once he knows I have an appointment with Richard Stone, the CTO.
“Hi Richard, I’m Darren. We spoke on the phone.” I introduce myself to a tall bald man when I’m seated comfortably in a guest chair in his office. The office is big, with a massive desk with lots of drawers, and a small bookshelf. There’s even a plasma TV mounted on the wall. I take it all in, feeling a hint of office envy again.
“Please call me Dick,” he says. I have to use every ounce of my willpower not to laugh. If I had a bald head, I’d definitely prefer Richard. In fact, I think I’d prefer to be called Richard over Dick regardless of how I looked.
“Okay, Dick. I’m interested in learning about what you guys are working on these days,” I say, hoping I don’t sound like I relish saying his nickname too much.
“I’m happy to discuss anything outside of our upcoming announcement,” he says, his tone dickish enough to earn that moniker.
I show interest in the standard stuff he’s prepared to say, and he goes on, telling me all the boring details he’s allowed to share. He continues to talk, but I don’t listen. Tuning people out was one of the first things I mastered in the corporate world. Without that, I wouldn’t have survived a single meeting. Even now, I have to go into the Quiet from time to time to take a break, or I’d die from boredom. I’m not a patient guy.
Anyway, as Dick goes on, I surreptitiously look around. It’s ironic that I’m doing exactly the opposite of what everyone thinks I do. People assume I ask pointed questions of these executives, and figure things out based on their reactions, body language, and who knows what else.
