The Saracen Incident

by Jack Bowie

  The cops must have gotten his license plate number. They knew who he was. His picture would be on every news program in New England. He needed help, but who would help him now?

  Braxton remembered his cell phone was in the car. And he remembered why it was not a good idea to use it. Even if he could.

  Cell coverage was spotty at best in this part of New Hampshire; that was why Terrel had installed a land-line. Would his parents have thought of turning off the line? Only one way to tell.

  He picked up the handset and felt a momentary flash of hope as the familiar tone reached his ear.

  He picked up the phone and punched 411.

  * * *

  “Hello?” Goddard said, praying it would be Braxton. She hadn’t heard anything from him since the message he had left on her answering machine the day before.

  “Susan. It’s . . . Adam.”

  “Adam! Where are you? I’ve been worried sick.” The connection was awful. He sounded far away and barely intelligible.

  “Warren . . . dead . . . shot.”

  “What? Adam, please speak up. I can hardly hear you. Who’s been shot?” It wasn’t the connection. Something was terribly wrong.

  “Had . . . to . . . escape . . . police . . . please . . . help . . . me.”

  She was frightened. He was barely coherent. “Of course I’ll help. Where are you?”

  “Paul’s . . . cabin . . . Merritt . . . New Hampshire.”

  “New Hampshire!” She grabbed a pencil and paper from the counter. “How do I get there?”

  “Merritt . . . New Hampshire . . .“

  “Adam! Please listen. I need directions. Tell me how to get to you.”

  “Left . . . at . . . Jamison’s . . . three . . . miles . . . right . . . thank . . . you.”

  “Wait! Don’t go! What is Jamison’s? Where is the cabin?”

  “Need . . . you.” The line went dead.

  What had happened at Chamberlain’s? Why was Braxton in New Hampshire?

  Maybe the detective would know. She pulled Fowler’s card from her bag and dialed his number. The line was busy.

  She couldn’t wait any longer. To her surprise, the decision came easily. Her friend was in trouble and she was going to help. No second thoughts, no careful consideration. He needed her. That was enough.

  She called for a cab then dashed into the bedroom. Yanking a duffel bag out her closet, she stuffed in some underwear and a change of comfortable clothes. From the bathroom she collected personal necessities. A shelf of medications caught her eye and she swept the array of pill bottles and first aid creams into her bag.

  The cab pulled up as she ran out of the lobby. She tossed her bag in the back and followed it inside. It was still early enough in the afternoon that the traffic to Reagan National was light.

  The driver stopped in front of the USAir terminal at 3:40. She hoped there was enough credit left on her Discover Card when she charged a ticket for the 4:00 shuttle to Boston.

  * * *

  As the cab pulled away from the curb in Arlington, a young black man stopped his bicycle on the opposite side of the street. He wore a scuffed black leather jacket, black jeans and neon designer sneakers. A worn denim backpack was slung over his shoulder.

  He pulled a heavy chain from the pack and locked the 10-speed to the nearby lamp post. An iron bench sat empty a few yards away. The youth casually walked over, sat down, and dropped the backpack beside him.

  A worn paperback next materialized from the pack. He opened the book and sat back. Every few minutes he would look up from his reading to the door of the apartment building across the street.

  Then he would return to the novel.

  Chapter 48

  Over the Eastern Seaboard

  Thursday, 4:15 p.m.

  GODDARD LOOSENED HER seat belt and relaxed for the first time since Braxton’s call. The plane had gotten off on time and she was hoping for a quiet and uneventful flight. Her seat mate, a Boston University professor, opened a laptop and began editing some kind of manuscript. Thankfully, he was too engaged in the effort for much small talk.

  She pulled out the copy of the Washington Post that she had bought on the way to the gate and skimmed the headlines looking for anything that would help pass the time.

  “Oh my God,” she gasped as she read a small item on page five:

  Computer Executive Found Murdered in Home

  (Boston) Computer executive Warren Chamberlain was found murdered in his suburban Carlisle, Massachusetts home last night. Chamberlain, Executive Vice President for Century Computer, a leading computer networking firm headquartered in Concord, Massachusetts, had been shot earlier that evening according to police. Although no details were given, police did say they had issued an arrest warrant for Adam Braxton, a resident of Cambridge and former employee of Century. Police would not speculate on a possible motive, but did say the suspect could be wounded and should be considered armed and dangerous. A spokesperson confirmed that the suspect was seen fleeing from Chamberlain’s home in a dark red Jeep Grand Cherokee.

  An arrest warrant! Adam couldn’t have murdered anyone. Why were they looking for him? And how had he been wounded?

  She dropped the newspaper in her lap.

  “Is anything wrong, Miss?” the professor asked.

  “Ah, no. Thank you.” She picked up the paper and buried her face as the tears came.

  She arrived at Logan at 5:43 and bought copies of all the afternoon newspaper editions. The rental car representative was curt but helpful: she gave Goddard maps of the region, located Merritt, and provided general directions to New Hampshire. She was happy to have a backup in case Google maps or her cell phone died in the New Hampshire wilderness.

  The only thing Goddard knew about New Hampshire was that every four years they held the first Presidential Primary and they had “Live Free or Die” on their license plates. She took an extra $300 from the ATM in the airport lobby.

  By 6:30 she had made it through the Sumner tunnel and was fighting rush hour traffic up Interstate 93.

  The congestion cleared when she passed I-95. The next part of the trip was straightforward: north on I-93 into New Hampshire and the mountains.

  * * *

  “Fowler,” he growled into the phone. The detective had been enjoying a wonderfully greasy Italian sausage submarine sandwich and didn’t appreciate the interruption. Patrolman Moses had brought everybody dinner from Santoro’s down the street. The squad room smelled like a diner.

  “Detective Fowler, this is Lieutenant Jacoby from the Cambridge, Massachusetts Police Department.”

  Fowler vaguely remembered the name. His friend in the Boston Police Department had given him Jacoby’s name when Fowler had called about the Terrel case. “We spoke earlier this week about the Terrel murder, right?”

  “That’s correct, Detective. I was wondering if you had been in contact with Adam Braxton lately.”

  “I spoke to him a few days ago. What’s up?” Why would Jacoby be calling him now?

  “I’m afraid there has been another murder. The victim was a past associate of Braxton’s and we’d like to ask him a few questions.”

  Alarms blared in the detective’s head. The lieutenant was using all the standard euphemisms: “past associate”, “ask a few questions”. What the hell had Braxton gotten into now? “I thought he was in Cambridge, Lieutenant.”

  “We’ve tried to contact him at his apartment and he doesn’t seem to be around.”

  “Who’s the victim?” Fowler tried to sound calm and unemotional.

  “A Warren Chamberlain, Detective. We believe he was Braxton’s supervisor when Braxton worked at Century Computer. It appears Chamberlain had to let Braxton go a few years ago. Do you know whether he had any contact with Chamberlain recently?”

  Damn. That’s the guy Adam said he was waiting to hear from. “Not that I know of, Lieutenant. But then we didn’t talk about much other than his current investigation.”

  “What investi
gation was that?”

  “He told me he was a consultant looking into some kind of computer network foul up down here.”

  “Did that investigation have anything to do with Century Computer?”

  “I don’t think so. Braxton never mentioned them.” He was being pulled in deeper and deeper. He had to stop the cop’s interrogation. “How was this Chamberlain killed?”

  “He was shot at his house last night. The local cops got a call about loud noises at the home and went to check it out. They just missed getting the murderer; he escaped through the woods in a Jeep Grand Cherokee.”

  “How did you get involved?”

  “There was some information in Chamberlain’s PC that referred to Braxton. We checked him out and found he owns a Cherokee. His prints were all over Chamberlain’s house. If you know where he is, Detective, I would suggest you tell us.”

  Fowler did not like being threatened. “Look, Jacoby. I know the law and I know my job. If I knew where Braxton was I would tell you. Personally, I don’t believe that this guy could kill anyone, but that’s for the investigators to determine.”

  “All right, Detective, no offense. But if you hear from Braxton, you better tell him to get his ass in here. It’s gonna get real rough for him otherwise.”

  Fowler didn’t want to piss the cop off too much. He might need the contact later. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. If I find out anything you’ll be the first to hear about it. Keep me up-to-date on how the case is going, okay?”

  “Sure, Detective.”

  Could I have been wrong about Braxton? The consultant sounded legit, but could he really tell? Shit! And I got him involved with that woman.

  He grabbed his cell and dialed Goddard’s number. All he heard was her recorded greeting.

  “Ms. Goddard. This is Sam Fowler. Call me as soon as you get home. It’s urgent. It’s about Adam Braxton.”

  * * *

  “We’re late, Enrico. Make up the time,” Greystone ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” came the controlled reply.

  Damn spic. He couldn’t afford to be late for a meeting with Hajima. He would lose face. And he needed Hajima to keep up the effort on the project while he worked on Flitterman.

  Greystone didn’t have any misconceptions regarding Hajima’s motivation. So far, he had been a stubborn but committed supporter of the plan. As long as it was still to his benefit.

  Greystone was also supremely confident in his ability to get others to do what he wanted. It had always been that way.

  * * *

  At first, Bob hadn’t understood what he was doing there. His advisor at Harvard had said it was a breakaway course that would give him a whole new way of looking at finance and economics. Classes outside the regular curriculum always looked good on a transcript, and he was able to fit it into his schedule without much trouble, so he had registered.

  His trek from up river had been uneventful. He had taken the bus from Harvard Station and exited at the MIT stop. There across the street was 77 Massachusetts Avenue, an incredibly pretentious, Greek revival building adorned with the names of past scientific greats. Probably appropriate, he had thought as he crossed the street, since in his view, science was a course of study whose time had passed. The real forces of the world were economic and political, and no amount of technological tinkering was going to change that fact.

  He walked up the granite steps, through the eight-foot-tall brass doors, and straight down a barren corridor until it became Building 10, apparently the spiritual center of the MIT campus. Stairs took him up to the lecture hall in room 250.

  The bus had been late, and he had to take a seat at the end of the third row. He couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. All he saw was a classroom full of rather unkempt and ill-prepared adolescents. He was sure the student in front of him couldn’t have showered in a week, and the coed—did MIT really have coeds, it was usually hard to tell—next to him was leisurely chewing on what looked like a day old sandwich and sipping a Coke. If this was where the action was, he would certainly be surprised.

  As the weeks passed, his skepticism had been overcome as he sensed the power of the new tool. He was driven by the vision of access to enormous amounts of financial and business information. If he could harness that information for his own use, his power would be vast.

  It hadn’t been until the term project that he had discovered the instruments for his success.

  Not knowing anyone else in the class, he had been at the mercy of a lottery for his teammates. His expectations had been low and, at least initially, well-founded.

  Persuading his new friends to do his bidding had not been that difficult. Warren had been the easier. A few words of recognition and congratulations and he was set for the next assignment.

  Nick had been harder. He was stubborn and moody. Bob finally found the right approach: simply offer assistance. Nothing drove his friend to work harder than a simple offer to help.

  He had done his share of the work, of course: planning the project schedule, doling out the assignments, and writing the final presentation. Someone had to be in charge.

  He found in his colleagues a willing and able resource for future endeavors. They planned and executed a small number of what could only be called pranks during their remaining college years. Primarily, he nurtured a pattern of behaviors that he would harvest years later.

  After graduation the trio went their separate ways. They selected graduate schools, took jobs, and built careers. Computers became big business, and they were well prepared to capitalize on the opportunities.

  They maintained contact primarily electronically, although there was an occasional reunion at a major trade show such as Comdex or NCC. The liquor would flow freely and they would reminisce and tell stories of the “good old days”, although none of them would have ever really wanted to go back. The excitement was the future and they knew they would be a key part of it.

  Bob understood that the business world was an irrational place. Good ideas don’t get funded, and bad engineering makes millions, or even billions, of dollars. That Harvard dropout Gates being only one example. Technology is often used in unfair and inefficient ways. Sometimes an idea just needs a little push, or a piece of information needs to be disseminated a little more widely.

  He monitored the markets looking for those opportunities. Then he would call his friends for help. They had the advantage of seeing the bigger picture. They knew where business and technology needed to go. He had persuaded them to lead rather than follow.

  Warren had been reticent to assist in some of the projects. He liked to think he still had a conscience. Neither of his partners had any such delusions. But it had been Warren who had come to Bob to save his company when arthritic management had nearly brought it to its knees. They had reincarnated Century and made it into a leader in network computing, all of them sharing in the rewards of the success.

  Bob had learned of the gateway’s diagnostic port during one of Warren’s product explanations. He had immediately grasped its potential to simplify their communications scanning. It had been increasingly difficult to crack into all the individual computer systems they had targeted. The scanner Nick had coded for placement into Century’s gateways broadened their access to electronic sources without compromising security. It was a perfect solution. Until the past week, there had been no complaints from Warren.

  If anything, Nick had become easier in the later years. He enjoyed the respect and prestige that wealth had brought him. And as Chief of Staff to a powerful Senator, he had access to information that could topple governments, or create industries.

  Ever since the Lynch affair, he had been a willing participant in their projects.

  * * *

  The limousine lurched as Santana turned off Interstate 95 and onto a bumpy state highway. They were almost to the country farmhouse. It was time to focus on the meeting.

  Nicholson and Chamberlain had been his hands, the manipulators and implementer
s of his plans. Now Chamberlain was gone, his liabilities finally exceeding his assets. But Hajima could fill the void, even though he was unaware of Greystone’s other partner.

  The pieces were falling into place. With Nicholson driving Potterfield and Greystone’s pressure on Flitterman, Hajima would get everything he wants.

  The only loose end was that damned consultant.

  Chapter 49

  Merritt, New Hampshire

  Thursday, 9:00 p.m.

  GODDARD MADE THE Lincoln exit on I-93 by 8:45 and headed west on Rt. 112 along the Lost River. The going was slow; she was having trouble following the directions from her cell phone while negotiating the narrow New Hampshire roads. Finding Jamison’s had been easier than she had expected, but she missed the cabin’s turn-off and had to double back to the town and try again.

  It was 9:15 when she finally pulled up in the clearing. She would have thought it was the wrong place had the Jeep Grand Cherokee not been sitting in front of the cabin. The structure was pitch black; only her headlights illuminated the clearing.

  She pointed the car at the front of the cabin and slid out. When she passed the Jeep she gasped.

  What the hell had happened?

  The rear windshield had been blown out, there was no front bumper and it looked like a Tyrannosaurus Rex had run its claws along the side.

  She cautiously walked up the steps and knocked at the door. It creaked back slightly so she pushed more firmly. The door swung open.

  “Adam?” she called softly. There was no answer.

  She cautiously entered the lighted stripe beyond the door.

  “Adam?” Soft moans came from a void to her left.

  Her eyes accommodated to the darkness and the outlines of walls and furniture appeared. She moved to her left and found a doorway leading to a small room. The moans seemed to be emanating from a large pile of blankets on a bunk bed. She carefully pulled back the covers and found Braxton lying on his right side, curled in the fetal position, slowly rocking back and forth. The sheets were soaking wet and a large dark stain covered his exposed left shoulder.