***
Mark Brekko looked out the window at the U.S. Consulate in Florence, Italy. He recognized that his position as the only CIA officer at this sleepy post represented an exile of sorts. Someone upstairs had decided it’d be kind—or perhaps just easier—to let him muddle through two more obscure years and retire with twenty years’ service.
He could read between the lines of the recent and frequent comments about how it was “only a few more months until he could get out while the getting was good.” Brekko was pretty sure that if he didn’t retire next year, they’d either assign him to some shit-hole or just out-and-out give him the boot.
They thought nothing more significant than lost American tourists ever happened at this station.
So, since shit didn’t go down in Florence, Mark wouldn’t have any crap to step in. He wouldn’t be able to embarrass the agency again in the short time he had left.
But, now…
Now there is a smoking mountain of shit in Florence, he thought. Someone upstairs is probably panicking. They’re soiling their pants over the possibility that I’m going to put my foot in it. On the other hand, from my perspective, I’ve just been handed an opportunity to rehabilitate my career.
He thought about his verbal directive—which hadn’t been put in writing—which was to pick up an American-Italian dual citizen named Kaem Seba and remind him of his duty to the U.S. of A. Then escort him, willing or otherwise, back to his former place of employment in Virginia. Make sure he brought back the secrets he’d taken with him when he left.
There was a knock at his door. That’d be the junior officer they were sending up from Rome to help him. They were probably counting on the kid to keep Mark from doing anything out of line, but Mark knew how to handle squeaky-clean young officers fresh out of training.
Just when he estimated the newbie would be lifting his hand to knock again, Mark raised his voice and called out, “Come in.”
~~~
Outside Mark’s door Sean Lafflin rolled his eyes at the fact there hadn’t been an immediate response when he knocked. Despite the frosted glass, he could see Brekko faintly outlined by the sunlight streaming in through the man’s window. Just before he knocked again, Brekko finally took his feet off his desk and said, “Come in.”
Lafflin opened the door and stepped in. Brekko’s let himself get out of shape, he thought disgustedly, eyeing the man’s pot-belly. “Hello, Mr. Brekko,” he said, trying to take charge of the meeting with a businesslike attitude. “Sean Lafflin. I’ve researched what I could find on Mr. Seba during my ride up here. The man’s brilliant and was well-loved by his fellow employees back in the States. I’d expect he’ll likely have made quite a few friends here. Of relevance to our mission, should he decide to resist us, is that he has a yellow belt in karate and has been training at a ju-jitsu dojo here in Florence.”
“Doesn’t matter, I’ve been training with this,” Brekko said nonchalantly, sliding open his jacket to reveal the Sig Sauer in his shoulder holster.
Lafflin resisted the sigh he wanted to release, “Um, he’s a very valuable resource. We’re supposed to make sure he doesn’t get injured.”
“Doesn’t get seriously injured,” Brekko said as if clarifying a muddy understanding on Lafflin’s part. “But we won’t injure him at all. The threat of me waving this baby around,” he said, patting his weapon, “is gonna convince him to hold still while you put the cuffs on. We’ll slip him in the van and drive him directly to his chartered flight back home.”
While Brekko continued talking, Lafflin wondered whether he should ask someone up the chain of command for advice in dealing with the guy. Or, should I show initiative by trying to keep Brekko out of trouble myself? he wondered. Does trying to keep your nominal superior in line qualify as initiative or foolhardiness?
***
Why didn’t I think of that? Medness wondered as he studied the modified diagrams of his fixtures Seba had sent back to him. If this one works, we’ll be able to use a much smaller laser… sure, it’ll produce less power, but the fusor could be small enough to be portable! Oh, and that change seems so obvious…
Shaking his head, he put Seba’s figures with all their changes in place of his own in the email he’d already drafted to the company that machined his Stade molds last time.
After checking them over one more time, he sent them off, already impatient.
Once the molds came in, he’d have to send them to a place in West Virginia that would forward them to Seba, wherever he was. Then his Stades would have to come back by the same circuitous route.
How long is this going to take?! he wondered frustratedly.
***
In the Senate hearing room, Halser finished his prepared statement. He’d explained the military potential of Stade. Described the need to classify the secrets of the fabrication of Stade and the problems that might eventuate from the foreign acquisition of those secrets due to careless handling by the company. He’d elaborated the difficulties posed by the intransigence of Staze’s owners. He’d detailed the sabotage, hard to call it anything else, that those owners had installed in their stazers. How they’d put thermite in their devices to prevent his people from learning how they worked. How they’d encrypted all their computers, resigned from the company within days of the takeover, then disappeared, only to reappear and start trying to do business in Italy, a foreign country as had been feared!
He’d explained how he and his team had been successful in restoring space launch and were working day and night to understand the principles necessary to building more stazers to meet the insatiable demand.
Halser honestly felt he’d answered every question the senators might pose him and couldn’t imagine what queries they might hit him with.
Senator Blythe opened by saying, “Admiral Halser, is it true you made no effort to negotiate the purchase of Stade products to meet the military’s needs prior to suggesting the nationalization of Staze Incorporated to Senator Starn?”
“That’s not true, sir. I contacted Staze’s CTO, Mahesh Prakant, and discussed the Navy’s need for sample hulls that we could use to evaluate Stade’s potential for weaponization. He refused to cooperate with us.”
“When you say, ‘us,’ I believe you are referring to the Navy, from which you have since retired, is that correct?”
“Um, yes, sir.”
“And when you say he refused to cooperate, you are referring to his rejection of the demand that Staze provide the Navy with a million-dollar submarine hull surrogate…” Senator Blythe arched an eyebrow, “for free?”
“Well… yes but—"
“And do you remember that the company did provide small test samples of Stade for free and offered to provide a hull surrogate upon payment, or even on a fifty-percent deposit?”
“Um, yes, sir…” Halser said, angrily wondering where Blythe was getting his information. He intended to elaborate on his answer, but suddenly realized that son of a bitch Prakant was sitting behind Blythe! I put the bastard in charge of space-launch and this is how I’m repaid?! I’ll fire the asshole! Then he realized that, in his fury, he’d failed to notice Blythe had begun another question and he’d missed his chance to amplify his response by detailing how such procurement usually functioned with other companies.
And now Blythe was waiting for his answer. “Um, sorry, sir. I was distracted and missed your question?”
Looking exasperated, Blythe said, “I asked… Did you ask whether they already had systems in place to protect their secrets from acquisition by others, including foreign powers?”
“Um, no, sir. After the discussions we’d had at the Naval Shipyard, it seemed highly likely that Stade had potent military implications, and the secrets of its production needed to be protected at a level beyond what we would expect a commercial company to be able to achieve.”
Blythe snorted, “And what do you think now?”
Halser blinked, “Think about what, Senator?”
; “About their ability to protect their secrets. It seems that you haven’t been able to break into those secrets despite unfettered access to their building, their people, their computers, and their existing stazers. In fact, it seems to me their secrets are so damned well-protected that the system they’re using is far beyond current governmental capabilities.”
“Well, um, sir. Their secrets may be protected but it’s not being done in a governmentally approved fashion. They’re also not accessible to our military in its endeavors to protect our country.”
Looking angry, the senator retorted, “It sounds like that secret’s better protected than it would be by any governmentally approved security. And, meanwhile, by running roughshod over the protections promised to our citizens you’ve managed to disrupt the distribution of life-saving technology to hospitals who desperately need it to protect our health!”
Jeez! Is the whole day going to go this way? Halser wondered.
Chapter Ten
As Arya left Staze-Italy’s offices at the end of the day, she made a small detour in order to exit through the design section. She hoped to run into Kaem and perhaps get him to go out to a little celebratory dinner she and some of her team were having, but he wasn’t there. However, as she was about to start down the stairs, she saw him coming up. He looks tired, she thought, I shouldn’t ask him. Nonetheless, she stopped on the landing and waited for him to arrive.
Seeing her there, he smiled broadly, fatigued appearance vanishing. “Hey, Arya! What’re you doing slumming over in this area?”
Even though he always seemed so happy to see her, she still felt surprised by it. “Um, we drones that keep Staze’s finances straight are heading out for a little celebration at La Bolognese. I was wondering—”
“Hah!” he exclaimed. “In need of a little arm candy to make the other ladies jealous?” He turned on the penultimate stair and extended his arm.
“No, just a hairy brute to fend off unwanted suitors,” Arya replied. “You’ll do nicely.” She took his arm and they started down. “Where were you coming up from, looking all worn out?”
“Not tired,” he said cheerfully. “Not at all. Just pretending to be tired so people will leave me alone.” He winked at her, “Didn’t work on you, eh?”
“I can tell when you’re trying to distract me from the real question you know? Where were you coming from?”
He sighed and spoke quietly. “Setting up Mr. X’s stazer construction facility in the basement. Space is a little tight so there’ve been some hassles getting it up to speed.” He chewed his lip a moment, then said, “I’m hoping the new boltless design and the additional automation will let us keep up with demand.”
“Isn’t X going to get bored doing the same thing day after day?” Arya asked, meaning Kaem’s mother Sophia, but going along with Kaem’s insistence—in case they were being covertly monitored—that they always speak as if the imaginary X did it all.
“It’s a problem alright. I keep trying to figure out how to automate even more of it.” He put an arm around her and pulled her closer as they walked out onto the narrow street. “X has even been wondering if he could hire some people to do it without actually understanding what they were doing.”
Disbelievingly, Arya said, “Just because someone’s not sophisticated enough to understand electronics doesn’t mean they couldn’t recognize a finished stazer when they got it done.”
“Yeah,” Kaem snorted, “X has some stupid ideas sometimes.”
“Agreed,” Arya said with a giggle.
“Careful now,” Kaem said, drawing back to stare at her. “You wouldn’t want word of what you just said to get back to Mr. X.”
They were turning into Le Bolognese as Arya said, “Don’t worry, I’d be happy to tell him to his face.”
Kaem grinned, “Serve him right. His opinion of himself is entirely too high.”
Bolognese was an interesting little bar/café that featured a variety of small entertainments. From vintage video games to dartboards, game boards, pool tables, and card tables. It served wine, beer, and excellent small-plate Italian food—Though, Arya thought, I have yet to encounter mediocre Italian food in Florence.
Arya’s office mates were gathered at a long table covered with the alternating squares of chess/checkers. They waved excitedly at her when she entered, making her glad. She always had a subliminal fear they thought of her as the dragon lady.
She and Kaem seated themselves at one end of the group and she introduced the people nearby to Kaem. To her dismay, Corso, one of the few business office employees she didn’t like, came in behind them. Corso and his girlfriend sat down across from Arya and Kaem. Corso was a blowhard, often dominating conversations in their meetings and interrupting women who were speaking—as if their opinions were unimportant. Worse, Arya was still dependent on translation software and when Corso talked over someone, the interpretation system defaulted to his louder voice. Because Corso deferred to her as the boss, she hadn’t noticed this in their interview, but she certainly wished she had. The man was smart, but not nearly as smart as he thought he was.
Corso’s girlfriend sat across from Arya while Corso himself sat across from Kaem. The man signaled for a waiter and immediately pulled out a small drawer beneath the table and started setting chess pieces out on the table between himself and Kaem. Eyeing Kaem, he spoke in English, “Do you play?”
Arya wanted to tell the man they were there to socialize, not play games, but before she could say anything, Kaem responded to him, “Only a little, back when I was thirteen.”
“Oh, well, then you’ll soon owe me a beer, eh?”
Corso’s girlfriend touched his arm and spoke in an admonishing tone. She’d spoken too rapidly in Italian for Arya to grasp what he’d said, but Kaem laughed easily and replied to her, “No, no, he should do his worst. I won’t learn anything from someone who takes it easy on me, will I?”
The girlfriend covered her mouth, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you spoke Italian.”
Arya turned to stare at Kaem, thinking, He speaks Italian?! I thought perhaps a little, but not enough to follow what she’d said so quickly.
Kaem waved it off, “I don’t speak it. It’s just that I have a big enough vocabulary to get the gist of what you said.”
“‘Gist’?”
“Oh, sorry,” Kaem said. “It means the main idea.”
Arya suddenly understood Kaem’s comment about vocabulary. He’s used that astonishing recall of his to memorize enough Italian words that he has his own translator in his head. He probably doesn’t use grammar well, but he can understand and make himself understood.
Corso had finished setting up the board. Dismissively, he said, “I gave you white, so you start.”
Arya realized, Corso doesn’t realize who Kaem is or the obsequious jerk wouldn’t be so rude.
Without hesitation, Kaem moved one of the middle pawns two squares forward.
Corso’s girlfriend leaned forward and extended her hand to Arya, “Hi, I’m Dina.”
Shaking her hand, Arya gave her name and they began a pleasant conversation. Dina was bright, friendly, and interesting. Why would she be with a guy like Corso? Arya wondered.
Soon some of the women next to them had joined their exchange and Arya was greatly enjoying it.
Someone ordered small bowls of spaghetti Bolognese—the house specialty—for each of the people at the table. Arya only intended to sample hers. Spaghetti with meat sauce was something she’d eaten too much of as a child in a poor family.
But on her first taste, her eyes widened. Staring at the little bowl, she wondered, How can spaghetti taste so good?! And can I just have more of this for my dinner? She turned to see how Kaem liked it.
Waving his fork at her, he smiled and said, “Isn’t this stuff amazing?”
Arya was nodding when Corso stood abruptly and stormed away. Dina turned to look after him, then her eyes dropped to the board. “Oh…” she said with sudden underst
anding. “Corso hates to lose.”
Kaem seemed surprised. “I’m sorry. I just got lucky. I’ll be happy to buy him a beer anyway.”
Dina’s eyes widened slightly, “You didn’t just ‘get lucky.’ Corso’s a chess master. He only loses to tournament quality players.”
“No, no, I’m sure it was just a few silly moves I made that threw him off,” Kaem protested.
For some reason Arya noticed a couple of men in suits turn, one after another, to briefly look at them. She wondered why; Corso didn’t make that much of a stink did he?
Dina turned to look after Corso, then rose, saying, “I’d better go after him. He’s in one of his moods now.”
Arya and Kaem were studying the menu when Dina returned and put a beer down in front of Kaem, “Your beer sir.”
Kaem rose protesting, “No, you don’t need to—”
Dina interrupted, “I’m doing it for Corso. Tomorrow, he’ll be full of remorse. I need to be able to tell him I paid his debts.” She turned and left.
Kaem turned to Arya, “She seems nice. Too bad her boyfriend’s kind of a jerk.”
Arya watched after Dina as she made her way between the tables on her way out. “Too bad he’s the one that works for us, instead of her.”
Kaem gave her a disbelieving look. At her nod of confirmation, he said, “That is too bad.”
“I didn’t know you played chess?”
He shrugged, “Not since eighth grade.”
“You beat a tournament player more than a decade after your last game?!”
Kaem gave her a crooked grin, “Well, I was the eighth-grade champion.”
Arya laughed, “I’m sure he’ll feel much better once he learns that.” She frowned, “Corso thinks a lot more of himself than the people around him do. Maybe he’s been lying to Dina about how well he plays chess?”
“No doubt,” Kaem said. “I think I’m going to try the carbonara. How about you?”
Or, Arya wondered, rather than Corso bragging about skills he doesn’t have, could Kaem be acting overly humble? She said, “I’ll have the tagliolini.” She studied Kaem a moment, thinking about what she knew of chess. “Did you study the games of the masters back in eighth grade and still remember them with your eidetic memory?”
A Tower in Space-Time (The Stasis Stories #5) Page 21
