Scorpion Christian Cantrell (free ebook reader for ipad TXT) 📖

prefers people without pasts—especially when they’re foreign nationals. It means when Moretti arranged Simon’s citizenship, there were…conditions.”

“What kind of conditions?”

“A new identity. French Canadian. Born and raised in Quebec. No siblings—that part is true—and, of course, both parents deceased.” Allard sips, grimaces, forces the cognac down. Shrugs. “At least we died peacefully. Natural causes.”

“But why?”

“Because whatever Simon is working on is so sensitive that the CIA can’t take any chances.”

“Chances of what?”

“Blackmail. Coercion. Ransom. His mother and I travel all over the world, so it wouldn’t be difficult to get to either one of us. As I’m sure you must have learned by now, Ms. Yi, the CIA does not like what it cannot control.”

It is impossible for Henrietta not to reexamine her own past based on what she is being told. Although she knows for a fact that her own parents were killed in Seoul, she wonders how much more Moretti might have asked her to sacrifice to the seemingly insatiable cause of Kilonova.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I had no idea. I don’t know what to say.”

“You can say whether or not Simon is OK. Whether he needs anything. If he’s married. If he’s happy. You can tell me if this fucking project Moretti has him working on is worth me losing my only son.”

Henrietta looks down at the little hands clenched and pressed together in her lap. “Mr. Allard, I’m very sorry,” she begins. “I just don’t think…”

When she looks back up, she sees him watching her. Waiting. Squinting and gnawing his lip. She knows Allard is trying to gauge what it will take to make her break.

“It’s OK,” he finally says. He tosses back the last of his brandy. “You’re a good officer, Ms. Yi. I apologize for putting you in such a difficult position. I hope you understand that I had to ask.”

“Of course,” Henrietta says. “Maybe I could talk to Mr. Moretti. Maybe—”

Allard interrupts her by standing. Henrietta thinks she is about to be shown out, but instead, her contact is back at the minibar, fixing himself another drink.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Actually,” Henrietta says, “do you have any wine?”

Allard turns. “Even though we are in a trailer a block away from one of the most devastating terrorist attacks the world has ever seen, this is still Paris, Ms. Yi. Of course I have wine.”

This time, a proper smile.

As Allard goes to work deftly uncorking, Henrietta looks around. There are no windows, and she cannot tell from the faux-wood panels if the trailer is genuinely old or tastefully retro. There is enough plasma glass along the ceiling and walls that the space could be used as a mobile situation room, but, probably in accordance with foreign interagency protocol, all the screens are in full-transparency mode.

Before Allard sits back down, he passes Henrietta a delicate, voluminous, half-full stemmed glass.

“To a fresh start,” her host says, offering his recharged tumbler.

“À votre santé.”

“À votre santé.”

Their glasses connect over the disheveled desk. Henrietta sips while Allard swigs. The wine is warm and fruity—not at all what she’s looking for from a hydration perspective, but the drink is not for her. She needs information, and Henrietta has calculated that a man this acquainted with midday liquor is more likely to trust a fellow drinker.

“So, how can I help you, Ms. Yi?”

“The message,” Henrietta begins.

“Ah,” Allard says as though he should have known. “La statique.”

“Pardon?”

“The Static. That’s what we call it. A code name, if you like.”

“I see,” Henrietta says. “What can you tell me about…The Static?”

“What do you already know?”

“I know it was an encrypted message discovered by a Japanese astronomer named Masaki Kumamoto. And I know he found it by training a neural network to look for unusual patterns in the backlogs of data collected by solar probes.”

“Inspired by your work at the LHC, no doubt.”

Henrietta is unsure whether the interjection was meant as a compliment or an accusation. Very likely the skillful entanglement of the two. She decides to acknowledge the comment with a neutral nod and move on. “I also know it contained schematics for a machine that could supposedly produce superluminal particles, but that something went terribly wrong.”

“Or,” Allard counters, “something went exactly right.”

“What do you mean?” Henrietta asks. “You believe it was terrorism?”

“The DGSI isn’t ruling anything out.”

“What about Kumamoto? Have you been able to link him to any form of extremism?”

“Not yet.”

“Wouldn’t that suggest an accident?”

“Or that Kumamoto didn’t know what the device was really for,” Allard says. “After all, the best way to make something look like an accident is to ensure that it really is.”

“But why would a terrorist want to make something look like an accident?” Henrietta asks. “Isn’t the whole point of terrorism to make sure the world knows who did it, and why?”

“Terrorism isn’t the only alternative. The objective could have been the destruction of intellectual property. Or a test run for a much bigger attack. Perhaps even an elaborate assassination.”

“Assassination of whom? Was anyone prominent killed?”

“We’re still compiling a list of casualties.”

It occurs to Henrietta that an effective way to suppress the death of a single individual is to kill thousands more in the process.

“What about the encryption?” she asks.

“What about it?”

“How was Kumamoto able to break it?”

“Whoever encrypted it used a relatively simple algorithm.”

“What algorithm?”

“One-way linear encryption, I believe.”

Henrietta’s eyebrows arch high above her metaspecs. “One-way linear encryption? That seems strange, doesn’t it?”

“Why is that?”

“Because whoever sent it obviously had access to incredibly sophisticated technology. Why would they use simple one-way linear encryption?”

“You tell me, Ms. Yi.”

She is about to, but stops. She is about to tell him that the encryption must be part of the message. The envelope every bit as important as the letter sealed inside. But just as she is opening her mouth to spell it all out, she sees it.

One-way linear encryption.

Also known as OWL.

“What is it, Ms. Yi?”

“I need to see it.”

“See what?”

“The Static.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

Henrietta frowns. “I have the highest level