16. January 2010 by admin.

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11

The night was cold.  The temperatures went below the freezing point for the first time that year, and with the wind chill the temperatures were so low, that most people decided to stay indoors.  The forecast suggested snow, but the sky was clear and starry.  Down at the marina Michael Moore was getting dressed.  The event called for business attire, and so Michael was putting on his dead father-in-law’s suit.  Miraculously, the old man measured pretty close, and had a more than reasonable taste in clothes.  A single needle stitched light blue shirt, a dark blue double breasted pinstriped Brooks Brothers suit, and a conservative red Armani tie was a combination Michael Moore wore on very few occasions, if any.  The fact that the sleeves were half inch long, the pants quarter inch short didn’t bother him at all.  In fact, he wasn’t even aware of it.  Barbara told him to stand up straight, which eliminated the sleeve problem, and lowered his belt line a tiny bit to overcome the pants.  The trick was successful, and probably would be until the next time Michael would resume his natural posture and lift his pants.  Finally, the slick pair of Giorgio Brutini shoes which must have been the most comfortable shoes he’s ever worn.  Michael looked at himself in the mirror and thought he would easily blend in.  Barbara, though, made a face.  She almost ripped the Casio digital watch off his left hand.  “That would have given you away in a split second.  A rookie detective on his first day would see you from a mile away” she said.  But she calmed down right away remembering that her husband wasn’t exactly Mr. Fashion or Mr. Brand Name.

The watch was replaced by a Patek Philippe dug out of the boat’s safe deposit box.  Beatrice Mitchell entered the room and immediately started sobbing.  It was clear that seeing another man wearing her dead husband’s clothes took her by surprise.  They never spoke about it, but it was clear that Mrs. Mitchell, who married her best friend in the whole world, never got used to the fact that he was no longer around.  She missed him every day and every night.  She never got used to sleeping alone, to eating alone, to being alone.  It all came back to her when she saw Michael wearing his clothes.

Michael, for the first time ever, walked over to his mother-in-law, touched both her shoulders, and brought her to his chest.  He whispered in her ear that he knew he was a jerk all these years, and that if they all get out of this situation safely, he would do everything to make things better.  Mrs. Mitchell looked up, and with tears still in her eyes, she asked him to be careful, and to stay out of harm’s way.  She kissed him on the cheek, and said with a shred of humor: “you might want to dress up more often, Mike, you actually look good”.

Barbara was standing in the corner, watching the exchange, thinking how happy she was to see two of the most important figures in her life come around.  She always knew it would happen, but why the hell did it take so long.  And why was there a need for a crisis to make it all happen.  But she let those thoughts dissipate knowing that she had other things to do at the moment.

Looking at Michael, Barbara realized that he was looking too much like himself.  After all, Michael Moore was not a stranger to many.  He was an accomplished scientist; he published papers, and lectured in conventions and symposiums.  Indeed, the clothes would be far from matching his public persona, but the face needed to be changed.  Barbara remembered that she read once in a Jeffery Deaver book that eyebrows were the most noticeable feature of the face and that changing them would achieve the most radical change in any face.  She took for cotton puffs out of her mother’s bathroom and stuck them deep in Michael’s mouth between the top back molars and the gums, she tweezed his eyebrows to make them thinner and slightly more curved, and she glued a narrow moustache used in last year’s Halloween party on his upper lip.  As a last touch, she made his eyebrows slightly lighter, and used an unnoticeable amount of blush powder throughout his face.  The result was nothing short of staggering.  Indeed, seeing Michael at this point would probably trigger the feeling of familiarity in people who see him every day.  To complete strangers, he would look like a distinguished scientist, who obviously made a name and probably some money to himself.

They had to agree on entry, exit and extraction protocols.  Michael was given an untraceable no SIM pre-paid cellular phone to use.  She had another.  She started to talk, Michael was listening intently.  She was the more practical of the two of them.  He always trusted her, and he was going to again, this time with his life.

Barbara’s plan was simple.  She would drop him off in front of the convention center and park in a side street near by.  As soon as he gets in, he would text a message to her to indicate he was in position.  He would not draw any attention at all.  All he needed, she said and he agreed, was to understand two things.  The first and obvious was to see how involved he was in the murder investigation.  The second and not so obvious was to see who was going to speak for his friend Arthur Lewis.  When she mentioned Art’s name she made a face.  Michael asked for the meaning of the face and was answered that their long lasting friendship never contributed anything to him.  She said that Arthur was a bottom feeder who fed off of Michael’s research and reputation.  She would go on further but they both understood that the time and place were wrong and the fact that the man was dead implied that the friendship and professional relationship was over as well.  A mental not was taken by both to discuss this topic again when the time was right.

Barbara said and Michael agreed that when he had the information he needed, he would text another message asking for a pickup and then he would quietly leave the convention center.  She repeated the last instruction and he agreed again, indicating some impatience.  Last before they left was a short discussion with Beatrice Mitchell, who assured them that she wouldn’t let anyone on board, and that she would leave the marina at any sign of trouble.  “Don’t worry” she said, “everyone here knows me here, yet nobody knows this boat.  We will be safe”.  The couple left the boat and went ashore.  Michael was dropped off in front of the convention center.  Barbara parked not too far.  Right in front of her an unmarked car had stopped, a nice looking man with a good suit left the car and walked over in the direction of the convention center.  “Good evening Madam”, he said, and continued walking before she had a chance to respond.  Good manners in Boston, she thought, is this the same Boston we’re living in?

Posted in History of the World | 1 Comment »

25. December 2009 by admin.

Previous Chapters

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

David Garfunkel, Garf, emerged out of the subway station in Braintree.  He took all possible measures to shake the people who were following him.  He looked around and saw nothing out of the ordinary.  He crossed the street, waiting patiently for the “Walk” signal to show up.  He was walking slowly, enjoying the fresh air, looking around for trouble.  He was wearing a baseball cap now.  Not that he was a fan of the Boston Red Sox, but he figured blending in would cause no harm.

Garf walked into a small pizza parlor a few blocks away from the subway station, said a lazy “hi” to the attendant and walked to the back.  He knocked on a door and it was quickly opened and closed behind him.  They hugged, kissed on the cheeks, and then on the lips.  The polite hello became very passionate very quickly.  Garf pushed his friend gently.  “Please save that thought, we need to talk first”.  The disappointment wasn’t hidden very well, but his friend was anxious to hear what was going on.

Garf knew Alfredo Bello from his undergraduate studies in MIT.  Garfunkel was very task oriented and goal directed.  He started his engineering classes right away, cheated on most of his pre-requisites, particularly the literature, arts, and “light sciences” classes.  He never attended, nor did he ever bother to complete his homework assignments and papers.  He traded everything for computer programs he wrote easily.  On a few occasions, he modified some test results on the school computers.  He didn’t think it was a capital offense.  Freddie took his time.  He wasn’t really sure what he wanted to study.  Since he never really had to work for living, he decided to have some fun in school.

While it took Garf three years to complete a four year engineering program, Alfredo, or Freddie took eight to graduate with an Electrical Engineering degree, not before he finished a full blown pre-med program.  They both graduated with honors, Freddie on both programs.

Freddie was a fellow hacker, who unlike Garf didn’t stop at redirecting satellites and probes, or cracking open government websites.  Freddie was a “computer criminal” by all standards, a convicted felon, who already did time for stealing credit records from a major bank.  If they only knew, Garf thought, what Freddie was really up to.

Freddie Bello, was out on parole, and was keeping a low profile.  He was pretending to be working at the family business, a small Italian restaurant.  The Pizza Tower, a cool name for a pizza place, was probably the only legitimate family business of the large Bello family.  The family, although not identified with the Mob, the Italian Mafia, was a very organized business.  It had hierarchy, rank, and plenty of shady businesses around town.  Freddie grew up as an outcast in the family, as he was the first and only one who actually liked going to school.  He didn’t smoke cigarettes or anything else, didn’t drink, and didn’t pay attention to girls.  He was always leaning towards men.  For an old school Italian family, being homosexual was shameful.  Obviously, he was not the only gay Italian man.  But quite possibly he was one of the most vocal ones.  Freddie and Garf were dating a while back.  In retrospect, it was way more than dating, they had a relationship.

Freddie wasn’t always welcome by his immediate or extended family.  He had a college degree, he was a scholar, and he was gay.  It was quite an uncommon combination.  One day, a relatively senior member of the Bello clan got in serious trouble with the police.  Alberto was charged with laundering money.  The main evidence in the file was some off shore bank records.  Freddie overheard a discussion between Alberto and his lawyer.  He went back to his computer, and an hour later, miraculously, the records were gone.  The case closed a few days later.  The official reason was lack of public interest.  The Bellos were happy and for two good reasons.  Alberto was off the hook, and Freddie was uncovered as a possible asset to the family.  The lazy bastard with the college degree was after all very useful to a family living on the edge of the law.  He gained respect, and the jobs and money followed.  The police followed as well.  Alfredo Bello was marked as a key member in a crime family.  It was somewhat inconvenient, but as Freddie knew already, it wasn’t all bad.

Garf sat down and so did Freddie.  While they both knew there was some unfinished business to take care of, they consciously put it aside for the time being.  Each of them, in their own special way was professional.  And in their lines of business, different as they were, professionalism was everything.  Their friendship went way further than their relationship.  They looked at each other.  Garfunkel spoke first.  He told his friend that to the best of his knowledge, some Federal Agency was after him.  He wasn’t sure which one.  He also told him about Arthur Lewis, showing him the front page of the paper.  He spoke openly and freely.  He told his Freddie that the deceased guy had paid for his services decoding some strange patterns of letters.  He said that he had a strong feeling that something was going on.  He had no idea what.

Freddie listened quietly, occasionally asking questions.  Garfunkel described the first meeting with Arthur Lewis, the

Finally, when Garfunkel was done, Freddie asked to see the patterns.  Garfunkel took a laptop out of his backpack, waited patiently for the thing to go through the boot sequence, entered some complex number-letter combination as password, and put the disk in the drive.  The drive was making the usual whirring noise at the end of which the operating system brought up dialog box apologizing for not knowing to read the disk format.

Garfunkel opened a terminal window, and typed a few commands.  He mounted the drive and used some hacking program to bring up the contents.  Slowly, nicely, in order, long sequences of letters showed up on the screen.  They consisted of four letters, four letters only.  A, G, C, T.  It was meaningless for Garfunkel.  But for Freddie Bello the meaning was very obvious.  His eyes widened.  He looked at his friend and said: “I don’t know what we have here, but one thing is for damned sure”.  He took a deep breath, looked closely at his fingernails, and continued: “it may cause some really powerful people to come after you”.  Garf sighed and said “I think they are on my tail already”.

Freddie suddenly became cheerful.  “Enough work”, he said, “time for food, drinks and fun”.

They left the small room and entered the pizza joint.  Freddie mentioned that the menu was an American menu, but the chef, if we can call him that, was actually Italian from the Old Country.  Alfredo whispered a few words on the chef’s ear.  A minute later he was holding a six pack of Birra Moretti on one hand, and Garfunkel’s hand on the other.  The two friends headed to the booth farthest away from the door.  There was a lot of catching up to do.  Strange letter sequences were not discussed.  It was well after midnight when the two friends were finally exhausted.  The beer and the good home-made Italian food, made them both forget the reason they were together.  Freddie was the one who touched down first.  “You are sleeping over of course”, he said as a matter of fact.  Garf was way too tired and scared to go home.  He was grateful that he had someone to share his problems with.

They went home, which was a couple of blocks away.  It most certainly was one of the safest places in entire Boston that night.  Freddie, just before leaving the restaurant had told his father’s right hand that extra security is needed for the night, and that his friend was a fugitive from the Feds.  Phone calls were made, friends were asked to come over, the perimeter around the Bello residence was extended to four blocks on each side.  Garfunkel thought it was kind of funny to use his friend’s Family to avoid the law.  Then again, he thought, it wasn’t that funny.  In the guest room, in clean sheets, wearing fresh clothes, Garfunkel finally fell asleep.

Freddie took the pack of disks and left for his study.  There was a lot of work ahead.  He wasn’t about to waste it on sleep.  He was a trained biologist and a computer hacker.  Freddie knew that he had a reasonable shot at cracking open the coded combinations of DNA he saw on the disks.  He went over to the study and sat in front of the computer.  The terminal window was still open, still showing the sequences they were looking at the night before.  Freddie started to look at the combinations.  The first step, he thought, was to look at the defining frameworks.  He looked around using complex parsing algorithms, and realized that the data was clearly divided to individual segments.  Each segment had a unique beginning, and the end was denoted by the beginning of a new one.  Each segment had multiple occurrences, each of the later occurrences contained all the earlier ones, and a newly introduced additions.  The sequences were clearly describing history in the sense that each “story” included all previous ones.  He concluded that he was looking at multiple organisms at different points in time.  Freddie had no means of understanding how significant was that conclusion, and how true.

And then, on a hunch, he realized what he was looking at.  Junk DNA, or whatever it was called these days, was a sequence of nucleic acids not responsible for synthesizing protein, and hence, had no part in defining life.  Junk DNA was a relatively esoteric scientific area.  Few grants and second class scientists took part in understanding that area of the DNA.  It was assumed that since it took no part in the creation of life, then it wasn’t an interesting topic.  It was correct, thought Freddie, until now.

It was almost morning.  Freddie made himself a double espresso and had a day old bagel with it.  He picked up the morning paper from the front lawn, while cursing the paper boy for throwing the paper into the thorny rose bushes, again.  He opened the paper and saw a large picture of an unfamiliar guy.  Dr. Michael Moore, the headline suggested, was missing.  The DNA researcher was missing following the murder of his friend and colleague, and the police had asked the public to help finding him.  The body of the article spoke about Michael Moore, his area of expertise, his past and present research projects and his accomplishments.  Freddie’s heart stopped for a split second.  Junk DNA was written all over the place.  He went to wake Garfunkel up.  A person was missing, and they had to get to him before the police do, and before anyone else does.

Garf was groggy and tired.  He didn’t sleep well on the unfamiliar bed.  He needed a coffee, a cigarette, and a shower.  Well, the coffee and cigarette were arranged rather quickly.  The shower would have to wait.  The computer was on, DNA sequences flashing.  Freddie quickly told Garf about his discovery, the historical junk DNA sequences on the disk he was analyzing.  He then mentioned the missing scientist Dr. Michael Moore.  He then searched the web for Dr. Moore.  He found quite a few entries.  Most of the entries were about his past researches, his professional associations, grants and prizes.  But on the second page of results there was a mention of the Annual Computer Hacker Convention where Arthur Lewis was giving the keynote address.  Strange, thought Freddie, where’s the connection?  He copied the link for the convention and then went to investigate the link between Arthur Lewis and Dr. Michael Moore.  Google suggested there was one.  It was not readily obvious, but in one document, they were both mentioned in connection to a grant they were given to research Junk DNA.  What do you know, thought Freddie, Google has the answer to everything, all you need is some common sense and a typing finger or two…

“There you have it” said Freddie to Garfunkel.  Let’s think about our strategy for tonight.  We are going to town.  Many people will be there.  Many don’t like me, many are looking for you, some may have killed Arthur Lewis, and some will be looking for Dr. Michael Moore.  Some may want to have a terminating conversation with him.  We must find him first.

Posted in History of the World | 1 Comment »

18. December 2009 by admin.

Previous Chapters

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9

Fire, fear, enemy, predator, cold, cave, full moon.

The sun was up, and the city of Boston was waking up to a new day.  The street was getting busy with workmen.  Newspaper distribution people, people who needed to report to work early, joggers, grocery carrying trucks.  It was busy enough for nobody to pay attention to the lonely man, shivering just outside the Nova Research and Exploration Laboratory.  The man was reading the morning paper paying close attention to the front page.  He was looking around to see any activity.  He knew he wasn’t much of a spy or detective, so he was trying to describe to himself what he would expect if there was some kind of activity that would jeopardize his plan.  Police cars, marked and unmarked, parked around would be a good indication.  There were none that he could see.  Most of the parked cars were empty, and those that weren’t, were commercial, being loaded and unloaded.  People that were out of place or out of context could be another indication.  He couldn’t spot any.  He even looked up to see if there was anything suspicious.  Again, there was no indication of any activity.  He calmed down a little.

The lab main gate was shut.  He walked over and used his badge to get the door open.  The door buzzed gently and the lock was released.  He pushed it in and walked into the hallway.  He made sure the door was shut behind him before he disarmed the alarm system.  He forgot to do it a few times, and knew how awkward it would get if the private police called and started asking for passwords.  One time, shortly after that password had been changed, he forgot to disarm the alarm system coming in.  When they called and asked for the password, he gave the old one.  Ten minutes later, the place was swarming with private police officers and uniformed cops.  He certainly didn’t want that to happen this morning.  The door shut behind him, the alarm system disabled, and no apparent activity, he was on his way to the place he spent most of his time in the last ten years almost.  He knew that his time was short, but he also knew that chances are that this would be his only chance to get anything out of the lab.  He wanted to be in and out quickly, and at the same time he wanted to take everything he needed.  One more thing, he thought.  His visit at the lab should not be readily obvious.  Of course, he knew, his badge registered, and so did the disengagement of the alarm system.  Still, he knew, if nothing else was suspicious, nobody would dig into the badge reader logs or the security camera files.  At least not anytime soon.

Michael Moore walked in, and was immediately flooded with a feeling of familiarity.  He quickly looked at the coffee corner, the Xerox machine, and the small kitchenette.  He looked around and realized that he was going to miss this place a lot.  Fifteen seconds later he was at his office.  He unlocked the door.  The computer was irrelevant, he thought.  All of the files were on the server and its attached storage array.  Just recently, the lab bought a brand new an IBM Blade Center, and attached to it a Dual Rack XIV system.  It was a state of the art configuration.  But Michael was a particularly meticulous researcher.  He had all his files backed up on disks.  External hard disks and DVD media were his preferred choice for back up.  The reason was simple.  It was always easier and took less time to recover from data loss using media.  There were two small disk cabinets next to his bookcase.  He took all the disks into his bag, and right away replaced them with brand new media.  A first glance would suggest that nothing was touched.  Obviously, further investigation would yield that all disks were empty.  But, he thought, hopefully by then, he would be far away.  Michael turned his computer on.  Months ago, Art told him that he had to have means to delete all the data off the servers and the storage arrays.  Michael had no idea how one would go about ensuring the deletion of data from network attached servers and storage systems.  Art didn’t know either.  The difference between the two was that Art knew how to get it done.  He never mentioned a name, but one day he showed up and told Michael to install a script on his PC.  The script, Art said, would look for all the files related to his experiments and delete them.  It will delete them in a very pervasive way, ensuring all bits were set to zero, on the server, on the storage array’s primary data bank, and also on the secondary data banks if any existed.  In fact, the script was smart enough to install itself on the network, and identify the set of files even if they were introduced to the network in the future.  Michael brought up a terminal window and typed “delete -911 –all –exp*.*”.  The local disk drive started to rotate.  Michael hoped that Art knew what he was doing.

He looked around, and decided to leave all his diplomas, prizes, framed published papers behind.  Screw it, he thought, dead people don’t need recognition.

There was one other thing he didn’t want to leave behind.  Roger was a rabbit, but he was also some kind of pet, and even a friend.  But he knew that taking Roger would provide a very clear clue to whoever might come after him.  Roger would have to stay.

Michael shut the light, locked the office door, and went over the hallway to the main gate.  He armed the alarmed system, open and shut the front door and was gone into the morning sun.  Nobody was after him, nobody seemed to care.  It looked like his mission was accomplished.  He wanted to call Barbara and see how she was doing, but they agreed to not use cellular phones altogether.  He hailed a taxi and headed to the Marina.  If all goes well, Barbara, the girls, and Mrs. Mitchell will be there to meet with him soon.  He started thinking about his experiments.  Mike was sure that his experiments didn’t uncover anything worth killing for.  Or did he?  He started thinking about it.

He tried to separate fact and speculation.  It wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be.  Junk DNA wasn’t junk after all.  That was a fact.  Junk DNA was changing overtime.  That was a fact as well.  Modified junk DNA found itself in sperm cells, and moved on to descendants.  These were all facts.  Speculating about how the changes occurred and the contents of the changes was clearly speculation.  Michael was after all a scientist.  He was trained to look at data, and try to understand what was the evidence buried in the data.  Sometimes, he knew, it leads to nothing.  But other times, it was a gold mine.

Michael Moore tried to organize what he knew so far.  He was good at making lists, so he made one in his mind.

1.    Organisms are born with a certain amount of DNA that takes no part in synthesizing proteins.
2.    Junk DNA of an organism contains all patterns of its father before conception.
3.    Junk DNA changes over time.
4.    Some information is recorded in junk DNA over time.
5.    Based on the last experiment, the one Michael communicated to Art, trauma was registered in DNA very quickly.  In fact, it took less than two weeks for certain cells to show the modified DNA throughout the body following the trauma.

He thought about it.  If there was a way to interpret the data recorded in the DNA, it would provide a peek into the experiences the organism went through during the course of their lives up until the moment the DNA was extracted.  Michael continued to think.  It was established, that organisms carried a precise copy of their father’s junk DNA, and that the experiences split afterwards.

There were so many questions to ask.  How long of a history is recorded?  What kind of events is recorded?  How does one go about interpreting the patterns?  That would take plenty of computer work, he asserted, and then he figured something out.  He remembered that Arthur, his flamboyant friend asked him to prepare disks with data he was able to collect, before and after trauma.  He never asked Art what he was doing with the disks, and who was looking at the data.  Michael knew that there must be somebody out there who was familiar with the data.  He knew that a certain person have an idea of how to interpret the patterns.  Someone who is probably in danger, and who can probably help a lot in understanding what was going on.  Michael had to find this person and talk to him.

Mike took a deep breath, but the next thought took out all the air in his lungs in a gasp.  Yes, he thought, if this speculation was even close, it was worth killing for.

The possibilities were vast.  Was it possible DNA has developed a way to register events and experiences?  Assuming that this was indeed the case, there was a lot of work ahead trying to interpret the kind of events registered, how they were expressed, and the mechanism to encode and decode them.  Should we expect really old events to be registered in the DNA?  How old?  What if, Mike thought to himself, there was a two billion years worth of historical record written in our DNA?  What if we could actually see evolution history in words or pictures?  What if the human genome was the minor part of the DNA exploration?  What if we put resources in trying to understand our origins inside our bodies rather than outside the Solar System?  What if?

Mike was so overtaken by those thoughts that he almost missed the unfamiliar car that pulled over across the street.  Barbara, her mother and the two girls came out of the car.  He was about to step out of his hiding place when he saw a strange man coming out of the car.  They all crossed the street and headed for the marina.  Mike had no idea who the man was, and whether it was safe for him to follow them all to the boat.  He was weighing his option and then he saw Barbara signing with her right hand.  She was making an “O” sign with her right hand, connecting the thumb and the index finger, spreading the other three fingers like a peacock tail.  He was pulled back ten years.

He knew they were safe.  He knew the man could be trusted.  He walked silently behind them.  They entered the marina and walked over to the north side where “Lady” was parked.  They were carrying two small bags.  Michael waited for them to board the boat. He waited for five minutes, looking frantically in all directions.  A man was unloading the day’s catch from a small boat; another was cleaning the deck of a large yacht.  All activities around him seemed to be in context and unsuspicious.  A flock of seagulls crossed the sky at low altitude struggling with short and cold gusts of wind.  He looked around one more time and started to walk to the boat.

Walking slowly, looking around on occasion, Michael made his way to Lady.  The ramp was short and steep, he climbed it carefully.  At the top of the ramp he stopped, looked around one more time and went onto the deck.  There was nobody there.  He was surprised.  He was sure he’d seen them board the boat.  He checked again, but “Lady” was certainly printed on the small rug at the end of the ramp.  Michael has only been on this boat only, and he wasn’t very familiar with the ins and outs of the vessel.  Then Michael heard a short whistle.  He turned around, his heart beating fast.  A small opening on the floor revealed the face of Barbara.  He went over, the opening fully opened, and he stepped into a staircase leading down to the engine room.  The cover closed and Barbara led him to the main cabin.  It took a minute for his eyes to get used to the dark.  He squinted, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw Barbara, her mother, and the girls.  Stephanie and Diane were obviously very excited.  Barbara and Michael hugged each other, the girls; giggling, joined the family hug.  Beatrice Mitchell was standing close to her daughter’s family.  She let out an audible sigh and joined the family hug.  At that moment, she felt after many years, that her son-in-law was a family man.

Michael couldn’t speak for a while.  He was pale and unshaven, and he looked shaken.  He sat down on a sofa and said: “some tea would be really nice”.  Beatrice, who knew the boat very well, turned around and put up an electric kettle.  Soon enough they were all sitting around the breakfast area having tea and biscuits.  The girls were watching a DVD in the main cabin.  There was some tension in the air.  The two women looked at each other, and Barbara started.  “Michael, please repeat everything you said to me for Mom”.  She added “Mom knows some really powerful people around town and elsewhere, and we need some help here”.

Michael started to tell the two women all that happened to him in the last day or so.  This time, he was telling the long version.  Beatrice Mitchell’s were wide open when he was talking about Arthur Lewis, and then even wider when he was talking about his discovery and its possible implications.  When he concluded Mrs. Mitchell said that for the time being, he should stay off-shore.  She said she needed to make a few phone calls.  Michael looked at his wife for a second.  She responded by saying that Mom was using a “dead” phone, and that there’s no way that phone would be traced.

Michael and Barbara went to the main cabin and watched Dora with the girls.

Michael was reflecting on the last twenty four hours.  He was never a hero, never a fugitive.  He never got in trouble with the police, not even with the IRS.  In twenty four hours, his friend and colleague were murdered, he had to run away from his own lab and then break into it.  In the last twenty four hours, he had lost access to his home, and so did his wife and children.  His life turned from certainty to complete chaos.  He wasn’t sure what he needed to do next.  He did know that he needed some time and possibly some evidence before he could go to the police and convince them that he had nothing to do with his Arthur Lewis’s murder.  He was shaken, he was tired, and the only good thing was that he was reunited with his family.  Although, he thought, one never knew for how long.

He then remembered that Arthur was supposed to speak at the Massachusetts Convention Center that night.  The Computer Hacker Convention started the evening before, and Art was giving the keynote address.  Michael Moore knew right away that he would have to attend.  He was hoping that among all the participants, one would shed some light on the death of Art Lewis.  He told Barbara about his plan.  Barbara as expected said that he was out of his mind.  She said that the convention itself, even under different circumstances, was a bad event to attend, given most of the attendees were in trouble with the law anyway.  She added that the police would also attend undoubtedly, and that various organizations who had any knowledge of the research would show up trying to either put their hands on the results, recover some of the investment, or try to get rid of anyone standing in their way.

Michael had to agree with her.  But she caved when he said that this was his only way to be exonerated.  She didn’t like it, but had no other suggestion.  He agreed to go in disguise, and he also agreed that she would go with him.  Also in disguise.

Posted in History of the World | 3 Comments »

5. December 2009 by admin.

Previous Chapters

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8

Ocean, hunt, danger, predator, clan, hunger, fight.

Michael Moore ordered a full stack of pancakes.  Barbara had the Western Omelet.  She always thought that sweet things tasted sweeter when preceded by some salty food.  Michael didn’t care much for sweets, but Barbara couldn’t live without it.  That did provide some explanation why Michael looked in shape while he never worked out at all, and why Barbara looked a little chubby even though she spent hours at the neighborhood gym.  He had a black coffee, which he could compare to absolutely nothing.  Mike was a coffee connoisseur, who had his own espresso machine at home, and a coffee dealer who was selling him only the “best beans in the Northern Hemisphere” or so he said.  He knew people who were saying that coffee is mainly taken for caffeine, and that the flavor was irrelevant.  “Nonsense”, he would exclaim.  “Flavor is everything”.  Following this statement he would go for a thirty minute lecture about the history of coffee, the origins, the chemistry, traditions, and folklore.  That particular coffee tasted worse than the one served at the student lounge in the local community college.  The pancakes, though, were absolutely spectacular.  The sleepy waitress wasn’t very excited when he asked for more maple syrup, as the small can of that sweet sticky substance was almost finished.

Barbara was pecking at her omelet, separating the red from the green peppers, putting the green aside.  She ate a little, only enough to move on to what she was really after.  The short stack was short, but more than sufficient.  She knew that too much sweet would really present a challenge to her reasonable figure.  She had orange juice, and finished off with coffee.  She didn’t like coffee at all, and rarely drank it.  But she knew that she would need to be on her feet for some time, and she that she needed to stay fresh.  She gulped it down, and poured some more.  She didn’t use sweetener at all.  She figured sugar was out of the question, and the aftertaste of the artificial sweetener was terrible.  On occasion, she used honey to sweeten tea, but coffee really had no cure.  It was bitter, concentrated, tart, and not so pleasant on the taste buds.

They were sitting across from each other.  She noticed it, because when they started dating and long after that, they always sat next to each other in restaurants.  Both Michael and Barbara were very physical.  They exchanged hugs and kisses during dinners, and on occasion even touch each other under the table.  She remembered some times when they left the restaurant in a hurry, and completed what they started at home.  That morning, she knew, was no time for fooling around.  They both knew it of course, but she was still wondering what had happened to the fun loving couple they used to be.  But then she remembered that when they met, he wasn’t fun loving at all.  It took her weeks and months to change him from an individual into a half of a couple.  She looked at him.  He was cold and unshaven, a wrinkle formed on his forehead.  He was obviously missing a coat.  In this weather, a man without a coat would look suspicious.  This must be fixed as soon as possible.  He was a handsome man, in his own special way.  She felt the three months old ball in her stomach melt.  Was it possible that she could have been more attentive?  Should she have listened more?  Should she have insisted on him sharing his thoughts and discoveries with her?  Was he lost?

The tears were coming up to her eyes.  She knew she wouldn’t be able to keep from crying.  Michael lifted his eyes up and saw the tears forming in her eyes.  Large, wet teardrops were going down her cheeks.  She was sobbing.  “Hey baby”, he said.  “What’s up with that?”  It took her a minute to get herself together, and all she could do was to whisper: “I’m sorry”.  He got up, sat beside her, moved the hair off her forehead, wiped the tears off her eyes, kissed he passionately on the lips and said “it’s all my fault”.  They looked at each other and without a word, hugged and kissed.  They both realized that they had each other, and that was good news.

Many things needed to be done.  Many things needed to be done soon.

Barbara was the one who started to speak.  She first looked around, made sure that there was nobody in listening range, including that shabby looking waitress, and then started making her points.  She started with the facts.  A person was killed, she said.  That person was Michael’s friend and colleague.  He was killed minutes after Michael broke the news to him about the latest results of his research.  The girls were with their grandmother, at their home, and they must be out of there quickly.  Barbara had a plan.  She looked Michael in the eyes, and suggested that she would go to the house; get the girls, some clothes, passports and some stashed away money.  Michael will wait downstairs in disguise.  If something suspicious happened, he was to warn Barbara, but not with a cellular phone call.  She suggested a simple pattern Mike was to blow the car’s horn with, in order to sound the alarm.  If something goes wrong, Michael was to drive to the summer home without her.  She would stay behind and take care of the girls.  If all goes well, they will drive in two cars to the summer home.  Grandmamma will stay with the girls in Vermont, while Barbara and Michael come back to Boston to understand better what was going on.

Michael listened intently and silently.  He looked disturbed.  He only had a couple of problems, he said.  He didn’t like the idea that she would put herself and the girls at risk, while he would stay free to wander around.  She dismissed it and said that he had the best chance of solving the puzzle and resolving this mess.  He knew his research and the people involved.  He had access to all the computers and networks and to the results.  He was in a much better position to get the family out of this.  Michael concurred.  There was no arguing with Barbara at that point in time.  She had won this debate, and he knew it.  Two changes, he said, needed to be made.  The summer house is known to be a family asset.  It was also two hundred miles far.  Instead, he asserted, they could use the yacht.  It was new, just recently bought, and the paper trail will probably not lead to them at least for some time. The boat was well equipped with food and drink, had plenty of room, plus it had another very significant benefit.  Mrs. Mitchell was a certified skipper.  If need be, they could take off on minutes notice.  The other change was that they had to go to the lab too.  He said that once the police would make the connection between Arthur Lewis and the research, they would show up at the lab and take everything.  Mike needed to save the data, copy it, and have it available, so they could continue the search for the truth.

Barbara looked at him with a strange spark in her eyes.  That spark existed many years ago, but hadn’t showed up for months, maybe years.  “You know”, she said, “I needed to be reminded why I married you”.  “You may have just done that”.  She smiled at him, and said: “I missed you”.  He didn’t have to answer.  But he said it anyway: “I missed you too”.

Barbara suggested that Mike would go to the lab right away, while she would go home and fetch the girls, her mother and the other things they needed.  They agreed to meet at the marina three hours later.

Barbara asked for the check, calculated the tip and left a little more.  She tried hard to not be remembered.  Leaving no tip or a ridiculously large one made people remember.  They looked around to see they haven’t forgotten anything behind, and left the restaurant.  They drove quietly to the motel, and entered the room.  They showered, together, laughing and teasing each other.  It’s been a long time since they had any physical contact, but they seemed to have remembered all the moves and touches.  Soon enough they were in bed, kissing, touching.  Each remembered why they fell in love with each other.  Each regretted the months of separation, both accepted that if they want to survive this, they have to stick together.  Together to the point that only a couple with children knows how.  Two people who share the most precious possession together, realizing that this possession was in danger.  It wasn’t said out loud, but they both felt that their bond was renewed.  It felt as if they renewed their vows in church.  In a way, it felt stronger than their first wedding.

When it was all over, Barbara looked at her husband’s eyes, and he looked back at her.  After the physical part, the mental one followed.  They were in love and they needed to be reminded of it.  They had a purpose and they had lots of things to do.  They realized that without the commitment, they stand no chance.  They haven’t yet realized what the danger was, but they did know that it was something a lot bigger than what each one of them could handle separately.  They knew that together, their chances of surviving this were tenfold.

“Off we go”, said Barbara.  “Lets”, answered Michael.  The Moores kissed and were on their way.  Michael hailed a taxi, Barbara took her mother’s car.

Posted in History of the World | 1 Comment »

3. December 2009 by admin.

Previous Chapters

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7

Enemy, territory, hunt, safety, home.

Detective Jones knew he was missing something.  He just finished going through every single piece of paper confiscated at the home of Mr. Arthur Lewis.  Utility bills, magazine subscriptions, one wedding invitation, credit card bills, bank notes, driver’s license renewal form.  There was a large box of what seemed to be some scientific research notes and results.  There was nothing out of the ordinary.  One more pass and he knew what he was looking for.  A VIP invitation for some computer hacker convention was stuck to a magazine subscription.  The convention started the day before at the Massachusetts Convention Center.  Arthur Lewis was the keynote speaker; his speech was planned for tonight.  Detective Bradley Jones had no idea who would make the speech in his stead, but he knew that that person would be a good lead for this investigation.

The autopsy report was on his desk.  Jones was thinking about the results.  There were no surprises there.  Or were there?  Arthur Lewis died of massive head injury followed by brain hemorrhage.  It was a quick, yet messy way to die.  The entry wound was small, the exit wound large.  In fact, it left quite an amount of grey matter on the carpet and the wall behind.  The killer shot him once.  No cartridges were found.  The single bullet was found stuck in a painting frame on the wall across the hallway, and was determined to be home made.

The gun model was relatively uncommon.  The Glock 38 45GAP Semi Automatic, was the preferred handgun for concealed carriers, the Glock was light, accurate, and not bulky.  He was wondering if this gun was already in the databases, but had a hunch that it would come up clean.  Whoever this guy was, he was a professional.  Someone who took the time to pick up the cartridge, clean up after himself and disappear into the night was no amateur.  Jones thought that perhaps the person had a history in some law enforcement agency, the military, or worse, with the Feds.  All in good time, he reminded himself, all in good time.

A junior uniform came in and handed him the ballistics analysis of the gun.  He sighed as he realized that he had guessed correctly.  The gun was clean.  There was no record for this gun.  It was as if it was never made.

He looked again at the box, hoping that something will get his attention.  There was nothing.  Then he saw something shining at the bottom of the box.  It was a disk.  Jones took it and put it in his computer.  After some whirling and rotations, the computer declared that the disk was formatted in an unfamiliar way, and it was spat out of the drive with no further notice.  An empty disk was not a great find.  Jones knew better.  He took out his phone, speed dialed a number, and two minutes later a young looking guy, with round glasses and an earring walked in.  He took the disk and walked away without saying as much as a single word.  Jones didn’t expect him to.  But both knew that if there was a byte written on that disk, it will show up in no time.  Boris Lazofsky was a young, brilliant and lazy enough computer wizard, that working for the police force was a reasonable substitute for the thrill of a startup.  Jones thanked his lucky stars for sending him this unmotivated genius.  Boris needed lots of management attention, and at times, mostly Mondays, management needed to look the other way.

Detective Jones was always a policeman.  His father and his two brothers were on the force also.  One of his sisters in law was on the payroll as well.  Being a detective was his childhood dream.  His father tried really hard to open up other areas of interest for him.  Bradley, or Nicholas, as his father called him using his middle name, was good in math and sciences, and he was a good athlete as well.  He graduated high school with honors and won a scholarship for undergraduate studies.  He chose criminology as his major, and added psychology as a minor.  He always thought that in order to be able to catch criminals, one needed to think like one, to feel like one.  He thought that evidence without motive doesn’t get convictions.  He thought he would change the world.

Once he joined the force he realized that changing the world was indeed ambitious, and quite possibly impossible.  He decided to change the Boston police force, and then, a couple of years later, he decided to concentrate on the detective department, in his own precinct.

He was familiar with computers.  He thought that everyone living and working in the twenty first century must be acquainted with computers.  In fact, he thought, inability to understand how computers work, what software could do, was a disability, a handicap.  In his team, there were staff members who developed a computer phobia.  They insisted that a good police officer needed a good mind, a notepad, and a sharp pencil.  He disagreed.  When Jones took command over the detective department of the Boston 12th precinct, he made sure that all staff went through mandatory computer training and workshops.  He insisted that all case reports and summaries are submitted printed neatly in hard copy and in soft copy as well.  A mutiny was underway, but Detective Jones defused it by an all hands meeting in which he committed to the department staff that using computers would significantly enhance the department’s accomplishments and capabilities.  He asked them to give him six months.  He promised that if after six months they came to him and said that their work is not benefited by the use of computers, he would reverse the change.  He promised that after six months, nobody would be forced to use computers..

What happened was nothing short of a revolution.  The rate of solved crimes shot up in less than a month.  The average time necessary to solve a crime was reduced significantly.  The department was commended by the mayor, on multiple occasions, and even the news media was supportive.  And supportive media is quite unusual indeed.  The staff came to him long before the six months were up and told him that he had their blessing to continue his small transformation.  He didn’t need more than that.  He went and hired Boris, who was perfect for the job.  Boris was making a reasonable salary for a reasonable effort.  Given his background and capabilities, financial stability with predictable hours were something close to heaven.  Boris was a startup refugee.

Until he was hired by the Boston police department, Boris was a junior programmer with a computer startup company owned by a computer whiz who thought he could change the world with his invention.  He was articulate enough to sell his ideas to a couple of venture capitalists who trusted that the man will bring them billions of dollars in return.  The company never took off, although its founder did indeed.  He drove a Lamborghini, owned a house in Cambridge, and was always surrounded by top models.  He certainly had the good life.  Boris felt as though he was working his ass off, so that Mr. Lamborghini there could enjoy a new lifestyle.  When the offer came from the Boston Police Department, he didn’t think twice.  He quit that same day, and joined the force.  Thankfully, he didn’t have to wear uniform, but he did have to go through basic training, holster a gun and a badge.  Boris was a good cop, and with Detective Jones’ plan to revolutionize the Detective Department of the 12th Precinct of the Boston Police, he was finally in the right place on the right time.

Lazofsky adored Jones.  When they met, Lazofsky was very close to giving up altogether.  Years of software development in startups made him bitter.  Having to send a large portion of his salary overseas to help his family, the endless work, the late nights and weekends, the angry customers, all that made him ask the big question: “where was this leading?  When will it end?”

Lazofsky was ready to leave it all behind when he literally ran into Detective Brad Jones.  Jones was investigating a murder case in a downtown businessmen lunch joint.  The kind of joint where very busy businessmen come and pretend to have a quick lunch and rush back to the office to continue pretending to be working hard.  One of the waiters was murdered one morning, during lunch rush.  The police showed up really quickly, and closed the area hermetically.  Boris happened to have been there, grabbing an ordered lunch for himself and three co-workers.  He was holding his bag of food, heading for the door when he heard a few gunshots, followed by a short scream and a commotion.  He was pushed hard by someone wearing a capuchin.  Boris didn’t see the guy’s face; in fact he couldn’t even tell if he was a male or a female, black or white.  He could tell that he was about 5’8” and slim build.  Question by Detective Jones yielded that data three minutes into the interview.  But Jones saw something else.  He saw a young man, unshaved, long curly hair, glasses, and a really sad look.  Jones asked Lazofsky where he lived, and what he was doing for living.  Lazofsky was vague at first, but very cooperative shortly after that.  Jones saw an opportunity.

Jones described the department for Boris.  He told him about the work – trying to find patterns where none apparently exist.  He described the satisfaction felt when a case is cracked open.  He explained that done right, computer software can and does contribute immensely to police work.  Jones could see that Boris’ eyes lit up.  At that point, Jones took out a business card and told Lazofsky to sleep on it, and to call him when he was ready to talk business.  The call came the next morning.  The rest was history.  Lazofsky became the computer guy with the detective department of the Boston Police Department.

Jones had plans for that night.  He was attending a convention.  He had to go air out his good suit.

Posted in History of the World | 1 Comment »

22. November 2009 by admin.

Previous Chapters

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6

Hunger, thirst, safety, offspring

David Garfunkel, “Garf” to his friends, Barf to his enemies, went to the ATM in the corner.  He typed his PIN and asked for his balance.  He was getting ready to put a big smile on his face.  The number showed on the screen, a couple of hundred dollars and change, and the smile disappeared before it even formed.  That son of a bitch, he was thinking.  That Art Lewis had promised him twenty thousands dollars for his work.  He finished the work, but there was no phone call, no email.  Nothing.  And the money was never transferred either.  He looked at the numbers again, and decided that he had enough for junk food and beer for the next few days.  He made up his mind to start worrying about it in a few days when he runs out of money.  In the meantime, he thought, there were things to do.

Garf was a computer whiz from the number one whiz maker – Massachusetts Institute of Technology – MIT.  Like many of his friends, and he had quite a few, he didn’t particularly care for software engineering, testing, quality, and other overhead.  He only cared about getting new problems to solve.  Challenge and livelihood were synonyms for him.  Without the challenge of cracking open problems, solving them not only in theory but in reality as well, he was lost.

It was most unfortunate that the Federal Government, as well as a few other governments around the globe thought that his activities were criminal.  He really didn’t understand what the fuss was all about.  He wasn’t like some of his pals who were doing time.  He didn’t empty out bank accounts, didn’t fake cellular phones.  He didn’t even give himself better grades, not that he needed any.  All he did was helping the government a little.  He started reminiscing about the time when he realized that some NASA probe was going to get in the wrong orbit of some planet.  So he hacked into the server, corrected the really simple calculation, and the probe smoothly went into orbit.  What did he get in return?  A couple of Feds showed up with a white Ford LTD Crown Victoria and scared the living daylights out of his mother.  What ungrateful SOBs.  He was looking for viruses everywhere.  In some places he was asked to do that, and was paid handsomely, and in others he just did it out of good will and patriotism.

Over the years he had developed a signature.  Every server hacked, every website cracked open, was left with a souvenir.  A small souvenir signed by Garfunkel.

He figured, the morons would never figure out that there was a signature in the first place.  He was wrong.  They might not be the best and brightest, but sure enough they were able to open a hidden file in the kernel.  The Limbo dancing snake was a nice touch, he thought back then.  He learned the lesson though.  From that day on, he religiously used a triple anonymous site mechanism, which gave the Feds zero chance of retracing him.  It’s been years since he had any interaction with the Federal Government.  He was scanning his battery of computers every day, he wrote special kernel programs to see if anyone was pinging him, sending him Trojan Horses.  He hasn’t seen any in a couple of years at least.  He felt safe.  Safe enough to meet with this clown Arthur Lewis, or whatever the hell his name was, and work for him.

He didn’t really know what he was doing for Mr. Lewis.  All he knew was that every other day or so, Arthur would show up in his basement, with an envelope containing a few DVDs.  Lewis would hand over the DVDs quietly, and in return take an envelope with a couple of printed documents Garf had prepared for him.  It was an easy enough job.  It didn’t take a whole lot of time, and it left Garf with plenty of time to do other hack jobs, but mainly, he had enough time and plenty of money for his real hobby – drinking.

Garf withdrew eighty dollars, and went back to his car.  He still had some work to do, and payday or no payday, work needed to be completed.

He was contemplating the problems he was working on for this Mr. Lewis guy.  Garf was a genius.  He rarely needed more than a few minutes to understand the problem.  He often took less than an hour to form a solution in his mind, and a couple of hours more to implement it.  Most of the time, he actually improved the algorithm while writing the software to solve the problem.  His algorithms were clean, short, self explanatory, and concise.  Algorithms, a set of instructions given in pseudo code, have a notion of performance; depending on the number of times an instruction is performed to solve the problem.  Finding the largest number in any list of numbers is order of magnitude of the number of elements on the list or O(N).  Common sorting algorithms perform at O(N2), better ones perform at NLogN.  Mr. Garfunkel was notorious for finding algorithms which performed an order of magnitude better than the common algorithms.  He won quite a few prizes for improving test book algorithms.  He thought it was a silly game.

But Mr. Lewis asked him to look at a different kind of problem.  He was asked to crack a code.  The more he thought about it, the more it seemed that he was looking at an Enigma.  The mechanism the Nazis had used in WWII to encode and decode messages from Central Command to their operatives in the field.  He was looking at combinations of letters, four letters, trying to find patterns, trying to make sense of them.

He was making progress, but not knowing what he was looking at, he was at a disadvantage.  He mentioned it to Mr. Lewis a few times, but Mr. Lewis always found a way to dodge the questions.  Lewis promised him that he was better off not knowing the source of the data.  He didn’t buy that, but he didn’t know of a way to get the missing information.

He opened the car door, but just before going in, he turned around and into the convenience store at the corner.  He bought a six pack of Heineken and the Daily News and went into the car.  An unmarked police car was parked across the street, with two cops in plain clothes.  Amazing, he thought, they really think they are undercover.  Garf never thought much of the police, but this was outstanding, even for them.  He started the car and drove home.

The unmarked police car was two cars behind.  His mind was already elsewhere, he was crunching numbers, or rather patterns of letters.  His mind was barely noticing the traffic lights and signals.  He was thinking about algorithms and beer.

He stopped at a traffic light and took a quick look at the paper’s headline.  He swallowed hard when he realized that the photo on the front page was Arthur Lewis’.  He almost lost it when he realized that the guy was dead.  His mind started to race.  What the hell?  Who was Arthur Lewis?  The light turned green, and the driver behind him blew the horn impatiently.  Instinctively he looked in the rear view mirror, and knew he was in trouble.  That undercover Crown Victoria was in pursuit.  The subject seemed to have been no other than him.

Well, he thought, here’s a puzzle to solve.  His sharp mind, now assisted by a full blown adrenaline rush started to think.  First, he though, he had to shake the tail.  He started driving, and at the same time turned off his cellular phone and took the SIM card out.  A minute later, a new SIM came out of his wallet and found its way into the old Nokia.  This SIM, he well knew, would never surrender his location.  Eavesdropping would be anywhere between extremely difficult to impossible. The technology was relatively simple, yet few owned it.  Garf was an expert in cellular technology.  Not the cumbersome devices, but rather the technology of taking communication packets, as shipped by the device to the nearest cell, and then most likely to the underground cable, heading in the direction of the target device – whether a land line or another cellular phone.  Garf planted a Trojan horse virus in all of the national carriers that were serving his area.  The Trojan was dormant, waiting for a single event to wake it up.  That event was about to occur.

Garfunkel dialed a sequence of numbers, sixteen digits long, and waited.  “Welcome” said the voice, a synthesized voice of Start Trek Seven – the dissimilated Borg, and Homer Simpson, the famous cartoon character, “please enter a number and then the pound sign”.  He thought it would be a nice touch.  He dialed a number and a groggy voice said “what the hell?”.  Garfunkel said to the person on the other end of the line that he needed help, and the person said: “one hour, usual place”.  Garf was thinking how easy this was.  All that needed to be done is for the Trojan to identify his call, to strip his identity off the packets coming in, and directing them forward.  If someone was to trace the call, they would be very surprised to learn that the call came from within the White House.  A further investigation would lead to a Federal Government communication switch somewhere in Avenue K, and after that a very large variety of airphones, traveling back and forth in 30,000 feet altitude.  There was really no way to trace the calls and he knew it very well.  Plus, he thought, it was a really neat puzzle to all those nine-to-five people working for the Government, most likely in Virginia…

He had an hour to shake the tail.  He made a right, and an immediate left.  Then he made a quick U turn and another left.  He was speeding away, when he realized that the tail was gone, but another one showed up.  Now he knew, he was in deep shit.  If the new one was Fed, then it must mean that they really want to talk to him.  If it wasn’t, then that would spell a completely different order of magnitude of trouble…
Looked like plan B was up next.  Garf made a few quick turns, ran a couple of red lights, went up the wrong way in a one way street, and then, next to Cleveland Circle, he parked the car nicely in a parking lot, paid for a week in advance and went down the stairs to the subway.  He took the Green Line to Park Street.  Before he switched to the Red Line, he walked around, went to the bathroom, bought a piece of candy.  He kept his eyes open for unfamiliar people trying to blend in, who was miraculously everywhere he went.  When he realized that there were none, he boarded the Red Line and went all the way Braintree.

Posted in History of the World | 1 Comment »

14. November 2009 by admin.

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5

Land, hot, fight, safety.

Michael and Barbara were driving north on Interstate Highway 95.  At first they had no idea where they were going.  They knew they had to get away from the city, but they had no idea where to go.  A close friend and a colleague was dead under suspicious circumstances.  A successful experiment might have had something to do with it.  The scent of uncertainty was in the air.  Michael knew it was time to come clean.  Softly and confidently, not waiting for the questions, he started to tell her.

He was choosing his words carefully, and she was listening attentively.  Before he even started, he knew that he was driving with the single person whom he could trust.

He described his first experiment, in which Roger’s aged DNA was proven to be just as effective in synthesizing protein as his brand new DNA.  He told her about the anomaly he found with the junk DNA changing overtime, and how he really didn’t think much of it.  But her eyes widened when he was describing the later experiment.

The experiment was really simple, he told her.  Michael made an effort to use laymen’s terms.  He knew it was no easy task with Barbara.  She was extremely sensitive when she felt she was being patronized.  She did have scientific training, of course; after all they did meet in that lab.  But his training was way beyond.  He had to use scientific language to avoid the sensitivity, and at the same time use laymen’s terms so she could really get a grasp.

Michael went through the experiment.  He described how he took frozen sperm cells from good old Roger, and created a rabbit embryo in the lab.  He also took newer frozen sperm cells from that liquid nitrogen tank named Roger and created another embryo.  Lastly, he took sperm cells from the living organism named Roger, which didn’t seem to mind, and created yet another rabbit embryo.  Two weeks later, when the three embryos were a few thousand cells strong, Michael harvested some cells and compared the DNA.

Barbara paid full attention.  It was still dark outside, and she was driving over the speed limit.  He made a comment about it, and she slowed down.  Then she made that little motion with her index finger, which he correctly interpreted as please, go on.

Michael said that the results of the experiment showed clearly that there was a pattern.  The first embryo was used as the bench mark.  The second, made of younger DNA, had an addition to the junk DNA, right where the pattern ended in embryo number one.  The third embryo’s junk DNA had all that the first two had, and an addition.  The addition was right where the previous one ended.

Michael had repeated that experiment on numerous organisms, multiple times and multiple embryos.  The results were always the same.  There was a clear junk DNA progress over time.  It looked as if something was getting written on the organism’s DNA over the course of its life.

Barbara pulled over.  Michael, she knew, was brilliant.  But he was very naïve.  She concluded that he was conducting the experiments correctly, like the scientist he was.  She knew that he was meticulous, and made no mistakes.  She figured that he repeated the experiments many times over, documented them all, and looked time after time for errors, in the process and in the interpretation.  She knew that his statement was error free.  She knew that he made an extraordinary discovery.  She suspected that he had no idea what he just stepped on.  She thought that he was so innocent, that he really was finding it hard to figure that the connection was clear.  He made a discovery, his friend was murdered, and in her mind it became very simple: whoever killed Art was coming after Michael.

She didn’t know why exactly, she didn’t know who.  She did know, however, that the people who were after them were not the negotiating type.  She also knew that they were vulnerable.  Going back home at this time would have been too dangerous.  When she considered it further, she realized that they had to go home.  They had to retrieve their passports, some cash, and other things.  Otherwise, she knew, they would be cornered and caught.  She had no idea what was at stake at this point.  She hadn’t had a clue what they were after, and whether they would leave them alone if they get what they want.  There were many questions, few answers, and the morning was around the corner.

She spoke clearly and chose her words carefully.  Barbara told her husband that she was forgiving him for his behavior in the last few months.  She said that she would have expected that he would have shared his discoveries with her, but that was irrelevant now.  She pointed out to him that there’s a good chance that they were being sought by some very powerful people or organization which will most likely stop at nothing until they get what they want.  First order of business, she explained, is to get mother and the girls to safety.  Second order of business is to get cash, passports, and make a few phone calls to people she could trust.  When he frowned, she said that her godfather, a person who owed his life to her dead father, was a person she was ready to trust with her life.  He accepted.  For the first time in their marriage, he accepted the fact that the events required someone that he simply wasn’t.  He was grateful that Barbara was there with him.

Michael and Barbara went out a few more time before she understood that if she didn’t make some kind of move, the relationship would simply remain mental, and the physical part would never arrive.  She put together a plan.  One night, when they were walking back to her place, she said that she took the liberty to book a hotel room in Vermont for the weekend.  Michael was flabbergasted.  She thought he was going to choke.  After some time he pointed out to her that he had a lab watch shift over the weekend.  She told him that she took care of it.  One of the other Ph.D. students would replace him.  He was looking lost, and she assured him that they would have a good time.  She knew a small French Bistro in Montpelier where they could have dinner and listen to some live music.  They could sail in the lake, and they could take walks.  Michael accepted.

They left for Vermont on Friday afternoon.  The drive was spectacular.  It was that time of year when the leaves get dyed in all shades of red, orange, yellow and green, to form this amazing crazy artist mixture of colors.  It was autumn.  They checked in, and as they entered the colonial large room, Michael understood that there was only one bed.  Indeed, it was huge, but still, one bed.  Barbara turned to him, and started a conversation.  He was obviously tense, and as they both knew, tension doesn’t add a whole lot to a relationship about to move to the next phase.

She boiled water and made some tea.  He was obviously calming down.  Barbara excused herself and went to the bathroom.  When she emerged from the bathroom, Michael’s eyes went wide.  She was beautiful.  She was wearing a short negligee; and her long legs were showing through, the shape of her nice firm breasts showing through.  But she was wearing something else.  She was wearing something that was not made of fabric.  It was made in heaven.  She was wearing a new look.  She looked at him with a look that brought him back thousands of years.  He was experiencing the very fundamental feeling of a man about to know a woman in the biblical way.  The effect on his body was obvious, in an embarrassing way.  He excused himself and went to the bathroom.  The stream of hot water, and the impression of the woman he just saw, made him climax.  He was devastated.  He took his time in the shower, and when he was done, he came out wearing a bathrobe.  Barbara was sleeping on the bed.  She wasn’t covered.  Her robe was half open.  She was breathing slowly.  He took a few steps closer.  He could smell her scent.  The scent of cleanliness mixed with sexuality.  He was aroused in a minute.  He stepped back and tripped on her shoe.  The noise woke her up, and all she did was smile and open her hands to him.  He didn’t need a more explicit invitation.  The robe went in a second, and in another second he was in her hands.

They started exploring each other.  They were touching, feeling, learning.  They were kissing gently and hard.  He made her feel like a queen.  She made him feel like a man.  When he entered her, she gasped and looked him straight in the eyes.  He kept his eyes open while he was moving inside here.  It didn’t take long, but neither he nor she ever flinched.  When climax came, they were looking each other straight in the eyes.  The look that surrenders everything was shared between them from then on.  Later in their relationship, one could always know that something was wrong with the other by that look.  They realized what Barbara had already known: they were a couple, and they are going to make a long lasting commitment to each other.

Michael Moore eased himself out and rolled over.  His eyes were wet with tears.  He finally found something he never knew he was looking for.  He guessed correctly that it was love.

“Mike”, she said, “stop dreaming and give me your Blackberry”.  She turned the device around, shut it off, and took out the battery.  She did the same with her phone.  Curious, Michael asked her what she was doing, to which she answered “we must get off the grid for a while”.  “Do not put the battery back in until I tell you to do so”.  They both knew that he wouldn’t think of it.

Barbara started the engine and they kept going for a while, until they hit a motel on one of the side roads.  The kind that asks no questions when they see a couple of adults paying cash.  She asked for a room away from the elevator, and near the emergency exit.  It seemed that the attendant, apparently a university student working the night shift, couldn’t care less where this couple would be staying or what they came to do.  For as long as they pay in advance, they could stay in the basement.

When Barbara asked, the clerk pointed at a Denny’s just a few hundred yards down the road.  Neither of them was hungry, yet eating was clearly the right thing to do.

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8. November 2009 by admin.

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

Light, food, predators.

Stephanie woke up and Diane followed a minute later.  The called for their mother, instead, their grandmother showed up.  They loved grandmamma, but they were much less enthusiastic to see her now rather than their own mother.  It was almost dawn, and everyone was really tired.  The girls asked where their mommy was, and before Barbara’s mother could answer, they were fast asleep again.

Mrs. Mitchell, though, was very far from being able to fall asleep.  Her mind and heart were with her daughter and her strange son in law.  She had no idea what was going on, and that was not her style.  She was used to knowing everything.  She was used to knowing things that her husband, for example, would roll in his grave had he known she was aware of.  She was a quiet powerhouse kind of lady.  She was always involved in the lives of her two daughters, but not in the pervasive way other mothers were.  She was listening and observing.  She was analyzing and advising.  But she never intruded.  She was involved to the degree she was asked to be involved.   Over the years, as it turned out, she was quite involved in her daughters’ lives.  After her husband passed away, she made herself even more available to her daughters, and in a strange way, she was more involved in her son in laws’ lives as well.

She knew that her daughter wasn’t very happy lately.  She knew it had something to do with the long hours Michael was working down at the lab.  She looked down at the girls, who were sleeping peacefully, and thought about her daughter and her husband.

Beatrice Mitchell was not very fond of her son in law.  When Barbara and Michael first met, she was happy that her daughter finally stepped out of her shell and pursued a relationship with a man.  Indeed, he wasn’t to her liking.  He came from a middle class family.  That in itself was enough to dismiss the guy.  But there was more.  He seemed to have been somewhat uncomfortable in the company of other people.  She couldn’t really point it out, but Michael was avoiding eye contact, and always resorted to a weak handshake rather than the two cheek kiss practiced by her family.

Beatrice Mitchell had a strange feeling that Mr. Moore was after her daughter’s inheritance.  When her husband died, he left behind a small fortune.  A trust fund was set for Barbara and Nancy, and a very nice amount was left for her.  Her husband, may he rest in peace, was a life loving person.  All his life he gave lots of money to charity, helped friends in trouble, and invested very conservatively.  He worked hard and partied hard as well.  He owned a yacht, in fact, he bought it just before he died, and he made sure that both he and Beatrice would be certified skippers.  He loved taking the boat out on sunny Sundays; throw an anchor just a couple of miles of shore and fish for hours.  He insisted that fun would always be part of their lives.

It was easy to accept.  Fun loving attitude along with the funds to support it were a very good combination indeed.  Beatrice Mitchell was afraid that her daughter would get hurt by fortune chasers.  She always encouraged her daughter to be selective, and to choose carefully who she was dating.  Unfortunately enough, Barbara was so choosy that she dismissed all attempts to seek her company.  Her sister Nancy was the other extreme, she loved men, and she loved their awkward attempt to hide their real intentions, whether it was scoring a one night stand or a fortune.

To her complete surprise, Barbara really opened up to this guy Michael Moore.  Out of fashion and awkward, Michael Moore was not chased by many women.  In fact he was chased by none.  But as it turned out, Barbara opened up to this strange guy, and for the first time, it was obvious, she was head over hills in love with a guy.  She had relationships before, but they didn’t mean a whole lot, and they ended shortly after they have started.  This guy Michael though, was sticking around.

After some time, Barbara learned to accept him.  After all, he was brilliant.  Her good friends at Harvard, the recipients of many donations, told her that he had a great future ahead of him.  And since she had seen no disrespectful behavior towards her daughter, quite the contrary, she reluctantly approved.

When they had married, Beatrice still thought that it wouldn’t last.  She even said that to Barbara.  It was a big mistake, as Barbara was giving her the silent treatment for weeks.  But after Stephanie, her older granddaughter was born; she knew that this relationship was meant to last.  Life with Michael around was calm and relaxed.  He didn’t care about playing golf with business associates, nor did he lose his head over a miserable investment.  He didn’t have many friends, and drinking was certainly not a problem.  Beatrice started to think that Michael was not such a bad choice for a husband after all.

And then he started working late.  After months of being absent, the smile was erased from her daughter’s face, and even the girls weren’t as cheerful anymore.  When Beatrice brought up the topic with Barbara, she was met with an iron wall.  She refused to say anything.  All she was volunteering was that this is a tough period, that her husband was involved in some really groundbreaking scientific experiment, that he was busy beyond belief, and that this period like all others will end.  Beatrice, with no other option, accepted.

Barbara, unlike her older sister Nancy, was not very outgoing.  She was always a good student.  She was always keeping out of trouble.  She had a couple of close friends, whom she kept many years after graduation.  One of them, Rebecca, lived in Boston.  Mrs. Mitchell made up her mind, that if she heard nothing from Barbara when the morning comes, she would call Rebecca and see if she knew anything about this strange sequence of things.  She took another look at the sleeping girls.  They were peaceful.  Stephanie was sucking on her thumb.  They were so cute, she thought, and her only grandchildren.  She knew that she would stop at nothing to protect them.  When the morning comes, she knew, she would have to run some errands.  The family vault would be the first stop.  The family lawyer would be the next.  Rebecca Forrester would be last.  She knew, though, that if her feelings were correct, many other errands would have to be run.  She had a couple of hours before getting the girls dressed and taking them to school.  She wasn’t worried about clothes and other necessities.  The girls spent many nights over.  They had their clothes, dolls and toys at her place.  They were no strangers.  In the meantime, she thought, it wouldn’t hurt to sleep a little.  She closed her eyes, recited her mantra, and thirty seconds later she was sound asleep.

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5. November 2009 by admin.

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3

Death.

Detective Bradley Jones was surveying the crime scene at the luxurious apartment building downtown Boston. During his tenure with the Boston Police Department, he’s seen quite a few murders already. He had a much better than average record of solving murder cases, even really tough ones. He already knew that this new case will not be simple.

The deceased was a scientist and a businessman. He didn’t have a criminal record, not even a speeding ticket. He lived well, dressed well, and had a reputation for dating pretty, young, and mostly rich women. The neighbors heard nothing, the doorman saw nothing. There were no signs of struggle, no evidence of foul play, except of course the dead man.

One shot between the eyes usually carried some significance. Arthur Lewis was not connected to the Mob, not as far as the police records showed anyway. This shooting was not a warning, it had no message, and it was terminal. The man had no known enemies, he wasn’t married, and if he had family, it was very far away. No doubt, Detective Jones though, this case will be interesting.

He spoke briefly to the crime scene investigation technician that was collecting evidence, and gave him a few instructions. “Look for a safe deposit box, bring every piece of paper with you to HQ, all computers, hard drives, CDs, DVDs”. The guy asked if he should bring music CDs and movie DVDs as well. “Yes, moron”, he spat, “bring anything you even think can serve as a data storage device to any kind of data”. He added some instructions about looking into the closets, possible fresh fingerprints on dishes, signs of forced entry, and finally, cellular phones and car keys.

This was no crime of passion, thought Detective Jones. The guy met his assassin next to the elevator. He must have known the murderer, as there were no signs of struggle. Mr. Lewis must have been on his way to some social function given his attire. Art was in some kind of a rush and had to leave in a sudden, given that there was a half drunken cup of coffee on the kitchen counter.

Assassinations of businessmen and scientists were not very common. Murders of businessmen, who happened to have been scientists as well, were almost unheard of. Detective Jones, who has been with the police force for many years, did recall a similar incident, a couple of decades ago. There was a lot of money involved then, and a couple of women. It was an easy case, and he solved it in no time. This one was different. Unless some women and a bunch of money would present itself during the investigation, this one may prove as a new class of crimes in Boston Greater Area. Detective Jones, of course, was the right man for the job. He was experienced but not too old. He was highly motivated, but not vindictive. His cases were usually clear cut, evidence was presented, juries were convinced, and they were convicting. His conviction rate was way over ninety percent, and the isolated cases were acquittals were dealt, were ones were the DA screwed up somehow. Hung jury was not on his list.

His new assistant, a brand new graduate of the police academy, and the daughter of someone or other, was interviewing a neighbor. By the puzzled look on her face, Detective Jones concluded that she was on to something. He opened his sports jacket, removed his hat, and walked over to the other side of the room. He introduced himself, nodded his head to the neighbor, and listened while the guy was voicing the usual displeasure over the crime committed right under his nose. Not atypical, he also said something about where the world was heading these days, the behavior of youngsters, and the uselessness of the police force. Detective Jones kept his poker face, until the speech was over, and then started questioning the neighbor on his own.

“Did you know the deceased?” he asked. The person had said that he met Arthur Lewis in the elevator a few time. “Nice guy”, “very polite”, “European”. Detective Jones despised people, who thought European was a synonym to good manners, charm, and good taste in food, wine and women. Personally, in his line of work, he had met quite a few people of European decent, who were far from polite, and their taste in wine, women, and anything else for that matter was ridiculous.

“Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary recently?” the detective inquired. “No” said the man, “there was nothing unusual”. “Is there anything at all you think we should know?” he asked. The answer was negative. Detective Jones was ready to start reciting the thanks and the good byes, when the person said that he did see something unusual that involved Arthur Lewis. In fact, he added, at the time it looked very peculiar. “A delivery guy from some restaurant showed up one night and knocked on the door. He was wearing the uniform of some fancy downtown restaurant”. Detective Jones was getting ready to move on, but then he heard the man say “you would expect a food delivery guy to be carrying food, wouldn’t you?” “Well”, he said, “this delivery guy was empty-handed”. Detective Jones was now fully engaged.

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28. October 2009 by admin.

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2

Fear.  Danger.

Michael was getting cold.  Boston in the fall is not exactly tropical.  He felt regret for leaving his raincoat behind in the lab.  He was trying to think what could possibly be the connection between a scientific experiment, its conclusion, a phone call, and a death of a friend and colleague.

Art and he agreed that until the experiment’s result are conclusive; there will be no word to the press, or to anyone else for that matter.  He knew for sure that he kept his part.  He hasn’t told anyone.  In fact, he never even told Barbara.  Perhaps he should have, he was thinking.  But did Arthur keep his side of the agreement?  Was it possible that Art opened his mouth and got himself killed?  But why?  Why would anyone kill over the results of an experiment?  Yes, what he found was groundbreaking, it was outstanding.  But still, the role of junk DNA isn’t exactly cure for cancer?  Is it?

Michael started to play the sequence of events in his mind.  He was hoping that he would find no connection between his dead friend and his experiment.  He was hoping that his friend was killed in an act of random violence, a robbery, or more likely, that Art was in some financial trouble over his gambling habits, or a really upset lady friend.  He knew that Art was no saint, but it was much easier for him to believe that the death of his friend was unrelated to their relationship or their work.

He was trying to think about the experiment.  Years ago, in one of his failed experiments, Michael found out that aging DNA was still synthesizing correct protein molecules.  But the very same experiment showed also, that new DNA showed changes in the junk areas.  In fact it was obvious, that the old patterns which looked random were suddenly more ordered.  At the time, Michael dismissed it as random changes.  Since those changes were inconsequential to the formation of cellular structures, he didn’t see this discovery as important.  It always bothered him though.  What if the changes were not random?  What if the changes were reflecting changes in the organism?  What if changes in the DNA were caused by an illness?  Was it mutation?  Scientists always believed that DNA remained constant during the course of life of all organisms.  Is it possible that this assumption was incorrect?  Were these changes moved on to the next generations?  This thought alone was mind blowing, but at the same time, some was relatively simple to prove or disprove.  Michael actually proved it, and more, in his first experiment.

In the old failed experiment, Michael discovered changes in junk DNA over time.  He assumed that mutation was responsible for the changes.  Sun rays, ultraviolet radiation in the lab, chemicals, maybe even cellular phones.  He didn’t that even with all factors reduced to nothing, change still took place.  In fact, he proved that even weeks apart, junk DNA still changed.  Not by much, but still, there was a traceable change from one sample to the other.  Weeks apart, significant DNA change.

Later on, Michael repeated the experiment with other organisms.  He tried the same with microbes, monkeys, guinea pigs.  The results were all the same.  Junk DNA showed traceable changes in all organisms overtime.  No exceptions.  He even did something mildly unethical and tested his own DNA, only to show the exact same results.  There was no doubt, junk DNA was changing overtime with no apparent reason.

Michael knew at that point that there was something out there.  He also knew that for as long as he was living and breathing, he will be looking for the answers.  He also told Arthur.  He told Arthur for two reasons.  Arthur was the pragmatist between the two of them; he would know what possible applications this discovery could have.  In addition, Art had friends.  Art had access to funds.  He had access to lots of funds.  Art could actually mean the difference between resources to run experiments, instruments, lab animals, assistants, and nothing at all.  Art could spell success much better than he could.

In retrospect, Michael should have known that something was up when Art turned atypically silent for quite a few minutes.  In fact, he didn’t speak at all for some time.  He ripped a couple of pages from a lab paper block and started scribbling.  When he was done he said one sentence only.  He said: “Mike, I will get you all you need to run the experiments, and you will tell nobody about this, not even Barbara”.  Michael complied.  Well, until today.

It was raining slightly, and it was getting colder.  Michael Moore was shivering ever so slightly.  He was thinking about Barbara.  The sound of a siren was heard in the distance.  An old man was taking his old dog for a walk.  Most people were sleeping.  The sound of a slowing car was heard.  Michael tensed in anticipation, but it wasn’t Barbara.  He was getting nervous, cold, and as he was just realizing, hungry.  Across the park he could see a large car driving slowly.  It was an SUV.  He was almost ready to dismiss it as some drunk, and then he looked again.  Smart girl, he thought, when he realized that Barbara was smart enough to take her mother’s car rather than her own.  Just in case, he thought, we need to disappear for a while, whoever knew them would look for either his Toyota or her Chevrolet.  Nobody would look for a black Mercedes SUV, brand new with all the additional features most only dream about.

He came out of the dark, walked over to the park corner.  Barbara saw him right away, slowed down, and waved.  He opened the door and jumped in the car.  “Drive” he said.  “Where are we going?” she asked.  “Anywhere”, he answered, “quickly”.

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