WP

Chapter 2 - Free at Last

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

March 28, 2014

A/N: Thanks all, for the reviews and alerts.

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Charlie sighed, straightened, rubbed his neck, and glanced up at the clock as Dr. Clark Simmons muttered, "Lost track of the time again. I think we missed dinner."

"Yeah," said Charlie. The clock read seven-ten; it looked down on the large open area filled with desks and computers where the residents spent most of their days. It was windowless, lit by overhead fluorescent lighting, and it was easy to lose track of time. He glanced back down at the computer screen in front of them, where he'd been standing, leaning over Clark's shoulder. "I think we're close."

Clark yawned. "Well, I've had enough for one day. I'm gonna go nuke my dinner. We can finish this up tomorrow. They don't need it for three weeks yet."

"Sure," said Charlie absently, still gazing at the screen, then roused himself, picked up his folders, and made for the hallway that led to his room, as Clark stretched, rose, and did the same, heading for his own room via a hallway in the opposite direction. "See you tomorrow."

Clark's grunted, "Good night," followed him out into the hallway, as Charlie trudged toward his room. Evenings were generally the worst, although he tried to keep his mind occupied by work on his own projects. In fact, he had two thick binders sitting on the desk in his room at that very moment – both completed – one entitled Cognitive Emergence Theory, and the other, Mathematical Modeling of Subatomic Particles with Associated Impact of Dimensional Significance. He had been working on his Cognitive Emergence theory for years, and his analysis of the behavior of subatomic particles, with a radical concept that involved relative size of bodies as a fifth dimension and could possible be a first step toward a Unified Theory, had been started shortly after he came to the Tank, as the residents called it. Each of them had the potential to be significant groundbreaking work – one of them alone, if successfully defended, would define a mathematical career as brilliant, and he planned to submit both, if he could conjure up the courage to do it.

The fact was, they had been reviewed by no one, not even his colleagues at the Tank.

They were too personal, somehow; too much was riding on them. Charlie was recognized among his peers at the Tank, and also among the echelons of the more secretive government agencies, but his life in the public eye had vanished when he'd gone into WP. He was no longer an active faculty member, although he'd been promised that his position as head of the Mathematics Department at Cal Sci would be there when he returned. That promise, however, was becoming more tenuous the longer he remained in hiding – the agreement was only good for seven years, and he had already been in WP for nearly five. His two papers, therefore, had assumed a monumental significance – they represented his one chance to achieve a lasting place in mathematical history. Like any other significant theories, in order to be recognized, they had to be submitted to the mathematical and scientific communities, and be evaluated, disassembled, poked, prodded, turned inside-out and reassembled, and then attempted to be proven or disproven before they would be accepted as legitimate.

When Charlie had been in the outside world, he'd had a better sense of how sound his theories were – how well they'd be accepted. Oh, in the Tank, he had access to the publications of others, he kept up on current events via computer, but he missed out on the forums, the meetings, the face-to-face discussions with colleagues, the rumors; the buzz. He hadn't realized how important that networking was, how much impact it had on his ability to determine where his research might stand. He thought his work was sound, in fact, he thought that both of his publications were significant, but it was hard to tell how they might be received. Perhaps his name had faded away to such a degree that they wouldn't even be noticed, wouldn't even be read. All of those thoughts had made him reluctant to take the final step, to submit them to the Intelligence Committee that governed any publications that came out of the residents of the Tank. The Intelligence Committee had oversight over any communications coming in and going out – firstly, for the safety of the residents there, and secondly, to make sure that none of the letters or published material contained classified information. Charlie was certain that neither of his publications would be an issue in either sense, and so he knew that once he sent them on to the Intelligence Committee, they would be approved to be sent out, and he would have no more excuses for delaying their publication.

He reached the door to his room, pressed his thumb against the recognition pad that read his thumbprint, and the door lock clicked open. He'd always thought that bit of security ridiculous; if a resident broke into another resident's room and stole something, where would they go, after all? The system had been the brainchild of a bored resident, years before Charlie had arrived, however, and it was easy enough to use, so no one bothered to complain. He left the door ajar, picked up his dinner tray, which had been left in the hallway, and carried it in, setting it on top the microwave for later. It was common practice there to deliver the meals of residents who failed to show up to the dining hall at the regular mealtimes. Then he stepped over to his desk, set his folders down, and picking up the two binders, turned and went out, shutting the door behind him. Taking a deep breath, he walked down the tiled hallway toward the elevator.

He took it to the third floor, and nodded at the guard stationed in the hallway as he got off the elevator. The floor was nearly empty at that time of night, but there was still a light on in the Intelligence office. Just his luck – he'd run out of a last feeble excuse. He knocked lightly; then pushed open the door. An attractive, slender woman of about forty looked up at him from her desk. "Dr. Eppes," she said, smiling. "What can I do for you?"

"Dr. Greene," Charlie said politely, inclining his head. "I have two works for publication and submission in the mathematical community. I need to have them reviewed and cleared by the Intelligence Committee." He stepped forward and placed them on her desk, fighting the urge to snatch them back and run out the door. "If they are cleared, there's a list attached of the institutions and individuals who should receive a copy."

She beamed at him. "That's wonderful, professor. You've been working on these for quite some time, haven't you?"

"Yes." Charlie's voice cracked a little, and he conjured a smile.

"Very well, we'll handle it, doctor, and I'll inform you when they pass the review."

Charlie nodded and backed out of the doorway with one last longing look at the binders on her desk, then closed the door. The moment of truth had arrived. He'd lost everything when he'd entered WP – his family, Amita, his freedom, his post at the university, his work with his brother at the FBI. All he had left was the chance to fulfill the destiny that had been set for him since he was small – and that destiny sat in the two documents on Dr. Greene's desk. Their success was more than just a matter of pride; deep down, in the dark recesses of his mind, lurked the fear that he didn't even consciously want to recognize - that their failure would take away his only remaining reason for living.

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Mike Jacobs, Director of the DEA, looked up from his desk, weariness chased from his face by the hurried entrance of four men, who were preceded only by a brief knock.

"Sorry for the interruption at this late hour, Director, but we have a situation," said his second-in-command, Assistant Director George Pembleton.

Pembleton was accompanied by three senior analysts, all of them specialists on the Mexican drug cartels who were wreaking havoc in Mexico, generating violence that was spilling over U.S. borders. "That's okay," said Jacobs, "what's up?" He moved from behind his desk as he spoke, heading toward a large table, where the group convened.

"Molina's dead," said Pembleton abruptly, without preamble, as they sat. "Members of the Espino cartel assaulted his estate tonight outside Monterrey, shortly after dark. It was all-out warfare and there were several casualties, including Oscar Molina's brother Raul, other family members, and his closest lieutenants. The whole head of his cartel was lopped off, in one hit. They're gone – after ten years of us trying to take Oscar Molina down, he was finished off by Espino."

Jacobs grimaced. In a sense, it was good news – they'd had a decent shot at putting away Molina about five years ago, until he'd left the U.S. and taken up residence in Mexico. They had continued to work on the case since, but their attempts had been confounded by corruption in the Mexican government, who ultimately refused to prosecute. Their case had been based largely on work done by a consultant, a Dr. Charles Eppes, who had nearly been killed in a hit by Molina's men. Eppes had been in WP ever since, waiting for the day that they managed to convince the Mexican government to make a joint case against the powerful Molina. In the last year or so, Molina's authority had been challenged by other cartels like the Espinos, but the DEA was still as far from eliminating him as ever – until now. "So where does that put us?"

Pembleton shook his head. "Nowhere good, really. I mean, it's great that Molina's out of the picture, but this just means that the Espino clan got much more powerful – they will in essence take his place. It really does no good for anyone."

That wasn't true, Jacobs thought to himself. The downfall of the Molina cartel did help one person. Charles Eppes didn't know it yet, but he'd just regained his freedom.

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Friday, April 11, 2014

It took only two weeks to finalize the move arrangements and do a final debriefing for the projects he'd been handling, and today, Friday, Charlie was being flown back to Los Angeles. He clutched his computer case to his chest, standing frozen in the busy airport as people swirled around him. It was too much – after the quiet, sunless existence at the Tank, the outside world was overwhelming – too much light, too much movement, too much noise. Charlie's breath hitched, and he could feel an unreasonable panic clawing its way up his insides. There were far too many people here – people who were unaccounted for, people who might have guns, people who might step out of the crowd at any moment and shoot…

"Are you all right, doctor?" asked the man next to him. He was an aide who worked at the Tank – it wasn't unusual that the residents had a hard time adjusting to the outside, and an aide was always assigned to see that they got on the plane without incident.

Charlie blinked, and then swallowed and tried to calm his breathing. He hadn't had panic attacks after the shooting – why now? 'Ridiculous,' he told himself. 'You're safe now, Molina is gone.' The aide was still looking at him oddly, and Charlie wondered for a moment if he'd said that aloud. He cleared his throat. "I'm fine," he said, in a shaky voice that belied the words. "I just need to sit somewhere quiet."

The aide got them access to a private lounge, and then went in search of earplugs. Charlie spent the rest of the trip with bits of orange foam in his ears to block out the cacophony of noise around him, trying to fight down a spiraling sense of anxiety. He felt rudderless, anchorless, as though he were free-falling.

After he was in the air, he pulled a photograph out of his pocket with shaking hands – a picture of Charlotte as a baby, with Don, Robin, and Alan, taken about two months after she was born, and then another one of Charlotte alone, taken about a year later and sent with his holiday package, which always arrived somewhere during the end of December. Although his family had Jewish roots, they hadn't practiced their faith when he was young, and their holiday celebration had been a hodgepodge of Hanukkah and Christmas customs – and the more secular ones at that. Don, although he'd begun renewing his Jewish faith in the year before Charlie left, seemed to be going the same route – embracing a mixture of Jewish and Christian customs. Some of that, Charlie supposed, was a nod to Robin's preference for Christmas.

As a result, Charlotte's more recent picture was a bit conflicted from a holiday standpoint; she was wearing a Christmas dress and holding a dreidel. They were the only pictures he had of her – the residents were only allowed packages once per year, in December, and this picture was over a year old. Charlotte's pictures had not come back from the photographer in time to make Charlie's package the last time, and in the rush to get the package out, Alan hadn't thought to include any snapshots.

Charlie wasn't even sure he'd recognize her – in that time, she'd gone from baby to toddler, and was now over three years old. He felt a connection to her; she was his namesake – Robin had suggested the name, and Don had agreed, even thought it was at odds with Jewish custom of not naming a child after a living relative. Charlie felt almost unbearable excitement at the thought of seeing her for the first time, of seeing Don and his father and Robin again, and almost unbearable fear, along with it.

Three hours on a jet was enough reflection time for him to realize the source of that fear – that he would land in Los Angles to find that time had passed him by – that he was someone who no longer belonged there, who no longer fit.

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End Chapter 2