SECRETS AND SPIES
Chapter Twenty-One
Carlisle's Story
The evening is my favorite time of day. My work is done and the computer switched off. Sitting comfortably in the sun in my Adirondack chair, there's a glass of wine in my hand and cheese on the table, and as much peace as can be found in this hyperactive city is here with me in my back yard.
Having a yard that wasn't overlooked had been Esme's only request when we were house-hunting in 1982. A home on top of one of San Francisco's many hills had been one of our solutions. When this house came up for sale we grabbed it. I'd suggested moving to the suburbs where we'd have more space, only Esme wanted to settle in the heart of the city she loved, close to the church she attended every day, and I'd been more than happy to comply with her wishes. We didn't know it at the time, but there was an added bonus in that the house had Sue living next door.
The ever-present breeze that swirls around the top of the hill is buffeting Esme's wind sculpture and contorting it into beautiful shapes. Without the relief the breeze brings, sitting in my south-facing yard on a blisteringly hot day would be unbearable. The mesmerizing patterns the sculpture makes bring back memories of the Manriques in Lanzarote; our last foreign holiday. Those perfect days are still fresh in my mind thanks to the numerous photographs I took of Esme and Edward posing in front of the sculptures and in other parts of that strange volcanic island. Smiling at one particular memory, I remember how happy we were on that holiday, but then we weren't to know what was waiting for us around the proverbial corner.
A few weeks after returning home, Esme was diagnosed and our plans for the future collapsed. I know I shouldn't complain as we had more than twenty wonderful years together, plus the opportunity to say what needed to be said including a proper goodbye, a luxury denied to many. But I still mourn the loss of the love and friendship of the most beautiful woman in the world in both looks and soul. The hole she's left in my heart will never truly heal.
I try not to think about work when I'm in the yard but the project which has occupied the last five weeks of my life, and which I've now abandoned, is still playing heavily on my mind. What was I thinking? Throughout my professional life I've tried to stay on the ethical side of progress, so how did I not foresee where this project would lead when I agreed to take over the South African lab's research? It's beyond my comprehension how short-sighted I was when I said yes to Jacques, the owner of the laboratory.
An excuse that eases my conscience is that I was flattered when those brilliant scientists approached an old codger like me asking for help. It doesn't happen often now so was it vanity and the need to prove I've still 'got it', that sucked me in? Maybe this is what blinkered me into not considering what such knowledge could do to society. Thankfully I had the Eureka moment last night and stopped before it was too late. I haven't told Jacques about my decision to walk away yet. I'll do that tomorrow. I'll be honest with them about why I'm giving up, only they don't need to know I worked out the process and was almost ready to send them the solution.
As yet another slug of wine finds its way into my glass I hear Sue opening her kitchen door. Unless she stands on wooden steps next to her fence I can't see her in her yard. She placed the steps there when Esme was alive and won't ever remove them, even though each year they look a smidge more rickety.
"Carlisle, are you there?" she shouts.
"Hi, Sue. Everything okay?"
The top third of Sue appears over the fence. She also has a glass of wine in her hand.
"Fine. I'm going to my sister's tomorrow. Will you keep an eye on the house while I'm away? I should be gone for at least ten days; two weeks max. She's had surgery."
"Sure. No problem. Is your sister alright?"
"She's fine. She had a knee replacement last week; old age catching up with us at last. She needs someone to run around after her and go with her to physio. Her daughter can take over when the schools break for summer."
I laugh as old age is certainly catching up with me. Everything aches when I get up in the morning. The only exercise I get is running up and down the stairs and sweeping the yard. I should join a gym but the thought appalls me. I suppose I could take up swimming again? I'll look into that tomorrow.
"I'm making Cannelloni; do you want some?" Sue offers.
"Yes please."
"Okay, give me an hour and come over. Garlic bread as well?"
"Wonderful. Thanks. I'll bring the wine."
Sue disappears and slams her kitchen door. I suspect she has the air conditioning on full blast. I'll take a sweater. Anyhow, that's dinner sorted. I'll take a bottle of red with me. There's a French Malbec of superior quality I've been hanging on to for a few weeks – that'll do.
As I pull myself out of the Adirondack I hear the house phone ringing. Edward usually calls me on my cell so I'm intrigued who it could be. Probably another cold-call? I pick up the line in the kitchen and say 'hello.'
"Carlisle! Just touching base to check on progress."
Hell, it is Jacques. His voice sounds different - odd. I'm sure it's him though as he's the only person I know who uses that annoying 'touching base' idiom. I'm always tempted to slap people who say it in my presence so it's fortunate for him he's over ten thousand miles away. What should I say? I'm not ready to explain my reason for ditching. Oh shucks! Just bite the bullet, Carlisle. You might as well be truthful. Now is as good a time as any.
"Hi, Jacques. I was planning on calling on you tomorrow. Look, I'm sorry if I've wasted your time but I'm walking away from the project. It's a step too far ethically for me so I've decided not to take my work any further. I think you should walk away too as this technology could easily be misused."
There's silence at the other end of the call. For a few seconds, I think Jacques has hung on me, which is effing rude. I'm still irritated though when I hear him whispering to someone else in the background, which is also rude. When he eventually speaks to me again his voice is high-pitched. Frantic would be a good description.
"Carlisle, you can't do that. There's too much at stake to give up now."
"What's at stake, Jacques? I made no promises when I took this on. I haven't received a cent from you so I don't owe you or anybody else anything. You may have made promises to another party but that's your problem, not mine."
I hear whoever it is in the background saying something unintelligible after I finish speaking. Looking at my watch I work out it must be the crack of dawn in Johannesburg so why the hell is he calling me now? I don't get the chance to ask.
"Okay, Carlisle. I understand. Would you at least send me what you've developed so far? I'll pay you for the work you've already done."
"Absolutely not, Jacques. What you're trying to achieve is dangerous and unethical. I don't want my name associated with this idea anymore."
"Jesus, Carlisle. You can't do this now."
There's desperation in his voice so it's plainly obvious to me what's happened.
"You've already sold the rights to the patent, haven't you?"
Jacques doesn't reply so I presume I'm right. Fury is building up in me but thankfully I'm the one with the power here, not these idiots in Johannesburg.
"Who've you sold it to," I ask when I don't receive an answer, which means I'm right.
"Carlisle, I'm being leaned on. To be honest, I'm scared."
"What do you mean scared? Is someone threatening you?"
"You've no idea. I sent my family to another country for safety. If we don't come up with the goods, God knows what will happen."
"Jacques, if this is your way of coercing me to keep working on it then you've failed. I'm sorry if you've dug yourself into a hole but that's not my problem. I suggest you follow your wife to wherever she is and take early retirement."
I can hear raised voices in the background only I can't make out what they're saying. Whoever it is doesn't sound friendly.
Jacques rushes the next sentence. He speaks double-speed and with his Afrikaan's accent I can't make out every word.
"Carlisle (garbled) away (garbled). Threatened (Garbled) bodyguard (garbled) don't trust anyone. You've no idea who …"
The line goes dead.
Standing with the phone in my hand as I'm too shocked to put it down, I digest Jacques' last words of warning. 'You've no idea who' … What? Who's leaning on him, or who I've been working for? With shaking hands I replace the receiver, sit down at the kitchen table and try to make sense of Jacques' words.
The lab in Johannesburg is world-renowned, and as far as I know not linked exclusively to any of the big Tech companies or controlled by any government agency. I wouldn't have worked with them if that was the case. This makes me wonder what in the world Jacques has got himself into and has effectively got me into?
I feel foolish now as I should've guessed this would happen. Jacques' outstanding work on linking the brain to a computer through an EEG machine had been reported in scientific and technology journals all over the world. Anybody who took an interest in technology must have read about it. I really must be getting old as I should've foreseen that a Tech company would work out where this could lead and decide to use strong-arm tactics to get their hands on the technology before anyone else. Why hadn't this occurred to me before last night, which was when I had my Eureka moment?
Should I call the police? I'll have to think this through before I pick up the phone. The last thing I want is to call attention to myself. I'd have to admit I was working with the South African lab, which could lead to someone in the government putting two and two together if it got out. Pressure could then be put to bear on me to create the link to give the US an advantage, and even though I'm a patriot ... actually that's wrong, it's because I'm a patriot, I don't want my government to be corrupted by having so much power in their hands.
If a foreign government got hold of this, it could cause such an upset in the balance of power it might cause a war. The temptation to use it for unethical reasons would be too great and could lead to an Orwellian existence for future generations. I want to kick myself for being so stupid. My head finds its way into my hands even though I know what I have to do, and do straight away.
Instead of taking a shower before going over to Sue's, I move the sideboard in the hall to gain access to my basement office. Down there, precise details of my work on the prototype link device are stored on three floppy discs – an ancient method of data preservation I know, only much less vulnerable to being bugged. It takes me twenty minutes to wipe each disc clean and shred one notebook that holds a hand-written explanation of my invention. Now the only record of the link I invented is stored in my brain cells and that is where it is going to stay.
My final destructive act is to booby-trap my elderly computer. I can always resurrect it with a new hard drive when all this fuss is over. Wiping the hard drive of every file doesn't take long and when I'm satisfied there isn't a trace of anything left, I leave a message on the start-up screen explaining what I was working on and why I walked away. I'm probably being paranoid, but if the worst happens to me, then hopefully whoever reads it could warn the world that this line of technology is moving too far and too fast. Whether the world listens is another matter. I'll text Edward the password tomorrow. It'll have to be cryptic though as phone messages are traceable.
After securing the office and changing into a clean shirt, I grab the Malbec and head for Sue's where I enjoy a tasty supper and riveting conversation. At our get-togethers, Sue always resurrects at least one memory of her kitchen table chats with Esme. I've learned so much about my late wife while enjoying Sue's hospitality but I do wish women would talk to their husbands more than their girlfriends. I suppose being drip-fed snippets about Esme over the years has helped me hold on to her memory and for that I'm grateful.
It's nearly eleven when I head home. My head is woozy as Sue and I polished off the Malbec with disrespectful speed before moving on to a Hungarian red with an unpronounceable name, finishing with an Irish coffee that was more Irish than coffee. A fine European tour that I'm sure I'll regret in the morning, especially as I've offered to drive Sue to the bus station in the Mustang.
As I'm searching my pockets for my house keys I notice a sedan-type vehicle parked on the opposite side of the street. The top of a man's head in the front passenger seat is just visible so it's obvious he's trying to avoid being seen. I pretend I haven't noticed him and carry on to the house where I get through the door as quickly as possible and bolt it.
Instead of watching the car from the study window, I creep up the stairs in the dark and go to my bedroom which overlooks the street. The car is still there and the man is now sitting up and watching the house. I hang back as far as possible which means I don't see where a second man appears from. My guess is he's been trying to gain access to the back yard. I'm tempted to call the police, only there's no law against sitting in a car late at night, even in this affluent part of San Francisco.
After a few minutes of contemplating what to do, I pull the drapes across the window and switch the bedroom light on so they'll presume I'm getting ready for bed. After ten minutes I switch the light off before creeping upstairs to the top floor where I can see the roof of the car but not the occupants.
About ten minutes into the stake-out my cell beeps. It's a withheld number giving me a dramatic message in capitals.
FOR GOD'S SAKE, CARLISLE, RUN
And I know I'm in trouble. This has definitely come from South Africa.
There are no weapons in the house I could use to defend myself, which means if these guys are planning to burst in and grab me there's nothing I can do about it. I'm also tired and very drunk, which means I can't even use the Mustang to escape. I'm tempted again to call the police but I have a feeling these guys are just watching the house. If they'd wanted to grab me, they could've done it when I left Sue's. If they saw a patrol car heading up the hill they'd be off like a shot anyway. Escape is out of the question so sleeping is my only option. At least I'll be alert in the morning if I survive the night. I kick my shoes off, shuffle out my clothes, and slide into the guest bed. I'll give my teeth an extra scrub in the morning.
As my head hits the pillow I think about Edward and whether I should warn him. I'd rather he wasn't involved, and as he knows nothing about my work there's no reason for him to be part of this. Maybe I should ask Jenks for advice. I'll call him in the morning.
I don't remember much after that thought.
When I wake the car is gone. After checking the street from the top floor bedroom window, I'm relieved there are no strange cars or suspicious people patrolling the sidewalks. On reflection, I doubt whether these guys were watching me or the house. Excess alcohol had probably allowed me to inflate an innocent situation of two guys in a car into something more sinister. One thing I will sort out today though is to get the house alarmed. Edward has been nagging me to do this for years. I'll concentrate on that this afternoon.
I get showered and toast a stale bagel for breakfast. My food delivery is arriving this afternoon which is fortunate as I hadn't counted on Sue going away for up to two weeks. I seem to be eating more over there than at home lately. I'll have to cook for myself for a change which is okay only I'll miss Sue's company.
My first task is to call Jenks. He gets to his office by nine so I give him half an hour to have his coffee. His secretary recognizes my voice straight away and puts me through.
"Carlisle! To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Can I swing by the office today, Jenks? I need to talk something over, and you and Edward are the only people I can trust. Basically, I need some advice, but not in a professional capacity"
"Not convenient, old friend. I've got meetings all day and into the evening. Is it urgent? I can give you five minutes now if you want to run something past me."
As I'm talking to Jenks it's as if Jacques is shouting his warning in my ear. Don't trust anyone, he said, yet I've called Jenks without considering the consequences. Jesus! I need to think this through before saying any more.
"No, not urgent. I'd rather not talk about my problem over the phone. I'll call back in a couple of days. You okay?"
"Apart from arthritic joints, fine. I guess nature is telling me to retire, Carlisle."
"Let me know when you do. I'll look forward to shooting the breeze with my oldest friend."
Jenks is laughing when he hangs up. After disconnecting I shake my head in despair. This is crazy. If I can't trust my oldest friend, who the hell can I trust, which makes me think of Edward.
I could call him but I don't want to worry him. He's safe in Colorado with his friends, thank God. I could write a letter and leave it with Sue. She can give it to him if anything happens to me. Damn - she's going away for ten days. I'll have to ... no, you're being stupid, Carlisle. Jacques is in South Africa - whoever's leaning on him won't come over here. If they do, I'll just tell them creating the link was beyond my skills. I'll still write the letter to Edward though for my own peace of mind.
In my study, I choose a sheet of Esme's pale blue writing paper with a matching envelope. Edward will know it's genuine as soon as he sees it as no-one uses colored paper anymore. Even the most personal letters are typed on a computer and printed on white A4 now, which is such a shame. I've always said the spontaneity of a letter is lost if you can go back and edit. The opportunity to rethink words that come out naturally takes honesty and poetry out of every message.
I have to rush the letter as Sue needs to leave in twenty minutes. It doesn't take me long and I have the presence of mind to leave two cryptic clues for Edward in the text. He'll spot them straight away. I use the word 'Titan' on purpose as Edward was in the room when I called Steve Jobs that to his face. I've never considered Bill to be a true Titan, even though he is. As Titan's go, he's a good one, and I hope and pray he'll have nothing to do with this device if one ever falls into his hands.
Sue is waiting for me on her step. Before helping her with her luggage I hand her the letter.
"Can you put this somewhere safe in the house and give it to Edward if anything happens to me. Don't give it to anyone else though or tell anyone you have it."
Sue gives me a WTF expression so an explanation is required.
"It's nothing sinister, Sue; don't panic. I'm sixty-five in September – anything could happen."
She hands me her bags and goes back in the house while I load the trunk. Even though Sue is anti-car, she loves having a ride in the Mustang as she admits to still having the hots for Steve McQueen. Even though I'm a straight male, I totally get why.
Sue gives me a hug and kiss when I drop her off. "See you in ten days," she trills, "unless I kill her first," she adds in a low whisper adding a wink, before disappearing through the bus station doors.
I've never met any of her family even though Sue and I have been neighbors for thirty-seven years. She rarely talks about them but I've gleaned enough from a few drunken conversations with her that they resent her success as a writer even though she's been generous to them financially. I hope Sue doesn't kill her sister – I'd miss her company if she was jailed.
Driving back to the house I purposely take the longer route so the Mustang can be spotted by eagle-eyed locals and tourists. Revving the meaty engine at junctions ensures heads turn in my direction, which admittedly is something a jackass would do. In my defense, I'm not doing this solely for my benefit. Being fair-haired like the legendary and sadly departed Steve adds to the fun and I'm spotted several times before turning for home.
As I'm approaching the drive I notice the car that was on the street last night is back. It's further down the hill this time but the same two guys are sitting in the front seat. They don't bother trying to hide as I pass which is disconcerting. Maybe they're burglars, checking out the houses to see who's at home or not. If they're still there in an hour I'll definitely call the police.
My grocery delivery arrives at twelve but it's missing some items, like my weekly supply of cheese. After checking the online order I realize it's my mistake and curse my stupidity. Of all the decadent things I like having in my life, I can't live without cheese. After putting the groceries away I decide to drive to the local Deli and treat myself to something special. They have the most amazing selection of Italian and French cheeses there so my credit card will definitely get a pasting.
Walking towards the Mustang and thinking about cheese rather than being spied on, one of the men from the suspicious vehicle appears from nowhere and grabs hold of my arm. A small pistol is pressed against my chest and I'm pushed hard against my gate.
"You're coming with us," he growls.
"Not fucking likely," I respond and push him away. As I turn to run I feel a sharp pain in my head. For probably three seconds I'm aware that I've either been shot or hit with something heavy. Staggering forward I grab hold of Sue's gate before everything around me goes black.
Waking up is an uncomfortable experience. Lying on my front with a pounding head and one side of my face buried in a pillow I'm understandably confused about where I am. It doesn't smell like home but I can't remember traveling anywhere else. I try to move a hand to rub my throbbing head which is when I realize both my hands are tied behind my back. That's when the memory of being attacked comes back and I know I'm in a spot.
"Don't move," a voice says from behind me and out of my field of vision. "I'll tell you when you can get up."
The voice has an accent which I can't place. It's deep with a hint of malice but this is definitely not the guy that accosted me. His voice was forgettable. This guy's isn't.
"You have two stitches in your head. If you'd done what you were told you wouldn't be in pain."
"You shouldn't have put a gun to my chest then, asshole," I spit. 'Could we have a chat?' would have been a more acceptable introduction in the circumstances."
"There'll be plenty of opportunities for chatting, Mr Cullen. I suggest you rest now as you'll be exceedingly busy in the next few days."
Common sense stops me from telling him to go fuck himself. The best use of my time is to consider my admittedly limited options. The old cliché about not being a rocket scientist comes to mind as I don't have to be one to guess what they'll be asking me to do.
I can stall them, but for how long? Who is going to miss me? That's a worry. Sue has gone to her sister's. Edward might call sometime this week but that's not guaranteed. I could be here for days before alarm bells start ringing.
Whoever is in the room leaves, which gives me the opportunity to raise my head and look at my surroundings. I'm expecting to see somewhere clinical like a hospital. This place is more like a cheap motel. Half-open nicotine-stained Venetian blinds allow me enough window to glimpse tall trees against a cloudy sky, so no clues whether I'm still in San Francisco, or even in California. There are no sounds at all coming from inside the building. Outside a vehicle is pulling up on a gravel drive. In the distance, there's the faint throbbing noise a helicopter makes and a dog barking.
After about ten more minutes, the door opens and I'm roughly pulled upright by two men wearing military fatigues. For a brief moment I wonder whether the US government is behind my abduction, only these guys have no identification badges on their chests which indicate they are probably mercenaries. My head is swimming and I feel nauseous now I'm upright. I'm determined not to look frightened though, even though I am.
A tall, thin man who I'd guess is roughly my age, wearing a white coat with a wallet-style folder tucked under his arm, leans over me and peers at my wound.
"Good afternoon, Mr Cullen. I hope your head isn't too painful."
Instead of responding in words, I stare at his face, memorizing every detail. When he's in a police line-up I want to be able to identify him so he can be locked away for decades. He bears a striking resemblance to Lyndon Johnson so that's how I'll recall him.
After dragging a chair over to the bed he sits so we're looking at each other eye to eye. Without comment, he opens the folder and holds up a black and white photograph of Edward's cabin, followed by a photograph of The Yard, and one of Edward in a bar with his colleagues. The final photograph is of Edward and Mitzi by the lake. It's taken from a distance but it's obvious it's them.
"Mr Cullen. Let's be grown-ups here. You know what we want and my guess is you've already made up your mind not to cooperate with us. We can't force you to give up your work on the link, only your son's life will be forfeit if you don't. I'll give you an hour to think this through."
"You wouldn't dare," I hiss.
"We would dare, Mr Cullen. Maybe not straight away. It would look too obvious if Edward dies too close to your own disappearance. Let's say Edward wouldn't make it to his next birthday and I'll leave you to consider that."
"Bastard."
The man laughs as he stands. "I've been called a lot worse, Mr Cullen. I'll be back in an hour to hear what you decide. In the meantime, Beavis and Butthead will untie your hands. You can use the bathroom and change your clothes. Be careful not to get your stitches wet. We don't want you getting an infection in that very clever brain of yours."
My hands are freed and after standing up and getting my balance back, I'm escorted to a windowless bathroom, so no opportunity to escape from there. After splashing water on my face, I stare at my reflection.
"They've got you, Carlisle," I say out loud. Cooperating is the only way I can save Edward's life but I'll drag this out as long as I can, even if my own life is forfeit at the end of it. Somehow I've got to get a message to Edward, and the only way I can do that is by having access to the internet which they'll have to give me if they want what they think I'm going to give them.
I put my hand inside my shirt to touch mine and Esme's wedding rings which hang on a chain around my neck. These are my anchors when life gets too much for me. They've gone, and I can't help crying out. That is when I notice my Rolex has also been taken. The watch was a present from Bill when Esme died. The inscription on the back stating 'There are some wounds time will never heal' was the most touching message of sympathy I received from anyone I know connected to Silicon Valley.
After cleaning myself up and changing out of my blood-stained shirt into one of the plain white t-shirts they've left for me, I wait in my locked room for the hour to be up. My head is still throbbing like hell. I've no phone or any way of knowing what time it is, but the hour passes quickly. The door opens and LBJ appears accompanied by a hard-faced rat of a man with a ridiculous ponytail who I presume is whoever spoke to me first. Even though he doesn't speak this time, the memorable voice matches the man.
"Have you made a decision?" LBJ asks.
"I'll only cooperate because you've given me no choice. I won't lose my son."
A satisfied smile spreads across his face. He doesn't say anything, just turns and leaves. The rat is expressionless but his face is another image I've stored in my memory.
Once I'm left on my own I ponder what they have in store for me which probably won't be pleasant. Even though I'm in a spot, putting it mildly, it's my turn to smile. And I do. Broadly.
I'm in a locked room, and, by the looks of things in the middle of nowhere. At this point in the proceedings, these assholes quite understandably believe they have the upper hand.
Unfortunately for them, and this is the one thing these assholes definitely haven't taken into consideration, Carlisle Cullen definitely has the upper brain.
Of course he does!
So now you know what happened to Carlisle and why. He's been abducted, knocked out, but thankfully that clever brain of his is still working. This is on Tuesday, May 28th, and before the car fire which happened on the night of May 30th/31st.
Next chapter, you'll find out more about what led up to Carlisle's abduction. Any guesses whose tale I'll be telling?
Joan x