Fifty Degrees Below (10 page)

“And how do you know?”

“Because you were assigned to me.”

Frank swallowed involuntarily. “When was this?”

“About a year ago. When you first came to NSF.”

Frank sat back even further. She reached a hand toward him. He shivered; the night seemed suddenly chill. He couldn’t quite come to grips with what she was saying. “Why?”

She reached farther, put her hand lightly on his knee. “Listen, it’s not like what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking!”

She smiled. The touch of her hand said more than anything words could convey, but right now it only added to Frank’s confusion.

She saw this and said, “I monitor a lot of people. You were one of them. It’s not really that big of a deal. You’re part of a crowd, really. People in certain emerging technologies. It’s not direct surveillance. I mean no one is watching you or anything like that. It’s a matter of tracking your records, mostly.”

“That’s all?”

“Well—no. E-mail, where you call, expenditures—that sort of thing. A lot of it’s automated. Like with your credit rating. It’s just a kind of monitoring, looking for patterns.”

“Uh huh,” Frank said, feeling less disturbed, but also reviewing things he might have said on the phone, to Derek Gaspar for instance. “But look, why me?”

“I don’t get told why. But I looked into it a little after we met, and my guess would be that you’re an associational.”

“Meaning?”

“That you have some kind of connection with a Yann Pierzinski.”

“Ahhhhh?” Frank said, thinking furiously.

“That’s what I think, anyway. You’re one of a group that’s being monitored together, and they all tend to have some kind of connection with him. He’s the hub.”

“It must be his algorithm.”

“Maybe so. Really I don’t know. I don’t make the determinations of interest.”

“Who does?”

“People above me. Some of them I know, and then others above those. The agency is pretty firewalled.”

“It must be his algorithm. That’s the main thing he’s worked on ever since his doctoral work.”

“Maybe so. The people I work for use an algorithm themselves, to identify people who should be tracked.”

“Really? Do you know what kind?”

“No. I do know that they’re running a futures market. You know what those are?”

Frank shook his head. “Like that Poindexter thing?”

“Yes, sort of. He had to resign, and really he should have, because that was stupid what he was doing. But the idea of using futures markets itself has gone forward.”

“So they’re betting on future acts of terrorism?”

“No no. That was the stupid part, putting it like that. There’s much better ways to use those programs. They’re just futures markets, when you design them right. They’re like any other futures market. It’s a powerful way to collate information. They outperform most of the other predictive methods we use.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“Is it?” She shrugged. “Well, the people I work for believe in them. But the one they’ve set up is a bit different than the standard futures market. It’s not open to anyone, and it isn’t even real money. It’s like a virtual futures market, a simulation. There are these people at MIT who think they have it working really well, and they’ve got some real-world results they can point to. They focus on people rather than events, so really it’s a people futures market, instead of commodities or ideas. So Homeland Security and associated agencies like ours have gotten interested. We’ve got this program going, and now you’re part of it. It’s almost a pilot program, but it’s big, and I bet it’s here to stay.”

“Is it legal?”

“It’s hard to say what’s legal these days, don’t you think? At least concerning surveillance. A determination of interest usually comes from the Justice Department, or is approved by it. It’s classified, and we’re a black program that no one on the outside will ever hear about. People who try to publish articles about idea futures markets, or people futures markets, are discouraged from doing so. It can get pretty explicit. I think my bosses hope to keep using the program without it ever causing any fuss.”

“So there are people betting on who will do innovative work, or defect to China, or like that?”

“Yes. Like that. There are lots of different criteria.”

“Jesus,” Frank said, shaking his head in amazement. “But, I mean—who in the hell would bet on me?”

She laughed. “I would, right?”

Frank put his hand on top of hers and squeezed it.

“But actually,” she said, turning her hand and twining her fingers with his, “at this point, I think most of the investors in the market are various kinds of diagnostic programs.”

Now it was Frank’s turn to laugh. “So there are computer programs out there, betting I am going to become some kind of a security risk.”

She nodded, smiling at the absurdity of it. Although Frank realized, with a little jolt of internal surprise, that if the whole project were centered around Pierzinski, then the programs might be getting it right. Frank himself had judged that Pierzinski’s algorithm might allow them to read the proteome directly from the genome, thus giving them any number of new gene therapies, which if they could crack the delivery problem had the potential of curing outright many, many diseases. That would be a good in itself, and would also be worth billions. And Frank had without a doubt been involved with Yann’s career, first on his doctoral committee and then running the panel judging his proposal. He had impacted Yann’s career in ways he hadn’t even intended, by sabotaging his application so that Yann had gone to Torrey Pines Generique and then Small Delivery Systems, where he was now.

Possibly the futures market had taken notice of that.

Caroline was now looking more relaxed, perhaps relieved that he was not outraged or otherwise freaked out by her news. He tried to stay cool. What was done was done. He had tried to secure Pierzinski’s work for a company he had ties to, yes; but he had failed. So despite his best (or worst) efforts, there was nothing now he needed to hide.

“You said MIT,” he said, thinking things over. “Is Francesca Taolini involved with this?”

A surprised look, then: “Yes. She’s another subject of interest. There’s about a dozen of you. I was assigned to surveil most of the group.”

“Did you, I don’t know . . . do you record what people say on the phone, or in rooms?”

“Sometimes, if we want to. The technology has gotten really powerful, you have no idea. But it’s expensive, and it’s only fully applied in some cases. Pierzinski’s group—you guys are still under a much less intrusive kind of thing.”

“Good.” Frank shook his head, like a dog shaking off water. His thoughts were skittering around in all directions. “So . . . you’ve been watching me for a year. But I haven’t done anything.”

“I know. But then . . .”

“Then what?”

“Then I saw you on that Metro car, and I recognized you. I couldn’t believe it. I had only seen your photo, or maybe some video, but I knew it was you. And you looked upset. Very . . . intent on something.”

“Yes,” Frank said. “That’s right.”

“What happened? I mean, I checked it out later, but it seemed like you had just been at NSF that day.”

“That’s right. But I went to a lecture, like I told you.”

“That’s right, you did. Well, I didn’t know that when I saw you in the Metro. And there you were, looking upset, and so—I thought you might be trailing me. I thought you had found out somehow, done some kind of back trace—that’s another area I’ve been working on, mirror searching. I figured you had decided to confront me, to find out what was going on. It seemed possible, anyway. Although it was also possible it was just one of those freak things that happen in D.C. I mean, you do run into people here.”

“But then I followed you.” Frank laughed briefly.

“Right, you did, and I was standing there waiting for that elevator, thinking: What is this guy going to
do
to me?” She laughed nervously, remembering it.

“You didn’t show it.”

“No? I bet I did. You didn’t know me. Anyway, then the elevator stuck—”

“You didn’t stop it somehow?”

“Heck no, how would I do that? I’m not some kind of a . . .”

“James Bond? James Bondette?”

She laughed. “It is
not
like that. It’s just surveillance. Anyway there we were, and we started talking, and it didn’t take long for me to see that you didn’t know who I was, that you didn’t know about being monitored. It was just a coincidence.”

“But you said you knew I had followed you.”

“That’s right. I mean, it seemed like you had. But since you didn’t know what I was doing, then it had to be, I don’t know . . .”

“Because I liked the way you looked.”

She nodded.

“Well, it’s true,” Frank said. “Sue me.”

She squeezed his hand. “It’s okay. I mean, I liked that. I’m in a kind of a bad . . . Well anyway, I liked it. And I already liked you, see? I wasn’t monitoring you very closely, but closely enough so that I knew some things about you. I—I had to monitor some of your calls. And I thought you were funny.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. You are funny. At least I think so. Anyway, I’m sorry. I’ve never really had to think about what I do, not like this, not in terms of a person I talk to. I mean—how horrible it must sound.”

“You spy on people.”

“Yes. It’s true. But I’ve never thought it has done anybody any harm. It’s a way of looking out for people. Anyway, in this particular case, it meant that I knew you already. I liked you already. And there you were, so, you know . . . it meant you liked me too.” She smiled crookedly. “That was okay too. Guys don’t usually follow me around.”

“Yeah right.”

“They don’t.”

“Uh huh. The man who knew too little, watched by the spy who knew even less.”

She laughed, pulled her hand away, punched him lightly on the arm. He caught her hand in his, pulled her to him. She leaned into his chest and he kissed the top of her head, as if to say, I forgive you your job, I forgive the surveillance. He breathed in the scent of her hair. Then she looked up, and they kissed, very briefly; then she pulled away. The shock of it passed through him, waking him up and making him happy. He remembered how it had been in the elevator; this wasn’t like that, but he could tell she remembered it too.

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Then we did that. You’re a handsome man. And I had figured out why you had followed me, and I felt—oh, I don’t know. I
liked
you.”

“Yes,” Frank said, still remembering the elevator. Feeling the kiss. His skin was glowing.

She laughed again, looking off at her memories. “I worried afterward that you would think I was some kind of a loose woman, jumping you like I did. But at the time I just went for it.”

“Yes you did,” Frank said.

They laughed, then kissed again.

When they stopped she smiled to herself, pushed her hair off her forehead. “My,” she murmured.

Frank tried to track one of the many thoughts skittering back into his head. “You said you were in a kind of a bad?”

“Ah. Yes. I did.”

The corners of her mouth tightened. She pulled back a bit. Suddenly Frank saw that she was unhappy; and this was so unlike the impression he had gained of her in the elevator that he was shocked. He saw he did not know her, of course he did not know her. He had been thinking that he did, but it wasn’t so. She was a stranger.

“What?” he said.

“I’m married.”

“Ahh.”

“And, you know. It’s bad.”

“Uh oh.” But that was also good, he thought.

“I . . . don’t really want to talk about it. Please. But there it is. That’s where I’m at.”

“Okay. But . . . you’re out here.”

“I’m staying with friends tonight. They live nearby. As far as anyone knows, I’m sleeping on their couch. I left a note in case they get up, saying I couldn’t sleep and went out for a run. But they won’t get up. Or even if they do, they won’t check on me.”

“Does your husband do surveillance too?”

“Oh yeah. He’s much further up than I am.”

“I see.”

Frank didn’t know what to say. It was bad news. The worst news of the night, worse than the fact that he was under surveillance. On the other hand, there she was beside him, and they had kissed.

“Please.” She put a hand to his mouth, and he kissed her fingertips. He tried to swallow all his questions.

But some of these questions represented a change of subject, a move to safer ground. “So—tell me what you mean exactly when you say surveillance? What do you do?”

“There are different levels. For you, it’s almost all documentary. Credit cards, phone bills, e-mail, computer files.”

“Whoah.”

“Well, hey. Think about it. Physical location too, sometimes. Although mostly that’s at the cell-phone–records level. That isn’t very precise. I mean, I know you’re staying over off of Connecticut somewhere, but you don’t have an address listed right now. So, maybe staying with someone else. That kind of stuff is obvious. If they wanted to, they could chip you. And your new van has a transponder, it’s GPS-able.”

“Shit.”

“Everyone’s is. Like transponders in airplanes. It’s just a question of getting the code and locking on.”

“My lord.”

Frank thought it over. There was so much information out there. If someone had access to it, they could find out a tremendous amount. “Does NSF know this kind of stuff is going on with their people?”

“No. This is a black-black.”

“And your husband, he does what?”

“He’s at a higher level.”

“Uh oh.”

“Yeah. But look, I don’t want to talk about that now. Some other time.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Some other time.”

“When we meet again?”

She smiled wanly. “Yes. When we meet again. Right now,” lighting up her watch and peering at it, “shit. I have to get back. My friends will be getting up soon. They go to work early.”

“Okay. . . . You’ll be okay?”

“Oh yeah. Sure.”

“And you’ll call me again?”

“Yes. I’ll need to pick my times. I need to have a clear space, and be able to call you from a clean phone. There’s some protocols we can establish. We’ll talk about it. We’ll set things up. But now I’ve gotta go.”