Face, The (4 page)

Sarah

“T
hat you, kiddo?”

As I leave the exercise room, I’m surprised to find Judson waiting in the hallway. “Who else would it be?”

“Sometimes the guards like to slip up here and work out.”

“Not when Mama Mewton is prowling around.”

“You’ve got a point there.” He rolls toward me, his powerful arms propelling his chair over the tiled floor. When my fingertips brush his shoulder, he slows his pace and lowers his voice. “Did you hear the chopper last night?”

I shorten my step to match the wheelchair’s progress. “I took my speech processor off so I could concentrate on a project. Is the new arrival a patient or a guest?”

“Neither. Traut came in alone. He’s waiting for us in the conference room.”

A shiver of anticipation ripples through my limbs as we approach the elevator. Judson doesn’t seem at all nervous about this meeting with the director, but he hasn’t spent the last several weeks writing a program intended to prevent national disaster.

I hope the man approves of my work.

I press the call button and cross my arms. “What time did Mr. Traut arrive?”

Judson shrugs. “I wasn’t listening for the clock. It was late, though.”

The elevator opens. We nod to the guard and enter, Judson wheeling to the left and spinning to face the door. A moment later we arrive on the second floor, home to our apartments, Dr. Mewton’s office, operations, security, and the conference room. My hopes for a quick shower and a change of clothes are dashed when I see Dr. Mewton waiting in the hallway.

“I was about to call you on the intercom,” she says, stepping forward to pluck a stray hair from my shoulder. “Holmes, you give your report first. Sarah, Mr. Traut has a copy of your program and wishes to speak to you. He’ll probably want a demonstration, so grab your laptop.”

I point toward my apartment, only a few feet down the hall. “Do I have time to change?”

“No.”

“Breakfast?”

“There’s coffee, fruit, and doughnuts on the table. Shelba will bring up anything else you want.”

Of course Dr. M’s thought of everything. She never misses a detail.

I wait for Judson to roll forward, then I follow, my stomach tightening with every step.

Jack Traut is devouring one of Shelba’s delicious fritters when Judson and I enter the conference room. He nods at us and takes a sip of coffee as we approach the table. “Interesting program,” he says, pointing to the laptop in front of him. “Mind telling me how it works?”

I glance at Judson, who rolls to his usual place at the table without comment. If he minds being overlooked by our boss’s boss, he gives no sign of it.

“The concept isn’t complicated,” I say, sinking into my own chair. “The program works in conjunction with others that provide a layered security approach.”

“Layered?”

“Like an onion.” Dr. Mewton slides into her seat and gives Mr. Traut a smile. She is, I notice as I open my laptop, wearing lipstick today. “Encryption, plus hidden directories, added to covert channels that hide data in Internet traffic.”

Our boss wipes his hands on a napkin. “But if the perimeter is secure—”

“The perimeter dissolved a long time ago,” Judson says. “Virtual private networks, Web mail, e-mail on smartphones, telecommuters…they all make the concept of a secure perimeter archaic. We have to be data-focused, not perimeter-focused. We have to protect the data, wherever it is, wherever it goes.”

“That’s why we need layers,” I add. “They’re the armor we wrap around our data.”

Without so much as a peek in my direction, Mr. Traut looks at Dr. Mewton, then glances at Judson. “Are you two on board with this?”

Dr. Mewton doesn’t answer, but Judson grins. “Just let the girl talk.”

I wait—annoyed at being ignored, I’ll admit—until Mr. Traut looks at me. Then I continue. “What I did was conceal mirroring code in the existing antivirus program. If—
when—
a hacker breaks through the firewall, the mirror will mash up with any malicious code that’s introduced and encrypt the results. If the hacker tries to take a file, any file, the concealed code will erupt like Mt. Vesuvius once it’s installed on the invading system. In other words, the hacker gets hacked…and his system gets tied up in knots.”

The hint of a smile strains at Mr. Traut’s mouth as he takes out his pipe and lights it. “You’ve tested this?”

“On several systems. I ran the first trial against a network at the Technical University of Budapest. I hacked into the TU system on a less-than-secure network and left my calling card on a proxy server I’d set up. When they came calling, our program crashed their servers in less than ten minutes.”

“They’re still trying to figure out what hit ’em,” Judson says, grinning in Mr. Traut’s direction. “I monitored some chatter on the hacker boards—they were all buzzing.”

“But they can’t steal your code?”

“No, sir,” I answer. “That’s the beauty of it—after the mashup occurs, you’d need a supercomputer and the patience of Mother Teresa to sort it all out.”

Mr. Traut finally looks at me. Then he removes his pipe and smiles at Dr. Mewton. “God may not have given that girl a face, but he certainly gave her a brain. Congratulations, Glenda, on a brilliant acquisition.”

The pleasure I felt a moment ago evaporates as his words resonate on the air. The director is not looking at me, but at this moment I don’t think I could bear the touch of his gaze. When I find my voice, it sounds strangled in my ear: “Thank you, sir.”

Across the table, Dr. Mewton clears her throat. “I’m sure we’ll be making adjustments to Sarah’s program in the weeks ahead, but you can begin implementing it at Langley.”

I feel like hanging my head to hide my hurt, but I doubt Mr. Traut will look at me again.

He lifts his pipe to his lips. “The assignment that brings me out today,” he says, exhaling, “has the potential to eliminate all intensive interrogation techniques. I’m sure you’re aware that we’ve come under fire for harsh interrogations in the past, but we believe this team can help us access a prisoner’s knowledge without eliciting pain of any kind.”

Something in his choice of words—
access knowledge?—
sounds familiar. “Are you talking about voice stress analysis?” I ask. “Or some kind of improved polygraph?”

“You’re on the right track.” Mr. Traut pulls a briefcase onto the table, punches in a code, and unlocks the clasps. He withdraws two copies of a spiral-bound document and slides them across the table, one to me and one to Dr. Mewton. He places a CD in Judson’s hand.

“What we’ve acquired,” he says, “is a device that records and measures human brain waves. It’s far more accurate than a polygraph or vocal scan, and far less stressful than torture.”

I scan the cover of the document, which has been labeled with the project name and classification: Sensitive Compartmented Information—Special Intelligence.

I lift my chin and stare at the director’s profile. “You’re calling it
Gutenberg?
”

“After the man who invented the printing press. We’re hoping to invent a printing method, as well…a way to publish a legible, comprehensible record of what a brain knows.”

“If you’ve already acquired this scanner, why do you need our help?”

“Because the operating program is not infallible, nor has its potential been fully realized.” Mr. Traut leans forward and speaks directly to me, and for once he doesn’t deflect his gaze in reflexive discomfort. “We think you can come up with a way to render our brain scans mistake-proof. If you can fine-tune this program, our officers will never have to resort to painful interrogation.”

Awareness thickens between us as I ponder the meaning of his words. If we can plumb the depths of an evil mind, perhaps we can stop terror. Dr. Mewton says evil loves darkness, and Gutenberg may be a way to shine a light into dark places. The dread of that light may be enough to stem the tide of viciousness that men exhibit to one another.

I look at Mr. Traut. “I’ll do my best for you, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Glenda, but it’s all I can do to look at that girl.” The words spill easily from Mr. Traut’s lips as he stands in the elevator, not knowing that I am watching—and listening—via the security camera mounted in the corner of the car.

I swallow hard and wrap my arms around myself, shivering beneath the sweater I have pulled over my shoulders. I’m not surprised to hear this; really, I have always known he felt this way. Still…disappointment strikes like a punch to the stomach.

“Jack.” Dr. Mewton’s voice is low with reproof. “She has feelings, you know, and she desperately wants to please you.”

Mr. Traut slips his hand into his pocket. “She’s an employee. I would hope that all my employees want to do a good job.”

“It’s different with Sarah.
She’s
different. Since you assumed your position, I think she’s come to think of you as a father figure. Did you know she keeps that equivalency diploma you sent in her room? It’s been hanging on her wall for over five years.”

Traut shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to encourage her. Not like that.”

“Why shouldn’t you encourage her? She’s brilliant, and she’ll work hard for you.”

“And what else is she going to do?” He turns away from the camera to look at Dr. Mewton, but I can hear the smile in his voice.

Dr. M folds her arms and stares at the back of the guard’s head. “All I’m saying is that you need to be more sensitive to her. She’s a young woman, with a young woman’s feelings.”

The elevator stops. “I’ll see you later.” Dr. Mewton nods at Mr. Traut and steps out of the car.

I am about to exit the surveillance program when Mr. Traut folds his hands and looks at the guard, who has backed away from the sliding door. All I can see is the top of the guard’s head, so I have no way of knowing who he is.

“You know that girl, Sarah?”

The guard nods.

“If you were trapped with her on a desert island for a year, would you?”

The guard throws up both hands and utters an expletive, then reassumes his military posture. “No way, sir.”

Traut grins. “That’s what I thought.”

I turn off the program and head for bed. I get under the covers and leave the lamp burning.

Dr. Mewton once told me that beautiful women sleep on their backs because sleeping sideways contorts the face and causes wrinkles.

I always sleep on my side.

Renee

C
hristmas approaches, bringing the promise of busted budgets and the holiday blues on its wintry breath. Our office closes a full week before the holiday, and as Becky plans to host a turkey dinner for twenty-five aunts, uncles, cousins, and miscellaneous family offshoots, I decided to paint the kitchen and clean out my walk-in closet. When people ask if I have big plans for the holidays, with perfect sincerity I answer
yes.

Since Becky and I are close, I buy her the first three seasons of
Seinfeld
on DVD. I buy a ten-pound doggie stocking for Elvis, my two-hundred-pound mastiff, and order citrus gift boxes for all my partners in the practice. I can’t help wondering if this will be the last time I’ll place those orders. Next year I may be a CIA shrink and bound to secrecy.

At the closing-of-the-office party, I receive tins of fruit, chocolate, and nuts from my partners, and a leather-bound copy of
Cry, the Beloved Cou
ntry from Becky. I am touched.

The day before Christmas, during a break from painting, I receive the most unsettling gift of the season: a letter from Spain containing a copy of Sarah Jane Sims’s
certificado de nacimiento.
My niece’s birth certificate.

A tremor of mingled fear and anticipation shoots through me as I open the narrow envelope and discover the certificate inside. Though my Spanish is rusty, I’m able to read that Sarah Jane Sims was born alive on July 3, 1986, at 6:30 a.m., to Diane and Kevin Sims. Because both her parents were U.S. citizens, Sarah had American citizenship at birth.

I pick up the envelope and shake it, afraid I’ve missed something, but there is no cover letter, no note of explanation. Nothing to tell me what happened to the baby.

In my den, I sink into my sofa and prop my feet on the ottoman, grateful for even this simple confirmation. I still don’t know if Sarah Jane is alive today, but I do know she wasn’t stillborn. My mother, the soul of integrity, lied about this girl.

Why?

The question hangs in the air, shimmering like the reflections from the dozens of glass bulbs on my Christmas tree.

Mother knew Sarah Jane Sims survived the birth. But Dr. Mewton’s letter said the baby’s prognosis was poor, so perhaps Mom believed the child would die. Or, having just lost Diane and Kevin, maybe she was so heartsick she couldn’t bear the thought of taking responsibility for a child she would almost certainly lose as well.

I can imagine Mother looking at the baby’s photo and weeping…and then signing the power of attorney and sending it off, leaving the child in what she assumed were more capable hands.

My mother was not heartless. In July, 1986, however, she was heartbroken.

I close my eyes and resign myself to the real possibility that I may never know the entire truth. My brother and his wife are gone, and so are my parents. Sarah Jane Sims may be beyond my reach as well.

When I open my eyes, I find that my thoughts have crystallized. Mom misled us about the baby, but she didn’t throw Dr. Mewton’s letter away. She saved it, leaving the door open for me to investigate. I can act on the facts I have in hand.

The letters in my brother’s file confirm that Kevin was working for a Spanish chemical company. He and Diane had a child who was born with severe birth defects. Dr. Glenda Mewton, employed by the CIA, took care of Sarah Jane after Kevin’s and Diane’s deaths.

Doesn’t that girl, wherever she is, deserve to know her family?

I may not be able to get close to the mysterious Dr. Mewton without a security clearance, but I can certainly write and ask her to forward a letter to Sarah Jane Sims. If she’s unable to do so, she should respond. Any polite person would.

On Christmas Eve, with the kitchen resplendent in a fresh new coat of noble gold, I climb into my flannel holiday pajamas and cuddle with Elvis on the sofa. In the glow of our twinkling Christmas tree, I pull a sheet of stationery from the coffee table drawer and write Sarah a letter. I tell her I’m her aunt, that I’m glad I’ve finally learned about her, and that I can’t wait to meet her. I want to learn all about her, and I want to share everything I know about her father, my brother.

I sign off with a wish for a merry Christmas and a successful New Year. Then, on a whim, I adjust Elvis’s flannel holly-berry necklace, hold up a digital camera, and snap a picture of the two of us. When I’m convinced we look friendly, not goofy, I head into the study to print out a copy and find an envelope.