He paused again, then gave a smile that must have opened a lot of cookie jars for him. “Yes, yes, I see your point. I doubt a solo operator who doesn’t have great computer skills can track down a computer-savvy guy like Martin, but if you do, I would be prepared to offer a, well, call it a reward. A reward for knowing where he is.”
“I’ll think about it.” I got up. “As I said, I can tell you nothing without my client’s permission, but with that proviso, I’ll let you know when I’ve located Martin. Assuming the Feds don’t shoot him, or anything drastic like that.”
Breen thought that was amusing enough to tell me I had a good investigative palate, after all, but we both knew he thought I had as much chance of finding Martin as I did of explaining relativistic models of matrix theory to a kennel of Chihuahuas.
17
V.I. CAN’T TURN TRICKS
I PASSED A FOREST preserve on my way to the expressway and pulled into it. The trees were starting to turn; despite the continued warm days, summer was over. Ahead lay Chicago’s winter roulette: last year’s mild one or the previous year’s endless snow and bitter cold?
Sitting in my car, watching the squirrels and birds without really seeing them, I tried to parse my conversation with Cordell Breen.
Martin Binder had gone dark. Breen thought that was to keep anyone from finding where he’d absconded with Metargon’s precious code. Call that possibility A. I started to type it into my iPad, then thought of Breen’s boast about Metargon’s hacking skills. If Breen believed I knew where Martin was, he’d sic Liu on my computer.
I pulled a pen and a legal pad from my briefcase—change is good, but old-fashioned ways still have merit. Possibility A: Martin Binder was in Shanghai or Tehran, or even Tel Aviv, reconstructing a million or two lines of the code that allowed Princess Fitora to fight off five attackers.
Liu had touted the system as a breakthrough for people with stroke or spinal cord damage. Breen had suggested the project had defense applications. I tried to imagine what those might be.
My mother had hated guns and weapons of all kinds. My father’s service weapon had to be locked each night in a high cupboard, away from my cousin Boom-Boom’s enterprising fingers. No toy weapons could be used in our yard or house, but Boom-Boom would grab a doughnut and fit it in his hand like a gun. Humans can turn anything into weapons.
If Metargon was a world leader in computer design and applications, they could easily design a cyberwar virus; perhaps that was what really lay behind blinking at Princess Fitora’s sword-arm.
Which led me to possibility B: far from trying to sell Metargon’s code to the Chinese, Martin had realized he was actually helping design a cyberwar system, some kind of advanced Stuxnet worm. He had vanished until he could come up with a WikiLeaks style of publicizing what the company was doing.
Martin was at that age, the cusp of adulthood, where idealism runs strong. Someone like him, who didn’t have friends to give him ballast, might go in any direction—join a jihad or the Peace Corps, or drop out of sight in a monastery.
I’d been alone in the parking area, sitting so still that rabbits were hopping close to my car. I know they destroy gardens, but their soft brown fur and dark liquid eyes make them seem innocent, helpless.
“What do you think?” I asked through my window. “Unabomber or ultra-idealist?”
They didn’t stop nibbling. I was overlooking something obvious, they seemed to be telling me.
A third possibility lay in whatever Martin had seen in old Edward Breen’s workshop. It had to do with Benjamin Dzornen, because that was what had made Cordell Breen tense up. But if it was something shameful, Edward wouldn’t have put it up on the wall. Or he had pulled a fast one on Dzornen; Dzornen had written in protest and Edward framed the letter to remind himself that even if he didn’t have that beautiful gold medallion, he was smarter than a Nobel laureate.
If I could find Alison, would she tell me whether something in the workshop had upset Martin? There were only twenty million or so people in Mexico City; it shouldn’t be too hard to locate her.
I drummed my fingers on my steering wheel. I needed to know whom Martin had gone to see right before he vanished. It couldn’t have been Cordell because Cordell was in Bar Harbor. It might have been Jari Liu; Liu could have put on a good show of feigned astonishment or worry when I saw him at the lab three days ago.