“How’s that?”
“In a word, guts. You’ve got guts.” He focused on the pages in the folder. “You see, we do our due diligence too. We know you’re an only child. That your mother died in a car accident about four years ago, right after you went to college. We know that your father has late-stage Alzheimer’s, that his care is not cheap. That you’ve been paying for it, any way you can. You teach tennis. You work at a run-down ice cream parlor called,” he peeked at the open folder, “The Yogurt Pump on Franklin Street, and though you’re a straight-A student, you absolutely hate computer science. You chose the major for one reason only: money. You figure you can get a good job after college, earn enough to take care of your father, and one day, just maybe, live your life, which in your mind would involve a lot of traveling and doing something outside, something very exciting.”
She stared at him, unsure what to say. Every word he’d said was true, but she couldn’t imagine how he knew.
“One of the companies we’re interested in is called Rapture Therapeutics. They’ve developed what may just be a cure for Alzheimer’s and other neurodegenerative disorders.”
He slipped another page across the desk: a research brief on Rapture’s latest breakthrough.
“Does that interest you?”
She read while he waited, only half-understanding the science.
“So,” he said. “What’s your answer, Avery? I need to know right now. There’s one position. You’re the first in line, but not the last.”
“You already know my answer,” she said.
“Welcome aboard, then.”
She spent a year after that researching the companies Rubicon was interested in. And as the months went by, a sneaking suspicion grew in her mind. At home, she began to keep separate files from the ones she turned in. She thought about her theory during every waking hour: while visiting her father at the care facility, at the gym, during flights, and in the countless hotel rooms that all ran together. In every meeting, at every company she visited, she began looking for evidence, any clue that might confirm her suspicions—or confirm that she had officially gone crazy.
One morning, she walked into David’s office, closed the door, and prepared to tell him what she thought. In her mind, she had imagined how he might react: laughing out loud, telling her to take a day off, telling her to stop watching so much TV.
She said the line she’d rehearsed a dozen times. “I think there’s something going on at the companies you’ve asked me to research.”
“Like what?” His voice was even.
“I think they’re fronts.”
He still betrayed no emotion. Not surprise; not even interest. “Fronts for what?”
She swallowed. “Terrorism.”
He focused on his computer, began typing, acting as if she had told him their lunch meeting was canceled. “That’s a very serious allegation.”
“I’m aware of that,” she said, unwavering.
“I’m going to a meeting in Virginia tomorrow. I’ll be driving up. I’d like you to come with me. Are you free?”
Avery stood there, confused. It was as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “Yeah, I’m free—did you… hear what I just said?”
“I did. Let’s meet here at nine. I’m sorry, Avery, I’ve got to run.”
The next morning, they got on Highway 1 North, then I-85. At Petersburg, they took I-95 North. To Avery’s surprise, they passed right through Richmond. After the exits for Fredericksburg, David turned off and drove through the country.
He parked in front of a large colonial-era home with a crushed stone driveway.
Inside, he ushered her into a wood-paneled library where several corkboards were covered with names and colored strings. She knew the names. Corporations. There were photos of the companies’ officers and investors. Desmond Hughes. Conner McClain. They were all connected. These were the companies she had been investigating.
She walked up to the montage, her mouth open. It was true. Her theory.
“Congratulations, Avery. Rubicon has a lot of agents. You figured it out faster than anyone else.”
She felt a moment of pride as she studied the photos and logos. “What is this?”
“A new kind of terrorism. These people aren’t religious idealists. They’re not zealots, foaming at the mouth, waving AK-47s in the air. They’re scientists. Technologists. Rational people. Extremely intelligent. Working in the shadows, diligently, planning.”
“Planning what?”
“We don’t know. It’s big, Avery. Change-the-world-forever big. A device called the Looking Glass. The companies you’ve been investigating are creating the pieces—pieces that will be assembled at a later date.”
“Like the Manhattan Project.”
“Exactly.”
“Who are they?”
“Technically, they’re the modern incarnation of an ancient organization called the Order of Citium.”
David walked to the bookshelf, took down a folder, and handed it to her.
“We know the organization was founded two thousand three hundred years ago in the Greek city of Citium by a philosopher named Zeno. History books cite him as Zeno of Citium. People came from all over the civilized world to debate with him. Those conversations grew into something more. A movement. That’s what they were back then: a group of philosophers. Thinkers.”
“What were they thinking about?”
“The meaning of the universe. The purpose of humanity. Why we exist.”
“Pretty deep stuff for two thousand years ago.”
“They were ahead of their time. They applied themselves to three disciplines: truth, ethics, and physics. And they were persecuted for their beliefs. They watched as polytheism, then monotheism, swept the world. They went underground. Stayed there. Waited for the world to catch up. It never did. Apparently, they’re tired of waiting. They’re going to do something about it.”
“The Looking Glass.”
“That’s right.”
“And what is the Looking Glass?”