Armen Gharabegian - Protocol 7

During his time in that chair, looking into that fire, he had thought of many things-many reactions, many explanations, many things to do next. But he kept coming back to one thought-one ridiculous, extraordinary, insane idea that called to him like the relentless, seductive song of a siren.

One idea.

Go get him.

“Simon,” Fae said gently, right at his ear as always. “You need to have something to eat.”

“Not quite yet, Fae,” he said. “Soon, I promise.”

He put the note aside and picked up a pad of paper, smiling briefly at the recent memory of how hard it had been to find such simple tools: a pad, a pencil, a gum eraser. People didn’t need such things anymore. They had virtual keyboards, holograms, airborne AIs and many other gadgets.

No, Simon decided in that moment. Rule number one for this project: nothing on the net, nothing on a hard drive, nothing recorded. Everything face to face, pen to paper, nothing more.

He still didn’t dare to write down his insane idea. It was too big, too fragile. He was afraid if he saw it, the mere words would make him turn away, change his mind, throw the pad in the fire and move on.

But he couldn’t forget the last words that Hayden had spoken to him.

Get going, he had said.

Get going.

Very slowly, thinking with every stroke, Simon wrote down five names on a single sheet of notebook paper:

Max

Jonathan

Hayden

Ryan (?)

Samantha (?)

Simon thought of the hundreds of people he had met in his personal and professional life. There was only one, one he trusted above all others:

Max.

Maximilian was Simon’s oldest friend, but he was much more than that. He had been a highly trained and decorated member of the British Special Forces for most of his twenties; today he was an explorer and adventurer. Simon had no idea where he was at the moment; he could be climbing a mountain in Africa or heli-skiing in the Colorado Rockies. But he had to talk to him next. Now.

“Fae,” he said. “When was the last time I talked to Max?”

“Just about a month ago, Simon.”

“Where was he at the time?”

“He didn’t specify, but the call came from Argentina near the Falkland Islands.”

Simon nodded at the fire. “That’s right. The Falklands. Why don’t you try connecting and see if you get a visual?”

There was a miniscule pause, a bare two seconds, and Fae said, “No visual available, Simon, but I may have an open line to him.”

He nodded again. “Okay. Try connecting.” A moment later the room was filled with the strong, resonant and very controlled voice of his oldest friend.

“Don’t tell me! An urgent call from my friend in the gloomiest college town on earth!”

Simon grinned. “The very same.”

The mere sound of Max’s voice brought back a flood of memories: years in boarding schools together, getting into all sorts of trouble. Summers spent with Max’s family in the highlands, spring vacations in Oxford with Oliver, and long, leisurely trips to the Fitzpatrick vacation house in Corsica. He remembered them all and loved every recollection.

“You know, you always seem to catch me at the very best times, old man. If I’m not in the restroom, I’m sliding down a mountain or diving off a helicopter.”

Simon laughed out loud. “It’s your own freaking fault, man! If you’d settle down and have a normal life, I’d know when it was safe to call.”

“‘Safe?’” Max echoed as if he’d never spoken the word aloud before. “Sorry. Don’t know the meaning of the word.”

He shook his head. “So what the hell are you up to now?”

“You’d never believe it, I got my hands on an old American SUV–I can’t believe engines used to work like this! And I’ve been messing about with it for a while now. I don’t have any idea how I’m going to pay for the fuel; I could run it more cheaply on Dom Perignon. But I thought it would be fun to play with…and lord, is it! Hang on a bit, let me pull myself out from under this thing…”

Simon ran a hand over his short auburn hair, imagining his lithe, athletic friend sliding out from under the chassis, rising easily to his feet and wiping his hands on the nearest bit of cloth. “So where are you now?” he asked. “You know how Fae enjoys tracking you down.”

“Oh yes,” Fae said. “Anything for Max.”

Max laughed easily. “Still in the Falklands. I was sent here on a special project; now I’ve been stuck on this damn rock for almost four weeks. So how the hell is life in the Big Smoke, anyway?” It was one of his many less-than-affectionate terms for London.

“Well, it’s definitely not getting any younger or cleaner,” Simon told him. “In fact, I’m willing to bet the weather is much nicer wherever you are.”

“Undoubtedly.” There was a short pause and Simon closed his eyes. The time for small talk was over, and Max knew it, too.

“All right, then,” his old friend said. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Truth to tell, Maxamillian…I don’t know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning. That seems to be where we are.”

Simon found himself groping for words. Suddenly the entire affair sounded completely bizarre to him-absolutely mad.

“Look, Simon,” Max said, not unkindly. “If this is about Dad…you already know my answer. It’s time to let it go. I miss him, too, but it’s not-”

“No, it’s not that. Not exactly.” It didn’t bother him at all that Max referred to Oliver as “Dad.” Max’s own father had died when he was four, and Oliver had exerted a very strong influence over him for years. Just weeks ago, he had mourned Oliver’s “death” almost as much as Simon himself, though he was never one to express it openly. He was a soldier, and a good one. From what Simon had learned, he was, in fact, one of the most dangerous men on earth when it came to hand-to-hand combat or weapons of almost any kind, and the display of emotion was not easy for him-Simon knew that. Still, he knew from personal experience-almost thirty years of it-what a good man Max really was.

“I just received some…personal effects.”

“Good, I…guess. Are you sure they’re actually his?”

Always the skeptic, Simon thought, smiling. “Positive,” he said.

“How did you get them?”

He was hesitant to say it, but caution gave way to eagerness. “Jonathan Weiss,” he said.

Max made a disgusted sound. “Ach. I never trusted that guy.”

“I know. But…Max, it’s a diary.”

“You know as well as I do, Simon. Diaries can be manipulated. It’s not like the old days.”

“It’s not a digital diary. It’s analog-hand-written, hand-bound. And I know his handwriting.” Simon stood up and took a deep breath. He knew how much he was asking. “Look, I need you to fly out. I’ll discuss it when you get home.”

There was a pause-a very long pause. He could almost hear his best friend’s mental wheels turning in his head. Finally he spoke.

“Simon,” he said. “I can’t do this.”

“Max, please. I need you more than ever. This is Dad we’re talking about. We need to discuss it.”

“Are you serious?” he said, sounding harsher with every exchange. “Are you actually suggesting I drop everything I’m doing and fly halfway around the world because you want to have a chat?”

“Yeah, Max,” he replied, dripping sarcasm. “That’s exactly what I want you to do: come skipping on home for a fucking chat.”

Max didn’t answer. The moment of silence stretched and stretched, until Simon couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Okay,” he said gruffly. “I get it. Forget we even discussed this.”

There was still no response.

“Max?” he said into the empty air.