Glen Allen - The shadow war

Benjamin looked at him, said nothing.

Anton leaned back, exhaled. "How bad trouble Sam in this time?"

"He may be dead," Benjamin said.

Anton nodded. "Told him many times, too fond of whiskey. Drink vodka, I told him. Enough of it, can't hurt you."

Benjamin realized he was joking. But then he turned serious.

"Last time I talked to Sam, almost year ago. Right after his wife died. My wife died too, three years ago now. She never tolerate this," he waved about the room. "Anyway, we commiserate. Told him was worried about him."

"It wasn't anything like that," Benjamin said. "What happened, I mean."

Anton nodded. "But still, you have his briefcase."

Benjamin looked down. "But how do you know this isn't mine?" he asked.

Anton smiled. "Two things," he said. "One, I think if it yours, you not so protective. And two," he pointed at the front, "initials are SCW. Samuel Clement Wolfe, yes? Anyway, not BW."

Benjamin smiled. He made a decision. He was simply too exhausted to be coy with Anton any longer.

He opened the briefcase and took out Fletcher's laptop. Carefully pushing aside some of the books on the oval coffee table in front of him, he lifted its top and pressed the On button. While the computer started up, Benjamin began talking.

"Samuel has been working for the Foundation again, but just since last Friday. I was called out there to help him. Well, actually not him, but Jeremy Fletcher, the man who wrote this program. It took us a while to even get into the program because Dr. Fletcher had left some… security provisions…"

"Left?" asked Anton. "Why past tense?"

In for a penny, thought Benjamin. "Jeremy Fletcher's dead, Mr. Sikorsky. Samuel was called out to the Foundation to investigate his death. Apparently they suspected he'd leaked sensitive information to someone. Once I was there, well, Samuel sort of commandeered me to help him out."

Anton took all this in without any reaction. "And how you help? You said you're historian, not computer guy."

"That's… complicated. My area is Colonial American history. Jeremy's work somehow became connected to… well, apparently he was interested in a Reverend Bainbridge, who had something to do, perhaps, with King Philip's War, and…"

Benjamin stopped, aware he was babbling. His fatigue was beginning to show.

"All right, never mind," said Anton. "Tell me about Dr. Fletcher's work, who you call Jeremy."

This guy doesn't miss much, thought Benjamin. "We were friends, back in college."

"Again, fine. Now, program?"

"Well… Samuel thought it looked like nuclear war game theory. But he said it was on a level far above his expertise. He said he wished he could show the program to you, that perhaps you'd have a better idea what it was all about."

He entered the TEACUP password, then rotated the laptop so Anton could see the files displayed.

"This is it," he said. "It's called TEACUP, for-"

"Text Entry, Analysis, Conversion and Utilization Program," finished Anton. "Told you, I know Fletcher's work. Been working on program for years."

Benjamin leaned back, sighed. "I think I came to the right place," he said.

"Maybe," Anton said. He rose from his chair, came over to the coffee table, and, with some effort, squatted down in front of the computer.

"What is files?" he said, pointing to the list on the screen.

"Well, that's one of the things I'm hoping you can tell me. Samuel opened some of them, looked at them. But that's when he said he wasn't certain what it all meant."

"Hm," Anton said, scanning down the list of files. Benjamin noticed a sudden glint of recognition in Anton's eyes when he got to the top of the rightmost list.

"You recognize these?" he asked.

"Maybe," Anton said. He stood up, sighing again. "No way to do work." He looked down at Benjamin. "You look like hell," he said.

Benjamin rubbed at his eyes. "I've been driving all night. If I could just-"

"Take nap," Anton said.

He set his coffee down, picked up a stack of books from the couch, set it on the floor-where it promptly tipped over. He grunted, pushed them aside with his foot.

"Here, on couch. Stretch out. I'll get you blanket." He leaned down and put his hands on the computer, then looked at Benjamin. "All right I take this upstairs, to study?"

Benjamin looked around, nodded. "I guess," he said.

"Good." Anton picked up the computer. "Go on, lay down. I'll be back in minute with blanket. Give me hour or so, see if I can read the leaves of this teacup." He smiled down at Benjamin.

Benjamin suddenly wanted very much to trust Anton Sikorsky; to turn the whole mystery over to him, to fade into unconsciousness, hopefully to awaken to answers and clarity-and perhaps the news that Wolfe was alive.

He leaned his head back against the arm of the couch, and by the time Anton came downstairs with a large, thick comforter, he was already sound asleep.

Benjamin woke up to Anton's face above him. For a moment he didn't recognize him and couldn't remember where he was.

"You've had a nice nap?" Anton asked him. He held out a glass of orange juice in one hand, and in the other he held a plate with some sort of sandwich. "Sit up, eat something. You'll feel better."

Benjamin slowly raised himself on the couch. He rubbed his eyes, accepted the orange juice from Anton. "What time is it?" he asked.

"A little after noon," Anton said. He set the sandwich on the coffee table, then pulled over the armchair and sat down. "You were sleeping soundly, I didn't want to wake you. But then I think, he's not here to sleep all day, is he."

Anton waved toward the sandwich. "It's not much. Something with corned beef, some pickles-you like pickles? Being Polish, I assume everyone likes pickles. Some cheese. Ah," Anton sighed, "if my Liska were still here, she would fix something very nice. She made a lamb sandwich-"

Benjamin took a bite of the sandwich, realized he was very hungry indeed, took another.

Anton watched him chew for a minute. Then he said, "So, now maybe you are ready answer some questions?"

"About Fletcher's computer program? I'm afraid I won't be of any help. It's even more Greek to me than it was to Mr. Wolfe."

Anton waggled his hand. "Maybe yes, maybe no. Come on. Bring food."

With the glass in one hand and the sandwich in the other, Benjamin followed Anton into the foyer and up the stairs.

As they climbed the stairs, Benjamin looked at photos lining the wall. A number were black-and-white photos of Anton surrounded by men, all of them standing in front of blackboards or in offices that suggested academic settings. But in every photograph there were also men in military uniforms-Soviet military uniforms. He recognized those enormous officer hats.

They reached the top of the stairs and turned left, into a small room that might have been Anton's study-except that it looked identical to the downstairs. The shelves were overflowing with books, and a large, heavy antique table held so many even its bulk seemed ready to collapse under their weight.

In a little alcove, Anton's desk was set in the middle of an overarching forest of book stacks. At the other end of the room was a blackboard, filled with equations.

Anton led Benjamin to the desk. Fletcher's laptop was there, the screen up and glowing with a vast, intricate web of equations. Benjamin realized the equations on Jeremy's computer and those on Anton's blackboard were quite similar.

"Now, please, sit," he motioned toward an armchair nearby, "and let me ask my questions."

Benjamin pulled over a captain's chair. Anton sat down in the old wooden swivel chair before the desk, the chair squeaking whenever he turned it from side to side.

"First," Anton began, "what the hell is having happened?"