Ron Schwartz - The Griffins Heart.txt Read online

  “I’ve studied your treatise carefully, and I must say that it is outstanding. Your arguments are insightful, and your position very well taken. There seems to be, however,... There is something missing. I have worked through your math carefully and find it difficult to believe that you could have arrived at your conclusions without... without some sort of key. Something that knits these fundamental concepts into a unified body. Something similar to a decryption algorithm.”

  The room fell deafeningly quiet. Apparently, this man demanded considerable respect among his peers. Rob knew that he was close to the truth.

  “Have you studied the work of Sy VanCopeland?”

  Rob swallowed hard. “Well, yes. He’s a rather brilliant mathematician. I believe his works are well-known and respected by everyone.”

  “Yes, yes. Rather brilliant, I must agree, but his work is not all that unrelated to your own. In fact...” The old man shook his index finger in the air as he scanned the crowd. “In fact, it complements your treatise quiet nicely.”

  Rob shifted uneasily. “Well, I guess I never thought about it. I guess in some respects it could have some significance, but...”

  “Come, come now, dear boy. You must admit that his theory of Infinite Reductions would answer the questions surrounding your treatise as to how the transposition into simplified parts could be modeled. You must see the significance of that?”

  “I’m sorry to end this lecture before we have dealt with all the fundamentals, but...”

  “Pity. I came a long way to find the answers to these questions. It seems that the mention of Sy VanCopeland always produces fear, and I can understand why you may want to disassociate yourself from his work. Why, his theory may someday negate all encryption algorithms. But can’t we at least explore the matter a little further?”

  Rob shook his head as he picked up his notebook. “I’m sorry. This is really off the subject, and any similarities are purely coincidental. Now, if you don’t mind, I really must go.”

  “Are you leaving or running away?”

  Rob looked again at the perceptive old man and put down his notebook. “A long time ago, I read a story. There was a very gifted scientist who had invented the ultimate weapon, a weapon that could destroy the world. A weapon that could destroy all of mankind. Well, it just so happened that this scientist had a son who was severely retarded.

  “One day, a journalist came to visit the scientist and tried to reason with him all afternoon to convince him not to give this weapon to the world. The world wasn’t ready for a weapon of such magnitude. The scientist justified himself by saying that it wasn’t his responsibility to decide if he should or shouldn’t give this weapon to mankind. Mankind was responsible for its own actions.

  “The journalist finally gave up and decided to leave, but first he asked the scientist if he could see his son. The journalist went in and visited the boy for a few minutes before leaving. A short time later, the scientist began to wonder why he wanted to see his son. So he went into the room where his son was playing. He gasped when he saw that the boy was playing with a loaded gun. The scientist grabbed the weapon away, thinking, ‘What idiot would place a loaded weapon into the hands of an imbecile?’”

  Rob picked up his notebook again, preparing to leave.

  Nevertheless, the old man wasn’t about to let him off so easily. “So either you view society as imbecilic or VanCopeland as an idiot... Perhaps both?”

  Rob walked toward the side of the stage and heard the old man say as he stepped behind the curtains. “Truth, my dear fellow, always lends itself to exposure. Do not try to hide the obvious.”

  He stood backstage and leaned against the wall, shaking. The old man had guessed what he had so carefully tried to conceal. The world wasn’t ready, and he did not intend to put a loaded gun into the hands of fools.

  He left the Great Hall through the rear exit being careful not to run into the men he had lectured. Being in such a prestigious place as Oxford was more than just a little intimidating. Back home at McDonald’s, on his own turf, he could take on any of them! But here, he was just a little fish in a big pond.

  Rob found his wife, Marie, and their three children waiting for him in the garden at Oxford’s center square. Even now, after ten wonderful years of marriage, looking at her still took his breath away and made him wonder how he could possibly deserve so many blessings.

  His wife was a former beauty queen, but there was more to her than met the eye. Exceptionally intelligent, she possessed a much-coveted photographic memory. She, like Rob, was a computer programmer, though she had eventually settled quite comfortably into her long-desired present role as mother and homemaker.

  Their oldest child, six-year-old David, was chasing his four-year-old brother, Michael, around and througr the thick rows of bushes surrounding the garden. Not far behind them, ponytail flopping, bounced the petite form of two-year-old Rebekah, Daddy’s little girl. His heart melted at the very thought of her. No other children could have been more dear to him.

  If the truth ever came out, would he be able to protect them?

  Marie sauntered flirtatiously toward her husband, interrupting his reverie. “Tell me, honey, just how did your lecture go? Jolly well?”

  “Oh, shush!” Rob scoffed, trying to give his most perturbed look, but the brilliant smile on her face forced a much resisted smile to pass over his. She leaned over and kissed him.

  Rob glanced furtively about the garden, preoccupied. “They’re going to figure it out, you know.” He turned to Marie, an urgent look on his face. “Sy. Sy VanCopeland! One of the men there asked me about him.”

  The stillness of the garden was interrupted by his daughter’s piercing shriek as she came running toward them followed by her older brothers. “Michael pull hair!”

  “Michael,” Marie scolded, “did you pull her hair?”

  “No, I pulled a snake!”

  “Not snake,” Rebekah corrected him sternly. “My hair!”

  “All right, you guys.” Rob interceded, winking at Marie. “See that bush? I want to know how many leaves are on it. Can any of you count them?”

  “I can,” David volunteered.

  “Me, too,” Michael clapped his hands excitedly, and the three of them rushed off to count leaves under their parents’ watchful eyes.

  Rob took Marie’s hand and wondered at its softness. “You were about to say?”

  “No one can prove anything. Don’t worry about it. There are lots of theories out there, and all of them are in some way or another based on someone else’s work. Even Einstein’s work was based on work other men had done.”

  “I know. You’re right, of course, but what if someone puts the two together? What if they find the links?”

  “They won’t! We’ve gone to great lengths to make sure that will never happen. Now stop fretting. Let’s go and enjoy the trip.”

  Having left their home in Dallas the week before, they were now on the final leg of their vacation journey to Israel. For many years, Marie had been longing to visit the Holy Land. This trip was going to be perfect. They were going in style -- nothing but the best: first class on the best flights, the best hotels, no expense spared. They had even been lucky enough to book seats aboard a chartered Concorde.

  They were celebrating Rob’s computer innovation. His patent royalties had made comfortable living possible, and, for the first time in their lives, they actually had the means to take a real vacation and enjoy themselves.

  Sensitive to her husband’s concern, Marie embraced him and captured his attention with her eyes. “Hey, look at me, not the garden!”

  He closed his eyes and smiled. He knew she was right. When he opened them again, he was staring directly into her smile.

  “I know Sy. And let me tell you, his theory isn’t his best part!”

  Rob’s smile turned to laughter, and he gave her a tight appreciative squeeze. “Oh, yeah? Are you sure?”

  “I wouldn’t have all these children if I
weren’t!”

  Rob’s attention turned as he watched their children coming back to tug on his slacks. “We got up to a hundred, but there are just too many leaves to count, Daddy.” David said seriously. Such a little man. “Can we go eat now?”

  “We want hamburgers!” Michael piped in.

  “Hangleburs!” Rebekah squeaked with glee.

  “We’re tired of Yoo-peen food,” David added.

  Rob picked Michael up. “I guess it’s no more Yoo-peen food for us, then! Let’s see if we can find a McDonald’s around here.”

  They left the garden to find a cab to the airport. The Concorde would be leaving in just a few hours.

  The cab driver proved to be less than friendly as he grudgingly took the “Yanks” through a McDonald’s on the way to the airport. Rob wasn’t sure if the driver’s rudeness was a result of true abrasiveness or his own imagination. What he knew for certain was that he was more than happy to step into the airport terminal.

  As they approached their assigned gate, Marie touched his elbow. “I’m taking the children to the restroom before we board, okay?”

  He looked down at Michael holding his pants. If they were at their country home in Dallas, he probably would have found a tree already. “Go ahead. I’ll be here.”

  As she walked off with the children in tow, he sat down by two businessmen pouring over their laptops. He didn’t want to be intrusive, but he couldn’t control his curiosity. He cleared his throat.

  The man closest to him looked up, distracted.

  “Pentium?”

  “Nothing less.”

  Rob smiled. Finally, someone with whom he could communicate. He held out his hand. “Rob Anderson from Dallas.”

  “Really? I’m Sonny Grant, and this is my partner, Jason Katz. We’re from Chicago... North Chicago.”

  “Traveling on business?”

  “Got that right! We’ve a small communications business and we’re looking to set up a branch in Israel. How ‘bout yourself? You a techy?”

  Rob smiled as he thought about the work he recently published. “Well, let’s just say that when I get cut, I bleed silicone.”

  Both Grant and Katz laughed. Grant cast an inquisitive eye over his new friend. “I’m an electrical engineer, and my partner is a communications specialist. How ‘bout yourself?”

  “Me? Oh, I just listen to her.” He tilted his head toward Marie as she approached with the children.

  Katz nudged Grant. “I’d listen to her, too!”

  Rob pretended not to notice the comment as Marie stopped in front of him. “Hold your daughter while I take the boys to get something to drink.”

  “Aye, Captain.” He mock saluted her in mock pirate fashion, dissolving the children into giggles. Then he set his daughter on his lap before turning to the men again. “Katz. That’s Jewish, isn’t it?”

  Katz closed his laptop and leaned forward. “Yeah, but believe it or not, this is the first time I’ve ever been to Israel.”

  “Oh, I can believe that.”

  Just then, a group of young men sat down in the seats across from him. They were carrying two large cameras and talking loudly.

  Rob waved them down. “Hey, I didn’t know they were making a movie on this flight.”

  The man across from him gave him a quick glance. “Travel in the Fast Lane.”

  Rob cocked his head, brows furrowed. “Pardon?”

  “Travel in the Fast Lane. That’s the name of the film. It’s just an advertisement flick the airline’s paying for. Who knows, maybe someday you’ll see yourself in a commercial.”

  “You sound American.”

  “I am. Philip Rogers.” He shook Rob’s hand. “This is Lonnie Douglas, my head cameraman.”

  Lonnie smiled at the little girl on Rob’s lap and waved. She buried her head in Rob’s chest, then looked back out of the corner of her eye.

  “You do many of these?”

  “Actually, this is my first flick since I got out of college. So you’ll understand what I mean when I say it has to be perfect.”

  Rob knew only too well how hard it is to get started. “I’ve been down that road, too.”

  He cuddled his daughter. He was looking forward to spending some hard-earned quality time with his family. This trip was going to be perfect.

  London International Airport

  London, Great Britain

  Kalven threw the bag over the airport fence at the remote east side before punching in as usual for his baggage handler job. Once inside, he made his way to the east fence to collect his bag, then returned to work. Since the flight was not scheduled to leave until mid-morning, he had several hours to work and think about what he was doing. He agonized. He was about to lose everything he loved. It took all his effort to fight off the powerful urge to call his wife and spill his heart. She deserved to know. But he couldn’t risk it.

  Fifteen minutes before the flight was scheduled to leave, he changed clothes and entered the Concorde’s jetwalk. At the end of the tunnel, an emergency exit spiraled to the ground. Through that exit, he entered the airplane.

  It’s too easy, he thought, as the flight attendant greeted him with a friendly smile. “Thank you, sir. Enjoy your flight.”

  He walked into the cabin, noting that it was mostly filled. He recognized the large Arab who sat near the back, but neither acknowledged the other. He put his bag into the overhead cabinet directly above the Arab’s seat and said nothing.

  Kalven had grown up hating Israel. Like most Palestinians, he believed that the land of Israel belonged to his people, not the Jews. Because his father had been an important businessman, he had lived and been educated in Great Britain. He vowed as a teenager that someday he would do his part to help his people, so he joined the PLO when he was seventeen years old.

  Because of his education and ability to speak fluent English, he had been selected by the PLO for a special operation in which people prepositioned in countries around the world could be called upon if needed. He was able to blend into the British society without notice. Giving him an identity was no problem since he already had British citizenship. Giving him a job background so he could work at an airport proved to be the only challenge.

  As the years passed, he married and had children. He lived in a lovely house in the suburbs and had developed a circle of close friends. His old life as a PLO member was just a distant memory, a part of his past about which not even his wife was aware. He had hoped it would remain that way. But that hope was short-lived.

  An unexpected visitor made it clear to him that he was still expected to finish what he had started. There would be no turning back now.

  Gate 23, London International Airport

  London, Great Britain

  Logan set his overnight bag down beside the telephone as he stood in the terminal beside the gate. He looked very much the part of a tourist: blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a casual shirt all helped him play the part of an average person waiting for his flight. He looked more European than Israeli, making him the perfect candidate for an envoy, a job that he was coming to loathe. His slender medium build and obvious lack of exercise helped him blend into the crowd.

  He glanced around as he pulled his wallet from his pocket. Still nobody following him. He grimaced as he realized his tendency to live his life in a state of semi-paranoia. This would be the last time he’d check his messages before he was home in Israel.

  As he pulled the calling card from his wallet and dialed the number, he half-noticed a small group of Arabs boarding his flight, but since this was a flight to Israel, that was neither suspicious nor unusual. The tall one did seem familiar, he thought, but his attention quickly turned as his secretary answered the phone.

  “Mr. Logan?” It was the voice of his secretary, Amanda.

  “It’s me! The sky is blue over London,” he said. His statement would not have sounded the least bit unusual to anyone near, but to Amanda, it was her signal that it was really him.

  “I
’m very pleased to hear that, and I’m very glad you called. We have reason to believe that Cheetah is on your flight.”

  Logan felt his strength leave him momentarily, and he had a sudden urge to sit down. Cheetah was the code name given to the unknown terrorist believed to be responsible for over a dozen bombings and at least a dozen murders of top-ranking Israeli government and military leaders. In each of the bombings and murders, the only clue left at the site were the initials CTA, usually written in the blood of one of the victims. Both American and Israeli computers had pounded away unsuccessfully at different possibilities. So finally they had given the initials a code name: CheeTAh. If the Cheetah was near, so was the target.