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  you?”

  “Do you want to hurt me?” he shot back.

  Michelle stood there, glaring down at him. Then she let her hands drop, turned and walked out of the room, this time leaving the door open behind her, perhaps symbolically he thought, if unconsciously.

  Horatio remained in his chair, his gaze on the doorway. “I’m pulling for you, Michelle,” he said quietly. “And I think we’re almost there.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  AFTER DINNER IN THE MANSION’S dining room Sean and Rivest went back to Rivest’s cottage to drink. After some wine and three vodka martinis Len Rivest fell asleep in his living room armchair after promising to meet with Sean the next day. That left Sean, who’d only sipped on his gin and tonic, to slip out and take a stroll around Babbage Town. Rivest had given Sean a security badge with his photo on it. The badge didn’t enable him to enter any of the buildings other than the mansion unaccompanied, but it would prevent his being stopped and detained by the compound’s security force.

  Rivest’s bungalow was on the eastern edge of the main grounds and off the same graveled path as three other cookie-cutter residences. Near Rivest’s place was a far larger building. As Sean walked past it he noted the sign over one of the two front doors. It read: Hut Number Three. It seemed to be split into two equal premises. Sean watched as two uniformed guards armed with Glock pistols and MP5s came out the left front door and walked off, presumably on their rounds. That was a lot of firepower. But for what?

  He reversed direction, passing the rear courtyard of the mansion where an Olympic-size pool was located along with chairs, tables and umbrellas, an outdoor, stainless steel grill and a stone fireplace. A group of people were gathered around the fireplace, beers and wineglasses in hand, talking quietly. A couple of heads turned in his direction, but no one made an effort to greet him. Sean noted one person sitting off by himself nursing a beer. Sean sat down next to him and introduced himself.

  The man was young, and looked nervously at his shoes. He had known Monk, worked with him, he said.

  “And your field is?” Sean asked.

  “Molecular physics, with a specialization in…” The young man hesitated and took a swallow of beer. “So what do you think happened to Monk?”

  “Don’t know yet. He ever talk to you about anything he was into that could’ve gotten him killed?”

  “No way, nothing like that. He worked hard, like all of us. He has a daughter. She’s sort of, well, she’s special. Super-bright, I mean things she can do with numbers, even I can’t do. But Viggie is one odd bird, though. Guess what she collects?”

  “Tell me?”

  “Numbers.”

  “Numbers? How do you collect numbers?”

  “She has all these amazingly long numbers she keeps in her head. And she keeps thinking of new ones. She labels them using letters. You ask her for the ‘x’ number or the ‘zz’ number you get the right one every time. I’ve tested her. It’s astonishing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Monk ever talk to you about Camp Peary? Maybe wanting to go there for some reason?”

  The man shook his head.

  “You knew about it, though, right?”

  “Can’t hardly miss it, can you.” A few people from the pool area were pointing over at them. The kid quickly rose. “Excuse me, I’ve got to go.”

  Sean continued his walk. Nobody at this place was prepared to talk. Yet if Monk Turing had killed himself, there had to be a reason. With enough digging, that motivation would surface, Sean was sure of it.

  He stopped near the building with the water tower attached. The sign on this building read “Hut Number Two.” As he approached the front entrance an armed guard stepped forward and put a hand up.

  Sean held out his badge and explained who he was. The guard scrutinized the security badge and then eyed him. “Heard they were sending someone down.”

  “Did you know Monk Turing?” Sean asked.

  “No. I mean I know what he looked like but fraternization between the guards and the brains is not encouraged.”

  “Any peculiar behavior that you noticed?”

  The guard laughed. “Man, all these guys are pretty much whack jobs in my book. Too much smarts can be a bad thing, you know what I mean?”

  Sean motioned toward the building. “So what’s Hut Number Two?”

  “You can ask, but I won’t tell. Not that I know all that much anyway.”

  Sean tried two or three more times to get additional information but, to his credit, the guard held firm.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know where Turing lived on the grounds?” he finally asked.

  The guard pointed down a path with trees bordering either side. “First right, second bungalow on the right.”

  “His daughter living there?”

  The man nodded. “Along with somebody from Child Services. And an armed guard.”

  “Armed guard?”

  “Her dad’s dead. You take precautions.”

  “This place looks pretty well guarded actually,” Sean remarked.

  “So’s Camp Peary, but someone managed to kill Monk Turing over there.”

  “So you think he was murdered? Not a suicide?”

  Now the guard looked uncertain. “Hey, I’m not the detective.”

  “The FBI and the local police, you talked to them?”

  “We all did.”

  “They have any theories?”

  “None that they cared to share with me.”

  “No security problems with Turing? No strangers hanging around here?”

  The guard shook his head. “Nothing like that.”

  “Turing was killed with his own gun. Did you know he owned one?”

  “As far as I knew only the guards have guns.”

  As Sean moved down the road he saw the row of bungalows up ahead. The first one was dark, the second one—Monk Turing’s place—had a light on in the front window. All of these residences were constructed of red brick and looked to be about twenty-five hundred square feet in size. Nice digs, he thought. The small lawns were well kept; the picket fences in front neatly painted. Pots of colorful flowers sat on the steps leading up to the front door. It was like one of those idyllic paintings depicting life as it never really was. From inside the house Sean could hear someone playing a piano. He opened the gate and headed up the sidewalk to the front porch.

  He eyed a pile of sports equipment on a small bench on the porch. A couple of golf drivers, a basketball, a baseball and a first baseman’s glove were among the items there. Sean picked up the glove; it smelled of well-oiled leather. Turing must’ve been into sports, probably to relax after all the brain work.

  Sean peered through the screen door. A plumpish woman dressed in a robe with slippers on her feet was asleep on the couch. There was no sign of a guard. In the far corner of the room sat a baby grand. Playing the piano was a young girl. She had long, white blond hair and pale skin. While Sean was standing there she switched from classical, Rachmaninoff Sean thought, to an Alicia Keys piece he recognized, without missing a beat.

  Viggie Turing looked up and saw him. She wasn’t startled. She didn’t even stop playing.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The voice surprised Sean because it came from behind him. He turned and saw the woman right at his elbow.

  He held out his badge. “I’m Sean King. I’m down here investigating Monk Turing’s death.”

  “I know that,” the woman said tersely. “I meant what are you doing here, at this house? At this hour?”

  She was in her mid-thirties, about five-five. Her red hair was short, parted on the side with a little flip halfway down her neck. The front door light was on so he could see that her skin was freckled and her eyes a milky green. She had on jeans, black loafers and a corduroy shirt. The lips were too full for the thin face, the shoulders a bit too wide for the frame, the nose not quite in sync with the eyes, the chin too sharp for the neighboring square ja
w. And yet with all that asymmetry, she was one of the loveliest women Sean had ever seen.

  “I was just taking a stroll. I heard Viggie, I presume that’s her playing the piano, and just stopped to listen.” He assumed that was enough information to allow him to ask a question of his own. “And you are?”

  “Alicia Chadwick.”

  “She’s an amazing pianist,” Sean commented.

  The milky green eyes settled back on him. “She’s an amazing child in many ways.” She put a hand on his sleeve and pulled him away from the door. “Let’s talk. There are some things you need to know.”

  He smiled. “You’re the first person I’ve met here that’s willing to talk.”

  “Reserve your judgment until you hear what I have to say.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  FIVE MINUTES LATER ALICIA LED SEAN up the stone steps of a large green clapboard house with a cedar shake roof and broad front porch. He followed her inside into a comfortable study lined with books. A desk stood in the middle of the room with a large flat screen computer monitor on it. She motioned with a finger toward a worn leather chair while she plopped down in the swivel chair behind the desk.

  He watched with interest as she put her right leg up on her desk and pulled on the lower section of her pants. The Velcro strip came free about mid-thigh and that part of the pants leg came away in her hand. It was then that Sean could see the highly polished metal and straps underneath. She undid the leg straps, unloosened a few levers, and set the prosthetic with the black loafer still on it down on her desk. Then Alicia rubbed at the spot where her flesh had met aluminum.

  She glanced up at him. “I’m sure Emily Post and her progeny would condemn a person showing off her artificial leg to a complete stranger but I don’t really care. Ms. Post, I assume, never had to walk around in one of these all day. And even with all the technological advances they still can hurt like hell.”

  “How did it happen?” Sean asked as she popped three Advil with the aid of a glass of water poured from a carafe on her desk. “I’m sorry. You may not want to talk about it,” he added quickly.

  “I don’t like to waste time and I can be blunt. I’m a mathematician by training, but a linguist by passion. My father was in the Foreign Service and we traveled extensively in the Middle East when I was young. Consequently, I can speak Arabic and Farsi and several other dialects the U.S. government has deemed valuable. Four years ago, I volunteered as an interpreter in Iraq for the State Department. For two years things were going all right until I was riding in a Humvee near Mosul when it rolled over an IED. I regained consciousness in Germany a week later to find that not only had I lost seven days of my life, but most of my right leg as well. I was lucky though. Only two people survived the explosion, myself and another man, who pulled me to safety. They told me the only thing left of the driver sitting next to me was his torso. Shrapnel trajectory in enclosed spaces is hardly an exact science. However, my country completely rehabbed me and gave me this wonderful accoutrement.” She patted the artificial leg.

  “I’m sorry,” Sean said. He inwardly marveled at her ability to talk so dispassionately about what must have been a horrific event.

  Alicia settled back in her chair and studied him closely. “I still have no idea why they brought you down here.”

  “There’s been a mysterious death and I’m a detective.”

  “That part I can follow. They’ve had enough policemen down here to have Jack the Ripper himself shaking in his blood-soaked boots. But they’re all government people, you’re private.”

  “Meaning what exactly?”

  “Meaning they can’t really control you, can they?”

  “I don’t know, can they?” She didn’t answer him so he said, “You mentioned you had some things to tell me?”

  “That was one of them.”

  “Okay, who’s they, as in the owners of Babbage Town? No one down here seems anxious to tell me or they don’t know. Both of which I find remarkable.”

  “Afraid I can’t help you there.”

  “Has the FBI talked to you?”

  She said, “Yes. A man named Michael Ventris. Humorless and efficient.”

  “Good to know. What’s your take on Champ Pollion? Let me guess, he was first in his class at MIT.”

  “No, he actually was second in his class at the Indian Institute of Technology, a school many in the field consider even more prestigious.”

  “He also seems very nervous about what happened to Monk.”

  “He’s a scientist. What does he know about violent death and murder investigations? I saw enough blood in Iraq to last a thousand years, but even I’ve been unsettled by what happened to Monk. At least in Iraq you knew who was trying to kill you. Here you don’t.”

  “So you think Monk was murdered?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what’s so unsettling.”

  “He was found at the CIA?”

  “Right. But if the CIA had anything to do with his death do you think they would have conveniently left his body there? I mean they could’ve just dumped him in the York River.”

  “So what’s your role in Babbage Town? I can tell you’re not simply one of the rank and file.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Your house is bigger than the other bungalows.”

  “I run a department here. Champ lives on the opposite side of the mansion, near Hut Number One.”

  “And what do they do in Hut Number One?”

  “That’s actually my department. Champ runs Hut Number Two. The one with the water silo.”

  “And you won’t tell me what you do?”

  Alicia said, “It’s nothing terribly exciting. We factor numbers. Very large numbers or at least we try to. It’s quite a difficult proposition. We’re hunting for something that many people in the field are convinced doesn’t exist. A mathematical shortcut.”

  Sean looked skeptical. “A mathematical shortcut? That justifies armed guards and expensive digs?”

  “It does if accomplishing it can stop the world dead in its tracks. And we’re not alone. IBM, Microsoft, NSA, Stanford University, Oxford and countries like France, Japan, China, India, Russia, they’re all engaged in similar activities. Maybe even some criminal organizations. They’d definitely have incentive to do it.”

  “I’m not sure I’d want to be in a competition with NSA.”

  “Maybe that’s the real reason we need armed guards. To protect us from them.”

  “So all of Babbage Town is devoted to this factoring stuff?”

  “Oh, no, that’s just me and my little operation in Hut Number One. And to tell the truth, I feel a bit like the unfortunate stepsister. Clearly my work is only seen as a backup in case Champ’s research doesn’t pan out. But the payoff could be enormous.”

  “For stopping the world dead in its tracks?” Sean said, repeating her words. “How does that make sense?”

  “Some inventions, like the light bulb or antibiotics, help mankind. Other inventions, like nuclear weapons, have the potential to end the human race. But people still come up with them. And other people still buy them.”

  “Why do I feel like Alice toppling through the looking glass?”

  “You don’t have to understand our world, Mr. King. You just have to find out what happened to Monk Turing.”

  “Make it Sean. Was Monk in your department?”

  “No, Champ’s. Monk was a physicist not a mathematician. But I knew him.”

  “And?”

  “And I spent time with him and Viggie but I can’t say I knew him all that well. He was quiet, methodical and kept to himself. Never said much about his personal life. Now go ahead and ask me the obvious questions. Did Monk have any enemies? Was he into anything that could have led to his death, that sort of thing?”

  Sean smiled. “Well, since you already asked them, I’ll just wait for your answers.”

  “I don’t have any. If he was into drugs or stealing or had a dev
iant sexual side that led him to being murdered, he hid it well.”

  “Did you know he was killed with his own gun and his were the only