The Cipher (19 page)

137

IT WAS TOO
warm for flannel sheets.

They must have never changed them out for the spring, with Mr. Smylie being so sick for the last few months. Melanie didn't mind, though; the flannel sheets in in the bedroom she and Smiles used to sleep in reminded her of the winter nights they'd spent at the cabin together.

Jenna had set up in the master bedroom, where they'd roasted s'mores in the fireplace and talked the night away. Melanie had told Jenna about Professor Worth's comments, but not how much they'd frightened her. The further down this path she went, the more likely it seemed that her dad was involved in Rose's death. Her dad . . . a murderer? She pushed away the thought. She pushed and pushed, but it weighed on her as Jenna skipped on to other topics of her choosing: whether her boobs were too big to go with a strapless prom dress, the best graduation parties, and what college guys would be like.

College guys. Melanie had never put much thought into them. She was forever clinging to Smiles—and still doing it now, she realized, as she huddled in his bed without him even there.

She had brought a lantern with her to make the room cozier. She struck a match, lit the wick, and watched the warm light casting on the walls. She and Smiles loved setting up the lantern, but it didn't have the same effect tonight.

You can't live in a scrapbook
, Melanie told herself as her cell went off.

Her heart quickened at the thought that it might be Smiles, but it was her dad again. He'd called three different times while she and Jenna were talking. Checking in on her trip to Smith College, she had figured, but now all the calls were starting to worry her even more. Had he somehow found out that she never made it to Katie's? Could he possibly know what she was up to—and was he trying to stop her?

She put down the phone without answering, wishing she could break it against the wall.

The three photos she'd taken from Mr. Smylie's office lay on the nightstand. The first was the shot of the three men: Andrei Tarasov, Mr. Smylie, and Professor Worth. She'd also taken a picture of her dad in his grunge phase for laughs, but nothing seemed funny anymore. The third picture she hadn't figured out yet.

Melanie bunched the pillows under her head and held the third picture in the flickering light. Tarasov and Mr. Smylie were in this one, too. It was a happy scene of a picnic, and there were two people in the picture with them: a gorgeous woman with olive skin and a small child. The woman was bouncing the baby on her knee, smiling in the direction of Tarasov and Mr. Smylie with a look you would give to the love of your life.

The baby had a toy truck in his hand. Melanie couldn't make out his face; only half of it showed in the aging, curling picture.

Melanie couldn't help wondering if the baby was Smiles.

Of course you can't, Mel. Everything comes back to him for you
.

“The mathematician is entirely free, within the limits of his imagination, to construct what worlds he pleases.”

—John William Navin Sullivan,

Aspects of Science

SUNDAY

“I was gambling in Havana

I took a little risk

Send lawyers, guns, and money

Dad, get me out of this.”

—Warren Zevon,

“Lawyers, Guns and Money”

139

SMILES SHIFTED IN
the driver's seat as they exited the freeway. The saggy bed in the hotel room hadn't exactly done wonders for his back. He probably would have done better to sleep in the Infiniti, which offered all the lumbar support one could ever desire. As if to prove the point, Erin was crashed out in the warm embrace of the black leather passenger's seat beside him, snoring away.

Smiles wanted to get to the meeting point early, which had unfortunately meant getting up before seven o'clock for the second time this weekend—easily some kind of record. He made a mental note never to schedule a meeting before eleven o'clock again in his life.

The GPS dumped him onto Atlantic Avenue. They were deep into the city now, but it still felt like Sunday morning. Leaves were filling out the trees on the Rose Kennedy Greenway, and a long formation of bikers pedaled across the intersection ahead of him, undisturbed by traffic. Smiles hung a left on Pearl and shut off the navigation; he knew where he was going now.

The office buildings grew taller with each block, casting the Infiniti in shadow and dropping the temperature a few degrees, as he drove toward the heart of downtown and the Alyce Systems headquarters.

He saw the sculpture first—the two keys of the Alyce Systems logo. It made him think again of the explanation of his dad's encryption system. The gate and the door, public keys and private keys. The dashboard clock said they had a half hour before the meeting, where Smiles was supposed to get Ben in exchange for the cipher.

That wasn't going to happen this morning—but amazingly, getting Ben back didn't even seem like his biggest problem at the moment. First, they needed to get the cipher from Zach and ensure that Alyce Systems didn't come crumbling down right before the IPO. And in order to do
that
, they needed to get their hands on Smiles's trust fund.
First things first
, Smiles told himself before he passed out from the pressure.

Zach had agreed to the $7 million price, so now the only problem was accessing his trust money. Smiles didn't have the first clue how he was going to do that yet; he wasn't supposed to get all of it until he turned twenty-five.

He could just make out the sculpture down the narrow corridor of Water Street. It loomed larger with each block, until he got to the wide intersection with Congress Street and could see it in its full majesty. Directly behind the sculpture, the mirrored tower of the Alyce Systems headquarters rose even higher, reflecting back the imposing bronze logo and the soaring office buildings around it.

Smiles didn't wake Erin up. He slowed through the irregular intersection, where three different streets came together. Seeing no sign of the agents, he took one-way streets in a circuit around the triangular park at Post Office Square. The tip of the park formed one wedge of the intersection, and as Smiles returned to it he tucked the Infiniti into a parking space that offered a decent view of the crossroads.

He turned the radio on low, and obviously the first thing that came on was a newsbreak about Alyce Systems. They were counting down the hours until ten a.m. on Tuesday, when the company would begin trading. The reporter was talking about how last-minute leaks could have a big effect on the all-important opening-day trading. “This has been a very well-choreographed process for Alyce so far, and you'd expect nothing less from Robert Smylie. Even with questions swirling about his health, he retains a firm grasp on his company and any information that gets released. It will be interesting to see if that holds up for the next crucial forty-eight hours.”

That's putting it mildly
, Smiles thought. He snapped off the radio, suddenly starving. Unfortunately, he wasn't about to find a hot dog cart in operation at nine forty-five on a weekend—the coffee shop across the street would have to do. Five minutes later, he returned to the car with two steaming coffees and Danish-type things to get them through the morning.

The smell of the coffee roused Erin. She mumbled a thank-you as he passed one to her, enjoying the eye-rubbing routine that was apparently a major part of Erin's waking-up process.

“So, um, run this quote-unquote plan by me again,” she said.

“First we're going to make sure they have Ben in one piece. Then we're going to go up there.” He pointed to the heights of the Alyce Systems office building.

“To get your money?”

“To try, anyway.”

“You're a little light on details, champ.”

“We'll flesh it out as we go along.”

“Sounds brilliant. What could possibly go wrong?”

Smiles touched her knee, nodding to the plaza. Agent Cole was strolling up in front of the key sculpture. The little dot in his cheek was undoubtedly a cherry cough drop. In his dark-sunglasses-and-suit combo, he might as well have been wearing a sandwich board that said
FEDERAL AGENT ON DUTY
.

Smiles whipped out his phone and Cole's number, which he'd kept on a scrap of hotel stationery since arranging the demonstration. Erin grabbed his hand before he could punch it in. “Star-six-seven first, to block it,” she said.

Why didn't he think of this stuff? Smiles nodded and started over. Ten seconds later, Cole looked curiously at his pocket. He extracted his mobile, cocked his head at the blocked ID, and put it to his ear.

“That you?” he said, scouring the intersection. When his eyes swept past the Infiniti, Smiles and Erin shrunk down.

“Let me see that he's okay,” Smiles said.

Cole did a 360-degree turn, looking slightly ridiculous now in his search for the caller. “Bring the cipher and you'll see him,” he finally answered.

“You'll get it. Right now, I need to see he isn't hurt.”

Cole's head levered skyward in annoyance. Smiles could feel Erin looking on at his side, her presence comforting and electric at the same time.

“The kid's never been better in his life,” Cole said. “We want one thing, that's all we care about.”

“You could have had it at the casino.”

Cole leaned against a light post at the corner, relaxing into the conversation now. “We didn't know what you were about. We had to cover our bases.”

“Cover your bases? Is that a euphemism for kidnapping?”

“Are you going to show up or not?” Cole said. “The kid's fine. He slept in a five-star hotel last night, if that'll ease your worries.”

Smiles was weighing his next move when Cole craned his neck along Congress Street. His eyes fixed on something, then continued surveying. Smiles turned to the spot, and just as he saw it Erin's hand tightened over his knee. In a distant parking spot on Congress, Ben was sitting in the passenger's seat of an unmarked car, the other agent behind the wheel.

Ben looked fine, maybe even better than normal. His biggest care in the world seemed to be choosing what to select from the Dunkin' Donuts box on the dashboard. Next to him, the other agent—Gary—was offering him an orange juice. Ben shook his head and started in on a bear claw.

Cole was right. These guys might be dangerous, but they weren't violent—they were rational and after only one thing. Ben would be all right for another day. Smiles sure hoped so, anyway.

“Still there?” Cole said.

“The Prudential Center, tomorrow at four,” Smiles said, and clicked off.

149

THE ELEVATOR WAS
whisking them to the thirty-fourth floor at a pretty good clip, and a distinct about-to-puke feeling was overtaking Smiles. It wasn't motion sickness exactly; it was more the thought of telling Erin about Melanie. That was the last thing he wanted to do, but they were about to talk to Mr. Hunt, and the topic of his daughter was sure to come up. Didn't he have enough problems to deal with?

It was Sunday morning, and the lobby of the building—a cavernous space with long shafts of sunlight angling down through its glass entrance—had been empty when they arrived. The black-veined marble of the white lobby floor wore a glossy shine, buffed to perfection by a janitor at a stand-up polishing machine. The only two people in the football-field-sized lobby had been the janitor and the security guard, who hadn't recognized Smiles and didn't seem overly impressed when he dropped his name.

“We're here to see Mr. Hunt,” Smiles had said, while the security guard conducted a microscopic examination of their IDs.
Dude missed his calling as a bouncer
, Smiles had thought, before the guard finally opened a directory, picked up a red phone, and dialed upstairs.

Weekend or not, Smiles knew that with the IPO just two days away, Mr. Hunt would be in.

He must have picked up, too, because after a short conversation the guard had brought them to the executive elevator bank, inserted a security card, and sent them on their speeding way to the top floor. The thing was hurtling skyward so fast, Smiles thought he might actually catch air when it stopped. Instead, he experienced only the queasy anticipation of coming clean about Melanie.

Erin must have read something on his face. “You'll figure something out,” she said as they stepped off the elevator. She thought he was worried about how he was going to get his $7 million, which was a pretty big problem in its own right.

Smiles gave in and turned to her. “So, uh, look, there's something I should probably—”

“Oh, boy.”

“What?”

“I know that tone of voice,” she said with a sidelong stare. “It pairs well with breakups and talk of other girls who've stolen your heart. Why don't you save this episode of
True Confessions
for later? You've got a job to do here.”

Smiles couldn't help it. He kissed her. “Let's do it,” he said, and walked decisively down the corridor. When they made the turn at the end of the hall, they could see the sizable shadow of Mr. Hunt behind the frosted glass of his office.

“That him?” Erin said as they approached.

Smiles nodded. “Cross your fingers.”

Mr. Hunt always heard him coming, but today Smiles had to knock. There was no booming greeting, either, just a tired hand waving them inside. The forced smile on his face was ragged. You rarely caught him with his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up, as they were today. And never with the stubble that peppered his cheeks. Seeing the bags under his eyes, Smiles wondered if he'd been up all night preparing for the IPO.

“C'mon in,” Mr. Hunt said. He stayed put behind his desk and gestured lazily to the chairs in front of it.

“This is Erin,” Smiles said as they sat down. Then he added, just to fill the prolonged moment in which Mr. Hunt stared blankly at her, “A friend of mine.”

It wasn't like Mr. Hunt to be unfriendly, but he acknowledged Erin with only a brief dip of his head. “I'm glad you're here, actually,” he said to Smiles. “I wanted to ask you if you'd seen Melanie this weekend.”

Of course—she had to come up right out of the gate. From the corner of his eye, Smiles saw a rueful smile cross Erin's face. “Yeah, uh, well actually, things didn't go so great the last time I saw her. But that was Thursday night.”

“And you haven't heard from her since?”

“Nope,” Smiles said. He didn't really want to dive into this subject, but these questions seemed a little odd. “Wasn't she going to Brown this weekend?”

“Smith College.”

“Right, right.” Smiles totally should have known that—Melanie had been talking about it for weeks.

“I got a call from her friend up there. Apparently she didn't make it.” Mr. Hunt pinched at his eyes, and Smiles could now understand the source of his stress. “It's fine. I was a senior once—she's probably just with friends from school.” Mr. Hunt didn't believe it for a second, and neither did Smiles. It wasn't like Melanie to take off without telling anyone.

Before he could consider it further, two businessmen swept into the office without knocking, one of them heaving a giant stack of documents. They stopped short at the sight of Smiles and Erin.

“Should we come back?” the guy with the documents said. He was almost lost behind them.

“Just five minutes.” Mr. Hunt watched them go, then rolled his eyes for Smiles. “Investment bankers. Those people don't come cheap, let me tell you. Anyway, what brings you downtown?”

“Well, it's actually kind of an emergency. It's about my trust.” Mr. Hunt's head reared backward at that, a line creasing his forehead. “If I, uh, hypothetically, needed to get all of the money in my trust fund now—like, immediately—would there be any way to do that?”

Mr. Hunt's eyebrows rose in growing disbelief as Smiles asked the question. “That's quite a request. And it doesn't sound too hypothetical.”

“Yeah, umm, I guess it's not.”

“Well, if we're talking about your money, that's a private matter.” His eyes bounced to Erin and back.

“Oh, she's cool, Mr.—”

“It's fine,” Erin said, already up and headed for the door. She left with a small wave.

He swiveled back around to find Mr. Hunt giving him a look. “You move pretty fast.”

Oh boy. “Yeah, about that . . . It's not really . . . I mean, we hardly even . . .”

Smiles was fumbling so badly that apparently even Mr. Hunt took pity. “I'm giving you a hard time. You aren't married—you're a teenager.”

“Yeah, but I mean, I'd never want to hurt Melanie or anything. Did she tell you she broke up with me on Thursday night?”

Mr. Hunt rolled his shoulders. “She hasn't been telling me a lot lately. Anyway, you're family to me, no matter what's going on with Melanie.” That distracted look was on his face again, and Smiles wondered again what could have led Melanie to go off without telling him—and where exactly she would go. “But as for your question, the answer's easy: no.”

“No way at all? There aren't any exceptions? Or some kind of loophole?”

Mr. Hunt just laughed. “No, there's no magic loophole. What in the world are you asking this for, anyway?”

There was no way Smiles was going to explain it all. Even if Mr. Hunt believed him, it would just drag another person into the whole thing. “Look,” Smiles said, “I know how crazy this must sound, but all I can say is that it's incredibly urgent that I get that money. It's, like, a life-and-death-type situation.”

“A life-and-death situation that has nothing to do with Melanie, I hope.”

Smiles shook his head. “I'm serious, she officially hates my guts. She doesn't want to be anywhere near me.”

Mr. Hunt grabbed a Diet Pepsi from the mini fridge under his desk. He pulled the can open with a sharp crack, shooting a fine mist into the air. “Don't take offense to this, but I don't think I even want to know what you've gotten yourself into. It's immaterial to your question, in any case. The terms of the trust are clear. You get the defined allowances until you're twenty-five, at which time you get the balance.”

So the answer was clear enough—no chance—but Smiles couldn't accept defeat yet. With a glance to the front of the office, he could make out Erin sitting in the hallway, her back a dark shadow against the frosted glass. She believed in him, anyway. She was the only one who knew how much rode on this conversation—the future of Alyce Systems, the safety of Ben. He couldn't let it drop.

“There has to be a way, doesn't there?”

“No.” It was a quick answer, with a touch of exasperation. “A trust is a contract, Smiles. You can't get around its terms just because you want to very badly. I mean, of course . . .”

“Of course what?”

Mr. Hunt closed his eyes, like a man who had just opened a can of worms. Smiles felt his pulse surge. He could only hope that his $7 million was lying somewhere beneath those worms.

“Of course what?” he insisted.

“Well, a trust
is
a contract, and you have to follow the terms that are written. But like any contract, those terms can be changed.”

“Changed to give me all of my money right now?”

Mr. Hunt shrugged unhappily. This was it.

“How do we change it?” Smiles said.

“
You
can't change it. Your dad would have to.”

“Okay, whatever—how does my dad change it?”

Mr. Hunt held the can of Diet Pepsi to his forehead. “Your dad is in the hospital. Your dad is seriously ill—I'm sure I don't have to remind you.”

“I have to do this, Mr. Hunt. How does my dad change the trust?”

Mr. Hunt checked his watch. “Smiles, I have some things I really need to attend to this afternoon, not to mention things being crazy with the IPO. Could we—”

“Just tell me and I'll go.” Smiles stood at the desk. A battle of wills was going on, and after a few moments a light went out in Mr. Hunt's eyes and Smiles knew he'd won. He might have Melanie to thank for that—the stress of her weekend jaunt had obviously sapped all of Mr. Hunt's strength.

Mr. Hunt broke off the stare and turned to the mahogany drawers built into the bookshelves with the Celtics basketball and his model cars. He returned to the desk with a stapled document that Smiles could see was his trust agreement. Mr. Hunt flipped through to the back, where his dad's original signature appeared in blue ink.

He scoured the pages, marked a particular clause with his finger, and wheeled his chair over to his computer. Shaking his head in disgust, Mr. Hunt typed rapid-fire into his computer for a short while and then clicked his mouse decisively. A single page spat from a printer behind him. Mr. Hunt retrieved it, then held the page to his chest before handing it over.

“You remember, I hope, our conversation before. Your dad has given everything to his charities. There's no more money for you after this, period.”

Smiles nodded—anything to get on with it.

“Don't think the IPO is going to change anything, either,” Mr. Hunt said. “There's been a lot of talk about people getting rich when Alyce goes public, but son, I'm telling you this for your own good: You aren't one of them. Your father still has a majority of the voting shares in the company, but none of those is yours—now or when your dad dies. He wants you to be your own man.”

Smiles absorbed the hurt. Mr. Hunt was doing this intentionally—reminding him what a nothing he was so he'd cling to his trust fund. Still, it didn't make it any less true. If Alyce survived the next two days, Smiles was going to be cut out of it for good.

“I understand.” Smiles reached for the page, but Mr. Hunt clutched it tighter.

“If you won't consider yourself, think of your dad. The last thing he needs is the kind of trauma that asking him to sign this would cause him. On both a financial and personal level, I'm advising you that it's a mistake you'd regret for a very long time.”

“Can I have it now?” Smiles said.

Erin read it on their way to the elevators. It was only a few lines long, with a space for his dad's signature at the bottom. Smiles didn't really care about the details. He'd taken a glance and seen enough legal mumbo jumbo (“This amendment shall supersede any and all prior conflicting provisions, including but not limited to”
yada yada yada
) to convince him that it would get the job done.

Erin flicked the page as Smiles pressed the elevator button.

“You did it.”

Smiles couldn't quite match her excitement. Mr. Hunt's speech had turned him sour.

“I still gotta get my dad to sign the thing,” he said.

“One step at a time,” she said.

Smiles nodded. “So, uh, listen. Shoulda told you this before.” He pointed back toward Mr. Hunt's office. “His daughter is sorta my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. She broke—”

“Smiles.”

The elevator arrived right as she interrupted him. Its doors slid open, inviting them in. Neither of them moved.

“What?”

“I don't care.” Erin took two long steps to him, until she was looking up from right under his chin. She looked like the pixie he'd seen at the casino reception desk—the girl with the starfish scar, the honey-colored eyes. The heat seeker. The girl he couldn't believe was talking to him.

“It's you and me now,” she said. “Screw everybody else.”

They made out the whole way down.