The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1) (52 page)

“Let’s take a walk,” said Mason.  They walked out toward the back of the house and into the pasture behind the barn.

“The guys inside don’t need to hear what I’m going to tell you,” said Mason, “First of all, good show.  You brought in Juric.  That’s big stuff for your first outing.  You handled yourself well.  I sent someone to get your things from the hotel and check you out.  We told them you had to leave quick on business and your assistant had instructions to check you out.  They’re in the hotel business not the investigation business.  They always believe what you tell them.  Speaking of, what I’m about to tell you is hard to believe.  I told you before there was no way to deactivate the chip in your head, well apparently that’s not true.  One of our
Caprice
agents has gone off grid.”

“When?” asked Xiaoyu.

“Almost a week ago,” said Mason, “He killed his project manager then another
Caprice
agent and that agent’s project manager.  Their bodies were found mutilated and dismembered.  Hell, maybe he’s gone nuts and it shorted out his chip.”

“How did he deactivate the chip?” asked Xiaoyu.

“You’d like to know, so would I,” said Mason, “But we don’t know.”

“Maybe he killed himself,” said Xiaoyu.

“No, definitely not,” said Mason, “We have confirmed satellite images of him after his chip went offline.”  Mason went silent.  The two stepped one foot after the other on the comfortable grass. 

“The people here in Ljubljana aren’t involved with
Project Caprice
and they know nothing about it,” said Mason, “But the whole idea is that the chips are unbeatable.  If it gets out that someone found a way to beat
Caprice
, we failed.  We’ll lose funding for the project and we’ll be shut down.”  Mason pulled a small manila envelope out of his jeans pocket and handed it to Xiaoyu.  Xiaoyu looked in the envelope and pulled out a head and profile picture of an eastern-looking man with dark hair and a strong chin.

“Mykola Voloshyn,” said Mason, “He’s Ukrainian.  His background is similar to yours.  He worked for Russian mobsters, an enforcer type.  We have a tail on him.  So we know he’s in Rome.  We repositioned a few satellites over the city to track him visually, since we can’t track him via
Caprice
.  The thing is he stays indoors and a city like Rome has a lot of connected spaces.  As long as he’s inside our satellites are useless.  That’s why we have people following him.”

“You want me to kill him,” said Xiaoyu.

“Don’t be under any illusions that you can get sympathetic with this guy,” said Mason, “He’s not gonna pity you and tell you how to deactivate your chip.  When he sees you coming he will try to kill you, plain and simple.  You’ll have to kill him first.”

“That much is clear,” said Xiaoyu. 

“Usually field agents get time off between assignments,” said Mason, “The mind takes time to adjust to new scenarios.  But we don’t have the luxury of time.  You can stay here for two days and get some rest before you go to Rome.  This project is not official and not officially sanctioned so do everything as quick and as quiet as you can.”  Xiaoyu looked at Mason.

“Rome’s an interesting place though, lots of history,” said Mason, “Do you know what the Romans did in this situation?”  Xiaoyu remained silent.

“The Romans had the best military system in the world,” said Mason, “When the Romans had a deserter they caught him and stripped him of his rank and uniform and let him run free.  Then they rode him down.”  Mason looked at Xiaoyu with a slight smirk.

“On chariot.”

              It wasn’t summer in Rome.  Rome was summer.  The city’s denizens bathed in the sun at cafes around the Piazza della Rotonda or in shaded venues on Via Veneto.  The city’s tourists flipped coins into Trevi Fountain and posed for pictures on the Spanish Steps and Capitoline Hill.  The sun had a persona that made all conversations personal.  Conversations were held over cappuccino, over espresso, over gelato, but over the heat.  Tolerance for the city was measured in tolerance for its temperatures.  To be in Rome in May was to sweat.   The temperature was thirty-two degrees Celsius, a guaranteed thirty-six by late afternoon.  But the heat had a flip side, the sun.  The sun was so close; Rome might have sat on planet Venus.  The goddess herself infected visitors and residents with her flesh-loving attitude.  Young women wore tank tops and were rewarded with stares and bronze skin.  Young men wore short pants with espadrilles of different colors.  In Garbatella, life was getting going.

• • •

              Xiaoyu landed in Rome on the 21
st
of May 2003, according to
la Repubblica
newspapers in Fiumicino Airport.  The latticework ceilings gave the impression the airport was a grand scale warehouse.  Ironically, it was.  People were inventory, waiting to be sent or arriving from their point of origin.  Xiaoyu’s mind was comfortable with the warehouse metaphor.  He had lived and learned in a warehouse.  The warehouse-looking airport brought warehouse-like structure to an unfamiliar place and unfamiliar person, with a new identity.  Xiaoyu left Alain Metayer behind replacing him with another man with a short trail behind him, Reagan Lee.  Reagan Lee wasn’t French.  He was American, a community college drop out born in Hawaii.  If checked, all records were in place:  birth certificate; driver’s license; transcript.  Stepping out into Rome’s ancient atmosphere, Xiaoyu felt a feeling 700 years old—Renaissance.  From a darkened womb into new world light, Xiaoyu saw something he had never seen before, freedom.  The idea was on his mind from Ljubljana to Rome, but he hadn’t fully realized what the idea looked liked.  It was there nonetheless.

              His mind quickly reverted back.  He had instructions.  His car had been reserved—statistically the most common model and color for Rome, a blue
Lancia
.  As Xiaoyu drove, his thoughts were mixed.  They would stay that way.  His understanding of Mason’s reasons were clearer than his own.  Mykola Voloshyn had found a way out of
Caprice
.  Xiaoyu hadn’t.  Voloshyn was more valuable to Mason dead but he was only valuable to Xiaoyu alive, if he would tell his tale.  It was for Mason to bury Voloshyn and his secret together.  Xiaoyu kept thinking while he drove, driving toward a solution.  As long as Voloshyn told how he deactivated his chip, Xiaoyu’s interests were aligned with Mason’s.  Xiaoyu wasn’t concerned with killing Voloshyn; he could do that.  Getting him to talk beforehand was the problem.  Xiaoyu fully understood Mason’s question for the first time. 
How do you get someone to tell you the truth when they know they become worthless when you know what they know?
Xiaoyu thought of the answer, you could not.  Voloshyn would take his secret to the grave.  Killing Voloshyn was something Xiaoyu couldn’t get around and interrogation was something he didn’t have time for.  Xiaoyu drove toward Rome’s fabled city center at below average speeds—traffic.  He was honked at twice in the same instance.  It was enough for him to refocus on his driving.  The sudden sound of a honking horn brought on the sudden idea.  Once again Mason was the inspiration.  Mason said
Project Artichoke
was about knowing what the mind knows.  It occurred to Xiaoyu he didn’t need Voloshyn to tell him how to deactivate his chip.  He needed Voloshyn’s chip to see how it had been deactivated.  The chip could tell its own story.  Voloshyn wouldn’t talk but the chip couldn’t hide if dragged into the light.  And there was Xioayu’s curiosity. 
What did a Caprice agent with a deactivated chip look like?
 
How had newfound freedom affected him?  What look was in his eyes?  Was it all worth making himself a target?
  Xiaoyu felt a certain tranquility.  Once again his interests were aligned with Mason’s.  Mason wanted him to hunt, find and kill Voloshyn.  He would do it.  He had to.  He wanted to.

              Xiaoyu was made to rendezvous with one of the trackers.  There were three trackers assigned to Voloshyn.  They monitored him in shifts.  The problem was they had lost him and they hadn’t reported it.  They would have but when they were told of Xiaoyu’s arrival they decided to tell him and let him report it.  The trackers did know where Voloshyn was, just not exactly.  He couldn’t have ended up too far from where they last reported him.  They had an algorithm running along side the satellite.  The algorithm included a map of Rome and its structures.  They had a rat trapped in a room.  He could run about the room to avoid capture but he couldn’t get out.  They were sophisticated but they needed an exterminator to do the dirty work.

• • •

Xiaoyu was westbound on Via Aurelia.  He turned right on Circonvallazione Aurelia heading south.  Via Gregorio IV was filled with traffic and testosterone.  Locals leaned on their horns to let their cars do the talking.   The lifeblood of Rome was in its streets.  Xiaoyu drove toward the Piazza Navona where he had business—instructions.  Xiaoyu’s contact would be waiting on the southern end of the long piazza by the Fontana del Moro.  It was still early morning and the sun wasn’t high enough to torch the entire piazza.  Half the rectangle piazza still had shade.  Xiaoyu was to meet his contact at the fountain in front of the Triton that stood between the faces of men with dragons on their back—Mason’s way of saluting Xiaoyu.  The contact would be dressed in a light gray summer suit, no tie.  He would have a backpack, no attaché case.  He wouldn’t be listening to music.  He’d be reading a book, Aldous Huxley’s
Brave New World Revisited
.  Xiaoyu approached the piazza from the north.  He walked the length of the piazza from the Fontana del Nettuno passed the celestial Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi toward the south end of the piazza.  The Fontana del Moro was named for the Moorish man at the center of the fountain, wrestling a dolphin.  Four Tritons—serving as sea messengers—relayed the fountain’s song from double-barreled sea flutes. 

A dark-skinned man was wearing a light gray suit with open collar and sunglasses.  He stood by the fountain with a black backpack between his feet and a book in his hand.  He stood in the sun.  The sunlight heavily scrutinized his skin.  His dark complexion was unblemished in the spotlight.  He posed himself a few inches away from the guardrail around the fountain.  Xiaoyu approached him and asked if he would be willing to take Xiaoyu’s picture in front of the fountain.  The man obliged.  As Xiaoyu approached with the camera, the man handed him the book to hold.  The man took Xiaoyu’s picture in front of the fountain and Xiaoyu pulled out a pen and circled a paragraph in the first chapter of the book.  Xiaoyu thanked the man and left the piazza from the south end.  Xiaoyu walked for twelve minutes and found himself along Via Corso Vittorio Emanuele II.  Within two minutes, he was on Largo dei Chiavari seated at a table for two at a small-but-good Mediterranean restaurant.  He waited seventeen minutes until he heard footsteps pass dangerously close behind him.  The man passed Xiaoyu and sat down in the empty chair across the table.  He didn’t look at Xiaoyu he only looked at his book and read a circled passage.

“
Meanwhile we find ourselves confronted by a most disturbing moral problem.  We know that the pursuit of good ends does not justify the employment of bad means.  But what about those situations, now of such frequent occurrence, in which good means have end results which turn out to be bad?”

“A well chosen passage,” said the man.

              “I didn’t choose it,” said Xiaoyu. 

              “Then the person who did must be somewhat conflicted,” said the man.

“How many times does the letter A appear in your name?” asked Xiaoyu.

              “Twice,” said the man.

              “What about the letter W,” said Xiaoyu.

              “Also twice,” said the man.

              “Then you must be Shaw Borwa,” said Xiaoyu.

              “And you, Reagan Lee,” said the man.  Xiaoyu nodded his head.

              “How’s the food here?” asked Xiaoyu

              “Good,” said Shaw.

              “And the landscape?” asked Xiaoyu.

              “Not bad,” said Shaw, “Our client requires a lot of attention.”

              “How much attention?” asked Xiaoyu.

              “There are three of us on him,” said Shaw.  “I stay here in Rome, along with one other.  The third is based here but is liaising with some of the investigators.  Some psychologist, trying to determine what state of mind our client is in so we can better serve him.

              “Where is he?” asked Xiaoyu.

              “He’s here.  Somewhere in the city center,” said Shaw.

              “Somewhere?” asked Xiaoyu.

              “Private client, with a private life,” said Shaw, “We’ve isolated a location near here.  Our software has everything, a map of Rome even underground, the catacombs.  We got eye in the sky, whatever it takes to better serve our client.  We know about where he is.”

              “Where?” asked Xiaoyu.

              “Here,” said Shaw.  A middle-aged man with over-sized belly interrupted the conversation.  He spoke Italian, only Italian.  They were in Rome.  Shaw ordered in Italian, pizza prosciutto with garlic and a soda.  Xiaoyu wasn’t picky he ordered the same.  Shaw reached into his backpack and pulled out a sleek looking black laptop.  After a series of clicks and keystrokes Shaw showed Xiaoyu a bird’s eye view of Rome, a satellite snapshot of a section of the city center.  Shaw zoomed in on a highlighted section forming an oblong triangle bordered by the Piazza Navona, the Pantheon and Corso Vittorio Emanuele II. 

“He’s here.  Somewhere,” said Shaw.

“You’re sure?” asked Xiaoyu.

“Oh yeah,” said Shaw.

“How?” asked Xiaoyu.

“His gait,” said Shaw.

“How do you know that?” asked Xiaoyu.

“I don’t,” said Shaw, “The algorithm does.”

“The algorithm,” said Xiaoyu.

“It’s about patterns,” said Shaw, “The satellite stores the walking patterns of everyone it sees, in case we can’t get a visual ID.  Like if someone’s face is covered with a ski mask or bandana or something.”

“What if he changes his walk?” asked Xiaoyu.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Shaw, “He walks.  He runs.  He jumps.  He skips.  None of that matters.  He could even walk with a limp and we’d know it’s him.”

“Why?” asked Xiaoyu.

“People don’t have the same body proportions,” said Shaw, “Two guys the same height and weight will still have different proportions.  One guy’s got longer legs, the other guy longer arms it affects how they move.  Even twins, the eye in the sky will know the difference even if they’re minimal. The way you move is like your fingerprints. That’s how we know he hasn’t moved outside this area.  He last stepped into that building and we lost him.”

“Did you check the building?” asked Xiaoyu.

“We did,” said Shaw, “About five hours after he entered he didn’t show back up on the satellite grid.  That meant he was still in the building.  Two of us went in and knocked on doors but no one says they saw him.”

“What street is that?” asked Xiaoyu.

“Via Del Teatro Valle,” said Shaw, “It’s not far from here.”

“Can we go there after we eat?” asked Xiaoyu.

“Of course,” said Shaw.

“Is it possible he was walking with an umbrella?” asked Xiaoyu.

“Believe it or not, the algorithm accounts for that as well,” said Shaw, “It uses the shadow and the movement of the umbrella to figure out who’s carrying it.  If it’s someone we don’t know, that’s one thing.  But if we’ve already recorded the person’s movements, we should know it’s them.  It’s geeky stuff but if no two people move exactly the same no two people carry an umbrella exactly the same.  I’m telling you he hasn’t moved from that building.”

“Ok,” said Xiaoyu.  The topic changed as their meals arrived, less business more personal.  Shaw was originally from Swaziland and spoke English, French, Italian and Swati.  He was a COSOP Review Assistant for the International Fund for Agricultural Development—IFAD, a United Nations organization.  COSOP was the Country Strategic Opportunities Program.  It did the routine check ups to let the organization know how it was doing.  IFAD was based in Rome and provided great cover for a background agent.  Background agents had longer stay periods than other field agents; that was the point.  Background agents stayed in place and familiar with the landscape.  Working for an international organization explained why a non-Italian had been living in Rome for so long.  Shaw was in his eighth year.  Field agents were often enrolled as students in a local university.  But students were expected to graduate at some point and tuition was expensive.  Embassy workers changed with administrations and political shake-ups—no long-term guarantee.  Working for an international company or organization made an agent buried treasure.  It also saved the Agency money.  Shaw was paid by the CIA but not a full salary.  His salary from his job at IFAD was taken into account.  He had a CIA retirement plan in any case.