his fork and onto the small white plate.
“A protocol.”
Terrence tears a corner from the wet napkin under his glass.
“Diagramming interconnections. Projecting probable emergent threat actors within a population of highly gifted but eccentric personnel. Proposing appropriately comprehensive responses based on elimination of any possible threats.”
Skinner nods understanding, he sees how such a thing would make sense. Yes .
“This was a white paper?”
“Pure thinkology.”
“But someone activated it.”
Terrence feels a great tiredness descending over him. A weary blanket of too many time zones traveled. It is all so hard.
Skinner pushes his plate away, food mauled but uneaten.
“How long before Montmartre was the protocol activated?”
Terrence looks at him, remembers him in MIT’s Stratton Student Center, blank, rudderless, happy enough to talk about the possibility of working for the CIA. Drawing everything he could out of Terrence before revealing anything of himself.
“One week. Just after I was voted out, the protocol was activated.”
“And my name popped up.”
“An algorithm for measuring alienation. Your name was bound to appear.”
“At the top of the list.”
“I never saw a list. But yes.”
“The metrics reading well into the red.”
“The numbers were not in your favor.”
Skinner is staring at Terrence.
“Housekeeping.”
Terrence shrugs.
“If you like.”
Skinner is still staring at him.
“I heard later that several of Kestrel’s more exotic operations were shut down.”
“There was a great deal of mainstreaming going on. Cross accelerated the process once he had the board’s proxy. Moved Kestrel into more traditional territory. Improved the bottom line exponentially. He’s a remarkable administrator.”
“Why did he do it, Terrence?”
It is the first time Skinner has spoken his name since the conversation began. And Terrence does not know what it means that he is speaking it now.
“ Housekeeping . As you say.”
“No. Yes. I understand why he tried to kill me. My name. Not good for mainstream business. But. Terrence. If he wanted to kill me, why didn’t he send Haven?”
A picture flashes across Terrence’s mind, a boy, dark-haired, an absent gaze, swaddled tight in a sheet, arms and legs pinned, as one would wrap a newborn to calm it, staring in smudged black and white from the page of the magazine story that first sent Terrence looking for Skinner. That absent gaze filling Skinner’s eyes now, as if it is leaching into them from the past.
“I’d sent Haven away. An operation in Iraq. A new asset, first time in the field. Tremendous potential for Kestrel. Only Haven would do for her. So I sent him.”
“And Lentz got Montmartre.”
Terrence lifts and drops his hands, helpless.
“He was next on the chart. I wasn’t designing ops anymore, just handling details, assignments. Lentz was next.”
Skinner, still staring.
“Terrence, did you recruit Lentz?”
“No.”
Terrence looks up from his impotent hands and into Skinner’s eyes.
“Cross did. Very impressed with him. Jumped him right up the chart behind you and Haven. Liked Lentz’s mettle is what I recall him saying.”
Skinner turns on his stool, looks out the long bay of terminal windows, past the bodies of the jetliners parked at their gates, to the sky.
“An alienation algorithm. Is there anyone other than you who would think of that?”
Terrence is looking at a duty-free shop on the far side of the coffee bar. Liter bottles of top-shelf liquor, designer perfumes, massive bars of chocolate, jewelry, tiny cameras, candy-shelled music players, noise-abating headphones. He feels an urge to vomit. The fear he’s been holding in his stomach is fighting to come out.
“Cross doesn’t miss the details. He’s good at details. Extrapolations. He latches onto things. A small idea, you say something to him, cocktail conversation, conceptual, and you don’t know what thought of
“A protocol.”
Terrence tears a corner from the wet napkin under his glass.
“Diagramming interconnections. Projecting probable emergent threat actors within a population of highly gifted but eccentric personnel. Proposing appropriately comprehensive responses based on elimination of any possible threats.”
Skinner nods understanding, he sees how such a thing would make sense. Yes .
“This was a white paper?”
“Pure thinkology.”
“But someone activated it.”
Terrence feels a great tiredness descending over him. A weary blanket of too many time zones traveled. It is all so hard.
Skinner pushes his plate away, food mauled but uneaten.
“How long before Montmartre was the protocol activated?”
Terrence looks at him, remembers him in MIT’s Stratton Student Center, blank, rudderless, happy enough to talk about the possibility of working for the CIA. Drawing everything he could out of Terrence before revealing anything of himself.
“One week. Just after I was voted out, the protocol was activated.”
“And my name popped up.”
“An algorithm for measuring alienation. Your name was bound to appear.”
“At the top of the list.”
“I never saw a list. But yes.”
“The metrics reading well into the red.”
“The numbers were not in your favor.”
Skinner is staring at Terrence.
“Housekeeping.”
Terrence shrugs.
“If you like.”
Skinner is still staring at him.
“I heard later that several of Kestrel’s more exotic operations were shut down.”
“There was a great deal of mainstreaming going on. Cross accelerated the process once he had the board’s proxy. Moved Kestrel into more traditional territory. Improved the bottom line exponentially. He’s a remarkable administrator.”
“Why did he do it, Terrence?”
It is the first time Skinner has spoken his name since the conversation began. And Terrence does not know what it means that he is speaking it now.
“ Housekeeping . As you say.”
“No. Yes. I understand why he tried to kill me. My name. Not good for mainstream business. But. Terrence. If he wanted to kill me, why didn’t he send Haven?”
A picture flashes across Terrence’s mind, a boy, dark-haired, an absent gaze, swaddled tight in a sheet, arms and legs pinned, as one would wrap a newborn to calm it, staring in smudged black and white from the page of the magazine story that first sent Terrence looking for Skinner. That absent gaze filling Skinner’s eyes now, as if it is leaching into them from the past.
“I’d sent Haven away. An operation in Iraq. A new asset, first time in the field. Tremendous potential for Kestrel. Only Haven would do for her. So I sent him.”
“And Lentz got Montmartre.”
Terrence lifts and drops his hands, helpless.
“He was next on the chart. I wasn’t designing ops anymore, just handling details, assignments. Lentz was next.”
Skinner, still staring.
“Terrence, did you recruit Lentz?”
“No.”
Terrence looks up from his impotent hands and into Skinner’s eyes.
“Cross did. Very impressed with him. Jumped him right up the chart behind you and Haven. Liked Lentz’s mettle is what I recall him saying.”
Skinner turns on his stool, looks out the long bay of terminal windows, past the bodies of the jetliners parked at their gates, to the sky.
“An alienation algorithm. Is there anyone other than you who would think of that?”
Terrence is looking at a duty-free shop on the far side of the coffee bar. Liter bottles of top-shelf liquor, designer perfumes, massive bars of chocolate, jewelry, tiny cameras, candy-shelled music players, noise-abating headphones. He feels an urge to vomit. The fear he’s been holding in his stomach is fighting to come out.
“Cross doesn’t miss the details. He’s good at details. Extrapolations. He latches onto things. A small idea, you say something to him, cocktail conversation, conceptual, and you don’t know what thought of
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