False Witness (50 page)

Wellington smiled to himself, content in the knowledge that within a few hours he would be able to unlock the key to history's most exquisite math algorithm. He downloaded the software program he needed and got right to work. Two and a half hours later, he filled in the last missing variable!

He spent the next hour factoring large numbers into their prime components, amazed at the efficiency and symmetry of the formula he had revealed. He tried to break the formula down into its component functions so he could determine why it worked. But it was far beyond even Wellington's gifted mathematical brain, on another level altogether. It was as if Wellington could only add and subtract, but Kumari could perform calculus. Wellington felt like an aspiring young artist who had just uncovered the
Mona Lisa
in his attic.

Kumari's mathematical feat in deriving this formula was, quite simply, awe inspiring.

Which made it that much harder for Wellington to do what he knew had to be done. There were some technological advances, he had concluded, so staggering in their implications that they went beyond man's present moral ability to handle them. Like splitting the atom. Or perhaps the manipulation of DNA. Granted, this mathematical formula didn't present the same kind of ethical issues, but it would present its holder with vast power over the secrets of the most important communication medium in the world.

If the government had the formula, they could use it to violate the closely guarded secrets of its citizens. And if the formula fell into the hands of a criminal enterprise, or even a power-hungry individual who was not a criminal, the repercussions would be even worse. No message sent and no business conducted over the Internet would be safe.
There were six billion people in the world. And Wellington was the only one who knew the key to this algorithm. God had entrusted him, and nobody else, with this incredible secret. The sensation was like he'd been given a supernatural gift, Superman discovering he could fly.

Wellington felt so inadequate, so overwhelmed. He realized that this was a typical response when God gave a person a monumental calling. It was the awe of the Virgin Mary when she was told she would bear the Christ child, the trepidation of the apostle Paul when he was commissioned to take the gospel to the Gentiles, the wonder of David the shepherd boy when he was chosen to be king. Or how about Gideon, a lowly farmer whom God called to lead the Israelites against the fierce warriors of Midian?

This would be Wellington's legacy, like it or not. The way Wellington saw it, God had taken this powerful algorithm out of the hands of the mobsters and government officials and given it to him—Wellington, a second-year law student. And Wellington's job was to keep it under wraps until the world was ready for it, until Internet encryption technology had moved beyond reliance on prime factorization. Or until such time as using the formula would do more good than harm.

After all, when David was just a shepherd boy, Samuel the priest told David he would be king, but David had to keep it a secret until the appointed time. If David could keep that kind of thing a secret, Wellington could certainly keep his mouth shut about an algorithm.

But there was still one major problem. When Wellington thought about the grand jury subpoena, his palms started sweating. He couldn't lie, not under oath. There was a verse in Proverbs someplace that promised a false witness would not go unpunished. His only recourse would be to stare down the authority of the federal government and refuse to say anything. The very thought of such a confrontation made him sick to his stomach.

He didn't mind keeping the world's biggest secret, but how would he ever survive if Carzak convinced a judge to hold Wellington in contempt? Comparing himself to biblical characters was one thing. Facing jail in real life was quite another.

86

Monday, April 14

Fort Worth, Texas

They ate lunch at the Stockyards. Medium-rare T-bone steak for him, salmon for her. They cruised the Fort Worth malls. Brandi said it was crucial to get her shopping bearings. In a city, women gave directions using the malls as guideposts, the way farmers used old oak trees a hundred years ago. “You know where the Ridgmar Mall is? Well from there, you go west on I-30 . . .”

They shopped at three different sporting goods stores before they found the right trampoline. They paid extra for delivery and setup. The clerk said it would take less than a week. Shane complained to his wife about the price.

“It won't feel like home until it comes,” Brandi countered.

Shane spent his time trying on cowboy hats and boots. He settled on a broad-rimmed brown Stetson and a pair of dark brown, pointed-toe boots on sale at Cavender's. Maybe they should move out to the country and get a horse, Shane suggested. Maybe you should get a different wife if you want to be a farmer, Brandi replied.

They made it home by four. Agent Sam Parcelli showed up precisely at five.

Parcelli looked around the barren house, made a few wisecracks about their interior designer, asked Shane about his ribs, then pulled out the paperwork so they could review it on the kitchen counter. He slid one copy of the memorandum of understanding to Shane and another to Brandi.

This had been their first opportunity to meet with Parcelli since the federal government had whisked them out of town last Friday, mere hours after the explosion that appeared to claim their lives. While onlookers focused on the front door of the mob headquarters as Walter Snead and a few triad members emerged, FBI agents led David and Stacie Hoffman out the side door of the van—the side opposite from the civilians and local police—and twenty feet away into a waiting sedan with tinted windows. A few seconds later, the explosion occurred.

The couple decided to start life over in the Lone Star State. Shane had always thought of himself as a cowboy.

“These are basically the same terms your attorney discussed with Mr. Carzak last week on your behalf,” Parcelli said, working them over with the stone-cold stare that was his trademark. Today, the sunken eyes looked more sickly than ever, as if the man had just emerged from his casket to handle the paperwork.

“This memorandum, as usual, starts with the recitation of facts leading up to our agreement,” Parcelli continued, glancing at the provisions as he summarized them. “On Wednesday, April 9, Mr. Walter Snead, acting as your attorney, called the U.S. attorney's office and suggested the basic terms of this memorandum of understanding. He called after he had spoken to you about the kidnapping of Jamie Brock by the Manchurian Triad.

“Mr. Snead proffered an agreement whereby you would lead us to the triad's headquarters and help us apprehend gang leaders in exchange for complete immunity and new identities under the witness protection program. Mr. Snead did not provide any details of the plan at the time, saying those details were confidential. The U.S. attorney on the case, Mr. Allan Carzak, agreed to the demands but only if you were instrumental in the apprehension and arrest of triad members.”

Parcelli flipped a page and continued summarizing, sounding bored by the process. “Late Thursday night, Mr. Snead informed the U.S. attorney's office that there had been some complications . . .”

Complications.
The word sounded so clinical now. So benign. But Shane Peeler, formerly known as David Hoffman, formerly known as Clark Shealy, remembered the panic he felt when Huang Xu discovered the GPS device. And the terror sparked by Huang's threat to conduct surgery without anesthesia.
That
certainly qualified as a “complication.” David and Stacie had planned for the possibility of the triad discovering the GPS device, but it made things exponentially more dangerous and gave the couple no room for error.

At the time, David had wondered if his prayers were falling on deaf ears. He had his answer now. While he considered how fortunate he was just to be alive, Parcelli rattled on about the negotiations between Walter Snead and the FBI. Snead had told the federal agents to be on call Friday, ready to move in on the triad's headquarters. But the FBI had pressed for details, Parcelli explained, and Snead wouldn't provide any.

Of course,
Shane thought,
because we didn't provide
him
with any.

“Snead did tell us that he was supposed to meet you two at the Sheraton on Fourteenth Street,” Parcelli continued, no longer looking at the document. “So of course we staked out the hotel.”

Which is precisely why we didn't give Snead any more details,
Shane thought. People couldn't seem to keep their mouths shut. Shane and Brandi had decided to trust no one except each other. And sometimes, out of necessity, the idealistic young law students.

“You came through on your end of the bargain,” Parcelli said, ad-libbing and barely consulting the papers in front of him. He was reminiscing now, not just reciting facts. “Surprised the heck outta me. You delivered Huang Xu and had your law student heroes drive us right to the triad's headquarters.” Though Parcelli's lips were not smiling, and maybe were not even capable of smiling, Shane thought he noticed a spark of life in the federal agent's eyes. “For our part, we decided to stage your deaths in conjunction with the raid, rather than take you straight to the airport as you had planned with Snead. That way other mob members wouldn't be trying to hunt you down in the future.”

Parcelli hesitated, seemed to return to the present, and fixed his sallow gaze on the document again. He squinted as he glanced through some additional provisions, then emphasized the requirement that Shane and Brandi sever all ties with the past. “You cannot contact anybody you knew in your prior life . . . and I mean
anybody
.” He paused long enough to accuse them with the silence:
We wouldn't be in this mess if you hadn't tried to sell the algorithm.
Then he quickly reiterated the benefits that the federal government was providing—new identities, complete with prior work histories and educational credentials, assistance with finding one new job for each of them, as well as a housing and furniture allowance.

“Any questions?” he asked. He shoved the documents toward them. “You need to sign all three copies.”

“Can you make me about five years younger with my new identity?” Brandi asked. “It's only fair since this whole affair cost me about ten years off my life.”

“No,” Parcelli replied, demonstrating once again that FBI agents had no sense of humor.

Shane shrugged and began signing the documents. Brandi looked at the barren cupboards and counters and asked Parcelli if she could borrow his pen. She signed the same name with three different styles, apparently trying to figure out how her new signature should look.

Parcelli watched their every move as if they might somehow try to defraud the government by signing bogus names. Shane felt a need to fill the silence.

“What's your theory on Snead?” he asked.

Parcelli frowned as if trying to make up his mind. “Might have been playing both sides, but I doubt it. Too many things don't add up. For example, if he was a mole for the triads, why did he get caught inside their headquarters? He knew the FBI was preparing to raid the place.

“On the other hand, I don't buy the theory that the triad kidnapped him, thinking he might have the code. There was no sign of struggle or break-in at Snead's house; he wasn't tied up when we stormed the headquarters.” Parcelli sighed. “To be honest, I don't have a good theory.”

“He didn't have the code,” Shane said.

“And he wasn't working with the triad,” Brandi added. She had been adamant about this point every time she and Shane had discussed it. “Shane and I . . . well, I guess at that time it was technically David and I . . . anyway, we knew that the triad would have to think they captured David unaware or they would suspect a setup. Why would they follow David to the bank in that case? Somebody had to ‘snitch' on David and tell the triad where to find him. That way, when David broke down under pressure and told them about the safe-deposit box, the triad members wouldn't suspect a trap. That's what really bothered us about them finding that GPS device—that they might figure out the snitch was actually working with us.”

As Brandi spoke, Shane watched Parcelli take it all in. Parcelli had his poker face on, which by itself told Shane something.

“We asked Snead to make that phone call to the triad—to make it look like he was betraying David,” Brandi continued. “If Walter Snead was really working with the triad, he would have warned them it was all a setup.”

“I understand that,” Parcelli said, “but how do you explain his presence at the triad's headquarters?” It was the same question Shane had been asking himself the past three days.

“It's a mystery,” Brandi said. “And it will probably remain a mystery. But I can't buy the theory that Walter was working with the mob.”

Parcelli shrugged and placed two signed copies of the documents in his briefcase. “Some secrets go to the grave,” he said.

He took a deep breath, and his eyes shifted from husband to wife. “I think you know the real reason I'm here. A first-year assistant U.S. attorney could have handled the memorandum of understanding.”

Parcelli pulled another contract out of his briefcase. “Have you had enough time to think it over?” He was referring, Shane knew, to the offer Parcelli made at the Atlanta airport last Friday. One million dollars in exchange for the encoded algorithm.

“That formula is a matter of national security,” Parcelli pressed. He tapped the document. “Think of this contract as a hundred stacks of money. Each stack contains a hundred Ben Franklins.”

Neither Shane nor Brandi moved a muscle. They had prayed about this next step, rehearsed the alternatives, and endlessly debated the ethics of what to do.

“It's caused you nothing but grief,” Parcelli continued. “From what your attorney told us, you can't even decipher it.”