Three (15 page)

When Forrest finally spied
the car parked in the driveway, he stopped and moved into the wooded area that
ran down the slope to a creek behind this row of cottages.  He would stay
hidden, but attempt to find a way to enter the house at night.

The lakeside cottage was not
actually located on the lake shore, but was nestled in among a collection of
comfortable one and two-story cottages within walking distance of the high dune
line.  This line of high dunes separated the houses from Lake Michigan and
protected them from its winter fury. 

The Newbury cottage had an
ample living room, kitchen, and study downstairs and bedrooms upstairs.  As the
three women turned on the power to the water heater and placed the groceries in
the pantry and refrigerator, Oliver and Robert went into the study at the back
of the house.

“Holy cow!” exclaimed Oliver,
“Elizabeth wasn’t kidding when she said Peter was working on a toy model!”

There before them were four
Chinese Checker boards laid out on a large table, each filled with a different
equilateral triangle of colored marbles.  Nearby on another table were
triangular magnetic tiles of different colors arranged into three different
types of polyhedrons.

“I don’t want to touch
anything until Elizabeth can have a look at this and perhaps tell us what it
means.”

“I agree, but I don’t see how
this can lead us to Pierce. Perhaps there are some notes in this desk, here by
the window,” said Robert, as he opened the window to let the lake breeze clear
the stuffiness from the study.

Just then the three women
approached the study, hearing Oliver and Robert’s voices. As she entered the
study, Elizabeth was even more surprised and excited than Oliver.

She exclaimed, “So these are
Peter’s pixels and prions!”

She examined them closely, photographing
them with her cell phone, and commenting to herself as she went. “Red, green,
blue pixels and cyan, magenta, yellow anti-pixels.  Fifty-five of these form
planar triangles that have one of these colors at each corner, and the
triangles with thirty-six pixels have the three different colors or anti-colors
at each corner.  These equilateral triangles must be his prions.”

Over at the table containing
the magnetiles she said, mostly to herself, “These magnetiles are also red,
green, blue, cyan, magenta, and yellow, but now include the balanced RGB prions
and CMY prions, represented here by white and black respectively.”

Then she examined the three
different forms of magnetile polyhedrons, one with four tiles, one with six tiles,
and one with twelve tiles, then exclaimed, “And here are his three families of
matter!”

“But only one of these is a Platonic
solid; the other two don’t fit the pattern.  They’re not convex,” said Oliver,
who had remembered playing with these same toys years before as he discussed
ideas of geometry with Peter in their undergraduate days at Princeton.  “But
look.  Here he has placed together pairs of tiles on top of anti-tiles. We once
discussed how this configuration was actually a form of Platonic solid.”

“Those pairs may be photons
and gluons,” said Elizabeth.

“But why are two of these
solids just sets of two and four open tetrahedrons stuck together to form six
and twelve-sided objects?”

“Here, take these loose tiles
and build each polyhedron, Platonic or not.  Then test each one to see how
strong it is.”

Oliver quickly went about
forming the three, sitting before him on the table, and immediately discovered
that the only one that was truly rigid and difficult to separate was the four-sided
tetrahedron.  The more tiles, the less stable.  He also found that the six-sided
polyhedron was stronger than the eight-sided Platonic solid, and he was unable
to create the icosahedron without Elizabeth helping to hold it together.  It
fell apart under its own weight as soon as it was placed on the table.

“Wow, do you think Peter
found the key to a theory of everything?” he asked Elizabeth.

“It’s obviously still a toy
model at this point, but it has possibilities.  Our group can now begin to work
on the mathematical theory underlying all of this and hopefully replicate the
work that had been erased from Peter’s computer.”

Tears welled up in Alice’s
eyes as she said, “Dad used to show me the various shapes that could be made by
gluing together toothpicks and building towers and bridges.  Playing these
construction games with me, Dad helped me learn for myself which configuration
of toothpick struts made the strongest form.  My discovery of the equilateral
triangle, and how its strength is used in the building of trusses and joists,
eventually led me to my chosen field of architecture.  Each time I design a
structure I think of those teaching moments with him.

Elizabeth replied, “Peter was
the same fatherly mentor to all of us on his team.  He could always inspire us
to reach beyond the obvious and discover new insight.”

 At this point Robert Swift
spoke up. “This is telling us all much about Dr. Newbury’s final work, and I’m
glad some of his final work has been recovered, but I am concerned that we must
still find Forrest before anyone else is harmed. In the event Dr. Newbury left
some notes that could help us, Alice would you mind examining what is here of
his personal papers?”

Alice opened each desk drawer
one at a time and extracted papers, most of which were reprints of published
works about the standard model of particle physics; but many had to do with
information content on the horizon of black holes, and something called “the
holographic theory.” 

In the bottom of the last
drawer she found an envelope containing a letter.  It was addressed to Peter
Newbury at his Fermilab address and was postmarked from Waxahachie, Texas.  It
had been mailed on Friday, April 4, of this year.

Alice extracted the letter, but
then handed it to Oliver.  “Would you please read it, Uncle Oliver?   I’m not
sure I can.”

He unfolded the letter, written
in ink by a shaky hand, and began to read.  

“Dear Dr. Newbury,

I am writing you to warn you
that you may be in danger.  Some years ago I joined with a group that promised
to help me get my land back from the government.  The Reverend told me that if
I put some of my money into his holy project that my land and my soul would
both be saved.  I agreed and encouraged my son to join in this effort as well. 
But last week I overheard the Reverend say that he, along with two other men,
one from Israel and the other from Iran, would wipe out the Satan worshipers
like Peter Newbury at all their places of worship around the world.  I told the
Reverend this was not what I had wanted when I joined his effort and that I
would give him and these two men no more of my money. Please tell my son
Forrest to keep away from those three dangerous men; he just won’t listen to
me.

Sincerely,

Mary Pierce.”

Oliver had been standing next
to the window that had earlier been opened by Robert Swift.  From the woods
behind the house, Forrest had noticed the window was open and had moved close
to the house to hear what was being said inside.  When he finally was able to
crawl close to the window, he heard Oliver’s voice reading a letter. To his
horror, he realized it was his mother’s letter when he heard her name at the
end.

Holding the fishing knife he
had earlier purchased at the truck stop, he bolted through the open window, and
grabbed Oliver tightly, holding the knife to his throat.  Forrest’s crazed eyes
were fixed on Oliver’s right hand holding the letter.  “I should’ve killed you
at your apartment; now you’ve read my mother’s letter!” he shouted in a voice
shrill and unstable with anxiety.

Everyone in the room was frozen
in place, knowing one wrong move would result in the possible death of Oliver
at the hands of this mad man, now a fugitive and murder suspect.

Oliver, at first paralyzed
with anxiety, calmed himself enough to speak slowly and deliberately.  “Forrest,
you have been deceived by the Reverend Benton Spencer.  He has talked you into
committing murder so that he could have revenge against Dr. Newbury.  You are a
victim of his vengeance.  If you do no more harm and help us stop this
murderous plot of Reverend Spencer’s, your sentence may be lighter.  Otherwise,
you will be facing the death penalty.”

As Oliver spoke he noticed Maxine
was holding out her right hand and slowly opening her fingers as though she was
dropping something while moving her left hand upward toward her throat.  Oliver
got the message; slowly reaching toward Forrest’s knife hand with his left
hand, Oliver then let the letter fall and flutter to the floor.  At the moment
Forrest reached for the falling letter, Oliver’s hand flew upward, pushing the
knife aside as Maxine crashed into Forrest’s midsection, knocking him back
against the window frame.  Forrest, having had his wind knocked out, was
immediately disarmed and pinned down by Maxine and Robert Swift.

Forrest Pierce was restrained
and taken into custody by Michigan State Troopers who had been called to the
lake house.  Swift identified himself as the FBI agent responsible for the
apprehension of Forrest Pierce.  He then arranged for later transfer of Pierce
to federal prison to await trial for the murder of Peter Newbury.

Robert Swift had also
contacted the Ellis County Coroner in Texas, and requested that Mrs. Pierce’s
body be exhumed and tested for poisoning.  Forrest appeared innocent of this
possible murder, since at its suggestion, he wept, and through his sobbing
asked how the Reverend could have done this to his mother.  He realized that as
her heir, he became the supplier of her money to Benton Spencer’s murderous
plot. 

After Forrest Pierce had been
taken away and Swift had finished his calls, the five settled into chairs in
the living room.  They were all still shaken by the sudden attack, but relieved
Pierce was now in custody.  Oliver turned to Maxine. “I owe you one, Max.  You
called the play and then carried it out with a body block that would have made
a linebacker proud.”

“It wouldn’t have been
possible without the help of that speech you made.  That took guts!”

“I realized Forrest was not
as intent on killing as he was on getting that letter.  He knew Peter had read
it but did not know if it had identified the members of the conspiracy.  He was
looking for it at my apartment when I surprised him, and he attacked me.”

Robert Swift joined the
conversation.  “Oliver, your speech may have distracted Mr. Pierce, but it was
Miss Phillips’s training in martial arts that stopped him from harming you.”

“I can’t argue with you,
Robert.”

“That letter mentioned an
Israeli and an Iranian working with Dr. Spencer to sabotage science.  I presume
those two are part of your work with Miss Phillips.  Dr. Spencer and Forrest
Pierce are both linked to the crime at Fermilab and will be processed by the
FBI.”

“That’s right, Max and I
still have an international plot to try to stop.  We have suspected there were
three conspirators since Peter’s death.”  Oliver knew he had been keeping
something from Alice and Elizabeth.  With a heavy heart he turned to them and
said, “I’m sorry for having withheld something from you concerning Peter’s
death, but Father Ryan thought it best.  He confided in me that while he was
giving last rites, Peter uttered, ‘You must find the three.’  He must have been
referring to this letter and the threat he knew was real.”

Both Elizabeth and Alice sat
silently as tears welled up in their eyes.  Oliver stood and went to where
Alice was sitting.  He placed a hand on her shoulder and knelt before her,
looking into her eyes.  “Alice, I promise you, Maxine and I will follow Peter’s
lead.  We shall find the three, and bring them to justice.”

Elizabeth took Alice’s hand, looked
at Oliver and then at Maxine.  “Alice and I know you will do your best. Please
be careful; we love you both and don’t want you harmed.”

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishment the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

-
William Ernest Henley

The Iranian Benton Spencer
had chosen to be a part of his conspiracy was Ibrahim Gilani.   Seven years ago
Gilani had been a lead physicist at the Iranian nuclear power facility.  Having
studied nuclear physics in the United States at Brookhaven, and later at the
Large Hadron Collider at CERN, he was considered one of the top physicists in
Iran and placed in charge of a critical part of the secret nuclear weapons
program.  He had helped design the centrifuges that would separate high grade
nuclear fuel from those nuclear reactors altered to breed weapons-grade uranium
and plutonium.  He was also responsible for the complex computer software that
controlled the speed and duration of the centrifuge runs leading to the optimum
enrichment.

Following the sabotage of the
centrifuges by a computer virus, inserted into his system by western interests,
Ibrahim found himself at the center of a firestorm of accusation. 

He had been singled out by
the officials, “If you had been more vigilant, you would have detected this
virus, and we would not have lost these expensive instruments.  Iran has failed
in the eyes of her allies, and we find you to blame, and suspect you, a Sunni,
of intentionally allowing this sabotage to occur.”  He had been stripped of his
position within the nuclear program and had been left without any income.

Ibrahim was engaged to marry Sahar,
the daughter of a wealthy Shiite family in Tehran.  Following his dismissal
from the Iranian nuclear program, Sahar’s family refused his proposal of
marriage and prevented her from seeing him in the future.  Desperate and
rejected, he applied for his old position as a nuclear physicist at CERN in
Europe, but was told he could no longer work within the international community
of nuclear scientists because of his association with the illegal nuclear
weapons program of Iran.

Angered and embittered
because he had been rejected by his betrothed, his country, and finally by the international
science community, he moved to Kermanshah, away from the limelight where he
could live in isolation.  A few months after his move, the American Benton
Spencer had found him, and appealing to Ibrahim’s pride as a recognized
scientist, arranged for the two to meet in England.  Later that month in a pub
in London, they discussed the heretical activities of modern science being
carried out at labs around the world.

In particular, Spencer
pointed out the recent public television series on the “Theory of Everything.”  
“In this public lecture, Peter Newbury described the three most evil places of idol
worship: Fermilab, CERN, and the Dark Sector Lab.”

Spencer had convinced Ibrahim
his destiny lay in combatting these centers of idolatry by assisting in an
attack on CERN, where the “God Particle” had been found.  “Ibrahim, the signs
that were foretold by the Prophet are beginning to be seen.  The false prophet
Peter Newbury has arrived and the End of Days is approaching.  We must take up
the sword against idolatry and evil.” 

This American man of faith
gave new life to Ibrahim.  He had joined Spencer in the careful planning of
this action against the idol worship at CERN.  Eventually, Ibrahim would bring
the technology at his disposal, as well as his knowledge of CERN, to Beirut
where the final phase of this attack on Satan would be carried out.  In the
meantime, Spencer would provide him with funds as well as the software to
encode their communications as plans were made and actions taken in the days
and weeks to come. 

Ibrahim informed Spencer that
the same virus that destroyed his centrifuges could be used against CERN in a
manner that would destroy a key section of the accelerator and disable the
entire facility, perhaps permanently.  He would bring with him the tools needed
to wage this war against the satanic, scientific community.  He would somehow
smuggle them out of Iran, across the ISIS war zones of Iraq and Syria, to
Damascus, where he would initiate the first phase of this cyber-attack on CERN.

 Two months before Oliver had
been assigned his Homeland Security mission to Waxahachie, Texas, Ibrahim had
undertaken a long and dangerous journey.  Leaving Kermanshah at night with a
caravan of commercial trucks, he drove his old white van to the Iraqi border on
the highway to Baghdad.  The van was filled with wooden crates, each packed
with bags of high-grade Pistachio nuts.  Dressed as a merchant on a trip to
market for his own load of finished nuts, he blended in with many other drivers
on this road to the border.  His forged papers, prepared a week earlier, were
in order, and he was not questioned at the border.  He was ordered to submit
his cargo for inspection, and as the ill-tempered Iraqi inspector was opening
each crate, Ibrahim spoke kindly to him and offered him one of the bags of
Pistachios for his children.  The inspector softened, and finished his
inspection leaving the majority of the crates unopened.  Ibrahim certainly did
not want the inner-most crate opened.

Making his way through
Ba’qubah and into Baghdad, Ibrahim looked for a market where he could sell some
of the nuts, and at the same time make connections with merchants who planned
to travel across Iraq to Damascus.  ISIS was growing in influence in some of
the areas through which he had to travel and there was extensive fighting
between the rebels and government troops.  He needed the protection of a
caravan of commercial vehicles.   He also needed to find out where the
sympathies lay among the merchants and the majority of towns-people along the
route.  Ibrahim had driven through the city and into the western outskirts before
he found what he was seeking, a small market in the middle of a poor Sunni
enclave. 

After the liberation of Iraq
from a Sunni dictator, the country had adopted a democratic constitution, and
proceeded to elect a Shiite autocrat. 
I’m fleeing Iran, ruled by the elite
Shiite, and entering Iraq, ruled by a Shiite tyrant.  In either country I’m a
member of the despised and suppressed Sunni minority.  My Sunni background made
it easier for the Iranian leadership to make me the scapegoat for the failure
of their security.
  As he stopped his van he was overcome by a strong
feeling of rejection and oppression fed by his own old and modest clothing, his
chosen trade, and the neglected state of this war-scarred market place.

Ibrahim parked his van near a
partially collapsed building.  He joined a group of other small trucks from
which the drivers were selling fresh produce.  Removing one of the wooden
crates from the back of the van and placing bags of pistachio nuts on top, he
began his trading call to the local shoppers.  Most of the local shoppers were
too poor to purchase these nuts, but one merchant did finally buy three bags
for his store.  He could probably mark up the price and sell them to the
wealthy Shiites in the central district. 

During a lull in the market,
the nearest driver, noticing his Iranian license plates said to Ibrahim, “You
must know that we don’t like Iranians.  Why are you here in this market place,
trying to sell expensive nuts?”

Ibrahim replied, “I don’t
like Iranians either.  I’ve had enough of being oppressed as a minority, and am
leaving for good.”

“Then you are Sunni?  Where
do you plan to go?”

“Yes, I am Sunni and I plan
to travel to Damascus, but I know there is much fighting along the route.  Sunni
or not, I feel I would be in danger on this trip.  I am trying to find a group
of commercial vehicles with which to convoy.”

“Let me introduce you to
Hamid.  He is organizing a convoy to leave this evening.  But you must
understand you have to be willing to contribute to his cause before he would
choose to provide you his protection.  If you are willing, I can now take you
to him.”

After an affirmative nod from
Ibrahim, both men locked their vehicles and set out on foot through the narrow
streets.  At the end of a small alley way, almost hidden from the street by
hanging vines, they came to a metal door.  The merchant knocked twice, and soon
the door was opened by an elderly woman.

The merchant said, “This man
of honor wishes to speak to Hamid about travel to Damascus.”

She replied, “You have
vouched for him and so I will allow him to enter.”

At this point the merchant
said his goodbyes and Ibrahim entered the small room.  He was asked to sit as
the woman poured him a glass of tea and then left him alone.  After what seemed
like an unreasonably long time, she returned and asked him to follow her.  She
led him down a dark hallway and up two flights of stairs, down another darkened
hallway and stopped at one of the doors lining both sides.  Again two knocks,
and this time a man’s voice responded for Ibrahim to enter.

Entering the room, Ibrahim
was astonished at what he saw.  The room was modern and well lighted, with
three computer workstations placed at positions around the room where a team of
programmers could work independently, yet interact with one another. 

Hamid rose to greet him from
a desk and workstation in the fourth corner of the room. “Dr. Gilani, I am
pleased to meet you.  I’ve heard so much about your plight with those Shiite
devils, and now at last we meet.  I hope you are willing to join our cause in
bringing the Caliphate not only to Iraq, but also to a liberated Syria.”

Ibrahim was momentarily
speechless and could only respond with a weak, “How….!”

“How did I know who you are? 
I have a hidden set of security cameras mounted in the reception room downstairs
and access to a complete facial recognition system with an extensive database
of people of note.  Since our cause does not involve people of note, I use this
system to check for government agents. I was surprised when your name appeared
and I realized who you were.”

“I see.  Then you know I am
leaving Iran for good and seeking a home elsewhere, in Syria or Lebanon
perhaps.  I am here asking to join a convoy into Syria through the conflict
zone.”

“You mean the freedom zone,
Ibrahim, for we Sunni’s are fighting for a free Iraq, as well as a free Syria. 
My question to you is this: will you join this fight for freedom?”

Ibrahim knew he was already
in a war whose scope was well beyond anything that ISIS could even conceive of,
but he also realized that his sympathies were aligned with this rebel conspiracy. 
After a thoughtful moment he replied, “Yes, but I have some serious concerns
about the criminal activities of some of the foreign fighters who have joined
ISIS; their butchery shames all of Islam.”

“You are right, Ibrahim, but
those fighters are mostly in the north, out of touch with what we are doing
here, and are carrying out jihad against their own enemies abroad.”

Realizing that joining
Hamid’s cause was his only way to Damascus, Ibrahim replied, “I will help in
whatever way I can, but realize, I am not a combat soldier.  I am an academic. 
I’m willing to transport my valuable shipment of pistachios to Damascus, and
there sell them and give the proceeds to the Caliph, your supreme leader, for
his continued fight for freedom.”

“You are a nuclear physicist;
can you help us create bombs?”

“I refined weapons-grade
uranium and plutonium from reactor by-products.  I’m afraid I know nothing
about the bombs that this material was to become a part of.  I would offer my
name in support of the movement, but I am already a marked man and wish to live
longer than a few more weeks.”

“I understand,” said Hamid.
“You can join our caravan to Damascus and contribute your sales to the cause. 
When we reach the Syrian market-place, I will put you in contact with two agents
for the Caliph.  Perhaps you will be able to think of other ways to help the
ISIS cause by that time.”

“Agreed.  I will remain with
my vehicle in this nearby market until I receive instructions from your
followers for this evening’s caravan.”

The two men shook hands and the
old woman showed Ibrahim out of the building via a different route, one that
led through a small carpet shop on the main street.  Ibrahim returned to his
van and pretended to sell bags of nuts to the remaining local shoppers.  The merchant
who had led him to Hamid had disappeared, having perhaps sold his produce and
returned to his farm.  On the other hand, he may have fled because a military
vehicle suddenly appeared from a side street, drove quickly across the square
scattering the shoppers, and approached Ibrahim’s van.

Three uniformed soldiers got
out and approached him with their American M-16s in hand.  “Why are you here in
this market; are you not an Iranian?  This place is full of rebels.”

“I am just trying to make
enough cash to buy gasoline for my continued trip to Damascus where I expect to
find fellow Shias who can afford my produce.  I stopped here only out of fear
of running out of fuel.  I thank you for your warning and will leave as you
suggest.”

“How do we know you are not a
rebel?” asked one of the soldiers as he began to move the barrel of his weapon
toward Ibrahim.  “We need to see your papers and inspect your vehicle.”