Chapter 1: Introductions

My day began like any other. I was sitting at my desk reviewing my notes on algorithm enhancements. The algorithm had been my master thesis in graduate school. Additional work on the algorithm enabled me to obtain my PhD in theoretical mathematics. I was now Dr. James Whitcomb Mercer IV, PhD, an associate professor in mathematics, rather than plain old James Mercer.

I was offered a position at a research university in Chicago because of my work with the probability prediction algorithm. My teaching position was in theoretical mathematics and dealt with probability modeling. It turned out to be a rewarding position both economically as well as recognition in my chosen field.

The probability prediction algorithm became a commercial success. A Seattle-based software company recognized the capability of enhancing the probability computation speed of my algorithm. They licensed my algorithm to be part of their polling prediction software. At the time, their program was the only one capable of performing the calculations needed for real-time probability predictions. News networks in the race to be first reporting election results licensed the program for its accuracy and speed. The software company and myself both made a nice profit from sales to the major news networks.

My wife, Karen, and I flew to Seattle several times each year. We stayed in an apartment that the software company leased on our behalf. Karen would go shopping while I was at the software firm looking over their wish list. Despite her best efforts, I was able to generate far more income than she could spend. Seattle was a refreshing change from the hectic pace of Chicago, and we enjoyed our time there.

The university was happy to have me as a faculty member. My research recognition benefited the school’s bottom line. The university loved the recognition it received for its faculty’s excellence. It helped fund scholarships and donations from successful alumni. I found it boring and distanced myself from it. As a faculty member, I showed up to do my research and taught the appropriate number of classes as required by my employment contract. I occasionally even had office hours. At 4 p.m., though, I left, no matter what. When I left campus, I either rode my motorcycle or drove my beloved VW Beetle the few blocks to our townhouse near the university.

Karen and I had been married for three years, almost four. Ginny B had passed, and her memory was rarely mentioned. I enjoyed my academic career, which involved numbers and mathematical calculations. Karen could have been a stay-at-home wife, but she chose instead to continue working as an emergency department nurse. Both Karen and I could have retired early and lived on the algorithm royalties. But we both liked our careers and wanted to continue working. We enjoyed a pleasurable existence.

I often kept my door locked so that I could work uninterrupted. When I heard someone knocking, I rose to answer the door, grumbling to myself about being interrupted. I went to open the door and saw my friend, FBI Special Agent Lawrence Foster, and two gentlemen waiting there. Their appearance suggested that they were government minions rather than FBI agents. Before returning to my desk, I gestured to them to enter my private domain.

Lawrence did not look me in the eye or greet me like he usually did. He seemed uncomfortable and embarrassed to be there. This wasn’t a social call, I concluded. I waited for someone to speak. We sat there for a few seconds, looking at each other.

“Gentlemen, do you have something you wish to discuss with me?” I asked, looking back at my silent visitors. “I have work to do. Unless you tell me why you’re here, I’ll say goodbye. Agent Foster can show you the way out.”

“Dr. Mercer, we understand you work with the FBI as an asset when needed. Are you open to working with another agency?” questioned one of the bureaucrats.

“How about that? They can talk,” I said in a lighthearted tone. “You want to show me your ID and explain why you’re here? Looking at you, I am certain you are not from the FBI. If I had to guess, I’d say you two are from one of Washington’s alphabet agencies. Which one? I don’t care. What bothers me is that you are keeping me from my work.”

No response.

“Gentlemen, unless you tell me why you are here, I will ask you to leave. Campus security can escort you off campus.” The tension in the air grew palpable as the two men exchanged glances, weighing their options. Finally, one of them cleared his throat and said, “We’re here on behalf of an agency that wishes to remain unnamed, and we have an important matter to discuss with you.”