Missing the give and take

Well, I have to admit, today is the first day I've actually missed participating in the Bilge discussions. Admittedly, as a very passionate partisan, I sometimes let my activity there overwhelm me... and getting banned for reacting badly to an insult (unrelated to the discussions) was probably not a bad thing... but there are a few threads going on there I wish I could participate in. One thread, talking about 'radical equality', is esepecially interesting.

My 'ban' gets lifted on the tenth of January (barring a New Year's Pardon), so I guess I ought to be as productive as possible between now and then.

Uplifting

I ordinarily shiver when people talk about 'values'. Most often, it's a word which is loaded with double meanings; 'my' values, not 'your' values... usually applied by some right wing conservative, most often to try to impose some religious or political viewpoint on others.

However, I've been seeing some TV ads lately, credited to 'www.forbetterlife'org', which seemed genuinely innocent, and quite beautifully done, so I did a little digging. Eventually, it led me to www.values.com, which at first, caught me by surprise.

It represents an organization called 'Foundation for a Better Life', and after exhaustively searching, I find nothing sinister or hidden about it. It claims to be privately and anonymously funded, doesn't accept donations, doesn't have a link to any other similar organizations, and is not affiliated with any religion... yet it expounds on a long list of 'values' for which I think no one could find fault. The ads and billobards it produces are beautiful, with simple, heartfelt sentiments, and very high production values.

For several years now, I've often engaged in heated debates with religious folks who argue that my agnosticism means that I have no moral absolutes, and therefore can't appreciate values.

The stuff on this site proves them wrong.

Seasons Greetings to my Bilge friends

It's been pointed out to me that I've received a few 'Seasons Greetings' myself, from my friends in 'The Bilge' (who constitute most of the population down there). So, I'd like to extend the same to them, and wish them a very happy Christmas holiday. I suppose I'll be back there when my ban ends... sometime in the New Year.

2009, the 'half true' year

As something of a politics junkie, one of my favorite websites is http://www.politifact.com/. The fine folks there vet the statements of politicians and other notables, assigning ratings of their statements ranging from 'true' down to 'pants on fire'.

In today's post, the reflect on the scoring for 2009, a rather contentious year, and report that you hear the truth, or something resembling it, about half the time. Sounds about right, to me.

The Truth-O-Meter went red in 2009.

We mention red because that’s the meter’s color for our lowest ratings, False and Pants on Fire. Of the 432 fact-checking items we published this year, 26 percent were rated False and 10 percent earned a Pants on Fire.

That means more than one-third of all the claims we checked were incorrect.

Another way to look at it: The truth took a beating in 2009.

That was particularly true in the debate over health care, where nearly 40 percent of claims were rated False or Pants on Fire.

And if you’re relying on pundits or talk show hosts for your facts, you might want to reconsider. More than 45 percent of their claims were False or Pants on Fire.

The social scientists on our staff (okay, there’s just one) discourage us from comparing this year’s ratings with last year, when we were focused on the presidential campaign. Our ratings are journalism, not social science, after all, and the items are chosen based on our news judgment and staffing, not randomly selected. But with that big caveat, it’s still interesting to note that we had a lower share of False and Pants on Fire ratings during the 2008 campaign – 24 percent – than the 36 percent in 2009, when we rated the Congressional debate and comments from the White House.

In case you’re scoring at home, here are the stats for 2009:

True 18%
Mostly True 14.5
Half True 17.5
Barely True 13.8
False 26.2
Pants on Fire 10.0

Another writing tease

Bridget seems to enjoy these:

-------------------

They grabbed her in the parking lot of her gym. It wasn’t difficult; they simply used a moving van to block the view of her car from the street. It was a well-practiced ploy, and the emigrant Russians from Bayside, Queens, New York, were experts at it. Ordinarily, they would be nabbing a recalcitrant shop owner who failed to pay his tribute to the Russian mob, or perhaps a drug dealer who wasn’t selling his quota. They more commonly used a lot more force, since their victims were going to be quite intentionally hurt; however, Casimir carefully instructed them to treat this Rosenbloom woman as if she was their own sister. One of the Russians laughed derisively and told Casimir that his own sister was a working girl, usually found hooking along the docks on the west side of Manhattan. Casimir feigned a hearty laugh with the other men, but inside was disgusted at the crudeness of the joke. Casimir never met these men, although he knew of them; Directorate 12 frequently supplied them with drugs, and took a piece of the profits in tribute. These men weren’t political or cultural refugees in America; they were criminals, plain and simple. It was easier for the authorities in Moscow to convince them that they would have greater criminal opportunities in New York than in Russia, while at the same time establishing a source of funds, via kickbacks on the drug business. From time to time, they could be called upon to do favors, although they certainly weren’t agents in the traditional sense.

Mimi had just opened the door of her car, and was in the process of throwing her gym bag into the back seat when she heard a male voice behind her. “Excuse me, miss, do you have a light?” the man asked. She turned and looked at him, in his 40’s, perhaps, thick ‘salt and pepper’ beard and fashionable leather jacket, gold chains exposed by an open shirt. The fact that his voice was heavily accented didn’t register with her, and she barely had time to begin to explain that she didn’t smoke, when the lights went out. A rough hand over her eyes, and stronger hands around her waist, dragged her into some vehicle that she heard screeching up to a halt beside her. More hands bound her ankles and wrists with cords, and a piece of tape was placed over her mouth before her head was covered with a black hood. Finally, she stopped struggling, and sat there, panting, terrorized, waiting. She could smell the leather jackets and the cigarette aroma lingering on these men.

Outside, Casimir stood around with the remaining men, who were lighting cigarettes and laughing. Casimir joked and kidded with them in the mother tongue, trying his best to be ‘one of the boys’, despite his seething resentment and hate for these men who were nothing but common criminals with an uncommon connection.

“Good work, comerades” Casimir complimented them.

“Who is the bitch?” a short, broad shouldered man asked.

Casimir thought quickly, devising a story even as he spoke. “Oh, just a secretary. We want some information on her boss. We’re going to convince her to cooperate. We’re good at convincing people like that,” Casimir replied, laughing.

“If she doesn’t cooperate, let me know,” one of the men told him. “My nephew runs a stable in the Bronx. The bitch would bring in a lot of money,” the man explained. “We can turn her into a whore easily,” he snickered.

Casimir nodded. “I’ll let you know, but I suspect I’ll be successful. OK, get over to the airport. The jet is waiting, and I should be along in a half hour or so. You guys did bring a change of clothes, didn’t you? The jackets are nice, but you’ll look out of place where we’re going,” Casimir told them disapprovingly. The men looked sheepishly at each other. “Never mind,” Casimir advised them, “just get over there and wait for me. I’ll see you shortly.”

The other men hopped into the moving van, and pulled out of the parking lot. Casimir turned and got into the limousine, sitting alongside a quivering and shaking Miss Rosenbloom. He spoke to Viktor in Russian, who was already in the driver’s seat, telling him to drive out towards Bethesda, Maryland. Casimir then pressed the button to raise the glass partition between Viktor and the rear compartment. He pulled out a woolen ski mask, placing it over his head carefully. Then he spoke to her in an assured voice, his practiced English bearing only a slight accent.

“Miss Rosenbloom, let me assure you, you are not going to be hurt in any way. I simply need to speak with you about an important matter. Please try to calm down. I know all of this is quite frightening, but I promise you’re completely safe,” Casimir told her. He could see that his words did a great deal to calm her, although her chest was still heaving, and her breath was still ragged.

“I’d like to remove the hood from your head, and the tape from your mouth. First, let me tell you that I’ve put on a ski mask so you won’t be able to identify me. I realize the mask looks a bit threatening, but I promise it’s meant only for anonymity and not for any sinister purpose. Do you understand?” Casimir waited. After a few moments, he said, “Please nod if you’ve understood what I said.”

Mimi nodded slowly. The fear was soaking through her, but for some strange reason, this man’s voice seemed somehow safe and reassuring. She was calming now; still frightened, but able to deal with the situation.

“All right, then. I’m going to remove the hood. You’re in a limousine, by the way, and we’re simply taking a ride down the highway so we can chat. After our chat, you’ll be dropped off at a safe place. The police will be called shortly, and no doubt they’ll pick you up. We want nothing to happen to you, Miss Rosenbloom, so you can feel safe,” Casimir continued, in calm tones.

Mimi felt the hood being lifted. She saw him, a tall man, trim, dressed in a business suit, but incongruously wearing a ski mask. She recognized the highway as being the road to Bethesda. She couldn’t see the driver; the glass partition was heavily smoked to preclude forward visibility. She was beginning to feel strangely calm now, reasoning that this would hardly be the behavior of someone with sinister intentions.

“Here, let me remove the tape from your mouth. I’ll try to be gentle,” Casimir assured her. He began to peel back the tape, and Mimi assisted by wetting the adhesive near her mouth with her tongue. Finally the tape was off, and Mimi could breathe easily.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, in a quavering voice.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” Casimir replied. “I’m an official of another government. It ought to be obvious which government that is, based on the accents of my comrades. While I certainly can’t reveal my real name, you can call me Uncle Jonas, practically everyone in our business does,” Casimir explained.

“What do you want with me?” Mimi protested in a thin voice. “I’m just a statistician. I work for the State Department. I don’t know anything,” she protested, unconvincingly mouthing the cover story she had been given at Langley. An instant later, she realized that it had been foolish to blurt out her cover story before she was even asked.

“Miss Rosenbloom, this will be a very long drive if we insist on maintaining such foolish pretenses. I confess I don’t know precisely what you are, and you could indeed be a statistician, although you work for the NSA, not the State Department, and there would be very little point in denying it. Can we drop this posturing and move on?” Casimir was chiding her, sensing that she was bright enough to understand when, in American parlance, ‘the jig was up’.

“All right, I won’t obsess about who my employer is, but I’m not admitting anything. I told you the truth when I said I don’t know anything,” she maintained.

Casimir sighed. “All right, then, perhaps you might just listen for a moment. I think I can prove that I’m aware of whom you work for, and that we share a common interest. That interest happens to be related to an unsolved murder in southern California, in the desert. A place called Euston. A dead man, and a radar gun. A defective radar gun. I can see by your eyes that you understand what I’m talking about.”

Mimi was truly frightened now. How could anyone know about her interest in this mystery? Had she gone and done something incredibly stupid and naïve, by pressing her investigation without getting permission from Corbin?

“Well,” Casimir continued, “it so happens that I have an interest in this case, too. I know very little about it. However, I have other information. Profound information. Are you listening?”

Mimi nodded slowly.

“All right. I hope that you share this information with your superiors. I believe that a small radical group is going to commit an act of terrorism against the United States. It will be a very serious act of terrorism. There’s a relationship between this terrorist act, and the incident in California. Don’t bother to deny it; I know you’ve been investigating the Euston Borehole incident. But I doubt you know anything about the terrorist act.”

Mim was stunned by this revelation. Not knowing just what to do, she decided to play along. “All right, suppose this is true,” she replied. “Suppose I have been investigating some incident. What is this terrorist act? Tell me and we’ll put a stop to it.”

“Ah, there’s the problem,” Casimir countered. “For reasons I will not reveal, I can’t tell you anything more about it. In fact, I don’t expect your organization to be able to stop it, and I don’t even want you to try. My organization will stop this terrorist act, before it happens. But we will need your help. You have access to information. Powerful computers.” Mimi cringed as he said the word computer, wondering if this stranger had any inkling whatsoever about the Inference Engine. “You can give us the information to defuse the situation.”

“How can we possibly help, if you won’t tell us what the situation is all about,” Mimi asked. “I doubt my superiors are going to blindly supply some unknown individual any information, just on his word…”

“There’s nothing more I can say. After you’re released, you’ll undoubtedly tell your superiors what happened to you, and you’ll relay my plea. They’ll have to decide if it’s worth taking the risk or not,” Casimir told her.

“Why do you want to help?” Mimi asked. “What do you care if a terrorist act is committed in the United States?”

Casimir sighed heavily, and responded softly. “It is in no one’s interest to see such a thing happen. It took us nearly 40 years to get past the animosity and suspicions of the Cold War. No one can benefit by another holocaust. I wish that I could tell you everything, and make it easier to intercept this potential disaster, but I can’t. As incredible and unlikely as it seems, your organization will have to trust us. We’re trying to help you and save lives. Many lives. More than you can possibly imagine.”

Mimi was confused. “What am I supposed to tell them?”

“Tell them that they need to investigate. There’s a radical right wing group, possibly called ‘The Sons of Paul Revere’, and located in Montana. They’re indirectly involved. There’s an Arab who has recently been in Montreal, by the name of Mahmoud Al-Najjar. He’s involved. You need to find out who else is involved. And tell us. Give us the names. Tell us where they are.”

Mimi ‘s mind was working frantically, trying to memorize the slivers of information being handed her, while at the same time trying to remember the details of this stranger’s appearance, in hopes it might help to identify him.

“How will I get in touch with you?” she asked him.

“You won’t. I’ll call you,” he responded. “At your home, or on your cellular phone. In a day or so. Please go to your superiors immediately. Tell them what I’ve told you. It could possibly be a matter of days, so we need to act fast, very fast.”

Casimir tapped on the glass partition, and in a moment, the car slowed and pulled into a strip mall alongside the highway. “Do you see the pay phone at the end of the building?” he asked her. “If you wait there, the local police will be by for you shortly. I suggest you tell them nothing, other than that you are lost and need a lift home. Don’t bother to look at the license plate of this car, it’s a stolen vehicle and we’re going to abandon it shortly anyhow. Trust me, neither the car nor I will be traceable. We’re professionals, I’m sure you realize by now.”

Casimir took out a pocketknife and cut the cords binding Mimi’s wrists and ankles. He took the woman’s hand in his own, giving it a firm and warm squeeze, which Mimi found strangely reassuring. “We’re on the same side in this effort, Miriam. You haven’t the slightest reason to believe me or trust me, except by reason of intuition. I hope that intuition convinces you of my sincerity. God knows we must succeed. Good bye.”

Casimir opened the door. She stepped out quickly, and the limo sped away.

Not an ordinary cold

I figured that I had simply caught a cold from either my 4 month old granddaughter, or my 2 year old grand-nephew, both of whom have had the usual winter colds in the last few weeks. So after playing with both of them last weekend (with the usual drool and wet kisses, etc), I figured that Monday morning's sore throat, tingling ears, and general malaise were just ordinary symptoms.

But it got progressively worse during the week. I figured I could hold off until tomorrow, when I happened to have my annual physical scheduled... but Saturday and Sunday were much worse.... the aching chest from the coughing, and the sore throat and painful ears, were so bad, I resorted to some Percocet left over from my knee surgery last year. Gotta admit, it worked wonderfully, and at least I was able to be comfortable yesterday.... albeit asleep for much of the day and evening.

So, I'm in my office, waiting for a call-back from my doctor... hoping he can fit me in today. There are no more pain-killers, so unless he is able to diagnose an infection or something treatable with an antibiotic, I'm going to be in misery until this thing lifts.

UPDATE: The Doc says it's a bacterial bronchitis, and that's a good thing, because if it were viral, it would take a lot longer to resolve. I started Azithromycin yesterday, and feel slightly better today... it's been eight days now. Hoping I'll feel a LOT better tomorrow.

Still another writing sample

Bridget made me do it! :)

--------------------------

Casimir trudged up the gravel road leading to the cabin, smelling the strong scent of Norwegian pines in the air. It was late in the afternoon, and even in the early autumn, darkness descends early at these latitudes. He could see lamps burning through the windows, and a few wisps of smoke from the chimney, and imagined that the cabin would be warm and comfortable inside, a welcome respite from the chill autumn air. As he approached, he could begin to make out girlish laughter, alternated with giggling and shrieking, the sounds of a young woman, being teased, toyed with.

Casimir pulled out his 9mm automatic and switched off the safety, as a precaution. He had no reason to expect to need it, but it had been a long time since he had done any fieldwork, and decided that he would be best if he erred on the side of caution. Pausing at the front door of the cabin, he gathered his courage, and quietly pushed the unlatched door open. Stepping inside, he saw no one in the living room, but clearly heard the sounds of a playful tussle coming from a room in back, which he guessed was the bedroom.

Suddenly, a tall, thin young girl with dazzlingly pale blonde hair appeared, laughing and running out of the bedroom, stark naked except for a pair of black lace panties, carrying what might have been a sweatshirt. She turned and saw Casimir, glanced at the weapon in his hand, and let out a shrill scream, freezing in her tracks. Casimir moved quickly to the doorway, just in time to see Alex, clad only in a pair of boxer shorts, trying to reach into a drawer at the nightstand, as the girl continued to scream, with gasping ragged breaths in between.

Casimir clicked back the hammer of the automatic, and quickly shouted "There will be no need for that, my dear nephew. I'd advise you to leave it alone."

Alex heard the click from the gun, froze, breathing hard, and dropped the revolver he was trying to retrieve, realizing he was simply too late. The young girl was no longer screaming, but was now whimpering, holding the sweatshirt up to her breasts, crouching and shivering, tears streaming from her eyes.

"Relax, nephew. I'm your Uncle Jonas. You were expecting me, were you not?"

Alex nodded slowly, realizing whom the intruder was. "It's all right, Bibi. Everything is OK. It's only my uncle. He's harmless, really." Alex managed to produce a short convulsive laugh, more to calm the girl than for any other reason. The young girl quieted just a bit, but her chest was heaving, eyes wide open, frightened. Alex walked over to the girl, pulling her behind him, trying to shield her nakedness from his visitor.

"Bibi, you'd better get dressed and go, for now. I need to speak with my uncle. Meet me at the boat later, around 7 PM, we'll have more privacy there."

The girl nodded, snatching the rest of her clothes from the floor, and disappearing into the bathroom. Alex turned to Casimir and said angrily, "That's a hell of a way to greet me. If I was any quicker, one of us would be bleeding out on the floor right now."

Casimir breathed hard, laboring, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat resonating through his body. He released the hammer of the automatic, carefully allowing it to drop back to the rest position, and switched the safety back on. "I'm sorry, nephew. I don't ordinarily get out like this, and as you probably already know, I'm a cautious man."

Alex was already pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, as Bibi reappeared, fully dressed now, but still obviously shaken from the experience. Alex turned to her and said, "Don't forget. Meet me at 7 PM, down at the boat. Will you be there?" The girl slowly nodded, never taking her eyes off of Casimir, and disappeared out the front door.

Casimir holstered his gun, pulled off his overcoat, and sat down in a club chair in the living room. In a corner of the room, he spotted a desk with two large computer screens, each doing a slow dance with a geometric screensaver, incongruous among the rustic furnishings of the cabin. Alex crossed over to a cabinet near the fireplace, pulling out a bottle of clear liquid and two glasses. Handing one to Casimir, he poured out several fingers of aquavit, then poured for himself before replacing the bottle. Alex flopped down onto the nearby couch, still breathing a bit hard from the experience.

"Thanks, for coming, uncle. I've always wanted to meet you face to face. The Director himself. The main man in our little theatrical exercise," Alex said with a sly smile.

"There had better be a damned good reason for dragging me out here, my young friend," Casimir sternly replied, wanting to maintain something of a posture over this young fool.
"Ah, but there is, uncle, a very good reason. But first, don't you want to inquire as to my health and comfort?" Alex was cynically teasing now.

"It looks as if you're quite comfortable, and judging from the company you've been keeping, quite healthy. She's a bit young, wouldn't you say? Is she legal here in Norway?" Casimir sneered.

Alex laughed. "Beautiful, isn't she? Classic Norwegian beauty. Delectable. Barely legal. Of course, you interrupted what was promising to be a very satisfying afternoon at home. No matter, I'll see her later. Or someone else. There are many like her, here in Norway, one of the reasons I chose this place for my initial retirement. Speaking of which, I suppose I have you to thank for securing my retirement with that small deposit you made to the Banque Du Lucerne?

Casimir took a sip of the surprisingly fiery liquor and nodded, "Indeed, you do, although I'd hardly call it a small deposit, dear nephew."

"I don't wish to appear to be ungrateful, uncle. But the figure I was thinking of was substantially larger, say, five times as large," Alex ventured, watching Casimir to gauge his reaction.

Casimir reddened. "I love you like any uncle would love a nephew," Casimir spat out sarcastically, "but don't think for a moment that our 'family relationship' would prevent me from applying some rather severe discipline to such an insubordinate youngster. I'm sure you know how severe the discipline could be." Casimir was fighting the urge to pull out his nine-millimeter automatic and simply end this exasperating charade, with a well-placed shot between the eyes.

"Relax, uncle, I didn't drag you out here to merely put the bite on you. I'm not stupid. I know precisely what discipline you're referring to. No, I asked you to come here because I have information for you. Information you'll be grateful to receive. And I would hope that your gratitude would be expressed in substantive ways," Alex said.

"I've been known to be grateful in the past, nephew," Casimir responded. "Depending, of course, on the value of your information." Casimir was piqued now, interested to learn what Shirovsky had to tell him.

"I suspect, uncle, that the information would be worth the figure I proposed to you a moment ago. Worth even more than that, but I'm not greedy. It's just that I'm easily bored. I want to travel. Spend a bit of time in other places. Spend a bit of time with the women in other places. My present funds don't quite allow me that flexibility," Alex explained.

"I see," Casimir said, resignedly. "Planting your wild oats in every country of the world? Is that what you had in mind?"

"Something like that, Uncle. Oh, yes, I need one other small favor from you. A Swiss passport. I'm afraid these Argentinean documents you provided are something less than convincing. I barely managed to escape the suspicions of the Norwegian immigration officers. A Swiss passport might make my retirement travel a bit easier."

Casimir nodded. "Those sorts of documents are hard to come by. But it might be arranged. Depending upon just what you're going to deliver, nephew," Casimir replied.

"For some reason, I trust you," Alex volunteered. "And I'm not normally a trusting soul. Which is why I insured my retirement, and my safety, by planting little deposits in hundreds of computers worldwide. Guarantees, so to speak. Just making sure that my loving uncle wouldn't turn on me in my retirement. But, as I said, uncle, I trust you." Casimir became very uncomfortable, wondering just what this brilliant and egotistic computer expert might have done.

Alex returned to the cabinet, getting out the bottle to refresh their drinks. "First, I need to make an admission to you, uncle. I know a great deal more about the play than you think I do. It seems that your computer security isn't particularly good. At least it isn't adequate to keep a top rank hacker like me from getting through the firewalls. I know all about the scenes that were written out of the script on the 1960's and 1970's. I've read every one of those scenes. Does this surprise you, uncle?"

Casimir looked hard at the young man. "Yes, I am a bit surprised. You're better at your craft than I thought you were. Nonetheless, it worries me that you were able to read that material at all. Could others do it? Surely you're not the greatest 'hacker', as you say, in the western world.

"Relax, uncle," Alex reassured him. "I wouldn't have been able to get in without having some inside contacts. I don't think anyone on the outside could have gotten in."

Casimir didn't feel especially reassured, but he wanted the young man to continue. "All right, so you've read the scripts. What of it?"

Alex continued, "You recall a script from the 1960's called ‘The Egg Drop'?"

Casimir swallowed hard, and nodded. "We wrote it out of the play. On moral grounds. We'd never perform such a scene."

Alex snickered derisively. “On moral grounds? Now that’s a joke. Not that I care, mind you. I have no relatives or friends on the West Coast, and I frankly don't care about these things, as long as I'm nowhere nearby. But I wanted you to know that I know about it."

“All right, so you know about it. And now I know you know about it. Is there a reason I should care?" asked Casimir.

"I'll explain," Alex said. "As you can see, I have a good connection to the Internet, here in Norway," and he pointed to the desk in the corner, the computer screens still doing their mesmerizing dance of geometric patterns. "I've been keeping tabs on FBI telecommunications traffic back in the United States. I don't like surprises, and even though my retirement scene was carefully planned, I don't believe in taking chances. I want to be sure that the missing twenty five thousand dollars isn't traced to me here."

"You can tap into FBI computers?" asked Casimir, somewhat surprised.

"Not into their computers, per se. But I can tap into the communications that flows into their computers. Facsimiles and e-mail. I monitor as much of that traffic as I can, searching for any information that might warn me that I’ve been compromised. Thankfully, I haven’t seen anything with my name on it,” Alex assured him.

“I still don’t see where this is going, nephew. You’re trying my patience.” Casimir was exasperated.

“I’m getting to it, uncle. A few days ago, I happened across a facsimile sent from a police chief in southern California, to the FBI field office in Boston, Massachusetts. It seems that there was a murder. A dead man was found in the desert, shot in the head. He was lying next to a borehole. There were bolt cutters lying nearby, indicating that someone was trying to get into the borehole by breaking the lock on the cover. Oh, yes, the man was Palestinian, connected with Muslim fundamentalists.”

“Why was this facsimile going to the Boston FBI office?” asked Casimir.

Alex replied, “Because the dead man was a student at MIT, studying engineering. And he entered the country with a student visa claiming Pakistani citizenship, although he wasn’t Pakistani, he was Palestinian. One more thing, uncle, they found a police radar gun nearby, although it was apparently defective. One of the investigating officers tried it, and it didn’t work.”

Casimir nodded slowly, understanding why Shirovsky demanded to see him. “So, you think there’s a connection? Just because a man was found dead near a borehole... there are hundreds of boreholes in the western United States. Why do you think there’s a connection?

Alex shrugged, “I don’t know. There might be no connection whatsoever. But after reading the ‘Egg Drop’ scene, I’d say it would be something you’d want to know about. Critically important to you, don’t you think?”

“I can see your point, nephew,” Casimir replied. “Do you have a clue as to what the radar gun was all about?”

“Not really,” replied Alex, “although perhaps a radar gun could be used to check and see if the borehole was clear and usable. I don’t really know.”

Casimir took a long pull at his aquavit, grimacing as the fiery liquid slid down his throat. His head was spinning from pondering the possibilities and consequences of what might be occurring. “All right, nephew, I apologize for my impatience. You’re right; of course, it’s information that I’m grateful for. You did the right thing by summoning me,” Casimir assured him.

“Are you grateful enough to grant me the request I made at the outset?” asked Alex.

“All of this could be nothing, purely coincidental, “Casimir replied. “If it is, I’ll be the happiest person on the face of the earth. But until we find out what is going on here, none of us will be completely safe. Obviously you have certain skills, which surpass even our most experienced engineers and programmers. If you assist me in getting to the bottom of this, regardless of the outcome, I’ll grant your request for the higher level of funding.”

“And the Swiss passport?” Alex asked.

Casimir nodded. “Yes, the Swiss passport. You’ll be able to threaten the honor and virginity of every young girl in the entire world,” he said, snickering.

Alex beamed. “Uncle, I’ll never forget your generosity. And I’ll certainly assist you in your investigations; it will give me something interesting to do while I await my reward. Aside from chasing Bibi, that is.”

Casimir sighed, “All right, very well. I’m grateful I have no daughters to be threatened. Here’s what I want you to do, however. I want you to keep on monitoring, keep on looking for any references to this situation that you can find. But more importantly, I need you to identify someone.”

“Identify?” Alex asked quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Chances are good that this incident has not escaped the notice of someone in the office in Langley, Virginia. My counterparts there probably have taken notice, especially because of the citizenship of the dead man. I want you to find out who, in Langley, is asking the questions. The case officer, if you can find the name.”

Alex furrowed his brow deeply. “A case officer in the NSA? The folks in Langley are much, much better at this game than those in Moscow, uncle. It won’t be easy, and it might not even be possible.”

Casimir nodded. “Well, accept it as a challenge, nephew. A challenge slightly harder than getting into the panties of the local young girls. You enjoy a challenge, don’t you?”

Alex smiled and nodded. “I’ll do what I can, uncle.”