Excerpt

[Keith]

Traffic on Cambridge Street was typical for a Monday morning. The polished black, government issue Expedition jetted across the Longfellow Bridge with zero regard for the law.

Eleven massive steel arches helped span this medieval looking structure across the Charles River, connecting Cambridge Massachusetts with its behemoth mother, Boston.

Two Red Line trains raced head to head across the bridge’s center rails, on what appeared to be a catastrophic collision course, both nearly as long as the bridge itself.

“...but the papers are public,” DiBianco said, looking perplexed. The stench of hazelnut coffee accosted his senses; DiBianco hated coffee, especially hazelnut. He gazed to his left at Agent Afridi who sat straight up in the SUV’s stiff leather seat, their thighs close enough to touch.

Afridi’s glassy eyes were fixated on something in the distance. Something over DiBianco’s shoulder. DiBianco imagined it was the John Hancock Plaza; but whatever it was, awe is what he identified in the foreign man’s eyes.

“The original manuscripts are not public,” Afridi said, still gazing over DiBianco’s shoulder.

“I was granted access––”

“You,” Camillin interrupted, his voice spitting from DiBianco’s other side, “are a renowned physicist and a famous author.”

DiBianco had a hard time accepting the term, famous. He cringed every time he heard it and had been hearing it more often since the success of his last book, The Newton Theories, and the announcement of his newest work, God Science. DiBianco despised famous people, wanted nothing––or very little––to do with them. He wrote because he had to. It was part of his essence. He could no less stop writing than he could stop his heart from beating, or willfully cease his lungs from taking in air.

“I’m not the only one,” DiBianco said. “The BBC––”

“They had inside help.” Afridi’s face was bold; DiBianco’s was perplexed.

“Why would anyone want to steal those papers?” DiBianco had seen them first hand. Skilled at the art of translation, DiBianco found that much of what Newton had wrote was still very much a mystery, even to him. “The translations available online are far easier to read and comprehend.”

“So why would you want them?” Camillin’s gaze was ominous.

DiBianco knew there was a great deal of Newton’s work that had yet to be adapted for the online catalogue. Many of his papers were of little importance to the mainstream world, they were very low on The Project’s priority list. To DiBianco, however, these writings were at the very core of Newton’s work, they helped forge every thought he ever put to paper.

“DiBianco?” The voice was nearly lost in his thickening thoughts.

Then it occurred to him. He had just spent a half-hour preparing his class for the revelation of this very topic, only to be cutoff before the meat was to be served.

Some religious sects might kill to avoid awareness of the matter. The thought flooded his mind and struck a cord in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t understand why, but he knew then, he was a suspect. The only thing certain about the road ahead, was that it was uncertain; and he would have to solve this puzzle, fast.

“Money,” DiBianco finally said. “Those papers must be worth a hefty price on the black market.”

“I’m sure,” Afridi agreed. His eyes shifted from DiBianco to Camillin. “You have a nice city.”

“First time in Boston?” Camillin asked.

“First time in America,” he replied.

DiBianco turned his head away from Afridi, away from the stench of roasted garlic suddenly infiltrating the car. “I thought the FBI only worked within The States,” DiBianco said. “You know ... handling local affairs?”

Camillin’s face reeled in disgust. “We have offices all over the world,” he declared, “handling an increasing array of issues, ranging from terrorism and drug trafficking, to contraband smuggling and murder ... even cyber crime.” He lowered the window, allowing the scent of the Charles River and the greasy stench of train exhaust work into the cab. It was a welcoming scent. “It troubles me how few people understand the magnitude of our work.”

DiBianco was truly apologetic. “So, where’re you from?” he said, returning his gaze to Afridi.

“Jordan,” he replied, coldly, “but I work out of the US Embassy in Tel Aviv.” Afridi pointed ahead, toward four towers topping the central supports of the bridge. “Are those watchtowers?”

“Perhaps a hundred years ago,” Camillin said, “when this baby was built, certainly not today.”

“Interesting enough, many call this The Salt-n-Pepper Bridge,” DiBianco inserted, attempting to dislodge the knot of fear in his throat. “The towers look a hell of a lot like salt and pepper shakers, don’t you think?”
Camillin snickered. “I’ve always thought they look like medieval watchtowers myself––”

“Yes,” Afridi agreed.

The blinding reflection of sunlight beaming off the Hancock Plaza’s towering wall of windows, flickered as the monumental salt-n-pepper shakers streaked by, one encapsulated in scaffolding and blue tarps––a long overdue cleaning.

Agent Afridi’s face was stern, like an ox. “Perhaps you need a new yacht, maybe a new sporty car, Mr. DiBianco?”

“Excuse me?” DiBianco glared at Camillin. “I don’t like his tone. I’m not on trial.”

“Calm down, Mike, nobody’s accusing you of anything.” Camillin’s face was understanding, his tone, friendly. “As I said, this is a very sensitive matter for the Israeli government. Agent Afridi is here because I informed him that you were the man to talk to. We need your help on this case.”

“I’m not a detective, I’m a teacher, and an author, so I’d like to think, though that’s often debatable. What can I possibly do to help?”

Afridi turned his head toward DiBianco, his eyes still focused on something in the distance, possibly still the Hancock Plaza; finally, his eyes met with DiBianco’s. “You studied those papers. You have a book about to be published that puts focus on them. You’re the closest thing we have to an expert.”

Camillin looked lost. Almost uncertain of what to say. “I’ve never seen the original manuscripts. Very few have.”

“I find that hard to believe. They were certainly available to me; and there’s nothing special about Michael DiBianco of Cambridge Massachusetts.

“All I did was schedule time, and for the most part just showed up at the Jewish National and University Library––I practically moved in for Christ’s sake. That place became my home for three weeks.”

“Come on Mike.” Camillin’s tone was thick with sarcasm. “How many of us normal folk do you think can visit Jerusalem for a month?”

“I don’t know where you’re going with this; I’m not a rich man.” His face shown a real disliking for the sentiment. “I blew my entire savings on that trip and there’s never any guarantee I’ll make a dime back with book sales. The publisher’s petty advance didn’t even cover half of the trip.”

Afridi smirked.

† † †

Not far ahead, blocks beyond the river’s edge, nestled a cluster of large buildings, the heart of downtown; the financial district; the home of the Boston Stock Exchange; and the headquarters to many of the nation’s most successful corporations: Fidelity Investments, Putnam, and Bank of America, to name a few. Not counting the booming local businesses: restaurants, hotels, and the countless hordes of bloodsucking lawyers who have perched their offices amongst the mayhem. However, therein also hid the home of Boston’s field office for the Federal Bureau of Investigation....