Zimmerman's Algorithm

0.00 Thur. Jan. 15

LyAKSANDRO Volynskji stood in the parking lot of an abandoned Howard Johnson's, facing the nearby Interstate, watching the passing headlights slice out cones of swirling snow. His breath fogged as he wrapped a heavy leather coat around himself. The fleece-lined coat was the only example of Western decadence he'd allowed himself since coming into the U.S. back in November. Tonight he was glad he had bought it. After all the years he had spent in Tunis, he was not prepared for American winters, especially in upstate New York.

He leaned against anew Dodge pickup, the only vehicle in the parking lot. With the exception of the tracks left by the truck, the lot was a virgin field of snow.

Volynskji was on his third cigarette when the minivan he was waiting for pulled off the interstate, headlights illuminating Volynskji and his pickup. It drove into the abandoned lot, tires tossing up sheets of snow. It stopped facing him.

Volynskji tossed his cigarette aside.

The door slid open on the side of the van and a trio of silhouettes walked in front of the headlights. "Mr. Smith?" asked the one in the middle.

Volynskji nodded and said, "Colonel Ramon."

Ramon gestured to the van and the headlights dimmed.

The three men Volynskji faced were all middle-aged, and all wore overcoats over dark suits. They dressed as if they wore some sort of uniform—unlike Volynskji who wore jeans, flannel shirt, and leather bomber jacket and generally tried to blend into the rustic setting he found himself in. These men looked out of place here, and Volynskji wondered if it was the best course of action to utilize them.

"I understand you require consultants in a security matter," Colonel Ramon spoke with a flat Midwestern accent despite the fact—Volynskji knew—that he had lived his entire life in El Salvador, until a few years ago when the Salvadoran government became a little too serious abort investigating the excesses of the eighties.

Volynskji reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a brown envelope and handed it to Colonel Ramon. "A bank draft for an account in Costa Rica."

Colonel Ramon took the envelope and opened it. He tried to hide his reaction, but Volynskji saw his eyes widen slightly.

"That is half," Volynskji said. "The balance will be on delivery."

"What do you want delivered?"

"A mainframe computer, a special one."

"The catch is?"

Volynskji smiled. "The current owners may not want to part with it."