Chasing the Prophet Read online

  “Really? Enemies?”

  “Nothing serious, a few school bullies.”

  His phone vibrated on the table to indicate a new incoming message.

  “I had to intervene at one point, but without exposing myself. So I sent a friend, Gabriel, you remember him, the cop with the scar.” She nodded and he continued. “I think he did a pretty good job.” He paused when he saw a smile coming. “What?”

  “Nothing, I’m just having fun watching you work. The best detective in the country!”

  The television screen flickered and Kate grabbed the remote. “Hold on, I want to hear this.”

  The news reporter appeared and, with a grim expression, said, “All signs are indicating that war is now inevitable.”

  Kate and Paul exchanged worried looks as the reporter continued with pathos, “As usual, all eyes are drawn to this man.”

  The still image of a hooded figure appeared on the screen, its face shrouded in shadow.

  One of the commentators in the studio interfered, “Forgive me for barging in, Donald, but who said this isn’t a woman? No one knows if this is a single woman or a whole team of masterminds.”

  A heated argument between the panel guests broke out regarding the prophet’s possible identity.

  He had broken into the public consciousness two years earlier. It happened during the great crisis of faith in the stock market: a massive sale of shares that echoed the crashes of the past.

  There was general panic, but only one different voice. It would have probably remained unheard had it not been for the way in which it was published: someone had broken into the world’s ten leading financial websites and simultaneously published, in various languages, a completely opposite financial prediction.

  In a brief and assured article, he promised that the financial turmoil would pass and the stock market would regain stability. He even went as far as predicting the following day’s stock market indices.

  The article remained available online for a few hours, before being erased from all ten websites that had been hacked. The security breaches that allowed the article to be published were immediately fixed, but it was too late, like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.

  The publication brought mocking reactions: “Imagine that we’re in the middle of a terrible drought, without a hint of a cloud in the sky,” said one of the commentators. “Then someone comes along and brazenly predicts a deluge, no less! And this ‘prophet’ goes so far as predicting the size of the drops and the exact volume of this imaginary downpour. Pathetic and ridiculous.”

  When the crisis passed, and the stock market indices exactly matched the prediction of that “prophet” (the name had stuck), accurate down to the decimal level, the world was dumbfounded.

  Various conspiracy theories flourished, including the possibility of someone manipulating the stock exchange computers themselves—most agreed that the only way of predicting the behavior of a system consisting of millions of unstable individuals was to control it. Either way—no one found an explanation, or even a hint as to the identity of the person or people behind it all.

  Since then, the prophet had broken into the public consciousness many times, shocking the world by publishing minutely detailed predictions regarding many subjects—including natural disasters.

  Ten of thousands of people in Asia owed him their lives after he had warned about an earthquake measuring eight point two on the Richter scale that had taken place at the exact time and place he’d predicted.

  Authorities could have saved many more lives, if decision-makers had taken the prophet’s warning more seriously and prepared for the subsequent tsunami. The public criticism was scathing, and many senior officials were fired.

  This was the last time anyone had dared to deride the prophet’s ability to predict such cataclysmic events. And today, when the world was in a state of military uncertainty—the media returned to dwell on the question of the prophet’s identity and what he had to say.

  “They’re just recycling old news,” Paul muttered and walked to the kitchen. He glanced at his phone and stopped at once.

  “What happened?” Kate asked when she saw the strange expression on his face.

  “That’s odd,” he muttered, staring at the cell phone screen. “I got a message from Matthew, my boss.”

  “What? Show it to me.” Kate drew closer. She read the message aloud, “That was a nice improvisation in the park today, sending that cop. Good work.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that?” she asked. “They’re complimenting you for a job well done.”

  “But…” her husband said quietly and wrinkled his forehead. “I haven’t reported it to them yet, neither did Gabriel. How the hell do they know about it?”

  Prophet Website Registered Request No. 208380

  Dear Prophet,

  My name is Nika Kolpakov, I’m fifteen years old and I live in Moscow.

  I’ve heard about this one kid from my school who got money from you for an operation. They say you saved his life. Perhaps you could help me with my life as well. It will be much easier in my case, because I don’t need any money.

  I have been playing the violin since the age of five, which is more than ten years. I’m real good, I was even on national television once. But my parents pressured me to stop, because they think that there’s no future in it.

  I don’t know what to do, because I really love playing since I was little and heard the violin for the first time and fell in love with that instrument, but my parents say that maybe one day I’ll grow tired of it and have a big problem because I’ve never studied anything else.

  My grades are pretty decent, but to be honest, they could have been better if I wouldn’t be spending so much time practicing the violin, and the school principal says so too.

  So I decided to write you and ask if there’s any real point in practicing so hard. Could you please predict if there’s a bright future for violinists?

  Please let me know as soon as you can.

  By the way, I’m really excited that you might actually read this letter and answer me.

  Sincerely,

  Nika Kolpakov

  Moscow

  9

  A Demigod

  Emily and Benjamin Robertson sat in the spacious living room of their fifteenth floor apartment.

  It was four in the afternoon, but the clouds obscuring the sun made darkness descend early. The lights were turned on.

  Benjamin, a senior executive at the Green Pines municipality infrastructure department, put down the newspaper and sighed. “The situation is getting worse. They’re saying war is now inevitable.”

  Emily stood. “I’m making coffee. Want some?”

  His eyes smiled through the lenses of his glasses. “I’d appreciate a cup. Thanks.”

  “Do you remember,” her voice now came from the kitchen, “the time we didn’t have an espresso machine?”

  “Of course,” he answered. “We almost didn’t have a house to put it in.”

  How could he ever forget the crisis they had experienced a year before? He removed his glasses and cleaned them as his thoughts drifted back to those dark times. The unemployment wave had reached the engineering firm he’d worked for. Due to extensive cutbacks he found himself with an employment termination letter in his hand and countless concerns in his heart. With a wife working a part-time accounting job and a thirteen-year-old son, the situation seemed desperate.

  But then, like in some Cinderella story, everything had turned right side up. A senior position with the Green Pines municipality became available, and the department head favorably remembered him because of a project they had worked on together a few years back.

  She coordinated an interview for him and he immediately got the job. A real miracle, considering the usual cumbersome bureaucracy reigning in city
hall. And so, in a single month, their situation had changed completely.

  But that wasn’t everything. A short time later, Emily was notified of an inheritance coming from an unknown uncle in France. That was a huge surprise for the Robertsons, who realized their financial troubles were at an end.

  Emily returned to the living room with a tray. “Here’s your coffee and sugar-free cookies!” she announced as she placed it on the table.

  “Why, thank you.” He smiled and took the steaming cup in his hand. “But you know I’m not really into cookies.”

  She shrugged. “I guess I’ll just have to eat them on my own,” she said. “Or with David. He likes his cookies.”

  Her husband grunted. “Well he has to get his nose out of his room for a change to actually eat them.”

  “Don’t be so harsh with him. It’s normal for a teenager his age. Besides, you know our son is not exactly like all the other kids.”

  It seemed as if her husband had not heard that last sentence. “How exactly am I being harsh with him? He hardly ever speaks to me.”

  Emily sighed. Benjamin did not share her opinion of David. They’d had constant arguments about their son’s unusual adolescence, but she did not want to start another argument. Not now. Which was why she merely said, “You were too harsh on him about the dog.”

  Benjamin shrugged. “Well, he’s the one responsible for keeping the dog from damaging the house. Not us. That was the deal, remember?” He picked up his coffee mug. “Otherwise, I’d never agree to let a dog in our house, despite your mother’s constant nagging.”

  In her heart of hearts, Emily had to admit her husband was right. He wasn’t especially fond of dogs, which is why he had surprised her by not showing more resistance to the idea of adopting one. That was last year. The initiative had wholly come from Edna, Emily’s mother.

  “Your son doesn’t have any friends,” Edna had told them one evening. “It isn’t normal for a thirteen-year-old to be on his own all day.” David’s grandmother tended to be theatrical at times, and she raised her voice, “I won’t have my only grandson being miserable!”

  She literally flooded them with numerous articles proving her point. “To a dog, the child on the other end of a leash is a demigod. The child’s self-confidence is strengthened. He is no longer alone, he’s got the best friend in the world. There’s nothing like it!” She urged them, explained, insisted. And when Grandma Edna got stubborn on something—well, the rest was history.

  David’s grandmother had always been an unusual woman. She had been widowed years before and had since lived outside Sacramento, just her and her cats in a little house with a huge yard. She shared her two greatest passions with her grandson: animals and electronic gadgets. They could talk about those subjects for hours.

  When David was a baby and naturally inclined to like animals, he crawled all over her house, squealing with pleasure every time one of the cats ran about him with curiosity. She was the one who had first recognized David’s exceptional technical capabilities, and bought him his first computer for his fifth birthday.

  Recently, she had relocated closer to them, in Green Pines, and had settled on the other side of town. David was elated by the thought of his grandmother being close. To celebrate the relocation, he had prepared a special gift for her in crafts class. It was a door sign with a drawing of a woman surrounded by cats.

  Emily smiled when she entered his room one evening and saw him toiling over his grandmother’s gift. With a concentrated frown and a lolling tongue, he added the words: Home of a beloved family of creatures.

  Grandma Edna was thrilled by her grandson’s gesture. Her eyes sparkled with tears as she proudly hung the sign on her front door, so that David—who now visited her at least once a week—could take pride in his own creation.

  Benjamin’s expression reminded Emily that he was waiting for a reply.

  “You’re right,” she said. “It’s David’s responsibility to watch over Max.” She motioned with her head at the sofa. “Although you’ve never really liked that sofa. Admit it!”

  Her joke must have helped to ease his anger, because Benjamin now smiled. He put his glasses back on and picked up the newspaper.

  “Where is he anyway?”

  “Upstairs, in his room,” she answered. “He came back with Max about an hour ago, while you were in the shower.”

  “Why doesn’t he come down to sit with us a little?”

  “I asked him. He said he might come down a little later.” She thought for a moment. “He seemed a bit upset when he came home.”

  “Something is going on with him, I’m telling you,” answered Benjamin. “There’s a special news report soon, I’ll go get him to come downstairs.”

  “You’re welcome to try,” Emily said as she picked up a cookie. “What’s on the news?”

  “The prophet is about to say whether war is coming.” He wrinkled his forehead. “Sometimes I think David’s the only one who doesn’t care about this whole damn situation.”

  “I told you, it’s natural for a teenager.” She held herself back from saying anything more.

  They both felt as though they’ve had that same conversation before. A deafening thunder exploded outside the living room window, causing Benjamin to immediately change the subject.

  “Did you see that thunderstorm today? They say it won’t stop till at least Tuesday. Hard to believe.”

  Emily nodded in agreement. “Yes. The world is certainly going crazy.”

  10

  Wandering Flower

  David sat in his room and stared at the computer screen, the letters hovering in front of his eyes.

  “Enter Password.”

  His thoughts were in turmoil as he tried to process the passing day’s events. The disturbing briefing at school, followed by the meeting with Rachel in the park. He smiled when he thought of her. But then came Jackie and the others. Jackie’s words still echoed in his ears. “I know who you are.”

  A tremor seized him. Could Jackie actually know something?

  Max stood from his place on the carpet, stretched every joint in his body, and yawned. He went to David, his brown eyes regarding him with encouragement. David clutched the black, large head with both hands. “There’s no way he can know anything, right?” he whispered and looked at Max with concentration, as if searching for the answer inside his eyes.

  David had a secret. A tremendously wonderful secret, but a dangerous one as well. A secret that must never ever be discovered.

  ***

  It had all started four years ago. David was ten years old. The computer science teacher in the gifted children’s class gave them an assignment for summer vacation: write a code that knows how to recognize an arithmetic sequence of numbers out of thousands of random digits—and calculate its continuation. For an outstanding student like David it was an easy task, and he completed it within the hour.

  When he proudly told this to his grandmother, she was not impressed and simply said offhandedly, “It’s no big deal. Numbers are predictable. People—well, that’s a whole different story.”

  David was insulted at first, but knowing his grandmother’s habit of saying everything that was on her mind, he was quick to reconcile. Something about her remark bothered him, and he decided to conduct a little experiment. To do that, he turned to the world’s largest database of human behavior: the internet.

  Two months later he presented his grandmother with the software he’d developed.

  “It’s not finished, but I guess I could give you a demonstration already,” he told her excitedly as he placed the laptop on the table. “I was able to analyze the behavior patterns of musicians from Europe coming to perform in San Francisco.”

  They were both sitting in the kitchen eating cookies she had baked. His parents were sitting outside, in the garden.

  “Wow!” Grandma
Edna nodded with a smile, then frowned and admitted, “I don’t get it. You’ve analyzed what?”

  “Look.” He opened the laptop and started typing. “I’ve fed the software with a list of all the bands and singers who came to perform in San Francisco for the past ten years. I put everything in here: their hobbies, marital status, album release dates, past world tour dates, and past California show dates. This is all old data I’ve collected about bands and singers who are no longer active.”

  “Where did you find all those details?”

  “You can find anything over the internet nowadays, grandma. It’s called big data.”

  “All right,” Edna said as she took a bite of her cookie. “Let’s supposed that I get it. You fed your software with old information about musicians. Then what?” She stroked Gustav, a fat ginger cat that sat purring on her lap.

  David continued. “Then I searched for those who are still active today, without any relation to publications about their upcoming shows. I fed all the data I found about them as well. That’s what took me so long, you see,” he added enthusiastically. “It’s called data mining. You know how many bands there are out there? How many singers and groups? Thousands! I developed my own special script for that.” He smiled proudly.

  Edna nodded distractedly, as if bothered by something. “Hold on, you’ve omitted their tour schedules?”

  David looked embarrassed. “What’s that word, omitted?”

  His grandmother smiled and rephrased her questions. “You said you deliberately didn’t put in the publications about future tour dates—”

  “Into the software. Exactly! This is the only way it works!” The enthusiasm returned to David’s voice. “That’s it exactly. The software measures actions and not promises.”

  Edna nodded and looked at him with curiosity. “Hmmm… I think your software is very clever.”

  He nodded knowingly and continued. “It locates arithmetic sequences out of millions of data. This is actually the most important part—finding typical behaviors, patterns, trends, and then omitting anything that’s irrelevant.”