The Professor (Tentative Title) Chapter Eight

CHAPTER 8

General Tringham was pacing the ancient Persian rug in his office. The rug had been confiscated from a Mosque a year before and the General enjoyed the feeling of having it under his boots. He enjoyed the power of playing his little chess game with people's lives. Tringham's goal was absolute control over the nation, then lead it onto the world stage as a major player. If he played his pieces right, world power would not be far behind beyond his grasp.

A knock on his door interrupted his future fantasies. "Enter!" he barked.

A small man with bead-like eyes slipped into the office. "General, you requested me?"

"Yes. You are the best cryptographer in the country, are you not?" His voice was kind, like that of a favourite uncle. The little man only nodded, too afraid to speak. "How long have you been working on this cypher?" Tringham held out a sheet of paper, littered with numbers.

"Er, a few, um, a couple of, er, months, sir," the little man stammered.

"Sixty-eight days, to be precise. You have had up to 1,632 hours to work on this, if you have been working 24/7, as your office claims. That much time to discover the riddle, is that not so?"

"Ye- yes, sir. There is a, a team. Round the cl- cl- clock, just as you ordered."

Suddenly Tringham turned from kind old uncle to a cruel dictator. "Then why have you failed to produce an answer?!" He shouted loud enough to rattle the little man's bones.

"I- I'm sorry, s- sir. No a- a- algorithm can crack it. Its n- n- nothing I've ever seen."

"You have one more day, you stuttering fool, to crack this code. Twenty-four hours. If you fail, I will crack your tiny skull open like an oyster. Have I made myself clear?"

The little man nodded, shaking from head to foot. He'd heard of the General saying such things before, the people he threatened were never seen again if they failed to keep their end of the bargain. Twenty-four hours wasn't much time, neither was the previous two months. What would you do with your last day on earth?

The little man made his way back to his office. He told his secretary not to bother him, e had far too much to do and every interruption would be severely reprimanded. His secretary had heard that before, but knew actually do anything about it. The only person who called him was General Tringham and those calls never went unanswered.

Fear gripped the heart of the little man. Tringham had given him a very small window to work in and a very large threat if he failed. Rumour said that Tringham personally enjoyed torturing people for extra information before they were executed. Failure to complete an assignment was read as allegiance with the Rebellion. Tringham would have no such thing under his command. The little man knew that he would talk if tortured, everyone did eventually. Some held out longer than others, but in the end it was the same. Talk and then die.

The little man knew that there was far too much riding on this for him to spill it all under the General's whip. The little man was, indeed, a rebel and had been using his position in the cryptography department to funnel as much information to the Resistance as he could, but that was now over. He swore he would do one more brave thing, just one. Die before Tringham could make him talk. He was given enough time to set things straight.

First, he emailed the local paper and left a message in the Classifieds. Next, he wrote four words on a large sheet of paper in thick, red marker. Finally, he smiled, sat back in his leather chair, and opened a drawer. His service weapon would do the job quickly and with as much a mess as possible. He put the barrel in his mouth, tasting the acrid grease, and pulled the trigger.

His secretary jumped out of her chair and burst into his office. The little man was behind his desk, his head tilted far back. The large window behind him was spattered with blood and pieces of brain matter. The metallic scent of human blood mixed bitterly with the smell of gun powder. The secretary, shocked, took several steps closer and noticed the paper on his desk.

"Go to hell, Tringham!" The little man had signed it with the anarchy symbol.

Author's Note

My spelling is English, not American.