Rubenstein's Augur Read online

  Rubenstein’s Augur

  By Henry Hollensbe

  Copyright © 2015 by Henry Hollensbe All rights reserved

  ISBN-13: 978-1507806456 ISBN-10: 1507806450

  Also by Henry Hollensbe

  The Dryden Note Tat’s No. 1 The Dark Side of Vanity Telfair and Early, Lawmen

  A mathematics professor specializing in CHOAS theory has found a way to predict the movement of the U.S. stock market. A stockbroker-turned-money manager employs the technique to manage millions of dollars for an America-based trust fund. The trust fund—with holdings now in the billions of dollars—was established in the 19th Century by Tsar Alexander II of Russia. The Russians had forgotten the trust, but now want the money. A Moscow mafya family learns of the technique and wants to steal it. Conflict among the Russians, the mafya, and the stockbroker arises. Not everyone involved survives the conflict.

  Dedication The novel is dedicated to those working to improve science through understanding and implementing CHAOS theory.

  Jasper, Georgia February, 2015

  Chapter 1 2000

  Atlanta, September 15

  What happened that warm and sunny afternoon never made it to the evening news,

  nor were a great many lives affected, but as a result of the occurrence, many millions of

  dollars changed hands. And some lives were enriched and others ended.

  The Federal National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration had long maintained a facility studying weather behavior at the Georgia Institute of Technology in Atlanta. After the groundbreaking in 2000 for the new School of Earth and Atmospheric Sciences’ building and given an informal impetus from Congress, NOAA increased its investigations at the University into how CHAOS, a relatively unexplored branch of mathematics, could aid in storm prediction. Doctor Aaron Patrick Rubenstein, a career

  NOAA employee and vice chairman of the Department of Mathematics, was named director and chief investigator of the expanded unit. The students rushing from the EAS building that sunny September day were more concerned with Saturday’s football game at Virginia Tech than the personal well being of the woman attempting to enter the building. When the storm passed, she made her way to Doctor Rubenstein’s office.

  The NOAA computer mainframe room was a forty-foot square, two stories in height, and enclosed by glass walls. Doctor Rubenstein’s second story office overlooked the floor.

  A portion of the viscera of Beatrice, the second of two IBM AP Power3 processors, lay amidst small tools on a gurney parked at an opening in her skin. A technician wearing a blue laboratory coat was operating.

  Rubenstein, in a white lab coat, and a visitor watched the operation. The visitor, a woman, taller and a generation younger than he, wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and worn tennis shoes. They shared a single feature, the red-orange hair peculiar to Ireland.

  He paced.

  She stood without moving, her hands in her rear pockets. “How long?” “Any moment. Claude’s sure he’s identified the problem.”

  “So why are you pacing?”

  “If the replacement chip solves the problem, I should be able to complete my first full

  run. I expect the results to be well beyond my goal.” He smiled at her. “And so I’m anxious.” He ceased pacing. “Please forgive me.” After another ten minutes, the technician closed the computer’s skin and gestured at the figures behind the glass.

  Rubenstein pressed ENTER on the keyboard on his desk.

  The office was painted refrigerator white, the floor covered in gray hospital tiles. There was a desk and two straight-back chairs, all painted Government Issue gray. A large computer terminal, two monitors, a keyboard, and a printer covered half the desk. A black, single-line telephone sat in an open drawer.

  The three solid walls were shelved half way with books and periodicals. Above the shelves was a computer-generated flow diagram on a continuous sheet of paper. The diagram extended forty feet, from the left edge of the left wall to the right edge of the third wall. Patches in a variety of colors were taped along the main line. A stepladder stood in a corner.

  The woman gestured at the flow diagram. “You must remember to keep all that paper as a memento. Why you use the paper when it’s available on-screen, I’ll never know.”

  He smiled. “Old dog, new tricks.”

  The terminal chimed; a bell followed.

  A continuous stream of paper began folding into the printer’s tray. Rubenstein tore the last perforated sheet from the stack. “Finally!” He handed it to the woman. “Compare Wednesday’s ending at the top with the predictions for yesterday’s close at the bottom. You can see without calculation that they far surpass chance.”

  “I see that and offer my congratulations, but what does this have to do with —” The corridor door swung open and crashed into the wall. A tall, thin man in a buttoned three-piece blue suit hurried in. His features were pallid. The worry lines between his eyes were deep. The widow’s peak of his thick, black hair grew low on his forehead, nearing the top of his gold glasses’ frame. Herbert Jessup, NOAA System AdministratorAtlanta, pointed at the sheet in the woman’s hand. His voice was shrill. “What’s that?”

  “A test run of R-2,” Rubenstein said. “Thanks to Claude’s intuition, I’ve had a successful run.”

  Perspiration broke out on Jessup’s forehead. “For your sake, I hope you’re wrong!”

  “Wrong? Why would you—”

  “I’ve just had a security alarm. There’s been a breach of some sort. Are you using NOAA security to cover this?”

  “Not any more.”

  “What then?”

  Rubenstein looked at the woman.

  “TCP Wrapper,” she said. “If there’s a problem, it’s my fault. The inherent delay in your security measures was causing Uncle Aaron’s processing to be too slow.”

  “So?”

  “So I removed the NOAA security and installed TCP Wrapper.”

  “Including the booby trap?”

  “Of course.”

  Jessup breathed deeply. “Then maybe there’ll be time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “The FBI.”

  Rubenstein frowned. “Herb, R-2’s a hobby. Related to my work, as you should remember, but its security is none of NOAA’s business.”

  “Professor, this is a government facility and someone has hacked into our computer. The FBI ferrets are on the case.” He hurried to the door. “I’ll let them know.”

  The woman shook her head. “Officious man. He is not nearly as important as he thinks he is.”

  “His job can be difficult.”

  She nodded, then returned the printout. “All right, what have you been doing? This run does in fact show excellent predictions, but they don’t have anything to do with measles.”

  “I’ve been away from measles for weeks.”

  “Why?”

  “The database was too small and the diagnoses were too vague. CHAOS was befuddled with inexactitudes.”

  The woman laughed. “But CHAOS is designed for inexactitudes! What—”

  “At this stage of my study I had to have something concrete.”

  She laughed again. “Well, you’ve got it. Short of baseball statistics, the information in that database is about as concrete as one can find in our civilization.” She paused. “Again, congratulations. What’s next? A paper for Weather and Forecasting?”

  He shook his head.

  ”JAM? JAS?”

  “No! Too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? This? You’ve moved the use of CHAOS in prediction far beyond what anyone else has so far even imagined. Do you not have a responsibility to make it available to others in the field?”

  “If I could think of a way to p
ublish it out of its context, yes, of course, but away from its milieu, the results would not be meaningful.”

  “But—”

  “The significance of the data in this format would be recognized by any sophisticated mathematician, just as you did. There is enough discord in the world today. The public must never become acquainted with it.”

  “Then we’d better hope they catch the hacker.”

  “Indeed.”

  She frowned. “You don’t seem as concerned as I would imagine.”

  “I’m very concerned, but for now the situation is simple. If they catch the hacker and delete the file before it gets away, we’ll go about our business. I’ll ask you to improve security while I look for a way to publish my work.” He shrugged. “If they don’t catch him, well, then—”

  “But how will you know if it’s been stolen?”

  He smiled. “And assuming the thief knows what to do with it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll know. Everyone will know.” He walked to the window to look at Beatrice again. “For now, all we can do is wait.”

  Chapter 2

  1892

  Paris, February 10

  The gray stone of the Embassy of the United States seemed a part of the cold morning

  mist still blanketing its grounds.

  Prince Sergei Ivanovich Romanov, wearing a new Trilby hat, but an overcoat from

  the distant past, hurried to the entrance. The marine guard recognized him and nodded. Inside, the Prince placed the hat on the horn of a stuffed boar’s head, his overcoat

  inside a stenciled armoire, and his monocle in his right eye. Outside the Chargé’s office

  he peered at his reflection in the glass door of a Civil War firearms display. The thinning

  hair required considerable arrangement. He then inspected the nick under his chin. The

  bleeding had stopped, but the slash was apparent. He considered visiting the lavatory,

  but shrugged his narrow shoulders. His claim was marginal at best. Whether it was

  honored or not would not hinge on the condition of his chin.

  He glanced through the crack of the not quite closed door. David Nelson was within. The Prince began what, for the past two weeks, had become his customary journey,

  back and forth in the corridor outside the office. The clattering of his cane on the marble

  tiles was a continuous notice that he was waiting to be received and that such reception

  was overdue for one so high born.

  By midmorning, the Chargé’s exasperation exceeded the diplomatic calm implanted in his psyche. “Show the pest in!”

  The room was furnished with the best of contemporary American furniture and carpeting.

  Nelson was dressed in the latest fashion from Harvard Square. His blond hair was parted in the middle, his mustache long, waxed, and curving.

  The Russian’s claim of his position within the imperial family had been verified and so required a certain elevated deportment on Nelson’s part. Thirty years the Prince’s junior, he attempted to enhance his dignity by sitting as straight as his beautiful, but uncomfortable, chair would allow.

  Still, the man was a pest, prince or no prince, and had to be dealt with before the Ambassador became involved.

  The Prince scuttled into the room, then glanced at a chair.

  Nelson waved a finger. “No reason for you to be seated, monsieur. Our business will not take long.”

  The Prince stood with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes fixed on the painting of President Benjamin Harrison on the wall behind the Chargé.

  “We sympathize with your position, monsieur, but we’ve had no further word from Secretary Blaine.”

  The Prince leaned forward. Light reflected from his monocle flared across Nelson’s eyes. Nelson raised his hand.

  “What about Mr. Harrison? What does he—”

  “As I’ve told you ad nauseum, monsieur, President Harrison doesn’t concern himself with the settling of claims of citizens, Russian or American.”

  “Perhaps he should be concerned with such matters.”

  “I can think of several things with which I think our President should be concerned, but my thoughts in such a vein, like yours, are of no consequence.”

  “But if a claimant is a member of the Russian Imperial family, your President would—”

  Nelson stood and took the first step toward his door. “Monsieur, let us examine the facts for what I hope is the final time. One, The Mannerling Trust is a private trust. In our country, as long as its management conducts its business in accordance with the laws of the United States and, in this case, those of the State of Alabama, private means that no American governmental agency has any control over it whatsoever.” The Chargé paused and looked over his pince-nez.

  The Prince nodded.

  “Two, according to the trust documents you’ve shown to me, the beneficiary of the Trust is whoever holds the position of Tsar of Russia.”

  The Prince’s head fell.

  The Chargé smiled. “You are not, I believe, the Tsar.”

  The Prince raised his head, a wry smile on his face.

  “Then, monsieur, may we agree, as the gentlemen we both are, that you will not call upon me again?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  The Prince pivoted. Nelson followed him to the door.

  “Wouldn’t it be sensible for you to raise the question with the Tsar?”

  “No, monsieur, it would not. Cousin Alexander might find the question offensive.”

  He looked back at Nelson with a lopsided smile and removed his monocle. “Under no circumstance would I want Cousin Alexander to find my behavior offensive.”

  1923

  Birmingham, Alabama, November 16

  By the close of the post World War I building boom in Birmingham, The Mannerling

  Trust had outgrown its rooms in its lawyers’ offices and built new quarters south of the

  statue of Vulcan. Art Deco dominated the building’s design and interior. Albeit the

  building existed in the backwater that was Birmingham in those days, the carvings and

  colors had made it a sensation in national architectural circles.

  Count Sergei Ivanovich Romanov, a small man in a homburg and new, but ill-fitting,

  fur-collared overcoat, removed his hat and adjusted his toupee in a mirror at the entrance

  of the Trust’s lobby. Satisfied, he shuffled to the receptionist’s desk.

  Mabel Knight, flapper extraordinaire, was crouched behind her desk, powdering her

  knees, when she heard someone enter the room. She managed to untangle the sash

  around her hips from a drawer knob and resume her seat in time to proffer her most

  sincere morning smile. “Good day, Mr. Romanov,” she said. “Quite blustery outside,

  isn’t it?”

  The little man frowned. “Count Romanov, Miss Knight. I am a count. I have

  mentioned my title to you several times.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m so sorry. I get them all mixed up. Barons, you know, and dukes and

  all that. I think our system is better, don’t you?”

  “Your system?”

  “Everyone’s a mister—or a miss or a missus, of course.”

  “I know all that I require concerning your classifications here, Mademoiselle. Mr.

  Bowman, if you please.”

  “Mr. Bowman is engaged and I’m afraid matters stand today as they did yesterday.” “He has still not received any messages from your State Department?” “I’m afraid not.” She smiled. “You know, Mr. Romanov, we all admire your

  persistence, but to tell you the truth, the girls here and I wonder if it’s rational.” The Count frowned. “You and your fellow females here have an opinion concerning

  my claim?”

  “No, no, not your claim. We’re sure it’s swell. It’s your tenacity in the face of those

  horri
ble Bolsheviks.” She smiled. “Well, we think it’s courageous of you, but aren’t you

  being just a teensy bit stubborn? I mean, what if they send someone to get you?” “Get me?”

  She transformed her hand into a pistol and aimed it at him. “You know, bang!” Romanov looked toward the corridor leading to the Chief Trustee’s office. Miss Knight managed an extravagant clearing of her throat.

  “Shall we review where your claim stands, Count Romanov?”

  He turned to face her.

  “Let’s see. You’ve described your circumstances to Mr. Bowman?”

  He nodded.

  “He’s conferred with our attorneys. They’ve contacted Senator Heflin. Someone in

  the Senator’s office is to have referred the matter to the State Department. Someone

  there is to have contacted our Ambassador in Moscow. And our Ambassador is to have

  contacted the Soviet Foreign Minister, who is to submit your claim to someone who can

  judge its validity.”

  He nodded, a disgusted look forming on his face.

  “Now, when we have a report regarding all of these contacts and the Soviet judgment

  of the validity of your claim, I’m sure Mr. Bowman will be most happy to consider it.” The little man placed his hands at the edge of her desk and leaned over. She

  struggled to roll her chair rearwards.

  “It is time, I see, for me to make my feelings known in their entirety. You people

  have mismanaged this matter from beginning to end! Do you imagine that some swinish

  commissar is going to find that the claim of Count Luthr Vladimirovich Romanov to the

  fortune built upon the money provided by Alexander II and housed in The Mannerling

  Trust should be honored? That the money should come to me, rather than be wasted on

  some Bolshevik program to ruin more peasants or destroy more industry?” Mabel Knight stood. “Calm yourself, sir!”

  “Bah!”

  He strode toward the exit.

  She managed a final smile. “We’ll call you, Mr. Romanov, just as soon as we hear

  from Moscow.”

  1942

  Kuybyshev, 1,000 kilometers east of Moscow, December 2