Moving Target. Lori May A.
Chesca had set up an appointment with the current department head.
While it was unlikely she would find anyone on campus that actually knew their suspect personally, given the time frame they were dealing with, it was worth a shot. And, wasn’t that what student records were for? If the computer science nerds couldn’t dig up history, no one else would have a clue.
Driving along Storrow Drive, Chesca took a moment to glance at the familiar territory and fight off her recurring historical demons.
This was not her personal alma mater but she’d always had a fondness for the institution. It was, in America, the first university to open all its curricula to women, and in some ways that reminded her of the mission of Athena Academy.
Though the views along the banks of the Charles River reminded her more of her playful youth.
In the summer after graduating from Athena Academy, Chesca had a few weeks to spend at home in Boston prior to attending an internship program in Quantico.
It was before she had actually set foot on her own college campus, and rather than witness the social niceties around the Thorne residence, Chesca found solace on a patio of one of the many coffeehouses on Commonwealth Avenue, and watched students go about their fevered summertime activities.
It was the perfect opportunity to spy on people her age, watch them flirt in hot-weather flings, shop for seasonal trends, and just be in the moment. It was also the closest Chesca got to living that life.
Though vicariously so, it was her way of participating in the excitement. In reality the patio table she sat at was often covered in texts and notebooks, even in the heat of summer. Of course it was her choice to bury her nose in books, but there was the odd time, like driving into the campus on this beautiful spring day, that occasionally made her nostalgic for a youth she hadn’t entertained.
While her youngest years were of the quieter, more studious sort, Chesca made some quality friends to share her teen years while attending Athena Academy. And despite what most of them would like others to believe, it wasn’t all academics and exams.
Those girls, though dignified in their behavior, knew how to have a good time amongst themselves. They enjoyed their wonderful and massive backyard, and when all else failed, they easily made up a myth or two about mysterious men shadowing the landscapes of the academic grounds.
Chesca laughed at her ability to so easily reminisce as of late. As she drove into the access for Cummington Street, she thought of how great it had been to speak with a handful of Athena graduates these past few days, despite the circumstances that had prompted such communications. To her, the women were more than friends. They were more than school buddies. They were her family.
Locating the parking lot just off Granby she had found with the help of an online mapping Web site, Chesca parked in the best place to get to the Math-Computer Science building.
When she got out of the candy-apple-red Ford Edge, she took a moment to smooth down its nearly metallic exterior, as though it were her own prized possession, but Chesca’s attention was soon diverted. To the southeast of campus, on the opposite side of the Massachusetts Turnpike, was the legendary Fenway Park. Though she had never been to a game, Chesca recognized its iconic status in proving that sometimes the underdog could indeed come out on top.
With spring training wrapped up and games starting, she could sense the smell of ballpark franks in the air as she waited for traffic to slow and a crosswalk to give the go-ahead for her to cross Commonwealth. Then, she walked along the pathway to the corner of Hinsdale and Cummington and took in the sights around her.
Being on campus almost made her wish she were back in school again, but that moment of nostalgia quickly disappeared as she remembered the all-night cramming sessions, bad cafeteria food and essay upon essay year after year.
Making the entrance into her location, Chesca quickly found the office and was pleasantly greeted with a smile.
“Miss Thorne?” the receptionist asked, upon Chesca’s entrance.
The large, ornate grandfather clock informed her she was right on time for her appointment, and she was grateful she hadn’t dilly-dallied too much down memory lane. Just one stop would have Chesca late for her meeting with the head of the Computer Science department.
She nodded in affirmation, then the neatly dressed woman said, “This way please,” and Chesca followed her through a bookcase-lined hallway to the corner office, which smelled of aged wood.
Though the department wasn’t nearly as old as the rest of the campus, its furnishings were consistent with aged academia, creating a sense of immediate respect within Chesca, as though she had just entered the quiet calm of a historic library.
The receptionist tapped on the door as she opened it and escorted Chesca through as she announced, “Mr. Brighton, your eleven o’clock, sir.”
“Have a seat, Miss…”
“Thorne. Francesca Thorne. Thank you for seeing me,” she said, holding out a firm hand.
She took a seat directly across from his finely crafted desk, polished to an immaculate shine. Though it was hard not to peer around at her surroundings, taking in all that his office showed of his personality, Chesca concentrated on the middle-aged man in front of her as he spoke.
“I’m not sure I can help you with your request, Miss Thorne. From what you said over the phone, you’re talking about a student who may have attended BU some time ago, if at all.”
His salt-and-pepper hair was close-cut, though evidently slicked with some sort of gloss, its highlights lighting up under the glow of his desk lamp, as he rocked back and forth in the aged leather chair.
“This person—woman—would have been memorable, Mr. Brighton. As I briefly mentioned, she would have possessed incredible computer skills, enough for her to be recruited by the CIA. I’m certain she would have exhibited other traits,” she said, hoping to imply more than her words said, “that such an organization would have found…useful.”
The department head nodded along, as though he understood every word Chesca said, but she could tell he was still having some trouble piecing it together.
The fact of the matter was, this college student would have had to possess a great deal more than computer savvy to be attractive to the CIA.
Granted, at that time computers weren’t as prevalent as they were today and someone knowing the inner workings of how to use and manipulate a variety of systems would have, indeed, presented a nice package to the government.
“I will add,” she continued, “that this woman is suspected of being quite a dealer in blackmail, and as such she may have developed that talent years ago.”
“Ah, well. I have only been the department head going on about twenty-five years, so thankfully I never experienced anything like that myself,” he said.
Taking his time with his words, Mr. Brighton clearly was thinking of something more than what he was saying. Francesca would simply have to wait for his thoughts to come to fruition and give her an indication of whether or not she had reached a dead end.
“I might like to mention,” he said after some time had passed between them. “It was quite odd for my predecessor to leave when he did. By policy, he had another decade left in him. Yet, something caused him to leave the academic world early, though I’m not certain if it is even relevant.”
Though she had not mentioned her professional affiliation, and didn’t feel it necessary to do so even now, Chesca made sure that when she twisted in her seated position, the inner pocket of her jacket flashed just the edge of her FBI badge. “Would you be able to point me in his direction?”
“I’ll have my secretary give you his address,” he said, as she suspected he would.
Mr. Brighton need not know whether or not this was official bureau business, and without her explaining it further, she suspected he wouldn’t voluntarily open up that discussion himself. Sometimes,