Nostradamus Speaks - Invasion of Privacy

Invasion of Privacy

At 8:50 a.m. Tuesday I arrived at a Peet's coffee that I frequent now and then to partake of their excellent brew. I fully expected Dr. Nostradamus to already be there or to arrive promptly at 9:00. Nothing had been said at our last meeting in a local donut shop as to where we should meet next, only when. At that meeting I must admit I had been spooked that the great prognosticator was already waiting for me. I had gone to great lengths to avoid giving any hint of where I would be. But mamma didn't raise no fool and I had a pretty good idea how he did it. Spookiness need not apply.

So I got a double shot of espresso, topped it off with 2% milk, balanced that with half and half, and went back out into the warm sunlight where the maestro and I could have a leisurely discussion about this and that. I was feeling smug and self-assured.

Promptly at 9:00 a.m. here he comes, "So, you turned your phone off just before you left your house and it's still off. Did you think I couldn't find you?"

So much for pleasantries. I responded confidently, "Actually, Doctor, I was pretty sure you could find me. Where did you get the app that can track my phone when it is off?"

Dr. N paused for a moment before essentially admitting what I suspected, "It's not so much an app but an algorithm, a freakingly good super algorithm. But I can't tell you where I got it."

"Duh, let me guess?" I said, "CIA?"

Dr. Nostradamus got serious, "That's a pedestrian guess, but no, Number One, it's not the CIA. In fact, the source that developed the code is very, very concerned that if the Americans get hold of it the Saudis and Russians will have it before the end of business day."

"Hmm," I hmmed, "My next guess is Mossad."

Dr. N confirmed my hunch, "I will neither confirm nor deny that it is Mossad." 

"Can I see your phone?" I asked.  

"No," he replied,  "And it wouldn't help. It is virtually undetectable."

"Okay, so much for trust," I said, "But let's move on, you have pretty much confirmed what I suspected about how you found me at the donut shop. Weren't no super powers involved." My self confidence was growing by leaps and bounds.

"Do tell." he said, sitting back in his chair.

So I telled it. "Your Mossad Mother of all Algorithms super code software tracking app hacked into my Google search history and saw that I had zoomed onto that strip mall and the donut shop before I left home. The algorithm crunched the data and numbers and spit out my likely destination to a high degree of confidence. Even still, you were just lucky that I had not changed my mind at the last minute. Am I right or am I right?"

"Yes, yes, and yes. Well done, Grasshopper, well done." The great Dr. Nostradamus caved. 

I seized the advantage, "So are you always going to spy on me? I am not happy with what is a monumental intrusion and invasion of privacy. And I don't like the idea of being so predictable. Do you spy on everybody?"

Dr. N replied evenly, "No, I don't spy on everybody. I track a handful of trusted associates and then only when I need to locate them in a hurry. A side benefit is it tests how susceptible my team is to magical thinking. Are they going to work through a challenge with practical reason or opt for the easy, lazy, and always wrong conclusion that supernatural powers are at play. Or to put it another way, am I dealing with adults or children."

Dr. N's calm response took me aback, "Yikes, sounds like no more Mr. Nice Guy."

"That's right, Dungbeetle," he said, "No more Mr. Nice Guy. Did you broadcast the sleeper cell activation code as instructed?"

"Uh, no," I stammered, "Not yet."

"Why not?" he said.

I regained my composure, "Because it was dumb, Sensei. "The river stinks" or whatever, three times a row was impossible to frame in an innocuous way. It would make me look like an idiot and I have to maintain my credibility." I paused, "But if you insist, I'll do it."

"Forget it," he said, "The code has timed out and I'll have to come up with a new one." 

"Am I fired?" I hesitantly asked, seriously worried that I had blown the best gig I ever had.

"No, you're not fired, Grasshopper," he reassured me, "You are actually doing better than expected. So, until next time." 

With that Dr. Michel de Nostradamus, the famed prognosticator and time traveler walked away. I watched as he got into a battered old Dodge Dart and drove off.  I would've thought a Mercedes at least. Or a Peugeot.

Dixi