Interest (2 page)

3

“Good morning. Yesterday, the White House was bombed. The president of the United States was assassinated in the bombing.”

Gasps and murmurs throughout the newsroom. A crowd had gathered around the large TV.

The vice-president continued, “Though I would prefer to be able to provide clarity and specifics, I cannot do so at this time until further details are known. We have committed all of the vast resources available to the federal government to the investigation. The perpetrators, and the methods by which this act was perpetrated, are as yet unknown. Nonetheless, it is clear that this event was the latest in a series of cowardly, deliberate acts of terrorism intended to shock and demoralize the American people.”

Just then, there was a commotion down the hall. Len figured someone had knocked the coffee machine over again, and he didn’t think much of it. Then, men yelling gruffly. Gunfire. People shrieking. Len instinctively fell to the floor, crawled under a cubicle desk, and covered his head.

From the corridor leading to the lobby ran several men carrying assault rifles and wearing black tactical gear. They wore balaclavas and moved in a tight, practiced formation, keeping their heads low and providing continuous cover for each other around the corner.

“Get down on the fucking ground, all of you!”
shouted a stocky one as he fired a three-round burst from his rifle into the ceiling.

Something Len had never realized until he first heard it happen in real life many years prior: gunshots, when fired indoors, were really freaking loud. Eardrum-rupturing loud. More people screaming. Then, after a few seconds, muted crying. Upward of twenty armed men filed into the main newsroom, a large open-office plan in a repurposed warehouse, and positioned themselves around the periphery of the space in a staccato choreography.

Surrounded.

On the TV, the vice-president—the president, now—went on. “As prescribed by law, I was sworn into the office of the president this morning by Chief Justice Smith. As commander in chief, I will bring the full might of the American military to bear on those involved. To the individuals responsible for these murderous attacks, know this: our determination will not be assuaged, and there will be no place on Earth to hide.”

One of the men stood up on a desk and shouted, “Which one of you is Leonard Savitz?”

Len felt his stomach twist. He looked up and around. Time was maple syrup. Some of his other co-workers, on the ground or hiding under nearby desks, made silent, imploring eye contact with Len as if to say,
For the love of God, please give yourself up so we don’t get killed, too.

Len took a difficult breath.
Well, crap. This is it,
he said to himself. A deluded man might have thought death was gonna come cakewalking over to him and he’d have ample time to ready himself for it, but Len had been through the shit and knew better: death came like a stray bullet on a nice day. Death came when your pants were down. Better him than some poor slob who didn’t accept the inevitability. Legs shaking, he crawled out from under the desk and stood up. “Hi. I’m Leonard Savitz. What can I do for you?”

“To my fellow Americans, I say this,” the new president continued. “Never in the history of mankind has there been a nation stronger or more resilient. Though our republic has faced numerous grave emergencies throughout its history, the American people have not merely endured—they have thrived beyond all expectations. Our grit and our indomitable spirit will carry us forward through any darkness…”

From somewhere behind him and without warning, someone tackled Len to the ground and pressed a knee painfully into his spine while handcuffing his arms behind his back. Another man put a black canvas sack over Len’s head and roughly tied the drawstring around his neck. Someone searched his pockets, then pulled out his wallet, keys, and cell phone. The men yanked Len to his feet.

“Thank you,” said the president, “and may God save the United States of America.”

“Move, move! Let’s move!” The men stormed out of the newsroom as fast as they’d come in. They carried Len out through the lobby and into the street. Len couldn’t keep pace with the two men holding him by his armpits, and his feet dragged most of the way. The men threw him into the back of a large vehicle. Someone stomped on the gas as soon as the doors were slammed shut, the acceleration pinning Len against the back doors. Two screeching turns and Len was gone.

4

The men changed vehicles after ten minutes of driving. They patted Len down, checked his pockets again, then transferred him to a new vehicle. Len assumed it was because anyone who witnessed the kidnapping could have identified the first vehicle. They continued driving.

Len wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the second vehicle. It felt like four hours or so of his heart beating on his ribcage. He couldn’t see anything, and all he could hear were highway noises. Len could feel deceleration and turning—maybe an exit ramp—then slower speeds indicating local roads, followed by several minutes of crunching gravel roads. He could feel the altitude changing in his eardrums and had to yawn to relieve the pressure. He was up in the Appalachians somewhere. The van, or whatever it was that he was in, came to a halt on the gravel road. From the sound of it, there were other vehicles behind them. The driver got out, walked around to the back, and opened the rear door.

“Time to get out, sweetcheeks,” a gruff voice drawled.

Two men lifted Len to his feet and walked him over the gravel a fair distance. They opened a door and took him inside a building. It smelled damp and felt cool, like a basement. They led Len down a long hall and into what might very well have been an old mine elevator, from the sound of the gates closing and the feeling of motion. They went down another hall. They then sat him down in a chair.

“I assume you’ve checked him for electronics?”

“Twice.”

Someone finally took Len’s hood off.

Once his eyes had adjusted, Len saw he was in a small, dimly lit room with concrete walls. There were ancient green filing cabinets and a metal desk that could have been from the 1950s. Old-fashioned incandescent light bulbs hung from the ceiling. Five men wearing military gear and ski masks were standing around the room, staring at him.

One of them, a large, broad-shouldered man, dragged an old chair over and placed it in front of Len’s. He sat down, legs spread, hands on his knees.

“Hello, Mr. Savitz!”

“Are you the fuckers who threatened my daughter?”

“Such language! Relax, she’s fine. In fact, if you behave, you’ll get to see her soon.”

“What did you do to her?”

“We’ll get to that later.” The man’s condescending tone made Len wish he could get his hands out of the cuffs.

“Who are you people?”

“You can call me General Jefferson. These are my associates.” The general motioned to the other four guys.

“Why am I here?”

“You’re a journalist, aren’t you?” the general said, picking a manila folder off the nearby desk and leafing through pages inside.

“Yeah, so?”

“I hate journalists. You pricks have no honor. Says here you were embedded in Iraq for two years, eh? Huh. Good thing you weren’t assigned to my squad. I fragged a few of you assholes.”

“What do you want with me?”

“We want you to do some work for us,” the general said, throwing the file back on the table. Jefferson then pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket and removed the cellophane wrapper.

“What?” Len stared back in confusion.

“If it were up to me, I’d just off you right now, but the boss seems to think you’re the right person to do some work for us. In exchange, we will guarantee the safety of your daughter, and you will be compensated handsomely. If you don’t accept, things aren’t going to go well for you. What does the Mob call it? ‘An offer you can’t refuse?’” The general clipped the end of the cigar in a way that made Len uneasy.

“Seriously? You’re offering me a job? That’s what this is about?” Len breathed heavily as his confusion gave way to irritation.

“Sure. You can think of it that way.”

“What the fuck? You’re the most aggressive headhunters I’ve ever met.” Len was too angry and scared to mean it as a joke, but the men took it that way and broke out laughing.

General Jefferson had a booming voice and a raucous laugh. His accent was from one of the Southern states, and Len spied a gray mustache through the mouth hole in Jefferson’s ski mask. General Jefferson had that Teddy Roosevelt kind of air about him: a Neanderthal with five Y chromosomes who’d be just as comfortable joking and backslapping over rowdy drinks as he would be ripping someone’s goddamn esophagus out with his bare hands. Len could tell the general wasn’t someone to cross, but he knew better than to show weakness to men like these. Might as well see what they were offering, since there was no alternative.

“Fine. What’s the compensation?”

“See? He said yes! What’d I tell you boys? Call it men’s intuition!”

The men snickered. The general put the cigar in his mouth and lit it, puffing through the mouth hole in his mask.

“Cute. What are you going to pay me, and what’s the job?” Len asked.

“Can I call you Lenny?” the general asked. Without waiting for an answer, he said, “Lenny, you’re going to do some research for us. You’re also about to learn firsthand why we’re blowing stuff up. The media seem to think we’re just a bunch of terrorist nut jobs. But one man’s terrorists are another man’s freedom fighters. After doing some digging, I suspect you’ll realize that our motives aren’t political at all. In fact, I predict that not only will you agree with us, you’ll join us.”

“Money talks,” Len said, doing his best to seem like he wasn’t utterly terrified.

“Uh-oh, a tough negotiator!” General Jefferson said, laughing. His men laughed too. Len figured they probably laughed at anything Jefferson said. “OK. We will give you two million dollars, paid upon completion, with your daughter returned safely to you. In addition, we will pay all your travel expenses. A generous offer, I think! You understand, of course, that this job will involve egregious risk to life and limb.”

“What, specifically, is the job?” Len figured seeming agreeable would get him out of there sooner.

“Wonderful. Then we have a deal. As for the details, I will defer to the management—Neith.”

The men put the hood back on Len and led him down another hallway. They sat him down and took the hood off again. One of Len’s captors walked to the door and, pulling down a series of old knife switches, illuminated the space. The place was cavernous, an enormous warehouse. If Len had to estimate, it was about five hundred feet long and as many wide, with ceilings five stories high.

Len looked around: rows of old tanks, troop transport trucks, large artillery cannons, even a few helicopters. Along the walls were crates stacked to the ceiling and stenciled with Russian words.

“What are you going to use all this for?”

“We’re going to take Washington, DC, if necessary.”

“Jesus. You people are planning a coup!”

“No, we’re planning a revolution. Lenny, I want you to meet the brains behind this operation, Neith.” General Jefferson pointed off to Len’s side. There, sitting behind an old desk, was a creepy-looking female mannequin. It was posed as if it were in deep thought.

“Oh my God. You’re all insane,” Len exclaimed.

Len heard a whirring noise. Looking over at the mannequin thing, he noticed its head was now in a different position. It was staring right at him with lifeless, weird eyes, like those of an antique doll.

“Hello, Mr. Savitz!” it said, coming to life.

“Holy crap!” Len jumped out of his chair. The general and his cronies nearly split their sides laughing.

“Hoo boy, I’d love to stay, but I have to go see a man about a horse. I’ll leave you ladies to discuss your details. Franklin, Adams, stay here and make sure Lenny doesn’t get fresh with Miss Neith. Paine, Hancock, pull the Cadillac around and get changed into your civvies. You’re gonna escort Lenny-poo here to the airport. Try to look respectable.” Jefferson hiked up his pants and walked out the door.

Airport? Len wondered what they were planning.

“I apologize if the general was rough with you,” the thing said. “Hospitality is not his forte.”

Len’s veins pounded. He studied it hesitantly. Its face seemed to be made of a rubbery material, and mechanisms underneath the surface moved up and down to create the illusion of facial expressions. It seemed to be a very cheesy attempt at an android.

“What the hell is that?” Len asked one of the men guarding him, but he didn’t answer.

“My name is Neith. Please pardon my robotic avatar; it allows me to be in two places at once.” The voice was female and familiar.

The robot stood up from behind the desk, and in an ungraceful yet overly fluid kind of way, it walked toward Len.

“Stay back!” Still handcuffed, Len lifted his leg in the air, ready to kick the thing if it came any closer.

“Mr. Savitz, I won’t hurt you.”

“I know your voice! You’re the one who called me yesterday. Is that why you’re hiding behind a robot, you piece of shit?”

One of the men stuck a rifle barrel in Len’s cheek.

“I just needed to get your attention,” the robot said. “Your daughter is actually safer now than she was yesterday.”

“Where is she?”

“Ecuador. She and your ex-wife arrived there safely this morning.” Neith’s robot clumsily picked a photo off the desk and handed it to Len. It was a picture of Octavia, looking tired, holding the previous day’s
Examiner
.

Len gnashed his teeth. “Ecuador? You kidnapped them?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, we had to.”

“Why are you involving us in this? What the hell is wrong with you people?”

“Mr. Savitz, we need your help. You are uniquely qualified to assist us in our mission.”

“What exactly is your mission?”

“To free the human race.”

“I’m not helping you psychos do anything until I see my daughter.”

“I have already arranged for you to meet her tomorrow evening so that you may verify her safety. First, however, we must go over some ground rules. Number one: we are hiring you to collect data. Should you compromise our mission, go to the authorities, or publicly disclose information you’ve gathered, you and your family will be executed.”

Len felt rage well up from his stomach, but using every shred of self-restraint he could summon, he managed to stifle it. If he played along, he might be able to find a way to rescue Octavia.

“Two: you may not use any computers, Internet, phones, or electronic devices during your employ with us.”

“Why?”

“As you are no doubt aware, major world governments employ sprawling surveillance networks. Phone calls, text messages, e-mails, social networking—any and all data transmitted are collected, stored, and analyzed by unbelievably powerful computer systems. There is absolutely no privacy in any form of electronic communication. I can tell you with 100 percent certainty that everything you do with a phone or computer is recorded and scrutinized by a third party. To compound matters, all consumer electronic devices produced over the last twenty years are designed to both surreptitiously monitor their users and to transmit anything created with them to intelligence agencies. Computers have cameras and microphones that are used to actively spy on you, and their operating systems are made to allow clandestine access by the authorities. Cell phones do the same and, in addition, constantly transmit your location to government databases. Even digital cameras automatically connect to wireless networks to automatically give you away. Bottom line, don’t use any electronic devices.”

“That’s not how journalism works. How am I supposed to take notes and pictures without technology?”

“The only way to avoid surveillance, and to ensure both the success of our mission and your safety during your assignment, is to use purely mechanical, or analog, technology. This should be everything you need.” The robot gestured to the desk it had been sitting behind.

On the desk were several items: a portable typewriter, a few spare typewriter ribbons, a thirty-five-millimeter film camera, some rolls of film, a ream of paper, a notepad, pens, a 1970s microcassette recorder, a windup watch, several large envelopes, a stack of hundred-dollar bills, hair dye, an electric razor, a passport, and a driver’s license.

Len surveyed the ancient items on the table.

“What am I, Ernest Hemingway? How am I supposed to write a story with this junk?”

“I have provided written instructions on the use of each, which you should read on your flight to Ecuador.”

“What about television?”

“Television, radio, and other archaic, one-way mass media are fine, so long as no device requires you to input data. Rule three: anything you buy must be paid for in cash, which I will give you enough of today. Credit card use is strictly disallowed. Electronic financial transactions, like the use of anything else electronic, will create a data signature that is uniquely yours. It’s possible to find someone anywhere in the world once they’ve made as few as four electronic purchases. That’s how powerful pattern-matching algorithms have become. It is impossible to evade detection while using electronic money.”

“Fine, what next?”

“Rule four: you are never to cross a border or security checkpoint with information pertaining to the assignment. Even your typewriter ribbons should be removed before you cross a border.”

“Then how am I supposed to refer to my notes later? How am I supposed to get you the information you want?”

“Upon completing your first assignment, put your notes, film, cassette recordings, and typewriter ribbons into one of the envelopes provided. During your first assignment, address the envelope to Mr. Hamasaki and leave it at the front desk. We will collect it.”

“Fine.”

“Rule five: you are prohibited from contacting anyone you knew prior to this mission, and you are forbidden from returning to Pittsburgh. Your apartment is likely being searched at the moment by police investigating your abduction.”

Len’s fear and hostility temporarily gave way to embarrassment at the thought of law enforcement rummaging through his dirty laundry and computer drives.

“Rule six: you are no longer Leonard Savitz. From now on, you are Jim Rivington, travel journalist. Here is your new passport and driver’s license.”

“Are you stupid? The second I walk into an airport, facial recognition scanners will pick me out. Any time I cross a border, they’ll take my fingerprints and know it’s me.”