by Leslie Wolfe
“If the software does exactly what we are promised and it will not associate the voter’s identity with the actual ballot, then the majority of the privacy concerns are not real. That is a big if. We also have to think of the perceptions about this issue. How would we gain the voter’s confidence, even if we inspect that software inside and out? What would suddenly make the average American trust the government on matters of privacy? The latest polls indicate that less than 38 percent of Americans trust the government on how security, privacy, and civil rights are respected. The same study reflects that most Americans value their privacy over security. So it would take nothing short of a miracle to shift that distrust to a vote of confidence for the e-vote reform, where privacy and vote secrecy are concerned.”
“How about the second major concern you have? Vote security?”
“That is a major one,” Archesi said, underlining the word with hand gestures. “Here’s why. If hacking a voting system in a county only jeopardizes the local votes, hacking into a centralized system will give access to the entire election. Until now, any national-scale wrongdoing would have had to coordinate attacks on various vote systems, terminal types, paper versus digital, etc. The lack of centralization and organization in this process helped our security. In short, chaos was helping us stay secure. As we’re structuring and centralizing our data processes behind voting, we’re eliminating that chaos, but we’re also making it very easy for election fraud to happen on a major scale.”
“That is a very scary thought,” Stephanie admitted. “What’s being done about it?”
“The NSA participated in designing the security module that will be installed on top of the voting software, ensuring the impenetrability of the software on all networks and all devices. A team of the best NSA people are guaranteeing that no one will be able to hack into the system come November. The security protocols also call for renewed security modules each ballot year.”
“It seems really tight, doesn’t it?”
“It does, and I tend to trust the NSA when it says the challenge is taken care of. But this reform is also the biggest challenge one can throw in the face of countless hacker communities, so anything can happen. Your strongest defense is only good until someone invents a bigger weapon and come after you.”
“Let’s hope the NSA is as good as we all hope it is. How about your third concern, voter participation?”
“With everything I mentioned until now, voter privacy poses the biggest threat to voter participation. I don’t think there’s much we can do to persuade the American people that we have somehow changed our DNA and we will suddenly start respecting their rights and their privacy.”
“My understanding is that the e-vote reform has been signed into law, so it will happen this November. What do you suggest we do to mitigate some or all of these concerns?”
“There is a single, minimal change,” the congressman said, “that will mitigate the first point and help immensely with the third. That is removing the voter registration card scanning from the digital process. Have humans look at it and validate it, just like it’s done today, and forfeit mobility for privacy.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Stephanie said. “Seems like a small compromise to achieve a great deal.”
“Precisely. We are introducing a motion to have the scanning component removed. I am hoping my colleagues will see things the way you do, Stephanie, and forfeit a minor piece of progress in favor of major voter confidence and participation.”
“It seems to be the logical thing to do, so good luck! And thank you for your time tonight.”
“Thank you for your invitation, Stephanie. Have a good night.”
The camera zoomed in, leaving Congressman Archesi out of view and focusing on Stephanie.
“Live from our studio, this is Stephanie Wainwright, with News of the Hour.”
...21
...Friday, January 8, 6:47PM CST (UTC-6:00 hours)
...Johnson Campaign Headquarters
...Chicago, Illinois
Anthony Fischer glanced at the in-dash time display while pulling into his reserved parking spot in front of Bobby Johnson’s campaign headquarters. It was late...He was going to have another late night, and he felt it in his bones. The money was nice though. Very nice. Just as nice as the best presidential campaign manager of the moment could hope for, and then some. He had helped two other presidents get the job, and he was going to help this one too. Johnson had been his second choice; Krassner was way better candidate material, but the prize associated with Johnson’s name was almost double. Fischer always followed the money and made the rest follow him: voters, media, and results.
With the right kind of support and two half-decent brain cells, anyone could make it to the White House. Fischer was the best America had to offer in creating and securing that kind of support, the kind that made presidents out of simple candidates. He had the devious, contriving capacity to wile, ploy, manipulate, or seduce anyone into believing anything, into believing the good stuff about his candidate and the bad stuff about the opponents. And not just believing. He had the gift to turn followers into leaders of opinion and beguiled voters into fanatic disciples. He was Johnson’s only shot.
He opened the main entrance door to Johnson’s campaign headquarters. The lively chatter ceased for a few seconds; that’s all it took the staff and volunteers to recognize him and resume their activities. He walked straight to Johnson’s office door and entered without knocking.
There he was...plastered again. Slouched on a two-seater couch, his tie knot loosened and top shirt button undone, a half-emptied bottle of single malt Scotch on the table in front of him. He was shitfaced this time, tears running freely on his fallen-apart face. Fischer swallowed his anger and prepared himself for yet another session of babysitting, of handholding one of the lamest politicians in the history of the US presidential runs.
“What’s the matter, Bobby?” Fischer almost sounded like he cared. He did care, deeply, for his payday. He was in this loser’s boat, and the loser had to win for him to get his millions.
“What if they don’t like me?” Johnson whimpered and slurred, reaching out with trembling hands for the single malt. “Did ya hear what they said about me, the assholes? The fuckin’ assholes?”
“What did they say, Bobby?”
“That I would be a...a dangerous president for the American foreign policy, ’cause I don’t know the difference ’tween South Korea and North Korea.” He sniffled. “Who does, huh? Who fuckin’ does? Aren’t they all the same?”
Fischer swallowed a bitter response to Johnson’s geopolitical dilemma.
“Bobby, Bobby, look at me. Who are you, Bobby?”
“Huh?” Johnson poured another two inches of Scotch into his glass, spilling some on the table.
“Yeah, you heard me, who are you?”
Johnson squirmed a little, and then attempted an answer.
“I am Bobby Johnson, and I am running for president.”
“Damn right you are!” Fischer stood up, grabbed the glass of liquor from Johnson’s hand, and emptied it in the fireplace. The fire responded with an angry burst of flames. “So why the fuck would you care what they like and dislike? Huh?”
Johnson was not answering. Still confused and very much drunk, he needed another shock.
“Answer me, God damn you!” Fischer yelled, grabbing Johnson by his loosened tie and lifting him onto his unstable feet. “Are you a pushover? Are you a pussy?” With each question, Fischer shook Johnson a bit, enough to rattle him and dissipate some of the liquor fumes in his head. “Pussies don’t belong in the White House, you hear me?”
“Yes,” Johnson muttered.
“What did you say?” Fischer pressed on.
“Yes, pussies do not belong in the White House. You’re right.”
“So what are you gonna do, then? Huh?”
“Umm...Not be a pussy anymore...?” Johnson’s hesitant reply came half-affirmation, half-question
.
“Exactly right,” Fischer said, dropping the force in his voice to an almost normal conversation level. “So here’s what you’re gonna do.” He let go of Johnson’s collar, went straight to the whiteboard, and started scribbling.
“One,” he said, then wrote the number on the whiteboard. “Stop drinking like this. One a day and a couple before bed, but that’s all. You exceed that, I catch you drunk again, and I am out of here, got it?”
“Yes, understood,” Johnson said, swallowing hard.
“Two,” he said, writing the number under the first one, “stop acting stupid. Think before you speak. Deter questions you don’t know the answer to, and prepare for God’s sake, prepare before those interviews. You have PR support, use it! They’ll write your stuff; you make sure you understand it and memorize it. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Bobby Johnson confirmed.
“Three, start acting like the future president. Watch how you dress, how you speak, how you act. Make the people like you, trust you, and believe you. I’ll do the rest.”
“Got it,” Johnson confirmed again, subdued.
“One more question for you, but think hard before you answer.” Fischer held silent for a while, for emphasis. “What are you willing to do to become president?”
“Anything, absolutely anything.” Johnson’s alcohol-powered confidence took over, eliminating all hesitation.
“OK. Remember what you just said, because the time will come when I will ask you to do some out-of-the-ordinary things to get you there. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely clear, I will do anything you ask me to.”
Fischer scrutinized him, top to bottom, but found little reassurance. Disheveled and wobbly, a man of weak resolve and wavering commitment, demonstrating very limited practical sense, Johnson could prove real tricky to put in the White House. Maybe that’s why the prize was so substantial.
“All right. Sit down and let’s discuss funding.”
Johnson sat back down on the two-seater, sitting straight this time.
“We need to make friends with the right people and fast. We need serious funding for your campaign, and we need to get organized. This is a quid-pro-quo game: remember that. I will make introductions for you with some very rich and influential people, people who have interests. Some want a policy abolished or a piece of legislation overturned. Others would like tax breaks or new legislation pushed through. You promise them help, and they promise you support. The good part is they have to deliver first. Got it? Zero risk for you.”
“But what if I’m unable—”
“Bobby, what are you willing to do to become president?”
“Anything,” Johnson stated cockily, “anything whatsoever.”
“Then remember that and don’t make me ask you again. Show some spine, be decisive, and get the job done!”
“Got it. Who are these rich people?”
“The best corporate America has to offer: fat checkbooks and full agendas. You have nothing to fear.”
“Will we keep it legal? There are limits to contributions, you know,” Johnson asked.
The man was stupid, and that was that. Fischer exhaled in frustration.
“Of course we keep it legal, Bobby. Our rich friends will only help us fundraise and get to what we want sooner and easier. Not every form of support has to be in cash, you know. One more time: what are you willing to do to become the next president of these United States?”
“Absolutely anything, I swear,” Bobby Johnson concluded, hand held firmly over his chest, like taking a solemn oath.
...22
...Monday, January 11, 10:12AM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)
...Russian Ministry of Defense, Arbatskaya Square
...Moscow, Russia
The more Dimitrov thought about it, the more he liked it. He was building the masterpiece of his career. Bringing back the KGB, the way it used to be, but undetected by the West, and fast enough for the irrationally limited patience of President Abramovich. What a stroke of brilliance! Of course, he wouldn’t be bringing back the entire KGB, just the part they needed the most and had somehow lost over the years. Being one of the best intelligence units in the world. The teams who got anything done, anywhere. The black-ops capabilities that the entire world had learned to fear and respect. The honor, the glory, the loyalty, and the self-sacrifice of countless agents.
The momentous success he had known in his career had always depended on knowing what move to make and when. He was a great chess player. He knew exactly what he had to do.
Taking his personal encrypted cell phone out, he dialed a number from memory.
“Vitya? It’s Misha. I have another business proposition for you.”
...23
...Tuesday, January 12, 7:18PM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)
...Costco Wholesale Parking Lot
...Washington, DC
Robert Wilton struggled to push his shopping card through the parking lot sludge. He wasn’t that young anymore, that was definitely a contributing factor. Yet he blamed his pained difficulty in getting the groceries to the car on the constant turmoil he had endured since December.
Robert had lived a life above reproach, taking pride in his work ethics and moral standards. Raised by strict parents and influenced by Catholic precepts, Robert had grown to be valued by his friends, coworkers, and family for his wise helpfulness and resourceful mind. Well-suited for global sourcing, his brain processed information on a large scale. Ever since he had discovered the world as a young Army volunteer, he had fostered an intense passion for exploring what the world had to offer.
Robert had been deeply marked by his experience, at only twenty years of age, of being part of the Armed Forces that had ended the Vietnam War. He had taken part in Operation Homecoming. His unit had been instrumental in freeing and repatriating American prisoners of war, and that deeply emotional experience had transformed him. He was empathic, compassionate, and considerate, and the year 1973 had influenced his thinking, general attitude toward people, and the way he understood them. Living in harmony with his demanding conscience was a fundamental requisite of his well-being. There was none of that harmony left in his existence: only anguish, guilt, sorrow, and fear, mixed with gratitude for having Melanie still alive, still a part of his life.
He reached his car and unlocked it. He let go of the cart, looking to open the SUV’s cargo door. The cart slipped in the sludge, but Robert managed to stop it before it could ding his side panel. He pushed the cart farther out and tried to open the cargo door again. The wind and cold drizzle were not helping, and the cart started sliding again.
“Let me hold that for you.”
Robert turned to look at the helper. Recognizing the wrinkled features of the face haunting his nightmares, he suddenly felt sick. A shockwave of adrenaline flooded his stomach, making it twist into a knot.
“What do you want?” Robert managed a question.
“I wanted to thank you for awarding the contract just like we discussed. My friends and I appreciate your help.” Helms had the audacity to smile in acknowledgment.
“Are we done, then?” Robert had finally managed to open the cargo door against the strong wind, and propping it with his body, was loading his groceries in the car.
“Almost,” Helms said.
Robert started feeling dizzy.
“You see,” Helms continued, “contracts are a delicate matter. They are almost like living beings. They have a life expectancy, and that life should be lived to its fullest.” Helms allowed a few seconds for his message to penetrate. “Yes, this contract is a living thing, and its heart has to beat strongly for the full term. It would be such a shame if a strong, healthy heart suddenly stopped, wouldn’t it?”
Robert felt a sudden wave of nausea hit. He clenched his jaws to refrain from retching. He grabbed the car’s roof edge, trying to maintain his balance. This man would kill Melanie just to prove a point and not even think twice about it.
“Wha
t do you want from me?” Robert asked again in a faint voice.
“Just keep the contract going through to completion. That’s all. The vendor will do a great job; there will be no reason for you to cancel the engagement anyway. But watch over it and make sure this contract’s life runs its full course.”
“And?”
“And that’s it. Once the delivery day comes and the last payments have been made, you will never hear from me again. I promise.” Helms made his threats even more horrifying by inserting a disturbing, almost humorous tone to the entire conversation.
“OK,” Robert managed to say.
“Good,” Holms said and then offered, “let me take this cart for you, so you can be on your way. You don’t look so good. Maybe you should go home, get some rest.” Holms took off, pushing the shopping cart toward the cart corral. Then he disappeared around the corner.
For anyone watching from a distance, it all played out as if a kind passerby had helped a man load his groceries into his car. Nothing more.
...24
...Wednesday January 13, 2:45PM Local Time (UTC+1:00 hours)
...Centre de Convencions Internacional—Global Hunger Conference
...Barcelona, Spain
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for the opportunity to address all of you today.” Mastaan Eshwar Singh spoke concisely and confidently. He stood proud in front of the three thousand people present at the conference, looking almost grandiose in his dark blue turban and imposing attire that gave his relatively common mien an air of authority. An Indian Sikh, Singh was not planning to speak about hunger and poverty in his native India; he was leading his audience’s attention toward African issues.
“I come in front of you today with a dire call for help. Our organization, Eastern Africa Development Fund, has committed to deliver an ambitious goal,” Singh continued, turning slightly to draw the public’s attention to the images playing in the background. “As you can see, the situation in Eastern Africa is desperate. The lack of food and water is causing casualties in the hundreds, even thousands, every single day.”
