by Frank Zafiro
Another truism throughout human history is that most societies, even relatively free ones, have employed some form of secret police. Certainly the more authoritarian states did. From the Krypteia of ancient Sparta, to the Roman Frumentarii, the German Gestapo, and the Russian KGB, these organizations have seemingly flourished in their role to monitor, interrogate, and even eliminate, its own citizenry.
If pressed, most Americans in the 2020s would likely have pointed to the FBI as the nearest approximation of such an organization, but few would have deemed it anywhere near the equivalent of the aforementioned agencies. From what we can glean from existing records, this assessment is largely true. However, it is also true that internal monitoring saw a significant increase during this same time period, even if the workload was dispersed amongst a larger segment of the law enforcement population.
— From An Unlikely Phoenix by Reed Ambrose
RYAN AND NATHALIE SPENT their anniversary at a small Italian restaurant on the fringe of downtown. They ate pasta, shared a bottle of moderately priced red wine, and tried unsuccessfully to forget their other cares for a few hours.
It didn’t work.
To her credit, Ryan could see that she was trying. She laughed at his small jokes, and even tried to make a couple of her own. But she frequently glanced past him, or quickly around the room, and he could see the worry underneath her smiling exterior.
He left it alone. Instead, they talked about Melina, and about how lucky they were in their marriage. Ryan raised his glass, and they toasted in a familiar style.
“Hey, vous,” he began.
“Who, moi?”
“Yes, toujours toi.” His French was almost nonexistent, but he’d mastered his phrase.
“Always you,” she said back, her tone both appreciative, and a little sad.
When they finished dinner, Ryan left a generous tip, and they left the restaurant. They held hands and walked slowly, partly to savor the moment, and partly in deference to Ryan’s injuries. In about a block, he felt his slight limp increase. A muted pain throbbed in his hip.
“Are you all right, amour?”
“Hurts a little, is all.”
She reached into her purse and took out his painkillers, holding them up.
Ryan shook his head. “No, I think it’ll be okay. They make my head fuzzy.” He squeezed her hand. “I don’t want a fuzzy memory of this.”
She squeezed back, hugging his arm. “We’ll walk slower, then.”
They made their way several more blocks to the park that housed the St. Louis Archway. He noticed her glance over her shoulder twice along the way. Once they found a spot on the railing at the edge of the park where they could stare at the monument, they stood quietly for a while and took it in.
The sound of the city echoed around them, and the lights of the park lit up the grand, white archway. As kids, he and Alex had ridden the small, cramped cars inside the monument to the viewing center at the apex. The whole experience had been disconcerting for him, even as a kid. The ride up to the top seemed like a cross between a submarine and the slow climb of a roller coaster. Then, suddenly, they were exposed to the wide expanse of the view from inside the top of arch. It was jarring, and he never asked to go back after that first time.
Nathalie glanced to the side.
Ryan had finally had enough. “What is it?” he asked.
Her eyes snapped to his. “What’s what?”
He shook his head. “Don’t do that. Not tonight, of all nights.”
She gave him a pained expression. “I’m sorry, amour.”
“Just tell me.”
She bit her lip and looked away. “I should have told you weeks ago, but I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe I was crazy.”
“Told me what?”
She glanced around again, then back at Ryan. The worry that had been hovering behind her eyes all night came out fully. “I think someone has been following me.”
Ryan’s surprise was muted by his instincts. Immediately, he followed her gaze. “Who? Do you see someone now?”
“No. I...I don’t think so. That is the problem. I don’t actually see anyone for certain. It’s just a feeling I’ve been having.”
“For weeks now?”
She nodded. “Ever since the concert.”
He thought about that. She was a journalist. Was it possible they’d put a tail on her after the event?
Then he wondered, who were they, exactly? Homeland Security? Immigration? Metro, looking to get to him somehow?
“Je suis désolé,” Nathalie repeated.
“I know.”
“Am I thinking crazy?” she asked.
“No,” he said firmly. “If you feel it in your gut, there’s something there. You have to trust it.”
“Who is it, do you think?”
“I don’t know, babe. But we’re going to find out.” He took her hand. “Listen, the next time you see someone who looks wrong to you, you tell me right away.”
“Wrong how?”
“If the person makes you feel like you’re feeling now, that’s what I mean by wrong. Okay?”
“Oui. Yes. I understand.”
“Good.” He squeezed her hand. “That’s good.”
They stayed at the railing, looking out at the archway for another ten minutes. Ryan wrapped his arm around her, and she leaned into him.
“It feels good to tell you,” she whispered.
He pulled her closer, and kissed the top of her head. “We’re going to get through this,” he told her.
She didn’t answer.
After a while, they turned away from the monument and walked back into downtown. Nathalie watched carefully for anything suspicious, but didn’t see anything. Ryan’s senses were on high alert as well, and he studied everything in his peripheral vision. He saw nothing, either. After a few blocks, Ryan was convinced that either they weren’t being followed at the moment, or the operatives were too skilled for him to spot.
“I see something,” Nathalie said, staring forward as she spoke.
“Where?”
“Behind us, across the street. The man in the blue jacket. I...I think I saw him before.”
“Where’d you see him?”
“At work, on the street outside the office. I think.”
“You think or you know?”
“I...I think. I can’t be sure.”
Ryan’s senses were alive. He took Nathalie’s hand and they walked down another block, then cut into an alley. Halfway through the alley, he slipped into a deep doorway. They both pressed against the wall of the old brick building, waiting.
For a while, there was nothing. Ryan began to wonder if Nathalie had been wrong, if her paranoia had led her mind to make connections that weren’t there. But then he heard soft footfalls in the alley. He knew that logically it could be anyone, but he coiled his body in anticipation.
A man in a blue jacket emerged into view. In a glance, Ryan sized him up. He was medium build and average in almost every way. There was virtually nothing memorable about his appearance, making the color of his jacket the most outstanding factor.
Perfect for surveillance, he thought.
The man didn’t see them right away, and both Ryan and Nathalie remained perfectly still. When the man had taken a couple of steps past the doorway, Ryan shuffled toward him. His intent was to grab onto him with a neck restraint and literally choke some answers out of him. But the night was quiet and his shoes scraped on the pavement.
The man’s head snapped toward him.
Ryan didn’t stop. He tried to charge toward the man, but he felt awkward and weak. The man sidestepped his attack.
“Hey! What are you doing?” he said, his voice confused.
Ryan reached out and grabbed the man’s jacket sleeve. He jerked it away, and stumbled back half a step from the force of it. Ryan charged again, tackling the man to the ground. His hip screamed in protest, and the jarring thud when they both landed forced a painful grunt out of him.
Once on the ground, he wrapped his legs around one of the man’s legs, pinning him in place. With both hands, he sought out the man’s wrist and elbow, trying for a joint lock to gain control. The man countered his move, though, brushing aside Ryan’s reaching hand and then jabbing him toward the throat.
Ryan dropped his chin at the last moment, catching the man’s knuckles there. He tried to ignore the sharp explosion for pain, and it dissipated almost immediately. He drove a thumb into the man’s right eye in retaliation, but the man was too quick. He dropped his head and Ryan’s thumb struck the man in the forehead. Another sharp pain burst from the base of his thumb, and this time he yelled out involuntarily.
The man took advantage of his brief surprise to twist his hips forcefully. The two of them rolled on the hard pavement. Ryan’s hip throbbed loudly and he gritted his teeth. Out of nowhere, a punch landed on his cheek, catching part of his nose in the process. He managed to get his hands up defensively while the man rained down several blows. His forearms took the brunt of the heavy punches, but one slipped through and landed square. He saw a white flash momentarily, and felt his body slacken.
Another punch struck him in the temple, and this time he saw an explosion of red light behind his eyes. Blindly, he punched back, and felt his fist land somewhere in the man’s midsection. The blow had no real strength behind it, and he’d left himself open on that side. The next punch hooked in from that direction. Ryan tucked down his chin and absorbed it. Fighting through the pain in his hip, he bucked upward to unsettle his attacker, then twisted. The tentative leg lock he had come loose and the man spilled to the pavement beside him.
A foot sailed past his head and struck the man next to him. He grunted as he rose to his knees. Ryan struggled to do the same, but was much slower. By the time he reached his knees, the man was on his feet and running down the alley way.
Nathalie knelt beside him. “Are you all right?”
He nodded, even though he was hurting in several places at once. His hips ached like they’d just been hit with a baseball bat. His thumb throbbed. He could feel the welts and bruises forming on his face and forearms as well.
“Help me up,” he said.
Nathalie stood and gave him ballast. Ryan got to his feet, and stared down the alley where the man had gone. He’d disappeared around the corner onto the next street, but Ryan knew he had no chance of catching him.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Nathalie asked.
“It hurts a little,” he admitted. “But I’ll be all right. Let’s just get home.”
“Who was he?” Nathalie asked.
“I have no idea,” he said, but that wasn’t entirely true. He was starting to form one.
They followed in the footsteps of the man in the blue jacket, even turning right at the end of the alley as he had done, but saw no sign of him. Ryan had expected as much. They continued for another block, then stopped at a bus stop and settled onto the bench. Ryan took out his phone and ordered an AutoUber. Once he entered their location, their destination, and confirmed the purchase, his screen flashed, “ETA 3:19” and immediately began counting down.
He turned to Nathalie, taking her hand. He briefly debated whether or not to share his thoughts with her, but he quickly decided that it was the right thing to do. Not only was she his partner, but she was in this, too.
“Am I just paranoid?” she asked him, before he could speak.
“No.”
“I worry that I am. That this man was just some poor soul out for a walk, and my paranoia caused...all of this.”
“No,” he repeated.
“Did you see how surprised he looked when he saw us in the alley?”
“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t following us,” he said. “Just that he was surprised to see us when he did.”
She bit her lip. “What do you think?”
“I think he was an agent of some kind.”
Relief flooded her expression. “Why?”
“A couple of reasons. For one, he blended pretty well, and would have been even more anonymous in a crowd. That blue jacket was the most interesting thing about him. He was forgettable.”
“He couldn’t be that forgettable,” she said. “I recognized him from outside of the offices of The Archway.”
“True,” he admitted. “But you said you’ve felt like you’ve been being followed for weeks, right?”
“Yes, ever since the concert.”
“Then it isn’t too outlandish to assume this guy has been part of that effort the entire time. Maybe you recognizing him was a cumulative thing.”
“Meaning that I saw him so many times that I finally recognized him?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
She thought about it, then shrugged. “It could be. But I’d like to be certain it wasn’t simply some coincidence. It would have been nice if he’d dropped a wallet with government identification in it or something like that.”
“This wasn’t a coincidence,” Ryan said.
“How can you be sure?”
“There’s something else, too,” he told her. “His fighting. He had training.”
“Did he? I couldn’t tell.”
“I could. Believe me.”
She took a deep, shaky breath and let it out. “I’ll take your word. But to me, it all looked so...brutal. So fast.”
He smiled, in spite of everything. “Real fights are like that. Fast, brutal, and ugly.” He squeezed her hand. “Thanks for coming to my rescue, by the way.”
“Rescue?” she snorted. “All I did was break my foot on his shoulder.”
“It was brave of you to join the fight.”
“He was hitting you.”
Ryan grinned ruefully. “So he was.”
She reached out and touched him softly on the face. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry for what other people do.”
“No, I brought this on us, amour. I—”
A blue Prius glided to the curb in front of them.
“Ride for Derrick, Ryan,” a digital voice intoned.
“Confirmed,” Ryan said. He held his phone to the small camera on the door frame. The AutoUber camera scanned the screen and dinged brightly. The door locks clicked open and the passenger door disengaged and opened a few inches.
Ryan held the door for Nathalie, then eased himself into the back seat next to her. When he closed the door, the same digital voice advised them both to secure their seat belts. They clicked the belts into place, and a moment later, the automated car began navigating slowly through downtown, and then toward their home.
Nathalie held his hand. “Thank you for believing me.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I love you, Ryan.”
“I love you, too.”
He glanced at surrounding traffic, especially any that followed them, but he couldn’t spot a tail. He wondered if the agent had been working alone, but doubted it. Why hadn’t his partners joined in once they were fighting? Or did it all happen too fast? Ryan wasn’t sure.
Once they were home and had paid the babysitter, he locked the door behind her. Then he systemically walked through the entire house, checking every door and window. All were locked.
He returned to the kitchen, where Nathalie had opened a bottle of wine. She poured and they raised their glasses silently before drinking. Ryan kissed her, and when she kissed him back, he sensed the hunger there, the relief, the fear, the love, all of it.
He returned the kiss with the same urgency, and it seemed to go on for a very long time. When she finally broke away, her cheeks were flushed. She picked up the bottle and walked past him to the living room. He watched her go, admiring her shape and the shine of her deep black hair. He grabbed some ibuprofen from the cupboard, then followed her, and sat next to her on the couch.
Ryan took the ibuprofen with a swallow of wine. His hips still ached, and were the worst of his injuries, despite being punched in the head. His bat
tered forearms felt twice as large as normal, giving him a momentary vision of Popeye the Sailor. When he touched them gingerly, he could feel the lumps there that would become heavy bruises. He inspected the areas on his face that had taken the brunt of the man’s punches, but didn’t find anything surprising.
Next to him, Nathalie said nothing. They drank in silence for a few minutes, letting the intensity of the evening’s events ebb away. After the first glass of wine was gone, he refilled both. Nathalie held hers in her hands, but didn’t drink right away.
“I have to tell you something,” she said quietly.
“Something else?” he asked, and took another drink. The combination of the wine and the ibuprofen seemed to be starting to gnaw away at his pain.
“Something more,” she said. “I know why these men are following me. At least, I think I do.”
“Because you’re a journalist,” Ryan said. “You wrote critical pieces when you were at the Dispatch and still do at the Archway. They’re using the Internal Security Act to —”
“It’s more than that,” she said.
He gave her a confused look. “Then what?”
“I don’t just write for the Archway. I...I freelance, as well.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t known that. “For who?”
“I’m part of a network of journalists who report uncensored news,” she said. “We broadcast about events that the mainstream media either ignores or reports in a whitewashed fashion.”
Ryan shook his head in disbelief. “How long have you been doing this?” he asked.
“I started near the end of my time at the Dispatch. Once my articles were being heavily edited, I knew I had to do something.”
“That long?” He couldn’t keep the hurt out of his voice. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“It was for your own safety,” she said.
“So what you’re doing is dangerous, then?”
“Of course it is. Anything anti-federal these days is dangerous. You know this. But we are careful. It’s all very secretive. I don’t even know everyone who is part of the group. Our identities are cloaked, and everyone broadcasts under the same byline. We are all Veritas.”
