by Joe Nobody
“I’m going to the club for lunch. Please have my car brought around,” he replied.
“Yes, sir.”
It would take the Fuse some number of hours to follow the instructions contained in his email. In the meantime, he would enjoy a proper meal and ponder the next steps.
It felt like someone was pinching his neck with a pair of pliers. When he tried to move away, the pain worsened.
Sitting upright with a start, Bo tried to blink away the sleep and reorient his foggy brain. Rubbing the kink from his neck came first. Clinching his fists into tight balls, he rubbed his eyes until his vision cleared.
Another moment of confusion passed before the rest stop came into clear view. A second later, he knew exactly where he was.
He’d pulled off Interstate 70 three hours ago, barely able to keep his eyes open while driving. He was someplace west of Kansas City.
“Sleeping in the van isn’t a clever idea,” he grumbled, reaching for the half-full bottle of tepid water in the nearby cup holder while moving his head in tight, small circles. “So much for the life of an outlaw.”
Bo knew from experience that it took his employers a few days to work their computer magic and erase any trace of his existence. The few times that he had experienced a brush with the law, they had always come through. In the meantime, his instructions were perfectly clear. “Lay low. Don’t leave any electronic trail. Don’t use credit cards. Don’t switch on your cell phone. Use only public, non-secured internet connections. Don’t do anything that will attract attention for at least three days.”
Following those orders always proved more difficult than he expected.
In the modern age, paying for everything with cash could be problematic. Living without using his ID was next to impossible. He couldn’t rent a hotel, even with a wad of Franklins. Leasing a car was out of the question. Even the prepaid debit cards available in big box stores were difficult to procure without his being videotaped at the cash register. Buying gas required running inside to pre-pay before pumping, a step which again put his face directly on camera.
In fact, these days it was impossible to move without being monitored by one technology or another. Police regularly used license plate scanners. Toll roads tracked plates as well. Every business of any size invested in security cameras.
The goal was to leave as few breadcrumbs as possible for the authorities to follow. Scattered far enough between, it would take a miracle to track him, especially with the digital angels he had riding on his shoulder.
After a restroom break and a series of stretches, Bo decided to fire up his laptop. Using the mobile hotspot from his no-contract phone, it would be nearly impossible for anyone to trace.
His employer typically contacted him in the wee hours, and given his arrest in Indy, Bo anticipated some sort of message. While he had accomplished his basic mission in Indiana, any involvement with the law was considered a negative. He fully expected to be chastised and knew there was a good chance he would be fired.
Even after the exhausting exodus from Indiana, the images wouldn’t leave his head. Red’s car, ramming into a wall of human flesh, was a memory that would haunt him forever.
Sure, there had been violence in the past, but never so directly related to his actions. The radio reports had claimed three were dead in Indianapolis. The death count was expected to rise, a dozen more severely injured.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered if his employers might give him up to the authorities. The possibility had crossed his mind more than once. Facing multiple first-degree murder charges, Red would be screaming about the man in the President Turner shirt to anyone with ears. There was a good chance the cops that had arrested Bo would put two and two together.
The thought of being unemployed, again, prompted an icy shiver down his spine. The thought of going to prison for the rest of his life made Bo’s stomach heave. How in the hell had he ended up living like this?
“No good deed goes unpunished,” he whispered.
Four years after arriving at Berkley, he graduated in the middle of his class with an unremarkable grade point average, no published papers, and over $220,000 in student loan debt.
In exchange for his time and money, Bo received a huge dose of left-leaning political attitude and no marketable skills. He couldn’t program a computer, didn’t know a damn thing about chemistry or physics, and was completely unqualified for any viable profession.
“A bachelor’s in your chosen academic pursuit isn’t going to cut it,” the school’s counselor explained. “You need a graduate degree at minimum, preferably a doctorate, before opportunity comes knocking at your door.”
Over a year later, with another $50,000 in debt, Bo was awarded a master’s degree. The academic advisor’s prediction regarding opportunity had been on point, an offer from the city of San Francisco’s Social Welfare Department arriving a few days after he retired his cap and gown.
San Francisco boasted one of the nation’s highest cost-of-living indexes, and Bo’s new job paid only $30,000 per year. His take-home check wouldn’t even cover his monthly student loan payment, let alone housing and food.
After he missed his third loan payment, the government’s collection efforts turned vicious. Not only was Bo the target of harassing phone calls, but his tiny, run-down apartment’s mailbox was also constantly overflowing with nasty letters.
Bo tried to find other work, his resume on every job board in the country. There was no interest, which frustrated him to no end. With all the social issues dominating the headlines, why wasn’t anyone interested in a man who had received the best training available on how to deal with such problems?
As time passed, he also began to sour on his chosen career, jaded by his work experience.
The people who limped into Bo’s office were on the down and out. Drugs, domestic abuse, alcohol, and gang affiliations were the most common demons haunting the society’s unfortunate. Many had criminal records; all were in some stage of desperation. The graduate wasn’t exactly surrounded by la crème de la crème of society anymore.
At first, he was consumed by a sincere, heartfelt effort to change the world… help his clients get their lives back in order. In fact, the progressive city offered so many generous programs, he often found himself delivering benefits that far outstripped his own standard of living. He quickly lost count of how many people he moved into subsidized housing that was much nicer than his own dank and moldy apartment. The food stamp program allowed for a significantly higher quality of diet than he could afford. Free public transportation vouchers were passed out like candy.
Still, he continued, hoping that his dedication and hard work would allow for a promotion and that the experience he gained would create even more lucrative opportunities in the private sector.
Over and again, Bo walked back clients from the edge, only to see them duplicate their self-destructive behavior. He watched helplessly as massive sums of public funds were invested in individuals who then repeated the same, life-destroying mistakes. He and his coworkers recognized them as “frequent flyers,” yet denying services to even the most prolific repeat offenders was against the rules.
All the while, the Treasury Department continued to increase their ruthless collections efforts. After a year, they started docking his wages, which lowered his already miserable standard of living even more. Interest and penalties continued to mount, and despite 15% of his paycheck garnered for the loan, his balance continued to increase.
“Go back to Berkley,” a friend recommended. “Get your PhD and get out of here. You don’t have to repay student loans while you’re enrolled.”
Sure enough, the enrollment counselor confirmed that fact. Not only could he skip the payments while attending a post-graduate program, but he could also actually borrow more money despite his abysmal credit report.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he quipped, signing up for his first semester of classes.
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That summer at the Bay Area campus was one of unrest. Bo, mad at the world and feeling cheated in life, began to grow interested in more and more fringe causes. Gay rights, the burgeoning anti-fascist movement, and the simmering discontent with corporate America all drew his attention.
He attended protests, marches, and meetings, his boiling frustration and pent-up rage allowing him to relate to those around him. He had done everything right, passed his courses, worked hard, and played by the rules. Yet, happiness, success, and a “reasonable” lifestyle were denied to him. It was a recipe for converting any young man to extremism.
Now, he was involved in a mass killing. He’d never thought things would go this far. He pined for the images of death to vacate his mind; he longed for a restful night’s sleep. He wished he was back at Berkley.
Bo’s laptop booted just fine, his cell phone showing four bars despite the rest stop’s remote location. In less than a minute, he was checking his messages.
Email was strictly out of the question when it came to clandestine communications. Federal law enforcement, military intelligence, and government spying agencies monitored emails servers like a mother mallard watched her brood of ducklings.
Message boards were far safer because they didn’t require as much scrutiny to create an account, there were far more types of formats, and they were very unstructured. An encrypted email would draw attention; however, an encrypted post on a message board would be difficult to detect and much harder to chase down.
Bo wasn’t surprised to see a message from Grey Eyes. It was the content that shocked him.
The text of the Grey Eyes post looked harmless on the surface, an investment opportunity that a broker was trying to pitch. When Bo copied the words into a special program, an entirely hidden meaning was displayed. “Acquire an untraceable cell phone earliest.”
Grey Eyes also provided a number to call, followed by, “Critical. Quickly. I will be waiting.”
Writing down the number on a scratch piece of paper, Bo then deleted the post and shut down the computer and hotspot. He had been online less than 45 seconds.
He took a deep breath, scanning the toilet facilities and other vehicles in the parking lot, trying to slow his heart. Grey Eyes had never requested contact before. Bo had never spoken to the man. This development couldn’t mean he had been earmarked for the fast track to success.
He started the minivan, passing by the trash cans and picnic tables as he exited the rest stop. His focus was now on finding someplace to purchase a temporary cell phone. Using the unit beside him in the seat was out of the question. He needed a big box store or a well-stocked truck stop. Breakfast would have to wait. Besides, his stomach was now doing backflips. He wouldn’t be able to eat anyway.
It was 18 miles before he spotted an exit with enough lights and signs to potentially meet his needs. Ten minutes later, with his hoodie pulled forward and a pair of sunglasses hiding his eyes, he walked into a 24-hour discount store.
Heading straight for the electronics department, he was soon browsing a wide selection of “no contract” cell phones. He looked for certain keywords on the packaging, phrases that indicated easy activation, instant setup, and international calling.
His final selection was one of the lower cost models, but that was just fine. He didn’t need data service or a lot of minutes. Something told Bo that Mr. Grey Eyes wasn’t a man of many words.
During his entire visit, Bo made a deliberate effort to stare down at the concrete floor. He was a fugitive now and needed to minimize his digital footprint. Concealing his face from the store’s multitude of security cameras might give him the retail anonymity that he needed more than ever. He called the stance his “Welfare Walk,” because it reminded him of the people back in San Francisco who always head their head down due to issues with esteem, self-image, or clinical depression.
He paid cash, barely managing to glance up at the bored cashier. “I’m sad, depressed, and worthless,” Bo kept whispering to himself as he stood in line. And you certainly cannot afford to break character at the checkout, he thought to himself. There were more lenses focused here than at any other area of the store.
He pulled back onto the interstate and drove for 20 minutes before exiting again. Finding an open gas station, Bo parked alongside the building and began the process of activating the device. Most cell towers had a 15-mile range. He didn’t want to boot the phone in the same spot where it was purchased.
It had been just over an hour after since he’d read Grey Eye’s message when Bo heard the odd ringtone whirring through the tiny speaker. “International,” he guessed, despite the number being a New Jersey area code. As the second ring buzzed his ear, he became curious about the voice he would hear for the first time.
“Who is this?” answered a male with a slight accent.
“Neven Sagas Terret,” Bo responded.
“Mr. Terret, thank you for calling. I apologize for this breach in protocol, but it is essential. Your actions have attracted unwanted attention, and I want to make sure that you understand exactly what is expected of you as a result.”
“I’m sorry about that last incident,” Bo stated. “It was unavoidable.”
There was a pause before Grey Eyes continued, “Oh, no, I’m not speaking about that incident. We understand that collateral damage is a natural occurrence. No, what I’m referring to is the service you performed before that in Texas. Serious ramifications have developed, and we are going to require that you go to ground… so to speak.”
He is talking about El Paso, Bo realized. “But sir, there weren’t any issues with the previous gig. That went off without a hitch… didn’t it?”
Despite multiple conversions from digital to analog and thousands of miles of separation, Bo heard pure ice slip through his phone. “Do you think I would risk this method of communication if things had come off without a hitch?”
“No, sir.”
“Now listen carefully, young man. I’m only going to say this one time. You have attracted the intense scrutiny of federal authorities. We can only run so much interference on your behalf without placing our core operations in jeopardy. If you do not follow my instructions diligently, there will be dire consequences. You are to proceed to Seattle, Washington. Once there you will call this number….”
Bo began scratching down the details, which included a phone number and the name of a contact.
“You are to remain hidden, out of sight, and are to contact no one until you hear from us. That means friends, family… male or female significant others. Do you understand these instructions as I have relayed them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good day, then,” Grey Eyes responded just before disconnecting the call.
Sebastian cast a scowl at the disposable mobile and shook his head in disgust. “Americans. They’re all the same.”
Upon clearing his throat, his driver made eye contact via the rear-view mirror. “Pull over at the next garbage receptacle you spot, George. We need to dispose of this device.”
“Yes, sir,” the muscular man in the front seat acknowledged.
Less than a block later, George pointed at a green and white trash can on the corner, the sides of the sparkling clean container advertising a local cell phone provider. “How prophetic,” Sebastian whispered.
As instructed, George pulled to the curb and then reached back for the offending mobile.
Casually stepping outside and looking around to make sure no one was paying attention, the driver pretended to drop the device, and then slowly, but forcefully crushed it under the heel of his shoe. Three more times his powerful leg screwed back and forth, grinding the electronic components into silicon dust and scraps of plastic. A moment later, all but the smallest pieces were disposed of in the garbage bin.
As they pulled away, Sebastian complimented his driver. “A competent job, as usual, George. Thank you.”
The only acknowledgme
nt from the front seat was a slight nod, which was exactly what Sebastian expected.
Now alone with his thoughts as they drove, Grome’s mind reverted to his problem in America.
The well-known adage that “information is power,” flooded his thoughts. Long ago, he had modified that proverbial wisdom, firmly believing that information is now a weapon.
As he watched the pedestrians plying Santa Domingo’s streets, Sebastian knew that even the brightest, wealthiest of them had no concept of how invincible any entity armed with big data could become. Gravity Well had demonstrated that. The men who formed the Komitet were proof beyond question.
Government computers and networks, no matter how secret, ran on the software and hardware created and provided by his masters. All data, regardless of firewalls or intricate encryption, was gathered and stored on devices manufactured by the members of the Komitet.
How naïve had the world’s rulers been? Didn’t they realize that programmers and engineers always left backdoors in every piece of software, firmware, and the BIOS that ran the world’s computers?
Even the vaunted American and Russian intelligence services used operating systems that had been written by men who knew the value of big data. Warehouses full of servers and disk drives might be well protected from outside hackers, but nothing could shield them from internal, factory-installed access. The Komitet didn’t have to capture every phone call or email – the NSA would do it for them. Sebastian’s bosses didn’t have to monitor international banking records, Interpol and MI6 handled that mundane task and then stored the information, providing a feast for those who had access.
Sebastian had been able to monitor the El Paso investigation’s progress with ease. As officers traveled around the city performing everyday duties, the Komitet puppet master could simply track cops’ cell phones. Emails, case files, records, and even their payroll records were his at the touch of a button. The same could be said for any agency, department, or individual in the world. Hell, he could turn on any mobile’s microphone and monitor private conversations at will, just like he had eavesdropped on Ms. Carson and Marshal Storm’s conversation.
