by Joe Nobody
Before Griffin could reply, the phone on Sal’s desk rang. “Later, dude, and thanks,” the marshal nodded, slapping the geek on the back before turning to make his exit.
All the way back to his apartment, Griffin couldn’t help but feel like someone was watching him. Relentlessly checking the rearview mirror didn’t ease his mind or chase away the demon.
“It’s not a physical person,” he whispered to the empty car, trying to shake the tail. “I feel like every move I make is being watched by Big Brother or some nefarious, electric brain. How in the world do you beat that with handcuffs and a warrant?”
The flight to San Francisco was a lot longer than the actual air time. Given El Paso’s regional status, Griffin and Kit had to stop in Las Vegas along the way. It was a law of nature that the connecting flight was delayed.
They arrived late afternoon in the City by the Bay, Kit taking the window seat because Griffin dreaded the approach over water to the runway. They achieved wheels-down without incident, with the minor exception of Griffin having to swallow two antacid wafers.
By the time they negotiated the rental car line and rode the short bus to the lot, both of them were starved. “I worked on the West Coast for a while after joining the service. I know a nice, little Italian place down in Woodside. We can jump off 280 and catch a bite before heading into San Jose.”
“Italian sounds yummy,” the prosecutor conceded. “I could eat an entire plate of pasta about now.”
The weather was typical California – warm, cloudless sunshine with little humidity. With Griffin driving, Kit spent most of their ride sightseeing through the passenger window, taking in the hills and unique vegetation along the interstate.
They arrived at Mama Kin’s, a smallish joint obviously favored by the locals. “I know this is good,” Griffin promised. “When I was chasing down a couple of New York City mobsters who had relocated to the West Coast, I caught up with them having dinner here.”
Glancing around, Kit sarcastically commented, “They must have fixed the bullet holes.”
Chuckling at her snide insinuation, Griffin replied, “Actually, these two no-necks invited me to sit and eat with them before I handcuffed them. They ordered me a great dish, Tortino di Riso alla valdostana, I think it was called.”
Kit’s hand flew to her mouth as she struggled to keep from laughing.
“What?” Griffin quipped, “is my Italian that bad?”
“No,” she snickered, still struggling to keep control. “I think they ordered you rice cakes and ox tongue,” she explained.
“Why those sons of bitches… well, regardless, it was delicious,” he shrugged.
“You should let me order tonight.”
“No problem,” he laughed as the waiter showed them to their table.
“After we chow, I want to drive by the address for Cyber Ace. I’m afraid that our little diversionary tactic of flying into San Fran might not work. Given what we’ve encountered so far, it wouldn’t shock me if these guys had already packed up and moved out in the middle of the night,” Kit stated.
“Sounds good to me,” Griffin replied, opening the menu. “Now, about what you’re going to order for me.”
An hour later, they pushed back from the table. “I feel like a new man,” Griffin grinned. “That was delicious.”
The address for the software company was on Lincoln Street. Initially, Griffin asked Kit to pull up some navigation software on her cell, but quickly rescinded the request. “No sense telegraphing where we’re going, just in case someone is really watching every move we make electronically.”
“Do you want some tin foil?” she asked. Then with a chuckle she added, “For your head?”
“I’m actually not far from going there,” he laughed.
Griffin noticed a couple of local cops heading back to their cruisers from a coffee shop. Turning in quickly, he pulled up beside the two officers and flashed his badge. “Hey guys, I’m trying to find Lincoln. Can you help a poor, lost fed out?”
Soon, Kit was again fixated on the passenger window, peering at the wide assortment of gift shops, eateries, and specialty stores as they cruised down the upscale street. “Seems like an odd place for a software company,” she commented.
“Welcome to Silicon Valley,” Griffin grinned. “Watch your step, ma’am. Computer companies sprout randomly out of the ground in these parts.”
The retail district quickly passed, the duo entering an area where small office buildings and warehouses lined both sides of the road. “There it is!” Kit announced as they passed by a two-story structure.
Griffin continued, flipping around the block and driving slower on the second pass. A quick turn of the wheel, and they pulled into the parking lot.
It was well after 5 p.m., the sun barely above the low mountain range to the west. Kit noted only two cars remaining in the lot and observed, “Looks like somebody is burning the midnight oil.”
Two men appeared just then, both carrying computer bags on their shoulders. One was of middle Asian descent, the other an older Caucasian. They seemed to be arguing over something and paused by the exit to finish their discussion. Griffin reached for the door handle. “Let’s have a chat with those guys before they leave.”
Kit’s arm shot across the console. “Wait,” she urged. “Let’s think about this. Let’s be smart this time.”
He waited but clearly didn’t like it. “Am I about to get the bull in a china shop speech? Do I get to see your… err… assets again, like outside the biker’s nest?”
“No, not at all. But… if these guys are engineers or managers at the software company, they’re not likely to be as intimidated by a federal marshal as the criminals you typically deal with. I think we should take our time and think this through. We might want to approach them differently. That’s all I’m saying.”
“But I can be very intimidating,” he replied.
“Of that, I have zero doubt, Griffin,” she smiled. “However, these guys aren’t Diablos, undocumented immigrants, or any of the felonious scum we normally interact with. They probably have their lawyers on speed dial. They’re geeks, well-educated and smart.”
“Okay,” he shrugged, thinking back to Indianapolis. “It’s not like my methods have borne a lot of fruit as of late. What do you have in mind?”
“Ever since we started this thing, we’ve been one step behind and constantly been on the defensive. We need to swap the roles here. If any of these Cyber Ace people have even a clue about what’s going on, we are going to need to distract them, create a diversion while we investigate. Two can play at this game. I want to fight technical fire with technical fire.”
“I’m listening,” Griffin exhaled. “I’m hearing a great ‘Rah! Rah!’ speech, but so far you’re a little short on details.”
“Write down their license plate numbers and a description of the vehicles. Then we’ll go check into the hotel and bring the full power of the US government’s investigating resources to bear. I want to know who they are, where they live, how much they pay in taxes, and what they like to eat for dinner.”
Obviously astonished at the suggestion, Griffin couldn’t help but hoot with laughter. “You’re going to Google them?”
His guffaw broke the slight tension between them. “Yes, that, and a whole lot more,” she grinned, snapping a photograph of each man on her cell phone.
Doing as she asked, Griffin wrote down both men’s license plates. Kit made a phone call to her office as they drove. “I need a full workup of these two plate numbers as well as the drivers the vehicles are registered to.”
They continued into downtown San Jose, checking into a nice, mid-priced hotel. Griffin was secretly glad Kit’s room was next to his, worried that foul play might again cross their paths.
“I’m going to take a shower, change into my jammies, and do a full workup on our two new friends,” she announced at the door. “I’ll see you at 8 a.m.”
/> “Night,” he replied, stalling with his key until he heard her door’s deadbolt slide locked into the frame.
After four hours of sleep and his morning ritual, Sebastian immediately went to work. One of his analysts had identified a prime opportunity to generate additional bedlam in the Lone Star State, having discovered a new monument to the infamous law enforcement unit known as the Texas Rangers.
Despite its home in the tiny town of Fredericksburg, Sebastian sensed a possibility for additional social unrest.
The Rangers were highly regarded by traditional, conservative Texans. The lore and legend of the organization had spawned movies, television shows, and countless novels.
There was also a historical dark side to the rugged men who wore the wheel and star badge, especially to those of Mexican or Native American descent.
During the 1800s, the Texas frontier wasn’t a peaceable place. Hostile tribes naturally opposed invasion of their lands by white men. Localized wars regarding the often-unchecked westward expansion broke out with amazing frequency. And raids from south of the Rio Grande called for tough, hardnosed lawmen. The rangers did the job, but not without a handful of incidents that could easily be described as atrocities. As one historian put it, “The rangers have a lot of innocent Mexican blood on their boots.”
The same might be said by the local Native American tribes. During the dozens of skirmishes and battles, several villages were destroyed, women and children collateral damage of the clashes.
Sebastian had been surprised at how simple it was to gin up resentment against the hundreds of Confederate Civil War monuments that existed around the United States. With only a few inciteful emails and blog posts, he and his team had managed several deaths, hundreds of injuries, and untold property damage in the southern states.
Merely by creating a few fake accounts, hacking some historical postings to establish credibility, and using extreme language, he had convinced both sides of the debate that the other was going to resort to violence at the next protest or rally. Child’s play.
What the Komitet henchman hadn’t anticipated, however, was the snowball’s momentum. Within days, the founding fathers of Washington and Jefferson were under attack. Politicians from Maine to California soon demanded that anyone who ever directly or indirectly had any connection to slavery be abolished from the public eye and erased from history. Even US paper currency was under attack for the images of past presidents and statesmen who owned slaves.
Cities like New Orleans, that were on the edge of bankruptcy, found themselves spending hundreds of thousands of dollars removing statues. Charlottesville, Miami, Mobile, and others were soon spending money they didn’t have on police overtime, riot gear, and additional manpower hired from outside communities. All this while, the clear majority of Americans didn’t agree with whitewashing their nation’s history.
Sebastian found the irony enlightening. Christian pastors, men who had preached for the forgiveness of sin most of their adult lives, were suddenly unwilling to do so when it came to the likes of General Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and their ilk. No matter how much good a man might have done in his lifetime, the ownership of slaves deserved zero clemency. Thomas Jefferson was suddenly transformed from a brilliant, forward-thinking genius of freedom and individual rights to the devil’s own minion.
“Will the Jews demand that the pyramids be destroyed?” Sebastian chuckled. “Their captive ancestors built them. Or, what about the Germanic tribes who were enslaved by the Holy Roman Church? They built dozens of Cathedrals in Europe. Those should all be torn down as well. Might as well take apart half of Mexico City, the Great Wall of China, and all of the Aztec and Mayan ruins while we’re at it.”
Now, he saw another opportunity – creating tension between the Texas Rangers and the growing Hispanic population in the Lone Star State. “Shouldn’t Mexican-Americans be outraged at a new monument being constructed in honor of the men who had slaughtered their ancestors?”
He began by asking Gravity Well about the most popular Latino political websites. He found three bloggers, a political organization, and one online community.
Next, he created a series of profiles, just as if he were signing up to become a new member, follower, or guest.
Within minutes, Sebastian had transformed into six different people, all with Hispanic surnames. Four were men; two were women.
It took the help of one of his staff and another hour’s time, before those six aliases commanded histories. This involved little more than creating a few posts and comments with older dates. Not everyone online was an idiot. Better to establish each identity as a rational person with several neutral and low-key posts. He realized that if his clones started spouting radical rhetoric without any prior interaction, they might be immediately suspended and were far less likely to be taken seriously.
Finally, Sebastian was ready to begin stirring the Hispanic pot.
His first post questioned why a monument was being built to honor the rangers when her great-great grandmother had been killed by the bloodthirsty thugs just over a century ago. What was she supposed to tell her children? Why was this happening?
Next, a young man in Houston posted his outrage that the Lone Star State could do such a thing. Why were his white neighbors and tax dollars supporting such a slap in his face?
Sebastian and his staff gradually built a façade of resistance to the statue’s placement. A half hour into their farce, they had been joined by four flesh and bone Americans. After two hours, that number had grown to over 100 individuals who were upset with the stupid gringos and their worship of such a cutthroat bunch of criminals with badges. “It reminds me of the San Antonio PD,” one poster wrote. “They are all held up publicly as such heroes, yet they gun us down in the streets like we are rabid animals. Nothing has changed in Texas.”
In addition to the fake online postings, Sebastian courted the news media. One of his accounts emailed a popular Austin newscaster who had a history of advocating for Latino causes. Probing questions were also sent to several political organizations.
Finally, in an internet instant, a barrage of emails streamed to the inboxes of elected state representatives. The message was sprinkled here and there with inquiries from imaginary journalists claiming to work for the New York Times and a few cable news outlets. “What is your position on this insult to your Hispanic constituents?” the fake reporters demanded.
In addition to every state senator and representative being contacted, the Komitet’s men had blasted out hundreds of emails to student groups, the ACLU, and every mayor, councilman, and county judge in the Lone Star State. It seemed that everyone on the government payroll… except the local dogcatcher… had been put on notice.
All in all, the entire operation had taken less than six hours.
Working on a project based in Texas, Sebastian was reminded of his two wayward, federal employees, the marshal and prosecutor having somehow escaped long-term custody in Indiana.
Now, he located the duo in California, having flown into San Francisco. They had dined on Italian and were sleeping in a chain hotel. “Probably on some sort of official business,” he decided.
To be safe, he pulled up their personal and government email accounts. Nothing new there. Marshal Storm had received a new, government-issued sedan, which Sebastian promptly placed under a watch using the car’s GPS sensor, but the government had not yet issued him another electronic phone leash. No more impromptu expeditions showed up. Ms. Carson’s automobile had been on alert status since the beginning of their meddling as had her mobile device, but the data on those devices proved uninteresting at best.
Other than a few moments of concern regarding some of the Komitet’s members living on the West Coast, Sebastian dismissed the couple’s travels as unimportant.
What did catch his attention, however, were the protests in El Paso. “Bo’s work keeps paying dividends,” he whispered, reading a news article and then
pulling up a series of police reports from the internal department database. “Law enforcement is getting short-tempered, I see,” he continued, scanning the status reports and comments from the duty sergeants.
“Let me add a little fuel to their fire,” he ventured, pulling up the records for the officer killed during Bo’s incitement.
He found the widow’s home phone number easily, despite the now-deceased policeman following procedure and keeping his residence unlisted. It was also quite simple to identify the grieving woman’s personal email.
After a quick contemplation, Sebastian frowned and then changed his mind. Less than a minute later, his smile illuminated the room. “… A much better idea,” he cooed, fingers flying over the keyboard.
Punching the last command button, Sebastian beamed over his successful afternoon. He reached and picked up the plastic keyboard. Hefting the device, he smirked, “Who would have thought you were a trillion times more powerful than any rifle I’ve ever held?”
The officer stationed outside Mr. McCann’s hospital room thought the first shift nurse was a cold, but bewitchingly beautiful bitch. She obviously didn’t like cops much, somehow managing a grimace every time she passed by. She never even acknowledged the protection detail, seeming to be incessantly miffed by the intruders on her turf.
The 3 to 11 nurse was the polar opposite. Enamored by men in uniform, she constantly sashayed past the guards, regularly offering coffee or some other goodie from the employee break room. They had met groupies like her, women whose hobbies included monitoring police scanners… who hung out in bars frequented by the boys in blue… who were reputed to swoon at men in uniform… and were commonly referred to as “holster huggers.” She had entered the patient’s room a thousand times during her shift, taking his temperature, recording his blood pressure, fluffing his pillows. Gil couldn’t decide which extreme was worse.
