The Digital Dream

by Mike Cartlidge

  FROM: Wizard

  TO: All.group.green.chile

  Mutent monsters are growing in the jungle in Chile. The vengence of the Lord will not be denied. The devil-worshipers must be stopped NOW. Send cash to following address.

  ***

  Rehearsals drag and I know my mind’s not on old Will. Missed cues and fluffed lines. Mutters from the other actors. It’s a relief when members of the cast start drifting off to the pub and I find a chance to get Jackie Paris alone, in the shadows to one side of the local union hall that serves as a makeshift theater. My favorite reporter stands, tapping her fingers against the side of the stage, impatient to be gone, until I mention the possibility of a news story involving the leak that has caused George Francis’s departure from public life. The finger-tapping ceases and she stares at me in concentration as I outline the events of the previous few days.

  Although incredulous, Jackie agrees to use her contacts to check whether anyone else has reported computer security breaches in the days leading up to the Francis affair. Before we leave, I ask her if she knows anything about a connection between Garner and David Sligo.

  “David Sligo of corporate fame? I haven’t heard of anything,” she says slowly. “And I seem to remember an interview with Sligo when he said that he didn’t think politics and business should mix. More to the point, why would he back a tyro candidate? If he wanted influence, he’d surely be better off pulling strings in the major parties. Of course, that’s almost certainly what he does, anyway.”

  She walks a little way from the stage and kicks an idle foot at a chair. “On the other hand, it stands to reason that Garner probably has some wealthy backers. He wouldn’t have got his campaign organization up and going so quickly otherwise. I mean, six months ago, hardly anyone had even heard of him. He came out of obscurity and I haven’t seen him on any lists of the most wealthy. It’s possible that people like Sligo are bankrolling him. But I can’t see Sligo involved in anything nefarious. He’s supposed to be a near-puritan. Very straight.

  “Actually, I think he’s a pretty sexy guy.” She smiles. “Well, he’s good-looking, quite young and he has this aura of power about him. Lots of women find that sort of thing attractive. There’s no indication that he does anything about it, though. As I said, he makes a big point of being whiter than white and he’s supposedly happily married.”

  At the back of the hall, a door bangs and there’s the scraping sound of bolts being drawn. The noises echo through the empty theater. I peer around, trying to see into the shadows, feeling uneasy. “Why would anyone back Garner, anyway? What would they expect to gain?”

  “That’s hard to say.” Jackie strolls to another of the front-row seats and picks up her coat and purse. “Garner has no practical chance of becoming President. If he’s getting behind-the-scenes backing, it’s probably so that he can act as a spoiler: put into the ring to take out the opponent his backers don’t like.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Let’s say the election was looking like a close race. A third candidate that won support from a certain sector of the population could take votes from one of the contenders and give the other a better chance. It’s been done in other countries.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to think the thing through. “And George Francis. What would they have had to gain from discrediting him?”

  Jackie sniffs. “He was the most popular pick on the opposition ticket—much better liked by many voters than Sherringham. According to the surveys, one of his main qualities was that he inspired trust in the electorate. First rule of marketing, you see. The thing that most motivates consumers to buy a product is security: the feeling that you can trust something, that it won’t let you down. Francis provided a good slice of that for Sherringham’s candidature. Now that he’s gone—and given the nature of his going—I figure they’ll lose some ground.”

  “I keep thinking that we’ve made some silly mistake over the whole exercise,” I say. “Like, tomorrow we’ll discover that it’s all quite innocent and that we’ve just been acting crazy.”

  “‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t’.”

  “Hamlet again. Piece of cake. How about ‘Mad world! Mad kings! Mad composition!’”

  “You’ve been reading up obscure ones on purpose,” complains Jackie. She sighs, suddenly looking tired. She slings the strap of her bag over her shoulder and starts for the door. “Anyway, I think you should carry on with your investigation.”

  She presses at the release bar on the door. It’s stiff and won’t move. Nervously, I move forward and put my weight against it, breathing a sigh of relief as it gives and the door opens onto a chilly, still night. I stand back to let her through. She gives no sign of having seen any anxiety on my face.

  “I don’t know about this sort of thing, though,” Jackie continues. “The attack on Francis and everything. It may make news. It may be the sort of thing that keeps me employed. But I don’t like it.”

  “It’s happened before,” I point out, following her into the night air.

  “It has. God knows it has.” She places a hand on my arm. “Just take it easy, okay? You’re looking kinda jumpy.”

  “I’m okay. Anyway,” I say, as we walk down the road. “It’s King John.”

  “What is?”

  “Mad kings and all that.”

  “Shit! King John? By Shakespeare? Nobody ever reads King John!”

  19

  GreenGarden Message Board. Personal message.

  FROM: Jingo

  TO: All.group.green.chile

  US waste dumping program now in progress. Site under scrutiny but under armed guard. Intimidation of our people occurring. See newsgroup listed below for on-going reports.

  ***

  Friday. I have a series of off-site client meetings. The city’s bending under a near-gale force wind, whistling off the lake through the skyscraper chasms. Every time I get out on the street I get buffeted and slammed, like this breeze is sentient and malevolent, just picking on me to punish. It’s past three in the afternoon before I arrive in the office. I feel like I’ve fought a pitched battle. I stop at the door of the small room that Kathleen’s using, to see whether she’s making any progress. Langan has been making noises about having Kathleen returned to her usual team—which is behind schedule with a multi-million dollar project—and I’ve held him off by telling him that she’s still flat out on the investigation. Now I have to make sure that she’s kept busy: I’m certain that I’m still going to need her technical talents.

  In fact, when I look into the cubicle, Kathleen is clutching a cup of coffee and obviously taking a break, leaning back in her chair with her feet on a small pile of technical manuals. The hem of her blue dress has ridden up her thighs. I have to make a conscious effort not to look at her long, slim legs. So much for maturity. Ross, the callow schoolboy.

  In response to my question about how things are going, she puts the cup down and turns back to the terminal.

  “You might be interested in this.” Her fingers work over the keyboard for a few seconds, then I see a new display appear.

  “This is from a bio on Garner that I found on the Internet,” she explains.

  The screen is headed:

  PERSONAL NOTES. STEPHEN GARNER

  Leaning forward, I read the details. They gives Garner’s marital status, (single, heterosexual), age (forty-one) and a list of his educational qualifications, culminating in a double honors degree in law and history from Yale and a doctorate in law from Oxford. There is information about his childhood—seems he was born in a small town in Oregon but the family moved away when he was little and never settled anywhere for long—and his sporting interests.

  Work history: According to the press computer, he worked in an unnamed legal practice in New Hampshire until he was thirty, when he was recruited by Sligo-McNeil. He was the company’s chief legal representative in Britain for five years and then quit work and returned to the States�
��with the company’s blessing—to write a book. He is credited with four publications, all rather obscure sounding volumes on commercial law and legal precedents.

  I sit down next to the terminal. “I didn’t realize that Garner had worked for Sligo-McNeil.”

  Kathleen smiles cynically. “No, neither did I. It might put a few things into perspective, though, mightn’t it?”

  “I suppose so. What I can’t understand is why nobody’s mentioned it before. Surely some of Mac’s contacts would have known about this?”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Maybe it was because he was abroad all the time that he worked for them. Perhaps nobody Stateside knew him.”

  “Apart from David Sligo, presumably.”

  “Hmmm. Do you remember Mac told us that Sligo had been the company’s general manager in Europe for a while, before his father retired? He would have been in London at the same time that Garner was there.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser. And Garner was at Yale, same as Sligo.”

  “Yeah. And this isn’t all I’ve found. So far I’ve found records on Garner in eight different computers, and I’m sure there’ll be more. It’s amazing how much information there is on one man. I’ve only traced two of his credit cards, for example, and I’ll bet he’s got dozens.”

  “Anything unusual?” I’m not sure whether I hope she’ll say yes or no.

  “I guess not, but I’ll keep looking. By the way, Mac says he has a meeting with David Sligo arranged for later today. He says he was surprised how easy it was. He hardly had to explain anything. Apparently, as soon as he said that it was a security matter, Sligo just about fell over himself. Claims he’s real security conscious.”

  “I hope we’re not getting Mac into something risky.”

  She looks at me, considering. “I’m sure he’ll be all right. Mac can look after himself. And, anyway, I can’t see a man like David Sligo doing anything to him.”

  20

  GreenGarden Message Board. Personal message.

  FROM: Jaon

  TO: All.group.green.chile

  RE: US waste dumping program.

  Summary follows: Brothers & sisters in Chile report toxic waste program proceeding. One Brother killed, more harassed and beat up. Rumors that nuclear residue being exported to third world. Pakistan/India? Attachment contains full environmental report.

  ***

  As Malcolm McAllister is shown into the penthouse office suite, David Sligo welcomes him enthusiastically, pumping his hand and apologizing for the half-hour he has been kept waiting.

  The businessman still retains the boyish good looks that have always made him so attractive to women. Although his hair is graying, it is still dense: he wears it long for a man in his position, with an incongruous fringe across his forehead, almost like an early Beatle. His face seems naturally friendly, with a strong nose and penetrating eyes. His features radiate a convenient combination of frankness and openness. McAllister notices one distinguishing feature. There is a strawberry birthmark by the side of Sligo’s mouth, the discolored skin raised slightly. As the businessman sits down, his hand comes up to his face and his fingers trace the outline of the mark. McAllister guesses that it is a gesture of habit, largely unconscious.

  As he sits in the white leather armchair, McAllister casts a cynical eye around the room, noting in passing the computer terminal that is pulled round to face the office. The screen is blank. Years ago, McAllister’s training sharpened his powers of observation and it is unlike him to miss anything. His concentration, however, switches back to the other man and he does not notice the tiny hooded lens to the top right of the terminal.

  Sligo sits down opposite him, gently pulling up the knees of his elegantly cut trousers to prevent them from bagging. As he makes himself comfortable, McAllister notices, his left hand again strokes against the birthmark as he asks his visitor to explain further his reasons for wanting this meeting.

  McAllister, surprised by the warmth of his welcome, leans forward and starts on the short speech he has prepared. Sligo listens attentively, as do the others who are viewing the meeting through the computer’s video-conferencing link.

  21

  GreenGarden Message Board. Personal message.

  FROM: Noddy/Karachi

  TO: All.group.green.chile

  RE: US waste dumping program.

  More releases follow. Check following Newsgroup.

  ***

  It’s after nine when I get home. There’s a new moon but it’s hard to catch a glimpse of it through the clouds. The night is dark and there’s the smell of rain on the wind. A street-lamp across from the apartment block has developed a nervous twitch. As I draw the Morgan up in front of the automatic garage door the light flares and then goes out, leaving the area in front of the garage in darkness. I press the button on the remote control. The door lifts a few inches, then stops. Surprised, I press the button again and the door closes. Another press and the door rises, two feet this time, before once again stopping. I guess that something’s jamming the mechanism. I get out of the car, the remote in my hand, and close the door again. Another press of the button. This time, as the door rises, I put my hand under it and pull and the door lifts all the way.

  Returning to the car, I quickly drive it into the garage, keeping my eye on the rear-view mirror until the door slides back down. Just as the door closes, I think I see a shadow move out on the street: a cat, I tell himself, unwilling to give way to the disquiet that I have started to feel over the last few days.

  To hell with the elevator. I walk up the deserted stairs. Feeling absurd, I stop several times to listen for footsteps.

  Nothing.

  I hear no sound.

  I feel no sense of relief, either. The silence seems somehow threatening. I reach and open my front door, step into the hall, quickly switch on the lights.

  The empty apartment seems unusually lonely. I feel tired and depressed. I rewind the tape on the answering machine and pour myself a scotch as I listen to my messages.

  “Hi Ross, it’s Mac. Ah shit, I hate these goddamn things. Feel a damn fool talking to a machine. Listen, I spoke to Sligo. It all went fine. I’ll see you Monday morning and tell you what he had to say, unless you want to know sooner. If you do, call me at home but it’ll have to be tomorrow night. I’m away for the day bowling and I’m picking up some of the other guys on the way so I’ll be away early.”

  The machine beeps. The next message is an unsolicited call from a life insurance salesman, asking me to ring a number. I make a point of not writing it down. Another beep, then:

  “Hi, it’s Jackie. I’ve had my people trying to get hold of Stephen Garner like I promised. No joy yet, I’m afraid. It seems he’s campaigning in Texas. They’re checking back with me later. If you’re keen to know progress you can give me a call at my hotel.” She reads out the number, slowly, repeats it and I make a note on the pad next to the phone.

  The last message is from Michelle. She wants to apologize for the row the previous night and can I call her? The machine switches itself off and I sit for a moment, before turning on the television.

  No wonder reporters can’t keep track of Garner: the bastard’s always in a TV studio! I turn the volume up. Garner is again being interviewed over a video link. Presumably the interviewer is in Washington or LA and Garner in a studio in Dallas or Houston or somewhere southern. The politician holds a sheaf of papers—some of which look like computer printout—in his hand. He frowns concernedly. Earnest expression, measured anxiety. The man looks every inch the caring leader. Or a Hollywood film star, hair and teeth in perfect position, straight nose, elegant tan. I grunt—Garner makes me feel rough and awkward by comparison—and try to pay attention to what he’s saying.

  “...the evidence comes directly from the administration’s own files. It gives clear proof that government agencies knowingly collaborated with a South American corporation to mislead conservation groups over the Chilean nuclear waste dumping controv
ersy.”

  I vaguely remember having heard about this issue on and off over the previous few months. The foreign corporation had formed a joint venture with the US government to ship nuclear waste from power stations and weapons programs to a disposal site in South America. The exercise had been severely criticized by environmentalists, who claimed that dumping had taken place with inadequate control in areas previously designated as world wildlife reserves. There have also been rumors about plutonium being spirited away, through the dumping program, to third world countries. The controversy, which has united environmental groups in Europe, South America and the States, has been heated and at times has boiled over into violence. The problem had come to a head during the previous few days, when a twenty-three-year-old American student had apparently been shot to death after an altercation at a protest site.

  The camera switches momentarily back to the interviewer. I recognize her as Anne Parsons, a woman I met once, when I accompanied Jackie to a network awards dinner.

  “… but you say that the US government knew about and even promoted this harassment and violence. Do you have any evidence to support these claims, Mr Garner?”

  “Indeed I do.” His look changes to one of righteous indignation. He picks up a sheet of computer printout in front of the camera, pausing for effect. “We have obtained a copy of a message sent on the government’s private communications system. This electronic memo is addressed to the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs and is from the President himself. It reads, and again I quote: ‘I agree with your view that our domestic difficulties with nuclear disposal make it imperative that the South American deal proceeds. The conservationist element in Chile must be discouraged. I agree and approve your proposals to use strong tactics, including the unlimited use of force, to discourage protest.’”