by John Locke
“You’re hired!” Director Scott shouts.
Mooney says, “Wait. You’d kill innocent, loyal security personnel based on a rumor?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Mooney’s face looks like he tasted shit pie and didn’t care for it.
“I have two quick questions, if you don’t mind,” Annie Lorber says.
I look at her.
She says, “Have you ever heard the name Tara Siegel?”
“Yes.”
“And did she kill my father?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That’s three questions.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said two quick questions. I answered them. Now you’ve asked a third.”
“I’ll ask all the fucking questions I want!”
“Thank you, Miss Lorber.”
“And you will answer them, if—”
She stops herself.
I smile.
“If I want this job?”
11.
ANNIE LORBER’S SMOLDERING eyes and angry expression tell me all I need to know about the support I can expect from her. And the way Emerson’s patting her wrist to calm her down tells me their relationship has progressed beyond the boardroom. So that’s two who’d say yes to killing me, should it come to a vote.
The others are harder to read.
Emerson speaks up.
“Mr. Creed, Annie’s father and mine were murdered years ago. You just informed us Tara Siegel was involved.”
To the committee he says, “Have any of you heard the name Tara Siegel?”
It appears not.
Emerson continues. “Tara was the Donovan Creed of the east coast at one time, meaning she worked for Sensory in that area. It’s easy to piece together what happened. She wanted to take over the program back then, the same way Lou Kelly wanted to take over recently: by killing the top people. My point is this: No one in this room has heard of Tara Siegel, and Annie and I only heard of her very recently. And she’s been dead for years. Killed, apparently, by another of our Sensory operatives.”
I try to maintain a poker face in all business encounters, but that comment nearly raises my eyebrows. Because other than me, only five people in the world are supposed to know who killed Tara Siegel.
And two of them are dead.
“So?” I say.
“And none of us knew who Darwin was until Lou killed him.”
“So?”
“I think this proves we need more transparency in the agency. We’ve got trained killers running around all over the country. We’re responsible for the actions of this agency, but don’t have the slightest idea who’s working for us.”
“That’s the nature of the committee, Emerson,” Sherm says. “If we knew their names, we’d be targets. Our families…would be targets.”
“I’ve heard that all my life. But I don’t understand it.”
Sherm starts to say something, but I wave it off, saying, “Allow me.”
I look at Emerson and say, “Transparency’s a two-way street. If you know that John Smith is working for us, killing terrorists, John Smith will know who you are, and where you live. And if he gets caught and tortured, you can bet he’ll give up your names and addresses. The terrorists would gladly target your families, relatives, and friends. And of course, they’d kill you as well.”
“You have all this information about us,” Annie says. “What keeps you from giving us up to a skilled torturer?”
Sherm says, “You read the report.”
Annie frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Donovan enjoys it.”
“Enjoys what?”
“Being tortured.”
“You’re saying our family’s lives are dependent on this man’s ability to withstand torture?”
“Not just our families,” Sherm says. “The whole country.”
“That’s a bit hyperbolic, don’t you think?” she says.
“Again, Annie, you’ve read the reports. Darwin’s operatives have prevented more than twenty catastrophic events from occurring, any one of which would have crippled our capacity to function normally. And Creed recently killed more than fifty terrorists around the world with the single press of a button.”
“Your point?”
“My point is, this agency works. It has protected our society, our way of life, for many years. I’m sorry about your fathers. I’m sorry about Darwin and Lou Kelly. But Creed’s been with us from the inception. He’s had access to all our personal information for all these years, and no one’s been hurt as a result.”
Mooney bangs his gavel again, seeking attention.
“This is the most ridiculous conversation I’ve ever heard. You’re trusting America’s security to a psychotic killer who enjoys being tortured. And giving him full reign over a team of computer geniuses and psychotic killers whose names we’re not allowed to know.”
Sherm shrugs.
Preston says, “I want it on record I strongly oppose Donovan Creed’s appointment. I consider him unstable, unethical, and a serious threat to society.”
Everyone goes quiet until I ask, “What does that mean?”
“It means you’ve got the job,” Director Scott says.
“I thought I had to be approved unanimously.”
“You were.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
“What about Mr. Mooney? Everything he just said?”
“That’s him covering his ass. Isn’t that right, Preston?”
“I’m done with this,” Mooney says.
“Thanks for your vote, Preston,” I say.
“Don’t speak to me, Creed. You don’t exist in my world.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mooney.”
An hour later I’m sitting at my desk at Sensory Resources, when my cell phone buzzes.
It’s Preston Mooney.
“How’d I do?” he says.
“Perfect. You even had me convinced you’re a toad.”
“You think they bought it?”
“That we’re enemies? Absolutely! They’ll want your blessing before trying to kill me.”
“Which means I can warn you,” he says.
“Unless you’re in on it.”
“Surely you trust me!”
“I trust no one.”
He sighs. “So you say.”
“Give my regards to the President.”
“Will do.”
I hang up and call Callie.
“What’s the good word?” she says.
“I took the job.”
“Shit. Now I’ll never see you.”
“Lucky you,” I say.
She says nothing.
I say, “How’s it going on your end?”
“It’ll be dark soon. I’m good to go.”
I want to tell her how I feel.
“Callie?”
“Yeah?”
I pause. How do I put into words I love her, without having her laugh in my face?
She’s waiting for me to say something.
I chicken out.
“Let me know when you’re done,” I say.
“I always do.”
She pauses.
“Donovan?”
“Yeah?”
She pauses some more. Then says, “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Okay then,” she says, and hangs up.
My security monitor beeps. I glance at it and see the young guard, Tommy Cooper standing outside my office door. I press the audio button.
“You’re early for that drink, son,” I say. “Are you coming to kill me after all?”
“No sir. I’m here to escort you to Geek City.”
12.
YOU CAN’T ENTER my office without my knowledge because every office, every wing of Sensory, operates under the highest possible security conditions. Access to my area requires a retinal scan by either me or Lou Kelly, followed by the entry of a personal k
ey code. Since Lou is no longer with us, there are only three methods of entry. One, if I’m with you. Two, if I’m in my office and click the door open. And three, you can demolish a portion of the two-foot thick concrete and steel-reinforced walls.
Because of my position in the company, and tenure, I’ve gained larger chunks of access over the years. But the two areas I have never been permitted access are Lou’s office and Geek City.
Geek City is the area that houses Lou’s Geek Squad, the world’s foremost group of computer experts and researchers. It took years for Lou to assemble and train this team, and he’s the only person they’ve ever worked for at Sensory. These geeks are so valuable they’re the sole reason I allowed Lou to live after he attempted to kill me.
Why didn’t I just kill Lou and run the team myself?
They’re loyalty is to Lou. Had I killed him, they’d have turned on me. But because I spared Lou’s life, I’m hoping we can find a common ground. I can’t do this job without the geeks.
I’ve never met them. For years I’ve pestered Lou about his geeks, but all I’ve managed to glean in all that time is they are five in number, they haven’t left the confines of Geek City for more than ten years, and they’re eunuchs.
That’s right, eunuchs.
I press the button on my desk that unlocks my office door. Cooper enters.
“Ready, sir?”
“Have a seat, Tommy,” I say.
He looks around. “Where, sir?”
There are no chairs in my office. I don’t meet people here. Callie has seen my office, as has Miranda, my favorite hooker, but both were walk-throughs. I did happen to catch Lou Kelly fucking Sherry Cherry on my desk not long ago, but Lou assured me that was a one-time deal. Had Tommy not looked around for a chair just now, I’d wonder if he’d been in here before.
I stand, grab my laptop, and we start walking.
“Has anyone spoken to the geeks since Lou died?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir.”
“What about the people who bring them food?”
“Their supplies are placed on a conveyor. No one sees the geeks.”
“Have you thought of starving them out?”
“No sir.”
“Seems to me you could stop putting food on the conveyor, force them to come out.”
“Apparently they’ve squirreled away enough canned goods and bottled water to survive for many months. But that’s not the issue, sir,” Tommy says.
“What’s the issue?”
“Until you got the job today, no one was authorized to talk to the geeks, nor did anyone have any interest in doing so.”
“Do you know their names?”
“No, sir.”
“Aren’t you curious about them?”
“Not at all.”
He stops us a moment and says, “May I be frank, sir?”
“Please do.”
“I’m not one to spread rumors. But from what I’ve heard, the less contact I have with them the better.”
“What’s the rumor, son?”
“I’ve heard Geek City’s a leper colony.”
I laugh.
He frowns. “They’re not lepers?”
“I can’t say for sure. But wouldn’t lepers have trouble typing on keyboards?”
“I don’t know.”
“They’re not lepers, son. They’re choirboys.”
“Choirboys, sir?”
“That’s all I’m going to say about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
13.
TOMMY ESCORTS ME to the outer chamber of Geek City, which means the beeper has sounded within their compound. By now they’re staring at us through their monitors.
But nothing happens.
“Hi, guys,” I say. “I’m Donovan Creed.”
No answer.
Then I realize what’s going on.
“Tommy,” I say, “Please leave me here.”
“It could be dangerous.”
“Look at me, son.”
He does.
“I’m Donovan Creed.”
“Yes sir.”
He pauses, then says, “Please program my number in your phone, sir, just to be safe.”
He gives me his number and leaves.
Moments later the door clicks open.
14.
THE FIRST THING you’ll notice upon entering the lobby of Geek City is the noise.
It’s deafening.
Like a thousand live bands playing at the same time. All styles. Some of the songs sound like they’re being played backwards. Others, sideways.
Each song is being played at ear-piercing decibels. When they come together, it’s complete chaos. Agony for the ears. I make a mental note to explore the use of this taped music as a crowd-control weapon.
The lobby is small, with a redwood picnic-style table and two benches on one side, a couch and coffee table on the other. I take a seat at the picnic table for two reasons. One, I may have to jump to my feet quickly, to defend myself, and two, I don’t know these people. The couch could be a germ pit.
I’m alone in the lobby, but I know they’re watching. While I see no cameras, I feel them studying me.
“Can someone please turn down the music?” I shout.
The music mutes.
A moment later a door opens, and three people enter the lobby in lock-step. They include a midget, a dwarf, and what appears to be an elf.
“I’m Curly,” the first one says. “I’ve always preferred Kathleen to your other lady friends, but hey, what do I know? I’m a eunuch, right? It’s your love life to screw up, and my job to chronicle your screw ups. Still, I never understood your fascination with Rachel. You know she plans to kill you, right?”
“I’m Larry,” the second one says. “I’m a fan of Callie. I think you’ve got a window of opportunity there, but it won’t be easy getting her away from Gwen.”
“You must be Moe,” I say to the third.
The three put their hands over their hearts and look down, solemnly.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
“Moe hung himself when Lou died,” the third one says. “You can call me C.H.”
“What does that stand for?”
“It’s the first two letters of my name. I go by C.H. because you’d never be able to pronounce my name properly.”
“It’s that difficult, is it?”
“You can’t imagine.”
“I’ve got a pretty good ear for names.”
“It’s a secret name,” he says. “Very few people know it.”
I stare at him a moment. “C.H. it is,” I say. Then add, “I’m sorry to hear about Moe. I’m sure he’ll be missed. Where’s the other one?”
They look at each other, confused.
“Lou told me there were five of you.”
They put their hands over their hearts and look down at their feet again.
And start to cry.
“What now?” I say.
“Lou was the fifth,” Larry says.
“Oh. Sorry.”
Curly says, “Now it’s you. But you don’t research. At all. Nor do you compute.”
“But he adventures!” C.H. says, brightly. “And when he does, we do!”
C.H. is the elfin one. If I knew him better, and could kid around, I’d ask him where he’s from, the forest or meadows? But I don’t want to offend him. I mean, I know there’s no such thing as elves.
Although I look at him and have to wonder.
“Guys,” I say, “I’m not Lou Kelly, and could never replace him in a million years. But I’ve always respected your work. Thanks to you, we managed to stop Miles Gundy from killing more kids.”
“Don’t be modest, Mr. Creed,” C.H. says. “You and Miranda gave us the proper search parameters. And you did all the killing. I’m happy to welcome you to the team. Especially since learning Miranda will be working with us. She’s my personal favorite. Do you think I might be able to meet her someday?”
“Are
you saying you’ll work with me?”
“Only you,” he says. Then he shouts, “The Platters! Nineteen-fifty-five!”
Larry shouts, “Mercury Records. But it was their second release! Don’t forget that!”
Curly says, “Buck Ram wrote it for the Ink Spots.”
They make a little huddle, put their hands low and shout, “Heyyyy!” as they raise them up over their heads.
Each of them has a favorite joke, and I’m asked to listen and pick a favorite. The jokes are so poorly conceived and delivered, I chuckle throughout the telling to cover the fact I can’t decipher the punch lines.
“They’re equally funny,” I say, shamelessly.
“Not good enough,” Curly says. “You have to choose a favorite.”
I frown. It’d be easier to view Hell’s menu and choose between the unwashed tripe, fermented squid guts, and pig organs wrapped in flesh.
I pick one of the jokes and make two of my new friends unhappy.
But get the sense we’re bonding.
“Do you have an assignment for us?” Curly says.
I place my laptop on the redwood picnic table.
“I don’t speak computer, so this won’t sound professional.”
“Go ahead.”
“I want you to configure my computer in such a way that we can communicate in code. You send me a coded message, I respond in code. But since I don’t have the time or desire to learn a code, I want to type a password that turns your code into plain English so I can read it. When I type a response, I add a different password to the message and it changes my English back to your code. But my responses would also work with the first code.”
They look at each other a moment, stunned, then burst into laughter. Finally Larry says, “Yeah, we can do that.” Then he repeats what I said and they fall on the floor laughing hysterically, roll around, grabbing their sides.
“Plain English!” Curly yells between peals of laughter.
“Coded message!” Larry says, shaking with delight.
When at last they calm down, C.H. says, “Why a different code for the response?”
“If someone captures me and forces me to send you a message, I’ll use the same code both times. That way you’ll know something’s wrong.”
All three nod, sagely.
“I also want you to put a tracer on the computer, so you’ll know where I am at all times.”
