When Civil Servants Fail

by John Schou

That is even less conspicuously. Not that I am afraid of stealing a car, but it doesn’t seem to fit our demands right now.”

  “I hate to admit it, but you are right,” Bob replied. “Besides, we are light travellers, now our luggage has been taken away.”

  “I saw my suitcase being thrown into a small military jet.”

  “That adds to the mysteries of the day,” he said.

  We only had to wait shortly at the airport, after having redressed as the old pals Bob and Jack and leaving the uniforms in the car as Jack had said. Nobody saw us coming and the airport was strangely transformed. There were indeed many stranded passengers sitting and mostly sleeping in the chairs of the lobby, adjoined by their suitcases. Over them were timetables that in all cases said, “Flight cancelled.” What had happened? Why had the passengers of four loosely packed flights been given separate treatment? We had a tremendous lust to ask for the reason but then, they might have suspected us as coming directly from the moon. As we discovered that the shuttle-bus for Cleveland Centre was just about to leave, we decided that we had better get away from here. We got tickets from the airport lobby and entered an otherwise empty bus, whose driver looked hatefully at us as if we were disturbing his tranquillity. We never discovered if he could talk, neither had we any desire for that.

  In Cleveland, our mutual travel ended in a park with a lake. We did not want to take a hotel for a few hours sleep, and in the park, two benches could do the same. Bob told me how to manage the further case. I was taking the train or Greyhound bus, formerly American ways of travelling, and claim somebody had stolen all my luggage and flight tickets in Washington. Instead, I had taken the train all way home. He even gave me 500 $, much more than needed for the train. Then he instructed me never to talk about him. How could I have seen him if I never had taken any plane that day from Washington? I was only getting angry when I suddenly saw him take a small cellular phone from his jacket and talk for a couple of minutes in an incomprehensible tune.

  “Greetings from my father,” he said.

  “Could I just borrow that? I want to call my parents, regardless what time it is.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said “This phone should have been confiscated in Boston or latest in the NASA airport. The man it was registered for doesn’t exist anymore.” While saying this, he turned it off and threw it out in the lake of the park.

  Dampening my anger he said, “Don’t call your parents too early – if at all; it is perhaps dangerous to know somebody who survived this event, whatever it was that happened today. Perhaps you think that I am a lunatic, but that has become a precondition for survival. But take the earliest westbound train – you might as well leave for the station now.”

  “And you?”

  “As I said, I do not exist anymore and you promised to respect it. A survival artist must cease to exist from time to time in order to go on with his life.” And then he disappeared out of mine.

  I went to the station and bought a ticket westward. Then I bought a newspaper – and got a shock: America was under attack and all passengers of four planes had been killed in a combined suicide mission the day before. I even found my name under UA93. The survival artist was later reported to have steered another of the planes into the North Tower of the WTC, which collapsed for mysterious reasons almost two hours later.

  I decided to take his words serious, in order not to endanger my beloved family. Jack Wilson ceased to exist and shortly after, Jack Stewart was created in a small Central American state – my passport is real, but exotic. I worked in different areas, but recently, while in Australia, I lost all my money and decided to call my mother, hoping that she would recognize my voice, although I had changed my name.

  As for Bob, he may have survived another couple of times or even not. This is the story of, how we were rescued when America was attacked.

  Jack had finished the grieving story and I turned off the Dictaphone. His mother was first to break the silence: “Yes, I recognized you from the first word. Am I happy to see you again.”

  I felt it necessary, also to emphasize our new task, to mention that stabilization of his whereabouts were required.

  “I hope Mr. Smith will take care of that,” Mrs. Wilson mentioned.

  “It is not so easy,” I responded. “Probably, the NSA has monitored your telephone for more than 5 years, just in case your son should call. They were obviously missing his name on the list of passengers on the last, fatal flight of the 9/11-crew and –passengers.”

  “What is NSA?” Mrs. Wilson asked.

  “They know all about you and you nothing about them,” Jack responded.

  “The National Security Agency, also called No Such Agency, while it is so secret, is based in Atlanta. Through its spy-organization Echelon, it monitors telephone and computer trafficking worldwide,” Susanne supplied. “The existence of Echelon was denied for many years, but now they have large spy stations, even under that name, among others in Great Britain, Germany and here in Denmark.”

  “I thought they were not allowed to spy on American citizens,” Mrs. Wilson remarked in astonishment. A new model of the World was slowly opening to her.

  “One thing is what is allowed, another thing what they do,” Jack explained. “Don’t forget that the largest criminals are governing the USA. They have another attitude to laws.”

  “A very important comment, because perhaps it is easier to deal with the criminals if you don’t expect them to follow legal rules. This is where I hope that my boss will brew up a useful concept for Jack’s future. But we should perhaps visit the hotel’s restaurant, if it is not too late – Mrs. Wilson and I must be with Mr. Smith and Mr. Wilson at 3 p.m.”

  “I hope he will manage, he wanted before to go to the airport ...” his wife stuttered.

  “I have told him that there was no need to, before I picked you up,” Susanne replied.

  “It is important that you stay in the hotel all the time. If you need anything, ask Susanne for it and don’t try to call anyone,” I told Jack. “By the way, Susanne, where is your car?”

  “Just here in front of the hotel,” she answered.

  I frowned. The road, Strandvejen, was the only way from the City to Mr. Smith’s house. “Get it away, immediately, at best in some parking house, otherwise far from here. Then we can only hope that the ‘intelligent’ agents did not notice it.”

  “Susan, can you buy me some beer? I hope soon to get some money,” Jack uttered.

  Mrs. Wilson grasped a thick bunch of Danish paper money: “Here is some for the first time.” To my sense, it was enough for the second and third, too.

  Susanne found a parking occasion on a small side street, not too far away, and we had our lunch without leaving the hotel. At 2 p.m., I told Mrs. Wilson that we had to leave.

  “But it is just nearby,” she argued.

  “And still, we have some 12 kilometres to go. Wait and see.”

  We ordered a taxi to the backdoor of the hotel, in order to avoid being seen by incidentally passing agents. With this, we drove to the centre of Copenhagen and when we were in front of the City Hall, we went across the square and took another taxi back to Hellerup, but this time directly to Mr. Smith. We were twenty minutes early and Mr. Wilson and his modest car was not yet there. Mr. Smith would only be present at 3 p.m., and we could only hope that Mr. Wilson would be precise. Fortunately, he came after 5 minutes and his wife gave him a brief report. Then I could open the door to the inner temple.

  5 – If You Can’t Beat Them, Join Them

  “Mrs. and Mr. Wilson, the first part of our task has been completed: Jack Stewart is your son and is safe in a place nearby. Mr. Williams, your wife had already occasion to see him and be with him for several hours ...” Mr. Smith was interrupted as Juanita brought coffee etc., including four cups.

  “For me just a glass of mineral water, please,” Mr. Wilson said, the only slim person of the company.

  “Juanita, do we have such a fluid called wat
er?” Mr. Smith asked ironically. She nodded and hurried out after a glass.

  “The task was complicated by the presence of CIA-agents in the airport. Mr. Gusto and another of my assistants managed to trick them out, but they are still indicative of a persistent danger to your son. For that reason, he cannot be here but remains at the place where your wife visited him. Please do not mention where, Mrs. Wilson, there may be undisclosed bugs here and the more so in your house, car et cetera. Disregarding such possible spying activity, I shall not be shy to present to you his story, Mr. Wilson. And the best to tell about it is Jack himself telling it. Eric!”

  I started the Dictaphone, and the impressive story was repeated, which took quite a while.

  “Since the criminals behind 9/11 have never been punished and not only know about the existence of your son as a living person, but also feel threatened by that, the question is really, how to guarantee his persistent right to live.

  “Bring these scoundrels to responsibility for their misdeeds,” Mr. Wilson screamed.

  “Excuse me, but did you make use of the government initiated ‘Victim Compensation Fund’ and how much did you get?”

  “Yes, but I shall gladly pay the 500,000 $ back, now my son is alive.”

  “I am sorry, but it won’t work. It was made dependent on a condition, and a court has confirmed the validity of that, that those who took the compensation could not later participate in a lawsuit to find out exactly what happened. In other words, the juridical system is heavily infiltrated and the political lawmakers almost completely corrupted by the scoundrels, as you call them, who also control the media. It is Wilson against the rest of the world. Who do you think will win that fight?”

  Mr. Wilson remained silent for some seconds. “What, then, do you suggest?”

  “Jack Wilson does not exist anymore. Jack Stewart remains a living person, one you may adopt as an adult person, according to American practice. There is an old American saying: ‘If you can’t beat them, join them.’ We must guarantee that Jack Stewart is not dangerous to them. If the criminals behind 9/11 ever shall stand for a judge, it is not because of us. That is the price you have to pay for getting your son back. Provided the other side accepts such an agreement.”

  “And if they do not?”

  “We do have an important argument, why they should. Mr. Gusto will this evening type the story from the Dictaphone and also copy the tape. It shall be distributed to a number of my contacts, instructing them not to publish it when your son is alive – but then do so in case the other part does not respect the agreement.”

  “Would you excuse me if I discuss this option with my wife in the other room?”

  Mr. Smith nodded. “Of course.”

  But his Wife had already made up her mind. “It is not necessary, Bill. We can’t fight against an omnipotent enemy, and we shall never forgive ourselves if we use our son as weapon in a fight, we are definitely going to lose. I suggest that we ask Mr. Smith to arrange such a deal.”

  Mr. Wilson needed a longer argument. “You see, until recently – until Mr. Gusto showed us the truth behind 9/11 – I thought my country was the symbol of rightness and freedom. Since then, however, I have started to see many events in a new light. I believe it is the beginning of a new learning process. But you are right: never start a war you cannot win. We shall be grateful if you can make an appropriate arrangement.”

  The doorbell rang and Juanita opened. A little after she came in and announced a young lady. Susanne intruded and said, “There has been a serious development.”

  “Susanne! Why aren’t you in the hotel?”

  “Jack has been arrested by the Danish police,” she stuttered, short of breath.

  “Miss Pihl, why didn’t you call us from the hotel?”