by Glenn Beck
“Let’s get going, then,” he said. “We mustn’t keep our colleagues waiting.”
They went together in silence to his corner office. Once there, he took a last long look around at all his treasured things, then walked to his private elevator and pushed the button, going down.
“It’s been a real experience working with you, Warren,” he said.
There was no response from the man waiting just behind him.
A pleasant ding issued forth from the elevator. The doors opened to a deep black emptiness.
Arthur Gardner’s thoughts were already far away as he felt a firm shove at his back. And save for the grim prospect of a possible coming judgment from on high, there was almost no fear in him at all as he fell forward into the yawning darkness.
Chapter 33
Noah opened his eyes from a deep, troubled sleep to see the first light of the morning. Whatever he’d been dreaming had left him with a sense that there was danger all around him.
The first thing he did was check his e-mail for a reply from Molly. There was none, and so he wrote a variation of the previous night’s message and sent it off, hopefully to find her. On his way to the kitchen, then, he saw that the couch was empty with the bedclothes folded at one end. A precisely handwritten note was placed atop the linens:
Was called away, but I’ll see you soon.
V
Noah took the long way on his route to the office. As he walked he saw the same things he’d seen the previous day when he was out with Ellen Davenport, only now the sights seemed to mean something more.
The high fence and the watchtowers would indeed serve to hold people inside, but a sudden societal collapse would require an equally effective means of keeping other people out as well.
The new housing going up, the stores of nonperishable food and drinking water, the generators and stand-alone communication systems: it was all designed to make this a huddling place in the aftermath of a planned disaster. In that event this would be a command center as well, one of several meant to support a new form of government that he’d once heard his father describe—one that was poised and ready to replace the nation described in the quaint and obsoleted U.S. Constitution.
• • •
Even before he’d turned the last corner to the hallway near the office he could already hear his two colleagues in a heated discussion through the heavy door.
As Noah keyed himself in, there was no pause in the argument. Their contention at the moment seemed to be over the ins and outs of immigration policy.
“Do you want to know why,” Ira Gershon said, “I don’t believe we should just open up the borders to anyone who can manage to sneak across the line?”
“Because old Jews are racists and hate Mexicans?” Lana Somin replied.
“No, dear. It’s the same reason we don’t let everyone into medical school who says they want to be a doctor, and we don’t let everybody into the NFL who’s ever touched a football. We don’t do that for the same reason that we can’t just suddenly say that everyone who comes here is automatically an American. Because all those things are difficult, you have to work very hard to do them properly, and not everybody will have what it takes to make the grade.”
The girl turned to her computer, where she quickly performed a search and brought an image up to full screen. It was the front page of some comedy blog based in France, one seemingly devoted to celebrating the laughable characteristics of the typical ugly American. That day’s selection showed a grotesquely overweight woman in a red-white-and-blue Snuggie cruising the mall in her three-wheeled scooter with the stars-and-stripes flapping from the handlebars.
“See that?” she asked. “This lazy tub of lard that looks like the Fourth of July threw up on her? What’s so damned difficult about that?”
Noah edged his way to the counter for a cup of coffee, hoping to stay out of the fray.
“This is what you always do,” Ira said. “You hold up some extreme example and then act like you’ve won the argument. As if that’s what everyone who loves this country is like.”
“Plenty of them are.”
“What about the Constitution?” Ira asked. “Don’t you think that makes us special in some way?”
“Words on a page.”
“Really.”
“Yeah. Just more empty words, written by old dead white guys with wooden teeth who owned slaves and got rich growing tobacco.”
“Uh huh.” Ira leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully. “You’re a big fan of the Internet, aren’t you?”
Lana seemed thrown off for a moment by what seemed like a drastic change of the subject. “Yeah. So?”
“And remind me, what’s the government of the Internet like?”
“There isn’t one,” Lana said. “Not much of one, anyway.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. There’s a basic, scalable structure that’s so simple it’s brilliant, and then a few little groups that watch over protocols and standards to protect it and keep things stable, and that’s it.”
“Wow,” Ira mused. “So those are the people that thought of Amazon.com?”
“No.”
“Google? Facebook? Netflix? Reddit?”
“No—”
“How about eBay? YouTube? WordPress? Surely they thought of Wikipedia?”
“No, listen,” Lana said. “The real stuff, the content, that’s not their damned job. Regular people invented all those things, mostly individuals and little start-ups. What you’re asking about is not some big government, there’s no need for that. All that’s needed is just the bare, boring essentials of a structure underneath.”
“Oh,” Ira said. “Kind of like a foundation.”
“Right.”
“So then, what’s the job of the government of the Internet?”
“Like I said, it isn’t much. Their job is mostly to stay out of our way. They protect and maintain the foundation, and just let things flow.”
“They just let things flow.”
“Now you’ve got it,” Lana said.
“Gosh. That’s worked out pretty well.”
“It just totally changed the world within a few years. No big deal.”
“Yes, I see,” Ira said. “You realize, I hope, that you’ve just described the genius behind the U.S. Constitution, and the magic of capitalism and the free-market system.”
Lana laughed out loud. “I think you forgot to take your meds this morning.”
“There are how many millions of people on the Internet? Billions now, and somehow it’s succeeded without tens of thousands of regulations. Sure, some of its citizens are only sitting by and watching, but a lot of them are using that unlimited freedom to build places, start businesses, create whole careers out of their imaginations. It’s a perfect environment for invention. And somehow with just those few simple rules and a handful of managers, it not only works, but like you said, it’s changing the world.”
Ira leaned to her, and continued. “That’s what this country was meant to be. Hundreds of millions of imaginations, free to invent and reinvent and adjust to the changing times, succeeding and failing and succeeding again without a big, meddling government to leech off their treasure and get in the way. That’s why it should be wonderful to live here, and why there’s a lot to learn before someone’s prepared to become a part of it.
“You just described the America those Founders envisioned, and they thought of it a quarter of a century before Babbage even designed his first steam-powered computer. So you see, kid? You might not like what our greedy, bloated government’s made of America today. But just like me, whether you realized it or not, with all your heart you love what it was once meant to be.”
A few seconds passed in a quiet stare-down, and then Lana responded matter-of-factly. “I hate you so much I can taste it.”
“Just say it, you’ll feel better. I won.”
She got up abruptly and headed for the hall with the snack machines.
&nbs
p; Ira leaned back in his chair again, seeming quite satisfied with himself, and he looked over at Noah. “I think I’m finally starting to get through to her.”
“I really don’t think so.”
“And what about you, Mr. Gardner?” Ira asked. As had happened before between the two of them, the look on the older man’s face suggested that there was more in his question than the words alone might suggest. “What do you think the future holds for the troubled land of your birth?”
“I agree with you. I think this country was a great idea, maybe the best idea ever. Maybe it had a chance once, but now it’s over; the other side’s just too well organized. Now it’s too far gone to save.”
After a moment Ira looked quickly to the door and the windows as though to check that the coast was clear. He opened his bottom desk drawer and withdrew a small device, rolled his chair closer, and then handed the thing across.
“What’s this?” Noah asked. It looked like nothing but a coil of wire and some clips and bits of junk mounted to a small block of wood, with an earpiece dangling from one side.
“Shh. Hide it, and take it home with you tonight. It’s a radio.”
“I’ve already got a radio—”
“Not like this one. Don’t let anyone see it, and don’t try to tune it; it’s already set to the right frequency. Listen to it tonight before you turn in. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
• • •
When the day was done, upon returning to his apartment, Noah immediately went to the desk and checked his e-mail. There was nothing but spam and some bureaucratic notices from the complex; again, he found no reply to his earlier messages to Molly. He wrote to her one more time, fixed a quick bite to eat, and reclined on the couch for some quiet thinking. The next thing he knew, he awakened suddenly, near midnight.
After a glass of water and a last check of his inbox he readied himself for bed, and that odd radio he’d been given came to mind. At least Ira had said it was a radio; when Noah retrieved it from his coat it still looked like some rejected craft project from a below-average Cub Scout.
As he lay down, he put in the earphone, expecting nothing at all, but there was a faint, intermittent sound, windy and barely there. A short chain of copper-plated paper clips was hung from a connector labeled “Antenna,” and when he held this in various positions the signal changed and gradually grew stronger. And then a man’s voice came through, thin but clear and steady behind the static, and Noah cupped a hand over his ear and closed his eyes and listened.
“. . . so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
There was more at the very end, delivered as though it was a common sign-off for these nightly underground broadcasts. It was only seven little words, but they left Noah troubled and sleepless for a good long while after they’d come in.
We are Americans, the anonymous man had said. God bless Molly Ross.
Chapter 34
Arthur Gardner hadn’t died immediately from the effects of his tragic accident at the elevator.
In fact, it was several hours later, and still he hadn’t yet managed to give up the ghost. As bad luck would have it he’d fallen only about fifteen feet into the empty shaft before striking a maintenance platform and coming to rest unconscious on its narrow steel ledge.
Well, when life hands you a lemon, Warren Landers thought.
His former boss’s stubborn lingering-on might be made into a small blessing in disguise. As was so often the case in this job, one must roll with the changes, and thus he’d immediately set about making the best of this unexpected development.
Mr. Gardner was in that rare class of people who don’t go to the hospital; the hospital comes to them. One urgent call to the multibillionaire’s version of 911 and the quick and discreet process had been set in motion.
The victim was collected and brought to his own bedroom, which in the interim had been rearranged and fully equipped to support intensive care. His ragged wounds and fractures were stitched and daubed and splinted to the extent required to stabilize him, and the proper drugs were administered to make his final hours comfortable and quiet.
Quiet, in particular.
Sadly, he wasn’t expected to pull through. This wasn’t a medical opinion so much as a direct order, delivered by Warren Landers to the company physician in charge. After the proper inducements had been paid, the rest of the staff concurred and proceeded accordingly with Arthur Gardner’s terminal treatment plan.
Another thing was made clear: not a word of this affair would leave the room until the time was right. Naturally, neither the press nor the authorities had been informed of the accident. The story would require some finesse. That, and a key witness still lived who might cast doubt on the official version once it had been conjured up. Everyone else who knew anything was bound by an ironclad nondisclosure agreement that would promptly ruin their lives and end their cushy careers should they ever rediscover their principles and go public.
It might seem to a layman that such a threat couldn’t carry enough weight to engage a diverse group in the obvious cover-up of a first-degree murder. But Landers knew from long experience that it would be more than sufficient. Getting otherwise honest people to look the other way, that was the most common transaction in the world of public relations. The perpetrators of much grander crimes—institutionalized child abuse, stock market manipulation, the looting of whole economies, entire wars, in fact—had gotten away clean with far less leverage than this.
When the others had left the room, from near the archway to the bedroom he observed the broken man lying still among the tubes and wires and hanging bags of fluid. Save for his breathing he hadn’t moved, but he wasn’t sleeping, either. Without expression, as Landers looked at him, he was simply looking back.
An assistant came to whisper that a special guest had entered the lobby downstairs. Several others had begun flitting around the sprawling apartment, tidying and misting disinfectants and turning up the HEPA filters to their maximum settings. The reclusive VIP who was now on his way up was known to be sensitive to the many invisible hazards that might lurk about in a sickroom. Whether the germs were real or imagined he would want to know that his concerns had been respected in advance of his arrival.
A minute later everyone had disappeared, shooed into side rooms to clear the path for this visitor. Landers went to the front door and opened it, and there, wearing simple clothes and a demeanor of humble majesty—and not looking a day older than 110—stood the old gentleman himself, Aaron Doyle.
• • •
Mr. Doyle’s entourage maintained a respectful distance as the two men had refreshments and walked together to the balcony, talking in low tones along the way.
Only the briefest matters of business were discussed: updates and statuses, confirmations and forecasts. Mostly it was a tour through the luxurious spaces of Arthur Gardner’s apartment—it was a true Manhattan palace, and a reward soon to be passed to Warren Landers in recognition of his upcoming accomplishments.
In their larger objective, the final countdown had begun. If all was well, as it seemed to be, there would be little more to do than watch to see which variation of their coming victory would unfold.
Mr. Doyle could have supervised all this from the comforts of his home, of course, but it seemed only fitting that he personally attend to see his long-standing colleague off to his permanent retirement. As such it had been a pleasant surprise to learn that Arthur Gardner had indeed lived to see him one last time. With some overmodest reluctance Landers accepted full credit for having engineered this happy accident.
With the tour
complete, the time had come to say their good-byes to the patient. The two men dismissed their escorts and made their way to the quiet bedroom.
Gardner couldn’t be said to be unresponsive; his eyes showed recognition as the two approached, but there was no more to it than that. Aaron Doyle came close to his old and formerly trusted friend, and he reached out, turned back the sheet, and warmly patted the arm that wasn’t broken.
“I’m so hurt that it came to this, Arthur,” he said. “More than you’ll ever know. But I’m here now because I wanted to tell you something in person.
“This was my will, what you’re suffering now, this pain you’re feeling and your death that’s fast approaching; this is all by my hand. You’ve been like a son to me, and I wanted to come here and show you that I still have a strength that you seem to have abandoned. I have the strength to discipline my own.”
From his bed Arthur Gardner was staring into the eyes of his employer. There was little emotion in his face and he said nothing at all. It wasn’t even entirely clear, considering his injuries, whether he retained the faculties of speech.
“Your last wife . . .” Mr. Doyle paused as he tried to remember. “What was her name, Warren?”
“Jaime,” Landers said.
“Yes, Jaime.” Doyle tsked, and shook his head. “She wasn’t as pretty as the others, not to your old standards, in any case. And a waitress, Arthur, and a noble citizen activist, a person so beneath the station of a man like you. A mismatch like that could never have ended well. You do recall, don’t you? Though I rue the day, I was the one who sent you out to meet with her. And it was a simple thing that I’d asked, the same kind of errand that our Mr. Landers here somehow manages to perform time after time without falling in love and siring an heir with the object of his negotiations.”
Still, there was no response.
“Those were critical times,” Doyle continued. “We had a chance then, in the creeping malaise of the Carter years, to revive an uprising among the commoners and organize them into a force for our kind of change. She could have used her former notoriety, she’d been one of the only strong and principled voices among that 1960s rabble, but because of those very principles she wouldn’t step forward and lead for us. She refused every gift we offered and wouldn’t do what we needed her to do. Instead she bewitched you, and she very nearly turned you against me.
