Tyranny of Secrets

by John Statton

  He said, “You know Paul discovered a splitter installed in the offshore fiber terminus. He thought somebody tapped all of the data coming into the US. My investigation uncovered other splitters at other US phone companies. You did this?”

  “Whoa, steady boy. Doing this in the US is illegal as hell. But out of the country, our laws don’t apply. I’ve installed these systems in other lands, but it's looking like someone has deployed the same technology to siphon off Americans’ data. I’ve never heard about any authorization justifying it, but these secrets are all compartmentalized on a strict need-to-know basis.”

  “What the hell, why and where is all of the data going?”

  “I think someone is building a gigantic repository of the world's information, all the world's secrets,” she said with a thoughtful tone. “Ever hear of the Internet Archive?”

  “The group who tries to back up as much of the web as possible?”

  “What if that applied to all digital information on the planet? You could be almost omnipotent. You could have a “look back in time” capability, like God. Want to see who your subject talked to or emailed with over the last month?”

  Sander chimed in, “If information is power, then whoever controls this data is going to be very powerful for a very long time.”

  His words clarified Mariana’s thinking. She said, “Not quite in control, not yet anyway. But they could be on their way.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Sander, I need to come clean about things I've been carrying for a long time. Secrets I've sworn an oath to protect. But those I trusted with my oath have betrayed me. Hell, they've betrayed all of us,” she said with a bitter tone.

  He knew better than to interrupt; she apparently needed to lay down a heavy load.

  “When I joined NetSecure I thought it was a dream job. The ultra-secret hacker arm of the NSA. I had a fantastic team of very talented people. We were doing white-hat hacks we knew were contributing to keeping our country safe. Remember how happy I was?”

  “Yeah, I do. Those were good times.”

  “Then Mansfield assigned me a project I had moral doubts about. His own little ‘plata o plomo’, silver or lead, bargain. Take it on and move up, turn it down and I knew, nothing interesting would come my way for a long time. I made a huge mistake and took it. My ambition got in the way and I rationalized away any misgivings.”

  “So far not so bad, sounds like what a lot of ambitious young people do.”

  “Yes, but not all of them subvert the election of a long-standing ally. Remember my trip to London? That's what I had been doing for the prior two years. My team. Me. We found a way to hack the British general election. We put the Conservatives in power.”

  “Look, isn't that impossible? After all, it’s a general election; lots of attention on that kind of thing. Kind of hard to make the camel disappear when everyone is watching.”

  “No, it's not. In fact, it was very simple when we got right down to it. All you need is a roughly evenly split electorate, and then you can doctor polls and swing districts to make the outcome what you wish.”

  “Holy shit. No wonder you were emotionally knotted up when you returned. This was the national security secret you couldn’t share.”

  “It's the one. Now you know why.”

  “You were Big Brother. You made up your own truth. What comes next, the thought police?”

  “You don't understand. Once in, I’m left holding this darkest of black secrets. A secret like that is dangerous. Not to me, but to anyone I loved, especially you. Any tie could be exploited to get me to reveal the truth. How long do you think I could have kept quiet if they were posting pictures of torturing you? How much danger was I putting you in because of this stupid thing I did?”

  “How does this tie into Paul and these guys chasing us?”

  “Because NetSecure is behind both activities. I'm on the run with you because I broke into our most classified computer system and downloaded files showing the entire domestic surveillance operation. You're right, splitters are on every submarine cable connecting the US to the rest of the world. Their equivalents are in the satellites and microwave relays, and every other way of moving a communication within the US. They’re doing the same thing in Europe and Asia, and I helped them with that part. It's another secret I had to withhold from you.”

  “All the problems lie with secrecy,” he said. “I just spent a year beating my head against it. It's the perfect government stonewall. You can't discuss your secret; in fact, it puts you and those you love in danger. I can't get answers because Congress makes secret illegal activities legal. The occasional NSA whistleblower is mowed down by a government secrets act no judge is going to stand up against.

  “Hell,” he continued in disgust, “I know senators read in on secret surveillance programs who want to protest, but can only raise their concerns in the most obtuse way or run the risk of violating their secrecy oaths. No one is ever going to know the truth.”

  She responded, “We’ve got an election coming up, what about a new administration; change out the apologist for the NSA?”

  “Not going to happen,” he said. “What administration is ever going to dismantle a terrorist-stopping operation? If there’s ever a shopping mall bombing and they killed the program that could have prevented it…” His voice died away.

  “As long as it’s in the dark, people can't even talk about it,” she said. “It’s circular, in a futile, frustrating way.”

  “Yeah,” he replied, “and because they’re trying to kill us over it, all of this secrecy is a real drag.”

  They laid back on the booth's leather and gazed at the mountain stars over their dome. Sander stretched an arm along the back of the couch. Mariana slid over next to him. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and she snuggled against him. It was a silent moment when they renewed their closeness. Sander had the understanding about their abrupt ending he’d been looking for all these years. Mariana had the chance to confess. Both were satisfied.

  Each began to experience the first feelings of reconnection, of something put away long ago being reopened. A tender moment reminding them of the shared past. A stirring fueled by lost longing. As the train moved through the mountains, only the stars watched as they made love.

  #

  Chapter 15

  Nomination Night

  August 2016

  A national political convention is a titanic undertaking.

  The Republicans had just over twenty-four hundred delegates coming to Dallas, most of these simply used as cheering TV props. Ten thousand plus others accompanied them; failed candidates and staff looking for a coattail to ride, the protesters who were never going to be allowed inside, the wealthy donor class ready to rub up against power and write big checks, the prostitutes who would only take cash. America at its most gaudy, indulgent, conniving and, just occasionally, selfless.

  They all came to Dallas in the heat of August and willingly surrendered themselves to air-conditioned imprisonment in the steel, glass, and miles of drab carpeting that is the Kay Bailey Hutchison Convention Center. For a week, the circus of a modern political spectacle came to town and for card-carrying, rock-ribbed, dyed-in-the-wool, steadfast Republicans, it was not to be missed.

  Corporations lavishly entertained delegates in luxury hotel suites. Semi-trailer trucks of alcohol, railcars of beef, cargo planes filled with fresh lobster were all used to keep up with the sybaritic demands of the entitled attendees. An army of security kept watch on the technicians erecting the stage and the caterers filling the luncheon rooms. The delegations’ competition for prime hotel space threatened to be more intense than the primaries that had winnowed the presidential field from a dozen grasping men and women to just one.

  The convention was the nominee's coming-out party; their formal introduction to the nation after the tumultuous primary season. The general election voters were going to turn their attention to the presidential race, and they needed to pitch
hard for their support.

  Designed to be the beginning of the sprint to November, the convention was in equal parts coronation and campaign kick-start. A chance to fire up the rank and file, snare some contributions, and generate the enthusiasm needed during the coming hard months in the fight for the presidency.

  The party leaders were still coming together after a hotly contested, some would say bruising, primary. But the selection process had happened, and one was left standing. Tonight, the convention circus would all be carefully stage-managed down to the second, to maximize the positive spin on the candidate's introduction.

  The floor chanting had been going on for five full minutes, the delegate’s voices amplified by an additional thousand paid extras who had been recruited to cheer on command. The crowd had been packed in and whipped up, revival style. The screens above the podium showed the candidate’s symbol, a vibrant white + on a red background. It was supposed to be a symbolism of unity, a theme of the campaign. Almost all in the crowd wore one on an armband. It was more than faintly reminiscent of 1930s Germany.

  Every person there was on his or her feet. Most were starting to stomp in unison. Thousands were extending their arms and making the + sign; the right index finger extended, the left finger bisecting it at a ninety-degree angle. So many, the audience looked like waving grain as their arms beat in time to the chant. The sound became deafening. A frenzy of noise. Stomping. Shouting. A tribal rhythm. An awakened beast.

  All of the network and cable systems wanted to break to commercial, but no producer cut away from this display. It was a riveting television moment. The waiting podium looked reminiscent of a pulpit. Done in a clean, streamlined American Industrial style, it dramatically thrust out above the crowd. Thousands of arms pumped the + sign in unison below.

  Off stage, in the green room, the noise was a muted thing. A sense of being in the eye of the storm prevailed for a moment while the candidate caught his breath. He stood in front of the mirror while a make-up artist applied final touches. His running mate and both spouses were hovering nearby. Everyone was giving him a little space to gather himself. It was a kind gesture from people he appreciated and loved.

  The make-up artist drew back. The candidate looked in the mirror and liked what he saw. It had been a quick climb to this moment. But he knew he was ready. Knowing the Politburo backed him added some swagger to his confidence. He thought, This is my time, and I need to step up and take it.

  He bounded out of his chair and with a round of “break a leg!” sentiments from those closest to him, he was out the door.

  Suddenly the stadium screens flanking the podium flashed to an image. Like a rock concert, the screens showed the star about to come out from backstage. A handheld camera approached him from behind, and on the big screens his dark silhouette was outlined in the stage lights. His hands poised on the railings of the flight of stairs leading up to the stage. One foot on the first step. His coiled energy emanated as he waited to launch himself up to the podium.

  The crowd roared at this image on the video screens.

  At first sight of the candidate, the announcer competed with the sound, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the next president of these United States, Governor Earl Ravana!”

  They roared even louder. The deafeningly loud crowd just turned it up to the mythical eleven on the dial. Standing in front of them, he soaked it in. The sound became an ocean supporting his ship; he stood at the bow crashing through waves of adulation.

  He motioned to silence the crowd and, after a minute, his floor captains got it under control. Ravana looked out over the hushed hall, and then raised his arms and made the plus sign, turning his body to sweep the crowd. The assembly went wild with cheering and his team started the chant again, “Ra-va-na! Ra-va-na! Ra-va-na!”

  On the screens behind him, the camera’s perspective showed a view from far back in the audience. It began to move forward, keeping Ravana centered in the frame. It slowly traveled, taking in the wild beat of the crowd underscoring the moment. The screens showed thousands of people making the plus sign as spotlights swept the scene and the nominee basked in their support.

  The point of all this pageantry was to anoint the party's messiah, its focal point for their hopes and dreams in the coming months of the battle ahead. This crowd had its candidate.

  Earl, like every experienced storyteller from his region, started off in an easy-going drawl, giving thanks to family, friends, God, and country, then began in earnest, “My friends, let's talk tonight about coming together as fellow citizens and celebrating America’s exceptionalism…”

  ***

  After the acceptance speech, back behind the scenes, Earl’s campaign manager, Jake Osborn, stepped up and pulled him back into the green room. Jake turned around and in a loud voice asked for the space to be cleared. A moment of activity as the entourage and politically connected well-wishers departed. Leaving Earl, and his secret service agents.

  Jake motioned the agents out, and was met with stiff resistance. Finally, Earl intervened and asked them to step outside, “Hey fellas. Jake and I go way back and he's not going to kill me. And I'm sure you noticed this room only has one door, so how about we compromise and you step out and don't let anyone in?” The agents could live with that, and the door opened and shut again.

  In the private moment, Earl turned to Jake and exclaimed, “I think it went great out there, what a night!”

  “Yeah, we did a fine job managing the cheering and spontaneous floor demonstrations. Had the whole hall salted with agent provocateurs to keep them riled up. Manufactured honest emotions care of yours truly, so don’t get too carried away. Almost forgot, someone on the phone who wants to talk to you.”

  Earl felt a little pissed Jake had peed on his parade. “Who the hell can that be at this moment?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Guess I do. If you've got the brothers on the line, I'd better answer.”

  Jake handed him the phone and then stepped outside himself.

  Billy Ray led off the call, “We were just calling to wish you well.”

  Samuel chimed in, “We saw your eloquent speech and wanted to let you know how proud we were of your success.”

  Earl knew they were just letting him know who pulled his chain. He remembered the meeting in Wyoming a little over two years ago. The Politburo had wanted to size up the candidate. The memory so sharp, it was like yesterday.

  ***

  Ravana’s recruitment had started on a Saturday, one of those soon-to-be-warm Wyoming summer mornings with towering granite mountains etched against an unbelievably blue sky. A dark green river snaked through the long grass meadow bordered by a forest of bristling pines. Hungry trout lurking under the water’s surface were waiting for the flies dancing overhead to get a little closer.

  The helicopter deposited Earl in the grass. They were miles from any road or trail, part of an enormous private Wyoming preserve. Owned by one of Rainy’s friends and conveniently located close to his lodge. Strictly controlled access and guests’ privacy was assured by security patrols made up of ex-marines.

  The sun had just come up, the mist still on the water. With the light came the insects, and with them, the trout. The sandbar led along a broad, slow-moving pool to a nearby bend where the water picked up a little speed. Earl spotted another figure already casting a line.

  All of this was very mysterious. Earl had been asked to attend a fly-fishing weekend by his career godfathers, the Lasher brothers. They said they could not say much because of confidentiality but to have his gear ready Thursday afternoon.

  He had his state police driver drop him off at the brothers’ estate outside of Raleigh, where officially he’d be in private meetings for the weekend. A short jet ride, an overnight stay at a luxurious hotel with his current mistress, who had been flown in separately, and then this morning’s helicopter ride.

  It surprised Earl when the figure on the riverbank was the former Vice President. Rainy p
ut down his rod and turned to greet him. “Governor, I hope you like to fish,” he said with a wry look as he extended his hand.

  Giving a friendly shake, Earl replied, “It and hunting are two 'must-likes' in North Carolina politics, I got taught to fish by the best, in secret by an old Yankee, I want to add, until I could make a passable cast. Frankly, it’s one of the better things I’ve learned through politics. It's a way to get a focus outside of yourself. Do some deeper thinking.”

  “Amen. Shall we fish for a while, brother Ravana?”

  They each read the river, picked their spot, and started their casts. They did so in companionable silence. Rainy landed his fly in a bit of a swirl and let it float. From underneath, a hungry trout noticed, but not quickly enough before it was gone.

  Rainy kept fishing this spot. “Governor, I wanted to get you here because we have to discuss the presidency. I represent a group of patriots who have been following you for quite some time. In fact, you might say you have been a special project of ours.”

  “I'm not sure I understand,” Earl said as he continued playing out his line and getting ready for his cast.

  “Let me just say we’re interested in backing you, and if we do, you will most assuredly win.”

  “If I remember my Faust, this begins to sound like the start of one of those soul-exchanging conversations. What makes you think I'm interested in the presidency?”

  “Aren't you?” Rainy cast into the pool again.

  “Well, yes, I am.”

  “Then no bullshit, Governor, we can offer you this bargain. In fact, we've proven it in your last two campaigns.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Look, the people I represent were responsible for hacking the results of each one, so you were given narrow but believable wins. You may think it’s impossible but let me assure you, we are completely capable of this. You can confirm what I've told you with the Lashers, they found you for us and believed in you from the start.”