by Jack Gardner
Sammy talked slowly, choosing his words well: “We have Eddie there, who’s still in the dark. We can cut the process short by initiating a meeting. After all, he himself asked for it.”
L pulled a green ashtray, designed like a gluttonous frog, toward him. He tapped the pipe on the ashtray, shaking the ash off and thinking.
“Let’s assume you were in his position,” he started, “and you’re dealing with people who already tried to set you a trap…”
Sammy, for whom that memory was still too painful, was quick to excuse himself, “It’s true, there’s no denying it. But on the other hand, the man is feeling threatened, he’s obviously scared. He knows we are stronger; he knows it’s just a matter of time. And in addition to it all, he has no idea what is going on. For him, that’s the worst part of it all. That’s why I believe he’ll give it a second chance. After all, he asked for it.”
L frowned again when he remembered the bomb shoebox on his desk at home.
“Where do we stand with Mitchell?” He suddenly changed the subject.
“I talked to him today and told him he will get his money. He insists on cash.” Sammy paused for a moment, examining his boss’ reaction to the information.
“A meeting will be quite dangerous,” said L.
“Of course, we’ll have to leave him a briefcase in a location we’ll agree on in advance. But I assume it will be fine.”
L had no comment. Instead, he asked, “When is he going to start working?”
“Immediately. In fact, as early as tomorrow afternoon, things will start rolling.”
L thought about it for a second, and returned to the bothersome subject. “This man,” he meant the target, “is a ticking clock. We can’t ignore it. We have to end this. Let’s give Eddie this lead and hope that this time we’ll be smarter…or just lucky?”
Sammy ignored the sarcastic tone of his voice.
“Okay, but now we’re waiting for him to call us, and then we’ll say that we’re interested in negotiating with him and we will hear his conditions.” His right hand rose, gently massaging the back of his neck to sooth himself. “I’m not assuming it’ll be easy.”
L smirked. “I’d be sure of it if I were you…” and he grabbed the tobacco pouch.
“So it’s a done deal,” said Sammy. “Anything else?”
“I’m sure I’ll be content with the way things are handled from now on.” L did not bother saying what would happen in case he was not content. Sammy didn’t feel like he needed an explanation.
25
Yonatan, the Millionaires’ Head of IT, leaned back in his seat and stretched his hands until the blurry letters became clear. He detested the glasses age forced upon him and when he was alone and there was no fear of him looking ridiculous, he preferred to stretch his hands and move his head up and down until the fuzzy things on the page had some kind of meaning. He read the short memo his programmer had left him.
Under usual circumstances, the memo’s content should have made him happy, as it was a thorough examination that proves beyond any shadow of a doubt that the system he is responsible for is 100 percent accurate. Only that because those were the test result, the fear that something went wrong started agonizing him. And he felt that this something was very important.
The piece of paper he was holding was short and to the point. He reread it:
To: Head of IT
By: Gil, Terminal Control
Good morning,
Subject: Examination of call monitoring system
According to your recommendation, I have conducted the aforementioned examination.
In a simulation of 500 calls, the call monitoring system achieved perfect identification of all calls, both at the beginning and at the end of the call, as well as the details of the calling terminal and the time of the call.
I therefore see the system as perfectly reliable.
I apologize, but I cannot see any explanation to the phenomenon we discussed in our last meeting.
The detailed material from the examination is in my office, in case you would like to look through it. I am waiting for your instructions.
With kindest regards,
Gil, Head of Program Monitoring Team
What the hell was he supposed to do now? The bothersome thought did not let go. The timing of this error—if indeed there was an error—was the main problem. Any other time, or on any other lottery, he would have disregarded it. But this took place during the Millennium Lottery, the Millionaires’ largest lottery ever.
Had he buried it, only to one day have something discovered that would cast some light on the whole affair, he would be professionally ruined. On the other hand, if he reports this affair now, there may be an interrogation, and go figure where things will end.
But, in fact, what does he have to report? The system supposedly recognized two calls from unidentified terminals, but there were no signs of illegal lottery forms. All the forms that were sent in, down to the last one, were stamped by a legal vending point, and even more so the winning forms, which were thoroughly examined before declaring the winners. And assuming that the calls’ aim was not to introduce information, but rather, to receive information, that was pointless too, as the lottery takes place in a different place and its results are typed into a different computer, which is not connected to the system.
He felt dizzy and knew that his thoughts had become circular and would not lead him anywhere. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to think clearly. ‘At the end of the day, beyond all logical explanations, it is the gut feeling that is most important,’ he thought. His professional integrity compelled him to report the event. Whatever it is, he is not allowed to bury it. Eliminating an affair such as this was under the responsibility of someone else, someone who was more appreciated by the system, as could be seen in that person’s bank account…
He decided to act before he regretted it. His finger pressed the fast dial button to the Millionaires’ general manager.
“I’m in the middle of something. Can it wait?” He heard his boss’ deep voice.
“It isn’t a raging fire”—‘or at least not for the moment,’ he thought—“but I would like to see you for a few minutes as soon as possible.”
“Okay, have my secretary set up a meeting,” said the CEO and hung up.
The Head of IT called the CEO’s secretary and asked for a meeting that day. Then he put the memo and the details of the unusual calls into a blue folder and hoped that within a few hours he’d be able to forget all about it.
***
Considering that Ram was the first to contact Judy, all parties involved assumed that he would contact her again, so Sammy briefed her before the expected call.
Judy went home around 10:00 p.m. Before she left, she set the office line to direct all calls to her cell phone. She planned on leaving her phone on all night so that Ram could always reach her. She assumed he would call the next morning, but was not very surprised to hear his voice when her phone rang at 11:15 p.m.
“Sorry for the late hour,” he said, “are you on your cell?”
“It’s alright,” she immediately replied, “I’m on my cell and am at home.”
“And what is the answer to my message?” He did not waste any time.
“I was told to ask what you would want in exchange for the material.” ‘Two can play this game,’ she thought.
“I’ll call tomorrow morning and tell you when and where we are to meet,” he said, and then added, “And I would appreciate it if you told your supervisor that this time I expect them to live up to their word.”
He didn’t say what would happen if they didn’t.
“I will tell him,” she answered.
“Good night.” He hung up before she managed to reciprocate.
For a moment, she sympathized with this man, who was being hunted down by one of the strongest, most dangerous organizations in the world. He sounded quiet and calm, as if it was obvious to him that jus
tice was with him. But she quickly thrust that thought away from her mind. She had full faith in the decisions her supervisors made. There was no doubt that this man was guilty of a serious offense; he brought this on himself. Justifying him, even for a second, would be stupid of her.
She called Sammy, who was preparing to go to bed, and reported the call.
After he thanked her and hung up, she sighed with relief that the day has finally ended. A warm bath awaited her and she lay in the hot water and closed her eyes. Only eight hours until the inevitable next day—and still, eight hours. She let her sleepiness take over her calm, wet body.
26
Mitchell knew the system as well as any registered party member, and maybe even better than most. Once in a while, a discussion would come up concerning a change to the party election system, but those were merely lip service, being that it was the elite of the party who determined the system, and they used it for their own benefit. In order to secure the position of head of the party—and with it, the nomination to head the state—each leader knew that the smallest possible number of people should control these things. The less people involved in the decision making process, the easier it was to control their votes and make sure things go according to plan.
In the right wing party’s electing body, those who had voting rights were split into small, close-knit groups who elected their candidates according to their own interests. With that, everyone wanted to believe that having thousands of members vote for a candidate validates the idea that justice is transparent.
‘Actually, it does not really matter how it is done,’ he thought, ‘as long as they choose the right candidate.’ For him, there was only one right candidate. Democracy is, at times, nothing more than a game of illusions, where people believe in the ideals they want to believe in, while other hands pull the strings.
Mitchell pushed back his executive chair, whose leather matched the color of his mahogany desk perfectly, and walked toward the safe that was set in his office wall slightly groaning, probably due to his weight. He turned the lock with a steady hand, opened the door, and his eyes fell on a list on the top shelf, right above a blue folder. He grabbed the list, leaving the folder in its place, and then closed the safe’s door and locked it with his other hand. Then he put the list on his desk, facing down, and buzzed his secretary to bring him some coffee. Obviously, he thought, he couldn’t trust anyone, not even his secretary, who was the person closest to him. That’s why he made sure the list was out of sight even for the short moment where she comes in to give him his cup of coffee, the silver sugar bowl, and the small silver milk jug.
As she set the coffee kit on his desk, Mitchell thought about man’s abilities of inductive thinking. Whoever thinks people do not notice things around them simply does not see the bigger picture. People have the amazing ability to analyze events and random data and build a clear story. A phone call, a meeting, material suddenly needed, a good or bad mood following a conversation—all of this can become, sometimes automatically, solid information that could pose a threat at a later time, for example during a police inquiry. He was always amazed with the lack of caution among people who have things to hide and therefore always made sure he compartmentalized the people around him as much as possible.
He thanked his secretary, who turned around and left the room quietly, closing behind her the heavy door that was supposed to protect her boss from listening devices.
Mitchell sweetened his coffee, stirred it slowly with a nice silver teaspoon, and took a first sip. Then he took the list and a yellow highlighter, and began going through the names with incredible concentration.
The list included about one thousand names of people who could vote, divided by groups of interests. Traditionally, each group had a number of more powerful people, who basically decided how the members of that group would vote. Officially, each voter would deny the existence of such groups, and especially his or her belonging to one of them; but Mitchell knew that in reality the powerful people pressured even the most vocal people to vote according to the decisions that they had made.
Someone in the Bureau had already done quite an extensive preparation and assembled this list so that each known group of interests was on a separate page and the first names on each page were of the most powerful members who led the group. All those names had assigned code numbers that led to the members’ personal profiles. Those profiles included a large variety of information, a large part of which was gathered by hacking into national information resources while clearly violating all privacy regulations. These profiles were all collected in a separate folder, that same blue folder that included some 150 pages and was left in the safe.
The first goal Mitchell set for himself was to test how accurate and updated the information was about the people marked as a leader for each of the groups. Naturally, politics is very dynamic: people rise to influence quickly, while others lose momentum. The material he held in his hand was the result of a long and difficult investigation, but at the end of the day, it was nothing more than a research project or an academic paper that lacked the feedback of a true expert who knew the contemporary forces in action and who exactly pulled the strings.
He worked incessantly, marking some names for approval and deleting others who lost their influence or headed too small groups of voters. When he finished going through the list, he peeped at his watch and saw that it was almost 6:00 p.m. He went back to the first page and started counting the names he had marked. There were sixty-two names—a number that could promise an absolute majority to his candidate. Only that Mitchell didn’t think he needed an absolute majority. A dignified victory would be enough for him, which means that he will have to substantially minimize the list so that in the end it would include only those people whose influence would grant him the majority he needed.
He took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. He buzzed his secretary to bring him another cup of coffee and again made sure to cover the list before she walked into his office. He decided that he would finish sorting through the list that evening, even if he had to work until the late hours of the night.
Tomorrow, when he had the final list, he could get to the real hard work—delving into the depth of information he had on each and every one of the people in his list. Then he would have to form a strategy that would help him ensure that each and every one of the people in his list would vote for the right candidate. He believed that with the right information and the resources he had at his disposal, luck—and especially not bad luck—would not play any role in this process.
27
The phone call was short and to the point. The two men identified themselves and confirmed that they were sure who was on the other side of the line.
“The central train station, locker number thirty-three, a brown bag,” said the man on the other side of the line. “The key is in your private mailbox. Is that clear?”
“It’s clear.”
The call was over.
***
I knew the moment of truth was getting close. I may have set the trap, but I was under no illusion that they fell into it. More like they stood next to it and watched, calculating the odds of them using my trap against me. Since I knew I had no choice, I decided to comply with the situation even if it developed in a direction that may not be good for me. Still, I was determined to improve my stance. When I thought about it, I realized it wasn’t too difficult; there is a limit to how low one can go. On second thought, I had to admit that there was no such limit.
I decided to give them two hours to organize. As soon as I gave them my demands, I would have to be assertive and uncompromising. They would play with time, and for me that is too dangerous a game. The longer the negotiations last, the more they have a chance of locating me. I would have to be the sole director of this show.
At 10:00 a.m. sharp, I called Judy’s office. She picked up after the first ring, as if she were expecting the call with her hand on the receiver. I did not waste
any time.
“I need the name and phone number of your contact man. I will call in thirty minutes to receive this information; if you will not have this information you will not hear from me again, but I promise that someone else will. Is that clear?” I was hoping she would realize I wasn’t trying to be rude to her personally.
“Of course,” said Judy. She already internalized the severity of this case.
I hung up the call and started walking toward the next pay phone I would use for the following call. It was a little more than half a mile away and I assumed that in a slow stroll I’d reach it in twenty minutes. I wondered whether I would know the contact man. The odds were slim, and in any case it wouldn’t change much. I couldn’t trust anyone at this point.
At 10:30 a.m., after I surveyed the area for ten minutes and reached the conclusion that no one was stalking me, I went to the phone booth and called Judy. Once again, she picked up immediately.
“I’m ready,” I told her.
“I have what you asked for, as well as a message.”
“I’m listening, I said.”
“The message I was asked to give you is that this temporary collaboration with you—considering the circumstances—is a serious bet on our side, even a very serious bet. We expect you to consider that and act fairly.”
I did not bother to react or ask who sent this message. Silly questions are answered in the same vain, along with a disappointment.
“And the number?
“This is the number. His nickname is ‘Eddie.’” She gave me a phone number.
“Thank you,” I said and hung up. Twelve seconds on the dot. I’m definitely getting better.
I crossed the sidewalk right into the open door of a bus that stopped at a station. Three stops later, I got off the bus and knelt to tie my shoes while looking back at the bus doors. No one got off after me. I looked back in the direction I came from and did not notice any suspicious cars or bicycles. Apparently no one was at my trail for the moment. So far so good.
