“OK. Anything else you want me to do?” Tobey asked.
“I don’t know, Tobes,” I said. “Maybe go thirty seconds without staring at my girlfriend’s breasts?”
* * *
Three hours later, sitting in JFK and waiting for our flight to L.A., Margo took my hand and said, “I liked it when you called me your girlfriend.”
“Yeah, well, y’know, Tobey. He just brings out the romantic in me.”
Report 10
I knew I was going to take the job. How could I not? Being a fed had been my identity for my entire adult life. But I’d made a promise to help Gladstone, and I liked how I felt seeing it through. Besides, the FBI threw me out at its convenience. It could wait another week to have me back. So I headed to L.A. to reconnect with Stanton. Hopefully, Gladstone and Margo had already met with Jeeves. It certainly seemed like it, the way he was crisscrossing America, anointing Burke the new Messiah, holding hands at every stop.
Gladstone had the hard copies of my reports, but I read them over on my laptop as I headed west, cringing over the parts that revealed my crush on Margo, but more important, noticing something obvious I’d missed: Neville. Based on what we knew, he was the only conduit to Hamilton Burke regarding Gladstone’s story about the dollar-store dad. And if he’d given Burke that, what else had he given as an ICANN crypto officer?
I wasn’t the only one asking about ICANN’s activities. The news was filled with reports of Michiko Nagasoto’s murder, casting a further cloud over the administration that had just tasked this international community to do a full-scale Internet audit. The hubs were all intact and staying that way. The plumbing of the Internet was all functional, but very few sites could be reached. The Internet, we were told, was coming back, but literally one site at a time, after each was ICANN approved and allowed through its security protocols. It wasn’t something the people were happy about even without Burke playing savior/agitator as the new and improved Internet Messiah. People were protesting. Gladstone’s symbol was everywhere with all the usual messages: BRING BACK OUR INTERNET, THE INTERNET IS PEOPLE AND WE’RE STILL HERE, and even BRING GLADSTONE HOME. And despite what she claimed to be a slim profit margin, Margo had to be making a killing with those Gladstone masks. More and more, the protests were filled with people in those cheap felt fedoras and half faceplates. Now they numbered even more than the Guy Fawkes masks in the crowd.
I called Stanton’s L.A. landline from the airport and his messaging service had a car bring me to the Chateau Marmont. Apparently, he was renting the penthouse indefinitely. At the hotel, everything was taken care of and I felt a level of respect I wasn’t used to. I was accustomed to gratuitous “sir”s and smiles. Those came from fear. The world becomes polite inches from the fire. But these stumbling attendants and valets weren’t afraid. They truly believed I held some sort of significance. I was rich. I was influential. I was a personal guest of Reginald Stanton. Mr. Stanton is expecting me. Mr. Stanton said to give me whatever I needed. I was living in rarefied air, and I couldn’t breathe because none of it felt like my country. But I still hoped the cash I had on me to tip my cleanly shaved personal guide to Stanton’s suite could keep the misperception of my importance going.
“I think I got it from here,” I said, standing outside the door and handing him a five. It was either that or give the twenty, and I didn’t care about being mistaken for important enough to do that.
“Very well, sir,” the young man said, sticking the cash in his pocket without looking, but he didn’t leave. Instead, he knocked clean and hard, announcing, “Mr. Stanton, your guest has arrived.”
Stanton threw open the door. “Rowsdower!” he shouted. “Get in here, ya dirty ol’ prick!” He handed the bellhop a twenty and pulled me into what was quite simply the sunniest hotel room I’d ever seen. Fully furnished like the nicest private home, leading out to an immense balcony overlooking the Hollywood Hills. We weren’t alone. There was a man on the balcony with his back to me, dressed in that kind of California business casual I was never able to effectuate.
“We’re not alone?” I asked.
“Oi!” he shouted, putting his arm around me and leading me out to the terrace. “We’ve got company!”
The man outside turned around, and I said his name before I even realized I was speaking. “Professor Leonards,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“He’s Michiko’s replacement,” Stanton said.
“You guys are fucking?” I asked, and Leonards laughed that great gravelly laugh he had.
“Fuck off,” Stanton said, giving me a shove. “He’s a crypto officer now.”
“I know, Reg. It was a bad joke. I’m sorry.”
“Sounded more like Gladstone than you,” Leonards said. “Must be the hat.”
“Professor Leonards,” I said, shaking his hand, “it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Stanton called us over to the outdoor bar and we sat on stools while he played bartender, a role he apparently relished.
“What’ll it be, lads?” he asked.
I said I’d take a Johnnie Walker on the rocks and Leonards opted for some white wine.
“Good, good,” Stanton replied, pouring liquors seemingly at random into a blender. “Koala Fuckers all around then!” he shouted, and flipped the switch.
Leonards looked to me for an explanation. “It was really an act of pure optimism to give our orders in the first place,” I said.
Stanton must have required that his penthouse bar be stocked with all the Koala Fucker essentials, because he dished out the drinks, replete with Krazy Straws.
I tried to get down to business. “Gentlemen,” I said, “as you both know, I’m no computer scholar, but this Internet audit … from one to ten, how much of a load of shit is it?”
Leonards enjoyed the question immensely. “How do you mean?” he asked.
“Well, who’s first on the list to return?” I asked.
“After two days of intense ICANN meetings,” he replied, “it seems Microsoft Outlook and Google are at the top of the list to return. Their security protocols are being audited now and I expect they should be cleared tomorrow.”
“So the two big Internet behemoths just coincidentally have the influence to go first?”
Stanton put down his drink to interject. “Well, it’s not just money,” he said. “Why do you think they’re so rich? Think of all their users. It’s in the public’s interest.”
Leonards watched me, and even though he was nothing like my father, it was enough to make me remember what it felt like to be someone’s son.
“Wait a second,” I said. “What good is bringing back Google if all the sites you could use it to search for are still down?” Leonards was liking me more and more. “And what about news?” I continued. “Who’s top of the list to come back?”
“CNN,” Leonards replied. “Problem with that?” It wasn’t a question. It was a test.
“Well, it certainly seems a bit convenient that the news organization friendliest to this administration is the first to come back, right? Who knows how long before any other comes back? I can’t believe you’re OK with all this.”
“Who said I’m OK with it?” Leonards asked. “But I’ve only just got here. When Michiko was murdered, they needed a crypto officer who would meet with unanimous approval so nothing slowed down the audit.”
“And the father of the Internet was the obvious choice?”
“I really like the way you remember everything, Aaron,” he said. “So what else can we tell you?”
“What about all the apps? When can we expect those?”
“Tell him, Reginald,” Leonards directed, and Stanton turned a little sheepish, which is something I’d not seen him be yet.
“Well, there’s an app called PeepHole launching with Google, Microsoft Office, and CNN this week.”
“People?” I asked.
“No. PeepHole,” he corrected.
“Sounds pornographic.”
> Leonards laughed again. “That’s what I said! Tell him about it, Reggie.”
“Well, PeepHole, which is not pornographic, turns your phone into a video camera. You can broadcast yourself and where you are like you’re the star of your own little reality show. The video is uploaded to a server and deleted after twenty-four hours.”
I was no expert, but this didn’t sound nearly as novel as Stanton was trying to make it. “Isn’t there already an app like that?” I asked.
“Several,” Leonards said. “But actually none, because they’re all offline now, right? So the owner of PeepHole sure is one lucky guy. He’ll make a killing!”
“Who’s that?” I asked, being slow on the uptake. Leonards pointed to Stanton.
“Don’t give me that look,” Stanton said. “I’m a very good security risk. It makes sense to clear me first. I’m a crypto officer. Besides, releasing my new app is a safe way to give something to the people. And if my app happens to get a foothold in the market during the Apocalypse because of it, so be it. Also, mine’s different because it also allows viewers to download others’ broadcasts to their phones.”
Leonards put his drink down on the bar. “And so, Special Agent Rowsdower,” he said, “in answer to your question, all things considered, I’d put the load-of-shit rating on this ICANN audit at about a five. Of course, money, power, and corruption—all the usual players—are definitely influencing who comes to the top of the audit and how quickly, but I will say this: The threat is real. Multiple times now, forces have penetrated DNSSEC’s protocols. That’s not invented, and it can’t be allowed to happen. There are bad guys.”
“Right,” said Stanton. “And isn’t that why you’re here, Rowsdower? What have you got for us?”
I paused and took a long draw on my Koala Fucker, watching the wretched mix slowly twist through my Krazy Straw. And it wasn’t just to torture Stanton by keeping him waiting, but because I still had things to investigate. I had encouraged Gladstone to leave his safe Australian cave and he placed his faith in me by doing so. Maybe more so in Margo, but if I were going to divulge anything about him I had to be sure. I now had more information about ICANN’s activities than when I’d arrived, and more distrust. I didn’t bother hiding my suspicions and Stanton came around from the bar and stood beside me.
“It’s OK, Rowsdower,” he said. “I knew you thought we’d be alone today, and you’re a careful man. That’s good. If you need to interrogate Leonards a bit before speaking, go ahead.”
“Well, there is something I need to know from the professor before I speak any further,” I said. Leonards swiveled himself directly toward me. “Professor,” I said, “can I trust Stanton?”
Leonards laughed as I hoped he would. Not just for the misdirect he clearly appreciated, but because he approved of my skepticism. “Yes, I think so,” he said. “Stanton’s just a capitalist through and through. He can’t help it, but he’s not the bad guy.”
I remembered what Margo had told me—If you’re going to save the world, you better make it profitable—and decided it was safe to speak.
“It’s Hamilton Burke,” I said.
“Hamilton Burke what?” Stanton asked.
“He’s the one who took the Net, did the bombings, killed Gladstone’s ex, and, I think Michiko too.”
“Why would he do that?” Leonards asked.
“I’m working on it.”
“What about Gladstone?” Stanton asked.
“He’s safe,” I said. “Now, answer my questions. Whoever’s penetrating ICANN’s security protocols needs a mole on the inside, right?”
“It would help,” Leonards said.
“Meaning someone who knew the code to all the security protocols could help an outsider get around them, play havoc with the Net?”
“Right,” Stanton said. “So?”
“So where’s your third keymaster?” Where’s Neville Bhattacharyya?”
Leonards and Stanton exchanged looks. “He wasn’t feeling well, and declined our invitation,” Leonards said.
“Stanton, when Margo and I met you, we tried to tell you that story about the dollar-store dad, but you’d already heard it from Burke, remember? Well, we told that story to Bhattacharyya before Burke started using it. You say Bhattacharyya’s sick; I’ve seen his old photos. Now, he looks more like he’s dying. And he’s got kids.”
“You’re saying he’s susceptible to bribery? A millionaire?” Leonards asked.
“Millionaire, my arse,” Stanton replied. “Tech Global lost everything two years ago, remember? Hostile takeover. Hargazian runs that company now. Bhattacharyya’s pretty much a figurehead for marketing. He’s on salary.”
Leonards shrugged. “I defer to the capitalist,” he said. “They’re better at getting into the heads of their own kind.”
“With all due respect, Professor,” I said. “I’m betting on you being wrong.”
Day 428
Margo and I flew into L.A. the night before meeting Jeeves and stayed in a shitty little Santa Monica hotel. Given that Tobey had no money to spend on weed, I was confident he’d deliver our messages to Jeeves. First, in person, telling him what kind of information to pull from Burke’s mind, and later, providing the L.A. meeting place to exchange that information after his Internet Messiah speaking tour was over.
That night, even though we flipped the mattress looking for bed bugs before we dared get under the covers, I felt safer than I had in months. I held Margo hard and tight around her middle and she wrapped her long arms around me. I don’t want to tell you about our sex. I don’t want to write it down, because there is only one other person I want to make sure understands how I feel, and she already knows. But I will say in the past, I’d run to sex as an escape from stress, from loneliness. And in good times, I’d felt excitement and love, and even all the titillation the dirty adult world had promised to me as an addescent, but the difference with Margo was that sleeping with her just made me happy. There was nowhere else to go. Nothing left to do. No more to feel.
The next day we took the Pacific Coast Highway to a seafood place called Neptune’s Net that Margo picked because it was out of the way and too boorish for Burke’s tastes in case I still had any fear of bumping into him. (She also said it would make a cool locale for the movie.) We’d left the hotel with plenty of time for our six thirty p.m. meeting, but there must have been an accident because the highway slowly snaked for miles between the Pacific Ocean and the Santa Monica Mountains. I was afraid we’d be late, but Margo explained the highway was the only way to get where we were going, so Jeeves was probably stuck too.
We arrived at seven and after poking our heads inside to make sure Jeeves wasn’t already there, we took a seat on the deck outside. We wanted to catch him on the way in, and frankly part of me still wanted to watch for anyone coming. The place was filled with bikers and bicyclists, each dressed accordingly, and it was hard not to imagine some sort of fight breaking out with each team so easily identified by dress. It was also hard not to imagine the bicyclists getting their asses kicked.
The sun was setting over the Pacific in a way I’d never seen.
“The water looks almost golden,” I said.
“Well, yeah, that’s why they call it the Golden State,” Margo replied.
“I thought that was because of the gold rush.”
“I used to think that too,” she said while flipping through the menu, but she put it down almost instantly to stare over my shoulder. It was Jeeves, and he must have come directly from a Hamilton engagement because he was still wearing crisp khaki shorts and a button-down shirt. He smiled when he saw me, but it looked like it hurt. Something was wrong. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t alone. He came over to our table, stopping on Margo’s side first.
“Dan,” I said. “This is Margo Zmena, she—” but I didn’t get to finish, because he grabbed Margo’s extended hand and sandwiched it tightly between his own, and when Margo decided to pretend it was still a normal handshake a
nd bring it to an end, Dan wouldn’t let her go. He held tight and closed his eyes, almost shaking with concentration as a tiny smile slowly spread across his face. Then bigger and bigger until he released her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just a little overprotective.” Then he gently touched Margo’s face, no longer looking for answers, just wanting to appreciate what he’d found. “Thank you,” he said, and I could see he was almost crying. I opened my arms, and he edged his way around the table, and now he really was crying.
“I’m so sorry, Gladstone,” he said, holding my face in his hands.
“What for?” I asked.
“For everything. I know what he did to you. I saw everything.”
“Hamilton?”
“Yes,” Jeeves said, wrapping his arms around me and squeezing. “I’m so sorry, Wayne.”
“It’s OK, Dan,” I said. “I’m OK. Please, let’s sit.”
We spent the next few minutes nearly silent. Jeeves needed the time. We sat and watched the sun go from gold to gone before ordering drinks. Jeeves ran his finger around the ribbon of my fedora sitting on the table. I told him it was a gift from Margo and once belonged to David Bowie. He told me he knew. When the drinks came, Jeeves knocked back half his beer before reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a flash drive.
“This has just one document,” he said, “but it’s everything I pulled from Hamilton. Every name I could see. Every physical description I could muster. Every bank-account number. Gunmen, pilots, everything.”
I took the flash drive and put it in my pocket, thinking about what it must have been like for a good man like Jeeves to live in Hamilton’s mind for a full week. “I’m sorry, Dan,” I said, putting my hand on his. “Thank you.” He drank from his Anchor Steam more leisurely, but he still wasn’t the man I remembered, so I pulled out a five and put it on the table.
“Hey, Jeeves,” I said. “Why do they call California the Golden State?”
Reports on the Internet Apocalypse Page 14
