“Well, there’s a fair amount of debate over that actually. Many say because of the gold rush, but then there are the golden sunsets over the Pacific. The state colors are gold and blue, there are the golden poppies, and, of course, the Golden Gate Bridge, so y’know, pick one.”
“There’s my Jeeves,” I said. “Keep the five, big guy. You earned it.”
Margo smiled, happy that she got to see a display of Jeeves’s old Central Park stylings, but I could tell she had questions. “So Dan,” Margo said, “if you’re up to it, I do have some questions.”
Jeeves wasn’t quite up to answers, but he understood the need for questions. “Go ahead,” he said.
“So you found information on accomplices, and that’s exactly what Rowsdower asked for, but did you get any, I don’t know, insight? What are Hamilton’s motives?”
You didn’t need to be a psychic to know that was the question anyone would have. Jeeves finished his beer in a long, slow swig, eyeing my plain seltzer. “Good for you, Wayne,” he said before turning back to Margo. “That was the hardest part,” he said. “I kept holding on, even prepping him to think about his motivations before each incidental touch, and all I can tell you is…” Jeeves stopped. “Someone’s coming.”
Margo didn’t wait. She grabbed Jeeves’s empty beer bottle and cracked it on the wooden railing to her left, pieces of broken glass falling down on the grass below. I dug the flash drive deeper into my jeans pocket. “Easy,” Jeeves said. “It’s just Rowsdower.”
Rowsdower was dressed in his old gray suit, wearing an impossibly thin black tie and my grandfather’s fedora. He spotted us instantly, and was pissed.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said. “The traffic in this fucking bullshit city!” He sat down next to Margo, opposite Jeeves, and flagged a passing waitress with red hair. “Johnnie Walker, rocks,” he said. “Thanks.”
The waitress broke stride for a moment to acknowledge the order and give Margo a disapproving look. “It’s usually the bikers who start breaking bottles,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Sage,” Margo said, noting the name tag. “I left my leather jacket at home.”
“How’d you know where to find us?” I asked Rowsdower.
“How ya think? Tobey,” he replied.
“Good point. And what happened with the NSA?” I asked. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, they offered me my job back. Well, to the FBI, more specifically.”
“That’s great, Aaron,” Margo said. “So you really were just collateral damage?” she asked, clearly referencing their conversation I knew only from Rowsdower’s reports.
“Seems that way,” he said. “They want me back at the bureau now that the NET Recovery Act’s allegedly winding down and Gladstone here is no longer enemy number one.”
“Are you taking it?” Jeeves asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “We have business to take care of first.”
Jeeves was pleased to hear that. “I pulled every single accomplice name I could and put it all on a flash drive I gave to Gladstone,” he said.
Rowsdower looked me over, noting I had no shirt pockets or backpack. He knew the drive was in my jeans. “Was Neville Bhattacharyya one of them?” he asked, and Jeeves showed the surprise so often reserved for his audience’s face. Rowsdower was happier than I’d ever seen him.
“How did you know?” Jeeves asked.
Margo put her hand on Rowsdower’s shoulder and said, “Because it’s his job to know.”
“Yes, Neville and a lot more,” Jeeves said, “but when you arrived, we were moving from means to motive.”
“Before we get to that,” Margo said. “Something’s bothering me. Hamilton read Gladstone’s book. He heard all about you, Jeeves. Why would a man with so much to hide put himself in a position to be seen by you so many times?”
“He doesn’t believe in me,” Jeeves said.
“Because he’s a bottom line, hard-nosed businessman? That sort of thing?” Rowsdower asked.
“It’s not just a lack of faith, but humility,” Jeeves said.” I proclaimed Gladstone the Internet Messiah, and as far as he’s concerned I’m wrong. He thinks Gladstone’s dead or drinking himself to death somewhere in the world. Hamilton believes in himself far more than any prophecy, and he’s very pleased about destroying Gladstone.”
Hamilton had told me he needed me out of the way without murder because the movement would only grow with a martyr. That made sense, but I still wanted to ask again. “Why did he need to destroy me?”
My question returned all the pain my Golden State trivia had relieved, and Jeeves closed his eyes as if suffering a burn without screaming. I was making him remember. “Because,” he said, almost mastering the quiver in his voice, “he hates you.”
No one spoke for a moment. There was nothing left of the sun. The tables were lit by electric lights above, which obscured any effect of each table’s tiny flickering candle. I tried to understand why being hated by a monster I despised was enough to make me feel sad and frightened.
“But Wayne,” Jeeves said, “he also kind of loves you. I mean, he wants to become the Internet Messiah.”
“That’s what Margo said,” I replied.
“Think of that,” Jeeves continued. “This man who has succeeded at every financial endeavor in life, who can buy and sell all of us a hundred times over—the only thing he wanted, the only thing he didn’t have is what you have: tons of followers believing in a cause.”
“So he took the Internet away just so he could bring it back?” Rowsdower asked.
“There’s no one answer,” Jeeves explained. “Having conquered the world, I believe boredom is a very big motivator for him these days, and I also think what he said to Gladstone at Trinity Church was true. First it was magnanimous—help the workingman by removing the tool that disproportionately increased the expectations of productivity. Then he thought maybe he could profit from bringing it back, but ultimately, he just wanted to be a hero. To be a champion of pure things.”
“Even if he had to steal, murder, and destroy to do it,” I said.
“Yes,” Jeeves agreed. “And with each cyberattack, each bomb, each murder, the administration became more and more oppressive. They became the bad guy for him to rail against.”
“He made the government his unwitting collaborator,” Margo said.
“Right,” Jeeves said. “And that pleased him immensely.”
“Well,” Rowsdower said. “Seems he’s a lot like you already, right Gladstone?”
“Meaning what?” I asked.
“Well, you had me running all over the world with clues to find you, not knowing I was only serving your purposes.”
“How?”
“Whaddya mean? You had Margo and me meeting all the ICANN Internet power brokers, singing the gospel of Gladstone, telling your dollar-store story.”
“Yeah, that was Margo’s idea. I didn’t even know what ICANN was until her, but I was afraid for her to go alone, and I wasn’t ready to leave the first safe spot I found in years.”
Rowsdower backed off a bit, because only animals and the worst humans attack when they smell fear.
“But more importantly,” I continued, “I trusted you.”
“To play bodyguard?”
“No. To do whatever needed to be done. I had faith that if you met with some of the most important people of the Internet, you’d figure out what was needed in a way I never could. You and Margo both.”
“You really didn’t have more of a plan than that?” Rowsdower asked.
“No.” I laughed. “Blame this asshole,” I said, pointing to Jeeves. “He started it.” Jeeves put his hand over mine on the table and held it there.
“It’s worked so far,” he said.
“I just kept finding people I trusted and kept believing.”
“Well, speaking of that,” Rowsdower said. “Give me the flash drive. I’m meeting with Anonymous tomorrow.”
“The same contact?�
�� Margo asked.
“Yeah, the black guy.”
No one spoke.
“What? He’s black. What should I call him, the guy who dresses like Guy Fawkes? That won’t really help.”
“How about just his name?” Jeeves asked.
“He doesn’t have a name,” Rowsdower said. “He’s Anonymous.”
“Black Fawkes Down?” I offered.
“How is that better?” Rowsdower asked.
“You could have just said ‘yes’ and left it at that,” Margo said.
“Fine,” Rowsdower said. “Yes. The same contact at Anonymous. The one who I’ve decided to trust because he got the information that got Jeeves and Tobey out of prison. That one. OK?”
“What can Anonymous do with the Internet down?” Jeeves asked.
“It’s not down,” Rowsdower replied. “Unlike before, the hubs are operational. The world is connected, but ICANN is eking out the working sites, making them pass their audits. Each week, they’re going to update the DNSSEC protocols to allow in more approved sites.”
I wanted to cough “nerd,” but Tobey wasn’t there and he was the only person I knew who’d laugh at that.
“Which brings me to the gift-giving part of the show,” Rowsdower continued, and pulled some folded papers out of his left inside coat pocket. “Everything I just told you is in my last report. I wanted you to have it to keep with the others.” He slid the papers across the table and then reached into his right coat pocket and pulled out an iPhone Infinity. “I got you a present,” he said, handing it to me. “Next week, there will be more, but right now, you’ve got a phone with the one working app on the Internet. PeepHole.”
“People?” I asked.
“No, PeepHole.”
“What is that? Some sort of sex thing?”
“No, it lets you broadcast yourself like the star of your own little reality show. Just do me a favor. Keep it on your phone, OK? And another favor, give me the flash drive.”
Rowsdower held his hand palm open on the table, and I reached into my pocket with enough hesitation for him to notice.
“Give me one week,” he said. “One week to take Jeeves’s impressions and turn them into the evidence against Hamilton we need. We can bust him.”
I placed the drive in Rowsdower’s hand, but before he could close his fingers, Jeeves covered the drive with his palm. He squeezed Rowsdower’s hand and closed his eyes. Rowsdower did not fight, and after a moment, Jeeves opened his eyes with a start and stared right at him.
“Are you sure about what you’re walking into, Aaron?” he said.
“No, I’m not,” Rowsdower replied. “But you know what they say: miracles and disasters look the same in the distance.”
Day 434
Margo took me to her place in La Brea, and as we drove down Wilshire Boulevard, neither the sun nor the palm trees nor the smiles bothered me as they had before. They didn’t look like distractions from work, because our work, for the moment, was waiting. Rowsdower had the intel, Anonymous was finding documents, and from their work Rowsdower would build the criminal case against Burke. Murder, terrorism, cyberterrorism. All I had to do was wait for Hamilton to be destroyed.
When we pulled up to Margo’s place, I was confused, because it looked like the white palatial estate of a 1940s movie star, with all its Spanish tile and white arches.
“You live here?” I asked.
“It’s not a mansion,” she said. “You’ll see.”
We went through the front door, which opened to a main lobby, where Margo picked up her mail. Then she took me through a back door directly opposite the one we’d entered to show me a huge green courtyard. It seemed this place really was a mansion once, but it had been gutted. The center was now a lawn, replete with a fountain. There were rows of apartments along both sides.
“Not what you were expecting, huh?” Margo said.
“Yeah, I had no idea I was dating one of the chicks from Melrose Place.”
Inside, Margo’s apartment was modest and it reminded me a lot of mine in Australia. Lots of white, lots of light, and plenty of hardwood floors. It was clean with minimal clutter with the exception of Margo’s old CDs that lined all her window casements. They’d probably been sitting there since she moved in ten years ago. She hadn’t moved as she rose up with Rubinek, and even when she got the inheritance money, she kept her needs simple.
Each morning, I woke wrapped up in Margo inside this white, well-lit space that increasingly was starting to feel too much like heaven. On the sixth effortless morning, I decided to inspect the window CDs on my way back from the bathroom. It was an eclectic mix, but most seemed like rejects from the Garden State soundtrack.
“Big Pitchfork fan, huh?” I said to Margo in place of “Good morning.”
“No one’s making you listen to them,” she said, more annoyed than I expected or intended.
I got back into bed, swaddling her in the comforter on both sides as I lay on top. “Don’t be mad,” I said. “Being teased by people who love you is good for the soul.”
“Yeah?” she asked, looking up at me.
“Definitely.”
“Why?”
I wasn’t sure. I’d always just assumed it to be true. “I’ll think about that,” I said, and kissed her nose. “I’m sorry.”
We turned on the TV. It seemed her apartment had the same boosted antennae signal as Rowsdower’s so the reception was fine. The latest report was that the major cable providers wouldn’t be online for another few weeks of audits, and the protests had only intensified. Some led by Burke, some by Anonymous, and some by fans of my book, holding Wi-Fi symbol protest signs. I was biased, but I liked how those guys dressed the best—sports jackets and fedoras, sometimes wearing Margo’s Gladstone mask.
“Wish those masks looked a little more like me,” I said to Margo.
“Why?” she asked. “Need something to masturbate to?”
I shot out a laugh, and said, “See? It’s good for the soul because you shouldn’t take yourself too seriously.” She pondered the validity of my point for a moment before I added, “Now, enough joking around; let’s focus on me being the Messiah.”
It turns out my timing was pretty good, because the news cut to a portion of Hamilton’s latest speech from the day before. He was outside of the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia.
“Damn, he’s good at branding,” Margo said.
Hamilton might have not believed in Jeeves, but being anointed certainly did something for him. He spoke even more passionately than before. “The Internet, the government says, is returning. Little by little. Incremental change, they say.”
Boos rose up from the crowd.
“And why incremental?” he asked. “After all, the hubs are secure. The connections are set, the waves are in the air.” He pointed as if he could see them. “But this administration claims additional security is needed. So ICANN, an international committee—that oh, by the way, just happens to answer to the US Department of Commerce—is doing their audit. Anyone here trust that audit?”
The crowd gave Hamilton all the nooooooos he wanted, and it let him up his showmanship. “Oh, come on, friends,” he said. “Why be so cynical? Why would you have any reason to doubt this audit? After all, even the conservative Drudge Report is for it. Oh, wait, it’s not. Drudge hasn’t passed his audit and isn’t online. But I’m sure the liberal site Daily Kos is in favor of it. Oh, wait, they’re not online either. Fox is offline. MSNBC is offline. Right now, all we have is CNN, and wouldn’t you know it? CNN can’t stop praising the president for solving the Apocalypse problem. What were the odds?”
Hamilton interrupted the crowd’s laughter to ask, “Does the Internet Apocalypse feel solved to you?” The crowd was angry, but when he followed up with “Do you feel free?” their roar was like a wave breaking. He paced a few steps behind his podium, overseeing his people, before returning and pointing behind him. “We stand here today, in front of a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old bell, c
racked and broken, but if we had the courage, or inclination, to string it up from the highest tower, it would still ring. People could still hear the sound of freedom for miles and miles. Sometimes it would sound strong and sometimes it would sound thin and shrill, but it would ring.
“But is that what this administration does when confronted with broken things? No. It takes control of them, and it meters out the sounds it thinks we the people should hear.”
“He’s right,” Margo said.
“Of course he’s right,” I said. “All the best lies have the benefit of being true.”
“I’m asking for your support,” Hamilton said. “Make me your president and I’ll bring you back a real, unfettered Internet. God bless you, and God bless America!”
Margo shut off the TV and tried to take my hand to offer support in the face of my enemy, but I didn’t want sympathy. I didn’t want to be coddled. I wanted to fight, and short of that, I wanted the moving parts of my loose collective to hurry up and come together to destroy a monster.
“Do you hear that?” Margo asked, and I listened again. It was some sort of a beep coming from her desk, where I’d left Rowsdower’s phone gift to me charging. A push notification from that PeepHole app was letting me know that MessiahFanMan—the only person I followed—was now broadcasting. I tapped the screen, and there he was, my old persecutor, friend, and savior. He was dressed in his typical 1965 G-man style, but he was no longer wearing my grandfather’s fedora. He seemed to be broadcasting from the couch of a living room.
“Good afternoon,” he said to the phone he was holding directly in front of his face. “My name is Aaron N. Rowsdower, formerly of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the NSA. I was a foot soldier of the NET Recovery Act, tasked with finding out who stole the Internet. I’ve collected that data, and today, I bring it to the FBI. I’ve asked my former boss, Patrick Dunican, to meet me here, at his Long Island home, because I had news too sensitive to be said within government walls.”
“What the fuck is he doing?” I asked Margo, who was looking more concerned than I’d ever seen her.
Rowsdower glared over his left shoulder through what appeared to be a bay window. “Yep, seems he’s on his way now.” Rowsdower sat back on the couch and then appeared to put the camera in his front jacket pocket facing out. He must have cut some sort of a hole, because a few shreds of fabric obscured the lens.
Reports on the Internet Apocalypse Page 15
