A significant segment of most inner-city economies was an underground one, where cash was king and nobody asked questions. The economics of participating in trafficking were easy for even a novice to comprehend: if you were poorly educated or lazy, working a real job, likely in a fast food restaurant, might pay you one-twentieth of what you could make slinging dope on the streets. True, there were significant dangers involved in the drug trade, but that just added to the excitement factor when you were in your teens, suddenly being taken seriously because of your stash and your cash and your gun. Your entire life revolved around the glorification of your fast-money lifestyle and violent creed, from the clothes you wore to the rap music you listened to.
A lowered Impala came rolling around the corner, following two creeping cars â the occupants obviously looking to score â and suddenly, the street in front of the projects became a killing field. The distinctive chatter of automatic weapons fire popped like firecrackers. By the time the ancient Chevrolet accelerated and made it to the end of the block, the bodies of hooded adolescent wheelers and dealers littered the lawn, some groaning and moving, many not.
A few innocent passers-by were also cut down, not unexpected given that an adrenaline and cocaine-charged teen firing an unfamiliar weapon with no training was hardly likely to have a particularly accurate aim. Many of the wounded wouldnât make it â emergency vehicles took a long time to respond in this particular neck of the woods. It was just part of living in the concrete and brick jungle that housed the projects; a kind of hell to the inhabitants. In that violent world, you defended yourself; you didnât rely on the police to do so, and you expected no mercy and offered none.
Once the shooting was over, the remaining members of the gang that ran the drugs on the block assembled, vowing to avenge the attack and take down the rival group that had intruded into their turf. They would plan a drive-by of their own at the gangâs main distribution block, killing as many of their soldiahs as had been shot today â and then some. It never occurred to any of the participants that designating twelve and thirteen year olds as soldiers in the wealthiest nation on the planet defied logic â this wasnât some sub-Saharan African civil war between adversarial tribes, where it was routine to find ten year olds brandishing Kalashnikovs and bragging of the number theyâd killed; where the average resident made a few hundred dollars a year and had no hope of any future beyond misery and death. This was any large city in the U.S., a country with the most expensive educational system in history, where the emphasis was on building fortunes and achieving oneâs dreams of prosperity, and where the government had spent many billions every year to âbattleâ drugs, while smugly assuring its population that it lived in the best country in the world.
And so it went, a never-ending cycle of killing to protect the distribution of illegal substances and the mega-profits associated with their traffic. The lessons of Prohibition had been forgotten â the violence associated with criminal cartels controlling the distribution of alcohol, which ended virtually overnight once drinking became legal again, was politically forbidden to speak of. Thus the pattern of violent crime and murder continued unabated, regardless of how many prisons were built to incarcerate an ever-growing percentage of the citizenry, or how many billions were spent on a war against its own populationâs appetites.
In the end, nothing changed. Drugs remained widely available anywhere in the nation and were consumed with enthusiasm by many â but the thousand percent profits associated with their traffic remained intact, ensuring there would be continued misery for generations to come as children killed each other to protect the easy money the industry produced.
********
âGive me an update,â Sid ordered into the phone.
âSo far, nothing much. The technician didnât know anything other than that the office had been bugged. Nothing about the document,â the voice reported.
âAre you sure he was telling the truth?â Sid demanded.
âCompletely sure.â
âSo what else do we have?â Sid asked.
âWeâre working our way up the food chain. I donât think the staff has any idea what the book agent was up to, so thatâs likely to prove non-productive. The receptionistâs account was consistent with the technicianâs. The security company did a routine sweep and obviously left the bugs in place, and thatâs all anyone knows. She didnât have any idea about the manuscript. So weâre back to doing this the hard way,â the voice advised.
âWhat about the head of the security company?â
âWe left messages posing as prospective clients, but so far thereâs been no contact. Weâre watching his place and thereâs no sign of movement. Could be he has a girlfriend heâs staying with, or he could have gone to ground. If heâs got contacts at NYPD, heâll know the agent didnât suffer an innocent heart attack by now â the preliminary police reportâs now calling it a homicide.â
âThe security owner, this Michael Derrigan, is ex-SEAL, so he might have gotten spooked by the hardware. Iâd just assume he has ties to the police and is now on full alert. My bet is you find him, and a lot of the questions about the document get answered,â Sid advised.
âWeâre thinking along the same lines. From the time the literary agent downloaded it to the time he was sanctioned, he only had contact with a few people. Barring someone we havenât accounted for on the first night, the likely culprit is Derrigan. Weâre working under the assumption that heâs read it and is fully aware of the ramifications, which will make our job tougher. But on the other hand, even professionals slip up eventually, so if we canât figure out where he is, weâll get him when he does. Thatâs the least desirable outcome, obviously. Weâre turning over every rock we can, sir,â the voice said.
âI want a full report as soon as you know more. Iâll be up late,â Sid directed.
He didnât like the direction this was taking. In his experience, if there wasnât progress within the first twenty-four hours of a manhunt like this, then the odds of a successful conclusion dropped dramatically. So far all they knew was that part or all of the manuscript had been printed and was unaccounted for. Abe wasnât going to be talking to anyone, so he couldnât tell them anything. They knew it wasnât at his home. The office had come up empty. And nobody theyâd interrogated knew about it.
Perhaps the most disturbing aspect now was a pro in the mix on the opposing side. If Derrigan had the manuscript and they couldnât find him soon, it was anyoneâs guess as to how he would play the next round. Then again, it was almost impossible to stay off the radar anymore, so they could be assured heâd turn up eventually.
But every hour he was unaccounted for increased the likelihood of him sharing the manuscript with someone else, which then would magnify their containment problem.
And there was the more fundamental issue, namely the source of the manuscript. They were no closer to understanding who had drafted the damning document than they had been when it surfaced, which was troubling in the extreme. A review of the contents yielded no new information. The source was highly informed about operations that were at the highest level of top secret, even decades after their completion, as well as about ongoing connections that would prove disastrous if they were made public. The administration would have no choice but to round up some rats before they tried to jump ship â and Sid would be at the head of the line. He wielded an enormous amount of power and influence, but not enough to escape a bloodbath if this went viral.
This was a dangerous game, and the stakes were as high as heâd ever played for. The positive in it all, if there was one, was that his search team was the best, and he could access a lot of proprietary NSA intel if necessary, as well as use Homeland Security to augment their efforts. His team couldnât go overt but t
hey could come pretty close, so Sid was confident theyâd get Derrigan sooner rather than later.
He just hoped it was soon enough.
********
Koshi was buzzed. His group had polished off a fair amount of liquor at the restaurant and then theyâd stopped in for a nightcap at one of the large dance clubs in the Village. The gang had three or four haunts they favored, and the sushi place was closest to a club that catered to a mostly Asian crowd, so they dropped in to see if anything was jumping. It was a Thursday and the crowd was thick, packed to the rafters with those trying to get a jumpstart on the weekendâs partying.
Koshi had downed a few Red Bull and vodka cocktails, and then reluctantly pulled away from the group, bidding them a fond goodnight. It was midnight by that point, but the streets were still humming with pedestrians, so he felt okay hoofing it to his place, which was eight long blocks away. He reasoned the exercise would help sober him up, and began making a mental checklist of the items heâd need to pack for a couple of days at his cousinâs. There was no way he would be leaving tonight for Jersey, but he could get out by six a.m. and be there by eight, which would be fine, he was sure. Michael was over-reacting to what was a completely routine security job. Even if they were questioned, what could he possibly tell anyone? That he had failed to find some old manâs lost e-mail? Wow. Stop the presses for that newsflash. Still, Michael didnât tend to go off half-cocked, and heâd never been alarmist before, so better to be safe than sorry.
It was a balmy night familiar to early September, one of his favorite times to be out in the city. Summer could get unbearably muggy and hot, but this year had been mild and the fall was shaping up to be a beauty. There were very few places in the world where it was as good to be young, single, and with some money in your pocket than in New York. Koshi was making the most of it. His consulting business paid extremely well â he was always in demand as a programmer as well as a hacker. Of course, the hacking paid far better, and it was truly what he enjoyed doing, so Koshi couldnât complain about much. Sure, he drank too much on occasion and burned the candle at both ends, but that was what you were supposed to do when you were in your twenties. So what the hell. He had plenty of time to grow up later. For now, life was a party and a game.
Two blocks from his house a figure startled him, stepping out of a doorway and blocking the sidewalk. One of the townâs homeless population, wanting a cigarette or a handout. Koshi was used to such encounters. He fished out a Marlboro and tossed it to the man even as he skillfully avoided any contact. Some of these creeps could be dangerous, especially late at night, so he kept a few feet of distance between himself and the shabbily dressed vagrant. Koshi picked up the sour scent of alcohol and nicotine, as well as urine and general decay.
âGod bless you, man,â the shambling form mumbled as he passed. âYou got a light?â
âGotta run, bruthah. Enjoy the smoke,â Koshi responded without stopping. He knew from experience that if you engaged street people you were setting yourself up for them to hit you up for something else. A light would turn into a request for some spare change, which could easily spiral into a demand. Best just to avoid the whole mess and pick up the pace.
Koshiâs combat boots thunked against the sidewalk as he rounded the corner of his block. He automatically checked behind over his shoulder, as well as across the street and down the block, before turning and unlocking the buildingâs front door. When you lived in the city, you became sensitive to potential threats, and by now this sort of late night scan was routine. Everything was quiet.
He mounted the stairs to his apartment, which was on the second floor, situated over a dry cleanerâs shop. As he stepped onto the landing, he felt a tickle of apprehension. What the fuck. Michael had him afraid of his own shadow. There was nobody around, just his battered door with three deadbolts, and opposite, the door of his neighbor â a geriatric Vietnam vet who drank his dinner and was usually passed out by nightfall. Koshi keyed his locks, humming drunkenly to himself, and pushed his door open.
The electric current hit him with blinding suddenness, his legs buckling like spaghetti as his muscles lost control. The wavering hulk of two figures stood over him, one of whom was holding a cattle prod. Both wore black and were smiling.
âKoshi Yamaguchi, I presume?â the shorter of the two inquired conversationally. Then everything went dark.
********
The East River at dawn was eerily calm before the bustle of the city got into full gear. Joggers and bicyclists moved along the waterfront paths â the more athletically inclined of the islandâs residents striving, as always, to get in their exercise before the workday began. Laborers lounged around roach coaches along the concrete embankments that framed the river, joking with one another before starting their construction shifts.
A six year old boy strolled along, gripping the hand of his eighty-four year old great-grandfather. This was their bonding time. They ambled along the river as the old man had done with his children, then his grandchildren, and now this generation.
Things in the city had changed dramatically since the Great Depression, which was the environment heâd been raised in. His father, a railroad man, had been one of the fortunate few who remained employed throughout those days of darkness. He still remembered the shanties in the parks of that era, the Hoovervilles where the homeless and downtrodden had hung their hats even as the wealthiest people in America rode by in their exotic automobiles on their way to day jobs on Wall Street. Even as a teenager, during the 1939 World Fair, he remembered the stark contrast between the haves and the have nots.
Heâd lived in the city his entire life, through the post-World War II era prosperity and the hope of the fifties, through the troubled and divided years that marked the sixties and seventies, when crime soared through Manhattan and his neighborhood went from a relatively-safe family area to a violent ghetto. Then a trend of surprising urbanization and newfound prosperity had hit, and after decades in squalor, heâd found himself with new neighbors whoâd paid seven figures for rundown brownstone walkups that had previously housed drug gangs and addicts.
The more things changed, the more they stayed the same, though. The concentration of wealth and power had never been greater with the financial elite than it was today, with some hedge fund managers making as much per year as the gross domestic product of small nations. Even as the average Joe couldnât afford a cup of coffee on the island anymore, the wealthy got wealthier â as they had done so since the dawn of civilization. There were some things that would be perennial.
For now, the old man had his memories and his treasured quiet time with his great-grandson, Bernard, before he had to get the boy home to his ma so they could truck off to school. These weekday morning walks lasted half an hour and were an important time for the old man; a reminder of the vitality of new life as well as of his ebbing time on earth. The cycle was relentless, heâd seen far too much to try to fight it anymore. He had his small chunk carved out for walks with Bernard, and that, in the end, was enough.
They moved to the river side of the path, taking in the rush of water as it made its way out to the sea. The East River was a source of endless fascination for Bernard; he could spend hours watching the current sweep all manner of debris past their vantage point. It was just one of the many wondrous things the world reserved for the entertainment of the young.
âLook! Over in the water. Is that some kind of animal?â Bernard asked, gesturing with his small hand at an object bobbing against the concrete pilings near the base of the Brooklyn Bridge.
The old man peered at the area where his great-grandson was pointing, straining to see. His vision wasnât what it used to be. Nothing was, really, but it beat the alternative.
âIâ¦I donât see what youâre looking at,â he admitted.
âRight there, in the water, by the posts. Itâs
floating,â Bernard urged.
âOh, I see. Nah, itâs probably some kinda garbage. Donât look like no animal. Too big for a dog,â he said, and then finally was able to better focus and get a clearer look at the mystery object. He gasped, then concentrated on getting his voice under control so he wouldnât alarm Bernard. The little boy sensed something was wrong and looked up into the old manâs dim eyes.
âBernard, come on, come away from there. We gotta go call the police. It looks like somebody mightta fallen in the water.â In spite of his efforts to stay calm, the old man was twitching with agitation by now. Heâd gotten a good enough look to know that what they were looking at was indeed no dog.
They made their way to the nearest pay phone, and with trembling hands he dialed 911. The operator took down his information and assured him there would be a squad car on site within a few minutes and asked that he wait for it to show up so he could pinpoint the location. He agreed to do so, more because he wanted to see how the cops would react than anything else.
The old man and Bernard sat expectantly on a nearby bench, watching the joggers as they waited for the police to show up. It was exciting for them both when the car arrived and the two uniformed officers got out and asked him to show them what theyâd seen. It wasnât often that Bernard got to stand in the spotlight and be the center of adult attention. He nervously walked to the edge of the path, trailed by the old man and the police, and thrust his tiny finger in the direction of the object in the river.
The Manuscript Page 12
