by J W Brazier
“Great. That’s great. I’m glad.” Dean paused. “Ann, you sound stressed. Are you sure you’re alright? I can meet you right away if you want.”
“What? Oh … No, that’s okay. We’ll talk over dinner. The urgency concerns GEM-Tech. Their chief of security, a John Hirsch, paid me a visit earlier. He’s an evil piece of garbage.”
Dean sighed, and Ann could imagine him shaking his head. “Ann, he’s the same guy that paid my boss a visit in New York. Did he harm you or threaten you?”
“Threaten me, yes; harm me, no. But they know about my mother’s journals and documents. They think I have them and want them back, and they’re deadly serious.”
“Ann … you’re in a dangerous spot.”
“I know, Dean. I know. Look, it’s probably not safe to talk on the phone. These characters are capable of anything, and I do mean anything. Where are you?”
“I’m staying at the same hotel as last time, the White River Inn. Can we meet right away if it’s possible? We can talk over an early dinner.”
She thought about Dean’s suggestion, and it did make sense—or was it that tingle she felt wanting to see him again? Either way, an early dinner would solve both motives. She decided to forgo lounging in a hot bath and bubbles for a quick shower.
“Yes, let’s do that, Dean. I’ll pick you up in about an hour,” she said.
“Okay. See you then. Be careful.”
Ann smiled, already feeling safer—and then she had a quick idea. She decided to make another call to a friend.
Chapter 22
Dean grappled with the irresistible, but inescapable truth: Ann Taylor had gotten under his skin. His thoughts of her felt like a mental roller coaster ride of passionate emotions—compelling sensations he found hard to fathom, along with a dilemma: his commitment to his number one rule … or letting his feelings lead him along.
This is crazy! What if she isn’t interested? Focus, Cohen! Assignment first. This is dinner, a simple dinner. Don’t go off the deep end.
He checked his watch and decided to have a coffee in the hotel restaurant while he waited for Ann. Soon enough, while in line to pay for his coffee, Dean watched two customers pay their bills. The payment exchange was intriguing. The first customer slipped his right hand into an oversized plastic mold. Tiny pulsing beams of light scanned his hand. The transaction was instantaneous. The second customer then handed the cashier a card. She waved it in front of a scanner. Then the customer touched a screen with her thumb. Their payments, Dean noted, required no signature or ID.
Coffee in hand, Dean stepped up and held out a five-dollar bill.
“You must be new to White River,” the young cashier said.
Dean had already decided to play the innocent tourist. “Yes. Yes, I am,” he said.
“Well, then, welcome to White River, sir. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but our hotel made a recent change in its policy. The hotel will no longer except cash transactions. White River has transitioned to a cashless economy.”
Dean smiled. What a surprise, he thought, but decided to keep playing naïve. He eyed the cashier’s nametag and said, “Doris, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Doris, when I went to bed last night, cash was still king. Have the president and his gang of dancing puppets in the White House and Congress betrayed the American people overnight and outlawed cash?”
Doris put her hand to her mouth and laughed. “Oh, no, sir, it’s nothing that drastic. Cash is still king … but not in White River. The banks and business are trial-testing a new cashless monetary system. So far it’s precise, simple, and one hundred percent secure.”
“Wow, is this happening everywhere, Doris?”
“Oh, no, sir. As far as I know, it’s exclusive to White River for this trial run.”
“Do you know why?”
“Well, no, actually. All I know for sure is that it’s part of the recent military exercises dealing with terrorists.”
“Well, okay then. You do take other plastic, I hope?”
“Oh, yes, sir, we accept all major cards … until Monday of next week. I’m told that the new OWN card will take over all financial transactions at that point, unless you have a chip implant. The front desk should’ve suggested that when you arrived. If you’d like, I can call them to help you with that. It won’t take but a few minutes.”
“The OWN card. What does ‘OWN’ mean?”
The cashier giggled. “‘OWN’ is short for ‘One World Network.’ A catchy phrase, wouldn’t you say? The technology is awesome. I use mine at the malls in Little Rock. So far, I haven’t had a problem. My mom, dad, brother, and sister wanted the chip implants instead. And they all love it.”
Dean nodded. “Okay, Doris, it sounds harmless enough and would make my stay in White River less complicated. So how do I get this OWN card?”
“I can help the gentleman, Doris.”
Dean turned to see a tall, slender brunette walking toward him with her hand outstretched.
“I’m Ms. Maria Gonzales.”
“Ms. Gonzales, Dean Cohen.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cohen. I’m an NGO—sorry, non-government official—with the UN. Come with me and I can explain.”
“Sure,” Dean said.
They took a few steps away from the cashier, and Maria said, “The OWN card and chip implant, whichever you’d prefer, are different and offer their own unique features.”
“Excuse me a moment, Ms. Gonzales,” Dean said, then stopped and turned to face the smiling young cashier. “Thanks for your help, Doris. Oh, and what about my coffee? Can I just add it to my room?”
“Oh, yes, sir, you can, but today, your coffee is on the house. Welcome to White River and I’m glad I could help.”
Dean smiled and then followed Maria Gonzales to a small lobby area near the front desk. Maria headed toward a peculiar piece of equipment resembling an oversized telephone booth with four bright silver posts. The contraption looked like an afterthought from a bad sci-fi movie.
“Ms. Gonzales, are you from Mexico?” Dean asked as they strolled through the hotel lobby.
“No, sir. I’m actually a native of Spain. I’m on temporary assignment from my consulate, as are other NGOs with me—to help with the implementation of UN Resolution 666-689.”
“Accept my apologies, Ms. Gonzales. I should’ve guessed by your accent.”
“Not a problem, sir. Apology accepted.”
She stopped in front of the contraption, as Dean had expected her to, and he figured this was a good time to start laying his cards out on the table … slowly.
“Ms. Gonzales, I’m a reporter from New York. Fads and new technologies are often first introduced in New York or California, not in a rural Southern town like White River, Arkansas. Why has the UN picked this small town to introduce a cashless system and not a major city, like New York?”
Maria seemed quick—almost too quick—with her obviously practiced answer: “Because of monetary impact … and to minimize disruptions. NGOs are in White River as part of Operation Chameleon. We’re to collect data during the trial testing of the OWN system. The UN and your government are preparing for a future monetary shift to a new, one-world currency.”
Alarms began clanging in Dean’s head, but he allowed Maria to continue.
“You’ll see my counterparts, I’m sure, assisting other businesses around town. There’s no cause for concern.”
“I’m sure that’s what General Custer must’ve told his men at the Little Big Horn,” Dean mumbled.
Maria leaned forward a bit. “Sorry, but I don’t understand your American meaning.”
“Not to worry, Ms. Gonzales. I was thinking out loud. Now, what do I have to do?”
“The booth before you is a state-of-the-art, sound-proof biometric security system, the first of its kind. Once you’re inside, I’ll go to my control station right over there and start the process. Once I do that, a computer-generated assistant will ask you a series o
f standardized personal questions, as if you and I were having a conversation. Afterward, the OWN system will verify and assimilate your personal information, and then generate a card or administer a painless implant—your choice.”
Dean gave a nod. “Okay … and then?”
“The OWN system will then access and tie directly to all your financial accounts. The system isn’t relegated to a geographic location or to any institutions affiliated with your personal information and financials. No more carrying checks or cash, credit or debit cards of any kind … and its impenetrable.”
He had to admit that the system sophistication sounded amazing—but still a bit scary.
“Okay,” he said, “but what if I can’t remember all those numbers and finer details?”
“Not to worry, Mr. Cohen. The OWN system will gather those important but almost always forgotten nuisances. The system will glean all that information from millions of sources you’ve never dreamed existed, past and present.”
She said all this with a smile, as if personal liberties and privacy laws meant nothing within the OWN system.
Still not liking any of this, Dean frowned and then gave a shrug. “Okay, let’s get it over with, then.”
He set his coffee down on a small table nearby, then stepped inside the machine as Maria moved to her control station. Dean watched as the oval Plexiglas door closed behind him and the unit bathed him in a soft glow of light. A soothing female’s voice greeted him and asked the usual questions: name, birthday, social security number, home address, telephone numbers, and bank account information.
When the computer asked his religion and gave choices, he paused. He was a Jew, but he’d heard no category for a Messianic Jew. He replied with “Christian.”
“Okay, Ms. Gonzales, what’s next?”
He heard Maria’s voice from speakers above him: “You’re doing great, Mr. Cohen. We’re almost finished. Stay within the marked silver square under your feet. Slip both hands into the hand molds in front of you. Relax and focus your eyes straight ahead. Please, try not to blink or move your head. Part of your new ID includes a DNA sample, retina eye scan, voice recognition, facial scan, and fingerprints. Plus, your exact height, weight, and any distinguishing marks, even through your clothing. No need to worry, though; we won’t store images of your physical body—only distinguishing marks such as tattoos or scars.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, Mr. Cohen. Painless, I assure you.”
“DNA sample, you say? I hate needles.”
Maria chuckled. “Mr. Cohen, everyone says that, but no needles are used. You won’t feel a thing. So, okay, everything looks fine, Mr. Cohen. We’re ready to begin. One last question, do you prefer the OWN card or a microchip implant … or both?”
Dean didn’t hesitate: “Card, please—no chip.”
“Very well, Mr. Cohen. Shall we begin?”
In spite of himself, Dean’s body tensed up. Still, he tried to take note of every detail. The square beneath him illuminated when he slipped both hands into the transparent hand molds. They were comfortable, with no sensations of pressure or clamping around his hands.
“Are you ready, Mr. Cohen?”
“Let it rip. I mean, yes, I’m ready.”
His pulse quickened. A small device that resembled a miniature camera moved in front of his eyes. Soft beams of red and green light scanned both eyes. They didn’t feel disturbing or uncomfortable. The beams broadened as the device maneuvered about, covering his entire body head to toe, front and back. Tiny light beams mingled and danced with others emanating upward from the silver square under his feet, all in one simultaneous movement. He had a wild thought that at any moment he’d be atomized and transported.
Dean noticed he could hear a faint audible sound of air, and then felt a slight tug of suction at his fingertips. The same glowing light beams began moving under and around his hands. He stated his name when asked by an alluring soft female voice. The oval door opened.
Maria appeared at the doorway. “Okay, Mr. Cohen, you’re finished.”
“Wow! That really was painless.”
Maria nodded. “Hackers are geo-terrorists, the same as if they carried a gun or planted a bomb, Mr. Cohen, and can strike anywhere in the world. Terrorists’ determination to wreak havoc on mankind has thrust science to new heights in security measures. This machine is the latest caliber of emerging technologies. As you’ve seen, it’s not the old airport methods of an embarrassing pat-down, harmful irradiated scans, or worse.”
Hearing the whirring of something inside the machine, Dean looked down to see his OWN card slide out of a slot, as if it were an ATM dispensing cash. Maria retrieved it and handed it to him.
“Here you go, Mr. Cohen, your new OWN card. I hope in your reporting that your reports are favorable, accurate, and described from a personal perspective, as I’ve explained.”
Dean nodded, but focused on the OWN card. The card’s quality was impressive. His color photo image was unbelievable, as if it were a 3-D hologram. His right thumbprint was in the upper left-hand corner, and below, a bar code with the words DNA sample. No series of long credit card type numbers, he noted. Digitized letters inlaid front and back read, One World Network.
He looked up, and Maria smiled at him.
“Mr. Cohen, at a later date, you might consider our latest biometric implant that uses nano technologies. You’ll never have to carry another card of any sort, remember an account number or password ever again. Think of it as a mini-computer. Your data is accessible even with your cell phone.”
Dean gave a tiny nod. Maria sounded way too enthusiastic about the implant.
“Maria, thank you for the education, but I already feel like I’ve joined the ranks of product bar code, like at a supermarket. All that’s missing is someone to run out here and slap my backside with a USDA stamp.”
Maria laughed. “You and your American jokes.”
He just smiled. Clearly, she didn’t comprehend his implied sarcasm directed at out-of-control government intrusions. He wondered if the Mark of the Beast would be so beguiling … or were the OWN card and implant chip merely a prelude?
“I’ve not heard that humorous analogy before, Mr. Cohen, but it was funny. Now, do you have any further questions?”
“No, none for now. Thanks again for your help.”
“It was my pleasure Mr. Cohen, and welcome to the One World Network.”
Dean smiled and ambled off toward the lobby while examining his new OWN card.
“Welcome to the show, Dean,” he mumbled. “Coming soon: The End of Days … but first, enjoy the coming attractions: Tyranny in the USA.”
As he laughed under his breath, a sudden commotion erupted in the hotel lobby. He looked up and saw several UN military police, all foreign nationals, escorting two irate men through the lobby. Off to the side, Maria looked unaffected by their indignant ranting and she sauntered off to greet her newest customers with a disarming regal smile.
The One World Network card, he imagined, could launch a thousand scenarios to fascinate fiction novel readers. What troubled him was that this wasn’t fiction. The tangible proof glistened in his hand. Whatever privacy he had once enjoyed, he suspected he’d flushed down the toilet.
Who’s monitoring and tracking my personal information and movements … and why? Or is it another NSA debacle? He felt … violated, in need of a bath.
“The things I do to get a story,” he muttered, stuffing his OWN card into his jacket pocket.
*
Dean planned to head outside to wait for Ann, but then decided to watch the OWN machine scan the first of the two infuriated men he’d seen escorted into the lobby. The eerie scene, from a bystander’s view, at least, gave him pause. Foreign nationals were forcing US citizens to follow UN directives. The telling sight brought to mind a reenactment of a gestapo-like state.
Am I witnessing a scenario waiting in the wings for the rest of America?
He’d seen enough and
needed fresh air. Outside the hotel, he saw lines of congested traffic. A dozen armored UN vehicles with troops had blocked the highway intersection near his hotel. The checkpoint looked busy, as soldiers searched drivers and their vehicles. Some of those caught up in the military’s dragnet were experiencing the OWN machine in the lobby.
The scenes left the impression of an occupied America under military rule. Maybe the president and his “czars” are practicing for a future martial law event, Dean mused. The idea itself was scary, but plausible.
He sipped at his coffee, tossing around ideas in his head. Given a disastrous immigration policy or, God forbid, another domestic terrorist act, either one could prepare the stage for a national ID. Congress is already contemplating the notion. The president would have his excuse to wield another of his lawless executive orders declaring a national emergency and then institute nationwide martial law.
Dean paused mid-swallow and shook his head.
Dear God, he could suspend the Constitution and Bill of Rights, dashing any hopes of throwing his butt out of office. It would hand the president and his league of czars and co-conspirators their justification to strike the final blow at ending a free American Republic. Complete control and power … by a despot.
At the sound of three loud honks of a car horn several feet behind him, Dean spilled most of what remained of his coffee. He whirled around and shouted “Geez!” He closed his mouth, though, when he saw Ann step out of her car and walk toward him, as if in slow motion. Awestruck, he couldn’t move. Everything around him in that instance seemed to fade away.
Oh, dear Lord, I’m in big trouble. No need to struggle now, it’s all over but the crying. Enjoy the view. He gleaned every aspect of her natural beauty from head to toe. What makeup she used was very little, but applied with style.
He yearned to reach out and gather her into his arms with a gentle embrace, but opted for a respectful restraint over his runaway hormonal urges.
Don’t be impulsive. Take it slow … and stay professional, he reminded himself.
Ann spoke first, holding out her small hand while smiling. “Well, well, the long-lost Mr. Dean Cohen. You’re a bad boy. Interview a girl and buy her an ice water, then disappear. So tell me: Do you ask every woman you interview out for dinner to gain their confidence for one of your stories? Can you be trusted?”