The Unraveling

by James R. Clifford

  For a brief moment he thought about calling Byron but he dismissed the idea. Despite being close to midnight the streets were clogged with merchants, prostitutes, drunks, fortune readers, criminals and the permanently unemployed.

  It was strange, but the worse the economy got the more people flocked to the streets and the later they stayed out. It wasn’t unusual for sections of the city to be packed until the crack of dawn. However, most sane, law-abiding citizens locked themselves inside their homes at night because nightfall brought out the gangs, thieves and murderers who were all competing for their next client.

  After a few blocks West’s panic subsided some and he decided he needed to sit and think about what he was going to do next.

  He turned the street corner and took a seat at an outdoor noodle shop. Despite the late hour, the area was bristling with activity and he felt he had put enough distance between himself and the raided bar to be reasonably safe for now.

  It was all a moot point anyway because if Jimmy told Homeland his name, there would be nowhere he could hide. He just hoped Jimmy would do the right thing and tell them he didn’t have anything to do with the stolen computer.

  He ordered a beer and a noodle bowl from a haggard Asian woman who looked like she was about a thousand years old.

  She brought back the bottle of beer and he took a sip of the warm bitter beer that tasted like pine straw. He turned around on his stool and watched the nighttime shenanigans of his fellow New Yorkers.

  Across the street a pimp was roughing up one of his ladies. Further down the street a gang of teenagers strolled down the sidewalk harassing every person they passed. He watched an old bag lady picking though a trashcan but she was so wretched that even the hooligans left her alone.

  A constant stream of taxis, scooters and bikes streamed down the crowded street. Neon signs, interactive billboards and strobe lights lit up the dark skyline, casting eerie shadows that danced across the towering buildings.

  A low hum filled the dark sky and for the first time in his life West thought about how many electronic devices had to be around to create that background noise.

  The old lady set his food next to him with a grunt. He dipped the chopsticks into his beer hoping the alcohol would kill most of the germs and he dug into his food. Despite what had happened at the bar he was ravenous.

  He shoveled the noodles into his mouth and watched the pimp from across the street slap his employee so hard across the face she collapsed into a heap onto the ground.

  West kept eating. He never even considered going over to help her. To survive in this city, you had to look the other way while looking out for only yourself.

  He finished the noodle bowl and motioned for a new beer. He pulled out his government-issued DigiDollar card and fiddled with it, thinking if Jimmy had told the Homeland agents his name, the instant the card was swiped this place would be overrun with agents. He stared at the card trying to think about what to do.Like the dollar bills of the old days, the government debit banking cards were issued with past president’s images on them. His card had the portrait of Lyndon Johnson on it.

  Ironic, he thought. Johnson’s legacy to America was the Great Society. His creation of an entitlement society coupled with Nixon taking the country off the gold standard was the opening chapter of a sixty-year march toward national suicide.

  “Wasn’t it Voltaire who said all paper money returns to its intrinsic value of zero?”

  He turned and saw Byron smiling back at him. “How’d you get here?” West asked.

  “Same as you. I walked.”

  “Funny.”

  “Looks like you got yourself in a bit of trouble tonight, huh?”

  West studied Byron’s face. Something about this guy didn’t make any sense. “How in the hell could you know about that?”

  “It was recorded in the Hall of Records.”

  “Look, I am in some deep shit. I don’t have time for your crap,” West replied.

  “You are too caught up in the here and now. The daily minutia of life. You need to broaden your horizons and think of the bigger picture. It might help put a perspective on things.”

  “Well then why don’t you just enlighten me?” West replied in exasperation.

  “I think it helps to realize and not forget there is an intelligent design at work.”

  “So is that what gets you through the day?”

  “Yes. I mean think about this for a second. If you created two electrons at the same time, they are entangled. Then if you sent one of the electrons a trillion light years away and if you spun the electron here on earth then instantaneously the other electron a trillion light years away would also spin. That could only mean information is traveling faster than the speed of light. But in reality the electrons are still entangled and that would mean space is an illusion. From nothing sprung the big bang and that means everything is connected to The One, the singularity. We are all entangled with one another and with The One.”

  West suddenly felt very tired. He sighed heavily. “I have more important things to worry about right now.”

  “Do you?” Byron asked.

  West turned back around and stared down at his noodles. Byron’s response did make him wonder if he had better things to worry about.

  West had always felt there was not something right about himself, like he was disconnected in some way. But he could never explain or understand what he was feeling and as he grew older he taught himself to dismiss or even suppress those feelings. But now with everything going on, the feeling was striking him with a magnitude of a strong earthquake. It was like reality was a giant illusion, nothing more.

  A hand on his back brought him out of his thoughts. West turned, expecting to see a Homeland Agent but instead, he saw Simon wearing a black trench coat and hat.

  “Mind if I sit down and join you?” Simon asked.

  West turned to introduce Bryon but he was no longer there. Where the hell did he go?

  “Did you see that man who was sitting here?” he asked Simon.

  Simon gave him a strange look. “No. I didn’t see anyone.”

  West looked around but Byron was nowhere in sight. He turned back to Simon. “What are you doing out on the streets this late at night?”

  “I have insomnia. What’s your excuse?”

  “Research.”

  “I bet,” he said sarcastically. “You know that Agent McCain came by to see me again today.”

  “Yeah, so?” West shot back.

  “He was asking some strange questions about you. In fact, he told me in no uncertain terms that if I even mentioned any details of our conversation to you, or to anybody for that matter, I could be in violation of the LT Statutes.”

  “So why are you telling me then?”

  “That’s a good question.” Simon motioned for a beer.

  “Let me ask you a weird question, West. Haven’t you ever wondered how we publish a weekly paper with only a skeleton crew at the office?”

  “No, not really because you really don’t need a lot of people to write the worthless crap you publish.”

  Simon raised his beer bottle. “Good point. But let me ask you another question. Have you ever read the paper?”

  “Of course I have.”

  Simon smiled. “C’mon. I know you better than that. I mean have you ever really read it on a regular basis?”

  West shifted in his chair. He hated to admit he didn’t read the paper he worked for because that wasn’t exactly the height of journalistic integrity.

  Thankfully, Simon let him off the hook and continued, “I know on the surface the paper is rubbish but it serves a purpose that 99 percent of its readers and even some of the paper’s reporters, such as yourself, are not aware of.”

  “Such as?”

  “Some of the articles written by me and a few others … Boy, you’re going to get a kick out of this West, but they are coded with messages and directives to The LT’s and various anti-DC splinter groups.”


  West stared at Simon. He should have been completely shocked by Simon’s admission but with the events of the last couple of days he guessed his nervous system was becoming immune to it all.

  “You know Homeland Security is offering millions of dollars in reward money for information that leads to prosecution of any citizen aiding the LT’s. With the information you just told me I could cut myself a pretty good deal. I could rat you out, make a bunch of money and run the paper while you rot in a work camp for the rest of your life. So why are you taking the risk to tell me that?”

  Simon waved his hand dismissively and took a sip of his beer. “I’m not taking any risk at all. You’re the one in trouble since a couple dozen Homeland Security agents are sweeping the city as we speak trying to find you.”

  “What makes you think they’re searching for me?”

  “C’mon West, we can both stop playing games now. Listen my friend, the Dracun have their eyes on you. You’re damn lucky you didn’t get arrested like your friend back at the bar.”

  Simon grabbed West’s electronic money card off the counter and handed it back to him. “This one’s on me. After all we don’t want to make it any easier for them to find you, now do we?”

  “No.”

  “All right then, we got to skedaddle. Insect drones are being released all over the city. The Dracun’s trying to find the other person who was with Jimmy because they don’t like people stealing their nifty toys like that quantum computer.”

  West looked around the sky. “Insect drones?”

  “Yep, our good friends at Rand Corp are responsible for those. The drones come in all kinds of insect varieties: bees, flies, ladybugs, dragon flies. You can’t tell them apart from the real insects unless you capture it and perform an insect autopsy. They are the ultimate state-of-the-art surveillance tool. Trust me you’ll never look at a bug in the same way ever again. C’mon we need to get out of here. I’ll fill you in more and answer all your questions when we get to a safer spot.”

  A beam of light shined across the rooftops. A humming noise was followed seconds later by a low flying helidrone. West had no doubt that the drone was out looking for him.

  He followed Simon to an empty cab and they hopped in. “Fifty-Five and Lexington,” Simon directed the cab driver.

  “Where we going?” West asked.

  “My place.” Simon placed his finger to his mouth indicating he didn’t want to discuss anything more. After a 10 minute ride in silence the cab pulled up to a luxurious brownstone. Simon paid the driver with his Electronic Money Card and West followed Simon past two armed security guards into the building’s lobby. Simon pressed the elevator button for the top floor suite.

  The elevator took them up to Simon’s floor and they walked into his apartment suite. West looked around and whistled. “I didn’t know the newspaper business was this profitable?”

  “The paper hasn’t come close to making a profit in over ten years. I inherited this from my parents.”

  West whistled. “Nice. What line of work were they in?”

  “My dad was a senator.”

  West thought for a few seconds before the realization hit him. “Your dad was the Jonathan Stossel?”

  “The one and only.”

  West was thoroughly confused and a wave of exhaustion swept over him. “I gotta sit down.”

  “Help yourself.” Simon pointed toward a black leather couch. West slumped onto the couch and Simon took a seat in a chair in front of him.

  “Didn’t your father help spearhead the committee that basically destroyed the Bill of Rights and the last vestige of a constitutional Republic? I still remember the protests at the capital after three dozen people were shot in cold blood by TSA agents.”

  “You’re correct but as you know he had lots of help. Like all of us, he was just a pawn being manipulated, and ultimately, he paid the price for it.”

  “How can you be so blasé? Your father’s committee was responsible for thousands, maybe tens of thousands of Americans being sent to FEMA camps without so much as a trial. Why should I believe anything you say?”

  “I guess you’ll have to take your chances.”

  “So why are you working with the LT’s then, especially considering who your dad was?”

  “It is a long story.”

  “Looks like I’ve got all night.”

  Simon stood and walked over to the bar. He poured two glasses of cognac and handed one to West. He sat back down, took a sip then began, “My dad and I never got along very well but it had nothing to do with his politics. Our underlying problem was we simply had a father-son personality conflict. To be honest, from a political standpoint, I agreed with him on most things including the prosecution of the LT’s.”

  “So what changed your mind?”

  “My father got sick, pancreatic cancer. He had known about it for a year before he told me. I went to visit him to say goodbye and I guess you can say he gave me a deathbed confession. He told me that over the last couple years of his life he discovered things that made him reconsider everything he had fought for. He confessed to me that everything he had believed in was a complete lie. It was actually sad to listen to him and it was obvious he was quite depressed, not because he was dying as much as he felt he had wasted his life on a lie. He asked for my help to try and make it right.”

  “So that is when you started working with the LTs.”

  “No, I told him to go to hell and there was no way I was going to help a bunch of terrorists. About a week later my mom called and told me he was on his deathbed and might not last the night. She begged me to pay him one last visit. I couldn’t say no to her so I went. He was in bed and I couldn’t believe how much his condition had deteriorated in just a week. There was no doubt he had reached his final hours. He begged me to forgive him.”

  “So did you?”

  “He was a dying man. What was I going to say? The important point is he gave me a folder that changed everything. He told me to keep it and open it when I got home. We said goodbye and he died later that night.”

  Simon got up and walked over to the kitchen table. He stood on top of it and lifted a tile from the ceiling. He pulled out a black binder and walked back over to West.

  “This is what he gave me. You can see it for yourself.” He threw the folder on West’s lap. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  Simon walked into his bedroom as West opened the binder and stared at the photo inside.

  Half an hour later Simon came out of his bedroom wearing a white robe with his initials over his left breast. He poured two fresh cognacs and sat down in the chair across from West. He crossed his legs, lit a cigarette and said, “I bet your world just got rocked, huh?”

  “Where in the hell did your father get this from?”

  “Before I left that night he told me it was stored underneath the Lincoln Monument. He said there was a subterranean library where the world’s real history books are stored.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t know if this secret library really exists or not. But he didn’t have any reason to lie at that point, so I guess we’ll just have to take his word on it.”

  “Why haven’t you published this information? You have undeniable proof. The world has a right to know.”

  Simon laughed. “The world has a right to know, eh. Well, the way I look at it I have a right to live and if I published this I’d be dead before it hit the newsstands.”

  “But you can’t just keep it hidden.”

  “It will come out one day, when the world is ready.”

  West would never have believed it if he hadn’t seen the proof. He looked at the picture again. Five smiling men surrounded an autopsy table. They were obviously quite happy that the man lying on the table was dead.

  West pointed to the men in the photo. “I know Lyndon Johnson but who are these other guys?”

  “The guy to the left of Lyndon Johnson is William McChesney Martin who was the head of the Federal
Reserve at the time. The gentleman to the left of Johnson is Sir Nigel Firth.”

  “Holy shit,” West exclaimed. He stared closer at the image of Firth. “The father of Nigel Firth, the European banker and commodity tycoon?”

  “Yep.”

  Simon pointed to the man standing to Lyndon Johnson’s left. “He’s the mystery man. My father didn’t know who he was and I’ve never been able to find out.”

  “I know who he is,” West replied.

  “Who?”

  “I’ve met him twice before. He was at the noodle bar tonight. You just missed him.”

  “What? That’s impossible.”

  “I know it isn’t possible but I am telling you I’ve met the man in this photo. He calls himself Byron and he knew Sloan and he seems to have some affiliation with the LT’s, I think. Well, I really don’t know.”

  Simon grabbed the photo from West. “This guy looks to be in him mid-forties so that would mean the person you met would be going on 110 years old. How could you know they are the same person? He’s aged over 60 years since this picture was taken. You have to be mistaken.”

  West shook his head. “You don’t understand what I am saying. This person, Byron, in the photo from 1963 looks exactly the same. He hasn’t aged at all.”

  “How could that be?” Simon asked.

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you but I’d be careful no matter who this guy is.”

  “Can I see that photo again?” West asked.

  Simon handed it over and West stared at the body of the autopsy table for the thousandth time. Despite the gruesome head wound it wasn’t hard to recognize John F. Kennedy.

  “Fuck me,” West replied. “So Lyndon Johnson and the Federal Reserve murdered JFK. Why?”

  “You were the one who pitched me on the Federal Reserve story and said you’ve been researching it. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “I… “ West couldn’t answer.

  Simon lit a cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke. “Okay, I’ve held some things back but I guess it doesn’t matter now since obviously we’re in the same boat on this deal. Some of this is conjecture but first you have to understand the Federal Reserve operates as the bank for the Dracun. You were right West, the Dracun murdered JFK because he issued Executive Order 11110 and with the stroke of a pen President Kennedy declared that the privately owned Federal Reserve Bank would soon be out of business. And that would not have been good business for the Dracun’s bank system.”