By Silent Majority

by Robert Buschel

  “How did you get my friend appointed by the governor to be a judge?”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “I just want to know why an extremely powerful man wants me and my friends to learn how to disrupt simple accounting programs with complex encryptions. Are you with the government?”

  “I am to some extent. But I’m representing interest outside of the government.”

  “What do I call you?” Bradford asked.

  “Are you in?”

  “Would we be doing something illegal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would it be unethical?”

  “Depends whom you ask? And what view point. For the greater good. It’s moral. Ethical? That’s questionable. But what you need to answer is, will you keep a secret until you die? I don’t want to sound threatening, but you can’t tell anyone that you even know me or what we’re going to do. One day we’re going to slide over the line, or not. I just want you to be prepared.”

  “I can keep a secret. No one talks to Eugene. And, as long as you pay Goode off you’ve got all three,” Bradford said matter of factly.

  “Go talk to them. Turn to your right. The connecting room Goode is in. Find out what he wants.”

  Bradford did what he was told. He walked into the next room and it was lit. Bradford shielded his eyes and saw Goode sitting in a chair in the middle of the second room of the warehouse. All they could hear is garage band music in the distance. The two old schoolmates talked for a few minutes, and then Bradford returned to the first room.

  “Goode wants to be appointed to the board of Symantec, if this becomes big. Do you have the power to do it?”

  “You oversold me, kid. We’ll see where this goes. Until then, just tell him he gets the money he’s been receiving on a monthly basis.”

  Bradford returned to Goode and then came back. Goode agreed. He felt good negotiating with a man who’s been giving him $10,000 a month without ever meeting him. Goode trusted it. So Bradford went to see Eugene Hawkins and returned.

  “You sure you want Eugene? He’s an idiot. And he’s temperamental.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Eugene wants to know if you had him shot in the foot.”

  “What?” The voice was exasperated.

  “That’s what he said. He wants to know if you’re General Speiser, and had him shot in the foot by a Chinaman.”

  “How long ago did that happen? Before you knew of me?”

  “Oh yeah, long time before,” Bradford replied.

  “Tell him, no, I’m not, but I’ll make sure that can never happen again.”

  “He also wants freedom for the internet.”

  He started to think Bradford might be right.

  “What does that mean?”

  “He said if you know about the wireless-internet encryption, then you’re probably in the military and you’re probably working for General Speiser.”

  “I’m not with the military,” he said angrily. “If this project goes off like I think it will, General Speiser won’t be shit to him. Okay. Tell him that. He has two minutes to decide or getting shot in the foot is not what he’ll be worrying about.”

  At that moment, Bradford realized that this asking dialogue was not voluntary. He was in or he’d be out. So Bradford went back in to see Hawkins. Hawkins didn’t moan and groan. Finally, Bradford returned and advised Hawkins was in. The voice told him to meet together about focusing on encryption research. They did.

  Bradford came back into the first room. We’re all set.

  “Good,” the voice said. He then handed Bradford three pieces of paper. Bradford couldn’t read what it said in the dark. “There are encryption codes that need to be cracked. Hand one page to each of your friends. Let me know when they’ve been cracked.”

  “Okay. Should they leave now?”

  “Yes, they can leave. I want you to stay so I can brief you to why we’re doing this.”

  “You forgot one thing,” Bradford said.

  “What’s that?”

  “What about what I want?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to be able to do what you do. I want to be an influencer.”

  “You will be. Definitely.”

  “How will I know? I know you can give money and influence the Governor in Washington State. But what about beyond that?”

  “Yes, beyond that. If this works out, you can work for me where I’ll be working,” Peter Spark said.

  CHAPTER 17

  Conspiracy Theories

  This was the largest gathering Daniel Carlson ever addressed. Peter principle syndrome surfaced in his consciousness. He felt like he was going to be exposed as the fraud. Who is he to dare to think he could lead a country? The greatest Republic in the history of the world. But the keynote speech began, as Daniel was behind the scene. “Tonight, I will have the distinct honor and privilege of nominating the next President of the United States—Senator Daniel Carlson.” Applause—intense applause from thousands swelled in Madison Square Garden. It was an arena, a coliseum of political idealists, or dinosaurs stoned by the thick excitement. Daniel took in the applause and ignored the pain in his knee. He believed his fraudulent character for a moment. He could be President. How can so many people be wrong?

  “This country’s future welfare depends on the leadership of Daniel Carlson.” Daniel listened from behind a curtain offstage. Zealots. Members of the herd, he thought. Cultish personalities bubbled to a peak. Even spectators of the media were overcome with the momentum of enthusiasm. Senator Dean Skipper continued, absorbing Daniel’s glory. “He is our hope for our future; the future needs change; and Daniel Carlson is our man of change.” A politically logical generic syllogism oozed with great ease from Skipper.

  “The men in the White House tell a different story. They see the county in a different way than the rest of the people. They don’t have to worry about whether millions of Americans will lose their jobs. They ignore those who struggle to pay their mortgage and those who provide an education for their children. They still believe they live in a glistening intellectual tower on a hill. They don’t see the economic deterioration around us due to over-taxation.” Daniel off to the side waited patiently and he too, through the permeating energy, enjoyed the raves. Daniel’s knee tensed further with pain, but Senator Skipper spoke with no pain. He resolved his conflict, and was with the Carlson camp. Skipper knew the game and would benefit by playing ball.

  “Tell the lies over and over and soon it will be true.”

  “No. No!” A person screamed.

  “But what our children will know, despite what they hear from the White House is that there is little hope, even in America.” Supportive boo’s broke the monotony of the repetitive “D.C. to D.C.” June glowed with pride from a distance, at Daniel’s side.

  “How can such a thing happen in the United States? Our economy is recessed, our streets are crime-ridden, and our children have fallen victim to drugs. This is because there’s been a fundamental disregard for the other 99% of the country. The extra money from massive taxation hasn’t trickled down to the rest so the American economy will grow and prosper again. Now the U.S. is no longer one of the largest creditor nations and producers of goods—it dove off the economic diving board and is falling downward. But in this global economy, there are no points for style.”

  Daniel could not help but nod. Nice turnaround on the top 1%, he thought. A flicker of hope ignited within him, and he decided to believe what he heard—that he was the man for change. Daniel looked around and noticed that no one was around him. His whole family was out of his peripheral reach. Focusing on his future, he again revisited the place where he left himself behind. The place where he ushered a young person into his office and spoke to them about whatever was troubling him or her. When Daniel would give a sp
eech, it would’ve been a lecture about the law or the mores of society. How they as young people could change it.

  Peter Spark was conspicuously absent, and Daniel wished he were there to hold his hand, in the spiritual sense. But Peter had more important matters behind the scenes to attend to. He was the bag man and he had more debts to collect.

  Peter anxiously waited for the report from the Director of Central Intelligence in his office. His ties with Daniel and the Intelligence community opened the door to lead an operation on behalf of Daniel. It concerned the Chinese. Peter had no experience with the Chinese, and he was troubled by the apparent contrast in style between the old Soviets and the Chinese.

  The Asian culture emphasizes shame over guilt. The Chinese could lie easier than be disloyal to the mission. Their upbringing presented a different challenge to the American Intelligence Community and Daniel’s desires for more free trade. The Director walked into Peter’s Office after he was announced. Director Yates’ face masked the distress he was feeling. Contrary to the Chinese, he felt guilt and wished he didn’t.

  “At first this guy seemed perfect. I mean he fit the profile and everything. He spoke the right language. He was young and handsome, which was all that was needed.” His voice was high pitched and explanatory.

  Peter just listened to Yates. He was disappointed with the tone the Director used. It only meant one thing: he failed.

  “All we got from our man outside the office was that he was talking with the blond man with the silver glasses. He had an effeminate voice. Nobody we’ve ever heard about before.” The Director appeared downtrodden. Peter did not speak, but it was obvious that he was not pleased and that these kinds of failures fed Peter’s obsession to control everything. “Would you like me to play the tape?”

  “Yes, I would,” Peter answered. Yates started the tape.

  The tape began as if already in the middle of a conversation. “Are you good in the field of open law?” Which immediately meant to Peter as a question regarding the agent’s stomach for killing. Rendition. What is illegal in the U.S. is legal somewhere else.

  “Yes sir.” The interview appeared to be going well. Nothing to worry about. Peter could sense that the boy was confident and poised for the next question.

  “. . . Are you good with technical equipment and the likes?” Peter looked down at the pictures that were presented to him on his desk. The young man, who was almost a boy, barely out of college sat adjacent to a desk in an undecorated room. He was Chinese and spoke English, Korean, and Japanese. His soft mustache was hair not thick enough to be considered whiskers. He barely had thoughts of his own. He was too new to the Agency for any independent thought. The harking to orders by an educated agent was rare, yet good for the brass.

  “Yes sir.” Suddenly, a gun came from behind this young man’s head. He wasn’t even given the chance to enjoy the coolness of the weapon against his temple. The man outside did photograph the tattoo strewn across the forehand of the man holding the gun. The man put a bullet in the young agent’s head. The noise on the tape made the Director wince.

  Peter stopped the tape himself. “What do we know from this?”

  “We know very little. Tan could have been mistaken for a rival gang or a Mandarin agent. There is no way they could suspect he was with the Agency. But this is definitely a sign the Chinese think that Carlson will be elected President.”

  “He could have suspected. Did Tan say anything?”

  “No.”

  “That’s it. Just another star in the lobby of Headquarters?” Peter was genuinely concerned. Peter wondered about the boy and his mission that failed. Tan didn’t expect to die for his country; otherwise, he would not have served. It just didn’t seem right. What more is the fact that Daniel would suffer. That’s all that Peter was left to be concerned about.

  “What will you tell Carlson?” The Director asked.

  “I’m not going to tell him anything. There is no point in upsetting him.”

  “What should we do . . . ?”

  “Just continue with Plan B. We have to cover all contingencies. I won’t have the next President’s life threatened or his trade package by a bunch of foreign thugs. Find out if this group is really Chinese and then we’ll know what action to take from there.”

  Peter wondered if this whole set up was really too easy. The tattoo of a crescent moon on the arm of the agent’s killer. It stands out like a uniform. Not the mark of an assassin. But these assassins do not care if they are found. That is part of the message. The Chinese mob may have intended for Peter to know that it was they who wished to destroy Daniel’s plans for the Presidency.

  The older gentleman scrutinized the young man. They were in an empty warehouse in a Connecticut suburb.

  “Assassination is not an option,” the older man said.

  “Does this group really have the power to do that?” The nervous one replied.

  “You think I’ve been jerking your chain!” The older man barked. Even with the curmudgeon grimace on his face, the young man raised his concern.

  “Well, we just don’t like what the man stands for. I happen to like him on a personal level.”

  “This isn’t a glee club. You knew what you were getting into. It just so happens that assassination is an option that cannot be accepted.”

  The young man approved the terms of membership almost a year ago. They were just refreshed in his mind again by his director’s retort.

  “You see, like Kennedy, his assassination prompted Johnson to get legislation passed that the live Kennedy couldn’t.”

  The young man silently approved of that decision. He would hate to be the Brutus of the conspiracy. “This is something to consider when you have a proposed solution to a problem; you must take its consequences to the nth step. If you can live with them, then it’s a wise option to take. If not, well then you can’t do it.”

  “What do you want me to do?” He swallowed and focused on the wetness beginning to drip from his scalp to his forehead.

  “Keep digging. Find out what it is. Everyone has at least a bone in the closet, the future President has his. Get somebody drunk, pretend you’re not listening. You have the ability to find out what it is.”

  There was a long pause. The young man felt the squeeze inside his gut. The privileges of membership. There was really nothing for him to decide. He had to do it. He could take his time—just had to do it.

  “I will take care of it, General Speiser.”

  “I expect you to contact me from school before the summer.”

  “Where will I find you?”

  “Use the Pentagon number.”

  With that command, the neophyte returned to his battle ground.

  The milieu was distinctly Ivy League. Legal encyclopedias and casebooks formed small mountains on the desk that separated Alan Carlson and his classmate Marcus Brutowski. The gold framed lamp, the traditional one with the green plastic dome shade, emitted a yellow glow that distorted the others faces.

  Alan was quiet and pensive. His mood had mellowed and he was relaxed. It was a conditioned relaxation response triggered by the cool weather that swept over New Haven. Brutowski was from the Northeast and never associated a mood with the cold.

  The two law students were studying professional ethics, a new course that was required for graduation.

  “What bullshit this stuff is,” Brutowski said. “We have to study this stuff for the bar anyway. I don’t know why we have to take the course.”

  “It’s just a bunch of movies, and now we have to memorize the code. Imagine if lawyers didn’t police lawyers. We’d have a bunch of guys named Zeke who watch Matlock ruling on what was ethical,” Alan retorted. Brutowski laughed at Alan’s turn of phrase.

  “Well I’m tired of this shit. Tell me how your dad’s campaign is coming.”

  “It’s going well.” />
  “You have to help out in the entire social and campaign stuff, whatever it’s called.”

  “This weekend I have to fly to California with my father. I get to speak at a young lawyers’ luncheon and shake hands. It almost makes me want to study professional ethics, but I’ll get a break from the cold weather.”

  “Any dirty tricks yet.”

  “Yeah, regular bullshit, we’re used to it.”

  “Like what?” Brutowski eased Alan along.

  “Like why my dad never really served in the Armed forces. They said his dad pulled some strings to get him out.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that shit,” Brutowski yearned for more; his curiosity was great.

  “Where did you hear about that,” Alan inquired, half concerned.

  “I read it in Time last week.”

  “Oh yeah? They got nothing on my dad. He ran for the Senate two times. You don’t think they know about each day of his life on the planet.”

  “I suppose. I mean everybody’s got something to hide,” Brutowski’s pulse rose as he found a great segue into the conversation he wanted to be immersed in.

  “Yes, we had to discuss some of them with the campaign strategists.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup,” Alan was not happy that he released that information.

  “What about your father?”

  “He discussed whatever he discussed.”

  Brutowski noted Alan’s closed answer. He dared to move on. He was careful not to cross examine, or appear that he was doing so. Regular conversation, that would be the key to his success.

  “You don’t know what he discussed?”

  Alan replied, “Oh no. It’s all a secret. He doesn’t know mine, and I don’t know his.”

  “Maybe you’ll tell me yours later, over some beers.”

  “Yeah, in your dreams,” Alan answered, unconcerned by Brutowski’s prying. Alan thought he was a reliable new friend. He wasn’t, however, going to play to his interest in First Family secrets.