“This is what it’s going to be like from now on.” He let the words hang in the air, before turning and looking out of the window. Shapes and shadows flashed past on his skin as the daylight turned neon.
“Have you ever heard of ‘Pheme’, Daniel?”
He pulled himself up and adjusted his back into the seat. “No,” he said.
“In Greek mythology she was the Goddess of rumour. It’s where we get the word ‘fame’ from.”
Daniel too looked out at the streets racing past. The city was just as before but now he felt as if he was being watched.
“The Roman’s called her ‘Fama’ and say she had many tongues, eyes and ears. She lived in a house with a thousand windows so she could hear everything being said. According to Virgil, she had her ‘feet on the ground, and her head in the clouds; making the small seem great and the great seem greater.’”
Daniel touched the glass, squeaked his finger downwards on the condensation. Fama’s eyes were already gazing upon him. But what could he do?
“I’m sorry I spoke to the reporter,” he said, finally.
“You don’t have to apologise to me. It was bound to happen eventually; something like this can only stay a secret so long. I just want you to be prepared for it.”
“What will happen? Will I have to do interviews? Go on TV?”
“All of that, and more.”
They drove in silence for a little while longer and he noticed they passed by the gates to Hyde Park. “Are we not going back to the hotel?”
“No, we have a briefing with the British Secret Service.”
Daniel felt his head hit the back of the seat; it was early evening and he was exhausted. “Can we get something to eat?”
“We’ll be having dinner there.”
By the time they arrived, about forty minutes later, his stomach was already grouchy. Jones joined them from the car in front and they went straight inside another vast and ancient stone structure. He couldn’t see the top as it was too dark but it felt more like a cathedral as they walked through more corridors, up wooden carpeted steps and onto a magnificent landing.
Finally, they reached a dining room in the middle of which sat a grand table adorned with crockery, silver candlesticks and glasses. An older, uniformed man, with a grey beard and a bright red military jacket sat at the table; behind him a man also in uniform but at attention and clearly a subordinate.
The gentleman stood up and introduced himself. “General Ford-Mitchell, pleased to meet you.” Toby introduced everyone before asking if they could be seated.
“Of course,” said the general, “you must be famished.”
Toby sat down and pulled a napkin out of a silver holder; Daniel and Jones followed suite, the general too, smiling softly at Daniel before addressing his plate.
“What are we having, Watkins?” he said.
“Shrimp, sir,” said the man behind, without moving a muscle. “Followed by a chicken ballotine and chocolate fondant.”
“Sounds lovely,” said the general, and winked at Daniel.
Wine was poured and Daniel watched the general sniff and study the glass. He wasn’t like the other soldiers they had met. The American generals were like pit-bulls. Full of testosterone, thick necks and sour faces. Mitchell looked more like an amused boy.
The shrimp arrived but it was a tiny portion; delicious and most probably fine dining but not enough to satisfy the hunger that had crept up on him. Scanning the table, he found some bread and helped himself.
“So your medical reports came across before,” said Mitchell. “Looks like you’re human at least.”
“That’s good to know,” said Jones. He too had found the bread and was mopping up the shrimp sauce.
Mitchell acknowledged him briefly before returning to his plate; he delicately chased a prawn around it with his fork before giving up and signalling Watkins.
“We have to check these things, detective.”
Watkins came and collected the plates. Toby hadn’t said a word throughout. It was unlike him; normally he was the one leading the conversation, in charge, but perhaps over here he wasn’t.
When the main course arrived Daniel began eating immediately; the chicken was delicious and served with fine gravy and delicately roasted vegetables. Everyone seemed to enjoy it and some wine was poured, a soda for Jones, which helped Daniel relax. Finally, as the waiter topped up his glass and the rest of them cleaned their plates he decided he wanted to know what this particular game was all about.
“Can I ask what we’re doing here?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Mitchell.
“Why am I here? We’ve had the x-rays and scans, the questions about my mother. Is this the interrogation?”
“Daniel, please.” It was Toby. “The general is an old friend and he offered to host us this evening. I thought it would be easier dealing with him than a room full of politicians.”
“Hear, hear!” said Mitchell, raising his glass.
Daniel smiled, looked the man dead in the eyes. They twinkled back from above his bushy moustache; his warm face somehow filling up the room.
They all raised their glasses, the toast breaking the tension and they began to relax again and even make a little chit chat.
The general was from London, he had two daughters who were at University and his wife was a teacher. He asked about Daniel’s home, his job and his own school. The general placed a lot of importance on schooling.
Daniel gave him the answers he’d given Toby when they first met. An average high school, an average college and an average job. Nothing out of the ordinary.
“You must wonder though?” said the general.
“Wonder?”
“Why you?”
“Constantly,” said Daniel.
“And now the whole world is going to wonder with you.” The general’s eyes widened and just for a moment he stared at Daniel; a cavernous gaze that seemed to probe the inside of his head.
“Just what kind of general are you?” It was Jones, always direct. Toby rubbed one hand across his eye and made to speak but the general raised a hand.
“I’m commander of the M.O.G.” There was a brief silence whilst Daniel and Jones shared a look.
“The Media Operations Group,” said Toby.
“I wondered when it would come to this,” said Jones, placing his glass on the table.
“Meaning?” said Mitchell.
“Meaning now you want to take control of what Daniel says and how he says it.”
“That’s not true,” said Mitchell. “I want to help. To train him. The next few months, at least, are going to be a maelstrom.”
“And you don’t want any bad PR.”
“Detective Jones,” said Toby, “you of all people should recognise the value in teaching Daniel basic media skills. We’re not going to be able to keep him behind closed doors any longer. People are going to want to talk to him, hear what he has to say.”
“And then they’ll twist it,” said Mitchell. “They always do. Like in the di Conti case.”
Daniel noticed Jones stiffen; his jaw dropped even though his lips remained tight. “How do you know about that?” said Jones.
Mitchell smiled slightly and picked up his folder, before pulling out a piece of paper. “Good lord, detective, you don’t need to be in the secret service to know about that one. I only had to ‘Google’ you.”
“What are they talking about?” Daniel looked across at Jones; but the old cop was staring at Mitchell.
“I always check who I’m meeting,” said Mitchell. “Your friend Jones here has a few skeletons in a closet of his own.”
Daniel looked at Jones and saw the only person who he could trust. Looking at Toby and Mitchell he saw deception, antagonism and plots.
“I don’t care,” he said. “Detective Jones is my only friend right now.” He looked across and the wily old cop gave him a smile and nodded.
“Gentlemen,” it was Toby, “before this escala
tes can we please return to the very real issue we have.”
Mitchell nodded, picked up the piece of paper he had dropped on the table, and placed it back in the folder. He smoothed his moustache before turning his chair slightly to look at Toby who had moved over to stand by the fireplace.
Toby cleared his throat. “Today word got out about who Daniel is and, perhaps more importantly, what he is; I don’t mean any disrespect you understand?”
“I understand.” said Daniel.
“We are now faced with an intense media focus which has begun here in the UK but already, I’m told, has spread across the globe. They have a name, some pictures from social media accounts and probably already interviews lined up with any friends or acquaintances.”
“Jesus,” said Daniel, “should I call them?”
“Unwise,” said Mitchell, “they’re probably already trying to contact you so they can get more information to sell to the reporters who, by the way, pay handsomely.”
Daniel shook his head. “I don’t think any of my friends would do that.”
“Really?” said Mitchell. He pulled out a tablet and flicked through some screens. “Not even Tom Lanigan?”
“He’s not my friend,” said Daniel, with a lowered brow.
“He’s giving an exclusive interview to your American Channel 9 News. Says he knows you better than anyone and thinks you could possibly be a communist.”
Daniel emptied the wine glass.
Chapter 19
The next few days felt like being submerged in a Jacuzzi as Daniel was pushed and pulled from one place to the next with no understanding of what was going on. Toby got someone to give a press conference where he was wheeled out like specimen at a lecture. The cameras were intense, the questions deafening. He was instructed to say nothing and just sat there as Toby and some Government officials talked about how they were trying to unravel the connection between him and the robot.
But ‘Yes’, they admitted, it was Daniel the thing was pursuing. The question of liability was raised, with millions of dollars of damages already incurred back in the states; this was dismissed by Toby who said there wasn’t a court in the world that was going to be interested in prosecuting Daniel right now, nor any government. At this time, they were keeping the robot out of harm’s way and working with Daniel to establish the link.
Was it from outer space? That question was one of the first and Toby reluctantly admitted it was most likely extra-terrestrial. Had a nuclear option been approved? Toby, again, responded that it was not something that was being considered at this time.
After the conference an orchestrated ‘one to one’ interview with a leading TV anchor-man from back home and then another with a senior British journalist. ‘One to one’ in the sense that it was just the journalists and Daniel on screen, but there were about forty other people in the room.
They both asked pretty much the same questions; but Daniel had Toby at his side ready to halt the interview and stop the cameras at a moment’s notice.
“I’m afraid he can’t answer that,” he would say, politely raising a hand or “Could you change your line of questioning, please.”
The interviewers got flustered but they knew gold when they saw it and respected any of Toby’s requests. Daniel felt like he was being pulled along with a current he couldn’t quite feel the direction of and just tried to answer as best he could. Whenever things got too personal Toby would be there again, swiftly moving things on.
Those two interviews did the rounds on all the channels; each trying to pass it off as their own exclusive. YouTube went into overload and the videos were watched hundreds of millions of times; with hundreds of parodies, skits, jokes and dubbed versions all appearing in minutes. #robotman was trending permanently and everywhere he looked he saw a commentator, journalist or his own face bouncing back at him off a screen.
Behind the scenes Mitchell had been coordinating press releases and statements on behalf of both Daniel and the British government whose official stance was that Daniel was a guest who was welcome to stay as long as he required; they would be working closely with him. If the robot arrived from its sojourn under the sea, they would then have to discuss whether he would still be welcome.
Mitchell had assured him this was just to give the papers something; in truth nobody knew what would happen if the thing did get here. Daniel had been moved from the hotel to another one outside of London. After a few days of trying to relax, he was once again summoned to a meeting with Toby, this time in a nondescript coffee shop.
As they sat down Daniel immediately got the feeling they were being watched. “Are we?” he said.
“Well, there are at least three of our guys here,” said Toby, looking around, “possibly more.”
Daniel scanned the room; it was a busy, small high street independent. A counter with cakes and sandwiches, efficiently attended by two baristas. Around him were maybe ten tables, mostly occupied by couples, mums struggling with toddlers or office people getting a quick cup of Joe in before the daily grind.
As he looked, he recognised a couple of the men in suits reading newspapers who both nodded softly. A nervous mum smiled and winded her baby, her soft eyes catching his for only a little too long.
“It’s not just your guys, it’s everyone,” said Daniel.
“That’s part of the price of fame I’m lead to believe.”
They sipped their coffees idly for a moment, the loud hissing from the coffee machines occasionally breaking the silence. The smell was strong and he breathed it in deeply. Coffee shops always made him feel at home.
“Daniel, have you ever heard of the Boston Molasses Disaster?”
“No, can’t say I have. What is it?”
“Not ‘is’…’was.’”
“Never heard of it.”
Toby glanced around the room from over the top of his coffee. “Back in 1919 there was a molasses tank in the north end of Boston; thick, dark, nasty, syrupy stuff. They used it as a sweetener, to ferment alcohol even in making munitions.”
“Sounds useful.”
“One day, one hot day, about noon the tank collapsed. A couple of million gallons of molasses rushed out into the streets killing people, horses and even knocking down buildings. Anything in its path.
The Navy were first on the scene. Then the Army, Police, Red Cross. It was chaos. The molasses was knee deep, the dead choking or suffocating in the goo. The horses struggled more and more and just found themselves pulled even deeper. It took them four days before they stopped searching for survivors. Bodies turned up but they were so glazed it was impossible to identify them.”
“Sounds horrific.”
“It was,” said Toby. “The local residents claim that on a hot summer’s day, even after all these years, you can still smell molasses.”
As Daniel scanned the floor, another secret serviceman looked over the top of his newspaper and there were at least two photographers outside.
“What’s your point, Toby?”
“My point is some things never truly go away. They’ll always leave a trace. The robot is like that. Sure, we may stop it, even destroy it. We’ll keep the parts in some lab and probably figure out how to make tanks out of its skin. Heck, we may even build our own.”
Daniel’s eyebrows leapt up.
“That’s what we do, Daniel. That’s what governments do until the next piece of tech comes along. But you? This will never go away; you’ll always be that guy.”
He felt a pressure on his chest, like someone was pushing on it. He breathed in and out, slowly. Knowing he was always going to be recognised wherever he went suddenly felt like a very bad thing. This wasn’t Hollywood celebrity with red carpets and complimentary restaurant seats.
At the moment he was big news. Everyone wanted to talk to him and see what he could tell them about the robot. But what if things started to go badly? What if the robot did harm someone? Supposing it did walk through a hospital, or knock down an apartment block. The
y wouldn’t want him on ‘The Late Show’ after that.
A vision started at the back of his brain and slowly shuffled forward. He was running down the street from screaming people. But these weren’t adoring teen fans chasing a pop star; these people were trying to kill him.
“Where can I go?” he said.
“Did you bring me here on purpose?”
“No.”
“It’s going to be like this from now on. I won’t even be able to grab a cup of coffee.”
“Perhaps.”
He shook his head and looked down at the frothy mess left in his cup. “How will I cope?”
“Maybe ask the Vice-President how he manages. We need to head back to the States,” said Toby.
“Won’t that mean more attention? More interviews?”
“I’m afraid so, but we’ll have our people at hand.”
Daniel, unable to think of a response or anything he would rather do, merely nodded. Within two hours he was on a private jet to New York.
Chapter 20
“We’ll be right back after this break, folks. Don’t go away.”
A saxophone sprang in to life along with the sound of a studio audience starting to applaud. In the Green Room, Daniel had sat through twenty minutes of ‘Tonight!’ with Jimmy Jones and was now ushered onto the set. The two earlier guests shuffled along so he could sit on the edge of the sofa next to his host.
Jimmy Jones stood up and shook his hand. “Thanks for doing this, Daniel. We’re all real excited about your story. How are you coping with all this pressure?” Had the interview started?
“Don’t worry,” said Jimmy, noting his look, “We’re at a commercial break. Back on in a few minutes.”
“I’m fine, thanks.” The question had thrown him as it was not the first one on the list Toby had provided. The whole interview was going to be scripted; he had seen and rehearsed all the questions. The first was to ask him to introduce himself to the world. They’d prepared an answer that summed up his life in a soundbite making him sound an ordinary guy from a small town; which he was.
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