Virtual Heaven, Redux

by Taylor Kole

  “Whoever’s working that gate is fired,” Rosa said as she appeared next to Alex, their eyes glued on the invading cars.

  Tara was Broumgard’s cleaner. If a crisis or PR speed bump loomed, Tara could clean it up. A man had died in Alex’s house, and the death involved the Lobby. Tara’s presence wasn’t the worst thing.

  The first Maserati parked at an angle to the right side of the drive, and the second flanked to the left, further blocking the ambulance’s exit. The nearest car’s rear door opened. A fit, tan leg stretched to the driveway tiles. Tara’s cream-colored designer suit hugged her form. Her oversize sunglasses matched her outfit.

  The driver and passenger also exited the vehicle, while four physically imposing men in matching gray suits exited the second sedan.

  The security detail moved with proficiency. Each man surveyed a different section of the property, taking in the sunny grounds. They seemed alerted to something near the house. Alex turned and saw a dozen of his security, lead by Luke, pressing closer.

  Alex waved off the alarm.

  Tara locked onto Alex and walked over. Her driver trailed her.

  One of Tara’s men approached the ambulance driver’s window. Another pair moved to the guard shack. Alex tensed when imagining those upcoming discussions.

  “Alex, I’m so sorry to hear about Roy.” Tara extended her hand, and they shook hands.

  “How did you hear about Roy?” Rosa asked.

  “Hello, Rosa,” Tara said, with a cursory glance toward her. “My condolences.”

  “What are you doing here?” Rosa asked.

  “I’m here to show my support. It’s a terrible day for all of us.” Tara removed her sunglasses, and sighed. “Such a tragedy should never visit a home.” After a moment with her head bowed, she lifted it, and squinted at the house. “We have to be careful how we handle this. I was nearby and thought I’d stop in, share my condolences, and guidance in how to proceed.”

  “That’s all fine,” Rosa said. “But we want to know why our house is under your control, and how you got here so fast.”

  “The security measure on your home is temporary.” Tara said. “I’m just here to help.”

  Rosa scoffed.

  “Thank you,” Alex said. He adjusted his stance. “It’s just—I don’t understand the urgency. Roy just died in our house. “

  “And two minutes later,” Rosa said, “we find ourselves under a cyber assault from Victor, initiated by you, and then you barge through our gates with cars full of mercenaries. “

  “That’s a bit dramatic,” Tara said. “I travel with a detail, same as you.”

  “How about you move your detail, so the medics can do their jobs?” Rosa motioned toward the pair of wedged Maseratis.

  The ambulance driver had exited and now stood next to his door. He was talking with one of Tara’s suited men. Tara’s other escorts had lured the guards from the shacked, held them in similar conversations. Alex saw Luke in a four person huddle with one of Tara’s detail.

  Tara nodded to her driver. He stalked off. To Alex, she said, “Do you mind if we go inside and talk?”

  He checked with Rosa, who only glared at Tara. Lacking a no from her, he said, “Yeah,” and turned to enter the house.

  “What exactly are your henchmen doing?” Rosa asked.

  Tara’s man at the ambulance held open a briefcase at chest level, while another retrieved papers and handed a stack to each EMT.

  Tara shielded her eyes and watched them. “I can explain the particulars if you like. For the most part, they’re crossing t’s and dotting i’s.”

  “Looks like they’re making mischief,” Rosa said.

  Tara’s driver moved the nearest Maserati onto the lawn, out of the ambulance’s path.

  “There is no mischief,” Tara said. “Just legal maneuvering.”

  As Alex walked toward the door, Tara laid her hand on his shoulder. “I truly am sorry about Roy. He was a pioneer at Broumgard. A very special man to me personally. I know he was a great friend to you.”

  Roy had been a great friend, the best. One of those rare men of action who leaped with both feet into the game of life, played it with integrity, and succeeded. Barring two failed marriages, the man’s life read like an epic for achieving greatness.

  “Thank you,” Alex said as the front door opened. Movement in his peripheral vision caused him to glance right. Glen had squeezed himself between a pair of hedges, and despite the day’s turmoil, resumed his normal landscaping duties. Alex considered telling him to give it a rest. But perhaps activity staved off the teenager’s sadness and helped him process the day’s trauma.

  The trio traveled to the breakfast nook. With the series of emergencies complete, Victor had modified the home’s interior to a domestic setting while they were on the lawn.

  The current style, rendered in mostly sky blue and gold, resembled Stupingi, a famous hunting lodge in Italy known for its Baroque-style art. Even though the actual walls were as smooth as granite, the twenty-five foot ceilings looked arched and textured. The same as in Stupingi. Sculptures and paintings lined the walls, carved cherubs and ornate trim speckled the ceiling, giving Legion’s current interior the feel of a centuries-old church.

  The religious decor was a welcome greeting after Roy’s death.

  A window overlooked the rear of the property. The rest of the breakfast nook had the same blue and gold, heavenly feel. Alex and Tara sat around the nook’s iron table. Rosa hovered. Victor’s voice emanated from a nearby speaker: “Would you like me to send in beverages?”

  “You’ve done quite enough,” Rosa said, as she filled a glass with filtered water and joined Alex and Tara.

  Tara’s driver entered, carrying a black, anodized-aluminum briefcase. He placed it on the floor next to Tara, stepped back, and assumed a sentry position.

  “The first thing I’d like to do is apologize,” Tara said. “To both of you. Adisah installed the back door for Victor to shut down communications, not me. Everything we are about to discuss comes with his authorization. I have a letter,” she gestured toward the briefcase, “from Adisah, explaining his motivations. This is a pivotal time for us. I know you haven’t had an opportunity to think about the negative implications of a famous client dying while inside the Lobby.”

  “Negative implications?” Rosa said. “That’s what this is all about? A very old, very ill man died of natural causes—nothing more.”

  “I tend to agree with her,” Alex said.

  “Alex,” Tara clasped her hands in front of her, “you gave six interviews on the Broumgard Group’s behalf last year—your contractual minimum. Two of those were filmed at your home. I mean no disrespect when I say you don’t have a clue what we’re facing.”

  Alex swallowed, fearing Rosa would snap back. After seconds ticked by, he relaxed. What Tara said hurt. Mainly because they carried the only ingredient for hurt, truth. He’d slacked on all of his duties—Broumgard, family, friends. And despite doing all he could to avoid the media, he still received tremendous coverage.

  “My only concern is the safety of the Lobby,” Tara continued. “You know there are influential forces in our government, in governments and high places around the world, who dedicate every waking moment to destroying us. These are intelligent people, Alex; powerful individuals who have no concept of failure.

  “And while I don’t judge your lifestyle, and I don’t resent Adisah’s hibernating in the mountains, I’m the one who fights. My team and I save our universe from collapse again and again. The rest of you just act like the Lobby is a given right.”

  Alex fidgeted. No one would ever say he rivaled Tara’s drive, but facing the reality that he contributed nothing but a few checks to the cause, and that he did consider the Lobby a right, added to his guilt. He bit his bottom lip, and worked his jaw to the side. What should he say? You’re right—I’m a failure. What’s new?

  Rosa placed her hand on his back.

  “I’m not trying to beat y
ou up,” Tara continued. “I’m only qualifying my knowledge. Our enemies are waiting for something like this. Roy has logged thousands more hours in the Lobby than anyone on the planet. They will take their billion-dollar budgets and hammer that irrelevant fact home to every person on the planet.” She placed the briefcase on the table. After popping it open, she pulled out two stapled stacks of paper and an envelope, placed the items on the table, and then returned the briefcase. She slid forms in front of Alex and Rosa, keeping the envelope near her.

  “These are the Lobby’s new health and wellness standards. They basically state that a client must undergo a medical analysis. And that if we deem it necessary, we suspend their right to visit the Lobby.”

  Alex skimmed the words, surprised that he’d never considered any of this. One of his strengths involved leaving his weaknesses in others’ care. As he perused the basic requirements, everything seemed reasonable. Those with health problems, diagnosed with cancer, anyone who had recently undergone a serious medical procedure, would be denied Lobby access. Flipping through a few pages, he noticed a graph that dropped to the right like a set of stairs.

  “That’s the projected loss of sales if this story leaks,” Tara said. “The other is the number of clients affected by the new policies.”

  Alex found the loss of sales horrifying and the number of clients affected almost a nonfactor. He reassembled the paper stack, resolved to her leadership. “So what do you suggest?”

  “The fact that Roy lived on these grounds, in your guest house, makes this an easy fix. If he were to die a normal, quiet death in his bed, it would earn him multiple thirty-second spots on national media for the next few days, which is exactly what we’re after. A quiet passing of a man instrumental in creating history’s greatest invention.”

  “Excuse me.” Rosa scooted her chair back and stormed down the hall.

  Alex couldn’t be sure if she struggled with their intention of lying about where and how Roy died, the possibility that the Lobby posed a threat, or that they’d ban a section of people from access. For her, some guy lived in the clouds and watched every decision a person made. An entity who graded those decisions in order to sentence each person to an eternity of paradise or a pit of fire. Alex gave Rosa space in times of crisis. Either that, or receive a lecture.

  He turned back to Tara. “What about everyone who was here?”

  She glanced at the bodyguard, then back to Alex. “This will be one of our easier fixes.” She pointed out the back wall in the direction of the guest house. “An American legend died in his sleep, at the age of eighty-nine. You allow some cameras on the grounds to get their shots of his bedroom, the world mourns, and the Lobby continues—like he would have wanted. We implement the new health and wellness policy and hope this happens no more than once a decade.”

  Alex understood, but the more she talked, the more he wanted to be alone, to shut out the chaos and grieve. Thinking about losing the Lobby made him run his hand through his hair. He stood and breathed deeply. “I guess, if this is the best way …”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “Roy would spin circles in his grave if his death hurt the Lobby.”

  Tara pulled an envelope from the briefcase and slid it toward Alex. His name was on the front, penned in Adisah’s elegant handwriting. Seeing that reminder of the old man eased much of his concern. Shoving the letter in his back pocket, he thought of Rosa.

  Now would be the perfect time to remind her of his promise to abstain from the Lobby, and to enforce the sentiment of their unity—no matter what the future might bring.

  Tara stood, came around the table, and placed her hand flat against Alex’s chest. “Your wife loves you—keep her consoled. This will be a rough stretch for her, and you. Get some counseling. It helps.” She looked down at the letter. “Adisah is like a father to me, and you’re like a son to him. Stay focused on what we all want.”

  As she left, Alex vowed to do as she asked, but then he wondered, did they all want the same thing?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Agent Andrews pushed against his desk to scoot his chair back. He then dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed a moment to process everything he just heard.

  The six individuals in his office were some of the most influential people in civil enforcement, which differed from law enforcement, as these were the people who told law enforcement what to believe, and how to delineate right and wrong.

  After all this time, keeping faith through years—and occasional doubt—he had the ammunition to hurt the greatest habit forming vice of our time. Alex Cutler and Tara Capaldi had colluded to misinform the public as to the means and probable cause of Roy Guillen’s death, three days prior.

  His exuberance reached a point where he wanted to jump and shout hallelujah as he pranced around the room, and embraced each person. Being a professional, he buried his true thoughts. After half a minute, he said, “Tell me, step by step, how you got this information.”

  A few people shared inquisitive looks—as if the head of the LOC should grovel instead of assume control of a meeting in his office.

  Mr. Townsend stepped forward and placed his hands on the desk. “We don’t have time to give you every detail.” The man had graduated from West Point near the top of his class, but everyone in the room, including Townsend, knew he’d reached his ceiling a decade ago.

  “Calm down, Art,” Nadine Dewitt said coolly. Being an assistant to the CIA’s deputy director gave her clout, regardless of her exact title. “Mr. Andrews is only being thorough. We expect nothing less.”

  Agent Andrews, he thought. But on the heels of such fortuitous information, he left the error uncorrected.

  The other members held sentiments similar to Nadine. These people were wolves, and this meeting was his initiation to the pack. Andrews possessed the authority—and now the ammunition—they needed to exert control over the Lobby. News of this magnitude granted a wish for him, and he’d make these people happy. He simply needed a full assessment so he could plan the assault from every angle.

  “I want to do this right,” Agent Andrews said. “Information is the key.”

  Mr. Townsend was tall and lean, with a great head of black hair. Those three attributes probably helped him make it one or two rungs higher on the ladder than he deserved. The man shook his head as if confused, backed away, and said, “This is ridiculous.” He found a spot behind the pack and crossed his arms.

  “It’s fine,” said Kathleen Sousa, a woman above reproach. Being the overseer of CRYPTLOG, gifted her with the ability to instill paralyzing fear. People talked about Apple and Google collecting and exploiting their data, but the US was far superior.

  Google was deviant, no doubt. If a person used an Android device for more than two months, Google had a MINIMUM two-million page dossier on them, including everyone in this room. But CRYPTLOG monitored every device, sorted, and processed that data. The US knew everyone’s routine, the minutes spent around and talking with others, all your activities, all your shared thoughts. WIth that they knew what truly lurked in your heart, even if you didn’t.

  “Agent Andrews has been granted full disclosure. This will be his rodeo, so we will assist him with anything he needs,” Kathleen said.

  A man, whose name Andrews didn’t recall, but whom he remembered worked for Lisa Chapman, head of the NSA, leaned forward, cleared his throat and began, “On June eighteenth, at two twenty-seven in the afternoon, a nine-one-one call was placed from the Cutler residence; emergency responders were dispatched. Using satellites, we recorded the body of Mr. Roy Guillen being removed from the main house. When comparing that video to the news report of a nice, peaceful death in the guest home, we knew something was amiss.

  “We’ve tried to secure information from witnesses and conspirators in previous cover-ups, but the money Tara doles out keeps them tight-lipped. Those would have made wonderful cases, but now we’re talking about criminal actions and a public relations di
saster that could topple the Lobby once and for all.”

  Andrews listened to his own rhythmic breathing. He knew he possessed exceptional intelligence, but even geniuses slipped from time to time. With his A-game intact, he would have recorded this conversation, and later on, listened to that last line over and over, perhaps found solace in it for the rest of his days: topple the Lobby once and for all.

  “We soon learned many unsavory individuals were upset with Tyrell Simpson, paramedic number three, for quitting his job that afternoon.” Another of the suits tossed a folder on Andrews’s desk.

  “Apparently, Mr. Simpson had been pilfering cases of fentanyl, among a half-dozen other medications, for almost three years.

  “We built cases against a pair of his flunkies, and offered them immunity for their cooperation in implicating Mr. Simpson. Next, we approached Mr. Simpson and asked: if he wanted to keep Ms. Capaldi’s money and sit in prison, or tell us what really happened and remain free?”

  Excitement arced in the air. Everyone knew this whole fiasco would devastate the Broumgard Group.

  With the combined power these men and women—along with their bosses—wielded, everyone might get their wish and deal the Lobby the coup de grâce.

  As head of the LOC, Andrews could declare a seventy-two hour moratorium, based on nothing but intuition. With eyewitness testimony, he could temporarily close all Atriums. With proof that the man who’d spent the most time inside the contraption had died while interacting with the machine, he’d issue a full, thirty-day ban, for public safety.

  Agent Andrews’s only stipulation—he would collar Alex Cutler. Besides that, only one question remained.

  “When do we begin?”

  Chapter Twenty

  The federal agents who raided Legion didn’t use C4 to blow doors off hinges, or rip the gate off with a hook, cable, and an armored vehicle. Instead, they coasted their sedans up the drive, knocked politely, and the moment the doors opened, poured in like locust.