“Lower your voice.” Brad grinned, but by the look in his eye Daniel knew he was only half-joking. “We’re probably being recorded on the surveillance system right now.”
Daniel lowered his voice as ordered. “What’s the big deal?” He glanced up at the photographs again. “I wasn’t accusing her of anything improper.”
“It’s just—well, you know what the political climate is like these days.” Brad turned away and smiled toward the center of the room, mugging for whomever might be watching. “This president is so wary of scandal that he’s taken pains to be certain his relationships with female associates are perceived as strictly professional. He’s especially careful around Lauren Mitchell. You’d never catch him hugging her.”
“Why?” Daniel frowned, a little surprised to realize how disappointed he’d be if Lauren Mitchell had some kind of a fling going with her boss. The president had seemed rather casual with her in the cabinet meeting today. That sort of casualness could come from working together, or it might mean something more. . . .
“Lauren Mitchell is like a daughter to the Stedmans.” Brad glanced over his shoulder at a photograph of the three of them together on a deserted beach. “I don’t know if you’ll remember it, but the Stedmans had a daughter about Lauren’s age, and the two girls were friends. But Jessica Stedman died nearly thirteen years ago in a boating accident off the Outer Banks.”
Daniel closed his eyes, remembering the story. Samuel Stedman had been a senator then, and the news had made the front pages. For a few days there was talk of foul play, but the inquest had eventually ruled that Jessica Stedman had been riding with a group of college students too drunk to handle their power boats.
“Oh man, I remember now.” Daniel turned and moved closer to the beach picture. From a distance he had assumed the girl was Lauren, but on closer observation he could see that this was a different young woman, with slightly darker hair and a narrower face. This had to be Jessica Stedman. And though it must give the Stedmans pleasure to work with Lauren, the sight of her must pain them, too. How could they look at Lauren and not think of their deceased daughter?
“So whatever you do,” Brad dropped his voice even lower, “don’t talk about the beach, boats, or booze. The Stedmans are teetotalers.”
“No problem.”
The door opened. As the president and his wife came in, trailed by Lauren and General Archer, Daniel thrust his hands in his pockets and tried to mimic Brad’s nonchalant attitude.
“Gentlemen, I’m so glad you joined us.” The president flashed a genuine smile, and Daniel felt himself relax. “I think the steward has dinner ready in the dining room, so let’s eat, shall we? Mr. Prentice, I do hope you like southern fried chicken. I can’t seem to get enough of it, but the chef has orders to serve fried foods only on special occasions.”
“I love it.”
The president and first lady led the way into the small hallway off the Oval Office, and Daniel fell into step beside Lauren Mitchell, leaving Brad to walk with General Archer.
“I’m glad you made it,” Lauren said as they moved through the hallway and into the elegantly-appointed but comfortable dining room. “But I’ll have to ask Mr. Hunter what he said to convince you to come. I might need to know his secret.”
“Mr. Hunter has no secrets,” Daniel whispered, pulling out a chair for Lauren at the table. “At least, none that I wouldn’t share with you, too. All you have to do is ask.”
“Well.” The dusky rose of Lauren’s cheeks deepened as she sat down. “I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be,” Brad Hunter answered with a smile, taking a seat beside Daniel. “Daniel charms every woman he meets, but no one has managed to snag him yet.”
“I can’t imagine that no one is interested.”
Daniel looked up, slightly embarrassed as Mrs. Stedman offered her opinion. He was sitting directly across from her, and for a moment he was reminded of his mother—Mrs. Stedman had his mother’s bright, bold blue eyes.
He sighed in quiet relief when the president returned the conversation to more important matters. “Mr. Prentice, General Archer will want to meet with you tomorrow. And, of course, I’d like you to meet with several of the cabinet secretaries who might have reservations about implementing the sort of national network you suggested today.”
“It is nothing to be afraid of,” Daniel said, leaning back as the steward placed a salad plate on the table before him. “Most Americans have no idea how often the details of their lives are tracked even now. Every time John Doe makes a phone call, buys something with a credit card, subscribes to a magazine, or pays his taxes, that information is recorded in a database somewhere. If John goes to buy a car, the moment he gives his Social Security number to a salesman, the business office can get a detailed credit history. In a few minutes, they will have more accurate information about who and what John owes than John does himself.”
“That doesn’t mitigate the fact that people don’t like the government knowing those kinds of details,” the president pointed out. “We’re very privacy-oriented in this country. No one likes a snoop, and we’ve been conditioned to resist anything that smacks of Big Brother.”
“That is actually an advantage the identification chip offers.” Daniel waited until the president picked up his fork, then he did the same. “No one can read the PID with the naked eye. Personal information is only visible to scanners, and different institutions will only be able to decipher certain codes. The encoded information can be segmented by category. Stores and merchants, for example, only need to know whether a person is authorized to use a debit card and the level of available credit. Medical centers have no business knowing of an individual’s criminal record. The porter at the train station doesn’t need to know that his passenger carries the gene for sickle cell anemia.”
“So the government controls the dissemination of information.” General Archer had not yet begun to eat; he simply stared at Daniel, his eyes narrow and his back ramrod straight.
Daniel paused and stabbed at his salad. “I suppose. Someone has to be in charge, but that authority must be trustworthy. You’re quite right, Mr. President, about privacy issues. We cannot allow technology to take away the basic rights guaranteed by our Constitution.”
“I don’t understand.” Lauren’s eyes widened with concern. “It all sounds so convenient and controllable. What’s the downside?”
Daniel threw a glance at Brad, then looked back at Lauren. “Brad and I were talking about this earlier. The downside is that in a technological age, he who holds information holds great power. I believe that information is like water—it must be checked in some situations and allowed to flow freely in others. But there are those who would dam information for their own purposes.”
Lauren smiled and shook her head. “You’ve lost me, Professor.”
Daniel lowered his fork. “Information is money. Marketers routinely shell out big bucks to companies who collect information about who buys what.” He bent his head slightly to look into her eyes. “Tell me, Miss Mitchell—have you a hobby? Some outside interest that has nothing to do with your work here?”
“Just one.” She dimpled. “I have a champion Samoyed. When my schedule allows, I handle her in dog shows.”
“Have you ever ordered pet supplies from a catalog?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes. Once or twice.”
“And how many pet supply catalogs do you now find in your mail?”
Her smile vanished, wiped away by understanding. “More than a dozen. Most of them are from companies I’ve never heard of.”
Daniel spread his hands. “There you have it. Information about your buying habits has been spread throughout the catalog kingdom.”
“That’s not so bad.” Lauren gave Mrs. Stedman an uncertain smile. “I mean, there’s no harm in getting a lot of junk mail. Everyone does.”
“But suppose you couldn’t buy groceries because the powers that be decided that you had registered with the w
rong political party?” Daniel met the president’s eyes. “No offense, sir, but you won’t remain in this office forever. What if your successor dreams of an authoritarian society? What if he decides to crush rebels by denying them the right to travel freely? To buy medicine? To attend school?”
Mrs. Stedman’s fork dropped to her salad plate with a resounding clatter. Her face seemed to open for a brief moment as Daniel’s words took hold in her imagination. He saw bewilderment in her eyes, a quick flicker of fear, then certainty.
“’He also forced everyone,’” Mrs. Stedman breathed the words in a hoarse whisper, as if they were too terrible to utter in a normal voice, “’small and great, rich and poor, free and slave, to receive a mark on his right hand or on his forehead, so that no one could buy or sell unless he had the mark, which is the name of the beast or the number of his name.’”
An awkward silence followed, then the president reached out and patted his wife’s hand. “Honey, this isn’t the Bible we’re talking about here. It’s just business.”
The Bible? Daniel lowered his gaze, wishing he’d paid better attention all those Sundays his mother had dragged him to church. He didn’t remember hearing anything like Mrs. Stedman’s dire pronouncement, but her reference to a mark on the right hand or forehead, coming so soon after the cabinet meeting, was enough to send prickles of cold dread crawling up his spine.
“The Antichrist,” she said, looking at Daniel. A warning cloud settled on her elegant features. “It’s a prediction found in the book of Revelation, chapter thirteen .According to the ancient biblical prophecy, a future world dictator will lead the world into great tribulation, and he will require every living soul to take a mark on his right hand or his forehead.”
“Victoria, darling, if we want a sermon, we’ll call in a preacher.” Annoyance struggled with affection on the president’s face as he looked around the table. “You may not know, gentlemen, that Victoria has become quite involved in religion. She finds that it comforts her—and since she’s needed quite a bit of comfort in the past few years, I support her entirely.”
Quiet sounds of agreement came from everyone at the table. Daniel looked at Lauren—she bent over her salad, methodically eating, but the color in her cheeks was brighter than it had been a moment before.
No matter what her husband’s wishes, Victoria Stedman was not one to be ignored. “Thank you, Sam.” Her voice was soft but filled with a quiet determination all the more impressive for its control. “But this is a private meeting, off the record. If any of the men at this table are offended by my belief in the Bible and Jesus Christ—” her eyes moved from General Archer to Daniel—“then I apologize for giving offense. But I do not apologize for my convictions.”
Brad was quick to regain his composure. “No apology is necessary, Mrs. Stedman.”
“I agree,” Daniel echoed. “My mother is a Christian, too. I have a feeling she would be very interested in your views, Mrs. Stedman.”
The first lady’s left eyebrow rose a fraction. “Really? Well, it is reassuring to know that you have some sort of spiritual background. Are you a believer, Mr. Prentice?”
Daniel’s face grew hot. He was conscious that everyone at the table was staring at him, but what could he do? If he claimed to be a believer like Mrs. Stedman, the president might lose all faith in Daniel’s ideas. Worse yet, General Archer might imagine that Daniel was trying to implement some sort of fulfillment to the prophecy Mrs. Stedman had just mentioned.
But if he said he didn’t believe, Mrs. Stedman would be disappointed. And if the story leaked somehow, the news of Daniel Prentice’s supposed atheism would break his mother’s heart.
Daniel closed his eyes. When in doubt, he reminded himself, the easiest way out was always to tell the truth.
He looked up. General Archer was watching with what looked like wry amusement, Brad had lowered his gaze, and the president appeared to be studying the crown molding at the ceiling. Lauren, though, had put down her fork and stared at Daniel with wide eyes.
“I find religion very interesting.” Daniel met the first lady’s bold gaze. “I can’t say that I’m as devoted to Christian dogma as my mother, but I’m not at all ready to discount the fact that God could exist. Until we know all there is to know, how can anyone deny God with any certainty?”
A smile played at the corners of Victoria Stedman’s mouth. “You are an honest man, Daniel Prentice,” she said, running her finger around the rim of her crystal water goblet. “I appreciate honesty wherever I find it. There is too little truthfulness in this world.”
The pantry door swung open, and the president clapped his hands in open relief. “The fried chicken.” He gave Daniel an apologetic smile, then lifted his salad plate toward the steward. “No more talk of business, gentlemen, let’s discuss more pleasant things. Who do you think will play in the Super Bowl this year?”
And with that deft command, all conversation about computer chips, religion, and world dictators vanished. Daniel, Brad, Sam Stedman, and General Archer spent the rest of the evening munching on fried chicken and talking football.
Shortly after ten that evening, General Adam Archer climbed into his limo and told the driver to take him directly home. As the long, black car pulled away from the curb and passed through the iron gates bordering the White House, Archer pulled his secure cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number.
His aide answered on the second ring. “General?”
“I need a wiretap, full team surveillance, and anything else you can get me on Daniel Prentice.” To be certain there were no misunderstandings, Archer spelled the name.
“Isn’t this the computer guy in the news?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I’ll get right on it.”
“I want to know everything—where he goes, who he knows, and everyone who sent him a Christmas card last year. Use every means at your disposal.”
“You’ve got a green light from Brown?” Alexander Brown was the director of the FBI, and Archer was supposed to clear any sort of domestic wiretapping and surveillance through his office.
“I’ll be responsible for this one. Just get on it.”
Archer snapped his phone shut, then dropped it back into his pocket. Outside the limo, the streetlights cast an orange, shadowless glow over the row houses that lined the aging streets. The lights were an anticrime device, neither inexpensive nor pretty, but very necessary in this crime-wasted capital.
Archer stared out the window, gazing at the deteriorating buildings on the outskirts of the District. A different law ruled here, a system made up of paroles and second chances, of time off for good behavior and early prison releases. Murderers lurked in those shadowed doorways; rapists, thugs, and thieves lingered at the corner markets and sized up new prospects.
For some time Archer had known that the proud America of his youth was dying. The harder he tried to ignore the truth, the more it persisted. Decadence, sloth, and moral weakness had infected the lower classes and risen steadily upward, corrupting even the White House and Congress.
Most Americans had not considered how a weak, faltering America would function in a world where the United States was no longer the de facto leader. While Americans cocooned in their homes in an effort to avoid the rampant crime on the streets, the rest of the world had begun to flex its muscles. China was an awakening giant, and dedicated, oftentimes suicidal Islamic oil barons controlled the vital distribution of oil. Europe had been energized with a new sense of purpose found in unity, and only Adrian Romulus seemed to fully appreciate the forces at work in the world outside the boundaries of the United States.
The future belonged to men like Romulus. That charming and charismatic leader had impressed Archer with his ideas, his commitment to a united world community ruled by strength and power, and his “iron hand in a velvet glove” approach. In a strict society, each individual knew his place. In a society with regulated laws and absolute justice, those who broke the rules kn
ew they’d pay the consequences. Black was black, white was white, and truth was truth.
While Samuel Stedman didn’t exhibit the obvious symptoms of depravity many of his predecessors had manifested, he was a conservative, bound in his thinking and habits to the old ways that had destroyed the nation. Though Archer personally liked Sam Stedman, the man couldn’t even prevent school children from shooting each other on the playground. Romulus, on the other hand, had already instituted street curfews in Europe and strict gun controls.
Archer lowered his eyes, resigned to the inevitable. The old ways—and those who clung to them—had to be eliminated. Whether America realized it or not, the country was at war for its survival, and every war had casualties. . . .
Romulus would bring about a new world order, and he had promised Adam Archer a key place in it.
Closing his eyes to the depressing street scene, the general crossed his arms over his thick chest and wondered what the next few days would bring.
Daniel pulled the comforter up over the rumpled bed, then sat on the edge of the mattress and slipped on his socks. He’d just spent a night in the Lincoln Bedroom, and found the experience strangely deflating. The bed wasn’t comfortable, the antique furnishings weren’t to his taste, and the tiny desk wasn’t big enough for his laptop, his notebooks, and the stacks of papers he wanted to organize. Still, it was the Lincoln Bedroom, and he figured the news was worth sharing with a friend or two.
He picked up the phone on the night stand and gave the operator the number for Prentice Technologies. As he waited for the call to go through, he noticed that gray winter light poured through the sheer lace panels at the windows, so the office was bound to be humming with activity.
Roberta answered after the first ring.
“Prentice Technologies.”
Flee The Darkness Page 10