He had rolled his two luggage dollies down the alleyway to the Vanagon two streets over. He circled back and parked with a view of Café Trevi and his apartment, cell phones off in precaution. A familiar position, waiting out possible danger. He doubted anything would happen but was prepared to wait the rest of the day to be sure.
Within minutes the men arrived in a sedan with blacked out windows. They disappeared into the entry and all too soon one appeared in his apartment window, a handgun briefly visible. At that moment the message from Crosstalk became substantial, the danger as tangible as the rain returning to pelt the roof and windshield.
For the first time in years a familiar fear flickered, the kind that swallowed reason to spawn panic. There could be no doubt that Crosstalk was in trouble – perhaps dead if his warning proved accurate.
It was good not to exist.
A comforting maxim he’d grown fond of, he mulled it over for a good kilometer. More than anything it was comfort he sought driving on the storm-slick A3 towards Munich.
I don’t exist.
Birth records in tiny Elburg in the Gelderland province were missing from the local and the regional government storehouses. The hospital that once held his childhood medical records lost them one chilly December night years ago. The national registry of citizens, converted to database form nearly ten years prior, had been purged of his existence. He’d never been arrested so his prints weren’t on file. Medical work was done at free clinics or through private practices. Cash payment and false ID.
Having never been born, he was free to give birth to his own personas. The supporting documentation and history of three identities were his, each a blossom amidst the vast crop of failed or partial identities, each an artful manipulation of the systems that defined identity. Two he could become at a moment’s notice – the third required a half hour’s makeup session. They were the result of a life spent seeking intrigue, wealth, and most importantly, freedom.
Only now complications from Crosstalk’s email threatened invisibility – he was tagged as a person of interest by whoever was tracking him. Identities used for utilities and rent were paper-thin. Bank deposits were manual and email accounts new. Web traffic logs would reveal nothing of identity, though the encrypted streams through Underground servers and bots could attract attention.
The truly alarming thing was how fast they’d physically reached him. From the timestamp on Crosstalk’s email to the time they’d hit the apartment was a span of only twenty-five minutes. It implied a government-level response, a worst-case scenario.
The handgun seen in the window made him think of Mrs. Shulz. Because of the rewire of service into his apartment, they would have gone to her apartment first. Guns drawn, she would have been terrified. Guilt burned.
Cars passed him on the soaked highway and turned the van’s windows opaque between wiper strokes. Making it to Munich through rising winds and rain provided distraction from the unanswered questions but not enough. Fear still ranged the periphery of thought.
“I don’t exist,” he said to the road ahead.
He couldn’t deny that the axiom offered less comfort than before.
The lights of distant Munich seen through the rainfall lightened his heart. He’d made the eight-hour drive straight through, sleep a prominent passenger the last hour. An exit led to a tumbling lane with farms, pastures, and stands of old-growth trees. He slowed when he saw the familiar wooden sign swinging in the wind. He turned into a long drive, rolled past a stone farmhouse, and stopped in front of an oversized barn. Amidst the darkness and rain, the wooden structure loomed ominous and foreboding. For him, it felt like home. He dashed to the heavy wooden doors and opened them to pull the van inside.
Built shortly after the Second World War, the barn was of the best German timber, constructed to outlast the problems of the period. In the late eighties George and Faiga bought the farm and converted the rear into an apartment to accommodate visiting family. On the ground floor was a kitchen, dining area, and sitting room. A large bedroom with a bath made up the second floor. Its simplicity and location in the farmlands offered refuge from the incident back at the apartment. The file meant nothing here, over eight-hundred kilometers away... unless they’d tracked him.
He shook his head and resumed the pleasant moments of arrival. No one knew where he was.
He climbed the narrow stairs and reached for the light switch. The glow of a bulb revealed a bedroom with only a bed, nightstand, writing table, dresser, and coat stand. Near the door to the bathroom a painting depicted St. Michael the Archangel expelling Lucifer from heaven.
He studied the painting as he shrugged out of his coat. A scene both serene and incredibly violent. St. Michael appeared to handle Lucifer with grace and confidence, reinforced by the might of God, yet he could imagine the fierce struggle between good and evil. Most would fail to comprehend those forces and instead only acknowledge the biblical story depicted. So it was with much of daily life, taken for granted with little in the way of reflection of its supporting structures. A safe but shallow mindset held by the majority of people. It helped his work immensely in many ways... but how deep the pond was!
“How deep, indeed?”
He hung his coat on the stand and again thought of Crosstalk’s message.
Could it be? Psychic abilities? There were times when intuition leapt across all boundaries of reasoning and deduction to deliver improbable revelations about others. Too many times to count, really. Usually it was subtle. Other times, not so much.
He went to the toilet for a piss.
Intuition, the only non-taboo word for a sixth sense. Mention the concept of psychics, use the term ‘mind reading’, and the whole thing blew up in your face. Too fantastic, too contrived, but also too invasive to consider, too problematic for people’s comfort zone.
What was consciousness anyway? From what did it stem, and what attributes did it have? Was there an underlying framework that could be explored and even shared? It seemed possible that there was, which made Crosstalk’s message more intriguing.
Back in the bedroom, he looked around for the laptop and realized he’d left it on the kitchen counter. At the bottom of the stairs he halted at the sight of a bearded man with a rifle.
The man lowered the weapon. “Peter! I wasn’t sure it was you.”
“I hoped not to wake you, George.” They embraced. “Sorry I didn’t call ahead.”
“Eh, you’re welcome anytime and you know it.” George eyed him. “You look tired, son. Worn. Are you okay?”
He smiled, despite sadness. George had aged, his beard fully gray now. Only his belly remained stout – the rest had thinned. “Work has been stressful. Time for holiday. Maybe some drawing, maybe nothing at all. I need to relax and this is the best place, away from it all.”
The older man nodded. “Wise choice. Eh, you really are exhausted, it’s in your voice. They must have you very busy.” He knew Peter as an agent of the Dutch security services. The remark was a subtle reminder of how interested he was in his exploits. “I’m just glad you arrived safely. The roads are hell, I bet. Crazy storms.”
“Crazy, yes.”
“Well this is good.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “Faiga will be glad you’ve come. Get some sleep, son. Breakfast in the morning?”
“Of course. Tell Faiga I’ll be up to help her make it.”
“Good, good. Sleep well.” He turned for the door.
“Thank you George.”
He went to unload the van. Reliving the incident at the apartment, he struggled again with the implications. If they dug really deep, they might learn he’d driven the Vanagon. That was registered to Drehen which meant there would be just one identity left to use.
Calm. No ifs. No fear. Confirm. Deal with reality first.
Exhausted, he locked up and lugged his suitcases up the stairs. He undressed messily, turned off the lights, and collapsed into bed. Between the goose-down blankets and the rain against the barn r
oof, his last thoughts were of gratitude before sleep came.
• • •
“Heya.”
Austin strolled into the family room with a beer and a bag of chips and joined Kaiya on the couch.
“Oh,” she paused her show. “I ordered pizza about twenty minutes ago.”
“Pepperoni?”
“Half. Thin crust.”
“You’re the best.”
“I know. How’s your hacker?”
“Dunno, not a peep.” He set the chips aside. “The German connection flopped but I’m sure the admin knows who’s using his router. I’m tempted to try hacking it just to see what permissions are there. Might lead back to him.”
“Hmm. Breakin’ the law to catch a law breaker?”
She was right, it wasn’t smart. “We’ll see. I’m pretty sure I’ll get another whack at him.”
Over pizza by candlelight, Kaiya talked about how three classmates in Economics had been caught cheating with the help of a teacher’s aide.
“It’s just amazing what people will do. Makes you wonder how they arrive at those kinds of choices.”
He washed down a bite with cold beer. “Makes you wonder, yep. Like that hacker. Probably started as a kid. Hooked up with the wrong crowd. Found the cracks and slipped through. Now he’s hacking people’s junk.”
“Sounds like a young you,” she said. At his glance, she asked, “Well doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, okay, but this is serious. There’s a market for this data. He can mess things up bad for people. Starting with me.”
“Maybe it’s the easiest way to make good money where he’s from.”
“Might be, yeah. He’s still a prick though. Just like I was.”
He reflected on his own start into computers. Loving parents, though really into their careers. By age thirteen he’d become convinced work was their first passion. For dad, it was everything and their only real connection. As a computer analyst for the CIA, being tied up with work was the absolute norm. Mom’s time in local politics kept her busy and provided visibility and success that she seemed to crave. The older he got, the more disconnected he felt from them.
By his fourteenth birthday he’d begun to explore the internet. Game forums first, then to private forums, then to chat channels. New friends led him to the darker, unadvertised side of the net. In the new warrens things surfaced that he’d never seen – topics and images that he’d never considered, never imagined. Had his parents known they would have pulled the computer in a heartbeat. Instead, he saw with greater clarity exactly how to behave to keep them from catching on.
His fifteenth birthday brought a new computer and a faster connection. Real deviation began when he learned how to break into computer systems. What used to be important became less significant – like the idea of right and wrong. He learned a lot about people, too, like how they were not always what they appeared on the surface. It applied to everyone he knew, including his folks.
A few months before his sixteenth birthday, the cruelest of fates shifted his outlook forever. Driving back from a fundraiser, his mother was struck and killed. The other driver, drunk and high, lived.
In the weeks that followed, his dad helped him understand how his mother’s passion for her work had diminished nothing of her love for him; he’d just been too selfish and immature to see it. He dropped off the hack sites and the secret rebelliousness fell away. He grew closer to his dad and focused on technology in a constructive way. It lit his imagination and eventually provided a career path.
Kaiya shrugged. “Well, even if you never catch him, at least you found a big time exploit. That’s worth something.”
“True. Got some more visibility at Rocom, too.”
“You’d love to work there.”
He looked up at her. “I’d like to work there. I’d love to see Sam on the shelves at Best Buy and Home Depot and on Amazon. Not to mention in new home builds.”
She nodded. “In time, you will. Meanwhile, use your momentum at InterGen. Make it worth your while. You’ve earned it.”
They finished dinner and after clearing the dishes decided to make up for the previous morning’s preemption. As they climbed the stairs, she poked him in the chest. “If you get called tonight, we’ll go down there and get busy in the server room.”
He laughed and slapped her butt. “Really? I might have to arrange a call then.”
“Perv.”
“Hey, it was your idea.”
• • •
Johan slept in on Sunday, finally rising to shower while rain gathered in the lanes of the adjoining fields. Instead of feeling better about the incident at the apartment, he felt it more of a threat than before. Despite intense curiosity about the file, things were too hot; absolute downtime from Alcazar felt safest. Bringing trouble of any kind to George and Faiga was out of the question.
There were always things George needed help with and as expected he had to weave a few tales to entertain him throughout the day. Such small repayment for his hospitality. After dinner he spent the evening with George over a chess board. Conversation revealed the progression of the memory issue that Faiga had mentioned during his last visit. George circled around twice to the same topic as if they had not talked about it twenty minutes earlier. At his age it wasn’t unexpected but Faiga worried it might grow into something worse. He hoped not.
Before bed he checked email via a proxied aggregator. One message from Andreas carried the name and contact information for the InterGen admin who’d tried to track him.
Sorry Mr. Bakken, not good enough.
Monday morning it rained steadily and at times in. He surprised Faiga by joining her in the kitchen with eggs gathered from the coop. They made breakfast and afterwards the three played games. Faiga won handily in back to back rounds of Bohnanza, George’s favorite card game.
The couple were the closest thing to family he had. By the time the early loss of his own parents finally emerged as a heartfelt and soulful problem, George and Faiga Bergmann were the universe’s answer. He’d returned to them again and again over the years. Worries were always set aside, if only for a time.
In the afternoon the rains broke and the sun emerged from behind clouds. Sunlight warmed the sodden earth and made it fragrant and colorful. Puddles had joined to make small lakes that he navigated around. Under the trees at the edge of a neighboring farm, the absence of technology felt liberating. Just the earth, tools to work it, and a home to live in. It seemed simple and damn appealing.
What really happened at the apartment was unclear but with luck he’d soon know more. Worst case he’d relocate and start over. Maybe a nose job and an eye lift. A chin tuck and a tan wouldn’t hurt, either.
By nightfall Johan hadn’t gone to the house for supper so George and Faiga appeared in the apartment with food and drink. They called him downstairs.
“Ach! You shouldn’t have. Thank you, Faiga.”
They sat with him as he ate. Faiga couldn’t resist her instincts.
“You look so lean, Peter. You need to eat better. When are you going to settle down and find a wife, hmm? Someone to take better care of you?”
George harrumphed. “Peter’s got good sense. He’ll know when it’s time. When he does, he’ll fatten up soon enough.”
“Don’t worry Faiga, I’m healthy and strong. And when the woman of my dreams finds me I will not turn and run, I promise.”
They drank steins of George’s own brewed stout. Conversation ranged from provincial to global. George was still keen on knowing what was going on in the world and did a good job of staying informed via the internet. Faiga approved because it seemed to keep his mind sharp and agile, though the news was often depressing.
George finished a draw from his brew. “You know, we were just talking about you before you showed up.”
“Yes? Good talk, I hope.”
“Well, have you heard anything about the killing in Rotterdam?”
“Depends. What killing?”
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His furry gray brows knitted in disgust. “They’re calling him the Butcher of Rotterdam. There’s a sketch out.”
“How many dead?”
“Just one but it was brutal. Sick bastard.”
“Sounds like a local homicide. What made you think of me? Someone in politics?”
“Heh,” George nodded and stood. “I’ll show you. It may be of interest to you.” He left for the house on a mission.
Faiga shook her head. “So damned depressing, that. Violence. Moral decay. The world is sliding deeper and deeper. Not just in the slums, not just in the big cities. It’s become so commonplace. Why? What’s inside people that drives them to such evil?”
“Some say it’s always been this way. We just hear more of it thanks to technology.”
“Maybe. I can’t help remembering that we are just animals after all. Some more evolved than others. And you know politicians and the elite are just as bad as the murderers. Letting good people fight wars and starve while they lounge in safety and reap the profits. As if privilege makes them immune to guilt and responsibility. All the world over! Corruption and inequity. Cruelty and murder. Seems to me rooted in the same evil. Honestly, I think somewhere in the last hundred years we had a chance to rise above it but failed to.” She sighed and studied him. “You see many bad things first hand. How do you manage?”
He could only shrug. “My work brings justice to those that might not otherwise meet it. If things get too much, like most people, I retreat. Not for long, though. Never for long.”
He stared at his empty plate, peripherally aware of Faiga’s gaze. Paranoia tugged, creating fear about what George would bring. “I know what you mean about missing our chance. I’ve felt that, too. Like we’ve skidded off the runway and can’t set things right. So many people want to live in peace and know how to treat their fellow man but they never seem to rise to real power. Regardless of their number. I don’t know why, either.”
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