My talent means I soak up thoughts like a sponge. I get migraine headaches just from being around people who are supposed to be normal.
But splashing around a giant pool of schizophrenia and brain damage is a thousand times worse. I’ve been near people who have completely lost it before: PTSD cases who have finally buckled under the weight of their memories, prisoners whose sanity has broken against the walls of their cells and torture, and those celebrity stalkers I mentioned before, the ones who suddenly discover a blinding truth that never occurred to them before.
After I’ve spent enough time in their presence, their perspective starts to infect mine. It feels like there’s sand under my feet on a steep incline, and I’m sliding helplessly toward something I can’t quite see. Everything looks . . . bent, somehow, like the angles of the world are slightly off, meeting in the wrong places. It takes almost physical effort for me to pull out of their heads.
The seventh floor, as it turns out, is where the really severely disturbed patients in the Towers are kept. They are dressed in heavy blue gowns, designed not to rip or tear so that they can’t be used to make a noose.
I know all this in a second because it comes blasting into my head, along with the pure dose of insanity from the man being held down by three deputies and a nurse.
I’m rooted to the spot, watching. He looks elderly, but is thrashing against them with inhuman strength. I can feel the last remnants of his self-image—the little personal ID card we all carry around in our brains—and I see that he’s barely into his forties, but he’s been living hard for a long time.
The nurse is trying to hit him with a dose of Thorazine that looks big enough to take down a horse. The inmate sees the needle and somehow manages to shove one of the deputies—who’s built like he pours steroids over his Frosted Flakes for breakfast every day—across the room. The nurse is knocked back as well.
The inside of his head is a black-cloud thunderstorm, with occasional flashes of pain like lightning. He looks at the faces around him. He sees them, but he sees something behind them as well, reptilian pupils in their eyes, scales at the edges of their skin. Demons. Stink of human flesh on their breath. He knows—absolutely knows—that the needle is filled with a radioactive cancer virus that is going to infect his soul so that it can be consumed by the demons, so they can shut down his light—
I’m yanked away suddenly. I almost raise my fist to lash out when I realize it’s the deputy, dragging me down the corridor.
“You find that entertaining?” he snaps. “Come on.”
I was standing there for only a few seconds. It felt like forever. It was like quicksand, sucking me down.
I find myself twitching and try to focus on the thoughts of the deputy.
He’s angry, and he thinks I’m scum, and he can’t wait to be rid of me.
But at least he’s sane.
9
The Future of Money
Outside the jail, I take a moment and collect myself. By which I mean I find my pill bottle inside my jacket and immediately pop it open. Two diazepam down the hatch. Deep breaths.
This is one of my great fears: that someday I will lose it like they have. That the walls I have built against all the noise and chatter will finally break down from all of the accumulated damage, and I will be swamped in other people’s thoughts. That I will lose my way among all the random and competing voices.
Because I’ve seen it from the inside, and it looks far too easy to me. It’s never just a sudden snap, like a tether giving way. Nobody ever wakes up and decides to be crazy. It is a long, slow, gradual process, a series of steps down a never-ending staircase, or a hillside slowly collapsing into a heap under a steady rain. A man starts by thinking that maybe there’s some explanation for his persistent cough; he does a Web search and finds something about chemtrails. And a year later, he’s holding up a cardboard sign outside the White House, demanding the truth about aliens.
The first bad idea looks so innocuous at the time. Most people stop there. Most people have at least one irrational belief. But for some people, it leads to another, and another, until they are in the middle of a wilderness where they are convinced they are the only ones who know the path to truth.
When I get wrapped in too close to the thoughts of others, I have a hard time not following that path. I have to pull myself back, or risk becoming just as lost.
And it scares the hell out of me.
The drugs begin to work. Once I feel calm enough, I try to sort through all the conflicting impressions I read in Goetz’s mind.
It’s all a jumbled mess. I got a whole stream of information pissing out of him along with the fear. Through all of it, though, I felt something. It’s like a splinter stuck just beneath the surface of the skin, with no way to get it out. It’s incredibly strange, but I would swear he had help. It was like something was pushing him toward Kira.
His Facebook feeds, his Twitter account, his news sites, they all began to show him more and more of Kira. And the more he clicked on her, the bigger she became in his life.
Part of this is the inevitable feedback loop of the Internet now. I’m no tech genius, but even I know that the Web shows you more of the things you already look at. You enter the term “Kira Sadeghi” into Google, and you’re tagged with that data. You carry that tag around to all the other websites you visit, and they all start showing you more stuff related to Kira Sadeghi in a desperate bid to get your attention.
But this is different, somehow. This is more than that.
I’m not offering him any excuses. He made his choices and pulled the trigger. Even though he is guilty, he still does not feel guilty. Or ashamed. Or even a trace of remorse. He feels sorry for himself above all. For that alone, he deserves whatever he gets.
But it certainly felt like something was steering him toward her. From inside his head, it almost felt inevitable.
I’m finally beginning to calm down. The panic is fading. The pills are swimming happily in my bloodstream now, and I feel the chemicals physically forcing my pulse and breathing back to normal levels.
I’m about to head to my car when a strong hand grabs my shoulder and spins me around. I was so out of it I didn’t even feel anyone’s eyes on me.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I look up and there’s Agent Gregory Vincent. And he is not happy.
I can see from the briefest glimpse into his mind that I am already busted, but I try to smile my way through this anyway.
“Agent Vincent, good to see you—”
“Don’t,” he says, pointing a warning finger at me. “You are this close to a cell right now.”
I drop the smile. “On what charge?”
“Impersonating a federal agent,” he snaps. “Funny thing, I was about to go in and interview the prisoners from the Sadeghi wedding, and then the deputy tells me that I’d already checked in. And one of the prisoners is scribbling notes about a guy who wanted to kill him. Then, by the most incredible coincidence, when I checked the security video . . .”
I can see where this is going, and sarcasm is really not Vincent’s strong suit. So I yawn and stretch and say, “All right. You got me. I was in there. Trying to get some more information. It’s my job. You want to bust me, let’s get going. Armin will have me bailed out before five.”
“So how did you pull this off?” he demands. He shows me the papers I signed to get into the Twin Towers. They include his signature, his ID number, his case numbers—in short, all the official chicken scratchings that verify his status as a fed. Not to mention the prisoner numbers, their pod and cell locations, and all the other data that convinced the deputies I had every right to be inside the jail.
&nb
sp; It goes without saying that I shouldn’t have any of that information. But I dug it from his head.
“Where did you get all of this?” he says, shaking the papers in my face. “Have you hacked into my laptop? That is a serious federal crime, Smith—”
“I’m good with numbers. Saw all that on the paperwork you brought to coffee, and I memorized it—”
“Bullshit. It never left my bag. You never had the chance.”
This is what I get for being so cocky. I thought I’d be long gone before Vincent came around to the jail. Now I’m vulnerable. And he knows it.
“You’re not going to arrest me,” I say.
He glares. “You seem pretty sure of that.”
“You want something else. Otherwise, you’d have me in a cell already.” I point at the jail. “I mean, we’re here anyway.”
He nods, slowly. He’s still angry, and confused, but he’s making a decision. It doesn’t really matter how I got all that paperwork. He’s got a use for me. He still needs something—or someone—to break open his case.
And now there’s no way I can say no.
“So,” I say, “you want to tell me over coffee, or are we just going to keep standing out here?”
He’s really close to punching me in the face.
But he resists the urge, then straightens his jacket and stalks away.
Coffee it is, then.
We sit at a table at the closest Starbucks. Much less friendly this time. He’s still glaring at me. Still thinking
“Aaric Stack.”
It takes me a moment to place it. Then I snag it. Tech billionaire. Software developer. Currently in some legal trouble, but I can’t remember exactly what.
Then I pluck it from Vincent’s head. “The guy behind Bankster?”
Vincent makes a face. “He says he’s not, but we all know that’s bullshit.”
I remember most of it now. I read something about this in Bloomberg Businessweek, and Vincent’s memories fill in for what I can’t recall.
The background first: Bankster is a user-friendly, completely untraceable app that enables people to send money back and forth anonymously over the Net.
It’s basically the Facebook version of Bitcoin. Not to get too technical, but Bitcoin is a way to transfer funds electronically using a string of data that keeps the identities of both the sender and the recipient a secret. It’s a nearly perfectly encrypted system to create and send digital cash all over the world.
The problem with Bitcoin is that it’s too difficult for the average Facebook user. It requires a digital wallet, plus some knowledge of coding and encryption. Then you have to find an online Bitcoin exchange that you can trust. One of the most famous online Bitcoin exchanges collapsed after it announced $473 million of its deposits were either lost or stolen. Even if the exchange doesn’t fall apart on its own, the value of a Bitcoin itself jumps around like a kid without his Ritalin. Monitoring it makes watching the stock market look simple by comparison. In other words, buying Bitcoin is a chore. Like the earliest PCs, it’s still too complicated and too expensive for a mass audience.
But to use Bankster, all you have to do is download the app from one of a hundred different sites and enter a credit-card number. For a small percentage, Bankster will transfer funds electronically between two accounts and encrypt the transaction so it cannot be traced or hacked. And it hides the transfer in the noise of millions of credit-card and financial transactions moving across the globe every second. On the other end, anyplace on the planet, the data is decrypted, and automatically deposited on the recipient’s credit card. The record of the transaction deletes itself upon completion, like a Snapchat session.
Which makes it perfect as a payment method for online drug deals, child porn, and gun sales, among other things. The Department of Justice opened an investigation into Bankster, calling it “PayPal for the black market.”
This is where it gets interesting. Aaric Stack is a programmer. A tech genius. And a billionaire. He freely admits he came up with the code that enables Bankster to work. He published it, for free, on several websites. The Bankster people took his work and ran with it, but he’s got nothing to do with them. He just thought it was an interesting problem, and he believes that digital currency is the future of money.
Now, however, the U.S. Attorney’s Office wants him to undo his work. He’s facing a legal order to break his own encryption and give the government a door into every transaction Bankster has ever processed.
Stack has refused, so far. He says it’s a matter of principle: he doesn’t want the government to have the power to see what people are buying and selling. He’s said that the ability to spend money might be the last right anyone respects.
The feds want to put Stack in jail for contempt until he decides to be a little more flexible about his principles. The judge has blocked them from enforcing their subpoena while the lawyers argue it out.
That makes Stack, at least technically, a wanted man. There is a federal subpoena waiting in U.S. District Court in Los Angeles for Aaric Stack in the case of U.S. v. Bankster.
But right now Stack lives full-time on his yacht, the Nautilus, which is currently using GPS to remain a constant twelve nautical miles off the coastline, out in international waters. He was on his boat for a weekend cruise when he first got word of the subpoena. As soon as he got the call from his lawyers, he aimed the Nautilus out onto the high seas, beyond the reach of U.S. law, but still close enough for one of his choppers to bring him takeout from San Francisco’s best restaurants. And he’s stayed there ever since, a man with a satellite Internet link but no nation.
The feds have been content to leave him floating outside their jurisdiction. Stack isn’t your average fugitive, after all. He’s got money and lawyers, and he’s famous enough for the media to be interested if anything bad happens to him.
“And you think Stack is also behind Downvote?” I ask Vincent. “Why?”
“Our tech people noticed some of the same code in the software for Downvote and Bankster.”
“Sounds a little thin to me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what my bosses think too. Financial crimes has this one, and they don’t want to share. And I’ve told you that Downvote isn’t exactly a priority for the FBI. So I can’t get to him right now.”
“And I can?”
“If you don’t want me to throw your ass in jail, you will.”
Vincent smiles at me. It’s not a pleasant smile.
“Well, when you put it that way,” I say, “how can I say no?”
10
Before the Sharks Come
Sara Fitch is a lovely person. Most of the time.
Honestly, she is. We are sitting about half a foot from each other in the leather seats of Aaric Stack’s private chopper, on our way to meet him on his yacht. I’ve been with her for over an hour now, which is more than enough time for me to sift through her thoughts and memories.
You might think your dirtiest secrets or your worst habits or your secret piles of crazy are buried deep inside, way down under layers of guilt and repression, but the mind doesn’t always work like that. With most people, the guilt and the weird and the crazy run through everything like a fudge ripple in ice cream. It doesn’t take much time or effort at all for me to get the flavor.
And I can say without hesitation that Sara Fitch is a thoroughly good person. You want to know her worst secrets? The evil hidden behind her nearly perfect exterior?
There are times she doesn’t tip 20 percent, and she always slams the door on those kids who sell school candy because she doesn’t think it’s safe for them to be out wandering in strange neighborhoods like that.
That’s about it. She got into her job for the right reasons. She likes to help others. She feels bad for the homeless, for stray cats and dogs, and works hard to be kind even when things are exploding around her. What’s m
ore, she has a quality that’s easy to recognize but hard to define: to me, it almost looks like a shine coming off her. People like her and trust her because they can see it too, even if they lack my talent. It is probably recognition of the simple fact that she appreciates and enjoys her life, and wants to do the right thing.
I instinctively like her a lot, even if she is carrying a Glock 19 in a rig under her jacket and a Smith & Wesson M&P in her bag. Both have more than enough stopping power to put me down easily at this distance.
I can’t say I blame her. Sara is Stack’s executive protection specialist—his bodyguard. That’s why she’s carrying the weaponry. Most billionaires have at least one, even if the general public has no idea who they are.
And she’s pretty sure I came here to kill her boss.
She may be right. Depends on how our meeting goes.
As soon as Vincent gave me the name, I did some research on Aaric Stack.
I used to disdain that kind of dull, on-screen homework. I was never much for mission briefings when I was doing covert work either. I believed I could grab whatever I needed from my targets’ heads—my version of cramming the night before a test.
But on my last big job, I learned the hard way that you can miss important facts, especially when you are dealing with people like Stack, who generate more information than they can comfortably remember, just by existing.
Now I do my homework.
Stack is one of those eccentric geniuses who seem to stumble into exactly the right opportunities as they wander around randomly. The only son of a Bakersfield preacher—Stack’s first name is from the Bible, it means “rule with mercy”—and the product of a seemingly idyllic home life. He dropped out of high school and hit the road at sixteen. In interviews, he never really talks about this, saying only he was curious about what was out there beyond farms and oil fields. He made his way to San Francisco, where he got work in a PC repair shop, and despite a lack of any kind of training or degree, began designing and programming computers. One of the shop’s customers turned out to be an exec at Sun Microsystems, and the two of them got to talking. He must have said the right things, because within a year he was working for the computer company in its embedded systems division. He began writing code—insanely complex, incredibly smart code. He was recruited by other tech firms and began skipping from one high-paying job to the next, collecting stock options as he went.
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