Plot Line

by Alton Gansky

  “That would be nice . . . and it’s a government job too. Those are stable. You could have a long career.”

  Ray chose not to remind her the only career he was interested in was being a novelist. This was only a way to meet needs, a bridge over troubled waters, not a career choice. “I’ll let you know what he said when you get back.”

  Nora nodded. “There’s a staff meeting after school, I’ll be a little late, but I’ll get home when I can.”

  Ray returned to his wife who hadn’t moved from the door and kissed her on the forehead. She seldom stepped into his office, as if doing so would encourage him to continue the nonsense with his books. “Try not to worry.”

  “I’ll try, but that’s asking for the impossible.”

  Three

  The building where Ray was to meet Devlin was a four-story, white concrete structure in San Bernardino, a twenty-minute drive from Ray’s home. To Ray it looked like so many other government buildings: dark windows, flat roof, uninspired architecture all surrounded by anemic landscaping and five acres of asphalt parking. Inside, Ray found Devlin waiting for him dressed in a black polo shirt and gray slacks.

  “You’re a punctual man, Ray.” Devlin extended his hand and beamed a bright smile. “You’re right on time.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Call me Devlin. No need for formalities. Let’s go to my office.” Devlin turned sharply and started for the stairs. Once there he jogged up the steps. Ray followed and tried not to look winded when he reached the next floor. Sitting hour after hour at a computer had left him well out of shape.

  At the top of the stairs, Devlin turned left and walked along the balcony that overhung the lobby. Ray struggled to keep up with the man’s quick steps. Thirty strides later, Ray found himself standing in another lobby, this one much smaller. Inside was a tired looking sofa and a broad metal desk. The walls were white and bare. Behind the desk was a young man Ray judged to be in his late twenties. His hair was bleached blond and cut near the scalp. His eyes were a chocolate brown. He stood when Ray and Devlin entered.

  “Ray, this is Larry Quinn, my assistant,” Devlin said easily. “One of my assistants I should say.”

  Ray held out his hand and Quinn shook it, offering a friendly smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mine.” Quinn’s voice was a smooth baritone. “Devlin has been bragging about your books.”

  “Don’t ask,” Devlin said to Ray. “Young Mr. Quinn doesn’t read fiction. It gets in the way of his television viewing.”

  “Not true,” Quinn countered. “I prefer nonfiction, that’s all.”

  “I understand,” Ray said.

  “To each his own, I suppose,” said Devlin. “We can talk in here.” He motioned to an open door that led to another office. The office was larger than the lobby, and just as Spartan. There were no pictures on the walls, no potted plants, and very little furniture. What furniture there was, was a wide oak desk, a high-back office chair and two chairs situated in front of the desk. A laptop computer sat on the desk’s surface. “Have a seat,” Devlin took his place in the high-back chair.

  “Thanks.” Ray glanced around the office again. The office was set in the corner of the building. Windows with fixed glass looked out into the bright January day. When he returned his gaze to Devlin, he saw the man was smiling.

  “I suppose you’re wondering about the office.” Ray started to speak, but Devlin cut him off with an upraised hand. “You’re wondering why there aren’t pictures on the walls and no family portraits on the desk.”

  “It just wasn’t what I expected.”

  “And now you’re wondering if I have misrepresented myself.” Devlin laughed and then reached into his back pocket, removing his wallet. He removed a plastic laminated identification card and handed it to Ray.

  The card had a picture of Devlin on the left, a holographic image he could not recognize, and Devlin’s name. Across the top of the card were the words FEDERAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMISSION. In the lower right corner was a small, green rectangular object, embedded in the card. Ray recognized it as a computer chip.

  “FCC? I thought all the FCC did was monitor and regulate radio and television stations.”

  “They do much more than that. They oversee the licenses and uses of cable, cellular phones, and much more. That doesn’t really matter. I’m involved with none of that.”

  Ray handed the card back to Devlin. “I don’t understand.”

  “Ours is a big government, Ray. There are thousands upon thousands of employees, each with a special job to do. Some of us have work to do that doesn’t easily fit into a category. Our group had to be placed in some governmental department, so we work under the FCC banner and budget, even though we work independently. Not very efficient, I know, but such are the vagaries of government.”

  “I see.” Ray was as confused as ever.

  “I don’t think you see yet, but you will.” Devlin returned the card to his wallet and his wallet to the back pocket of his trousers. “This isn’t my office . . . that is, not my only office. I work in Washington, D.C. but I travel a great deal. Wherever I go, my staff sets me up with a room like this one—if I think I’ll need it. Otherwise, I just work from my hotel.”

  “So this is for my benefit?”

  “Not really. We could have met elsewhere but I had other business and I wanted a place to work. Most government buildings have spare offices like this. It’s just a matter of calling ahead and asking for one. When I fly back to Washington, they’ll assign this to someone else.”

  “That clears things up.”

  “Well, let’s get down to business, shall we?” Devlin leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. “I imagine you have some questions.”

  “I do.”

  “Let me say a few things first, then we’ll see what questions you have. Fair?”

  Ray nodded.

  “As I said yesterday, I want to hire you to write for my department. I’m looking for someone with creativity . . . real creativity. There are tens of thousands of writers, but only a few can make something from nothing. I care less for your understanding of punctuation—what I care about is your understanding of human nature.”

  “Sounds like you need a psychiatrist . . . to fill the job, I mean.”

  “Not at all. Novelists, good novelists, intuitively know what people will respond to. That’s what makes their stories work. As you know, writing is more than putting words on paper, it is eliciting emotions from the reader; it is getting the reader to suspend belief. That is the skill we need.”

  “But why would the government need someone to do that?”

  “Many reasons,” Devlin said easily. “Thousands of reasons. Our country is not isolated from the world. We are intertwined with every other nation. Things happen in those nations and ours that require action. Those actions will need to be explained to the American people sometime, we just want to choose the time. Things work more smoothly that way; there are fewer problems. The fewer the glitches the more we can focus on solving the problem before us.”

  “I’m not following you,” Ray admitted. It sounded as if he were being hired to lie.

  “Look at this way. Suppose the president needs to meet with . . .” Devlin paused and Ray could see he was thinking. “Suppose the president could get the leaders of two countries that have been at war to sit down and talk, but to do so required absolute secrecy. Let’s say the leaders of China and Taiwan can be persuaded to talk about their differences, but they insist on absolute privacy. How does that come about? The president may travel to a neutral third country and meet with the leaders. But the leaders are afraid of what their people might say and do if word gets out that they’re talking to the enemy. They can be as secretive as they want, but if we in the United States discuss the meeting in the open—if articles about it appear in the New York Times or the Washington Post, then the cat’s out of the bag. What might be a good thing sud
denly goes bad. You with me so far?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “What my department does, at least in part, is create an alternate story—something believable. We don’t say the president is meeting with the heads of China and Taiwan. Instead, we let it be known the president is traveling to Paris for an economic summit. We provide sufficient detail and setting to make even the most jaded reporter believe it. The three meet and maybe something good comes from it. If so, then we can let the facts of the event be known later.”

  “So my job would be to write scenarios that will be fed to the public?” It still sounded like misrepresentation. “In essence, I’d be creating lies sanctioned by the government.”

  Devlin shook his head. “That’s the wrong way to look at it. We create fiction for the purpose of advancing peace and preserving the comfort and happiness of our citizens. You wouldn’t call your novels lies, would you?”

  “That’s different. The reader picks up one of my novels and they know from the start that what they’re reading is fiction. What you’ve just described lacks that. The people believe the story to be true.”

  “And is that so bad if they receive a greater benefit from it? This is not malicious work, Ray. It is meaningful, purposeful, honorable work. It is helping to keep our country strong. To call it a lie is to imply evil on our part. I don’t know anyone who went into this line of work with evil intentions. The people I work with, and work for, are patriots. I assumed you were cut from the same cloth.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Ray said. “I don’t mean to call you or your friends liars. I’m just trying to understand.”

  “Well, understand this.” There was a heat to Devlin’s words. “Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is lie to them. It takes wisdom to know when that time is, but when the situation is right, a lie can do more good than the truth.”

  Ray scratched his chin. He was a moral man, or at least he tried to be. He had always been faithful to his wife; always true to his family. Still, he was not a legalist. If his wife asked how she looked in a new dress, he would tell her “wonderful” even if he thought the garment hideous. In such a case, Devlin was right, fiction was often better than truth. But to lie to a country, to the world, well that was different. Or was it?

  “I’m glad you’re hesitating.” Devlin’s tone was softer. “If you had been too eager to agree, I would think I made a mistake in considering you. We want men with morals, with dignity, and with a high regard for the truth. Only men like that can understand the wisdom of what we do.”

  “There are others who do this work?” Ray asked.

  “A few. Not many. For security reasons, you’ll never meet them. It’s best that such work be compartmentalized. Although I can’t tell you names, I know you would recognize two if I were to do so. Two of our writers are best selling authors. They are consistently on the New York Times best seller list.”

  “I see.” It was a relief to know he would not be alone, even if he would never know who the other writers were.

  “A couple of other things you should hear before making your decision. First, the salary is especially good for part time work. You start off with $175,000 a year. Next—”

  “How much?” Ray was nonplussed. If he had heard the figure correctly it would be more than he had ever made in his life.

  “You heard right, $175,000 for the first year. You’ll receive between four to six assignments a year. We don’t allow any more than that. You might have to fly to Washington, D.C. once or twice a year. It’s also possible we may ask you to fly to other places in the country, depending on the mission. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds like an unbelievable amount of money.”

  “There are others who have been helping us longer who make more. Good work brings bonuses.”

  “And I can continue writing my novels?”

  “We wouldn’t have it any other way. It keeps your skills sharp.”

  “And no one gets hurt by anything I write?”

  “No one has yet,” Devlin assured him. “I don’t see it happening in the future. Trust me Ray, it’s a good thing you’ll be doing. I think you’ll like it.”

  “I assume I’ll need to undergo a security check.”

  “It’s already been done, as well as a psychological evaluation. We wouldn’t be having such a frank discussion if I didn’t know for a fact you were trustworthy and stable.”

  “How could you do a psychological evaluation without my knowing about it?”

  “Several ways. A team of government psychiatrists has reviewed your books and other writings. You can learn a lot about a man by the way he writes.”

  Ray sat in silence. They had been watching him, studying him. At first he felt a surge of anger, but that quickly ebbed. The man made sense. Devlin could not have been as open and frank if he had doubts about Ray. The money soothed his temper, too. With that kind of income, Nora could quit her job and he could provide whatever Skeeter needed for school.

  “You really have two best selling authors on the payroll?”

  “Three if you join us.”

  “I’m no where near being a best seller.”

  “You will be, Ray. Trust me. I am a keen judge of talent and of people. They’ll have your books at the front of the store with Clancy, Grisham, Cussler and others.”

  “You paint a pretty picture.”

  Devlin scooted to the edge of his seat and leaned his elbows on the desk. “Join us, Ray. Do yourself, your family and your country a favor. How about it?”

  Ray thought for a few moments then said. “Sign me up.”

  Devlin shot to his feet and clapped his hands. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” He held out his hand. “Welcome aboard, Ray. Welcome aboard. I promise, you won’t regret it.”

  Part 2

  There is a way which seems right to a man, but its end is the way of death.—Proverbs 16:25

  Four

  Colin Rehnquist stepped from the lab and slowly closed the thick steel door behind him. He stood alone in the stone corridor and took several deep breaths. Although no one stood in the wide hall with him, he knew he was being observed. Four tiny video cameras were trained on him. They never moved, each staring like an unblinking electronic eye. One floor above, two military-trained security men watched his every move.

  He willed himself to be calm; to appear casual. It was an act that proved more difficult with each performance. He leaned back against the door he had just traversed and wished he could lock it forever, lock it so no one could ever go in, and more importantly, nothing could ever come out. Closing his eyes, Colin fought down the rising bile in his throat. His heart was pounding like an angry bull trying to break free of its pen. He wiped his moist palms on his white lab coat.

  “Are you all right, Dr. Rehnquist?” The voice came from a speaker mounted to the cavern’s ceiling.

  “I’m fine,” Colin answered weakly. “Just a touch of the flu, I think.”

  “Do you want me to send someone to help you?”

  Colin pulled himself upright, straightened his spine, and turned to face one of the video cameras. He offered a wan smile. “No need. I can make it on my own, thank you.”

  Although he had exchanged the sterile sarcophagus of the underground laboratory for a long, dim corridor, he carried with him the vivid memory of what he had just seen. This was not his first time in the lab, but he wished with all his might it would be his last. Wishing would not change things, Colin knew. He would have to take action if he were to save his sanity.

  The corridor had been constructed from sturdy, porous limestone and reinforced with iron rebar and concrete. Fluorescent lights, spaced every ten meters hung from the vaulted barrel ceiling like glowing stalactites. The air was dry and cool, and Colin’s steps echoed off the hard surface. It was a lonely sound like a single voice heard on the open sea.

  Loneliness. At any other time in Colin’s life the thought of being alone would have been unwelcome. He was a
social creature, ready to join friends for a party, a meal or a night on the town. Now the thought of being alone was the most alluring thing he had ever experienced. He longed to be by himself, his thoughts known only to him.

  Such solitude was not offered. He doubted he would ever be truly alone again. He raised a hand to his forehead and rubbed the skin. He could still feel them there, in his brain. They weren’t inside his skull, he knew that, but they had been, and like impolite guests they had left their dirty footmarks and fingerprints all over his mind.

  How does one clean a mind? How do I remove stench from my thoughts?

  Stench was the perfect term. They reeked in so many stomach-churning ways. Even Colin’s lab coat emanated an odious, putrid, moldering wet-wool smell. The bile rose in his throat again.

  This was the last time, he promised himself. Never again would he walk down this corridor that made him feel as if some Leviathan had swallowed him whole. They would insist he come back. They would demand it in very certain terms, but Colin was determined never to return. This was his last day on the job. His employers were unaware of that fact, and that was just the way Colin wanted it. He was never coming back. He would choose death first.

  If only he could get them out of his head.

  The phone on Devlin’s desk rang. He snatched up the receiver and listened for a moment, then said, “I understand.” With no further comment, he hung up and punched the intercom button on the phone.

  “Yes? Get Quinn and tell him to be ready to leave in thirty minutes.”

  “Trouble?” Betty asked.

  “Yes.

  “Where are we going?”

  “New Mexico.”

  “What’s in New Mexico?”

  Devlin paused before answering. “Something you’ll wish you had never seen.”

  The general was a big man, broad across the shoulders and, despite sixty-one years of life, still narrow at the waist. His head was covered with a hairless white scalp that turned red when he was angry. It was red now. His brow furrowed deeply, and his brown eyes could sparkle with laughter or blaze with rage. He was a fair man, but an uncompromising one. He demanded exceptional work, unfaltering loyalty, and unquestioning obedience. No Army general was more respected or feared.