Dedication
This dedication has been a bit of a fantasy to me.
I've hesitated until the very bitter end to even write the thing because the process of putting a novel together is terrifying at best and thus, to write a dedication seems almost presumptuous. All manner of ideas have gone through my mind, lofty and quite windy to be sure, but in the end the only thing that makes sense is to dedicate my scribbles to you, the reader who, for whatever reason, decided to give my storytelling a chance.
Thank you.
Prologue
Terrors
“The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference.
The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference.
The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference.
And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.”
Elie Wiesel
“You ready?”
The younger boy nodded his head, but said nothing. He wiped his hands on his jeans, but the latex gloves held his anxiety in place.
“You fuckin’ better be ready. I ain’t playin’ here. You wanna be a soldier, you gotta throw down, no more being a little bitch dealin' on the corner. Real shit now.”
Again, he nodded. Bile burbled in his throat. He winced it back down.
“You gotta be cold, watch how it’s done,” the older swatted his passenger on the back of the head and drove on through the elms that arched up over Arlington Heights. They were barren of leaves; a chaotic crosshatching which had sheltered the street long before the end of the Camelot White House. Cadillacs and BMWs held down the custom brick driveways, and at least a couple of the homes actually looked down on the trees. Fucking incredible what some people had in life without even thinking about it. He’d chosen this neighborhood for just that reason.
“Pick one,” the older said. He gestured toward the passenger’s side, and then flipped the heater to high. He knew that when they got back into the car he’d be the first to strip down to his shirt and open all of the windows, but right now his nerves kept him icy cold despite wearing two coats. If they had to run, he’d peel off a layer and ditch it so that the cops would be looking for the wrong colors. He’d be able to dip out, no sweat. No one would be the wiser. Being white down here made it easy, but the kid he was with would be in deep shit no matter how many coats he peeled off. He'd be awfully black in a neighborhood that couldn’t have felt whiter were it covered in snow.
He pulled at the hairs on his chin, rolled them between his latex covered fingers and let them fall into his lap. “Pick one already. Fuckin’ hurry up.” It was important that the kid picked, it was just how it was done. He’d been jumped in already, he’d taken a beating and come up standing, but this was a whole new level. It was one thing to be smart, and Saul was evidently smart enough to get noticed, but it was a whole other thing to actually have the balls to cap somebody. The older boy looked over, watching the younger's hands as he clutched at his knees to keep them from trembling. He shook his head. “You ain’t nothin’. Dunno why they want you to get wet, you ain’t so hard.” He shook his head and pulled out a blunt.
“That one,” the boy said suddenly.
They rolled past, hardly slowing as the older took in the spread. “Alright, that’s the one we’ll do.” There was a big white Escalade in the driveway, door open… and as they watched a woman stepped out followed by a child. One of the garage doors was open. This would be easy.
They drove around the block and took it in again. She stood out by the mailbox sorting through a stack of envelopes and catalogues. Good looking, twenty something, neat little sports coat. Pregnant. She couldn’t run away, she’d be fun.
“You ready?” the older asked again.
“Yeah. But…” Saul looked up with wide, glassy eyes.
“But what? You do what I say.”
“Yeah alright," Saul looked away, "I meant that house though,” he gestured across the street, a big brick home with no lights on inside.
He was ignored. “It’s gonna be fast and hard,” the older one said as he turned back around the block for the last time. “Fuckin’ love it. Fuckin’ love it. Sweet piece of ass too.” His mother had named him Derek but that was a long time ago; his crew called him Bolo.
He pulled up just shy of the driveway, checked to see if she'd gone inside, and then eased their stolen car up unto the bricks, ready to bail out if they need to leave in a hurry. “Let’s go, let’s go,” he said as he popped the door and strode up the drive between the Escalade and house.
He’d explained the security systems, how they called the house twice before ever sending out an alert to the rental cops, how people were always tripping their own alarms. They’d have ten minutes probably if they hit fast, did it, and dipped out. If they were lucky, the woman wouldn't even arm the alarm after going inside. Not too many people did while it was still light. They got comfortable. Besides, it was only five thirty. Who’d be out in this neighborhood that she’d have to worry about? Ten minutes would be plenty and five would be enough for what he had in mind. He was going to show the little wannabe what it meant to be from the Widmore Crew.
You had to have more than brains.
Part I: The End
"Justice without force is powerless; force without justice
is tyrannical."
Blaise Pascal
Chapter One
Illuminati
Seth nabbed the phone on the second ring, “Seth Meek, EIS.”
“Mr. Meek? Mr. Baker. We’ve met.”
Seth searched for some way to reply. The NSA guys were weird.
“Yeah,” he decided, was safe.
Silence.
“Yes sir, we’ve met,” he tried again. He couldn’t honestly remember which one Mr. Baker was, but in a line up he’d be the one with an enormous, pale head.
Mr. Baker lurched on as if given the proper code phrase, “We were wondering if you could come over and bring us up to speed on the system.”
“Uh, yeah… I was planning on that, someone called earlier from the Department of Redundancy Department.”
Silence.
“I’ll be there at six?” Seth asked. He’d meant not to ask.
“I have you slotted for a five o’clock brief.”
Seth glanced at his computer, “I’ll have to ask my boss, but I can probably make it by five.” Maybe he wouldn’t have to eat his supper out of the sink after all.
“Outstanding. You still have your lot pass?”
“I do.”
“Outstanding.”
“Great. See you then.” Seth paused, listened. The line was dead.
He gathered his coat and keys – no folders, no drives, no briefcase. Everything he needed was either in his head or stored at Fort Meade; not much went into "the Cube," and even less came out – even the sewage was incinerated, the ash compacted and stored on site.
Seth stopped at the front office to ask permission to cut out a little early, but his boss waved him on without a word. Anything NSA was gold, and Seth was the golden boy. So he endured the chilly drive at forty–five miles an hour, knowing that the time that he would spend on the road would be only a fraction of the time that Crypto City security would scour him from the inside out.
The front gates seemed almost quaint, complete with a pristine white cupola and razor straight brick and mortar. From outward appearances it looked like little more than a drive–through at the local bank. It seemed like an ill–conceived ploy to reassure the outlying community that there was really nothing of any importance beyond the perimeter. And to underline this point, it was surprisingly easy to pass through this, the first layer of security. For Seth's first time through, his boss had said, "Just show your lot pass and try not to barf on anyon
e." It really seemed that easy. One of several guards up front examined the pass under a small light, handed it back, and then simply stood there. Ten seconds. Twenty. It was unnerving, and Seth came to understand how it could be difficult to hold an early lunch under this silent scrutiny. In fact, the guard was simply watching for the single LED light hidden from the driver's view that would signal that the vehicle had passed the initial search for explosives, or any number of other undesirables. In fact, the search had begun a quarter mile before even approaching the gates, but in this confined area a vehicle entered a sort of CAT scan where it could be examined from all angles, including from under the pavement upon which it rested. This applied to the occupants as well, though they'd have their own chance soon enough if they intended to go any farther than the freight drop.
Seth waited, assuming that the wait was designed to make the semi–committed terrorist break down and flee. In fact, this wasn't untrue, but it was a truth that masked the truth as was so often the case at NSA. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel, then stopped. Meek was careful after his first successful visit through security not to alter much in his car, today the only difference was a full tank of gas; so it was either that or the finger drumming that was holding things up.
"Thank you, Mr. Meek. Straight to the lot six sign. Right to the lot, and then to space 6VC." It was the same every time, same lot, same space as if they had built it for him fifteen years ago.
"Gotcha, thank you." He puttered through the long line of overhanging trees and into the vast expanse of Fort Meade parking – the entire lot was laid out around the Cube like a baseball diamond – and Lot 6 was only the size of second base. It struck Seth again that there were far, far too many cars here at any given time of day; all of these people couldn't possibly fit inside NSA's sprawl of buildings. But NSA wasn't about what you could see.
He stepped out of his car and locked it, which was a little redundant in retrospect, but habits were habits. The walk was a long one, but the sidewalks were wide and clear and had it not been for the wind, it might have been pleasant. Snow and ice were in the forecast, but he'd have his little car home long before it rolled into the city.
Seth strolled right up to the main entrance which could have easily been chopped from the white stone of any number of iconic buildings around the city. A half dozen steps led up to deep–set, darkened glass doors, which were in turn flanked by wheelchair ramps giving the somewhat menacing – and probably unintentional – perception that one was about to be swallowed by an enormous beast. He paused at the top to peer upward at the moody, grey sky reflected in the mirrored façade.
The doors did not open of their own accord, which struck Seth as both ironic, and a little antiquated, and they opened backwards. Chalk up two for irony. One had to push to enter, pull to leave. Likely, the security folks inside the front hall never failed to get a chuckle out of visitors yanking on the handles only to rebound back at the stairs.
And indeed, they quickly suppressed smiles when he made his way inside. "Mr. Meek," the one on the right said from behind his chest high marble divider.
"Hey Leroy," Meek said with a practiced ease. He was good at names and faces, and was always pleased when it caught people short. "Here's everything." Seth slid a plastic bag with the contents of his pockets across the polished surface: car keys, phone, watch, wedding ring, and lint – all disappeared behind the desk, and were placed into a small locker. The guard stood and waved him through a white stone archway that contained God knew what sort of electrical device to scan his soul. Nothing beeped, and this was a good sign in Seth's book.
"Your escort will be here momentarily, have a seat and relax please, sir."
"Will do, thanks." Seth sat, but there was no relaxation to be found in the marble squares set aside for visitors. Putting people at ease was not on the list of priorities at NSA, but Seth had been through it all before, many times, and waited dutifully.
And as usual, within three minutes a young woman arrived, greeted him by name, and led the way to the elevators. She was pleasant, but not personable, merely a conduit to the next echelon of security. The underworld.
In the personal effects locker, Seth’s cell phone lay dormant. Powered down, it went right to voicemail when the call came in.
Several beeps were recorded, the frantic pounding of the 3 key to leave a message. “Seth… Seth, someone’s in our driveway. They look bad, pick up please. Pick up.”
Waiting came easily to Seth.
He’d grown up staring at lines of computer code on machines that took their own sweet time to reveal anything, so staring at the wall outside of the briefing room wasn’t overly taxing. He'd made it through the pre–elevator retinal scan without going blind, and no one had thrown him to the floor and frisked him. So now, again, he sat. Above him, directly above his chair in fact, was a red light that flashed intermittently. It served to remind employees that there were visitors present. At NSA red meant shut the hell up, loose lips sink ships. The fact that he had 85% access to the greatest accumulation of computer power in any one place on earth, and was here on a weekly basis, didn’t mean that he wasn’t still considered a visitor.
He leaned back against the wall and stretched, resigned to at least another half hour of tile counting. There were blue lights as well, and just like every time he’d waited here, he wondered what it would mean if they too began to flash.
All in all, he decided, the whole Fort Meade experience was a little creepy. The halls themselves felt familiar enough, much like a hospital without the chaos, but it was hard to shake the feeling that just beyond the sheetrock and dropped ceilings were dark catacombs filled with things best left unseen.
Despite the fact that the elevators didn’t tell you if you were going up or down, Meek always had the impression that he was a fair distance below ground level when he visited. For one thing, the computers were here, and it only made sense that they’d be buried out of the way. And for another, there was absolutely no sunlight. Florescent tubes lit something like twelve acres of hallways and labs and bunkers and God knew what else. From the outside, NSA looked like an enormous chrome Rubik’s cube, but again, it was what you didn’t see that held the mysteries.
“Hello Mr. Meek,” a voice said before it came fully around the corner.
Seth stood reflexively and met Mr. Baker with an outstretched hand as he approached, “Evening.”
“Is it?” Baker said as he strode past reading from a single spaced page.
“Yes sir.”
Baker kept walking and Seth fell in tow. The guy never gave the impression that he was annoyed with Seth's remarks. In fact, he seemed every bit the overwhelmed parent, far too busy making ends meet to devote much time to a wiseass child. Seth never prodded him hard, but as he’d become more and more familiar with the NSA mindset, he’d taken some pleasure in pushing buttons to see what might happen.
“Your security clearance is being bumped up a notch.”
“Okay.” Seth had absolutely no idea what that would mean, or why he was being told at this particular moment. Probably, the guy had just remembered.
“You’ve been working with the Triton for twelve weeks; this just makes you more official,” Baker waved his papers and turned another corner. Were it not for the escort, Seth was sure he would have had to use bread crumbs to find his way out.
“What are the blue ones for?” Meek asked as Baker keyed into the briefing room of the day.
He glanced at Meek, then up at one of the lights. “Blue is bad.” The two looked at one another for a moment, and Seth fought the urge to smile. If that was the sum of the guy’s wisdom on the blue lights, well… alright.
The conference room looked like the last one he’d been in – maybe it was the last one he’d been in – the only change was the number of people in attendance. Generally speaking, the less is more rule had been in effect; today, there were exactly a dozen chairs. After Baker sat down, they were all filled. It was clear that Seth wasn�
�t on a need to sit basis.
Most of the faces he didn’t recognize. Baker had always been his liaison, but he had no idea of his official role. A lopsided computer guy named Tanner, who had actually graduated from MIT a few years before Seth, was the only other familiar face and, coincidentally, he was also Meek’s assigned shadow. An official employee of NSA, as opposed to a contracted one like Seth, Tanner’s job was to know everything that Meek knew about the security system that he was putting into place. In any other field, this was tantamount to contractual suicide, a lot like handing another team your playbook, but in computers, especially in government computers, it was a practical and wholly normal procedure. The SKIP JACK cipher, Fortezza cards, and random number generator had all been the same, even though some had been created in house. A principle developer was given a secondary shadow. No one man knew it all. Meek had developed a system of software security and encryption that had befuddled the full time NSA crypto guys, and when that happened, dollars were exchanged and free agents hired. They never told him that he was a step ahead, and never admitted that they hadn’t been fiddling with this sort of “atmospherically indiscriminant” method of encryption all along. But it had been clear from the beginning that Tanner was playing catch up, and for a computer guy like Meek, that was satisfaction enough.
“So Mr. Meek, when will the new software be fully integrated into the system?” Baker asked by way of introduction.
“Well,” Seth began, “a great deal of the structure is already in place. Already running. We don’t want to just flip a switch in a couple of weeks and realize that I forgot a decimal somewhere.”
A couple of people looked up from papers they had carried in with them. Their expressions made it clear that they either didn’t grasp geek humor, or were mulling over some version of global Armageddon. It made Tanner’s usually dour lips twist though, so all was not lost.
Jury of Peers Page 1