We were pulling into Sydney. I could hear the few tourists on board heading to the front of the ferry. “You don’t have to have it all worked out. You have actual crimes to hit him with. Murder, terrorism, we’ll worry about nailing him for the conspiracy later.”
“Who would believe me? I fled. I’m living in Australia under an assumed identity.”
“Yeah, how’d you manage that anyway?”
“It’s all Margo. She has connections from her old job like you wouldn’t believe. All Hollywood shit. Y’know during the Cuban embargo, all the biggest Hollywood actors had their own private humidor locker of cigars on Cuba. They’d just land their private jets and pick up their stash.”
“I’ll make a note of that, thank you. Very helpful, Gladstone.”
“Anyway, I’m a fugitive and he’s fucking Hamilton Burke. No one will believe me.”
“I believe you,” I said. Then I did something I’d only done once before, and that was when I was putting Gladstone in handcuffs: I touched him. I laid my hand on his shoulder and added, “I know how to build a case. Burke didn’t pull the trigger, fly the helicopter, and plant the bombs himself, did he?”
“No,” Gladstone replied.
“Right. So he had help, and help always leaves loose ends. There’s always someone who will talk. So who are his collaborators?”
“I don’t know,” Gladstone said. “I’m not in his head.”
“Yeah, well, I know someone who could be, and he’s not in jail anymore.”
“Jeeves?”
I smiled and so did Gladstone.
“Son,” I said, “grab your things, I’ve come to take you home.”
* * *
My plan of attack required Gladstone, Margo, and me to check in with Jeeves in New York and Stanton in California, but Stanton had promised us a week of ICANN meetings, and there was no sense in trying to deal with the Apocalypse until all the information was in, so we headed to New York first. Gladstone had kept Jeeves’s landline, and I placed the call, making sure everyone’s favorite psychic was back home before we departed. I didn’t mention Gladstone. No form of communication could be trusted.
While Gladstone’s alias, Parker Lawrence, wasn’t real, his passport containing that name and his picture certainly was—issued by the Australian government. He’d make it past customs if the government were even looking for him, which from Dunican’s last press conference didn’t seem to be the case. But that only calmed Gladstone so much. I saw him checking blind corners for danger. I’d seen him do that before, but now his furtive glances weren’t accompanied by wild gesticulations. His agitation went inside instead of out.
We had a two-hour layover at LAX before we could get to New York, and we were all tired and hungry from the flight.
“I gotta get a burger in me or maybe some fish and chips,” Gladstone said.
We settled up at a different faceless bar and grill, the three of us taking a table for four. Gladstone and I hung our fedoras off the back of the empty chair. When the waitress came, Margo ordered a vodka and soda, and, I, weaning off my drunken month, got a beer. Gladstone ordered a Diet Coke.
“That’s new,” I said.
“I haven’t had a drink in months,” he replied.
“Found religion?” I asked.
“It’s not that,” he replied. “I’m just waiting for the right occasion.”
I looked to Margo. “He won’t tell me,” she said. “I thought getting Bowie’s fedora would qualify, but apparently not.”
“Anyway,” Gladstone said, “how are we going to get Jeeves and Burke in touching distance?”
“I would think anyone who made a big enough contribution to his campaign would get a handshake,” Margo offered.
“Yeah, except he’s not taking contributions,” I said. “Burke’s self-funding his campaign so he’s not beholden to special interests.”
“Which would be great, except now he’s completely beholden to his own interests,” Gladstone added.
“Just a second,” Margo said. “I’m sorry I have to ask this, but I’ve never met Jeeves. Are you both really saying he can do this? Take a hand and read a mind?”
Gladstone and I spoke in unison and without hesitation: “Yes.”
I went over the plan again. “First, Jeeves gets us the names. Any collaborator, any bank account, any information he can.”
“I know you’re focusing on the crimes,” Gladstone interrupted, “but I’m still hoping Jeeves can tell us Burke’s endgame with the Internet too. I just wish I knew what he wanted.”
“We will. But first bombs and bullets. We get his collaborators. Then we feed that information to my man at Anonymous, and—”
“Whom you trust?” Gladstone asked.
“What do you want me to tell you, Gladstone? He’s one for one. He already got Jeeves and Tobey out of jail,” I said, dropping down to a whisper. “I’d say have him pass a Jeeves test, but I don’t think it makes sense to risk Jeeves on that. Jeeves is our ace in the hole for Burke.”
Gladstone nodded in agreement and took a notepad from his corduroy sports jacket.
“What are you doing,” I asked. “Taking notes or something?”
Gladstone looked surprised. “Well, no. I mean, if we’re really doing this,” he said, “I thought I’d go back to writing it all down like I did before.”
“Uh, that’s not necessary,” I said, pulling my folder of typed reports from the carry-on at my feet.
“Well, that’s great, Aaron,” he said, “but, y’know, I mean, my book did go paper viral.…”
“Look, let’s not bicker,” Margo said. “As executive producer, I’m going to retain the power to make any story changes anyway, so we can worry about your battling manuscripts later.”
Gladstone kept his notebook open, and I flipped my reports over so I’d have a blank sheet in front of me even though I typically typed my reports up at the end of the day.
“Besides, I have a more important concern,” Margo said. “How effective is Anonymous even going to be if the Net is still down?”
That was a good point. The latest news reports were that the Net would creep back to life, one site at a time, as the government verified traffic, security protocols, and “vulnerability.” It was a full-scale audit to keep out the one bad apple that would spoil the bunch.
“Well, Anonymous is more than the Internet. They can hack closed systems too. As long as they can communicate, hopefully they can find the right people, but we have no choice. We put the Jeeves part of the plan in motion, and have faith that enough of the Net will be there for Anonymous.”
“Now who’s found religion?” Gladstone asked.
“Well, if we don’t have faith, we better have patience,” I said.
Gladstone put his notebook away. “Sometimes they’re the same thing.”
Since our plans were up in the air, we decided to crash at my place the first night back. I had to believe the two of them, who had been very arm’s-length and professional in my presence, wouldn’t make me endure a night of passion through the wall. They were fine with the idea as well. We all just wanted to shower and sleep after a long flight, even though it was still early evening by the time we got to my place. Also, with communications being impaired somewhat as they were, we wanted to stay together until we saw Jeeves.
We took a car service home from JFK, but only after I insisted upon paying for it.
“Fine,” Margo said, “but I just made you a producer, so be sure to deduct it from your taxes.”
As the car pulled up to my apartment, I saw a silver Chevy Tahoe double-parked outside.
“Keep going,” I told the driver. “Take a right at the corner and drop me at Northern Boulevard.”
“You said, 210–50, Forty-first Ave.?” he replied.
“Just do it, please. It’s one more block.”
“What’s going on?” Gladstone asked.
“There’s a government car parked outside my apartment,” I said. �
�I’ll see what it is, but when I get out, you keep going. Meet with Jeeves. Do what we said and do not contact me. I will find you. Maybe it’s nothing, but I’m not taking chances.”
Margo put her hand on Gladstone’s knee, and he covered it, slowly working his fingers between hers before wrapping them around into her palm. He took a deep breath. I unzipped my briefcase and handed him the folder containing all my reports and said, “Don’t fuck it up. I’ll see you soon.”
Day 424
For the last six months, I haven’t written anything except letters to Margo, and that’s been enough. I give her all the thoughts and feelings that used to bang around inside and drive me. But it hasn’t been a deluge, no floodgate of emotions spilling on the floor. Instead, I struggle to explain, searching for a level of specificity no normal person would care about. And she can’t be normal either, because she listens and helps me refine, in the shared belief that everything must be tied to the right words before it can be released. And when that happens we sit and stare at it outside of ourselves. We categorize it and put it on a brightly lit shelf, where it can never surprise or control us again. And I say “us” because I think I do this for her as well. That is what we can do for each other.
It creates space inside me. It gives me room to accept more. To let more in. And although I pulled my notebook in that airport bar, I have to believe it was a reflex, because riding into the city with Margo, it was hard to imagine what I’d be writing for.
“For Aaron,” Margo said. “He’ll want notes.”
Apparently, I was talking out loud. I did that with Margo sometimes too. Usually by saying “I love you” without even realizing it when I was next to her in a quiet moment.
* * *
It was past eight when we got to the Upper West Side and we decided to crash at a hotel. We’d call Jeeves in the morning.
“You think Rowsdower’s OK?” I asked, lying next to Margo in a room kept dark by thick pulled curtains.
“I think so. Besides, he’s no dope and he’s got a good cover now. Even if someone wants to know why he’s poking around, he can say he’s a producer on the film. Doing some film consulting. Government guys do that all the time.”
It was a comforting thought.
“How does it feel to be home, baby?” she asked.
“In the dark, next to you, it feels the same,” I said, putting my arm around her waist and pulling her to me. “Ask me again in the morning.”
* * *
The next day, I left my Bowie fedora and sports jacket back at the room, not only to look less like Gladstone but also because it was incredibly hot. At breakfast, I poked at my eggs at Andrews Coffee Shop and still couldn’t answer Margo’s question. How did it feel? Everything looked the same for the most part, but I wasn’t sure I’d come home. I couldn’t imagine having a life like our Dominican waitress, who was good enough to remember that Margo’s toast was wheat and mine was white, although she seemed to have a perfectly fine life. The owner, who barked at his staff in Greek from in front of the grill window, also seemed deeply rooted in his surroundings, but his life made little sense to me either. You get up, pay rent, yell at people to serve food faster. Across the aisle there was a visiting German couple, looking very white and in love. Half their booth was filled with their backpacks, and they ate Belgian waffles and sausages in their shorts and expensive hiking boots. I couldn’t see myself tagging along with them either.
Everything seemed to be working really well without me, so what difference did being gone make? Margo was good enough not to pose her question again. She was very good about knowing when I needed more time, but when we walked out in the Midtown early-morning sun, I managed to say, “New York is really big. Just so big.” You couldn’t see all of this place at once, and being close enough to even a medium-size office building was enough to blot out a skyscraper.
We called Jeeves from a newly refurbished postapocalyptic pay phone so nothing could be traced to the hotel, but got no answer.
“Maybe he’s set up shop at Central Park again,” I said. “After all, a boy’s gotta eat.”
So we headed off to Central Park’s Bethesda Fountain, where I’d first met Jeeves at the start of the Apocalypse. With so much time passed, I was looking forward to seeing him once again play human search engine for the good people of New York. As we walked north from Columbus Circle, the park got increasingly crowded. There was a speech or a protest going on. And despite the August heat, there were people dressed like the Gladstone from my journal. Lots of hats and sports jackets, and others were even wearing the Gladstone masks.
There may have been people dressed as Oz, Tobey, and Jeeves too, but you could see people like that in the park on any day. Some college kid in khaki shorts and flip-flops handed me a flier for the Working Party.
“Burke’s here,” I said. Rage Against the Machine’s “Take the Power Back” was coming from the Naumburg Bandshell, a place I’d walked past many times but had rarely seen filled. Its white rounded back reminded me a bit of the Sydney Opera House, but older and more exposed. It was a workday, so the crowd was pretty young, but the place was filled. We worked ourselves through dozens of Gladstones, and it occurred to me I could have stayed hidden better if I’d dressed as myself.
“Look,” Margo said, pointing to the banner hanging down from the back of the shell. “I’m gonna fucking sue him.”
The banner carried a print of the fedora-wearing Wi-Fi symbol, along with the words THE INTERNET IS PEOPLE AND WE’RE STILL HERE.
“OK,” I said. “After we get the murder, terrorism, and global-conspiracy charges to stick, we’ll work on your copyright-infringement suit.”
Ordinarily Margo would have laughed, but she was too busy waiting for Burke to come out and watching for what it would do to me. He emerged wearing a suit, but not the vest and tie I’d seen before. Also, his hair wasn’t slicked back. Margo tried to hold my hand, but I couldn’t release my fist.
“Hello, Central Park!” he shouted to the crowd, and the audience reflected his enthusiasm.
The music died down, but no one took their seats. This was like a concert where only old people sat.
“Welcome to Internet Apocalypse 3.0!” he said, and the place went wild. “I’ve talked about a lot of things on this campaign trail, but today I want to talk to you about the Internet. Because once again, this administration shows us there is nothing they can return, they can’t take away.”
More cheers.
“The Internet was gone. Then it was back. Then it was gone. Then it was back with a fee. Then it was gone again. And now … now is the worst part, my friends. Now the government brings the Internet back on its own terms.”
Burke had them completely. Boos emanated from the crowd, and I tightened with hate. I was shaking, and Margo stood so close by my side that I could feel her body move with breathing, and that was good. That was the level of contact I could bear in the moment.
“You watch. This government audit? This investigation into the vulnerability of each and every site to meet government approval? All that is, is government control of the Internet. They’ll decide what sites to bring back. They’ll decide how fast they’ll load. They will control your access to communication and information. It is unacceptable. As your president, I will keep you safe, and I will keep our infrastructure safe, but I will not use it as an excuse to be a technological tyrant.”
The place erupted with anger and passion. “Burke! Burke! Burke!”
“But it won’t work,” he continued. “Not just because it’s wrong. And not just because we won’t allow it. But because … The Internet Is People … and WE’RE. STILL. HERE!”
And that’s when the destruction came, because there was nowhere else to put all the emotion. The crowd started stomping and ripping apart the unused folding chairs.
“Oh my God,” Margo said.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“No,” she continued, “not all this craziness. I mean, I know what Burke
wants now.”
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Baby, he wants to be you.”
“Me?”
“Hamilton Burke wants to be the Internet Messiah.”
It was hard to deny Margo’s theory in the face of all the rhetoric and branding.
“And if that’s the case,” Margo added. “It will be very easy to get Jeeves to him.”
If Margo had been looking at the bandshell instead of me she would have realized that last part wasn’t necessary, because I could see Jeeves already onstage waiting for his introduction.
“Friends, friends,” Burke said, raising his hand and regaining their attention, “there’s someone I want to bring out. Someone who is well known to Central Park. His name is Dan McCall, but you might know him as Jeeves!”
Jeeves emerged fully from behind the curtain, casually dressed, as always, in shorts and sandals. It seems the Burke campaign had managed to replace his ever-present T-shirt with a nice blue button-down number.
“Hello,” he said, and the crowd, filled with park locals, gave him warm applause.
“Y’know, a little over a year ago, I sat not far from here and met the man I thought would return the Internet. The man I proclaimed to be the Internet Messiah.”
A few people cheered, especially the guys dressed as me, but most tempered their enthusiasm to see what came next.
“That man was Gladstone, whom so many of you now know from his journal.”
There were cheers from people who’d never met me. People who’d created a hero out of the man in my diary.
“I’ve met Gladstone,” Jeeves continued. “He’s a good man. And I’m relieved at the latest from the NSA that neither he, nor I, nor Brendan Tobey is a suspect in these bombings. A statement they were only willing to make, by the way, after Anonymous released the footage of the real perpetrators of that Hollywood-sign destruction.”
I looked for a trace of reaction in Burke’s face, but there was nothing. He was a stone.
“But I have a confession. While I still consider Gladstone a friend, and hope he’s safe, wherever he is, walking on water, buying porn, whatever, I think I may have spoken too soon. The point is, while I got the location right, I think the actual man who’ll bring back the Internet is right next to me. In Hamilton Burke, I see not only Gladstone’s belief in a free Internet but also the drive and the ambition to make it happen.”
Reports on the Internet Apocalypse Page 12