They're Watching

by Gregg Hurwitz

  He pointed at them. “I got something here. Embedded in the heel. See those hairline incisions? And stitched into the coat lining. Here.”

  From around his neck, the iPod cheerily proclaimed, “I’m going to shoot the burning jism to my entrails’ end.”

  “So they’re listening?” I asked. “Right now?”

  “No.” A glance to the laptop screen, a confusion of charts and amplitude waves. “These things are sending extremely short messages, once every five minutes. A low-power quick signal, hard to detect. Clearly not audio or visual.”

  “Shake it roughly! It’s one of the finest pleasures you can imagine.”

  “Tracking devices,” I said.

  “Precisely. They’re sending out position reports every so often, just like your cell phone does. In fact, the signal analyzer says it’s transmitting over the data side of the T-Mobile network. Like a text message.”

  “That’s the coat I wear the most,” Ariana said. “They’ve been paying attention. Can you remove the tracker?”

  Jerry said, “I wouldn’t.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because,” I said, “this is the first thing we know that they don’t know we know.”

  She frowned at her jacket, as if mad that it had betrayed her. “Can you find out where the signal’s sending to?”

  “No,” Jerry said. “I can grab the device’s cellular ID number, but once it hits the destination gateway, it’s gone.”

  “Raise your ass just a wee bit higher, my lover!”

  I asked, “Would you mind turning that off?”

  “Or up?” Ariana said.

  “Sorry, old habit.” Jerry clicked off the iPod. “They’re less suspicious if they think they’re eavesdropping on embarrassing stuff. Plus, it’s a tedious job. You get bored. So, you know, stimulating material.”

  “Hey,” I said, “it beats Tolstoy. Now, what do you mean you can’t source the signal?”

  “The destination gateway is connected to an Internet router, so from there it goes off into the soup—onion-routes and zips through an anonymous proxy in Azerbaijan or whatever. But that’s the least of your problems.” He tugged the laundry basket over and dug a hand into the tangle of gear, producing an envelope-thin component. “This uses the emissions of sensors from your burglar alarm and wireless router and such to power itself. No heat signature, no batteries to refresh.”

  “You’re gonna have to dumb this down for me.”

  “This is not the cheap Sharper Image shit you get from Taiwan. This is the kind of no-serial-number, top-drawer gear that comes out of Haifa.” He dropped the emitter into the basket again. “I did some joint training in Bucharest back in the day, when the Russians were particularly attentive. We found stuff like this in our hotel-room walls.” He grimaced. “You pissed off the wrong folks, Patrick.”

  Her back to the wall, Ariana slid slowly to the floor.

  “Could it . . .” My throat was too dry to speak, so I swallowed and started over. “Could it be the cops?”

  “This kind of gear wasn’t paid for by a municipal purse. This is next-level shit.”

  “Agency stuff.”

  Jerry touched a finger to the tip of his nose.

  “But the detectives lifted a boot print from the front yard,” I said. “A cop make—Danner Acadia?”

  His brow furrowed. “Danners aren’t cop boots. A detective might think that, see it on a few SWAT wannabes wearing them to show off. But no, Danners are mostly used by Spec Ops guys. Or field agents.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Swell.”

  “Why the hell would an agency or some kind of spy want to mess with us?” Ariana said. “We don’t have much money. We’re not influential. We’ve got nothing to do with politics.”

  Jerry started packing away his gear, neatly and lovingly. “There is your movie.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “It pissed off a lot of folks. We had some back-and-forth with D.C. The CIA agents are hardly painted like American heroes.”

  “What? The CIA actually read the script?”

  “Sure. We wanted official cooperation, the hardware, use of the seal, locations, all that. It can save millions. But it’s just like dealing with the Pentagon—if it’s a friendly script, they’ll loan you a Black Hawk, open up facilities. But they won’t give you shit for Full Metal Jacket. And let’s face it, They’re Watching puts the fuck on the Agency. Makes them look like the KGB or something.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “That was just stupid movie fun. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “Maybe it did to them. One man’s fun is another man’s jihad.”

  “It’s a popcorn thriller, not some groundbreaking commentary. And I’m just the writer, not a powerful studio head or something.” I was sputtering. “Besides, the government’s always corrupt in movies.”

  “Maybe they’re sick of it.”

  “You really think it would provoke this?” I fanned a hand at the torn-up walls, ending with Ariana sitting on the floor, her face drawn and bloodless.

  “You got a better explanation?”

  Ariana broke the silence. “If it’s some agency, we’ve got to go to the cops for help.”

  “Because they’ve shown such an inclination to believe us,” I said.

  “Look,” Jerry said, “these guys have already demonstrated that they can monitor what goes on inside a police station. I mean, they didn’t just know that you went to the West L.A. station; they knew which desk you went to. On the second floor.”

  Ariana asked, sharply, “How do you know that?”

  I said, “I told him. On the phone.”

  We all regarded one another warily.

  Ari said, “Sorry.”

  Jerry’s face was tight. “As I was saying, you still can’t rule out that they have a guy inside LAPD. Even if they don’t, they’ve tapped into the internal surveillance cameras or something. They’re watching you and the police, and they know how. You really want them finding out that you’re starting a counteroffensive because you trotted back into a cop shop? You could be giving up what little you do know, your plans, your strategy.”

  Ariana coughed out a laugh. “Strategy?”

  All business now, Jerry checked his watch, then continued guiding his equipment back into the pristine foam-lined toolboxes. “The rest of the house is clean. Neither of your computers is sporting spyware or anything, but watch what you print. Printers, copiers, fax machines—everything’s got a hard drive now, and people can get at ’em and know what you’ve been up to. Your cars are good, but check them now and again for a slap-and-track. Take this—it’s a minijammer, knocks out any recording devices in a twenty-foot radius. They advertise fifty, but don’t push your luck.” He handed me a pack of Marlboro Lights and flipped up the lid to show the black button protruding through the fake cigarettes. “Use it to be safe when you talk in the house, in case they come back and install something else when you’re gone. If neither of you smokes, stick it in a purse or a pocket—don’t leave it lying around. Oh, and you might want to shit-can your cell phones. Or at least turn them off when you don’t want your location known. Cell phones function more or less the same as the transmitters hidden in your shoes and jacket. If you need to use yours, turn it on, make a quick call, then shut it off. It takes a while to zero in on the location, so calls a few minutes long are more or less safe.”

  Ariana’s elbows were locked, resting on her knees. Motionless. She said, “I’m assuming there’s no point in changing the alarm or locks.”

  Even his smirk was exacting, as if he’d programmed it for precisely such occasions. “You can’t afford technology that would keep these guys out.”

  “So . . . what? We just move?”

  “Depends. Do you guys run from your problems?”

  Ariana’s eyes ticked over to me. If he hadn’t been busy packing up, Jerry would have noticed how much was riding on the look between us. “No,” I said to her. “We don’t.”


  The phone rang.

  Ariana scrambled to her feet. “No one calls us this time of morning. What if it’s the cops?”

  I glanced at my watch, barely registering that I was already a half hour late to start my commute. I said to Jerry, “Are the phones tapped?”

  Another ring. The cordless was stuffed somewhere under the picture frames and cushions we’d stacked on the love seat.

  Jerry snapped the catches on his toolbox and stood to go. “Only amateurs would tap you at a junction box and show draw on the line. They use electronic intercept these days. Undetectable.”

  I started digging through the stuff on the love seat, sourcing the ring. Squirming a hand between two cushions, I pulled out the phone. RESTRICTED CALLER. My thumb hovered over the “talk” button. “She’s right. No one calls this early. It could be important.”

  Jerry shook his head. “I wouldn’t risk it.”

  Another ring.

  “Shit,” I said. “Shit.” I turned it on, listened a moment to the crackle of static. “Hello?”

  Punch’s hoarse voice said, “Patrick, man—”

  I said, “I know, Chad. It’s a bad time right now, though, a lot going on. I told you I’d have the papers graded by Friday.”

  More crackle while Punch contemplated my calling him “Chad.” Finally he picked up the ruse. “Okay, it’d really make my life easier if they were done earlier.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I hung up. Exhaled. Jerry was already at the door. I said, “Hey, wait. Thank you for this. If we didn’t have your help, I honestly don’t know what we’d do.”

  Ariana said, “You have no idea—”

  Jerry looked right at me, ignoring her. “This better not come back on me with the studio.”

  “It won’t,” I said.

  Ariana added, “Not from us.”

  He shifted his weight, those toolboxes straining at the handles. “I’m done. Get it?”

  He was the first one through all this who’d been able to offer real insight. The only person I knew who had remotely relevant expertise. I wanted to beg. I wanted to plead. I wanted to bar the door and get him to promise he’d be on the other end of an untapped line when things got worse. Instead I just looked at the torn-up carpet.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I got it.” It took some effort, but I lifted my gaze to meet his. “Thank you, Jerry.”

  He nodded and walked out.

  CHAPTER 22

  The throwaway cell phone looked an awful lot like the one I’d stomped to pieces and kicked down the gutter. Twenty-five dollars prepaid, AT&T, domestic only. I pulled it from the rack and rushed to the checkout counter.

  Bill gave me the big grin. “How’s Ariana?”

  “Good.” I eyed the old-fashioned clock above the stacked bags of charcoal at the front of the store. I’d double-parked by the electronic doors, and a petite blonde in a Hummer was laying on the horn. “Good, thanks.”

  “Would you like a bag?”

  I found my gaze lingering on the other customers, the cheap security cameras pointing at the registers, the parked cars. “What? No, no, that’s okay.”

  He dragged the phone across the bar-code scanner. I looked at the product ID that popped up on his little screen, then turned my head to peer through the automatic doors and all the way up the street. The gray shingles of our roof peeked into view above the Millers’ cypress. My eyes jerked back to that product ID, lit up in dot-matrix green. The nearest throwaway cell phone to our house. So therefore the one I’d be most likely to buy? And the one they’d be most likely to monitor.

  Because they thought of everything.

  Bill had said something.

  “Sorry?”

  His smile lost a bit of its luster. “I said, I’d bet you guys are excited for that movie to come out.”

  The blonde honked again, and I hurried toward the door, spinning to face Bill apologetically. “Yeah. Listen, I don’t think I need that phone after all.”

  I lurched off the jammed 101, dodging cars at the exit and running Reseda north toward campus. The brown bag sliding around the passenger seat held four prepaid phones I’d grabbed at a gas station on Ventura. Punch’s voice—for once not slurred—came at me through a fifth. “Next time you give me a fake name, it better not be Chad. I mean, Chad?”

  “What do you want to be called?”

  “Dimitri.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Why the nifty spy talk?” Punch asked.

  “I’m under crazy surveillance.”

  “How crazy?”

  “Cold War shit.”

  A silence.

  He said, “Then we should do this in person.”

  “It may not be safe for you to be around me.”

  “I’m beginning to figure that out. But I’m a big boy. Can you get here now?”

  “I’m already late for morning classes.” I veered around a kid in a Beemer who flipped me off with both hands. Probably one of my students. “I’ll see if I can duck out early for lunch, maybe. Any chance you can make it to this side of the hill?”

  “Sure. Lemme just suspend what little of a life I have left to sit in hideous traffic so I can service your in-deep-shit ass.”

  “Fair enough. Then where do you want me to be?”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll get to Santa Monica for you. It’ll be my pro bono effort for the year. Parking structure at the end of the Promenade. Third level. Two o’clock. I would say come alone, but I figure you know that. Make sure you’re not being tailed. And don’t call me again from whatever phone you’re using now.”

  “Aren’t you the guy who told me not to worry about all this? Something about beakless woodpeckers?”

  “That was before.”

  “Thanks for the reassurance.”

  But he’d already hung up.

  The students—those who had waited for me—were restless, and rightly so. Bumbling into class at the half-hour mark, I was unprepared and exhausted, too distracted to think on my feet. Paeng Bugayong sat in the back, slumped over his writing tablet, his face sunk into his crossed arms so all I could make out was a band of face and a thatch of straight black bangs almost touching the tops of his eyes. A shy, harmless kid. I felt foolish—and guilty—for ever suspecting him. By the time I let the students out for lunch, they were more than ready to disappear.

  In the crowded hall, Julianne materialized at my elbow. “You’re not heading to the lounge?” she asked.

  “No. I have to run.”

  “Walk you to your car?” She shouldered through a pack of students to keep pace. “Come on, I’m jonesing for the next episode. Plus, you owe me big time for covering your classes yesterday afternoon.”

  “I knew that would cost me more than a Starbucks.” We pattered down the stairs. It took most of the way to my car to bring her up to speed. I left out Jerry’s name and where he worked but gave her a rough overview of everything else. “You’re a journalist,” I said. “Where the hell does someone start looking into the CIA?”

  “You mean if they’re exacting revenge because of They’re Watching?” Her face showed what she thought the likelihood of that was. It did seem a tough argument to make: that either an adjunct film teacher or his by-the-numbers script was important enough to capture the attention of the CIA. “I can pry into that for you, find out who their media contact is that deals with Hollywood. But if it is the CIA out to teach you a lesson, why would they be backing off?”

  “What do you mean, backing off?”

  “They showed you where all the surveillance devices were in your house and told you to remove them. If that’s not letting you off the hook, I don’t know what is.” Her features had rearranged themselves to show impatience at my daftness.

  I thought about what Ariana had said in the greenhouse, how everything so far had been merely the setup. “They’re just getting ready for the next phase,” I said. “Whatever’s in that e-mail.”

  “So why would they give up the
advantage of being able to monitor you?” She smoothed her red locks tight to her skull and flipped an elastic hair tie off her wrist and into place. With her hair back, she looked stunning and severe, a comic-book heroine trying to blend in as one of us. Her baggy black T-shirt undercut the effect, but not enough that a male student didn’t slow his beat-to-crap Hyundai to gape at her. Of course she didn’t notice; she was too focused on me. “They’re indicating something else, I think. Establishing trust, even. It’s a dialogue.”

  I thought about how the intruder had run from me, though he was big enough to have snapped me in two across a knee. The conflict hadn’t turned physical, at least not yet, but we were adversaries, certainly. Weren’t we?

  “They didn’t threaten you,” she pressed. “Not explicitly.”

  “Just implicitly, about six different ways.” I unlocked my car and threw my overstuffed briefcase into the passenger seat. “I gotta go. Don’t mention this to anyone.”

  “Look”—she grabbed my arm—“I’m just saying, maybe you passed some test.”

  “How? What have I done that could constitute passing a test?”

  “Say this is the CIA. Maybe they saw something in your script. Maybe they were impressed. And this is, I don’t know . . . their way of recruiting you.”

  Even through the fear, I felt a flush of the old pride. “You think it was that good?”

  “This is U.S. intelligence we’re talking about,” she said. “They don’t exactly have high standards.”

  The idea took hold for a moment. Did I want to believe it because it was less threatening or because it was flattering? I shook off the thought. “Nothing about this feels like a game. They’ve invaded our lives. The surveillance guy who checked out our house said these are top-level—”

  “Of course Surveillance Guy doom-and-gloomed you. You said he was a government dickhead. Or former government dickhead. It’s their job to tell us how scary the world is. It’s in their DNA or something.”

  “This situation? I don’t need anyone to tell me it’s scary.” I ducked into the car. The gas gauge was broken from one of my morning slugfests, the dial stuck on full. A glance at the odometer showed 211 miles since my last fill-up; I’d have just enough gas to make it to Punch without having to stop.