The Manuscript

by Russell Blake

  “Oh, right, Abe…I’m sorry, I’ve been meaning to send you more chapters, but it’s been really hectic and I haven’t had a chance to polish them yet.” Michael raised the privacy screen in the limo as he talked. He didn’t have any worries about Aldous listening in on his literary career’s non-trajectory, but the Turks in the back were engaged in a heated discussion and he couldn’t hear over the din of their jabber.

  “Not a problem, Michael. Actually, I was hoping you could lend me a hand. I had some e-mail correspondence go missing and I need to find it, but nothing I’ve tried seems to be working. I know some of your security work involves technology, and I was wondering if this is the sort of thing you could help with?” Abe asked.

  Abe was describing something that wasn’t even close to the sort of corporate espionage and countermeasures Michael handled, but given Abe’s standing in the literary world and Michael’s aspirations of becoming a player someday, Abe had just been promoted to the head of the line of people Michael was eager to assist.

  “Of course, Abe. Give me the short version of the problem so I know who to bring with me, and I’ll see how soon I can stop by,” Michael said.

  “Well, I got an anonymous e-mail yesterday with a manuscript attachment that it turns out I have an interest in, but when I got to the office this morning, it’s like it never existed. It’s nowhere in my e-mail logs. It’s the first time that’s ever happened…” Abe realized as he spoke that his account sounded as troubling as a hangnail.

  Michael, wishing to appear courteous and sensing an opportunity to build goodwill, made an on-the-spot decision to alter his schedule and drop by Abe’s. He figured he didn’t really have much else going on but babysitting the Turks, so why not give it a shot and find a way to fix it? He wasn’t that far away from Abe’s building, and it didn’t sound like something that would take more than a few minutes for someone competent to deal with, and he’d collect a chit in the favor bank from a publishing figure who was a living legend.

  “Abe, I’m busy with some clients right now, but I have some time around two o’clock where I could see about doing a fix. I’ll call and get my PC tech out with me so all bases are covered. I remember your offices, seventh floor – will that work for you?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah, sure, two o’clock is fine. It’s probably something simple you can handle in a few minutes. I appreciate your bumping things around to deal with this, Michael. I owe you one.”

  “Okay, Abe, two o’clock. Ciao.” Michael disconnected and considered his next step.

  He needed a computer whiz. And he just so happened to have one of the best. Michael dropped the window that separated him from the Turkish contingent in the rear, and keeping one eye on them as they waved home their points to each other, he texted his technology specialist, Koshi. Michael just hoped Koshi was sober today and could get cleaned up in a few hours, and was actually monitoring his phone instead of crashed out after a hard night of clubbing.

  Koshi was flighty, but he was also bar-none the most adept super-geek Michael had ever encountered, so if something had gone screwy with Abe’s system, he’d know how to fix it.

  A few moments after Michael sent the text message, Koshi responded, requesting the address and meeting time. Michael entered the info and pressed send. Koshi responded in the affirmative, so they had a date.

  Michael glanced at Aldous, who was impassively glaring at the cars in front of him. Sensing a break in the Turks’ discussion, he turned to the rear of the limo and focused on his entourage.

  “Gentlemen, is there anything special you’d like to request for today’s meetings, or perhaps for this evening? Whatever it is, we’re at your service…”

  It always helped to ensure the paying customers felt like they were getting first class service. That’s what kept them coming back – and paying tips that often exceeded the day’s fee. Brown-nosing was a big part of the escort gigs he’d been paying the rent with lately, so Michael choked back his disdain and did his best to appear interested and helpful.

  The limo continued to weave its way through the snarl of Manhattan traffic, a cocoon of comfort in an otherwise noisy, entropic world.

  ********

  The phone rang in a wood-paneled office occupied by a balding man in his seventies. He sighed audibly before answering, dreading the second alarmed call of the day. He was unaccustomed to receiving any calls, much less those expressing concern or trepidation – in his world, he was the one that called people, demanding answers. They didn’t call him.

  “Armstrong,” he answered.

  “Sid, this is Ben. I just got a call from a friend of mine asking me to look into certain sensitive projects you assured me would never come to light…” The understated and carefully-chosen language was typical of the caller, who was an attorney, among other things.

  “I understand. Steps have already been taken. As far as we can tell, the matter’s dealt with – I’d politely come up empty if you get another call. Which you won’t,” Sid advised.

  “I hope your people have figured out how it could have gotten this far in the first place. To have these sorts of questions given any credibility would still be disastrous, even now,” the caller underscored.

  “We’re on it. This was an anomaly. There won’t be any further digging – trust me on that,” Sid assured him.

  The line went dead.

  It was amazing to him that after a long, admirable career filled with astonishing accomplishments and vast wealth accumulation, a few sentences in the wrong hands could create a shit-storm that endangered everything he’d worked for; everything he’d built.

  How the hell had the sentences come about in the first place? Less than a handful of people knew the details of even one of the sensitive projects, much less could piece together the whole shooting match. Obviously there’d been an unconscionable leak; one that needed to be mopped-up immediately.

  He, more than most, understood that time healed virtually all wounds, and that most of the world’s outrages would recede to a pale memory once enough years had gone by. But some things were too large to ignore no matter how far in the past. Even the apathetic sheep who paid their taxes every year and wished for nothing more imaginative than a larger television or a cheaper gallon of gas could become unmanageable if they knew the ugly truth.

  Empires required resources in order to continue to grow. They required stimulation to keep their populations entertained. Sid had long considered his position, from administration to administration, as part rainmaker and part court jester. It really didn’t matter whether it was the Republicans or the Democrats who appeared to hold the reins from term to term; all required grist for the mill, gold for their treasury, and superficial drama for the populace to focus upon, rather than more contentious issues. So they all needed the services of Sid and those like him, in good times and in bad. He provided the bread and circuses as well as behind-the-scenes solutions.

  The problem was that in order to appear on top of the heap of nations, long after it had exhausted its ability to live within its means, the country had to make unpalatable alliances. Things often needed to be done that had to stay out of the newspapers. To claim the moral high ground, the system needed ‘fixers’ who could do the dirty work that kept the engine running, without bothering the blithe passengers who were paying the freight.

  It was all part of the game. Sometimes the nation would get a quick peek at how the world really worked and would cry out in shock and disbelief. The trick was outwaiting the outrage, as he well knew. If you didn’t wait long enough, then the machine required blood sacrifices so it could claim to have purged itself of its evils – and if the evils were large enough, even fixers like Sid could be trotted to the gallows.

  And th
at definitely wasn’t part of the plan. There wasn’t a chance in hell Sid was going to spend his winter years being flogged as a demon; he had a long list of those who would stop at nothing to keep their secrets buried. True, the internet and social media had made it harder to control the spin, but Lenin had it right; you just lied, and kept repeating the lie until it became accepted and parroted as the truth. That’s why, even when all facts were known, if you could shape the dialog, the revelations would get less than a shoulder shrug from an uncaring world – which was why being in control of the media, either directly or by pressure from its owners and editors, was so critical.

  It had taken a long time to achieve an apathetic, complacent populace who would buy without question anything the television and newspapers declared. Generations. But the mission was now accomplished – there was nothing that would mobilize the public with outrage at this point.

  Or at least, virtually nothing.

  He didn’t want to test their obedient complicity with exposure of the ‘special projects’. Some secrets were too sensitive to even hint at.

  Enter Sid, guardian of the truth, and in this case, his own ass.

  ********

  Abe’s early afternoon flew by, as he massaged a client’s bruised ego over the ‘paltry’ seven-figure advance for the film rights to his next two masterpieces, cajoled several publishers into giving one of his new discoveries a serious read, and assisted the wife of one of his most popular authors in planning an intervention to get him to enter rehab for the third, and hopefully final, time.

  It was already two o’clock; well past lunch time, which his stomach had been reminding him of for some time, prompting him to order yet another unhealthy meal of hot pastrami on rye from the corner deli downstairs.

  Mona buzzed him on the intercom.

  “There’s a Mr. Derrigan here to see you?” Mona framed most statements as interrogatives – as though doubting the veracity of her own observations. She apparently had no memory of Michael stopping by a year ago.

  “Fine, fine, Mona. Please escort him back to my office,” Abe instructed.

  A courtesy knock tapped on his shabby door and then Mona entered with Michael in tow.

  “Michael, thanks for coming. Mona, did you offer our guest some coffee or soda? Bottled water, maybe?” Abe came around his desk to shake hands.

  “No need, Abe. But thanks all the same,” Michael said.

  They stood awkwardly for a moment, facing each other.

  “So, how goes the magnum opus? You about done yet?” Abe asked.

  Michael’s novel, or absence of a novel, was always the first topic of conversation.

  “I wish I could say we’re almost at the finish line, but I’d be lying. I’ve been tied up with the business for months, and just haven’t had a chance to dive back in yet,” Michael admitted.

  “Well, a guy’s gotta eat. I know all about that. But everything’s got a shelf life, and most things don’t improve with age,” Abe cautioned.

  “I hear you.” Michael wanted to steer the topic off his meager productivity. “What is it you think happened? You got an e-mail, and it went missing – you sure you didn’t delete it accidentally?”

  “No, I’m positive. I looked everywhere. It’s just gone.” Abe was adamant. “What’s particularly troubling is that it had an attachment – a PDF file of a book I developed a strong interest in. It’s pure dynamite…” Abe wasn’t sure how much more to add.

  Just then another knock on the door was followed by the entry of a skinny Japanese man dressed entirely in black, with dyed blond hair and a number of ear and nose piercings. Michael groaned inwardly. For fuck’s sake, did Koshi really believe Converse sneakers, pencil-leg black jeans and a Panic At The Disco T-shirt with a dinner jacket over it really constituted business casual? If he wasn’t the sharpest computer guy Michael knew, he’d have pimp-slapped him right in front of Abe.

  His inner dialog kept its counsel, of course.

  “Oh, sorry, Abe, this is my technology expert, Koshi Yamaguchi,” Michael said, preferring to ignore the elephant in the room for the moment.

  Abe eyed him dubiously. “Koshi, huh? A pleasure.”

  “Yeah. Nice to meetcha,” Koshi mumbled.

  “So, Koshi, Abe here was just explaining how he had received an e-mail yesterday, with an attachment, and when he went to check it this morning it was gone…”

  “Uh, all right. But unless someone was on his computer, that’s impossible. I mean, it’s virtually impossible. Theoretically, anything’s possible – let’s just say it’s highly unlikely. But why doesn’t he contact the sender and have him resend the attachment?” Koshi asked.

  “I know this is going to sound odd,” Abe said. “I mean, it sounds odd to me as I think about saying it, but here it is: I have no idea who sent me the e-mail, or who the author is.”

  “Koshi, Abe says he already checked his trash and spam to make sure he didn’t inadvertently delete it. You want to take a look at his system and see what you can figure out?” Michael asked.

  “Sure. Is your browser open to your e-mail, or do you use Outlook or some other program?” Koshi asked Abe as he sauntered around the desk and plopped down in Abe’s chair.

  “I’m not sure about all that. I just know that I sign in on the web and check my e-mail for that account,” Abe informed him; he wasn’t super technology-oriented, obviously.

  “All right. Never mind. Give me a few minutes and I’ll figure this out.” Koshi was already peering at the huge flat screen on Abe’s desk and typing furiously. “Oh, and just to rule it out, does anyone besides you know your password for this account – or do you leave your computer on when you leave for the night?”

  “No on all.” Abe’s stomach growled audibly. “Michael, care to join me for a trip downstairs to grab my sandwich? It should be ready by now,” Abe invited, and without pausing for a response, he grabbed his satchel and opened his office door.

  “Sure. We’ll be back in a few…” Michael glanced at Abe for guidance, “…minutes, maybe half an hour. Will that give you enough time?” Michael inquired.

  “Should be,” Koshi murmured, immersed in whatever he was doing on the screen.

  Michael followed Abe through the reception area and out the front door of his offices. Abe stabbed the button for the elevator, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as they waited. He seemed awfully spry considering his years and considerable girth. Michael hoped he still had as much spring in his step when he hit his late sixties or early seventies – he wasn’t sure about Abe’s age, but that seemed about right.

  The ancient contraption clunked its arrival and the steel door slid open. Michael followed Abe in, feeling a momentary sense of panic, which he squelched – he hated elevators, especially ones that easily predated Eisenhower, and this one had been a bit jerky on the trip up.

  The ride down to the street level was creaky but uneventful.

  Everyone at the deli knew Abe, and they cleared a small table for him when he announced he was going to eat there instead of take-out. Michael ordered a turkey club and a soda from the boisterous counter man, who winked at him with a disturbing familiarity.

  “I didn’t want to say anything in front of your guy, but I’m wondering, how long does it take to scan a book and get it into electronic format?” Abe asked, once their food arrived.

  “It’s not that hard, although, depending on the number of pages, it can be time consuming – so the answer is: depends on the size of the document. But it’s not complicated. Why?” Michael wasn’t sure where this was going.

  “Well, I printed a copy of the manuscript last night before I left â�
�“ to read at home – so I have almost 400 pages I’m only partially through. I’d like to get it onto disk. I’ve seen too many coffee spills, lost pages, and fires in my day,” Abe explained.

  Christ. How did guys like Abe survive in the modern world without being able to wield technology? And yet Michael knew that much of the publishing business still ran on hard copy, with progress towards automation fought literally to the last breath. Only in the last few years would agents even accept electronic submissions. It was wild, but that was the industry – one of the last of the dinosaurs.

  “If you like, I can have it scanned for you this afternoon and drop it by later,” Michael offered.

  “That would be great – we don’t have a scanner…well, I did have one but couldn’t get it to work. Hopefully, it won’t be necessary and we can recover the e-mail, but I’ll take you up on it if we can’t.” Abe paused. “Michael, it’s potentially a very important book, if the claims can be verified. I have to tell you I got shivers when I was reading last night. I just don’t like that it came in anonymously and unsolicited. It’s a little creepy, although it could just be the writer injecting some melodrama to get my attention,” Abe admitted.

  “Come on, Abe. With the internet, there are no secrets any more. How inflammatory could it possibly be?” Michael asked. Abe had piqued his curiosity.

  “Trust me. If this isn’t a work of fiction and it turns out to be true, this is a game-changer for a lot of entities, including the government. It would be bigger than anything we’ve seen during our lifetimes, and I’m not given to hyperbole or exaggeration. I called some high-level people this morning and put out feelers, but I have to tell you that the message going missing has me on edge,” Abe confided.