The Manuscript

by Russell Blake

  The cops exchanged glances, and the old man read their faces, knowing that this was going to present an interruption in their morning traffic patrol routine.

  A grossly distended body bumped against the pilings, wedged there by the current as the river forged its way out into the harbor on its journey to the sea. The submersion had already begun to take its toll on the bloated pale blue flesh of the waterlogged corpse.

  ********

  Michael woke late and went through an abbreviated workout before showering and making his way down to the coffee shop. He’d toyed with the idea of trying the other place at the far end of the block, but decided against being adventurous with his breakfasts. There was a certain comfort to knowing the food was going to be good and the coffee hot and plentiful, so he saw no reason to broaden his admittedly narrow horizons.

  He bought a paper from the magazine vendor and settled into his usual booth. The café was filled with older folks, who had the distinct aura of having no particular place to be or adhering to any well-defined schedule. He supposed that was what retirement must be like – endless mornings at the corner diner, arguing politics or religion with the same acquaintances you saw every day, whose minds had consistently failed to be changed for years. Michael was by far the youngest person in the place, with the exception of a sketchy twenty-something year old couple in the back who looked either badly hung over or in need of a fix. Or both.

  He opened the paper and scanned the news with a cynical eye. The government was claiming the economy was in fair shape, which everyone knew to be an outright lie. Inflation was said to be tame, which ignored that items like food and gas were excluded from the data. So as long as you didn’t need to eat or go anywhere or buy anything that got onto a truck or a boat, inflation was low. Gold and silver were up fifty percent over the last two years, signaling that the dollar had fifty percent less buying power. But the talking heads ignored such trivialities, choosing instead to focus on home prices, which were carving fresh lows.

  It was funny because, at the time Michael had been growing up, his parents had been staunchly patriotic; to the point where they automatically assumed that Michael would spend some time in the military serving his country. There was never the slightest hesitation. But since then, something had changed. The disenchantment that had begun with the Iraq war had grown deeper after the economy fell apart in 2008, when former Wall Street bankers leading the treasury handed out the nation’s cash to their friends like it was play money. The politicians who accepted the largest funding from the financial sector nodded along like it was all business as usual. And now, many in the middle class had lost much, if not everything, even as those same banks, which wouldn’t even exist were it not for the country’s tax dollars, booked record profits quarter after quarter, and speculators who had helped structure the mortgage vehicles that collapsed the economy made billions while the rank and file picked up the tab.

  Everyone Michael knew was in harsher financial shape than they had been a decade earlier, and it didn’t look like it was going to get better any time soon. New York was largely an exception because the entities that had most benefitted from the taxpayers’ generosity were based there, so the money tap was never shut off. But in the heartland, in the states between Los Angeles and New York, the country was struggling as those in positions of power shortchanged them time and time again. It sucked, but nobody had ever told Michael life was supposed to be fair, so he wasn’t in the least surprised. Abuse of power had been a constant throughout human history, and he didn’t see why anything would suddenly change, absent divine intervention.

  He supposed he was thinking along these lines because of the manuscript, which made abundantly clear that there were two sets of rules: those for the general population and those that the rich and powerful lived by. That was one of the reasons the allegations in the document were so incendiary – it documented a system so cynical and so different than what was represented outwardly, as to make a mockery of the country’s identity. It was a manifesto to create social unrest on an epic scale. Michael could envision rioting in the streets as a very real consequence. But the real question was, what would the population do if it turned out its leadership had been provably running a drug smuggling, murder-for-hire and financial swindling racket for decades with the most nefarious criminal cartels on the planet – all the while pretending to be their mortal enemies?

  That was one of the most troubling aspects of the manuscript for Michael at a personal level. He’d been in active duty and seen his friends take bullets in the 1990s in the Middle East, and he knew more than a few families who’d lost children during almost a decade of continuing action in Iraq and Afghanistan while battling in the name of democracy. It was impossible for him to believe that it was all artifice, but if the document’s revelations turned out to be true, then facts were facts, however unpalatable. It would mean that a lot of what he held sacred and had fought for was a living lie. He could see that there would be a whole lot of angry people out there who wouldn’t take kindly to such information.

  How in the hell had he gotten involved in this in the first place? What a nightmare. He almost wished he could just rewind a few days and remain blissfully ignorant. Knowing such truths wasn’t exactly a peace-of-mind builder.

  The waitress arrived and delivered his breakfast with a surly flourish, which he observed she did with everyone, so he didn’t take it personally. He dug in and tried to think about something besides the damned manuscript. Which was roughly like trying not to think of a zebra after somebody instructs you: “Don’t think about a zebra.”

  Oh well. If he was going to contemplate striped animals, might as well do so constructively. He washed down his third cup of coffee, motioned for the bill and thought about his day’s agenda. First, he wanted to get hold of Jim and warn him there could be some storm clouds on the horizon. Next, he wanted to check on Koshi and make sure he’d made it to his cousin’s with no issues. Once he’d completed those two errands…what was the plan? So far he’d been entirely reactive. That ran counter to his nature. He wanted to do something. Take some sort of control.

  He’d start by making the calls he could to verify that all was well. Once that was dispensed with, he had the germ of an idea growing in his head. It was a little outlandish, but he couldn’t see much else in terms of moves. It was still just a kernel but it had occurred to him last night at some point and his gut was now spurring it to grow.

  Back in the apartment, he logged onto his new e-mail account and checked for a message from Koshi. Nothing. Fucking Koshi. He could be so unreliable sometimes. He probably thought this was a joke of some sort and hadn’t gotten through his head that this was a real threat.

  Michael angrily stabbed at the keys on the internet phone. His call went straight to voice mail. Incredible. He had his phone off.

  He talked himself down, even though he was fuming. Getting angry wouldn’t do anyone any good. Koshi could be a dick sometimes, that was all. It was just the way things were. Move to something more productive.

  Michael next called Jim and got the same response. He tried twice to no avail. Didn’t anyone answer the damned phone anymore?

  That reminded him. His cell phone was doing precisely the same thing to callers. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Michael called into his voice mail box, to find two messages. One was from yet another potential client and the other was from Ken, telling him to call immediately when he got the message. The time stamp was from twenty minutes earlier. He dialed Ken’s number.

  Ken cut straight to the chase. “No bullshit, Michael. Where are you?”

  “Good morning to you, too. What’s up? What’s so important you got me out of bed?” Michael figured he’d try the light approach to diffuse the obvious underlying tension.

  “You have no idea what’s going on, do you?”

  â�
�œKen. You called me. I’m calling you back. What’s the problem?” Michael asked.

  “The problem? The problem is that Jim, your electronics technician, decided to jump out his window last night and splatter himself all over the sidewalk.”

  Michael took a few moments to digest the news. “That’s impossible. How do you know?”

  “I check the overnight bulletins first thing every morning. Routine. And I saw Jimbo’s name there.”

  Jim had been referred to Michael by Ken, years before.

  “Ken. This stinks. No way would Jim commit suicide. He wasn’t the type. I saw him just a few days ago…at Abe’s. That was the last contact I had with him. Fuck. I’ve been trying to call him since last night…” Michael rambled.

  “Why, Michael? Why were you calling him? Another job?” Ken’s tone was suspiciously even – always a warning, in Michael’s experience.

  “All right. Ken. Look. I’ve got reasons to believe that whoever planted the bugs in Abe’s office is working through my security team. Jim was there – his prints were all over the place. Abe is dead, and now Jim goes curb diving…and the bugs are nowhere to be found. It’s too coincidental, Ken. Someone’s rolling up the team.”

  “If they are, it’s another good coincidence that you’re out of town, huh?” Ken observed.

  “Ken, since last night, I’ve been trying to call Koshi, my computer guy, who was also all over Abe’s office. I keep getting the same non-response as on Jim’s phone. Nothing. Dead.” Michael suddenly had a very bad feeling.

  “Jesus, Michael. What have you gotten into here? Seriously.”

  “I told you. Abe got an e-mail with a damaging document that implicated the government in a whole bunch of really nasty shit. If this is related, and it sure is starting to seem that way, somebody’s trying to tie up all the loose ends that could have come across it. That’s how it looks to me,” Michael said.

  “Does this have anything to do with you being AWOL?”

  “Ken, if I said I had a premonition something ugly was going down once you told me Abe was murdered, would you believe me? Or more importantly, does that even matter right now? Please – just do me a favor and check on Koshi. He was going to leave town last night, but he wasn’t taking this seriously. I’m worried. I last talked to him at ten p.m. and he was out at some restaurant, and then he went dark.”

  “All right. Give me his number and his address and I’ll send a car by to check on him. I hope to God you’re wrong about all this, but I guess I don’t blame you for making yourself scarce under the circumstances. At least you’re still answering your phone…and returning calls.”

  Michael gave him the info.

  “Is there a number I can reach you at?” Ken asked.

  “For now, let me just call you again in a few hours to confirm he’s okay. I’m working on getting a new phone. My old one’s on the blink,” Michael said, feeling lame even as the words left his mouth.

  “I should know something by one o’clock on Koshi. Call me then at this number – or better yet, on my cell,” Ken instructed before giving Michael the number.

  “Will do. Thanks, man, I owe you a big one. And I can guarantee Jim isn’t a jumper. This is the second murder in this string,” Michael emphasized.

  “If you’re right, I have a feeling he won’t be the last. Watch your back. I’ll talk to you in a few,” Ken said, and hung up.

  This was far worse than anything Michael could have predicted. Jim was just hired hands who knew absolutely nothing about anything. If someone was taking out even the peripheral players, they were going scorched earth and it was a one hundred percent certainty Michael and Koshi were targets. He just hoped Ken could reach him in time or that Koshi was asleep at his cousin’s after a late night drinking session with the family.

  Somehow, Michael found that unlikely. It would be nice, but so would winning the lottery. Hope was a poor investment strategy and an even poorer survival tactic. And Michael wasn’t feeling particularly lucky at the moment.

  So what to do? People were dying, so his decision to go to ground had been a sound one, but what now? He couldn’t stay holed up in his friend’s condo indefinitely. Michael suddenly had an overwhelming urge to move, to get out. He long ago had learned to go with these impulses so he began assembling his gear for departure. But where was he going? Where could you run when the entire machine was looking for you?

  New Jersey seemed like as good a place as any to start. That way, if Koshi was still in one piece, they could hook up and formulate a strategy. If he wasn’t, then he was further from New York, which was where the search was localized at this point. They had no reason to believe he had left town so the natural play was to stake out his apartment and known haunts – and wait. Because targets inevitably made mistakes.

  But they hadn’t banked on Michael being their quarry. That slim edge would disappear soon enough, but he needed to use every advantage in his grasp while he could. And right now, he had first-mover advantage.

  He was going to need it.

  Chapter 10

  Sid’s day had started out badly and continued downhill from there. He was now getting flack from up the clandestine ladder; from several members of sub-committees that were critical in funding, as well as in looking the other way and not asking too many questions. These were politicians he really couldn’t afford to piss off too royally, and whose careers couldn’t take exposure of any truly dirty laundry.

  About the only thing they knew for certain at this point was that Michael Derrigan was likely at least somewhat in the loop – skilled, and hence dangerous. He was a civilian but, after studying his file, Sid understood that he was no ordinary civilian. The SEALs were as elite as the military’s special forces got and you had to be the best of the best to even make it into the training program, much less spend years operating as one. And Michael had been a SEAL for five years before deciding on moving into the private sector, assigned on a number of sensitive and violent excursions into enemy territory. He’d never taken a bullet but had fired his fair share. He’d been discharged with honors.

  Obviously, he’d figured out that there was a considerable danger element involved with the surveillance of the literary agent but they now knew nothing more than that he suspected clandestine agency involvement in the bugging, and that he had warned his computer technician to leave town. They also knew that he’d chosen to disappear, but had no idea where, or for how long. And worst of all, they had no inkling of how much he knew, or whether he’d ever even seen the manuscript, let alone read the contents or taken possession of it. The interrogation of Koshi had yielded that he was alarmed and knew there was foul play involved in Abe’s demise. He’d been tipped off by his eavesdropping technician that the hardware was military grade, and that the agent had told him that the manuscript was dangerous to important interests, some of which were governmental in nature. Beyond that, they were no closer to closing the leak than they had been forty-eight hours ago, which was becoming a serious problem.

  Sid sipped a cup of hot tea and went over their options yet again. They’d have to continue an active search for Michael, but barring a slip-up or a miracle, it could be days or weeks before he surfaced. He’d be sanctioned whenever that was, because even if he only knew what Abe had told him that was still too much. But what if he managed to avoid detection and simply disappeared? People did that every day. Would it really be so bad if he just evaporated into the great cosmic ocean and was never heard from again?

  He contemplated the bookshelf in his dark-wood study, taking quiet satisfaction in the number of rare tomes he’d collected over a lifetime of indulging his passion for books. Sid had a trove of first editions and signed copies, including multip
le presidential biographies signed by the great men themselves. Dickens, Poe, Steinbeck, Keats, if there was a notable figure in literature from the last two hundred years, he’d acquired their most precious work.

  At this point, he couldn’t see any alternative but to continue on the course they’d begun and wait for a break. It was frustrating, but the truth was that if one man decided to make himself scarce, and knew the right steps to take, it was a big world out there into which he could disappear.

  A large part of Sid hoped he’d never hear the name Michael Derrigan again. He suspected that Derrigan was probably wishing for much the same thing, at least if he had any sense at all. Better to live with secrets than die fighting to expose them.

  ********

  The uniformed officers double parked outside Koshi’s building and leaned on his buzzer. The front door was locked, so there wasn’t a lot they could do but knock and ring the doorbell. A window slid open on the second floor, ten yards to the right of the door. A grizzled face peered out over the fire escape.

  “Whadda you guys want? What’s the big emergency?” he called down to them, obviously annoyed at the sound from them pounding on the glass entrance door.

  “You Koshi Yamaguchi?” one of the cops asked, wiping his face with a cloth handkerchief.

  “What, do I look like a Yamaguchi? What are you smoking?” The old man cackled himself into a phlegmy coughing fit.

  “Awright, buddy, so can ya help us out here? Maybe open tha door for us?” the other cop asked.

  “Fer New York’s finest? You betcha. I’ll buzz you in, an then what happens from there’s your business,” the old man said.

  The window slid shut. A minute went by, and then the jarring sound of the electric door opener sounded, allowing the two policemen to enter the small dilapidated foyer.