BLACK Is the New Black

by Russell Blake

  Keith pulled the in-flight magazine out of the pocket in front of him and absently browsed the entertainment section as his mind raced over his next moves. Italy would be a good base – the infrastructure typically Latin and informal, the attention to detail lackadaisical at best. Nobody would make too much of a big deal out of him checking into hotels without showing his passport, which wasn’t the case in most other places.

  He had enough money stashed to last him six months, maybe eight or ten if he watched his expenditures carefully, and had a second passport in a different name he could use to disappear. That was cash he had squirreled away outside of the system; his two hundred grand in stocks and bonds and the equity in his house were a write-off for now, until he could get things straightened out and figure out what he was going to do.

  Assuming he ever got things straightened out.

  Some things weren’t fixable. His fear was that this was one of them. So disoriented was he by the revelations of the last weeks that he wasn’t sure where he stood anymore. The conspiracy he’d discovered was so vast, so far-reaching, so devastating, that he had a hard time believing anything now. It was all lies. Everything.

  He mentally shook himself – that kind of thinking wasn’t useful, and it wouldn’t get him anywhere but paralyzed with inaction, hiding in a darkened room somewhere. He needed clarity, not confusion.

  The woman across from him reclined her seat with a sigh and placed her large purse in the space next to her. Keith’s eyes darted from her to the glowing face of his watch. They would push back from the gate soon, and then he’d have the entire trip to ruminate over the mess he was in. A mess of his own devising.

  A chime sounded on the public address system, and the fasten seat belt icon illuminated. Screens dropped from the cabin ceiling and a security video played, race-and-gender-diverse actors simulating the smiling calm with which passengers would be expected to suck at precious oxygen or exit the crash-landed sinking aircraft, as they were presumably kept afloat with a plastic life vest or a floating seat cushion in the North Atlantic’s freezing seas. Two stewardesses held masks aloft and pointed at their chests, and then demonstrated how to unclip a seatbelt before warning about the potentially devastating consequences of using electronics or a cell phone while in flight.

  Keith was pragmatic. He had no illusions about how the world functioned. After fifteen years in the clandestine realm, he understood that few things were as they seemed to the rank and file, and he was okay with that. But there was a line – a limit. There had to be. What he had uncovered wasn’t a cynical manipulation the likes of which the Agency specialized in. This was far, far larger; and insane. There was no other word for it. If he was right, which he believed he was, it would make the Cambodian killing fields seem like a summer picnic. “Crimes against humanity” didn’t even begin to cover it. Plain and simple, it was diabolical, and amounted to genocide unlike anything the world had never seen.

  He fervently hoped for the umpteenth time that he was wrong.

  Which wasn’t likely. But he needed final confirmation from someone who could look at the data and answer his questions definitively. And all trails led to Rome. He couldn’t go to anyone in the U.S. It was too dangerous, and the Agency’s reach was too great there, in spite of its prohibition from running any ops on domestic soil. Over the last decade so many protections had been discarded, so many constitutional violations tacitly sanctioned, that notions of safety while in the country were a farce. Plain and simple, the government did what it wanted, due process and Congress be damned. From personal experience he understood that the NSA could monitor every phone call, every email, every movement he made by tracking cell phones or credit cards and scanning the countless traffic cams and other surveillance gear that had been quietly installed in every American city – for the population’s protection, of course. And the group responsible for what he’d discovered had been at it for fifty years at least, so there was no question that its power now was massive and all-encompassing.

  Keith watched the stewardess nearest him walk down the aisle with a desultory glance at the female passenger’s seat back and purse, and the tingle of anxiety in his stomach blossomed into a full-blown panic attack as she failed to tell her to return it to its upright position or stash her bag. That wasn’t the protocol. Something felt wrong. The flight attendant averted her eyes, seeming to be far away as she went through the motions, and also ignored that his seatbelt wasn’t fastened.

  Maybe she was having a bad day. God, he knew how that was. Maybe a boyfriend had dumped her or she’d gotten news of a layoff, or the biopsy of that lump in her chest had come back with ominous findings. Countless things could explain her lack of diligence. Keith forced himself to take deep breaths and calm down. Not everything was evidence of a threat. He’d made it. He was on his way, and by the time his departure was flagged by the computers he’d have touched down and melted into the crowd.

  He’d need to touch base with Becky at some point, obliquely, through some sort of a cutout, to let her know that he was okay. They’d been dating for four years, getting serious, discussions of weddings and children increasingly common, and she knew nothing of his sudden disappearance, which was for the best. If she was questioned, there wasn’t much she could tell anyone that would put her at risk – all she really knew was the early part of his saga, where he’d developed a fascination with cattle.

  The plane jolted as it rolled back from the gate, and then the turbines kicked up with a whine and they were taxiing in the worsening gloom towards their position, third for takeoff. The woman across the aisle’s lips moved slightly as she reclined with closed eyes, and Keith realized with a start that she was praying.

  Of course she was. She still believed in a God that would protect her from harm. Keith had long ago discarded those notions in favor of the harsh evidence that this was all there was. Part of him wished that he could escape into the belief of an afterlife where good deeds were rewarded; or barring that, could at least knock back a dozen mini-bottles of hard liquor to numb his soul. But it was no good. Nothing could provide solace at this point but confirmation of the truth.

  The engines wound to high pitch and then he was pressed back into his seat as though by an invisible hand. Rain streaked off the wings, leaving white froth as evidence of their passage. He joined his praying cabin mate in closing his eyes, and waited for the lift into the air that would signal the true finality of his escape. The aluminum tube hurtled down the runway until physics took over, the curved upper surface of the wing creating lift at somewhere around a hundred fifty miles per hour, and the jet leapt into the sky, gray as elephant hide, and ascended into the clouds with a roar.

  Sixteen minutes later, Flight 418 to Rome disappeared from JFK’s radar screens, vaporizing east of Long Island, over the Atlantic.

  TWO

  Bad Day by the Bay

  March 8, San Francisco

  Jeffrey Rutherford pedaled hard as he glided between weaving cars, avoiding the cable car tracks as he wound his way through early rush hour traffic to his office in the financial district. Steam drifted from manhole covers as he crested the final rise – it was all downhill from there, the hard part of his thirty-minute commute from his flat in the Marina district done, gravity now his friend.

  A foghorn sounded from the distant bay as he broke through the lingering haze on Nob Hill like a wraith on wheels, the street otherworldly under a dense blanket of fog that had yet to burn off. A bike messenger darted from an alley in front of the car he was trailing, nearly causing an accident, and he clenched down on the brakes, narrowly missing the Jaguar’s rear bumper as both his tires skidded along the asphalt. The truck behind him blared its horn, as though Jeffrey were to blame for the abrupt stop, and he gave the driver the finger before swinging around and shifting through the gears, the race down the slope akin to flying as the wind whistled in his ears.

  Two blocks before he hit Market Street, he rolled up onto the sidewalk and leapt
nimbly from the Trek hybrid, pausing in front of the bronze glass office building’s entry doors before shouldering the bicycle and carrying it into the lobby. The two security guards eyed him skeptically, as they did every morning he rode to work instead of driving his car, and the younger of the two men offered a wave.

  “Top of the morning to you boys,” Jeffrey called as he approached them. “You have a place for this in the back room?”

  Same question every time, a comforting formality for everyone.

  “Sure thing. You know the way by now.”

  Jeffrey walked past the bank of elevators to a steel door at the rear of the building and twisted the knob, then set his bicycle against the nearest wall and tossed his helmet on the seat. The bicycle thing had started as a concession to the girl he’d been dating a few years back, who had been all about the environment and sustainability and green living. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, and it always made him smile when he thought about how the bike had lasted a lot longer than the relationship.

  The trip to the fourteenth floor was fast – there still weren’t many workers arriving, it being a good forty minutes before business hours. Jeffrey stepped out of the elevator and strode down the marble-floored hall to the suite of offices leased by his employer of five years: Michelson, Roth, and Loaming, attorneys at law, where he was one of thirty associates working long hours for too little money. He ducked into the bathroom, shrugged his backpack off, and set about making himself presentable. Khaki trousers, a blue oxford button-up shirt, burgundy loafers to match his belt. Gone were the days of gray pinstripes, at least in these offices – most of the clients he met with were either high net worth captains of industry or Silicon Valley entrepreneurs, neither of whom favored formality. The senior partners still trotted out vested suits and somber dispositions, but that was all show, he knew, to give the firm an air of gravitas whenever a new prospect showed up looking for representation.

  The firm dealt in intellectual property, contract law, real estate, and Jeffrey’s niche, asset protection, which usually amounted to structuring things so obscenely wealthy clients didn’t have to pay taxes. It hadn’t been his first choice of specialties, but he’d been convinced that it would be a lucrative direction after two years working a contract law desk at another firm, and had dived into the discipline with enthusiasm when he’d gotten a whiff of the money to be made doing it right.

  Which he was still waiting to see manifest in any real way. Unfortunately, even with his annual bonus, his hundred-thousand-dollar-a-year income didn’t go a long way in San Francisco, and unless he made partner at some point, or went into private practice and risked it all trying to build a book of business, he was just another overworked stiff putting in very long hours to make others rich.

  Studying himself in the mirror, he ran a brush through his dark brown hair and then slipped it back into his backpack along with his riding togs. At least he wasn’t running to fat – the riding more than ensured that even though he was chained to a desk most of his life, he used up more than he took in. That wasn’t the case for the other attorneys in their late twenties he knew. A sedentary lifestyle and no time for exercise had already worked its magic on many of his peers, and the doughy look of the well-fed and soft was the norm, as was a future of heart disease and obesity that he was hoping to avoid. He took another look at his strong cheekbones and hazel eyes and noted the slight discoloration beneath them – it had been an endless month with a heavy workload, and his normal hours now ran twelve per day at the minimum, six days a week.

  The bathroom door swung open and another young man stepped in, taking in Jeffrey before he moved to a stall.

  “Hey, cowboy, good morning. You trying to save a few bucks on gas again?” the newcomer asked in a mocking tone.

  “Bill, you should know better. It’s not the gas, it’s the frigging parking. Thirty bucks a day. Who’s got that kind of mad loot to throw around?” Jeffrey quipped, finishing his inspection.

  “One day, my boy, one day,” Bill replied. Jeffrey was all of a year younger, but Bill looked to be a decade further down the road, courtesy of too many working dinners with clients. Bill was one of the M&A group, which as far as Jeffrey could tell spent as much of its time eating and drinking with clients on their tab as doing actual work.

  The toilet flushed and Bill went to the sinks and rinsed his hands, studying his crisp white shirt and dark gray slacks, then allowed his eyes to drift over to where Jeffrey was finishing with his bag.

  “What have you got going for lunch today?” he asked.

  “Same as ever. Chinese take-out at my desk. I’m still buried. It never stops.”

  “Too bad. I’ve got a meeting with some fat cat clients and you could come along. They could probably use some asset strategies.”

  “Let me take a rain check. Feel them out, and if they’re serious, I’ll make time. But if I go with you, I’m just going to have to stay two hours later to make up for the time I lose.”

  Bill shook his head. “Suit yourself. Shrimp cocktails, lobster Thermidor…Mmm.”

  “Eat an extra one for me.”

  Jeffrey made his way to his small office and dropped the backpack into a corner before confronting the heaping mound of documents on his desk. It seemed to grow overnight, papers multiplying like paper bunnies, and he groaned before squaring his shoulders and turning, reluctant to start the day before grabbing a mug of coffee. Work could wait a few more minutes – he needed to rehydrate and get some caffeine in him so he could think clearly.

  In the break room, Jeffrey made small talk with one of the paralegals, Samantha, as the coffee brewed. Jeffrey didn’t typically mingle with his coworkers – not due to any elitism on his part, but rather because his mind was always on other things, and he just couldn’t see the point of being chatty. Samantha prattled on about what a handful her eight-year-old was, and he felt himself tuning out, as if sucked into the depths of a long tunnel where the break room was a dot at the far end. He exhaled with a palpable sense of relief when the machine was done spewing forth its brew, and waited for Samantha to pour herself a cup and leave before attending to his own.

  Back in his office he sat behind his generic desk and peered at his flat-screen monitor, checking his messages for anything urgent. The usual invitations to seminars and requests for clarification clogged his inbox, but his attention was drawn to one from Cindy Lower, his ex-girlfriend – another casualty of his long hours, demanding schedule, and the general apathy they created. He clicked it open and read the terse, one-sentence message advising him that she’d slipped his key beneath his apartment door half an hour ago, and wishing him a nice life.

  Short and sweet, that was Cindy’s way. Another attorney he’d met at one of the neighborhood watering holes, they’d gotten along well enough, but she’d really wanted someone who didn’t have as many demands as he did. Attorney-attorney relationships rarely worked, and theirs had been no different. Things had gradually grown more distant over the past four months until it was obvious to them both that it was time to move on. Jeffrey had mixed feelings about that, but when all was said and done he wasn’t heartbroken – they’d shared some laughs, given it a try, and discovered that it wasn’t meant to be. Their parting last week had been civil – some might say passionless – as only the conclusion of discussions between two lawyers could be, and in his mind he’d already begun to move on. He was quite sure she had; Cindy wasn’t one to let time slip by without her agendas being met.

  He typed a single word response – Thanks – and went through the rest of his mail, pausing to read a few attachments dealing with jurisdictional issues and IRS bulletins on the use of non-grantor trusts. That part of his morning ritual concluded, he was just digging into the pile of contracts in front of him when his intercom buzzed at him like an angry hornet. Jeffrey stabbed the line on and leaned forward.

  “Mr. Rutherford, I have a woman on two who is asking to speak to you.”

  “A woman? Who is
it?”

  “Rebecca Simms.”

  Jeffrey racked his brain, the name vaguely familiar, but it elicited no immediate connection with a face. He eyed his three-quarters-empty coffee cup and debated whether he could leave whoever this was on hold for a few minutes while he replenished it, and then thought better of keeping a potential client waiting.

  “Sure. Put her through.”

  He pressed the blinking button for the held call. “Jeffrey Rutherford,” he said in his best professional adult voice, always feeling like a fraud when he used it.

  “Jeffrey? It’s Becky.”

  He blinked as the name registered. It was his brother’s girlfriend of now…was it three years? Could it have been that long? He’d spent a week with them on his last trip to D.C., where they both lived, and an image of a perky woman of diminutive stature with freckles drizzled across her cheeks sprang to mind.

  “Becky! Sorry I didn’t put two and two together on the Rebecca Simms thing. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked with sheepish jocularity.

  “I guess nobody got in touch with you…” she said, her voice tight.

  “In touch with me? About what?”

  “I…I wanted you to hear it from me first, and not see it on the news,” she started, and then trailed off.