On Deception Watch

by David H Spielberg

Equipment was located and inventoried. Off-duty personnel were told to stay in touch. On-duty personnel were given hypothetical assignments—“war games” were played. Transports were located and fueled. A very low buzz was established around the hive.

  By midmorning of the second day, the day of the demonstration, the celebrities began to appear, and with them the news media. This was a made-for-the-media event and no self-respecting public person would miss an opportunity to be photographed supporting the president’s humanitarian gesture to the world, his “free lunch” for the world.

  That was how the news media and the flower children saw it. It was the president, offering free lunch—inexpensive, inexhaustible energy—being stymied by the vested oil interests and their stooges in the Congress. It was so simple, and so right, and so opportune for all concerned.

  It was a no-win situation for the oil companies. The arguments for the president’s plan were direct and emotional. The arguments against it were technical and filled with numbers and complicated business interdependencies. No one wanted to support that side. No one wanted to listen to that side. The people were about to speak, to express their collective will.

  The point of the demonstration was more or less: We, the people of the United States, in order to sanctify free lunch, do ordain and establish the United States-United Nations-AJC Fusion joint venture (whatever that is). We, the people, are here to tell Congress and the world that the president is right and they better do what he says.

  And the fact that the sun was shining, that it was a balmy seventy-five degrees—and dry—that it was August and almost time to go back to school, or back to work; that it was August and the summer was almost gone—these things all heavily favored the turnout supporting the president and castigating the special interests who condemned the president’s plan for sharing fusion energy with the world.

  38

  Jeremy Leach stepped from the train at Union Station. He did not carry any luggage. He walked with a buoyant, confident, unburdened gait. It was the walk of a man who did not want to draw attention to himself, but when he thought about himself, was pleased. Jeremy was a man who could blend into any crowd. His height was five feet eight inches; weight, one hundred fifty-five pounds. He wore a light-blue summer suit with no tie and his shirt open at the neck—just as many other men that day were dressed. Sunglasses for the midday glare, a moustache like so many others around him that he put on surreptitiously as soon as he entered the crowd, no scars or tattoos. Slightly curly brown hair, medium cut, parted on the left, normal sideburns. Brown eyes. Average lips, average smile, average . . . everything.

  Walking with his left hand casually resting in his trouser pocket, whistling a tune to himself from time to time, his view taking in by chance this sight and that, he gave every appearance of a typical participant in the unfolding scene.

  Slowly, Jeremy made his way along Louisiana Avenue, over toward the mall and further on to West Potomac Park. Jeremy loved the view from the Reflecting Pool, with Abraham Lincoln to the west and Old George to the east with that great obelisk. Jeremy surveyed the multitude of people congregating on the lawn, assembling in common purpose. On blankets, on aluminum beach chairs, in front of tents, the great swarming mass took hold, took possession of this territory. He felt unexpectedly moved by their united spirit. Jeremy was a man who respected commitment.

  Jeremy watched the small groups form and disperse and reform a few yards over. He watched people drift in and out, the little delegations expanding and contracting with the ebb and flow. He watched the hugs, the kisses, the singing, and guitar-playing. He listened as the music and the din of voices and the occasional siren filled the air with a sensuous flow of sound. For a moment he stopped walking and closed his eyes to better focus on the sounds, to absorb them and remember them. He felt the energy flowing through his body as he silently, sightlessly experienced the crowd.

  The focal point of the demonstration would be at the plaza in front of the statue of the seated Abraham Lincoln. As he had so many times before, Mr. Lincoln would once again inspire, with his looming presence, the advocates of yet another burning cause——in this case, of Prometheus unbound.

  Jeremy did not think in terms of ancient heroes. Yet he was a man who could feel a pulse and feel a beat. And he was not unmoved by what he saw and heard and felt. Jeremy had never been a soldier in a great battle, had never been a part of some such great endeavor, had never walked among the marshaling of such multitudinous human forces as he was experiencing now, and he was surprised by the contagious euphoria.

  He walked to the Washington Monument and patiently waited on line for the elevator ride to the observation deck at the top, recently reopened for the occasion. From this high vantage point, Jeremy could see the Potomac with its many bridges, the many office buildings and institutions of government, the capitol, the White House, the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. And he watched the buzzing, expectant, unsuspecting, motivated, masses far below. And he watched the security forces build and organize themselves.

  39

  “Goddammit,” Amanda Brock yelled. “What do you mean you lost him? Find him. I don’t give a crap what it takes. Get helicopters, street cameras, drones, satellitesflood the goddam grounds with agents. Get photos to the Park Service police. I want a visual on Leach and I want it an hour ago. Who the hell was supposed to be on top of him? I want his ass on the line. I want him out there looking. Find this fucker fast. He’s not here to sightsee. He’s here to kill someone. Find him now!”

  40

  If anything, Sharon Richards was motivated. When she was only a senior in high school she had worked on the campaign for Senator Conway, going door to door, dropping off campaign literature, urging her neighbors to vote, offering to babysit so adults could more easily get to the polls.

  Now, a sophomore at the University of West Virginia, she was raising her sights on more meaningful political action. Sharon believed in getting involved. She was a member of the Young Democrats on campus, a candidate for student body Secretary, member of Women Against War, and a member of Literacy Volunteers of America. So when President Drummond asked for help, asked for a show of support to influence the Congress, Sharon rose to the challenge.

  She called people. She spread signs and posters throughout the campus. She gave countless impromptu and planned speeches. She made lists of interested persons. She rented a bus. She made calls to coordinate the actions of the group with the central planning committee in Washington. Sharon led her group, her flock of singing, chanting, dedicated enthusiasts and party animals, to the “Next Great March on Washington.”

  It was Newsweek magazine that recognized a good angle, that elevated her status. Somehow an editor at Newsweek received a picture of Sharon—bright smile and trim figure—and a media blitz was born.

  Reporters were sent to interview and photograph this “typical” American coed. Sharon became the symbol of the rebirth of constructive college activism and the cautious pride of her fundamentalist hometown, Parkersburg, West Virginia. Her infectious enthusiasm, her bright, laughing eyes, golden hair, and slim, athletic body made her a congenial attraction for any gathering.

  The charter bus from Parkersburg disgorged its contents at a temporary disembarkation point established along Constitution Avenue. Sharon and her group fell in with another group, this one from the University of Alabama, and together set off for their rendezvous with a patch of grass in West Potomac Park, between the Tidal Basin and the Potomac River, within sight of the Washington Monument.

  Rules about setting up tent cities having been temporarily suspended, Sharon and her group set up camp. In addition to makeshift sleeping arrangements Sharon set up an organization consisting of a schedule coordinator, runners for communicating with other groups and the demonstration managers, an art section for preparing posters and signs, and group historians for recording the events, impressions, experiences, and accomplishments of the trip. These latter would serve as raw material for articl
es in the college and local newspaper when the group returned home. Everyone was given an assignment and a schedule sheet, typed by Sharon, who also functioned as the group secretary. A special delegation was organized to present a petition in support of the president’s fusion energy program to both senators of West Virginia. News releases were prepared for phoning back to Parkersburg for local dissemination.

  Sharon sat at her makeshift command post on her patch of grass in the midst of the sea of humanity and coolly directed her forces. But as the afternoon of the day of the formal demonstration approached, and the celebrities began arriving, and the roaming news cameras took up their tasks in earnest, the lonely life at her command post became too much for Sharon and she had to get closer to where the action was steadily building.

  Sharon looked at her watch. It was one o’clock. The speeches were due to begin at three o’clock—plenty of time for the seven o’clock news. She turned to Brenda, her schedule coordinator.

  “That’s it. It’s now or never. I think we should close up shop and head over to the Quadrangle or we’re gonna miss the show.”

  Brenda looked up from the latest news release by the Americans for a Clean Environment and, checking her watch, nodded her agreement. Speakers had been set up for the crowd camped in the green areas around the Tidal Basin. But neither she nor Sharon had come to Washington just to sit on the sidelines. They could have done better staying at home with their telescreens. And got better visual coverage as well. No, this was an event where their heart and body and guts had to get personally involved, not as passive observers, but as participants in the heart of the roiling mass.

  Brenda closed her steno pad and put an empty beer bottle on top of the pile of news releases to keep them from blowing away. “There’s two hours ‘til the opening bell. But I guess you’re right. It’ll take us that long to get a good spot. Jenny’s been talking with the CNN techs. We’ve got a shot on the air with one good poster. They promised her.”

  Sharon too stood and looked around, rolling through a mental checklist, satisfying herself that everything that she had planned to do had been done. “Okay! I’m ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do it.”

  They walked toward the Lincoln Memorial. For the first time since they arrived in Washington, they allowed themselves to feel the power of what was happening. As they mingled with the other demonstrators, Sharon felt an extraordinary sense of community, of comradeship with all these people whom she knew only in that they all supported an ideal—a world free of energy politics, of energy pollution, of the economic drain of energy costs. A world free to refocus its resources, not on survival alone anymore, but on elevating the great disadvantaged masses of the world. There was the definite excitement of participating in an historic event of grand proportions, if only as a peace soldier among the mass of other peace soldiers.

  They walked on, into the thickening mass of people, watched as the mobile TV cameras maneuvered up ahead. Cables and light towers began to appear. Power generators and vans filled with technicians surrounded the Memorial. Sharon and Brenda were forced to divert toward the reflecting pool. Some people were standing in the pool, some in shorts, some with trouser legs rolled up. For the moment this was only along the edge of the pool, but Sharon knew that when the speeches began the pool would probably fill, the vantage point being too valuable to leave vacant. The nature of public events is to abhor a strategic viewing vacuum.

  41

  “Amanda, they lost him as soon as he got into the crowd. The people at DOD have sent high-flying drones to get real-time imaging to look for him. We’ve given them all the recent photos we have of Leach and they loaded it into their recognition software. They are scanning the quadrangle and will let us know if they get a match.” Amanda Brock stared hopelessly at the large displays on the wall.

  42

  Unable to really penetrate the crowd, Sharon and Brenda walked along the edge of Independence Avenue, toward the Capitol, to find a point of entry. The loud rumble of a police motorcycle, the flashing blue light of an occasional emergency vehicle only added to the sense of magnitude, of drama, of importance, of institutional acknowledgment of the scope of the event. And sensing this, the two women had a momentary fear that they were a part of something very much bigger than themselves. Unconsciously, they clutched each other’s arm.

  The crowd extended on and on as far down as the Reflecting Pools in front of the Capitol building and onto the steps of that great structure, almost two miles from the Lincoln Memorial. The two women looked at each other, sharing the common thought that they may have waited too long. But no, it did not matter where they stood, so long as they were there.

  “God, it’s unbelievable, Brenda. I never dreamed there would be so many people. It’s awesome. Can you believe that we’re a part of this?”

  Brenda simply shook her head and continued smiling—the same self-satisfied smile one might find on a young woman knowing before all others that she was carrying in her body the fertile germ of life, the power to create. It felt the same, Brenda thought. As if she had the power to create life.

  “Sharon, let’s go watch Jenny’s CNN interview. Then we can find a good spot to listen to the speeches.” Brenda took Sharon’s arm as they maneuvered toward the CNN tech station.

  The voices of the crowd were only a din, but here and there, above the din, could be heard the high-pitched penetrating sound of laughter or of song. As they passed the Smithsonian Institute, they turned onto the lawn of the Mall and were engulfed. All around them were other young people like themselves, interspersed with older “graybeards,” the committed of a former generation. Transistor radios and boom boxes, portable minitelescreens and digital tape players were everywhere. Balloons and placards, beer and bombast assailed the senses. It was glorious and it was fun. Sharon and Brenda had entered the communal mass. Having become integrated, they were now a living, breathing part of the happy, sun-drenched, throbbing organism.

  43

  Jeremy Leach disliked the direct heat of the sun, even with the protection of the wide-brimmed hat he bought from a street vendor, and was happy when the day moved beyond the noontime Washington broil. He stood quietly under the shade of a sycamore along the border of the Mall, waiting for the midafternoon cooling breeze from the Potomac to arrive. He had just finished two hot dogs, one with onions and chili, one with mustard and sauerkraut, a cherry cola, and a bag of potato chips, when he checked his watch. Two-thirty. He carefully wiped his mouth with the napkin he took from the street vendor, walked to a waste basket along the sidewalk on Independence Avenue and discarded his lunchtime trash. Turning back to the Mall, near the Reflecting Pool by the Capitol, he drifted into the crowd.

  The excitement of the crowd was slowly building. The warm-up news coverage, prior to the first formal speeches, had begun, and thousands of portable radios were bringing the crowd and the event and the outside world into synchronization with each other. Jeremy could sense a convergence of forces beginning by the regular stretching of necks and turning of faces in the direction of Lincoln Memorial.

  Jeremy continued to maneuver his way through the crowd. In a slow, methodical amble, Jeremy made his way to one of the CNN tech stations where they were doing interviews with some of the demonstrators, mostly with young people, most young, female, and cute. In a few minutes the formal program would begin. At three o’clock those with the portable telescreen sets or laptops computers were surrounded by eager faces straining to see their event and perhaps their faces on network telescreen or the cable feeds. All about the quadrangle, the crush from the edges to the center increased. The density of people was reaching a level where body touched body everywhere.

  The crowd was now in a constant state of cheerful, boisterous excitement. Jeremy amused himself with a new thought. You could die in here and you wouldn’t hit the ground ‘til morning. He smiled. Jeremy loved his work.

  44

  “DOD spotted him. They’ve got a visual. A team is working through th
e crowd now to get to him,” one of the operations officers announced.

  “Get me a visual now,” Amanda commanded. “Patch the drone camera into the main screen. Where is he? Okay, there he is. Where is the team? Get to him and get him the hell out of there. Oh my god, what’s he doing?”

  45

  Jeremy followed the girls as they left the CNN tech station. It was now necessary to push and squeeze to get nearer to them. The crowd was reaching a critical density where motion no longer was readily possible. Nevertheless, with single-minded purpose Jeremy was able to get just behind Sharon. He could feel his chest against her back. His thighs pressed against her thighs. There was so much body contact everywhere that Sharon did not recognize that this touch was any different from all the other points of contact with the crowd pressing against her in all directions.

  He felt the swaying of the crowd. He closed his eyes and let his body move with the random swaying of the organism he had made himself a part of. Like a stalk of wheat in a field beset by curling breezes he rocked this way and that, sometimes moving with Sharon’s body, sometimes with the person beside him, sometimes all together in a kind of organic bond. He opened his eyes.

  Jeremy looked around and saw the two men pushing toward him, staring directly at him, perhaps fifty feet away. Jeremy raised his left arm high as if trying to attract the attention of someone in front of him in the crowd in the failing light of early evening, and as he did so, as he rose on his toes as if to more easily attract the attention of his nonexistent friend, with his right hand held close to his body to conceal what he was doing, he leaned forward into Sharon’s back pushing the blade in his right hand into its full length, into Sharon’s back, puncturing her liver

  The two men struggling toward Sharon desperately pushed people aside. He gave the blade a quick twist as he heard her gasp. He pulled the blade out and pushed his body to the side. Immediately, the person behind him filled the gap, waving and shouting, stretching to see above the heads of those in front of her. By the time she felt the warm wetness against her stomach as she pressed into Sharon, by the time she looked down and saw the blood, by the time Sharon’s legs began to crumble beneath her, Jeremy had moved away, rapidly becoming absorbed by a new part of the mass of demonstrators. He kept low and became once again easily lost in the crowd.