The Manuscript (15 page)

A significant segment of most inner-city economies was an underground one, where cash was king and nobody asked questions. The economics of participating in trafficking were easy for even a novice to comprehend: if you were poorly educated or lazy, working a real job, likely in a fast food restaurant, might pay you one-twentieth of what you could make slinging dope on the streets. True, there were significant dangers involved in the drug trade, but that just added to the excitement factor when you were in your teens, suddenly being taken seriously because of your stash and your cash and your gun. Your entire life revolved around the glorification of your fast-money lifestyle and violent creed, from the clothes you wore to the rap music you listened to.

A lowered Impala came rolling around the corner, following two creeping cars – the occupants obviously looking to score – and suddenly, the street in front of the projects became a killing field. The distinctive chatter of automatic weapons fire popped like firecrackers. By the time the ancient Chevrolet accelerated and made it to the end of the block, the bodies of hooded adolescent wheelers and dealers littered the lawn, some groaning and moving, many not.

A few innocent passers-by were also cut down, not unexpected given that an adrenaline and cocaine-charged teen firing an unfamiliar weapon with no training was hardly likely to have a particularly accurate aim. Many of the wounded wouldn’t make it – emergency vehicles took a long time to respond in this particular neck of the woods. It was just part of living in the concrete and brick jungle that housed the projects; a kind of hell to the inhabitants. In that violent world, you defended yourself; you didn’t rely on the police to do so, and you expected no mercy and offered none.

Once the shooting was over, the remaining members of the gang that ran the drugs on the block assembled, vowing to avenge the attack and take down the rival group that had intruded into their turf. They would plan a drive-by of their own at the gang’s main distribution block, killing as many of their
soldiahs
as had been shot today – and then some. It never occurred to any of the participants that designating twelve and thirteen year olds as soldiers in the wealthiest nation on the planet defied logic – this wasn’t some sub-Saharan African civil war between adversarial tribes, where it was routine to find ten year olds brandishing Kalashnikovs and bragging of the number they’d killed; where the average resident made a few hundred dollars a year and had no hope of any future beyond misery and death. This was any large city in the U.S., a country with the most expensive educational system in history, where the emphasis was on building fortunes and achieving one’s dreams of prosperity, and where the government had spent many billions every year to ‘battle’ drugs, while smugly assuring its population that it lived in the best country in the world.

And so it went, a never-ending cycle of killing to protect the distribution of illegal substances and the mega-profits associated with their traffic. The lessons of Prohibition had been forgotten – the violence associated with criminal cartels controlling the distribution of alcohol, which ended virtually overnight once drinking became legal again, was politically forbidden to speak of. Thus the pattern of violent crime and murder continued unabated, regardless of how many prisons were built to incarcerate an ever-growing percentage of the citizenry, or how many billions were spent on a war against its own population’s appetites.

In the end, nothing changed. Drugs remained widely available anywhere in the nation and were consumed with enthusiasm by many – but the thousand percent profits associated with their traffic remained intact, ensuring there would be continued misery for generations to come as children killed each other to protect the easy money the industry produced.

********

“Give me an update,” Sid ordered into the phone.

“So far, nothing much. The technician didn’t know anything other than that the office had been bugged. Nothing about the document,” the voice reported.

“Are you sure he was telling the truth?” Sid demanded.

“Completely sure.”

“So what else do we have?” Sid asked.

“We’re working our way up the food chain. I don’t think the staff has any idea what the book agent was up to, so that’s likely to prove non-productive. The receptionist’s account was consistent with the technician’s. The security company did a routine sweep and obviously left the bugs in place, and that’s all anyone knows. She didn’t have any idea about the manuscript. So we’re back to doing this the hard way,” the voice advised.

“What about the head of the security company?”

“We left messages posing as prospective clients, but so far there’s been no contact. We’re watching his place and there’s no sign of movement. Could be he has a girlfriend he’s staying with, or he could have gone to ground. If he’s got contacts at NYPD, he’ll know the agent didn’t suffer an innocent heart attack by now – the preliminary police report’s now calling it a homicide.”

“The security owner, this Michael Derrigan, is ex-SEAL, so he might have gotten spooked by the hardware. I’d just assume he has ties to the police and is now on full alert. My bet is you find him, and a lot of the questions about the document get answered,” Sid advised.

“We’re thinking along the same lines. From the time the literary agent downloaded it to the time he was sanctioned, he only had contact with a few people. Barring someone we haven’t accounted for on the first night, the likely culprit is Derrigan. We’re working under the assumption that he’s read it and is fully aware of the ramifications, which will make our job tougher. But on the other hand, even professionals slip up eventually, so if we can’t figure out where he is, we’ll get him when he does. That’s the least desirable outcome, obviously. We’re turning over every rock we can, sir,” the voice said.

“I want a full report as soon as you know more. I’ll be up late,” Sid directed.

He didn’t like the direction this was taking. In his experience, if there wasn’t progress within the first twenty-four hours of a manhunt like this, then the odds of a successful conclusion dropped dramatically. So far all they knew was that part or all of the manuscript had been printed and was unaccounted for. Abe wasn’t going to be talking to anyone, so he couldn’t tell them anything. They knew it wasn’t at his home. The office had come up empty. And nobody they’d interrogated knew about it.

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect now was a pro in the mix on the opposing side. If Derrigan had the manuscript and they couldn’t find him soon, it was anyone’s guess as to how he would play the next round. Then again, it was almost impossible to stay off the radar anymore, so they could be assured he’d turn up eventually.

But every hour he was unaccounted for increased the likelihood of him sharing the manuscript with someone else, which then would magnify their containment problem.

And there was the more fundamental issue, namely the source of the manuscript. They were no closer to understanding who had drafted the damning document than they had been when it surfaced, which was troubling in the extreme. A review of the contents yielded no new information. The source was highly informed about operations that were at the highest level of top secret, even decades after their completion, as well as about ongoing connections that would prove disastrous if they were made public. The administration would have no choice but to round up some rats before they tried to jump ship – and Sid would be at the head of the line. He wielded an enormous amount of power and influence, but not enough to escape a bloodbath if this went viral.

This was a dangerous game, and the stakes were as high as he’d ever played for. The positive in it all, if there was one, was that his search team was the best, and he could access a lot of proprietary NSA intel if necessary, as well as use Homeland Security to augment their efforts. His team couldn’t go overt but they could come pretty close, so Sid was confident they’d get Derrigan sooner rather than later.

He just hoped it was soon enough.

********

Koshi was buzzed. His group had polished off a fair amount of liquor at the restaurant and then they’d stopped in for a nightcap at one of the large dance clubs in the Village. The gang had three or four haunts they favored, and the sushi place was closest to a club that catered to a mostly Asian crowd, so they dropped in to see if anything was jumping. It was a Thursday and the crowd was thick, packed to the rafters with those trying to get a jumpstart on the weekend’s partying.

Koshi had downed a few Red Bull and vodka cocktails, and then reluctantly pulled away from the group, bidding them a fond goodnight. It was midnight by that point, but the streets were still humming with pedestrians, so he felt okay hoofing it to his place, which was eight long blocks away. He reasoned the exercise would help sober him up, and began making a mental checklist of the items he’d need to pack for a couple of days at his cousin’s. There was no way he would be leaving tonight for Jersey, but he could get out by six a.m. and be there by eight, which would be fine, he was sure. Michael was over-reacting to what was a completely routine security job. Even if they were questioned, what could he possibly tell anyone? That he had failed to find some old man’s lost e-mail? Wow. Stop the presses for that newsflash. Still, Michael didn’t tend to go off half-cocked, and he’d never been alarmist before, so better to be safe than sorry.

It was a balmy night familiar to early September, one of his favorite times to be out in the city. Summer could get unbearably muggy and hot, but this year had been mild and the fall was shaping up to be a beauty. There were very few places in the world where it was as good to be young, single, and with some money in your pocket than in New York. Koshi was making the most of it. His consulting business paid extremely well – he was always in demand as a programmer as well as a hacker. Of course, the hacking paid far better, and it was truly what he enjoyed doing, so Koshi couldn’t complain about much. Sure, he drank too much on occasion and burned the candle at both ends, but that was what you were supposed to do when you were in your twenties. So what the hell. He had plenty of time to grow up later. For now, life was a party and a game.

Two blocks from his house a figure startled him, stepping out of a doorway and blocking the sidewalk. One of the town’s homeless population, wanting a cigarette or a handout. Koshi was used to such encounters. He fished out a Marlboro and tossed it to the man even as he skillfully avoided any contact. Some of these creeps could be dangerous, especially late at night, so he kept a few feet of distance between himself and the shabbily dressed vagrant. Koshi picked up the sour scent of alcohol and nicotine, as well as urine and general decay.

“God bless you, man,” the shambling form mumbled as he passed. “You got a light?”

“Gotta run, bruthah. Enjoy the smoke,” Koshi responded without stopping. He knew from experience that if you engaged street people you were setting yourself up for them to hit you up for something else. A light would turn into a request for some spare change, which could easily spiral into a demand. Best just to avoid the whole mess and pick up the pace.

Koshi’s combat boots thunked against the sidewalk as he rounded the corner of his block. He automatically checked behind over his shoulder, as well as across the street and down the block, before turning and unlocking the building’s front door. When you lived in the city, you became sensitive to potential threats, and by now this sort of late night scan was routine. Everything was quiet.

He mounted the stairs to his apartment, which was on the second floor, situated over a dry cleaner’s shop. As he stepped onto the landing, he felt a tickle of apprehension. What the fuck. Michael had him afraid of his own shadow. There was nobody around, just his battered door with three deadbolts, and opposite, the door of his neighbor – a geriatric Vietnam vet who drank his dinner and was usually passed out by nightfall. Koshi keyed his locks, humming drunkenly to himself, and pushed his door open.

The electric current hit him with blinding suddenness, his legs buckling like spaghetti as his muscles lost control. The wavering hulk of two figures stood over him, one of whom was holding a cattle prod. Both wore black and were smiling.

“Koshi Yamaguchi, I presume?” the shorter of the two inquired conversationally. Then everything went dark.

********

The East River at dawn was eerily calm before the bustle of the city got into full gear. Joggers and bicyclists moved along the waterfront paths – the more athletically inclined of the island’s residents striving, as always, to get in their exercise before the workday began. Laborers lounged around roach coaches along the concrete embankments that framed the river, joking with one another before starting their construction shifts.

A six year old boy strolled along, gripping the hand of his eighty-four year old great-grandfather. This was their bonding time. They ambled along the river as the old man had done with his children, then his grandchildren, and now this generation.

Things in the city had changed dramatically since the Great Depression, which was the environment he’d been raised in. His father, a railroad man, had been one of the fortunate few who remained employed throughout those days of darkness. He still remembered the shanties in the parks of that era, the Hoovervilles where the homeless and downtrodden had hung their hats even as the wealthiest people in America rode by in their exotic automobiles on their way to day jobs on Wall Street. Even as a teenager, during the 1939 World Fair, he remembered the stark contrast between the haves and the have nots.

He’d lived in the city his entire life, through the post-World War II era prosperity and the hope of the fifties, through the troubled and divided years that marked the sixties and seventies, when crime soared through Manhattan and his neighborhood went from a relatively-safe family area to a violent ghetto. Then a trend of surprising urbanization and newfound prosperity had hit, and after decades in squalor, he’d found himself with new neighbors who’d paid seven figures for rundown brownstone walkups that had previously housed drug gangs and addicts.