Interest (12 page)

23

“Oh my God, this is your place?” Len couldn’t believe his eyes as he stepped off the elevator.

“One of my places. I stay here sometimes when I do business in South America.”

Natalia had an enormous penthouse flat in a downtown Bogotá high-rise. Marble floors, huge windows with views of the entire city, and furniture that probably cost more than Len’s college education.

“I thought you said you didn’t like to attract attention,” Len taunted.

“Yeah, well…also, I only live once,” Natalia retorted. “I get tired of cheap hotels.”

Natalia’s gunrunning team made themselves at home, throwing their rucksacks onto her coffee tables and dropping bedrolls everywhere. Natalia didn’t mind; she was more concerned with making a grocery list so they’d have enough supplies to hunker down through the illness. Len counted nine Russians, ten including Natalia. It was an interesting relationship they all had. They acted like siblings and seemed to regard Natalia as a big-sister figure. Len didn’t know their story, nor did he speak a word of Russian, but he recognized the camaraderie instantly: a strong bond developed during difficult ordeals in a dangerous business. These were people who would take bullets for each other.

Len put Octavia to bed on the couch in Natalia’s master bedroom and, starved for news since escaping Salvatierra’s island, turned on the TV. Finding an English-language news station, Len couldn’t believe the images on the screen. Some of Natalia’s guys came over to watch. Russian tanks were rolling down Massachusetts Avenue in Washington, DC. Neith had waited to strike until the entire country was disabled by her pandemic. The Capitol building and much of the city were burning. There were clips of house-to-house fighting.

A scrolling line of text at the bottom of the screen caught Len’s eye.

“LEADERSHIP CRISIS: 82 percent of Congress has succumbed to Success Flu. Fifteen of the eighteen officials in the presidential line of succession killed by flu. Secretary of Agriculture, in secure location, to be sworn in as president.”

Len flipped the channel. The president of Colombia lying in state. He pushed the channel button again. The pope’s funeral. Again: travelers who had been stranded in an airport in Beijing for a week. Again: biographies of celebrities who died. Again: video of the New York Stock Exchange during business hours but with the trading floor completely empty. Again: looting and burning cars in Paris. Again: a military coup in Turkey. Again: riots and martial law in St. Petersburg. Again: a mushroom cloud near the Pakistan-India border.

Pretentious types in coffeehouses all over the developed world used to ruminate about how great anarchy could be, mostly because no one expected it would ever actually happen. Until Neith’s flu, anarchy had been entirely confined to fleeting situations and thought experiments. However, with the last of the world’s Tchogols going kamikaze in their final minutes, the entire globe was ass-deep in violent bedlam. Anarchy, real anarchy, didn’t feel like freedom, Len thought. It felt like being dangled above a shark tank by a frayed rope.

Once the Tchogols were gone, then what? The entire planet was plunging headlong into a global interregnum. Like a tornado tearing the roof off a seemingly sturdy house, the virus made an utter mockery of all the social order the human race had ever known by creating an unfillable leadership vacuum.

Seeing all the death and chaos on the screen, the Russians looked at each other apprehensively. They’d been on a boat for days and out of the loop. Len had tried to explain the severity of the situation to them on the short voyage to Colombia, but their machismo kept them from taking him seriously. Someone broke out bottles of vodka and a boom box. They decided that if they were going to die, they were going to die drunk and doing karaoke.

___
_

While the Russians suffered, Len spent the next eight days taking care of them and working on his manuscript. Now free of Neith’s control, he decided to include details about her. Len knew it would be the most important piece of journalism he or anyone else had ever written, so he took his time hammering out every single sentence. So he wouldn’t have to listen to people coughing inside Natalia’s flat, interrupting his concentration, Len often took Neith’s ancient typewriter out on the balcony. Len had used typewriters a few times when he was a kid, but he had spent his entire adult life since high school using computers and word processors. Len was a nonlinear thinker who liked to edit, jump around, and reorganize on the fly. He found the forced linearity of the typewriter to be a real nuisance. The one upside was that it forced him to plan carefully before he typed something. He stuck with the machine, though, simply because the ancient contraption was immune to electronic surveillance. Someone would have to physically inspect the typewriter and his papers to see what he was working on, and at the moment, no one could do that because no one knew where he was.

Len recalled Jefferson’s words: “If it’s out there in a computer somewhere, Neith finds it.” Len had witnessed Neith’s ability to bend the world’s most secure computer systems to her will; it wasn’t a huge stretch of the imagination to assume she had also hijacked the government’s massive surveillance apparatus. Using any sort of electronic device could mean stumbling into her dragnet, so Len decided to play it safe by continuing to stay off the grid. The irony wasn’t lost on him: Neith had given him the typewriter and instructions to stay offline because she was worried about government surveillance, but because of her paranoia, she could no longer keep track of Len herself.

While they were holed up in Natalia’s apartment, the last of the world’s Tchogols died off, and the chaos on TV died down significantly. It amazed Len: without the manipulators, there was no more political drama; without the conscienceless to send people to their deaths, war just dried up.

General Jefferson, who (to Len’s surprise) was not a Tchogol, had successfully overthrown the US government and had appointed himself acting president. By not opposing it, the American military seemed to give tacit approval to the coup. Jefferson’s televised ascension speech called for an emergency constitutional convention to strengthen the nation’s charter, to prevent the abuses of the past from ever happening again. He further declared that any surviving public official who had been involved in unconstitutional activities would be tried and publicly hanged for treason if found guilty. He made no mention of Neith, Dranthyx, Ich-Ca-Gan, or that the Success Flu had been engineered.

“I forgot to thank you for saving my life on island,” Natalia said, propping herself up in bed when Len came to check on her.

“Forget it. Just do the same for someone else sometime.”

“I will not forget. I owe you.”

“Here, I made you some tea.” Len handed her the mug he was holding, hoping to change the subject.

“You have good heart,” Natalia said softly.

“Sometimes.”

Natalia took a sip, puckered her lips, and nearly spat it out. “Blagh! What hell is this?”

“The old lady who runs the bodega across the street told me about it. It’s a local folk remedy. Garlic, honey, and lemon tea. It’s supposed to cure the flu. I hope I made it right.”

“I don’t think you did,” Natalia blurted, making a weird face and laughing. “It tastes like bear’s ass. Thank you, though. How is daughter?”

“She’s back to normal. I took her to the park today. I think your boys are getting better, too. Vlad and Leonid are going nightclubbing tonight, apparently.”

Natalia rolled her eyes. “We can’t stay here too long. More than one week already, clients getting impatient. I’m going to USA day after tomorrow. You want come?”

“I’d love to. One small problem, though: Octavia doesn’t have a passport. Do you know where I can get a fake one for her?”

“Of course. Let me make phone call.”

24

Len, Natalia, and Octavia took up three adjacent seats on the airplane back to the States. Len was astounded that airlines were still operating after all the calamities of the last few months. Landing stateside, there was an inordinately long line at customs and immigration.

Len turned to Natalia as they stood in the queue, waiting to enter the country.

“I think we should split up and go through separately,” he said discreetly. “Take Octavia.”

“Why?”

“Well, it just occurred to me that I’m either wanted for treason by the old government for the IRS attack, or wanted for treason by the new government for escaping Salvatierra’s island. Either way, I’m a wanted terrorist. Also, Neith may have compromised my Jim Rivington identity after I escaped. Chances are pretty good they’re going to arrest me.”

“Shit, Len! Why didn’t you think of this before? We could have made fake passport and sneaked into country.” Natalia looked around, but there was nowhere to go. The customs and immigration area of the airport was like a cattle chute of bullet-proof plexiglass, with armed agents standing by to keep people from walking back out. Once you were in customs and immigration, the only way out was past the agents at the desks who checked the identification and luggage of each person passing through.

“It slipped my mind,” Len said. “Natalia, remember how you said you owe me a favor?”

“Yes?” Natalia looked worried.

“Well, I’m about to ask you for two favors.”

“What are they?”

“First one is, you’ll have to take Octavia through.” Len pulled a pen and an old receipt out of his pocket. He scribbled something on the back of it and handed it to Natalia. “This is my mother’s address in Pittsburgh. If they arrest me, please make sure Octavia gets there. Just tell the immigration agents she’s your daughter. The passport she has is Russian like yours, so they shouldn’t even think twice. I’m sorry to put this on you, but I don’t know what else to do. I’ll have to go through by myself so I don’t get you two involved.”

“Fine,” she said hesitantly. “I can do. What is second favor?”

“Here, take this.” He handed her a manila envelope containing the manuscript. “If I don’t make it through, please make sure Jack Peterson gets it. He’s the chief editor of the
Pittsburgh
Examiner
.”

“What is it?”

“Trust me, it is
extremely
important. The future of the human race depends on it.”

Natalia squinted at him as if she doubted his sanity. “I don’t have good feeling about this.”

“I’m sorry, Natalia. I should have thought of this earlier.”

Natalia took a ragged breath. Len knelt down to talk to his daughter.

“Octavia, honey, Daddy is going to talk to those men over there. They might take me somewhere and I might not see you for a while. Natalia is going to take you to Grandma’s house.”

“Why, Daddy?” Octavia said, clearly upset. “I don’t want you to go away again! I don’t want you to leave anymore!”

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“I’ll miss you,” she said, tears running down her little face.

“I’ll miss you, too. Never forget that I love you.”

“I love you too, Daddy.”

Len hugged her, then tried to compose himself while standing off to the side, pretending to look through his pockets for something. Once he was certain Natalia and Octavia had made it through, Len threw his Jim Rivington passport in a trashcan and walked toward the agents at the desk. A uniformed young man with a buzz cut and bad mustache didn’t even look up from his computer screen as Len approached.

“Name?”

“My name is Leonard Savitz.”

“Nationality?”

“American.”

“Passport?”

“I don’t have one,” Len lied.

The agent looked up at him.

“You don’t have a passport?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a terrorist.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m a terrorist. I’m an enemy of the state.”

“Sir, that isn’t something to joke about in an airport.”

“I’m not joking. I’m very serious. I’m wanted for terrorism. Look it up on your computer.”

The agent’s eyes narrowed as he backed away from Len with his hand on his side arm. He grabbed a walkie-talkie off his desk and asked for backup. Within seconds, several agents came running toward Len with weapons drawn.

“Get down on your knees, hands behind your head!” one of them yelled.

Len did as he was told. They handcuffed him and led him to a little interrogation room.

“Explain to us who you are,” asked one of the agents.

“My name is Leonard Savitz. I’m the journalist who was kidnapped.”

One of the agents brought a tablet computer into the room. They took Len’s picture with it.

“Facial recognition database says his name is Jim Rivington.”

“Can’t trust that. Scan his fingerprints.”

They put Len’s finger onto the device.

“Jim Rivington again.”

“The computer says you’re Jim Rivington.”

“The computer is wrong,” Len asserted. “I’m a terrorist. I shot an IRS agent. I was part of the raid on the IRS.”

“Mr. Rivington, even if that’s true, which I think it isn’t, President Jefferson pardoned everyone involved.”

“He did? Well, I also spread that flu around the world that killed hundreds of millions of people. I’m telling you, I’m a bad dude. You should arrest me.”

“Mr. Rivington, I’m not sure you can take credit for a flu. That’s pretty much an act of God.”

“It was engineered. I killed millions. I’m a bioterrorist.”

“OK, I just looked up ‘Leonard Savitz’ in the FBI database and on the Internet,” said one of the younger agents. “The database says he was one of Jefferson’s heroes who was killed in DC siege. For once, someone even bothered to upload the death certificate. Also, I found an article on the Internet about Leonard Savitz. It says, ‘Pulitzer-winning journalist–turned–freedom fighter given posthumous pardon by President Jefferson and buried in Arlington National Cemetery with full honors.’”

The agents exchanged glances with one another. “Do you suffer from some kind of psychological issue, Mr. Rivington?” one of them asked in a patronizing tone.

“No, goddammit!” Len exploded. “What the hell do I have to do to get arrested around here?”

“You want us to arrest you?”

“Yes!”

“I don’t understand. I’m sorry, we can’t do that without probable cause.”

“Probable cause? Seriously? Just a few weeks ago, you people were power-crazed tyrants who got off on ruining people’s lives, and now you’re suddenly all professional and by the book? What the hell happened?”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Rivington,” said one of the older agents, a well-spoken fellow with a gray coiffure. “Admittedly, our agency has incurred a bit of a public image problem over the years. However, things around here have changed quite a bit recently—for the better, I’d say. While it is unfortunate that we lost about half of our staff to the flu, for some reason the illness only took the agents who had disciplinary history and complaints from the public. Then, as a result of the new regime in Washington, there have been substantial, top-down revisions to our policies—”

“Fine, whatever,” Len interjected. “There’s a bomb in my luggage and I’m going to blow up the fucking airport!”

After a few minutes, someone brought in Len’s suitcase. The agents rummaged through it, pulling out Len’s typewriter, camera, and cassette recorder. At the bottom of the suitcase, under some socks, they found an envelope containing a copy of the manuscript. On the envelope, written in large red letters, it said: “To Mr. Dranthyx. Love, Len.”

“What’s this?” one of the agents asked.

“That’s for your boss’s boss’s boss,” Len said. “Send it up the chain as high as you can. Tell them it’s an urgent matter of national security.”

“Guys, there’s no bomb here,” the luggage-checking agent said. “I suppose we can detain him for not providing identification. That’s still legal, right?”

The agents, not knowing what to make of Len but erring on the side of caution, led him out of the airport to an old Homeland Security building close to the terminal. They scanned his fingerprints, took a mug shot, then put him into a little cell with white steel walls. The room was pretty sparse: a light, a toilet, toilet paper, a sink, a cot, and a door. The agents uncuffed him, then slammed the door behind them as Len sat down on the cot. The noise of the door, the
chunk-chunk
of the metal latching mechanism, was when the reality of his situation sank in. A reality he’d forcibly created.