Nation of Enemies (13 page)

“And so it begins,” he says aloud.

 

Chapter 28

N
EVER
ONE
FOR
religion, Sebastian sits in the pews at Patriot's Church and listens to Reverend Mitchell's sermons with a mix of bewilderment and disgust. The blatant manipulation of his congregation is breathtaking. Men and women alike appear completely drawn in by this heretic. Will Anderson does as they do. He listens and nods. Kneels when he's told to. Reads along in the Bible. But he also studies those few allowed into Mitchell's inner sanctum. The bodyguard, a long line of children who follow him out each ser­vice, and several others dressed in navy who are placed strategically throughout the nave.

The pews and extended seating must hold fifteen hundred, with probably another thousand in the standing room and balcony sections. It's a shame; Mitchell bastardized Trinity Church. Sebastian remembers the National Historic Landmark well from childhood, an impressive stone facade, enormous tower with a clay roof. The centerpiece of the Back Bay. When everyone fled the city for rural areas, the real estate market crumbled. Mitchell purchased the church. He must've bought off the Historical Society because he distorted the Romanesque style, melded it with a modern, twenty-­first-­century megachurch aesthetic. Each ser­vice, a children's choir belts out something that sounds like pop music about Jesus. Kids do cartwheels down the aisles. ­People of every age and race clap along with the beat.

No one's taken particular note of a tall, broadly built man in his late thirties with a beard who mostly wears polo shirts and khakis. A few weeks in now, Will Anderson is friendly, talks to anyone who sits next to him, and doesn't hold back his enthusiasm during the ser­vice. A welcome member to the flock.

Getting close to Mitchell has been impossible, but he can't rush it. Renner's informant still won't commit to being a cooperating witness and working with Sebastian inside. Last week at coffee hour he met Taylor Hensley. It was brief, but even in two minutes of conversation, he can tell she's warm and outgoing. Two things the press never mentions. The tiny divots in her cheek had drawn his eye, and she seemed to shy away when she caught him looking at them. She's stunning, despite the marks. She cuts her hair so short, tries to look severe, but instead the focus is on her face. He had a hard time looking away.

Thanks to the Bureau tech assigned to his case, Will Anderson's BASIA application has been bumped up the list. Just yesterday he received a piece of mail that said nothing more than date, time, and address. One thing they've learned from the informant is that militia applicants are screened and must give personal testimony explaining his or her interest in serving BASIA.

Last night, Sebastian ran the speech backward and forward until it felt natural. Unable to sleep, around three
A
.
M
. he'd gotten out of bed and had tea on the couch. It's something he used to do with Kate when they both had insomnia. He'd talked to her as if she was there, allowing the steam from the hot drink to warm his face like her breath might have.

He arrives promptly at the Patriot's Church offices wearing a brown suit and a plain blue tie. Inside the main entryway, he follows signs to the Testimony Room. It's a long corridor that feels particularly empty without the usual flow of ­people on church ser­vice days. A few more turns and he's there. He doesn't recognize the men and women who wait outside the room. No one makes small talk.

Intel on Patriot's Church dates back to when it opened in 2020. Bureau analysts estimate that a hundred ­people from around the country give testimony weekly with the hope of joining the militia. The NSA has intercepted several video transmissions from applicants, but they've provided no proof of conspiracy, only belief in the church and antigovernment sentiment. It's unclear how many are accepted, but Sebastian calculated that if Mitchell accepted ten ­people per week over ten years, he'd have over five thousand new recruits. Far too many unidentified enemies of the state. Today, it's crucial that he be chosen as one of them.

The door opens and a lean man in a dark suit calls a name. Sebastian hoped
Anderson
was a shoo-­in for first, but evidently they're not going alphabetically. A woman with the last name of Foreman leaves with the man. Exactly fifteen minutes later another applicant is called. Sebastian checks his smartwatch and it's clear there's a schedule being followed. ­People shift in their seats, exchanging glances. The door opens.

“Will Anderson.”

Adrenaline courses through him. He stands and follows the man, who is several inches shorter. Sebastian stares at flecks of dandruff on his navy blue shoulders.

“Right in here, please.” The man leads him into a windowless room with four white walls, one of which contains a one-­way mirror. In the center of the room there's a table with two seats, one on either side.

“Mike Michaels,” the man says. They shake hands. “Please, have a seat.”

“Will Anderson.” Sebastian sits down, facing the mirror.

“You have three minutes to testify,” Michaels says in a bored tone as he takes the adjacent seat. “Tell me about yourself. What brought you here. And why you'd make a loyal and contributing member of BASIA.”

“I grew going to St. Paul's Episcopal in Baltimore. It was like a second home to me. When the war started, I got my MedID along with everyone else. At the time I didn't think much about being a seventy-­two. I went to school, got good grades, got married, worked in finance. But then a doctor visit exposed a weakness in my DNA sequencing. I have alpha-­1 antitrypsin deficiency. Basically, I'm missing an enzyme in my lungs and liver and I'm prone to respiratory infections. Employers equate this to meaning I'll miss more days of work. There's no cure, no treatment. I was laid off and now I can only get contract work. With the war, the unemployment rate, I'm lucky if I work six months out of the year. Then my wife . . .” He shoves a hand in his pocket. Inside is Kate's engagement ring. He touches the smooth edges of the platinum band, the jagged edges of the diamond. “She died before our first anniversary.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.”

This guy must hear countless stories, he thinks, have stock responses at the ready. “So. I can hardly work. I lost my wife. I've got nothing.” Sebastian brushes his nose with the back of his hand. “Nothing but God. And anger. I have a lot of fucking anger.”

Almost imperceptibly, Michaels nods, his eyes narrow.

Sebastian balls his fists. “I keep asking myself . . . why and how did everything change? I want some accountability. And every time I think about it, I get the same answer.”

“What's that?”

“Our government is a danger to its ­people.”

“May I ask how your wife died?”

His chest aches as he envisions Kate. “She was a lieutenant in the army based in Southern California. During the L.A. Riots of 'twenty-­four she was out fighting with her squad, but they were outnumbered. No helicopters were sent in. No backup troops. They let them burn.”

A low buzz sounds and Mike Michaels pulls out his phone. He consults the screen a moment and regards Sebastian once again. “Sorry. So, your wife died, you can't work, you have a strong hate for the government, you've returned to the church, and this has led you here today.”

“I suppose I could have said it more succinctly.”

“Not at all.” Michaels taps his smartwatch. “I just have a strict schedule to keep. Want to be sure I have all the details.”

“Can I add one last thing?”

“Please.”

“I read the Bible every day, have for years now.” Bring it home. “And one passage stays with me. I believe it's what led me to BASIA. Inspired me to fill out the application.”

“Do tell.”

He closes his eyes as he recites one of Mitchell's favorite psalms. “ ‘Put on the full armor of God, so that you will be able to stand firm against the schemes of the devil. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places.' ”

“Ephesians 6:11-­12.” Michaels nods. “Well said.”

Another buzz. Sebastian watches as Michaels consults his device.

“Congratulations.” Michaels's voice has an edge of annoyance. “Welcome to BASIA.”

His knees are week. No need to feign surprise. “Wow, thank you. I was expecting a longer process—­”

“It's an unusual honor to be informed immediately at this stage, but you were fortunate to have Reverend Mitchell himself observing today. He was evidently moved by your testimony.”

“That's the best news I've had in years.”

“Yes, I'm sure. All right, Mr. Anderson, we'll be in touch.”

They both stand and Sebastian shakes Michael's hand vigorously. When he leaves the building and steps into the bright daylight his nerves disappear. He is this much closer to nailing Mitchell. The door is open to him now.

 

Chapter 29

A
LL
EIGHT
POUNDS
, two ounces, of Talia radiate heat onto Lily's chest. Finished breast-­feeding, the seven-­week-­old infant is fast asleep, a thin flannel blanket tucked around the edges of her tiny body. The two of them could lie here on the living room sofa for hours, and sometimes do.

Loud thumping disrupts the peace as Ian bounds down the hallway dressed in his soccer uniform. Last year, students were offered a specific DNA test that would reveal academic and physical predispositions. Ian's results surprised her and Cole. They'd never noticed much physical inclination in him. But high quantities of the gene ACTN 3 indicated he'd be an excellent athlete. With a little encouragement, Ian chose soccer. In the past several months he's hardly left the field.

“Is Dad here?”

“He'll be home for dinner.”

“Can you take me?”

Moving is a feat, her limbs heavy as though filled with concrete. She wishes the games were in-­district. Instead, the districts compete against one another, which requires traveling. Last year she spoke to the State Soccer League and brought up the idea of avatar-­based games. The technology is available but the majority of players still prefer human contact.

“Mom? The game is in, like, an hour.”

“What district are you playing today?”

“Eighty-­six.”

She hasn't left District 149 since Kate's funeral. For the first time in her life, fear has taken over. It was a stupid thing to do, but she'd sought out the news footage of the State House attack. She couldn't help herself. Now, it's all she sees when she closes her eyes. For her family, she goes through the motions, keeps up the facade of normalcy. But everything's an effort.

Ian bounces a soccer ball off his knee. Her eyes run over the newly defined muscles above his knee, sculpted calf muscles. Thick bangs hang in his eyes.

“You need a haircut,” she says.

“I need to get to the field.”

The game is only a half hour away. She can do this. The roads are patrolled and there are no obvious targets between the two districts. Still, there's the occasional drive-­by shooting or the terrorists turn their cars into suicide missiles aimed randomly at oncoming traffic. It's impossible to guess what they want, what they think they're achieving with the madness. The prescription patch of anti-­anxiety medication is on the side table, and she sticks it onto her arm, just below her shoulder. It should kick in any minute. Ian wears a torso ballistics skin, hidden beneath his team jersey and shorts. Lily quickly changes into hers, and zips Talia into her protective footy pajamas, woven with the specialized thread that repels bullets. With a handgun hidden in the diaper bag, Lily moves on shaky legs, carrying Talia in her car seat. In minutes they're belted into their autonomous SUV, windows up and locked despite the gorgeous seventy-­five-­degree day. As she powers the car, she announces the address, prompting a map graphic on the windshield. Seated behind the steering wheel, she is still merely a passenger. And the car begins to drive, expertly executing the course.

“I can't breathe in here,” Ian says as he attempts to put down his window.

“I'll put on the AC.”

“We need fresh air, Mom.”

“We need to be safe.”

“Breathing oxygen is safe.”

“Right. Keep breathing.” She reaches a hand back and playfully pinches his leg.

At the District 149 gate, the guard waves her through. In the rearview she watches as the twenty-­foot doors close behind them. She swallows. Everything out here looks gray, in contrast to the once vibrant neighborhood. Overgrown lawns. No kids play in yards. Only a few cars are on the road. After a while she concentrates only on the asphalt ahead. The familiar yellow lines. Before long they're driving up Beacon Street, nearing District 86.

A block ahead, Lily spots a metallic gray Land Rover. It's Cole's—­she recognizes the MD plates. Without thinking, she presses her foot on the gas to catch up. The car jerks forward into manual drive.

“Mom!” Ian shouts.

All at once she sees the yellow light turn red. She slams on the brakes. A horn blares as a truck flashes in front of them.

“Sorry, sorry. Are you all right?” Heart racing, she instinctively reaches behind for Ian, but he brushes her away.

“I'm fine. Jeez, Mom. You're all worried about us being safe and you almost get us in an accident.”

She twists her body to check on Talia, whose car seat is directly behind the driver's seat. Amazingly, she's still asleep. The light is green again but Cole's car is out of sight. Once again she commands the car to drive autonomously. What's Cole doing? It's not like he does house calls, and his shift at the hospital goes until 5:00
P
.
M
. It's the middle of the afternoon.

In five minutes they're safely inside District 86. Ian bounds onto the field, and as the game begins, he deftly maneuvers the ball around his opponents. It's remarkable to watch. He's such a different kid here. His smile is easier, his shoulders are back, and there's a confidence she's never seen in him. A wave of guilt comes over her. She's spent the past ten years hiding him away from the world. No wonder they didn't know he had this ability—­how could she have seen it inside the walls of their home? And what else isn't she seeing?

W
HAT
R
U DOING?
A text from Lily. Strange that she's texting him now, in the middle of his shift. Cole debates whether to respond. In his parked car, he glances through the windshield at the entrance of Hudson's Funeral Home. A procession of cars and limousines is leaving the parking lot. He glances back at the text message. Best not to lie outright. But now is not the time to tell her he's in the midst of committing treason.
Treason
. He shakes it off and slides the phone into his jacket pocket.

It's a relief to enter a funeral home without the need to mourn. Instead, his mind is racing. This meeting with Steven Hudson could be the linchpin to their project. Cole might not make the deal today—­he knows his proposal would change this man's life. But he's done his homework on Hudson and his funeral homes. There's nothing to suggest that Hudson's politics support the MedID or the Liberty Party, in fact there's evidence to the contrary. He's donated to parties and causes that support civil liberties. Hudson stays out of the public eye except for his ghastly commercials. And, like Cole, with a wife, a child, and a successful business, he has everything to lose. On paper this isn't an easy sell. Hopefully, the man's values run deeper than the image he projects on TV.

Inside the foyer, he does as Steven Hudson instructed, continuing down the hall to the main office. Behind a walnut desk, Hudson sits with three computer screens in front of him.

“Steven, hi.” He pauses in the doorway. “Cole Fitzgerald.”

“Yes, of course.” Hudson stands and extends his hand. “Always good to have a doctor in the house. Though it's a bit late for my clients.”

Cole grips his hand. “Three computers. I can hardly handle all I have to do on one.”

“One's for business, one's for personal business, and one's purely for pleasure. I never mix the three. Even electronically.” He flashes a grin, but it disappears within seconds as he waves a hand, prompting the monitors to disappear into the desktop. “So. You were cryptic on the phone. What can I do for you?”

“Do you mind?” Cole nods to the open door.

“By all means.”

Not prone to perspiration, he's surprised to feel wetness under his armpits. He closes the door but freezes in place, a gnawing in his gut. He can't tell if it means he's doing the right or the wrong thing. The room could be bugged . . . but there's no reason it should be. Finally, he turns around and takes a seat.

“We've met a few times,” Cole begins, “though I can't imagine how many faces you see in your line of work.”

“You do look familiar,” Hudson says, squinting his eyes.

“Unfortunately, I was here a few weeks ago for my sister-­in-­law, Kate Manning. After the State House attack.”

A slow nod. “Yes, yes. Of course I remember.”

There's an awkward pause as Hudson stares expectantly at him.

“Look, obviously we don't know each other. And we certainly don't know each other's politics.”

Hudson eases back into his chair and appears to relax. His face lights up. “Are you running? Is that it? Looking for my support?”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

“Oh. Disappointing. You should consider it. You have a sort of JFK, Jr. quality about you.”

“I'm not running. Listen, you're an astute businessman. You took your father's business and created a successful national chain. It's impressive. I imagine you reap a multitude of benefits from this long and nasty war we've got going on.”

The skin on Hudson's face slides south. “I never wish for death, Dr. Fitzgerald, but it is a fact of life.”

“I'm not disparaging you.” He shakes his head. “That wasn't my intention.”

There's a knock on the door that makes Cole flinch. It opens and a woman in a summer dress comes in carrying an iced tea. Her black hair is tied in a messy bun at the nape of her neck, and her face lights up at the sight of Hudson. But when she notices Cole, her mouth and eyes grow wide.

“I didn't know you had an appointment,” she says.

“Sarah, this is Dr. Fitzgerald. Dr. Fitzgerald, this is my wife, Sarah Hudson.” He takes the tea from his wife. “Thank you, honey. Keeping me hydrated and awake for years now.”

“Nice to meet you,” Cole says.

“Would you like some tea?” she asks.

He notices that her fingernails are tinged with purple, yellow, and green. “No, thank you. You a painter?”

“Getting back into it.” Her eyes dart to the floor.

“She paints beautifully,” Hudson says. “Abstracts. Which is refreshing because everything in this house is so damned literal.”

“I'll let you get back,” she says. “Nice to meet you, Doctor.”

When she closes the door behind her, Hudson says, “On the phone you said something about an opportunity?”

“Your first wife.” The moment he mentions her, Hudson's body straightens, his lips press together. “Your son and daughter. I can't imagine what you went through. At the time, I remember reading countless articles. About the victims, and the terrorists, the planning involved. Fifty planes taken down at exactly the same time, mid-­flight. The war was so young, and we were raw . . . processing everything. That event destroyed our collective freedom, it paralyzed all of us.”

“Is there something I can help you with, Dr. Fitzgerald?” Hudson's voice is tired.

“Why were they on the plane?”

“Excuse me?”

“Their flight was heading to Paris. Why were they going there?”

For a long moment Hudson stares at him. Then without a word he pulls a bottle of scotch and two glasses out of a bottom drawer in his desk. He holds an empty glass up in offering.

“No, thank you.”

“More for me, then.” Hudson pours liberally and takes a good swig. “I cannot wait to see the point of all this.”

“Paris.”

“They'd just begun the lottery. As you know, they issued MedIDs according to birth date, starting January first. Kelly—­my wife—­she wanted us to get out before that happened. She had dual citizenship, so our kids did as well. Sam and Georgia.” At the mention of their names he finishes his drink. He recovers and flashes his teeth. “I have good hair and teeth but the rest of my genetics are crap. Kelly worried about me being allowed entry into France. We knew what would happen at the borders once the scanners were in place.”

“But you weren't on the plane.”

“It takes time to tie up one's life. My business, the house. Since I was near the end in the lottery with my November birth date, it made sense for me to follow.”

“And all these years later, how do you feel about MedIDs?”

“Is this a therapy session?” Hudson cocks his head. “Should I be lying on a couch?”

“It's not a therapy session. It's a business opportunity.”

“Well, that clears it right up.”

“I realize this is not your average business discussion, but if you'd allow me a little leeway—­”

Hudson's eyes roam over Cole's torso. “Anyone else listening in here?”

“What? No.”

“You'll excuse me if I don't take your word for it.”

“Okay.” Cole sets his powered-­off phone on the desk.

“It's quite easy to hide devices these days. Let's have a look.”

Fair enough. No reason this man should trust him. Cole unbuttons his shirt and demonstrates that he carries no other electronics.

“Pants, too, please,” Hudson says.

“Jesus.” But he does as he's asked. It's humiliating, but finally Hudson nods and Cole pulls his pants back on and buttons his shirt.

“Let me see your shoes.”

Cole hands them over. Hudson studies them and after a moment stands and places them in the hallway, closing the door again. Finally they sit across from one another again, their eyes locking.

“You were saying?”

“After everything you've been through, how do you feel about MedIDs?”

“It's all gone to hell, hasn't it? The government hasn't made any strides in the war. Under the guise of protecting us, the MedID has limited us. Labeled us. And ruined hope in this country.”

“And what about all the emigrants?”

“I don't know why they bother. Unless they have a clean MedID or a hell of a résumé, what's the point?”

“What if you could help them?”

“With what? My wit and charm?”