The red dot passed through the town of Gwithian and reached the coast road. Michael quickly scrolled back and forth across the screen, and then made his choice. He accessed a second website set up by Nathan Boone’s technical staff that allowed him to control radio chip devices. A day earlier, his contact at Wellspring had opened the Jaguar’s hood and placed an explosive squib on the car’s power steering fluid container and a second squib on the car’s brake line. Both squibs were small—about the size of an American penny—and would leave no trace once they exploded.
Figuring a ten to fifteen second lag time, he set off both explosives. Michael wondered what it was like inside the car. Too bad there wasn’t a spy cam. The driver would suddenly realize that the steering wheel no longer responded to his touch. Perhaps his foot slammed onto the pedal, but nothing happened. Was there a moment of panic? Was there time to scream as the car smashed through a guard rail and glided downward into the sea?
On his computer screen, the little red dot veered off the road, traveled across a thin patch of cliff and then disappeared. Michael turned off the notebook computer, closed it with a snap, and got out of the car. The pilot and his driver were waiting for him like an honor guard as he strolled across the tarmac to the plane.
T
hree sea gulls sat on the edge of a railing and contemplated the half-eaten breakfast on a serving tray. Michael waved his hand at them—go away—but the birds weren’t intimidated. Finally he took a piece of muffin and threw it at the ocean. The birds squawked, glided downward, and immediately began squabbling with each other.
He was sitting on the balcony of a three-room hotel suite in West Los Angeles. If he turned slightly to the right, he looked out at beach, ocean, and blue horizon. Young men played volleyball, flinging themselves across the sand, while a girl wearing a bathing suit and roller skates practiced her figure eights on the pedestrian path. Michael sat above it all in a padded chair with a thermos of coffee. The volleyball players and the girl on roller skates had no idea what was about to happen. In three or four weeks, almost every child in California would be part of the Panopticon.
Michael switched on his computer and checked his messages from the different teams working for the Special Projects Group. The anthrax scare in Japan had caused a wave of hostility toward immigrant
workers and other foreigners. In France, a new law was being proposed that required a biometric ID card for anyone for wished to enter a government building, a school or a museum.
New threats were being introduced in three other countries. In Australia, a toxic chemical had been placed in a shipment of oranges that were being sent to regional grocery stores. Two Catholic priests had been assassinated in South Germany and an unknown Turkish group had claimed credit. In Great Britain, a car bomb was about to go off after an FA Cup match in Manchester.
The half gods had taught him that fear was much easier to sell than tolerance and respect for freedom. Most people were brave only when they saw others taking a stand, and that wasn’t going to happen this time. Fear had a strong constituency—those government leaders who realized that the changes would increase their own power.
The door to the suite clicked open and he heard a woman’s voice. “Mr. Corrigan! It’s Donna!”
“I’m out here.”
Donna Gleason pulled the sliding glass door open and stepped onto the balcony. Although she had spent the last ten years in sunny Los Angeles, the public relations consultant was famous for only wearing black. She had very short hair and looked like a nun with a clipboard.
“I just talked to the president of the Los Angeles Press club. Normally, they fill half the auditorium for these lunch-time presentations, but this event has broken all the rules.”
“That sounds promising.”
Donna sat down at the table and poured herself a cup of coffee. She talked very quickly, as if everything had to be delivered in 30-second sound bites. “Three television stations are sending camera crews and there will be reporters from Internet sites, radio stations
and the print media. Everyone was asking me about the title of your speech: ‘Save Our Children.’ I’ve told them that you’ll start talking at lunch and will be famous by suppertime.”
Michael carefully examined Donna’s face and saw no signs of deceit or insincerity. In the last few months, he had learned a great deal about the media experts who shaped and packaged images. The good ones had a special talent; if you paid them enough, they became true believers. He wondered what would happen if he pulled out a rifle and announced that he needed to shoot the dangerous skaters and bicyclists on the beach path. Donna might have a difficult transition period, but eventually she would convince herself—yes, it really was a good idea.
“When do we leave?”
“Let me check on that.” She turned to the open doorway and screamed. “Gerald! Preston!”
Donna’s two assistants reminded him of Scottish terriers, one white and one black. Clutching cell phones, the young men appeared in the doorway.
“Time of departure?”
“We should leave in ten minutes,” Gerald said. “They eat a box lunch at twelve-thirty and the speech is scheduled for one o’clock.”
“Anything else we need to know?”
“Mr. Boone has arrived with one of his men,” Preston said. “He wanted to know if you require a security presence.”
“Yes. Have them wait in the hallway.”
Donna leaned forward. She had three styles of speaking: shrill, flirtatious and confidential. This was definitely her confidential tone of voice. “I’m sure your speech will be brilliant, Mr. Corrigan. But these days it’s all about the visuals. Gerald and Preston installed the video monitors and put up the photographs, but we need something more. It would be great if you could hug one of the mothers …”
—
The Los Angeles Press Club held their events at a shabby auditorium on Hollywood Boulevard. Every seat appeared to be taken, and the members of the Press Club gossiped with each other while nibbling on potato chips and cheese sandwiches. A dais had been set up on stage, and the club’s officers sat behind a long table looking self-conscious. Earlier that day, Gerald and Preston had hung up large photographs of the fourteen missing children. Their cheerful faces didn’t bother Michael. Children died every day, but these deaths were going to have a larger significance.
Donna guided Michael onto the dais and introduced him to the president of the press club. The meeting began a few minutes later. Donna had written the president’s speech, and it included a glowing description of Michael’s career path—all of it fictitious. A month earlier, the Evergreen staff had created his past, giving him a series of impressive jobs with non-profit organizations that were controlled by the Brethren. It was doubtful that anyone would check the facts. But, if they did, false information had been placed on various websites.
There was light applause, and the president sat down. As the lost children grinned behind him, Michael took a sip of water and stood behind the podium. He gazed out at hundreds of faces—some curious, some bored. Nathan Boone stood in a side aisle with a sullen look on his face. Michael decided that Boone’s story would come to an end during the next few weeks.
“I want to thank the press club events committee for inviting me here today. As we drove down Hollywood Boulevard on our way to the auditorium, I asked my friend, Donna Gleason, what kind of reception I might receive at this event. Donna told me you could be a tough audience and that I’d better say something significant.”
A few reporters nodded and most of them seemed to relax at little.
Michael decided that the photographs of the missing children had made the audience uncomfortable.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a tough audience. That’s just means that you’re intelligent, informed and critical. We need all those qualities if we are going to save our children.
“Before I present my proposal, I’m going to anticipate a question that some of you might be thinking: ‘How can an outsider, a person who isn’t a policeman or a government official, solve the crisis that has touched every family in California?’ That’s a reasonable thing to ask, and it doesn’t require a long answer. I think it helps that I’m
not
part of the system. I can approach this problem from a different perspective and offer a way out.
“The Evergreen Foundation has been around for more than fifty years. We’re an international philanthropic organization with offices in London and New York City. Our goals are both idealistic and ambitious. We are dedicated to the health, safety and stability of human society. Over the years, we’ve funded the research of thousands of scientists doing medical and genetic research in over thirty countries. Recently, we’ve gotten involved in development of technology that fights crime and terrorism. Evergreen has no political agenda or government affiliation. We simply want to make things better—creating a world that’s healthy, prosperous and free from fear.
“And fear is what I see here in California.” Michael gestured to the photographs behind him. “Fourteen children have disappeared in the last few weeks, vanished without a trace. Perhaps there are even more cases that have not been officially confirmed.
“Somewhere, a monster stalks through our cities and small towns. This person is a sadistic creature whose only goal is to abduct and destroy our children—the precious little girls and boys who need our protection. Faced with this threat, how have the authorities responded? The parents know the answer. You journalists know the answer.
But no one seems to have the courage to say it out loud. The politicians and the so-called experts have done nothing.
Nothing.”
He paused for a moment and studied the audience. Most of the reporters nodded slightly as if they had reached the same conclusion.
“I predict that certain out-of-touch leaders, the faces we’ve seen blabbering on television, will attack me for telling the truth. They’ll say that an increased number of policemen are on the streets, that an increased number of cars have been stopped, and that an increased number of suspects have been questioned. But go ahead, be my guest, ask them: Have these useless activities stopped the monster that hunts our children?” Michael turned slightly and read the names at the bottom of the photographs. “Have they saved Roberto Cabral and Darlene Walker? Will they protect the boys and girls in danger
right now
while parents mourn the missing?
“These days, mothers and fathers live in fear. They keep their children home from school. But the fear spreads, like a virus, infecting everyone. Go to the parks of this city. Children no longer kick a ball or play on the swings. Our communities have lost the laughter and joy of our little ones.
“But I didn’t come to Los Angeles just to criticize the lack of action by the authorities. I came here to offer a solution. Our idea is simple, effective and almost immediate. What’s more, the Evergreen Foundation is prepared to fund all start-up costs.
“The Save Our Children initiative is based on proven technology that is already being used in our research facilities. I’m proposing that a Guardian Angel radio transmitter chip with a GPS locator be placed beneath the skin of every child under the age of thirteen.
“How does it work? The tiny chips transmit a signal to the local mobile phone networks that will be forwarded to a parent’s computer or portable communications device. With seconds, a mother
can know her child’s exact location and, if there’s a problem, they can instantly contact the police.
“Perhaps this sounds like something from the future, but I can show you how it works right now.” Michael held up his right hand. “I’m carrying a Guardian Angel clip on the back of my hand. Donna, would you please connect the Guardian Angel Program to the video monitors.”
Donna typed a command into her handheld computer and a satellite image of Michael’s hotel appeared on two video monitors. “You’re looking at capture images of my movements during the last thirty minutes. You can see me leaving the hotel, traveling on the freeway and entering this auditorium.
“Now a parent might say: ‘Great idea! But I can’t spend all day watching a computer screen!’ Well, the Evergreen Foundation has an answer for that as well. It will take us only a few days to connect the chips to a computer that will do the monitoring for you. All the parent has to do is establish what we call a safety perimeter—such as the child’s school, sports field and backyard. If the child is taken out of those areas, then the computer will know immediately. The electronic Guardian Angel will contact both the parents and the police.
“These chips work, and the tracking system is amazing. Within a week, every child in California could be safe. Of course, the use of the chips will be optional, but every responsible, loving parent is going to embrace this idea. I can see a day when attendance at a public school will require proof of inoculations and a Guardian Angel chip.
“To summarize: the system works, it’s free, and we can start protecting our children within a week. Maybe I should just sit down and eat my lunch while my staff passes out information sheets. But I can’t remain silent. I need to tell you what’s in my heart.
“The world has become a very dangerous place, but we now have
the technology to protect ourselves and others. Who could object to these simple changes? What could possibly be their motivation?
“It’s clear that child molesters will be against these changes, along with thieves, rapists and murderers. Terrorists and the new generation of anarchists demand the perverse ‘freedom’ to destroy our way of life.
“And who stands with this malevolent crowd? As usual, we have the cocktail-party intellectuals and left-wing college professors who have no clue about the darkness that has descended on our world. But we also have we have certain right-wing Bill of Rights crazies with old-fashioned ideas of personal freedom.
“The average law-abiding citizen has nothing to fear from these changes. I’m not talking about some Hollywood star with private bodyguards, but the hard-working men and women who want to earn a paycheck, then drive home and watch TV while their kids play in the backyard. Who speaks for these people? Who cares for them? We do. We’re stepping forward.