Analog SFF, March 2012 (24 page)

Seth didn't know what he should do. He thought about dismissing the entire Secret Service, but there were dozens of protectees that would be affected: the First Family, Flaherty and his family, the living ex-presidents, visiting foreign dignitaries, and so on.

But, damn it all, at least he could get
this
fixed. “Sheila,” he said as loudly as he could—which he supposed was about half a normal speaking volume.

Sheila moved immediately to his bedside. “Yes, Mr. President?"

"That light,” he said softly, and he managed to lift his free hand a little to point at it. “Can you get it replaced?"

She looked up at it. “Of course, sir."

Just then, the door opened and in came Susan Dawson. “Mr. President, how are you feeling?"

His voice was still weak, he knew, but Ronald Reagan had set a high standard for banter on occasions like this, and so he tried his best. “Like someone shot me in the back, and someone else carved my chest open. Oh, and like someone blew up my house."

Susan rewarded him with a small smile, and Seth supposed he
was
feeling slightly better, despite all those horrors; she was a beautiful woman, and it pleased him to have her smiling at him. Actually, he liked it better when she was wearing her Secret Service-issue sunglasses; there was something really sexy about women in dark glasses, and—

The Secret Service.

The people who were supposed to protect him.

He still couldn't believe it.

"What happened to the . . . “ He kept wanting to call him “the assassin,” but that wasn't right; he'd failed at his job. “ . . . the assailant?"

"He was trying to escape, sir. He'd been in the elevator at the Lincoln Memorial and—"

"What elevator?” Seth said.

"There's one for handicapped access, sir. It was installed in the 1970s."

"Oh."

"He was shimmying up the elevator cable, trying to get away, and the elevator started up and he fell. Broke his neck."

"That's the passive voice,” he said.

"Sir?"

"'The elevator started up.’ Surely someone pushed the button."

"Yes, sir."

"Who?"

"Agent Jenks, sir. Dirk Jenks."

Shit,
Seth thought. Maybe the assailant
hadn't
been acting alone after all. “Investigate him,” he said.

But Susan nodded. “Way ahead of you, sir. The FBI apprehended him at Reagan. He hasn't broken yet under interrogation, but it seems almost certain that he was in cahoots with Gordo."

Seth would have sat up if he could. “Gordo?"

"Sorry. That's what most of us called Agent Danbury. Not Gordon but Gordo."

That name was ringing a bell. He'd heard it recently . . . somewhere. From someone.

No, no, he hadn't heard it—he'd
overheard
it. At the White House . . . in the Oval Office. He'd come in through his private door while Leon Hexley, the head of the Secret Service, was talking on his BlackBerry, but . . .

But what had he said? It was just a couple of days ago. Damn it, what had Hexley said? “Tell Gordo to . . ."

Tell Gordo to . . . what?

It had been intriguing, he remembered that much, even not knowing then who Gordo was. But, damn it, he couldn't dredge it up.

The door to Singh's lab burst open, and in strode lawyer Orrin Gillett. “Dr. Griffin told me I might find you here, Agent Dawson. How long until you let us go?"

Susan had been busily thumb-typing to her boyfriend Paul on her BlackBerry, bringing him up-to-date on what was going on. She finished the message she was sending, pocketed the device, and let Gillett wait in silence for five seconds, then said, “I haven't made that determination. Frankly, I'm not sure it's safe for people to leave the hospital."

Gillett stared at her through his round glasses. His tone was cool, measured. “You actually don't have the power to detain people indefinitely."

Susan looked over at Professor Singh, who was running simulations on his computer, then back at Gillett. “We're dealing with an unprecedented situation,” she said.

Gillett helped himself to a chair, crossing his long legs and leaning back. “That's right, Agent Dawson. But in the law, precedents are what matters—precedents and regulations. And so I did some research.” He pulled out his iPhone and consulted its screen. “Under Title 18, Section 3056, of the United States Code, Secret Service agents have very limited powers. You can execute warrants issued under the laws of this country—but no warrants have been issued in this matter.” He looked up. “You can make arrests without warrants for any offense against the United States committed in your presence, or for any felony recognizable under the laws of the United States, if you have reasonable grounds to believe that the person to be arrested has committed such a felony. But you have no reason to believe
any
offense or felony has been committed in this matter. Beyond that, all you're allowed to do is"—he read from the screen: “'Investigate fraud in connection with identification documents, fraudulent commerce, fictitious instruments, and foreign securities.’”

"Don't gloss over that so quickly, Mr. Gillett. The Secret Service does indeed deal with cases of identity theft."

He slipped his phone into his breast pocket. “But no one here has committed any such crime, have they?"

"Not yet, but they're all surely capable of it now. They know every personal detail, every possible answer to any security question—mother's maiden name, first-grade teacher, what have you."

"This is the United States of America, Agent Dawson, not some third-world police state. You can't imprison people because you think they might someday commit a crime; indeed, you slander them by suggesting they might do so."

"I'm not talking about imprisoning,” Susan said, folding her arms in front of her chest. “I'm talking about, well, protective custody."

"What for?” demanded Gillett.

"We simply don't know what's going to happen to you, to me, or to anyone else who has been affected. Our brains have been messed up; we might have seizures—anything could happen."

"For your own part, you may take whatever personal precautions you see fit,” Gillett said. “And you may certainly advise all affected parties of the potential dangers. Indeed, I urge you to do so. But you also have to be honest with them: you have to say you have no reason whatsoever to think people will undergo seizures, lose touch with reality, or otherwise have any difficulties beyond the ones they've already experienced."

"This is a medical matter,” Susan said.

"Indeed it is,” replied Gillett, “and Luther Terry's lawyers will certainly advise people to stay under medical supervision, and get them to sign waivers should they decide to leave, but there's no infection here. They can't compel people to stay; there's nothing that justifies an involuntary quarantine. And, besides, given that the linkages may be permanent, you're talking about what amounts to life sentences without due process. No court will stand for that."

Susan knew she was fighting with Gillett for the sake of fighting; he was probably right legally—and he might well be right morally, too. She blew out air, trying to calm down.

Professor Singh spoke up. “Mr. Gillett, since you're a lawyer, may I ask you a question?"

Gillett had been glaring at Susan, but as he turned to look at the Sikh's kindly face, his features softened. “Who are you?"

Singh stood up. “I'm Ranjip Singh, a memory researcher.” He paused, then: “You see that?” He pointed to the padded chair and the stand with the geodesic sphere on a multi-jointed arm. “That's my equipment; it was involved in the linking of memories."

Susan noted that Gillett was as quick on the draw as she herself was: he had his business card out in the blink of an eye. “Have you retained counsel?” he asked.

Singh's eyebrows shot up. “What for?"

"As it happens, Mr. Singh, I'm not at all upset about what has occurred, but others doubtless are. You can count on lawsuits."

Singh looked aghast, Susan thought, but he took the card and slipped it into the pocket of his lab coat.

"You had a question?” Gillett prodded.

"Um, yes,” said Singh, still flustered. “It's this: do we let people know who they are being read by?"

"In many cases, those of us who have been affected already know,” replied Gillett. “For instance, I'm being read by Rachel Cohen."

"How do you know that?” Singh asked.

"Besides looking at that whiteboard, there, you mean?” Gillett replied with a wry smile. “She told me."

"Oh,” said the professor. “But what about those who don't already know? Do they have the legal right to know who is reading them? After all, it's an invasion of privacy of rare proportions."

Gillett spread his arms. “It's not just those who are being read who have rights, Mr. Singh. Those who are doing the reading have rights, too."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, suppose someone decides he can't abide the notion of somebody else knowing his innermost secrets, and so he tracks down the person who is reading him and kills that person. If you reveal who is reading whom, you might be putting the person doing the reading at risk. Are you prepared to take responsibility for that?"

"I—I don't know,” said Singh.

"What about you, Agent Dawson?” asked Gillett, swiveling his chair a bit to face her.

"I don't know."

"No, you don't. You'll need a legal opinion from the Secret Service's counsel, and that will take days to research and render. There are no exact parallels, of course, but I suspect your attorneys will advise against revealing what you've uncovered, just as they'd advise against revealing anything the government discovers in its normal operations; there's an implied covenant of confidentiality when speaking to a government employee, and without signed waivers from those you've interviewed, you'd be on very thin ice legally if you divulged anything you learned."

"But what about the threat Agent Dawson mentioned of identity theft?” asked Singh.

"Advise people to take suitable precautions without revealing who they are being read by."

"And then just let them go?” asked Susan, resting her bottom now against the edge of a desk.

"It's a free country, Agent Dawson. The affected individuals are entitled to make their own decisions about what they want to do. You cost one of my clients enormously when you detained me earlier today, preventing me from getting to a crucial meeting. He may well direct me to file suit over that. Are you prepared for other lawsuits for wrongful imprisonment? Are you going to pay the people who have jobs if you don't let them go perform them, or compensate them for missed vacations? I want to leave, Miss Cohen wants to leave, and I'm sure many of the others want to leave, especially given today's horrific events. They want to get back to their families, their children, their careers, their lives. And you have no legal option except to let them do that."

Chapter 21

David January was pleased that the bitch from the Secret Service had let him go. He was even more pleased that she'd believed him when he'd said he'd hidden being linked to Mark Griffin because accessing Griffin's memories would give him an advantage in negotiating the new collective agreement.

But that wasn't the real reason; not at all.

No, what had come to David, just after the operation on the president, was something far more interesting.

He'd been cleaning up, throwing his bloodied gloves and gown into the disposal unit. Other members of the surgical team had been there, too, including his wife Annie. And Annie had made a joke, saying she wondered who was going to pay President Jerrison's hospital bill.

Christine Lee, the anesthesiologist, had quipped, “I don't think he's quite old enough for Medicare."

And—
bam!
—it had come to him, the first foreign memory he'd accessed. It was crazy, bizarre—but the memory was vivid, and he knew in his bones that it was
true.

Ten years ago, long before he'd joined LT, Dr. Mark Griffin had worked for a health-insurance company. And that company had bilked Medicare out of close to a hundred million dollars, with claims related to a worthless pharmaceutical that supposedly treated Alzheimer's. Griffin, who had been in charge of government billing for the company, masterminded the whole thing.

David January hated health-insurance companies. His father had had no health insurance, because no one would insure him. And Griffin had taken many millions out of the system that was supposed to provide care for those over sixty-five who didn't have coverage—people like David's dad.

Who knew how long these linkages would last? Who knew how long he'd have these memories? After that Secret Service woman finished grilling him—how dare she suggest that Annie had cheated on him!—he headed to Griffin's office. Griffin's secretary, Miss Peters, looked up as he entered. “Is he in?” David asked.

"He's got an appointment in just a couple of minutes, Dr. January. Can I schedule you for later?"

Which meant he
was
in. David marched past her.

"Excuse me!” Miss Peters said, standing up. “You can't go in there!"

David opened the inner door.

"Dr. January!” Miss Peters said, exasperated.

Inside, Griffin was seated behind a wide wooden desk polished so brightly it gleamed. He looked up, startled.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Griffin,” Miss Peters said.

Griffin nodded. “It's okay, Sherry,” he said. “What is it, Dave?"

David turned and glared at the secretary. She retreated, closing the heavy door behind her.

"I know what you did,” David said.

"What?” replied Griffin.

"Ten years ago. At the insurance company. The Medicare fraud."

Griffin seemed to consider this. His natural impulse might have been to say something like, “I don't know what you're talking about,” but his face conveyed that he knew the rules had changed. And so he tried a different tack. “You think that because you've got a memory that you don't recognize, it must be mine? And, even if it is, that it's not just a fantasy I had or the plot of a movie I saw or a book I read?"