Nation of Enemies (15 page)

 

Chapter 31

I
T
'
S
EARLY
S
UND
AY
morning as Huan Chao walks a few paces ahead of Jonathan, through the echoing halls of BASIA HQ. Mitchell's chief technologist has been a decent boss so far, though he only speaks when he has something important to say. The past few weeks he's given Jonathan surprisingly simple projects. Doesn't matter. He's getting paid
and
he gets to see Hannah.

“In here.” Huan stops at a door and holds his hand over a security screen. It opens to reveal a large room filled with monitors but no ­people. Jonathan hops onto a chair with wheels and spins it around. Huan makes sweeping gestures that bring the machines to life. A hum fills the air. Focusing on one monitor, he motions with his fingers as the electronic sensors follow along and find the page he's searching for. He rotates the screen to face Jonathan, who leans in for a closer look. It's a file on him. Information about his mother. Steven. His father. Facts, history.

“What's this?”

“This is public knowledge. There are no secrets these days.”

“Sure there are.”

“Indeed.” Huan's grin is lopsided and somewhat creepy.

“I don't understand.”

“The past few weeks have been a trial period. It's time to discuss your role here. We know you're a gifted hacker.”

Jonathan's leg bounces rapidly. He wants to bolt.

“You were only a child when you hacked the Department of Education site.”

“That file's sealed. I was a juvenile.”

“You're still a juvenile.”

“For less than a year.”

“In any event, performing system upgrades and troubleshooting is well below your skill level. But we had to ease you in. Do you like working for Reverend Mitchell?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “It's been cool.”

“And at the same time, your crimeware business is booming. You've been busy. I was impressed with your DoS attack in June.”

His jaw drops. No one knows. No one knew. Are they going to turn him in?

“Credit where credit is due.” Huan glances at the screen with his family's data. “That power outage you caused cost the state a small fortune.”

“What do you want?”

“Cooperation.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Huan grimaces. “Just the opposite. I'm presenting an opportunity.”

Bullshit. He nods.

“Good.” Huan touches the screen and the Hudson family file disappears. “I need three things. Your time, as much as it takes to complete the task within our deadline. Your talent. Hold nothing back and we will support you in any way you require. And your MedID.”

“Why?”

“Make that four things. No questions.”

In just minutes the ground beneath him has shifted. What just happened? He watches Huan's mouth but the words are fuzzy. It's like that paranoid feeling he gets sometimes when he's high. But this time it's for real.

 

Chapter 32

I
F
SHE
WAS
to paint him, Taylor would add peacock feathers fanned out behind him, and his hands would be exaggerated, bigger than his head perhaps, his tattooed palm in the foreground. It's hard not to stare at Reverend Mitchell, seated across from her at his desk. His white teeth gleam, his skin is so smooth it makes her question his age. Thirty-­five? Forty-­five? He looks her in the eye and his voice is warm, drawing her in. After a month of church ser­vices, he'd pulled her aside, singled her out. She's sure it's because of her bloodline, but it doesn't bother her. He listens like no one has listened to her in a long time.

“Have you seen your father since your hospital visit?” Reverend Mitchell asks.

“No. And I don't plan to.”

“It'll be hard not to see him everywhere, now that he's in the race.”

“I try not to follow the news. It's too depressing.”

“Yes. I've had many sleepless nights considering our role in this war. But we saw it coming and it's here now. It's God's will.”

God's will
. She researched the Reverend, knows the rumors. But she's here to see for herself why he has countless followers nationwide. In all likelihood, he's a victim of the press and politics, much like she's been her whole life. Otherwise, why wouldn't the FBI march in here and arrest him? She doesn't believe he's the man they make him out to be. Though she's never embraced God to this point, who is she to say it's not Armageddon? It certainly looks like it when she steps out her front door. The one line she's drawn here is that she won't introduce Sienna to this world until she explores it further. Obviously, her own crossing the threshold of Patriot's Church was as much metaphorical as it was literal. But why shouldn't she try religion? In the past, the only faith she ever followed was politics. She needs to know what else is out there.

“Do you feel at all responsible?” Reverend Mitchell asks. “I mean, your father's responsible for sparking the flame. He brought the Mark of the Beast. That must weigh on you.”

Warmth spreads in her chest. Her voice is louder than she intends, echoing off the high office ceiling. “I don't feel anything but anger toward my father, and I won't take responsibility for his actions.”

“Still, you must carry some guilt at having a hand early on. As I recall, you were marketing the MedID. Putting a shine on it. Hiding its true nature.”

“When I worked at MedFuture, I believed the MedID was the greatest health-­care tool ever invented. I never imagined how it would spiral. We've all been betrayed.”

“True.” His eyes are intense. “I'm sure you know, having you in my congregation is quite the spectacle. I need to be sure what side you're on.”

“I'm on my own side. I'm sorry about the press, they're relentless. But I've chosen to be here. I need to see if this is a better path for us. My daughter deserves a safe world to grow up in, and I'll do anything I can to make that happen.”

“I understand. As long as you're a member of Patriot's Church, I will personally offer you and your daughter safety. We have our own schools. Our own doctors. And there's no need for her—­or you—­to be in harm's way.”

“Thank you.” They're just words, but they sound so reassuring. It's as though he could put an arm around her and envelop her in armor. “Now. What can I do? How can I help you?”

“We should work together.” Reverend Mitchell leans on his desk. “Your graffiti is well known. God gave you a special gift. Let's use it to spread His word and our mission.”

Of course that's what he wants. She hesitates.
Maybe I owe it to the country, like a penance for being involved with the MedID.
“Okay. I can use about any structure or surface as a canvas. Are you thinking of Boston proper? Or around New England?”

“Patriot's Church is a brand like any other.” His words resound like a sermon. “We need to reach the younger generation. They're the first to be genetically altered. The first to experience the loss of siblings because of DNA testing. A holocaust in vitro is being sanctioned by our government, and the victims are the brothers and sisters of these children.”

That's extreme. Her imagination quickly paints pregnant bellies and a land of infant angels. And who is she to judge? She'd opted out of the testing when she was pregnant. The temptation had kept her up nights. To help her child before she took a breath could have been an unfathomable gift. But it also felt like playing God.

“Let's take a walk,” he says.

With Henry trailing them, they travel through an extension of the church that looks more corporate than rectory. With her courier bag strapped around her, she attempts to keep up with the Reverend's long strides. They didn't discuss payment, so she assumes she's donating her time. It would be funny if she used this as a tax write-­off. The government would love that, and it would give her father a heart attack. She grins to herself.

“As you spread the word of our mission,” he says, “you should keep in mind the men and women who are BASIA. That will guide you in reaching new recruits.”

“BASIA.” Her tongue brushes the roof of her mouth. “Your militia.”

“Yes. I want you to meet some of our soldiers. Most of them come to us after facing death, after an attack, a betrayal of some kind. They're seeking safety. Hope. When tragedy strikes, ­people remember God. And that's when they find us.”

Over the years, BASIA has been in the news, though charges have never been brought against them. Public accusations run from corporate attacks to the Planes, and recently, the State House. She has to ask.

“Your militia,” she says. “What do they do, exactly?”

“Our methods are quite progressive.” His chin juts out proudly. “We find cyber strategies to be highly effective. So, under this roof, we wage a silent war. Codes are our weapon.”

What he says makes sense. Since the War at Home began, cyber attacks have rendered banks nearly obsolete. The stock markets are hacked monthly, turning the few remaining investors on their heads. And highly classified government secrets were being revealed weekly, until government programmers changed the way they encrypted their system. Perhaps BASIA does function in the nonviolent realm.

At the end of the hall, Henry opens a plain white door on which
Private
is stenciled. Inside, the room is dark and empty except for a few chairs.

“Activate BASIA headquarters communications,” Reverend Mitchell orders.

A smartwall fills with video feed of a room with twenty or so men and women who stand at attention. They appear physically fit. Maybe three or four are over the age of fifty. Some of the men sport buzz-­cuts, and she wonders how many have served in the U.S. military. Her eyes linger on a face, a man she met a week or so ago. She thinks his name is Will.

“Good morning everyone,” the Reverend says. “I want you to meet Taylor. She's going to help spread our message. Take a few minutes to get to know one another. Then get back to work.”

She whispers, “They're training?”

“This Holy War will be won partially on a virtual battlefield. If you can succeed strategically, then the game is yours.”

“One-­to-­one chat commence,” Henry commands.

A soldier's face fills the screen, and Reverend Mitchell encourages her to ask questions, anything that would help her understand their mission and to strategize for the Patriot's Church brand. Perhaps just a taste of their passion, their goals, their lives, will help her to begin to shape this “brand” he wants to create. Without any time to prepare, she'll have to wing it.

A
S
W
ILL
A
NDERSON
, Sebastian sits at his desk and listens to Taylor's voice. She is making her way virtually around the room, speaking to soldiers. From the surveillance data he's collected it appears she lives a quiet, ordinary life. She doesn't drink alcohol. Doesn't smoke. Has no health issues. She pays her bills and is likely living off the life insurance from her husband's death. She lives bare bones in a sketchy neighborhood when she could be living in a Safe District, courtesy of her father. She has no contact outside her daughter and babysitter; her close friends have all relocated, emigrated, or died in the past few years. Seeking out Patriot's Church might signal her desperation at creating a community that doesn't include her father, who she clearly blames for her husband Mason's death. As a graffiti artist, she is occasionally commissioned, which supplements her income. Her work is decidedly antigovernment, which must be of concern to her father and the party that wants him elected. That alone puts her at great risk, though from whom it's hard to say. Last week Sebastian listened to a call on Taylor's cell in which Mitchell asked her to meet him. Nothing notably suspect. Mitchell didn't even call from an encrypted line.

Eventually, a window appears on his screen, inviting him to video chat with her.

“Hi,” she says. “It's Will, right?”

“Right,” Sebastian answers. “Taylor. Looks like you're getting the grand tour.”

She nods. “I'm helping Reverend Mitchell spread his mission. He thinks seeing behind-­the-­scenes might inspire my writing.”

“What are you writing?”

“Graffiti.”

Purposely, he waits a beat as though he's working out a problem in his head. “Of course. I didn't put it together until right now. You're Taylor Hensley. As in Richard Hensley.”

At the mention of his name, her lips press together. “I don't want to talk about my family.”

“So that's a yes.”

“Yes. But—­”

“Don't worry, I'm not going to vote for your father.” He grins.

“Well that's a relief.”

“The guy's a regular hero. That State House footage when he pulls the agent on top of him?” He shakes his head. “That video disappeared pretty quickly. Lucky for him ­people have short memories. He's a shoo-­in for President.”

“Please,” she says. “Change of subject.”

“You have to admit, it's
interesting
that the daughter of one of the most renowned senators—­who happens to be an enemy of Patriot's Church and BASIA—­has joined Patriot's Church. Wouldn't you agree that's interesting?”

She takes a moment, her eyes wandering. When she finally returns to the conversation, there's no trace of anger in her voice. “I don't agree with my father or his politics. Not that it's any of your business. But don't assume I'm anything like him.”

“Okay,” he says. “Got it. I'm sorry.”

“That's okay.” She leans in closer. “You're passionate about your beliefs. And you're here to defend them.”

“Yes. As are you.”

“Yes.”

“Reverend Mitchell already has a million followers, doesn't he?” he asks.

She smiles. The pockmarks in her face turn into dimples when her cheeks rise. The effect softens her whole face. “Doesn't matter. Everyone always wants more, don't they?”

“Except minimalists.”

The tension between them dissipates. “Your hand. Is that a training wound? Carpal tunnel?”

He laughs, holding up his bandaged right palm. “A new tattoo, actually.”

“The cross?”

“Yup.” It's a necessity to fit in here. Thank God for laser removal.

“So. What does the Reverend have you working on?”

“Video games.” He creates a separate window for her to see a 3D game with several avatars in various forms: soldiers, supermodels, elves. Together they're rebuilding a world that's been destroyed. “Believe it or not, this is my assignment today.”

“Who are you?”

“The supermodel.”

She snort-­laughs. “Nice legs.”

“Seriously, though, we're able to use the game for Virtual Field Communication.”

“What's that?”

“Using these avatars, BASIA soldiers can converse in the field. We can manage money, communicate directives, plan training exercises. Using an encrypted chat, we can interact no matter where we are. Right now I'm chatting with our team in Oregon and Minnesota.”

“Chatting sounds like you should be drinking tea and eating scones.”

“You should use that in your marketing. Come chat! Eat scones!”

More laughter. It penetrates the air, slices through the quiet.

“So if these ­people are so far away, have they ever been here, to headquarters?” she asks.

He tells her that most have never met Reverend Mitchell in person. Still, they're devoted and they meet faithfully. The Reverend's weekly sermon streams live to their local Patriot's Church. On occasion a believer makes a pilgrimage to Boston. Some faint in his presence. Others have reported feeling a sense of calm come over them at his touch.

“Do you have that same feeling when you're with the Reverend?” she asks.

“Only one person has ever given me a sense of calm.” The words are out before he remembers that he is not Sebastian Diaz.

“And who was that?”

Shit.
He sniffs. “My wife. She died. It was a long time ago.”

“I'm sorry.” Taylor looks off camera.

“So, does all this help figure out what you should paint?”

“It will.”

“I've seen some of your graffiti.”

“It's not for everyone.”

“That's art, isn't it? I, personally, love graffiti.”

“I should let you get back to work. Nice to see you again, Will.”

“See you later.”

She leaves him with a warm grin, then appears on the soldier's screen beside him. Sebastian knows he's in now. A memorable exchange. From here, via Taylor, he can build a bridge to Mitchell.