Plot Line (4 page)

“Thanks.” Ray glanced around the office
again. The office was set in the corner of the building. Windows
with fixed glass looked out into the bright January day. When he
returned his gaze to Devlin, he saw the man was smiling.

“I suppose you’re wondering about the
office.” Ray started to speak, but Devlin cut him off with an
upraised hand. “You’re wondering why there aren’t pictures on the
walls and no family portraits on the desk.”

“It just wasn’t what I expected.”

“And now you’re wondering if I have
misrepresented myself.” Devlin laughed and then reached into his
back pocket, removing his wallet. He removed a plastic laminated
identification card and handed it to Ray.

The card had a picture of Devlin on the
left, a holographic image he could not recognize, and Devlin’s
name. Across the top of the card were the words FEDERAL
COMMUNICATIONS COMMISSION. In the lower right corner was a small,
green rectangular object, embedded in the card. Ray recognized it
as a computer chip.

“FCC? I thought all the FCC did was monitor
and regulate radio and television stations.”

“They do much more than that. They oversee
the licenses and uses of cable, cellular phones, and much more.
That doesn’t really matter. I’m involved with none of that.”

Ray handed the card back to Devlin. “I don’t
understand.”

“Ours is a big government, Ray. There are
thousands upon thousands of employees, each with a special job to
do. Some of us have work to do that doesn’t easily fit into a
category. Our group had to be placed in some governmental
department, so we work under the FCC banner and budget, even though
we work independently. Not very efficient, I know, but such are the
vagaries of government.”

“I see.” Ray was as confused as ever.

“I don’t think you see yet, but you will.”
Devlin returned the card to his wallet and his wallet to the back
pocket of his trousers. “This isn’t my office . . . that is, not my
only office. I work in Washington, D.C. but I travel a great deal.
Wherever I go, my staff sets me up with a room like this one—if I
think I’ll need it. Otherwise, I just work from my hotel.”

“So this is for my benefit?”

“Not really. We could have met elsewhere but
I had other business and I wanted a place to work. Most government
buildings have spare offices like this. It’s just a matter of
calling ahead and asking for one. When I fly back to Washington,
they’ll assign this to someone else.”

“That clears things up.”

“Well, let’s get down to business, shall
we?” Devlin leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. “I
imagine you have some questions.”

“I do.”

“Let me say a few things first, then we’ll
see what questions you have. Fair?”

Ray nodded.

“As I said yesterday, I want to hire you to
write for my department. I’m looking for someone with creativity .
. . real creativity. There are tens of thousands of writers, but
only a few can make something from nothing. I care less for your
understanding of punctuation—what I care about is your
understanding of human nature.”

“Sounds like you need a psychiatrist . . .
to fill the job, I mean.”

“Not at all. Novelists, good novelists,
intuitively know what people will respond to. That’s what makes
their stories work. As you know, writing is more than putting words
on paper, it is eliciting emotions from the reader; it is getting
the reader to suspend belief. That is the skill we need.”

“But why would the government need someone
to do that?”

“Many reasons,” Devlin said easily.
“Thousands of reasons. Our country is not isolated from the world.
We are intertwined with every other nation. Things happen in those
nations and ours that require action. Those actions will need to be
explained to the American people sometime, we just want to choose
the time. Things work more smoothly that way; there are fewer
problems. The fewer the glitches the more we can focus on solving
the problem before us.”

“I’m not following you,” Ray admitted. It
sounded as if he were being hired to lie.

“Look at this way. Suppose
the president needs to meet with . . .” Devlin paused and Ray could
see he was thinking. “Suppose the president could get the leaders
of two countries that have been at war to sit down and talk, but to
do so required absolute secrecy. Let’s say the leaders of China and
Taiwan can be persuaded to talk about their differences, but they
insist on absolute privacy. How does that come about? The president
may travel to a neutral third country and meet with the leaders.
But the leaders are afraid of what their people might say and do if
word gets out that they’re talking to the enemy. They can be as
secretive as they want, but if we in the United States discuss the
meeting in the open—if articles about it appear in the
New York Times
or
the
Washington Post
, then the cat’s out of the bag. What might be a good thing
suddenly goes bad. You with me so far?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“What my department does, at least in part,
is create an alternate story—something believable. We don’t say the
president is meeting with the heads of China and Taiwan. Instead,
we let it be known the president is traveling to Paris for an
economic summit. We provide sufficient detail and setting to make
even the most jaded reporter believe it. The three meet and maybe
something good comes from it. If so, then we can let the facts of
the event be known later.”

“So my job would be to write scenarios that
will be fed to the public?” It still sounded like
misrepresentation. “In essence, I’d be creating lies sanctioned by
the government.”

Devlin shook his head. “That’s the wrong way
to look at it. We create fiction for the purpose of advancing peace
and preserving the comfort and happiness of our citizens. You
wouldn’t call your novels lies, would you?”

“That’s different. The reader picks up one
of my novels and they know from the start that what they’re reading
is fiction. What you’ve just described lacks that. The people
believe the story to be true.”

“And is that so bad if they receive a
greater benefit from it? This is not malicious work, Ray. It is
meaningful, purposeful, honorable work. It is helping to keep our
country strong. To call it a lie is to imply evil on our part. I
don’t know anyone who went into this line of work with evil
intentions. The people I work with, and work for, are patriots. I
assumed you were cut from the same cloth.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Ray said. “I don’t
mean to call you or your friends liars. I’m just trying to
understand.”

“Well, understand this.” There was a heat to
Devlin’s words. “Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is
lie to them. It takes wisdom to know when that time is, but when
the situation is right, a lie can do more good than the truth.”

Ray scratched his chin. He was a moral man,
or at least he tried to be. He had always been faithful to his
wife; always true to his family. Still, he was not a legalist. If
his wife asked how she looked in a new dress, he would tell her
“wonderful” even if he thought the garment hideous. In such a case,
Devlin was right, fiction was often better than truth. But to lie
to a country, to the world, well that was different. Or was it?

“I’m glad you’re hesitating.” Devlin’s tone
was softer. “If you had been too eager to agree, I would think I
made a mistake in considering you. We want men with morals, with
dignity, and with a high regard for the truth. Only men like that
can understand the wisdom of what we do.”

“There are others who do this work?” Ray
asked.

“A few. Not many. For
security reasons, you’ll never meet them. It’s best that such work
be compartmentalized. Although I can’t tell you names, I know you
would recognize two if I were to do so. Two of our writers are best
selling authors. They are consistently on the
New York Times
best seller
list.”

“I see.” It was a relief to know he would
not be alone, even if he would never know who the other writers
were.

“A couple of other things you should hear
before making your decision. First, the salary is especially good
for part time work. You start off with $175,000 a year. Next—”

“How much?” Ray was nonplussed. If he had
heard the figure correctly it would be more than he had ever made
in his life.

“You heard right, $175,000 for the first
year. You’ll receive between four to six assignments a year. We
don’t allow any more than that. You might have to fly to
Washington, D.C. once or twice a year. It’s also possible we may
ask you to fly to other places in the country, depending on the
mission. How does that sound?”

“It sounds like an unbelievable amount of
money.”

“There are others who have been helping us
longer who make more. Good work brings bonuses.”

“And I can continue writing my novels?”

“We wouldn’t have it any other way. It keeps
your skills sharp.”

“And no one gets hurt by anything I
write?”

“No one has yet,” Devlin assured him. “I
don’t see it happening in the future. Trust me Ray, it’s a good
thing you’ll be doing. I think you’ll like it.”

“I assume I’ll need to undergo a security
check.”

“It’s already been done, as well as a
psychological evaluation. We wouldn’t be having such a frank
discussion if I didn’t know for a fact you were trustworthy and
stable.”

“How could you do a psychological evaluation
without my knowing about it?”

“Several ways. A team of government
psychiatrists has reviewed your books and other writings. You can
learn a lot about a man by the way he writes.”

Ray sat in silence. They had been watching
him, studying him. At first he felt a surge of anger, but that
quickly ebbed. The man made sense. Devlin could not have been as
open and frank if he had doubts about Ray. The money soothed his
temper, too. With that kind of income, Nora could quit her job and
he could provide whatever Skeeter needed for school.

“You really have two best selling authors on
the payroll?”

“Three if you join us.”

“I’m no where near being a best seller.”

“You will be, Ray. Trust me. I am a keen
judge of talent and of people. They’ll have your books at the front
of the store with Clancy, Grisham, Cussler and others.”

“You paint a pretty picture.”

Devlin scooted to the edge of his seat and
leaned his elbows on the desk. “Join us, Ray. Do yourself, your
family and your country a favor. How about it?”

Ray thought for a few moments then said.
“Sign me up.”

Devlin shot to his feet and clapped his
hands. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” He held out his hand.
“Welcome aboard, Ray. Welcome aboard. I promise, you won’t regret
it.”

Part 2

There is a way which seems
right to a man, but its end is the way of death.
—Proverbs 16:25

Four

Colin Rehnquist stepped from the
lab
and slowly closed the thick steel door
behind him. He stood alone in the stone corridor and took several
deep breaths. Although no one stood in the wide hall with him, he
knew he was being observed. Four tiny video cameras were trained on
him. They never moved, each staring like an unblinking electronic
eye. One floor above, two military-trained security men watched his
every move.

He willed himself to be calm; to appear
casual. It was an act that proved more difficult with each
performance. He leaned back against the door he had just traversed
and wished he could lock it forever, lock it so no one could ever
go in, and more importantly, nothing could ever come out. Closing
his eyes, Colin fought down the rising bile in his throat. His
heart was pounding like an angry bull trying to break free of its
pen. He wiped his moist palms on his white lab coat.

“Are you all right, Dr. Rehnquist?” The
voice came from a speaker mounted to the cavern’s ceiling.

“I’m fine,” Colin answered weakly. “Just a
touch of the flu, I think.”

“Do you want me to send someone to help
you?”

Colin pulled himself upright, straightened
his spine, and turned to face one of the video cameras. He offered
a wan smile. “No need. I can make it on my own, thank you.”

Although he had exchanged the sterile
sarcophagus of the underground laboratory for a long, dim corridor,
he carried with him the vivid memory of what he had just seen. This
was not his first time in the lab, but he wished with all his might
it would be his last. Wishing would not change things, Colin knew.
He would have to take action if he were to save his sanity.

The corridor had been constructed from
sturdy, porous limestone and reinforced with iron rebar and
concrete. Fluorescent lights, spaced every ten meters hung from the
vaulted barrel ceiling like glowing stalactites. The air was dry
and cool, and Colin’s steps echoed off the hard surface. It was a
lonely sound like a single voice heard on the open sea.

Loneliness. At any other time in Colin’s
life the thought of being alone would have been unwelcome. He was a
social creature, ready to join friends for a party, a meal or a
night on the town. Now the thought of being alone was the most
alluring thing he had ever experienced. He longed to be by himself,
his thoughts known only to him.

Such solitude was not offered. He doubted he
would ever be truly alone again. He raised a hand to his forehead
and rubbed the skin. He could still feel them there, in his brain.
They weren’t inside his skull, he knew that, but they had been, and
like impolite guests they had left their dirty footmarks and
fingerprints all over his mind.