The Manuscript (5 page)

Abe was stymied. How could his day get any worse from here?

Then he had a flash of inspiration.

Moving to his ancient dusty credenza, he rummaged around in the chaos until he found his battered rolodex behind some reams of paper. His office resembled a pack rat’s lair more than a legendary literary agent’s, with piles of documents stacked helter-skelter, absent any apparent organization. But it was a system Abe was comfortable with, so that’s how things stayed. It drove Mona and his two associates crazy.

Another habit from a lifetime of dealing with hard copy, Abe eschewed any sort of electric organizers or phone books – the numbers in the rolodex never went missing, unlike the e-mail that apparently had. He fumbled around on his desk until he found his reading glasses, and perching them precariously on his nose, flipped through the handwritten cards in the rickety contrivance until he found the one he was looking for. He peered at the name and number, squinting a little. It seemed to Abe that the writing on the damned cards was getting smaller over the years, making it increasingly hard to read them. No matter; he’d found what he needed.

The phone answered on the third ring, and the muted sound of traffic and voices reverberated in the background.

“Michael Derrigan.”

Chapter 2

“Michael, it’s Abe Sarkins. It’s been a while since we talked. Are you super busy?”

Abe had liked the first few chapters of Michael’s debut novel, submitted through a mutual acquaintance, and they’d maintained contact ever since. He’d been interested enough in the book to tentatively agree to represent it once it was complete, however that didn’t look like it was going to happen any time soon – Michael wasn’t exactly prolific. But they still talked occasionally, usually with Michael checking in to let Abe know he was close to having more pages done, this time for real. Abe had developed a liking for him. He had a good heart and some real talent, capable of creating something special if he’d ever sit down and focus on writing the goddamned thing.

“Oh, right, Abe…I’m sorry, I’ve been meaning to send you more chapters, but it’s been really hectic and I haven’t had a chance to polish them yet.” Michael raised the privacy screen in the limo as he talked. He didn’t have any worries about Aldous listening in on his literary career’s non-trajectory, but the Turks in the back were engaged in a heated discussion and he couldn’t hear over the din of their jabber.

“Not a problem, Michael. Actually, I was hoping you could lend me a hand. I had some e-mail correspondence go missing and I need to find it, but nothing I’ve tried seems to be working. I know some of your security work involves technology, and I was wondering if this is the sort of thing you could help with?” Abe asked.

Abe was describing something that wasn’t even close to the sort of corporate espionage and countermeasures Michael handled, but given Abe’s standing in the literary world and Michael’s aspirations of becoming a player someday, Abe had just been promoted to the head of the line of people Michael was eager to assist.

“Of course, Abe. Give me the short version of the problem so I know who to bring with me, and I’ll see how soon I can stop by,” Michael said.

“Well, I got an anonymous e-mail yesterday with a manuscript attachment that it turns out I have an interest in, but when I got to the office this morning, it’s like it never existed. It’s nowhere in my e-mail logs. It’s the first time that’s ever happened…” Abe realized as he spoke that his account sounded as troubling as a hangnail.

Michael, wishing to appear courteous and sensing an opportunity to build goodwill, made an on-the-spot decision to alter his schedule and drop by Abe’s. He figured he didn’t really have much else going on but babysitting the Turks, so why not give it a shot and find a way to fix it? He wasn’t that far away from Abe’s building, and it didn’t sound like something that would take more than a few minutes for someone competent to deal with, and he’d collect a chit in the favor bank from a publishing figure who was a living legend.

“Abe, I’m busy with some clients right now, but I have some time around two o’clock where I could see about doing a fix. I’ll call and get my PC tech out with me so all bases are covered. I remember your offices, seventh floor – will that work for you?” Michael asked.

“Yeah, sure, two o’clock is fine. It’s probably something simple you can handle in a few minutes. I appreciate your bumping things around to deal with this, Michael. I owe you one.”

“Okay, Abe, two o’clock.
Ciao
.” Michael disconnected and considered his next step.

He needed a computer whiz. And he just so happened to have one of the best. Michael dropped the window that separated him from the Turkish contingent in the rear, and keeping one eye on them as they waved home their points to each other, he texted his technology specialist, Koshi. Michael just hoped Koshi was sober today and could get cleaned up in a few hours, and was actually monitoring his phone instead of crashed out after a hard night of clubbing.

Koshi was flighty, but he was also bar-none the most adept super-geek Michael had ever encountered, so if something had gone screwy with Abe’s system, he’d know how to fix it.

A few moments after Michael sent the text message, Koshi responded, requesting the address and meeting time. Michael entered the info and pressed send. Koshi responded in the affirmative, so they had a date.

Michael glanced at Aldous, who was impassively glaring at the cars in front of him. Sensing a break in the Turks’ discussion, he turned to the rear of the limo and focused on his entourage.

“Gentlemen, is there anything special you’d like to request for today’s meetings, or perhaps for this evening? Whatever it is, we’re at your service…”

It always helped to ensure the paying customers felt like they were getting first class service. That’s what kept them coming back – and paying tips that often exceeded the day’s fee. Brown-nosing was a big part of the escort gigs he’d been paying the rent with lately, so Michael choked back his disdain and did his best to appear interested and helpful.

The limo continued to weave its way through the snarl of Manhattan traffic, a cocoon of comfort in an otherwise noisy, entropic world.

********

The phone rang in a wood-paneled office occupied by a balding man in his seventies. He sighed audibly before answering, dreading the second alarmed call of the day. He was unaccustomed to receiving any calls, much less those expressing concern or trepidation – in his world, he was the one that called people, demanding answers. They didn’t call him.

“Armstrong,” he answered.

“Sid, this is Ben. I just got a call from a friend of mine asking me to look into certain sensitive projects you assured me would never come to light…” The understated and carefully-chosen language was typical of the caller, who was an attorney, among other things.

“I understand. Steps have already been taken. As far as we can tell, the matter’s dealt with – I’d politely come up empty if you get another call. Which you won’t,” Sid advised.

“I hope your people have figured out how it could have gotten this far in the first place. To have these sorts of questions given any credibility would still be disastrous, even now,” the caller underscored.

“We’re on it. This was an anomaly. There won’t be any further digging – trust me on that,” Sid assured him.

The line went dead.

It was amazing to him that after a long, admirable career filled with astonishing accomplishments and vast wealth accumulation, a few sentences in the wrong hands could create a shit-storm that endangered everything he’d worked for; everything he’d built.

How the hell had the sentences come about in the first place? Less than a handful of people knew the details of even one of the sensitive projects, much less could piece together the whole shooting match. Obviously there’d been an unconscionable leak; one that needed to be mopped-up immediately.

He, more than most, understood that time healed virtually all wounds, and that most of the world’s outrages would recede to a pale memory once enough years had gone by. But some things were too large to ignore no matter how far in the past. Even the apathetic sheep who paid their taxes every year and wished for nothing more imaginative than a larger television or a cheaper gallon of gas could become unmanageable if they knew the ugly truth.

Empires required resources in order to continue to grow. They required stimulation to keep their populations entertained. Sid had long considered his position, from administration to administration, as part rainmaker and part court jester. It really didn’t matter whether it was the Republicans or the Democrats who appeared to hold the reins from term to term; all required grist for the mill, gold for their treasury, and superficial drama for the populace to focus upon, rather than more contentious issues. So they all needed the services of Sid and those like him, in good times and in bad. He provided the bread and circuses as well as behind-the-scenes solutions.

The problem was that in order to appear on top of the heap of nations, long after it had exhausted its ability to live within its means, the country had to make unpalatable alliances. Things often needed to be done that had to stay out of the newspapers. To claim the moral high ground, the system needed ‘fixers’ who could do the dirty work that kept the engine running, without bothering the blithe passengers who were paying the freight.

It was all part of the game. Sometimes the nation would get a quick peek at how the world really worked and would cry out in shock and disbelief. The trick was outwaiting the outrage, as he well knew. If you didn’t wait long enough, then the machine required blood sacrifices so it could claim to have purged itself of its evils – and if the evils were large enough, even fixers like Sid could be trotted to the gallows.

And that definitely wasn’t part of the plan. There wasn’t a chance in hell Sid was going to spend his winter years being flogged as a demon; he had a long list of those who would stop at nothing to keep their secrets buried. True, the internet and social media had made it harder to control the spin, but Lenin had it right; you just lied, and kept repeating the lie until it became accepted and parroted as the truth. That’s why, even when all facts were known, if you could shape the dialog, the revelations would get less than a shoulder shrug from an uncaring world – which was why being in control of the media, either directly or by pressure from its owners and editors, was so critical.

It had taken a long time to achieve an apathetic, complacent populace who would buy without question anything the television and newspapers declared. Generations. But the mission was now accomplished – there was nothing that would mobilize the public with outrage at this point.

Or at least, virtually nothing.

He didn’t want to test their obedient complicity with exposure of the ‘special projects’. Some secrets were too sensitive to even hint at.

Enter Sid, guardian of the truth, and in this case, his own ass.

********

Abe’s early afternoon flew by, as he massaged a client’s bruised ego over the ‘paltry’ seven-figure advance for the film rights to his next two masterpieces, cajoled several publishers into giving one of his new discoveries a serious read, and assisted the wife of one of his most popular authors in planning an intervention to get him to enter rehab for the third, and hopefully final, time.

It was already two o’clock; well past lunch time, which his stomach had been reminding him of for some time, prompting him to order yet another unhealthy meal of hot pastrami on rye from the corner deli downstairs.

Mona buzzed him on the intercom.

“There’s a Mr. Derrigan here to see you?” Mona framed most statements as interrogatives – as though doubting the veracity of her own observations. She apparently had no memory of Michael stopping by a year ago.

“Fine, fine, Mona. Please escort him back to my office,” Abe instructed.

A courtesy knock
tapped
on his shabby door and then Mona entered with Michael in tow.

“Michael, thanks for coming. Mona, did you offer our guest some coffee or soda? Bottled water, maybe?” Abe came around his desk to shake hands.

“No need, Abe. But thanks all the same,” Michael said.

They stood awkwardly for a moment, facing each other.

“So, how goes the magnum opus? You about done yet?” Abe asked.

Michael’s novel, or absence of a novel, was always the first topic of conversation.

“I wish I could say we’re almost at the finish line, but I’d be lying. I’ve been tied up with the business for months, and just haven’t had a chance to dive back in yet,” Michael admitted.

“Well, a guy’s gotta eat. I know all about that. But everything’s got a shelf life, and most things don’t improve with age,” Abe cautioned.

“I hear you.” Michael wanted to steer the topic off his meager productivity. “What is it you think happened? You got an e-mail, and it went missing – you sure you didn’t delete it accidentally?”

“No, I’m positive. I looked everywhere. It’s just gone.” Abe was adamant. “What’s particularly troubling is that it had an attachment – a PDF file of a book I developed a strong interest in. It’s pure dynamite…” Abe wasn’t sure how much more to add.

Just then another knock on the door was followed by the entry of a skinny Japanese man dressed entirely in black, with dyed blond hair and a number of ear and nose piercings. Michael groaned inwardly. For fuck’s sake, did Koshi really believe Converse sneakers, pencil-leg black jeans and a Panic At The Disco T-shirt with a dinner jacket over it really constituted business casual? If he wasn’t the sharpest computer guy Michael knew, he’d have pimp-slapped him right in front of Abe.

His inner dialog kept its counsel, of course.

“Oh, sorry, Abe, this is my technology expert, Koshi Yamaguchi,” Michael said, preferring to ignore the elephant in the room for the moment.

Abe eyed him dubiously. “Koshi, huh? A pleasure.”