“Good afternoon, Mr. Ruppert,” she said.
“I had a notice to see George,” he told her.
“One moment please.” The beautiful face sank back into the darkness, then returned a few seconds later. “Please come in. Mr. Baldwin is ready for you.” The glass door slid aside.
From inside Baldwin’s office, you could see the hallway clearly through the black glass. The remainder of Baldwin’s walls were video panels. Images of paintings floated on them now-Baldwin appeared to have a strong affinity for the work of Hieronymus Bosch. The Department of Terror seal dominated the entire wall behind Baldwin’s desk, and its soaring silver eagle appeared six feet tall. Ruppert shivered at the sight of it.
Baldwin stood, all smiles, and shook Ruppert’s hand, grasping it just a little too hard. Ruppert tried not to look at the silver skull pin on the lapel of Baldwin’s black coat, remembering how the gleaming skulls had snapped at him in cyberspace. Baldwin was an imposing presence, taller and broader and no doubt stronger than Ruppert.
“Daniel!” Baldwin said, with a cheerful tone that implied they were old water-cooler buddies, though they’d rarely spoken. “Great to have you back. Have a seat.”
Ruppert did as he was told, facing the Terror man across a broad expanse of black desk.
“Can I order you anything?” Baldwin asked. “Water? Coffee?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Ruppert’s knees were trembling. The wounds in his hands, now invisible under concealer, started to ache.
“I was so happy to hear from my director that you’re working with us now. I know there were some suspicions-you have to be suspicious, in a time of war-but I told them, no, not Daniel Ruppert. He’s a good, state- fearing man, a real patriot. He’ll be happy to help out. I said I’ve worked with this guy, I’ve studied him, and I think he will do anything his country asks.” Baldwin’s large hand slapped the glossy black desktop at the word “studied,” and Ruppert jumped a little in his seat.
“I appreciate it, Mr. Baldwin-”
“George.”
“George,” Ruppert said. “We all have to do our part to support our brave men and women in uniform.”
“That’s absolutely right. We live in dangerous times, Daniel. Enemies without and enemies within. The role of my organization is, as you know, to search out the enemies within. Now you have your part to play. I want you to know I’m here if you need any support on this.”
“Thank you…George. I appreciate it. I’m not entirely sure why I was chosen for this task-though of course I’m happy to help my country in any way I can.”
“Well, we didn’t do the choosing-I’d rather have kept you out of it, naturally, so you could focus on your work and family like a regular citizen. But they chose you, so now we have to play along.”
“Who are you saying chose me?”
“They. Them.” Baldwin waved a dismissive hand. “The enemies of the state.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s why you’re perfect for this, Daniel. You’re not meant to know very much about the situation, and you don’t. You’ll be able to play your role with great honesty.”
“You mean capturing the neo-Nazi guy.”
“Exactly right.” The graying, age-progressed image of Hollis Westerly appeared on one wall. The man had the glazed eyes of a corpse.
“I have to tell you,” Baldwin said, “This is a dangerous job. You’ll be exposed to all kinds of enemy propaganda. I’m sure you can hold up, but I want you to be warned.”
“I would like to know a little more about who this guy is, why you need me to-”
“No need for that. The op requires you to be unaware. You’ll act much more naturally that way.”
“Okay.”
“I know it’s difficult to understand. You just play along with whatever they offer you, and you’ll be fine. Now, have you attempted to make contact yet?”
“Not exactly. I was still recovering from-from my vacation, over the weekend.”
“Probably a smart choice. We need you at the top of your game. I’d suggest you wait another day or two, in fact, but no longer than that. We need to move while this is hot.”
“I understand.”
“We’re on the enemy’s ten-yard line here, Daniel. We just need you to take the ball and run it to the end zone. Remember, make contact, stay in character, go along with whatever they want. Keep your nose in the air for any word of this Hollis person. Do you have any more questions?”
Ruppert had a thousand, but not the kind Baldwin would care to hear. Ruppert's only concern was getting out of the Terror agent’s office as soon as possible.
“I think I understand what you want.”
“Perfect. Well, don’t let me detain you any longer. Remember, I’m available if you need me, day or night.”
“Thanks, George.”
Ruppert took some pleasure in skipping Revelation Review on Tuesday night. Let Liam O’Shea whine and moan all he wanted. Ruppert had already been hauled off in the night, tortured, and conscripted by the Department of Terror. O’Shea’s petty snitchery was not even on his radar anymore.
As he parked outside the Video Terminal on Sepulveda, this minor sense of triumph evaporated. He’d selected a low-end video cafe in the dirty concrete hell of Van Nuys to avoid any chance of encountering people he knew.
The blue-braided, multi-pierced girl who accepted his cash at the front booth didn’t seem to recognize him, either-obviously, not a big consumer of local news. Her appearance was a remnant of older, more freewheeling California. Had she been anyone of importance, the way she looked would be sufficient to convict her of dissidence. The truly poor and powerless were unofficially indulged a certain, limited freedom in minor consumer matters, either because they influenced no one or, as Ruppert suspected, because it helped keep the upper classes properly frightened in their enclaves. Talk-show hosts and pundits needed somebody to attack and hold up as examples of immorality.
People with much darker skin than Ruppert was accustomed to seeing crowded the cafe, the sort of people men at his church would refer to as having “suspicious blood.” They clustered together around shared screens, drinking and smoking, pausing to glare at Ruppert as he passed. He’d tried to dress down for the occasion, but the designer jeans and the blue Oxford shirt, however rumpled and untucked, might as well have been a royal silk robe in a place where many dressed in scraps of mismatched cloth crudely stitched together.
He sat down in his rented video booth, which had flimsy blinder walls on either side of the screen but nothing behind him-any of the customers wandering by could see what he was doing.
Ruppert used a coffee napkin to wipe some of the unidentifiable crust off his screen, which was only twelve inches high and jammed with corporate logos jockeying for his attention, seeking to lure him onto their retail sites.
“Manual dialer,” he said. A classic QWERTY keyboard appeared as a two-dimensional projection on the narrow shelf in front of the screen, while a blank window opened on the screen itself. Ruppert removed the plastic card from his wallet and typed out the long string of numbers and letters. He took a breath. All of this-the shoddy cafe, the manual dialing-was a sham, intended to prevent Terror from monitoring a call that he was fairly certain they were waiting to monitor. The sham was aimed at Sully’s “close friend” who would answer the call. Ruppert was already lying to that person before ever speaking to him.
He touched the ENTER button.
The word “CONNECTING…” appeared inside the blank window. A second, smaller window opened inside it, displaying the same text, and then a third window opened, nested inside the other two. After a painfully long wait, text appeared in the smallest window:
WHO IS THIS?
Ruppert thought it over. How would he identify himself if he were trying to be discreet?
D RUPP, he typed.
After a few seconds, the reply came: SUNDAY NITE. NIXON STADIUM, 472. This had to refer to the early preseason game of the Los Angeles Archangels. The number referred to seats in the southeast nosebleed
