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“Holy shit.” From his limited computer knowledge, he starts to deduce what is happening. “Bots. They’re manipulating the numbers.”
He stands back up, wipes the sweat from his brow, looks out on the sea of computers. All he can think about is the thousands of IP addresses representing tens of thousands of fake people visiting company websites, commenting on posts, retweeting commentary.
All to manipulate the advertising numbers.
“God, this company. What haven’t they done?”
He takes the phone, pans it across the computerscape in video mode, and then zooms in on one of the monitors. He texts the video to Agent Pillsbury.
He opens the door, walks back out into the hallway, closes the door. He leans against George Washington. Josh takes his sleeve and wipes the sides of his face. He pulls off his jacket in a single move, throws it on the floor. He unbuttons his sleeves, pushes them up his arms.
His phone vibrates.
Kinda figured. We’ve seen many complaints that their numbers were inflated. Now we have proof. Nice job.
He grins, then receives a second text.
Need more. Keep digging.
“Up yours, Patsy.” He picks up his Armani suit jacket, wraps it around his waist, ties it in the front. “I’d like to see you down in this hellhole.”
He sees President Hoover staring at him from across the hall. He scurries over to the door, places the key on the pad, opens it slightly. Through the crack he can see a camera in the corner. He can also see a set of twelve monitors along the wall, behind an unmanned desk and a chair. The monitors are mostly dark, only showing timestamps and people’s names.
Only two are glowing, showing two different people in front of their computers. Jamal Cooper and Reed Cordell. Both look like they are still at the office, one getting ready to leave. He doesn’t risk going inside, closes the door as slowly as he opened it.
“That answers that.” Josh walks around the corner mumbling to himself. “Still as surveilly as ever. Lying prick.”
He now stands face to face with Thomas Jefferson. He swipes the key, opens the door. Through the crack he can’t see a thing; it’s completely dark. He checks the corners: no red lights, no indications of cameras. He takes a chance, flips the switch, and enters.
Two L-shaped shelving units wrap around the left and far walls. The paper sign on the left wall reads MERGERS in a giant Times New Roman font, adhered with silver duct tape to the lip of the top shelf. The far wall reads AQUISITIONS in a classic misspelling. He opens the boxes labeled MAKESHIFT and STREAMIUM. Inside each box are copies of signed deals, real estate purchases, merger POAs. Nothing earth-shattering.
Just as Josh yawns, he hears the wall opening upstairs.
“Shit.” He closes the box he’s been sifting through, places it back on the shelf as softly as he can. He turns out the light, walks out into the hall, closes the Thomas Jefferson door until he hears a soft click.
Whoever it is turns on some upper fluorescents Josh didn’t even know were there. The light shines down on Josh’s button-down, transforming it to dayglo white. Even though he’s around the corner from the entrance, he backs into the far corner in between a closet door and a fire extinguisher and hose.
He can hear a strange brushing sound and some mumbling from the top of the stairs; the clacking of the wall closing; then the sound of something falling down the stairs, crashing into something else.
“Shit,” the voice says.
Josh leans against the storage-room door, inadvertently jostling the handle.
The sound echoes down the hall.
“Hello?” the man says. “Is anyone there?”
Josh can tell the voice has a slight lisp. Thank God, Josh thinks. It’s only Reed.
“If there’s anyone here, I need you to tell me,” Reed says, plodding down the stairs. “Because this is creepy A-F.”
Josh crouches down into a ball, which releases his jacket onto the floor. Don’t come around the corner, don’t come around the corner.
He hears Reed enter a door, then the clanking of bottles.
Probably wine from the meeting. He’s cleaning up.
A phone rings. Not his.
“Yessir, it’s just me.” Reed says. A pause. “Yessir, I just entered the room with Ronald Reagan on the door.” Another pause. “I’m not sure, I must’ve unplugged it when I was cleaning. My broom fell down the stairs, knocked into the login. I plugged it back.”
Shit.
“No, sir, nobody else. Just trying to get a head start on tomorrow. Check some things off my list.” A pause. “I will; so sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to wake … Okayyy.” A brief pause. “Dick.”
Careful, Reed, there’s a camera in there.
“Why didn’t the system log you in when you entered, Reed? You do realize I was sleeping, Reed.” Reed continues to mock West, scooting chairs around on the cement floor. “Go check the rest of the rooms, Reed. No fucking way. You don’t pay me enough for this shit.”
Josh hears him wrap up a trash bag, close the door, walk up the stairs.
Beep.
The wall opens.
Beep.
The wall closes.
Josh wonders why the florescent lights in the ceiling are still on. He tiptoes to the corner, peers around. Reagan is closed. Coast is clear.
Josh walks back to the corner and picks up his jacket. He spots the emergency exit he’d found on the ArchEngine blueprint. The exit is essentially a two-foot square opening obscured by a vent cover. No screws. He pulls on the cover; it pops off a magnetic release with very little force. He’s just about to bend down and contort his body to enter the opening when he notices the storage-room door to his right staring back at him. A beautiful man, amazing smile.
John F. Kennedy.
Etched into the storage-room door.
4JFK. Josh remembers the name of the decrypted folder on the SSD.
He pops the magnetic cover back into place, moves in front of JFK. There’s a keypad on the door just like the other ones, but he also notices a
