The Media Candidate (18 page)

“You are in danger, yourself, now. What if—”

“I’ve taken some personal precautions. And
there’s this.”

Jenner laid an optical disk on the tabletop with
a snap.

FBI Scientist Linked to Espionage.
The
page-ten article caught Sherwood’s eye as he scanned the news.

“A member of an elite FBI technology-group was
linked to the sale of government secrets to underworld agents. The
leak had been under investigation for several months, and
sufficient evidence had been accumulated by the FBI and local law
enforcement agencies to bring the scientist before a grand
jury.

“The night before the planned arrest, however,
the suspect was murdered in her apartment. There was no sign of
forced entry, and the suspect’s nude body was found in the bathroom
after a neighbor reported that her shower had been running all
night. A single puncture wound was found in her back just below her
left shoulder blade. An autopsy report is pending.

“The scientist’s name has not yet been released
because the espionage investigation is continuing. It is believed,
however, that an organized-crime group, which deals in stolen
government and industrial data, was responsible for the attack.
Three such groups have been under investigation by the FBI in
southern California for years.

“An FBI spokesperson said, ‘The syndicates under
investigation have purchased highly sensitive information in the
past and have found ready markets for it both domestically and
abroad. They generally locate an individual who has access to some
desired data and who has accumulated a burden of overdue debts.
Such a person is susceptible to overtures of easy money. We believe
that is what may have happened in this situation.’

“The state attorney general and the FBI have
promised an all out investigation against these groups to stop the
trade of illegal information. ‘This kind of activity represents a
drain on the security and competitiveness of our society, and we
are determined to see it come to an end,’ the Assistant Attorney
General was quoted.”

Sherwood slowly lowered the newspaper and stared
without emotion at the opposing wall. He fumbled in his pocket for
his pipe, but it was absent. He panicked for a moment until he
realized that he had left his favorite pipe at the office, but a
surrogate was within reach. After setting it to smolder, Sherwood
read the article once more.

Sounds like a COPE cover
, he thought.
Could it really be?

He walked to the one window in his living room
where the once-white shears veiled the world outside. Pulling one
shear aside, he looked at the street three stories below and
examined the disciplined array of bricks leading up the wall. He
saw thousands of neatly arranged footholds for a rock climbing
genius. He turned toward the door to the hallway. That cipher lock
seemed secure enough when he moved in; but that was before spiders.
How easy it would be for one to break in there.

It is still possible
, he thought,
that
the COPE computer does not even relate me to Jenner or know that
she passed any information to me.
He paused and looked toward
the door once more.
Then again, maybe Jenner is still
alive.

He picked up his cell phone, paused, and
replaced it on the table.
This might be a better job for
lands.
He approached his land-line phone slowly, afraid of what
it might tell him. He input the numbers and was rewarded with a
familiar voice saying, “Hello.” A swell of relief buoyed him. But
the sweetness succumbed to a deadly undertow as the remainder of
Jenner’s recorded message broke over him. He replaced the receiver
and breathed deeply of the life-giving smoke from his pipe.
Exhaling, his finger involuntarily began tapping the numbers for
her office at COPE. The probability of her being either at home or
at work was near 100%, and Sherwood resigned himself to the meaning
of another recording.

A short time later, with his newly augmented
leadership qualities properly enabled, Sherwood finally achieved
the goal he’d sought since his grade school sorties into his
fantasy undercover world. His field assignment had been a routine
position as liaison officer with the Southwest Regional Office of
the CBS Party. Sherwood’s happiness knew only the natural bounds of
his sterile personality. He spent the first two months doing
nothing but getting to know how the party regional offices work and
embellishing reports of his activities to his boss at COPE. He
wanted to spy on someone or lead a clandestine operation against
some enemy of the people or finger somebody for assassination.
Anticipating some such great adventure, he responded to several
issues brought to his attention by the regional director. They
turned out to be disappointingly routine. One involved an expense
report that a party executive had accidentally misfiled that caused
the COPE computer to raise a flag that some breech of legislated
ethics might have been perpetrated. Another concerned an
interpretation of policy controlling the disposition of a donation
earmarked for straight candidates. The Party had no such category
and couldn’t decide how to account for it. His early enthusiasm was
beginning to wane.

Just as he started to understand why the
turnover rate was so high among liaison officers, he answered a
call from the regional director about a suspected anarchist. And
making it even more savory, the anarchist was the same thief he’d
confronted trying to break into the Halvorsen files. Sherwood
learned how to deal with anarchists in Leadership Training. It had
helped his perspective on things—enforcement things. And now he had
an anarchist on whom to practice his skills.

“What luck for rulers that men do not think.”

— Adolph Hitler

“Checked out Townsend with COPE.” Sherwood
chiseled the words into the miles separating himself and Guinda
Burns. “He was director of the HPHC for over ten years, just
retired. Had over a thousand people working for him, but he was
very low profile. His assistant director actually did all the
administration and interfaces with the Government and the
University. They say he kept his nose buried in the science. But I
think it is a classic example of an agent working undercover. He
was politically active until 2010 and then just dropped out of that
arena. That is the big clue. Now he is emerging to lead some
political movement.”

Guinda was glad this was not a virtual meeting
so she didn’t have to hide her astonishment.

“If he is an anarchist, we will get him. He may
be dangerous. Keep me posted.”

“Okay,” she answered.

After hanging up the phone, Guinda stared at the
hapless instrument as if some latent defect within it had somehow
begotten Sherwood. She wondered as much about Sherwood as she did
about Townsend. Sherwood reminder her of Uncle Orin from Boise who
checked under the hood of his car each morning to insure that a
terrorist hadn’t slipped into the country and planted a bomb. He
thought it was foolish and irresponsible that everyone didn’t do
the same. But with Sherwood, it was more than just paranoia. She
had talked to him only twice, but he was the spookiest person she’d
ever met. His stony arrogance had smothered all humanity out of
their meetings, and she was accustomed to arrogance in the
Party.

What did he mean, “If he is an anarchist, we
will get him?” She’d heard others in the Party mention anarchists,
but she never questioned it. Now the issue was thrust in front of
her and entangled her mind. Who are the anarchists and how does who
get them? Townsend didn’t seem like an anarchist to her, or did he?
She didn’t understand him. He seemed sincere, but how could you
tell anymore? Could it be that Townsend is actually altruistic? But
how can you trust altruism? It’s too unstable. Too uncompromising.
Too pure.

The phone interrupted, truncating a thought,
choking conjecture. She glanced disapprovingly at it for simply
doing its job flawlessly.

“Yes, Townsend. I’ve thought about our
conversation yesterday. I was very preoccupied with my meeting with
the state director when we talked, and maybe I didn’t show my
gratitude for your offer. Unfortunately, I can’t find any way that
a person of your capabilities could contribute to the cause.”

“I can certainly understand how you could feel
that may, Ms. Burns. I’m afraid I must have given a very poor
impression of how I might be able to help. If we could meet once
more, I’d try to put my feelings into words much better than I did.
However, to tell the truth, I’m not totally sure myself how I can
help.”

Guinda sat at her desk unsure of what to make of
this man, this anarchist, this ambassador of a forgotten century.
Sherwood’s warning also tolled in her mind. “Okay, Dr. Townsend. I
have a little time around noon. Suppose we get together for lunch
someplace.”

“Sure, that would be great,” replied
Elliott.

He was waiting in the lobby of the popular
Mexican restaurant when Guinda arrived.

“Good morning, Dr. Townsend,” Guinda said as she
approached him, extending her hand.

“Good morning, Ms. Burns,” he said, meeting her
hand halfway. The smile that embraced both his voice and his face
rebuffed the formality of their greeting.

“Look, maybe we could be less formal. My name is
Guinda. Could I call you Elliott?”

“No, I’d prefer you didn’t. But Ted would be
just fine,” he said with a grin.

They went inside, sat down, and after a few
minutes of polite conversation, each ordered the same brand of beer
and studied the menu. During lunch, their conversation was polite,
cordial, and superficial.

Guinda talked of her BA and MA in political
science and her father’s advise to choose a career with stability,
but the thought of a stable career nauseated her. She taught
high-school history, political science, and electoral technology
for a couple of years and found that refreshing. But she was too
young to be refreshed; she wanted excitement and glamour.

Her striking figure and face, quick wit, and
athletic prowess made her a shoe-in for class officer in high
school. She dreamed then of a political career, which fueled her
choice to major in political science.

When the CBS Party offered her a job two years
ago as a field site manager, she knew that was her ticket to
excitement. CBS had apparently been impressed with her part in two
NCAA swimming championships and her three Olympic medals. When they
interviewed her and discovered her outgoing personality, collegiate
face, precisely tanned body, and a blond ponytail synchronized with
her two perfect breasts, they knew she was the right image for the
party. She had the added advantage of an instinct for when to play
bimbo and when to be brain.

She was very matter-of-fact about her breasts
and how they advanced her career. Elliott couldn’t help but glance
at them approvingly as she discussed their role. It was like
acknowledging an attractive belt or hat.

After lunch, she said, “Actually, Ted, your
offer to volunteer took me by surprise. I have only two volunteers,
both students at the University. They mostly help with event
promotion using the campus network. It involves just a couple of
hours a week. But I was thinking of something a little more …
aggressive for you.”

She waited for some reaction, and getting none,
she continued. “It seems that our lowest voter participation is
among the retired people. We have our primary coming up soon and
our expected participation among seniors is only 68%. That’s the
lowest of any age group. I think you could help us get that number
up in the local area.”

Elliott squirmed a little in his seat. “Excuse
me, Guin. I guess I should explain something to you. When we met
yesterday, I didn’t have time to explain what my ambitions really
are, and maybe I didn’t even fully understand them myself. But I,
too, have been thinking about how I can help. You see, I can’t work
for your candidates because I don’t believe in them.”

“I don’t understand,” Guinda replied. “You said
you wanted to help.”

“I know. I’m not making this very easy, am I? I
want to help, but I want to help the people. I want to help
Americans make better choices.”

“Well, of course,” Guinda said. “We’re all
working toward that. That’s why we’ve chosen candidates that can go
head to head, even against Lizzie Special. I personally think that
Dr. Heat can—”

“Wait a minute, Guin. I think I need to go back
a little further. I know this happened before you were born, but
elections used to be a lot different than they are today.”

“I know. I studied all that in school. How
people used to go to a voting machine, but things are a lot easier
today with the TV elections and all.”

“Let me see if there’s a better way to explain
this. We’re feeding people celebrities. We aren’t giving them
choices. Each celebrity is the same. Each one is just a person to
whom some media network has given a slick image.”

“Right. And that image is what the people are
voting for. I understand that. It doesn’t sound any different than
the way it used to be. What I’ve read is that the politicians used
to get on TV or the news and just lie to the people about
everything, and their campaign would then package them with a slick
image and the people would buy it. It’s the same today, except we
don’t have the lies. COPE really cracks down on anyone who lies. I
can’t see how the old way is better than that.”