“The drums, man,” Tomlinson said. “Yeah-transmitters. A communication system so old that our brains can’t translate the language. But our hearts still understand.”
Wilson said, “You could set up a network, send messages back and forth, and the finest surveillance systems in the world would never record a beat. Lots of noise but zero signature. Drums. When you’re up against the National Security Agency, you’re much safer living in the Stone Age.”
Drums?
During the last year, I’d spent time in the Stony Desert, between Afghanistan and Pakistan, where domes of ancient mosques turn to pearl in moonlight. Was that how they avoided spy satellites-hammering out messages on rocks and goatskins?
Wilson caught my eye. “ ‘Zero signature’-it’s an interesting term. I came across it in my reading a year ago. When you think about it- zero signature -it has philosophical implications. People who accomplish nothing. People who stand for nothing. But it also describes someone who is very good at what they do. Brilliant reconstructive surgeons. Architects, petroleum engineers. And… other professions. Were you guys Boy Scouts?”
Tomlinson’s expression read Are you serious? as I replied, “No. I’ve never been much of a joiner.”
“Too bad. One of the founders was a great naturalist. He had a theory that every living thing leaves an uninterrupted track, from birth to death, that’s readable to a skilled tracker. And he believed the converse was true: A skilled tracker knows how to cover his tracks. That’s what we’re going to find out.”
“How, Sam?” Tomlinson was into the conversation, loved the idea that we’d switched centuries, I could see. I could also see that he was getting twitchy, tugging at his salt-bleached Willie Nelson braids. It was after six- beer time -but Wilson had ordered him to limit his alcohol intake and banned marijuana.
Wilson replied, “By the way we communicate. I’m going to use your drum technique tonight. Sort of.” Meaning we’d find out. “But right now, we need to finish this electronics issue.” He pointed at the flashlight. “Is that all you’re carrying?”
“I’ve got another flashlight in my bag, but it’s a simple penlight. I’ll show you-”
Wilson put his hand on my shoulder when I tried to stand. “No need. Your word’s good enough.” His sincerity somehow added to my sense of indebtedness. “The question now is, what should we do with it-your light, and any other items aboard this boat that might compromise us?”
I was holding the little LED. A fine piece of equipment. Machined aluminum body and a dazzling beam. It wasn’t as nice as the Blackhawk I’d left with Wilson’s would-be assassins, but it was nice.
I said, “How about I take the light apart? You can stow it with your gear. These things are a lot more expensive then you might think-”
The former president was shaking his head even before I finished. “On a trip that’s so personally important, is that our most secure option? I don’t think Tomlinson’s going to be shocked to hear that, in certain circles, you’re considered a security expert of sorts. So I’ll leave the decision up to you, Doc. Your call.”
In only a couple of sentences, the man had voiced his unquestioned respect for my integrity and deferred to my superior knowledge and judgment.
Damn.
“Marion, your behavior is so predictable.” Tomlinson said. “You’re clinging, man. Material objects. Money. The sutras tell us that all suffering is rooted in selfish grasping. To experience reality, we must first divest ourselves of delusion.” He was using his Buddha voice-the gentle, all-knowing tone he uses with his students, and, at times, to intentionally piss me off.
I held up a warning hand. “Okay. Enough. No more of your ping-pong Zen speeches. I’d rather throw the damn thing overboard than have to listen.” And I did-flipped the flashlight over my shoulder. Didn’t even turn to see it hit the water.
Tomlinson had both feet on the wheel, hands folded behind his head. He leaned and gave me a brotherly rap on the arm. “Sam? Doc’s the sort of guy who, if I pointed at a meteorite, he’d study my finger. Seriously. Meditation frees us.”
Wilson said, “Really? You’re free of greed and delusion, huh? We’ll see.” He had returned to the companionway, talking to Tomlinson as he went down the steps.
When the President reappeared, he was carrying Tomlinson’s leather briefcase, timing the sailboat’s movement before he took his seat. The man was careful about getting banged around, I’d noticed.
“You stowed this in the bulkhead locker. The briefcase was open, so you’re obviously not trying to conceal anything.” Wilson removed a laptop computer, then a palm-sized wafer of white plastic-an iPod.
Tomlinson was suddenly sitting up straight, watching. “Careful there, man. If we take some spray, salt water could ruin the circuitry.”
“I’m aware of that. Question is, why are these things aboard?”
“Because this is my home, man. Don’t you have a computer at home? Everybody has a computer at home. Where else would I keep it?”
“I told you several times that I had to personally okay all electronics.”
“Yeah. But you meant navigational gear. Radios, radar, my sonar-that kinda stuff. The bullshit twenty-first-century baggage no real sailor needs. I got rid of that crap. We’re simpatico on the subject-”
Wilson was shaking his head. “Apparently not. I hate to force the issue, but this equipment has to go.”
Tomlinson was twitching, tugging at his hair. “My computer? Sam. .. you can’t be serious.”
“I’ll give you time to back up your files.”
“You mean… throw it overboard?”
Wilson nodded.
“But it’s a MacBook, Sam! It’s not some IBM clone piece of garbage. We’re discussing an engineering work of art.”
Wilson remained stoic.
“ And my iPod?” The president didn’t resist when Tomlinson reached, took the device, and held it lovingly. “This is my personal music system. I’ve got, like, my entire vinyl collection stored here. Jimi Hendrix outtakes from the Berkeley rally. Cream’s last concert. The actual tape from the Rolling Stone interview with Timothy Leary!
“Sam, please”-I’d never heard Tomlinson beg before-“this is history, man. Think of what you’re doing. You… you need to shallow up, Sam.”
The president said, “Sorry,” his voice flat.
Tomlinson leaned forward and touched my sleeve. “Doc-talk to him. Aren’t there some basic safety issues involved here? He’s asking me to sail to Key West without music or smoking a joint? Why, it’s… insane. I’ve never tried anything so crazy. Say something, compadre.”
I was watching Wilson open the laptop-surprise, surprise. Tomlinson’s screen saver was a photo of Marlissa Kay Engle, actress and musician. She was wearing a red bikini bottom, nothing else, smiling at the camera from a familiar setting. The woman I’d been dating was topless on the sun-drenched foredeck of my best friend’s boat.
Wilson said, “I admire your taste, but your judgment is questionable.”
“But it’s only two months old. A MacBook with a SuperDrive, four gigs of memory, and the built-in video eye. You can’t be serious!”
I studied the computer screen long enough to be sure of what I was seeing, then looked at Tomlinson, whose expression had changed. “Doc. I can explain.”
I interrupted. “You’re clinging, man. Don’t grasp-it’s the root of all suffering. You’re hung up on possessions… man.” To Wilson I said, “Give me the goddamn computer. I’ll throw it over.”
Wilson closed the laptop, cutting us both off. “You take the helm, Dr. Ford. Mr. Tomlinson, go below and back up your data. Then deep-six this contraband.”
As the president went down the companionway steps, Tomlinson sounded near tears. “But these are Apple products, Sam.”
I nudged him away from the sailboat’s wheel, saying, “You need to deepen up, pal.”