“Clay Ro was one of the people responsible for setting fire to diluted bitumen operations in Fort McMurray. We believe he was also one of the drivers responsible for destroying a coal-fired power plant in Ohio in 2030. He’s 6Degrees, Dr. Pietrus. Or Weathermen, if you prefer. CSIS picked him up trying to cross back into the States.”
“I don’t understand half the acronyms you’ve used in the last hour.”
“Canadian Intelligence. They’ve turned him over to us, as you know.”
“Okay. Congrats.” He flopped his hands against his thighs.
Croissant exchanged a look with Wallflower and said, “We’re going to need a minute to verify a few things. Can we get you anything while you wait? Coffee? A soda? We’ll try to be quick.”
“For the fifth time, no,” said Tony, batting a hand. “I just need to be on my way.”
The two women stood and left the room, Wallflower shooting him a weird smile on her way out. He reached for his phone to text Holly, only to remember he’d given it up at security. Tony sat there, stewing. If they knew about the VR worlde on the cliffs of Ireland, the whole thing was over, but why start by asking about Clay Ro? He had no grip on what was happening. There was a dust-coated clock above a silent television that he tried not to look at; he sat there, staring out the window at the cars coming to and from the office park. Bureaucrats on coffee runs. He finally got fed up with waiting.
In the hallway, he looked both ways but there was nobody to help him. He could hear the unremarkable sounds of an office in daytime: desk phones ringing, computer keys clicking, paper shuffling, murmured conversations, a microwave heating lunch. He took a right. It was a low building full of darkling hallways, and each corner he turned made him feel as if he were traversing a whirlpool, passing eldritch rooms, vast, desolate cubicle farms but no people or computers or supplies. In one office, the door was open, and there were two extremely buff men standing in shirtsleeves, arms crossed, each with a VR set on. They stared down at something or someone with identical grim expressions. Finally, he found a room with a photocopier and a landline. His index finger hovered over the buttons as he realized he didn’t actually know Holly’s number.
“Fuck a duck,” he hissed. He didn’t know anyone’s number. His childhood number was the only one that came to mind, along with an errant memory of his mom teaching him that it spelled out kapowza before she died. He thought about 911, but what would he say? That federal law enforcement was taking too long with their inquiries? He finally dialed 0, and he was able to negotiate his way through the AI operator to the FBF New York office and finally to Holly’s desk. The call rang for a moment before going to voice mail. Of course, she was at the train station trying to meet him.
“Hey, Older One, it’s Dad. I’m so sorry, but something fucked-up is going on. My car got vandalized and Homeland Security came to question me, so I’m at their office in Bridgeport, and they took my phone, and—” He stopped because he wasn’t sure what he should tell her. He couldn’t say the names of any of the people he was working with because that would bring her into it. “Okay, I’ll either get there as soon as I can, or…” Or what? “Or I’ll call you first thing. But I think maybe you should call a lawyer and—”
“Excuse me.” The man was tall, wearing a photo ID on his lapel, and he walked over to Tony, hand outstretched for the phone.
“I gotta go…” He backed away from the man, twisting his body to evade him. “Also, call Ash Hasan and tell him I’m here—”
The man snatched the phone and punched the button with his thumb to end the call. He glared at Tony. “Sir, you are not authorized to leave the conference room, and you’re not authorized to be on a phone in here.”
Tony noticed his badge did not say Department of Homeland Security. Instead, it read GBI.
“You’re not authorized to keep me here,” he said.
“So leave!” said the man. “But you sure as hell cannot be wandering around this facility unsupervised, dialing numbers on phones that aren’t yours.”
Chastened, Tony followed the man back to the conference room. He was on the verge of feeling like an idiot, except when he got back inside, the man closed the door behind him and he heard the lock click. He rattled the handle, unsure of how paranoid he should be feeling. Wallflower and Croissant returned to the room soon after. They didn’t mention anything about his prison break or the phone call.
“You’re not with DHS?” he said.
“We’re part of a JTTF,” said Croissant. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“I want to see your badge.” She showed it to him. GBI - Michelle Novotny - Special Investigations. “What is GBI?”
“We’re a security firm contracted by DHS.”
“So you have absolutely no authority to keep me here.”
Michelle Novotny didn’t respond. Wallflower set the tablet down. “Why don’t you start telling us what you know.”
“Know about what?” he asked. Wallflower stared at him. She had green and orange eyes as cold as gemstones. He looked to Novotny. “What I know about what?”
“You never had any contact with Clay Alvin Ro? Not even encouragement?” She gazed at him. “Or financing?”
“Financing? Lady—”
“Are you aware of IPA, Tony?”
“I’m not a drinker.”
“I’m talking about identity prediction analysis. Advanced AI that sifts through mountains of data to identify people who might present a criminal or terrorist risk. We know damn well who’s radicalized and who’s doing that radicalizing.”
“Oh, like some Minority Report shit. Why, did Ro turn up in it?”
“No, Dr. Pietrus. You did.”
His skin went cold with understanding. This was not about the concert. They’d been monitoring him, but the anonymizing software had worked, as Liza Yudong said it would. They had no idea about Ned Stark or the meetings on the cliff. It looked to his watchers like he’d been in any old porno worlde. He was relieved, terrified, and grateful to Yudong. Now his only goal here was to keep the others safe. Get angry.
Easy enough, and he let all the acid he felt spill into his voice. “Great piece of software you have then. Staking out widowed old men who talk to their cats. Sounds like DHS really earns its taxpayer dollars.”
Wallflower tapped her screen again. “Following the fire in Fort McMurray, you wrote to a colleague, Dr. Nikolaos Stubos, “ ‘If only they’d thought of that twenty years ago maybe we’d have had a chance.’ ”
“That was in a private text message to my friend. I was joking.” He looked from Novotny to Wallflower. “How do you have that conversation?”
“Dr. Pietrus, we have a great number of your emails, text messages, phone calls—every incriminating communication you’ve made in the last two years.”
“Sounds like I’m going to have a hell of a good lawsuit. Maybe I can retire in luxury now.”
“As you may or may not be aware, PRIRA’s terrorism components give law enforcement authority to use predictive models to ascertain the dispositions and political attitudes of targets in order to gain FISA warrants for surveillance.” She smiled warmly. “So my question, Dr. Pietrus, is why are you texting this encouragement of a terrorist act, while also appearing in a photograph with one of the people responsible for at least two attacks? And why are you being so obstinate under some simple questioning?”
“My dead wife would say it’s because I’m a Leo. Highly resistant to change.”
Agent Wallflower continued smiling. “This isn’t a joke. You’re linked directly to a terrorist group that’s killed two people.”
“Do I need a lawyer then?”
“Not if you have nothing to hide.”