Invisible Armies (13 page)

* * *
    "It's almost a shame, what you've done," Keiran says. He is putting more memory into Danielle's too-slow computer as she fills him in on the steering council goings-on. She hasn't seen him in almost a month, he's been in London at his day job, but with only four days to go until the protest, Keiran showed up at Gare du Nord's Eurostar terminal labouring under a duffel bag full of sharp and heavy objects. "I mean aesthetically. I'm glad you've got the protest going, you've done a wonderful job, but it makes me fear for the future of humanity."
    "What do you mean?"
    "I'm fascinated by your so-called global justice movement. It's very like the Internet. Distributed decisionmaking. It isn't a single movement, it's like a huge primordial agglomeration of cells, each one some individual group. A dozen people calling themselves Brummies for Africa or some such. Different sizes, different locations, often rather different directions. But through relentless communication they become a functional organization. The cells spontaneously self-organize into a single being to perform a particular action, then disintegrate once again into a thousand separate elements. Right?"
    "More or less," Danielle says cautiously.
    "Growth from the grassroots. Distributed hierarchies. Wave of the future. The protest movement works almost exactly the same as the open-source movement, or the Internet itself. But then you come along, and all this dispersed decisionmaking goes by the wayside as half the cells in Europe run for your beautiful image of a romantic little weekend waving placards in Paris. You're like a cancer. You've taken this wonderful little bottom-up self-constructing network and squashed it into a top-down hierarchy with a jackboot made of money."
    "Piss off," Danielle says, a little angry. "That's not true. What gets Dr. Sayers' panties in a knot is that we're not following their hierarchy. We're giving the grassroots a choice, and they're choosing to follow us. How is that not democratic consensus? And besides we're getting something done. Something really valuable."
    "You've really gotten into this protest, haven't you?" Keiran asks.
    Danielle hesitates. She badly wants this protest, her protest, to succeed. She wants newspaper pictures and TV coverage around the world to show pictures of thousands of people denouncing the International Trade Council, even shutting the meeting down. It could echo, this protest, she really believes that. If done right, it could change the whole movement, show that they shouldn't be saving their efforts for the high-profile WTO and G8 meetings, that they should be hounding every meeting, every get-together, every photo-op among that conspiracy of the rich called the global free market. Make them hide behind barbed wire and in remote Swiss castles, make it clear that ordinary people will not accept their venality any more. If her protest goes well, then maybe, just maybe, it could set an example for activists around the world.
   "I'm getting something done," is all she says. "I really don't think Angus and Estelle could have done this themselves. Estelle keeps talking about how she helped organize a million people in Hyde Park, but honestly, the scale of this thing seems totally beyond them, and they have no idea how to deal with the other groups. I thought they were supposed to be the experts."
    "There is some disjoint between how Angus and Estelle portray themselves and how they really are."
    "What do you mean?"
    He snaps the lid of her computer back into place and sits on her bed. This tiny room, wooden floors and ceiling, brick walls, is undecorated except for her computer desk and chair, a metal filing cabinet so full of papers most of its drawers will not close, and the perpetually-folded-out sofa-bed where she sleeps on those nights she can't make it back to Laurent and their apartment in the 11th arrondissement. The single window looks across a narrow street onto a brick wall.
    Keiran says, "Angus and Estelle spent years in the black blocs. The types who show up at protests with body armour and clubs, and not as a fashion statement. They never dealt much with the mainstream nonviolent groups. You know where Angus grew up? A housing estate outside Glasgow. One of the poorest places in Europe. Get him drunk enough and he'll drop those fancy words and that posh Scottish accent and turn into an Irvine Welsh character. Estelle grew up in an Alabama trailer park. When she was twenty-one she married a forty-four-year-old British geologist researching exotic rock formations. Call me unromantic, but I think that was getting out more than love. They're both very smart, obviously, they read a lot of books, they talk a good game, but neither of them ever finished uni. They don't work well with rich, educated, upper-class people. You do better. Not surprising."
    "Estelle told you all that?" she asks, knowing the answer.
    "No."
    "Do you spy on me too?"
    "No."
    "I'm supposed to believe that?"
    "I've been tempted," he admits. "Right after you dumped me I thought a half-dozen times about breaking into your email. But I never did."
    "I suppose you want a medal for it," she says tartly, but she believes him and is relieved.
    "No. No medal. A little trust would be nice."
    Danielle wordlessly acknowledges his point.
    "Please don't get too hung up on this protest," he says. "When it's over, if everything goes well, you're on your own, you understand that? I'm through. If you want to stay with this lot it's up to you. I won't be watching your back any more."
   "Watching my back? Keiran. Stop treating me like a lost little girl. I'm not just 'staying with this lot'. I'm setting directions here. I'm the one doing things. We're going to have seven thousand people at this protest, famous speakers, TV coverage, did you know the New York Times is sending a reporter? Six weeks ago this protest wasn't a gleam in my eye."
    "Six weeks and, what, a hundred thousand euros ago? For that kind of money I should hope you get some attention. There would always have been a protest here. Conferences like this are to protestors nowadays what butcher shops are to dogs. And protest is a national sport in France. It's just bigger than it would have been, thanks to you and the money. I'd love to know exactly who this foundation is that doesn't blanch at spending six figures on a one-day smokescreen. Maybe it's from some rich saint who died and left her money to a better world. Maybe not. You better start asking some questions yourself."
    "You asshole."
    Keiran looks at her, perplexed. "What?"
    "I've never worked so hard in my whole life. Never. I've stared down rooms full of PhDs, I've made arrangements for thousands of people, I've solved ten million problems that could all have shut the whole thing down, I've done something amazing here. And you stand there and tell me it was just money, it was nothing. Fuck you. And it's not just a smokescreen. Not to me. It's something good itself."
    "Dani, don't get me wrong –"
    "I can't believe I ever wasted four months of my life on you."
    "Oh, come on. I'm sorry," Keiran says, a perfunctory apology. "I suppose I've been insensitive again. I'm sure you've done a wonderful job. But please keep your eye on the prize. You know perfectly well the International Trade Council has nothing to do with Kishkinda. Except their terrible misfortune of scheduling their annual meeting right next door."/p>

Chapter  
16 

<    "
Au nom du fréres Islamique,
" Laurent says into the microphone, "
nous avons cachée une bombe dans la Tour EDF. Elle va eclater dans quinze minutes.
"
    "Perfect," Keiran says.
    Laurent looks at him. "You understand French?"
    "Enough to know a bomb threat when I hear one." Keiran replays the recorded message. "You sure that's an Arabic accent?"
    "I served in the Foreign Legion. Trust me. And you in turn are sure they will not recognize my voice?"
    "Just listen." Keiran taps keys, feeds the sentence Laurent just recorded through an anonymizing noise filter, and plays it back. The result is scratchy and unrecognizable.
    "Good."
    "You've studied the floor plans? And the plugs?" Keiran asks. "Don't want you getting lost in there. And it'd be a shame to get you all the way in and then have you screw things up."
    "I don't screw things up."
    Keiran nods. "Good. Neither do I. But Angus does. Keep an sharp eye."
    "I will. I don't suppose you have learned anything further about who we are truly working for?"
    Keiran is glad he is not the only one who wonders this. "Sorry. I have no idea who's the real Hari Seldon behind this foundation. But I am very curious."
    "A man like you, I would expect to be able to find things out."
    "Even I need some kind of starting point. Give me one thread, a name, an email address, and I'll unravel their whole silicon curtain, but we've got nothing."
    Laurent says, "If I happen to find such a thread…"
    "Send it my way. Even after I'm gone. I'll be happy to give it a tug, free of charge."
    Keiran and Laurent nod shortly at one another, a quick look of mutual respect, then depart Keiran's room. In the kitchen, they find Angus ladling sauce onto plates full of spaghetti. Danielle and Estelle are sitting at the table, which is adorned by wine bottles and a cheese-and-fruit plate.
   Danielle is speaking intently into her cell phone. "Don't bother calling a repairman. Francoise, it's too late. Just go to a copy shop and do it yourself. Well, find one! There has to be one open late somewhere in Paris. Yes, I'm sure they can find their way, but the one-sheet gives them the schedule, phone numbers, all the information they need. Francoise, I know they need you there, but this has to be done. Francoise –"
    Laurent plucks the phone from Danielle's hand and switches it off.
   Danielle stares at him as if he just struck her. "What are you doing?"
    "Come back to us," he says. "It's too late to make any more preparations. Let Francoise handle things. Everything will work out tomorrow, I promise. Your protest will be fine. Now let's sit and have dinner and talk."
    "He's right," Keiran says.
    Danielle aims a dirty look at him, clearly still annoyed at whatever it was Keiran said wrong a few days ago, but Laurent puts his hand on her shoulder and she thaws and smiles. "OK. Sorry. I'm just stressed."
    "We all are, hon," Estelle says as Angus brings the food to the table. "Tomorrow's a big day for all of us. You have to run the show, I have to make a speech, these three have to…" Her voice trails off.
    "Save the world?" Angus suggests.
    "Exactly." Estelle tastes the sauce. "Darling, this is exquisite."
    "And they thought you kept me around for my striking good looks."
    "You're all ready for tomorrow?" Keiran asks. "You've studied the floor plans, the plug types, you know the maximum distances…"
    "Keiran," Angus sighs. "Mate. It's all fucking memorized. Leave it be, let it settle. Tonight let's just have an evening of civilized discussion. Please."
    "All right." Keiran decides to do something nice for Danielle. Raising his wine glass, he says, "To tomorrow. And to Dani for making it happen."
    Angus, Estelle and Laurent echo the sentiment. Danielle awards Keiran an embarrassed smile as she sips her wine.
    "You've done a bang-up job," Angus agrees.
    "Thanks. I made a lot of mistakes, but at least now I'll know for next time."
    "There might not be a next time as such," Estelle says. "You've done so well with the protest I think in future we'll rope you in for the important stuff."
    Danielle cocks her head. "Important stuff? The protest isn't important?"
    "Well, it's a vital part of the plan, of course, but in itself it'll never be the answer," Angus says. "Protests are useless."
    Estelle clears her throat loudly in disagreement. Danielle smiles gratefully at her.
"Are you forgetting how we met?" Estelle asks.
    "Ah," Angus says. "There is that."
    Estelle explains, "We met at a protest. Our first date was in a holding cell. We both wore plastic handcuffs. It was very romantic."
    "To clarify," Angus says. "Other than matchmaking for lovelorn anarchists, protests are useless. That was the chief insight that brought us here. All those people sleeping in the warehouse, they're not here to get results. They know there won't be any results. They join because it makes them feel good. And that's very nice but doesn't actually accomplish anything. Protests only work when you get a million people out in the streets every day for weeks. Anything smaller is useless. Estelle and I spent years trying to shame companies into acting like human beings are more than a fleshy shell with money inside waiting to be squeezed out. And of course this was a complete failure. Because companies don't feel shame, and most people are useless selfish cunts. So we moved onto direct action, black blocs, violent protests, destruction of property, trying to physically shut companies down.. But that doesn't work either. It worked once, Seattle 1999, but that was all we got. After that they were ready for us, and the police are on their side. The G8 and WTO meet behind razor wire now, and big businesses are so distributed that it's hard to find a vital point, shutting down a single office does nothing. The black blocs get plenty of media attention, but that's only because what the TV audience really wants to see is someone's skull get split open. They won't actually care about why the black bloc is there in the first place. The proles are the problem, not the solution. Protests are useless. So how do you fight a massive transnational corporation?"
    Nobody replies. Keiran hopes somebody will. He thinks he knows what Angus and Estelle intend to do with the access and information he will give them if tomorrow's plan succeeds, but he'd very much like confirmation. They've never actually explained their goals, at least not to him, but on this nervous night before the protest and the raid, they seem to have relaxed their instinctive need-to-know secrecy.
    "We finally found an answer," Angus says. "Or it found us. The answer is, you don't want the media, you don't want the masses, you want management. That's how you take out a corporation. You go straight after the men in suits. Scare the bastards, intimidate them, hurt them if you have to. Make them resign. Make them think twice before they market powdered milk with insufficient nutrition as a good replacement for breastfeeding, not because they'll feel bad about killing babies, they won't, but because they're afraid we'll come after them and their colleagues. Their families if we have to. That's what we do. That's what we're doing tomorrow. We could get a hundred thousand people on the streets of La Défense chanting "Death To Kishkinda!" and they'd sit up there and smile. But when we start following them home and knocking on their front door, they'll change their tune but fucking quick."
    Danielle looks as if her spaghetti sauce is made of vinegar. Keiran winces. He is glad to have his suspicions officially verified, but his toast has backfired. Danielle does not want to hear that the demonstration she has spent so much time and sweat on is useless except as a front. But no one else seems to notice her expression; Angus and Estelle are too carried away by their words, and Laurent is paying close attention to them.
   "That's the ground war," Angus says. "To my mind, Estelle and I have a slight disagreement on this, the ground war is less important. Or not less important, but it's like modern militaries, before you can even fight on the ground, you have to win in the air. Except our air war is the information war. I use that word advisedly, let's not fool ourselves, people have died, they murdered Jayalitha, this is a shooting war. You have to know everything about the enemy, and control what the enemy knows." He nods to Keiran. "That's you, you're our air war. Except it's a bit of a dogfight with this P2 about."
   Keiran nods.
   "So why Kishkinda?" Laurent asks. "Did you suggest it to the foundation, or they to you?"
   "Kishkinda are first because they're an easy target."
   Keiran blinks. "First?"
   "We're not going to stop with them. We're here to build a whole better world, one dead evil company at a time. Maybe we'll fail, but that's the ultimate goal, and we're entirely serious about it. Kishkinda are first because they're vulnerable. If we intimidate enough of their management into resigning, destroy enough of their information, and maybe harass the mining operations itself, we'll make that mine uneconomical. It's barely profitable as is. We can drive them bankrupt. We've got the tools, we've got the time, we've got the money."
    Laurent raises his eyebrows. "Your foundation gave you enough money to wage war on a billion-dollar company? And another after that, and another after that?"
    "More of a loan, really," Estelle says. "We pay them back by winning. If we do, Kishkinda stock will plummet. The foundation shorts that stock and makes millions. Which in turn builds a war chest for the next target."
    Laurent whistles with admiration.
    Estelle says, "I hate to use the terms of the enemy, but our war, our better world, has a very sound business model."
    "The revolution will be self-financing," Keiran says. "That's beautiful. That's
elegant
. I wish I'd thought of it myself."
    "Can we maybe stop talking business and just eat?" Danielle asks sourly.
    Keiran returns to his food. He turns the scheme over in his mind as he eats, admiring it. Angus and Estelle are right. This is exactly how you fight a major corporation. Until now he has assumed that their task was quixotic, that they would never be more than a sharp stone in Kishkinda's shoe, but now he realizes, if tomorrow's raid goes well, there's an outside chance that they might actually win, that these few determined people could drive a billion-dollar company into collapse. Asymmetrical war. Like the 767s that felled the World Trade Center. Which isn't such a bad analogy. After all, even if they don't intend to hurt anyone, the people sitting around this table are planning to use crime, violence and fear to achieve their political objectives: that makes them, by any reasonable definition of the word, terrorists./p>