Nation of Enemies (19 page)

 

Chapter 39

I
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'
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midnight as Cole sits across from Karen and Steven at Steven's kitchen table. They drink beer and take turns lobbing ideas and debating issues. In the few weeks since they started Project Swap, they haven't gained much traction. For his part, Cole's been discreetly researching his Harvard Medical School network, searching for signs of government mistrust. He bought a separate device to use when contacting colleagues, and tosses burners after only a few uses. But getting ­people to talk about their fears, their real beliefs, is near impossible. He doesn't want to come on too strong. The best way to unearth honestly is often at the bottom of a wine bottle in a dim bar. And even those meetings hold no guarantees.

Steven's had some luck with technology/government outliers needing money more than MedIDs. And from a list of patients she's treated, Karen created a database of potential donors and recipients based in New England. At this point they're mired in logistics and contemplating process. After working a twelve-­hour shift at the hospital, Cole wishes he had more to contribute. But he's been around and around these problems and the danger involved. He's afraid their movement may end before it begins.

“How about an orphanage?” Karen offers. “No inheritance, no familial issues.”

“Are you suggesting we kill children to save other children?” Steven asks, arching an eyebrow.

“I'm saying that if anything ever happens at an orphanage—­a bomb, a natural disaster—­it would be a horrific stroke of luck for our purposes.” Karen runs her fingers over her beer bottle, making streaks in the condensation. “The demand for clean MedIDs for children is overwhelming.”

“Maybe Steven's on to something,” Cole says. “Boston's lost half its citizens to the countryside in the past ten years. ­People who left the IT and financial sectors are getting their hands dirty now. Sharing crops, raising animals. And those areas are always in greater need. They have maybe one or two doctors in their communities and the ­people barely have enough money to get by.”

Karen takes a thoughtful sip of beer and adds, “And they're off the grid.”

“The risk is encountering violence,” Steven says. “Last week I backed out of a camp with my hands held high. Felt like I was in a movie.”

“What else could we offer?” Cole asks. “If they don't want or need money, and they've moved away from technology, what else could sway them?”

The room falls silent. Cole takes a swig of beer and stares at a picture of Steven's family, stuck to the refrigerator by a magnet. He thinks of Ian and Talia. The more he considers the risk he's taking, the less he wants to include Lily. Putting them both at risk is unfair, irresponsible. The least he can do is protect her from a charge of treason.

“I know where you can get clean MedIDs.” From the hallway shadows, Steven's stepson, Jonathan, emerges.

All heads swivel in his direction. He's a handsome kid, in need of a haircut. His pale skin contrasts with his black outfit of jeans and a T-­shirt.
Holy shit.
How much has he heard?

“When did you get in?” Steven says.

Jonathan ignores him, shuffles to the refrigerator. He grabs a beer and hops up on the kitchen counter. Between sips, his mouth opens and closes as he plays with a tongue piercing.

“Jonathan, meet Doctors Fitzgerald and Riley. Doctors, this is my stepson, Jonathan.”

“What's up,” the boy says.

“Isn't there somewhere you'd rather be?” Steven asks.

“Nope. I'm pretty sure I should be right here.”

This kid could undo them all. But the carrot he's dangling can't simply be left there. Finally Cole says, “I'll bite. What was that you were saying, Jonathan? About knowing where to find MedIDs?”

“I know where there's a stash.” His head jerks, tossing the hair out of his eyes. “About ten thousand, give or take.”

Cole narrows his eyes at the kid, trying to get a read on him. Smudges of purple underline his dark eyes. Two facial piercings, though piercings don't make him untrustworthy. Still, Steven's told him the kid is troubled. Into God knows what. And he's probably doubly lost since his mother died. Too unstable to get pulled into their project.

“Where does one get ten thousand MedIDs?” Karen asks.

“Let's just say they're up for grabs.” Jonathan shrugs. “No one's using them. They've sort of been given up.”

With a loud sigh, Steven stands and strolls to the refrigerator. “What are you into, Jonathan?”

“Do you want them or not?”

Bottles clang together as Steven retrieves another round. The room is silent with unasked questions. Everyone waits, sips his or her drink.

“I imagine there's a price to this generosity of spirit,” Steven says.

Jonathan drums his fingers on the granite countertop. “What are ten thousand lives worth?”

“There it is,” Steven says. “Your mother would be proud.”

“Fuck off.” Jonathan hops off the counter and begins to make his way out of the kitchen, down the hall. “If you have another offer, by all means.”

When his footsteps have ascended the stairs and a door slams, there is a collective exhale from the group.

“What just happened here?” Karen says.

“Was that a legitimate offer?” Cole asks.

“I wouldn't know.” Steven takes a long drink. “But I have a confession to make. You know my . . . let's call them, community outreach excursions? Well. I've been taking him with me, looking for MedIDs.”

“What the hell?” Cole grips the tabletop. “That could jeopardize everything! You can't make unilateral decisions like this.”

“Cole's right,” Karen says. “Teenagers are unpredictable and self-­centered. No offense to Jonathan.”

“You're right.” Steven holds his hands up in surrender. “I'm sorry. I should have asked. But he's been with me for ten years and this is his home. I'm all he has left since his mother died. I need him to see that he has options in life, and that he can make a difference. He's old enough to help and young enough to still need some direction. I believe we can trust him.”

“Dammit, Steven, that was reckless.” Cole shakes his head. “I haven't even told my wife! You yourself have said Jonathan isn't stable. And somehow he has access to ten thousand MedIDs?”

“Why didn't he tell you this when you were out combing for MedIDs?” Karen asks.

“I don't know.” Steven's face sags. “Would have saved a lot of time, though. I imagine he was gauging if he could trust me. But his offer means that he's willing to put himself on the line. Wherever he's getting these MedIDs, there's a risk. Probably a great risk.”

“And are you willing to risk him?” Cole asks.

“He's almost eighteen and certainly seems willing. He's already put himself in precarious situations. Illegal, illicit dealings, who knows. I'd rather have him on our side. To know how he's spending his days.”

“Where could he have access to that many MedIDs?” Cole searches out the darkened window for an answer. “Hospitals. Funeral homes. The government. Another group like us.”

“Doubtful. All of that,” Karen says.

“The kid's handy with a computer,” Steven says. “Maybe he stumbled on a stash electronically. Maybe he's found an online source.”

“Suppose it's true. For the moment, let's ignore how he's getting them.” Cole stands and paces around the kitchen. “Ten thousand chips is our equivalent of venture capital. We could hit the ground running and our network would grow exponentially.”

“Let's at least talk to him,” Karen says.

Cole looks pointedly at Steven. “We're all adults here. We know what's at stake. But can we expect a teenager to grasp the consequences we're facing? What if he can't keep his mouth shut?”

“If there's one skill he's honed, it's keeping his mouth shut. But I should talk to him alone. Regardless of our history, he doesn't really want to hurt me.”

A full moon illuminates the pathway for Cole when he leaves. Jonathan's offer sits uneasy in his gut. As he navigates the back roads to District 149, their conversation plays in his head. He tries to imagine where this kid could get his hands on that many chips. It can't be legal and is likely dangerous. But there's an element of darkness they all need to get used to. Quickly.

 

Chapter 40

W
ITH
THE
TOU
CH
of a finger, Steven moves two million dollars from his business account into his Swiss bank account. Next he moves the same amount into an account in the Cayman Islands. The access codes are in his personal vault, hidden behind a false wall in the morgue. And for ultimate security, he's requested an in-­person retinal scan in order for any money to be removed or transferred. He looks forward to visiting both places.

Also in his vault, one floor below where he sits in his home office, is his cash reserve. That is strictly for emergencies should Project Swap's actions trigger any suspicions. Moving the bulk of his money offshore helps to settle his nerves.

The slam of the front door pulls his attention from the screen. Jonathan. After what happened at the Project Swap meeting, he needs to talk to him. The pad of footsteps through the house leads Steven into the kitchen, where he finds Jonathan's head buried in the refrigerator.

“I'm afraid it's been a while since I've done food shopping,” he says. “You might be able to pull together a condiment sandwich.”

“We still have some frozen meals.” Jonathan opens the freezer and pulls out a container of lasagna, one of many graciously delivered after the funeral.

Sarah would have gone crazy to see Jonathan's hair like this. It's like a tic, the way he tosses his head to get the brown mop out of his eyes. As Steven considers what to say, he takes a bottle of red wine from the rack and uncorks it.

“So.” He eyes the boy. “Ten thousand MedIDs?”

“Um hmm.” Jonathan watches the food in the microwave.

“Imagine my surprise.”

The boy shrugs.

“What are you up to?”

“None of your business.”

“Isn't it? Your actions effect this family. What's left of it. Regardless of how you might feel, I am your family.”

“Whatever. If you want them, let me know. If not, I'll move on.”

“ ‘Move on'? Do you understand the consequences you'll face if you're caught?”

Jonathan's face contorts in anger. “You're a hypocrite! You're in the market for them. You're out bartering for clean MedIDs. What if you get caught? What happens to me? What happens to your little empire of death here?”

“Fair enough.” He retrieves two wineglasses from the cabinet. He pours generously into one and hands the other with a lesser amount to Jonathan. “Sit.”

At the kitchen island, they sit on bar stools. Jonathan is tentative with his wine, while Steven takes a few rather large gulps. He's never had a “real” conversation with his stepson. Man-­to-­man, with the potential to shift the ground beneath them.

“If I'm going to be honest with you, I want the same in return,” Steven says.

“Fine.”

Because context is everything, he starts at the beginning. He talks about losing his first wife, his son and daughter, the day the Planes Fell. How he threw himself into his work, then met Sarah. About how politics never mattered to him until he watched lives spiral because of the MedID law and the war. Sarah had felt trapped, unable or unwilling to go beyond their front door, the only way out was to get high. When she died, she took his complacency and left him with a need, a drive to change things. Not by joining the fanatics, and not by giving in to the government. A new movement. About family. About helping ­people to live the lives they want to live, wherever they want to live them. Jonathan's face softens. For the first time in their history it feels like he's actually listening.

“What do you want with all the MedIDs?” Jonathan asks.

“If they're clean, we'll find matches—­­people looking to swap out their less than stellar MedIDs—­and we'll transfer the new MedID to that person.”

“So you can only use MedIDs that are over seventy-­five?”

“Yes.”

“What if you get a seventy-­five with a shit medical history?”

“Doesn't matter. Someone might have post-­traumatic stress disorder, depression, what-­have-­you, but they could live to be a hundred because of low cholesterol and strong genes. The MedID number is the potential for wellness.”

“Why did you bring me? To the camps?”

“You've lived with me since you were eight, and still I don't know what side you're on.”

“I'm on my own side.”

“You've been out a lot lately. You brought that girl over, the redheaded one. Shannon?”

“Hannah.”

“Right. And now you're offering up black market MedIDs. I think it's your turn for some honesty.”

Jonathan rotates his wineglass, swirling the burgundy liquid. “You know my job?”

“I know you have one. You've been rather vague about it.”

“It's . . . it's, uh, this antigovernment group.”

Steven's heart beats faster. “What group?”

Shifting in his seat, Jonathan's eyes meet his. “BASIA.”

The word penetrates him, sends a chill through his bones. Without thought, Steven throws his glass across the room. Glass shatters. Pink streaks mar the walls in an abstract piece of art. Looks like a piece Sarah might have done.

“How could you?” he shouts. “Don't you know? Haven't you heard the rumors?”

Jonathan stands, takes a few steps backward. “I didn't join BASIA. I just took a job. They needed a tech and Hannah—­”

“Hannah?”

A flood of red colors the boy's cheeks. “She had nothing to do with this.”

“What is your job exactly?”

“I log in MedIDs to their storage vault.”

“That's it?”

“And. Shit. And they have me hacking.”

“Hacking what?”

“Power grids.”

“Power grids! Of course! Your specialty. But they knew that, didn't they?”

Jonathan rubs his hands over his face. “Apparently.”

“Mitchell killed my family, Jonathan.”

“How did he get away with it?”

“Because all of the witnesses and low-­level conspirators died in the Planes! Because Mitchell's somehow convinced millions of ­people that Armageddon is here and if you're not with him, you're condemned to hell. Because he provides what looks like a safe haven for anyone who's lost family in this war. He's a psychopath.”

“I just thought it was a job,” Jonathan mumbles.

“It's just a job. He's just a reverend. And Hannah's just a girl.”

They sit motionless. Steven's mind is frayed, his body shaky. Anything he planned to say went out the door with this admission.

After a minute Jonathan says, “The MedIDs. The ones I have access to.”

“Whose are they?”

“Everyone in BASIA.” He rolls up the left sleeve of his shirt and points to a minuscule scar revealing that his MedID has been removed.

“He makes you take them out.”

“I have access to all of them.”

“How?”

“Don't worry about it.”

“I won't put you in danger. Just get out. Leave that psychopath while you still can.”

“But what if you're caught with your little side business?”

“There's a plan in place. If the situation becomes dangerous, we leave. You and I. Investors are ready to snap up Hudson's. We'd need forty-­eight hours to get out.”

“You've thought of everything.”

“I hope so. Let me ask you something. What changed? Why are you suddenly willing to steal from Charles Mitchell?”

Jonathan takes the bottle of wine and refills his glass. “I learned something about him that I don't like.”

“Only one thing?”

But the boy looks quite sad and doesn't offer more, so Steven leaves it alone.