Remote (5 page)

Not when there were so many other tasks to be done.

The cabin was at the end of a long driveway, off a little-used road that wound through the Mount Hood National Forest.  He pulled in beside the modest, one-story A-frame and shut off the engine.

The cabin looked old and rundown, but there were bars on the windows and the door was steel-cored oak; anyone stumbling across the place would find it more than a little difficult to break into.  He undid the heavy chain-and-padlock sealing it up and pulled the door open.

The stink was thick and human, feces and urine and BO.  That was good; it meant his property was still alive.  Tanner stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, and walked over to the cage that took up half the room. 

The man behind the bars was huge, closer to seven feet tall than six, with an enormous beer gut and muscular arms covered from wrist to shoulder with tattoos: Harley-Davidsons ridden by naked women, screaming demons in sunglasses, sinuous dragons wrapped around tumbling dice.  His bushy orange beard was matted, filthy, and shot through with gray.  He was naked save for a metal helmet with a visor that covered his eyes securely strapped to his head, and his range of motion was severely limited by the chains fastened around his wrists, ankles, and waist.  The bucket in one corner was giving off a great deal of the smell. 

The giant was on his feet, swaying slightly from side-to-side.  Tanner could hear heavy industrial death-metal leaking from the headphones inside the helmet.  He wondered how much of the man’s mind was left.  Well, he was still alive--that was the important thing.

Tanner sat down at the desk on the far side of the room and turned on his computer.  It was amazing where you could get Internet service these days, especially if you were willing to invest in satellite equipment. 

He connected to the net and got to work.  First he checked on how his investments were doing—as a financial analyst, that habit was so ingrained as to be automatic.  No fires to put out, though the economy continued to thrash like a dying animal; the sabbatical he’d recently decided to take was looking more and more like the first step in changing careers than a brief respite from the trenches.  No matter—he had enough squirreled away that he could stay afloat for some time, and his new hobby had opened up some interesting new possibilities for revenue flow.  Not that he could implement any of them at the moment, but he was willing to bide his time. 

And in the meantime, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Remote: I use technology.

The basis of my control system is a series of small, shaped charges of plastique held firmly against the body. Steel cables sandwiched between riveted leather straps hold them in place.  That’s the deterrent part of the package.

The compliance part is more complex, and more important.  Some of the modules attached to the harness contain electronics, which ensures constant contact between myself and my instruments—or, as I call them, my drones—electronics that use both Bluetooth and cellular technology to link me to a small spycam and microphone concealed on the drone’s person.  There’s also a taser built into the harness, in case the drone needs to be persuaded in a moment of weakness.  That rarely happens, though; I choose my instruments carefully.

“Sonofabitch,” Jack whispered.  “He can’t be serious.”

Jack: I find it hard to believe you could maintain control in such a situation.  What if your drone tries to alert someone to what’s going on?

Remote: I’ve considered every eventuality.  They’re required to keep their hands in sight at all times; I allow no texting or writing of notes.  During the period I control a drone, my attention is absolute; I am with them every second until they complete their task. 

But the key to my success is neither intimidation nor complete control; it’s
information
.  

I’m sending you a video file.  It’s the same one I have each of my drones watch when I first acquire them.  They wake up from being drugged, usually in a hotel room, with a note taped to one hand that says “You are strapped to a bomb.  Watch this DVD if you want to survive.”

***

The screen showed a graphic of a harness, with straps that cinched around the waist, thighs and neck.  The voiceover was machine-generated, but it was an advanced program that did a good job of mimicking an actual woman’s voice.  “Hello.  Please remain calm; you are in no immediate danger.  Pay close attention and you will live through this. 

This is not a prank.  The harness now attached to your body is laced with plastic explosives and electronics.”  The graphic rotated slowly as blue nimbuses highlighted flat lozenges at different points on the harness.  “Any one of these explosives is powerful enough to kill you instantly.  Here is a list of things that will cause detonation.”

The harness was replaced by text.  The voice recited each item as it appeared.

1) Attempting to tamper with the lock on the belt.

2) Attempting to cut through the harness.

3) Immersing the harness in water.

4) Attempting to remove one of the attached modules.

5) Attempting to insert anything between the harness and your skin.

 “There are biometric sensors attached to your skin at various spots.  They are glued in place.  Attempting to remove them from your skin will cause detonation.

“Not all of the packets contain explosives.  There is also a stun-gun and communications equipment.  At the conclusion of this video, please put on the attached earpiece; you will be given further instructions directly.”

The list disappeared, replaced by footage of a bare-chested man in the middle of a forest, wearing the harness.  He looked terrified.

“In case you think I’m bluffing, here is a demonstration of what the harness can do.”

The explosion wasn’t very loud at all, just a staggered series of muffled
whoomps
.  The man’s head and limbs remained attached, but there wasn’t much left for them to be attached to. 

Large black letters filled the screen over the final, bloody image.

PLEASE PUT ON THE EARPIECE TO RECEIVE FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.  YOU ARE ALREADY BEING MONITORED.  DO NOT ATTEMPT TO USE YOUR CELLPHONE OR TO COMMUNICATE WITH ANYONE ELSE.

The file ended.

***

Remote: After that, it becomes much more about finesse.

Jack: Threatening to turn someone into shredded hamburger doesn’t seem terribly subtle.

Remote: It’s not.  That’s the stick you use to get their attention.  Once you’ve focused that, it’s much easier to give them instructions. 

Jack: To turn them into killers, you mean.

Remote: It’s not as hard as you might think.  I’ve found that most people struggle to maintain a balance between self-interest and altruism.  Whether it’s inborn or a result of societal conditioning, most people want to do the right thing; it’s how they define what the “right thing” is that varies.  My job is twofold: on the surface, to convince the drone that what they’re doing is in their own interest, that it’s only self-preservation; and beneath that, to help them construct a rationalization that what they’re doing is in the interest of the common good.

Jack: Why do you care about what they think?

Remote: Simple expediency.  A drone that wants to serve is infinitely more trustworthy than one continually looking for a way to escape.  It’s not enough to threaten; you have to gain their trust.  The only drone I’ve ever killed was the one in the video file you just watched, and he was a White Supremacist with a long string of assault charges and at least one attempted murder under his belt.  In every other case, I’ve kept my word and released the drone when they were finished their task.  Not only that, I’ve provided them with a plausible cover for their actions. 

Jack: I’ve been wondering how you managed that.  What happens when they’re arrested wearing a belt filled with explosive charges?

Remote: The harness is never found.  In Rosalee’s Klein case, she dropped it in a very deep part of the ocean; the lawyer, Rycroft, attached his to a large bunch of balloons on the top level of a parking garage and launched them into the sky.  The release of a drone is always the most delicate part; you must convince them beforehand that you will keep your word, and eradicate any idea they might have about hanging onto a piece of incriminating evidence they can use to prove extortion.  The very first thing I insist they do is destroy the explanatory DVD.

Jack: And you’ve never had one go rogue?

Remote: Far from it.  In fact, in most cases they wind up being an active participant, suggesting enhancements to my plan to make it run even smoother.  It’s all a matter of pushing the right buttons.

Jack stopped, his fingers resting lightly on the keyboard.  He knew all about pushing people’s buttons.

But it was starting to sound like Remote could teach him a thing or two. . .

***

Jack took Nikki to a Chinese Canadian restaurant called Kyle’s for breakfast.  It was small but clean, with mismatched tables and the best breakfast special in town.  He’d been up most of the night exchanging messages with Remote. 

Nikki ordered the special with bacon, white toast and a tomato juice.  Jack stuck to coffee, though he’d already gone through a pot and a half in the last eight hours.  They sat in the corner and kept their voices low.

“So he’s for real,” Nikki said.

“I think he is.  He’s provided extensive details on everything from the type of explosives he uses to electronic schematics--”  Jack broke off as a beaming Asian waitress delivered Nikki’s tomato juice. 

“Could still be a sting.”  Nikki shook some salt and pepper into her juice.   “You can fake just about everything except a body—you know that.”

“Even one blowing up?  You saw the footage.”

She shrugged.  “It looked real.  Couldn’t see any trace of editing or special effects.  But that could just mean he’s a really
talented
fake.  Or has a whole police cybercrime task force working for him.”

“Possible, but unlikely.  It would have to be federal, not local, and have a pretty big budget.  These days federal funds are all earmarked for anti-terrorism.”

She sighed.  “Granted.  Okay, so no hard evidence either way.  What do you want to do?”

“Take the next logical step.”

“Try to set up a meet?”

“Yeah.  If he’s the real deal, he’ll resist the idea.  If he’s a cop, he’ll go for it and try to trap me.”

Nikki’s food arrived; service at Kyle’s was fast and efficient.  Jack watched as Nikki dug in.  He sipped his coffee and stared out the window on the other side of the restaurant; a woman was using watercolors to paint a mural on the glass.  Jack found himself critiquing her brushstroke, which he thought was a little sloppy. 

Then he realized what she was painting.  A Christmas tree.

Jack blinked, then looked away.  He focused on controlling his breathing, but didn’t try to push away the horrific images that rose in his mind.  They were part of who he was, now; he saw them every night when he went to sleep. 

The Patron had used his wife to decorate their tree.

“Jack?  Are you all right?”  Nikki saw where he’d been looking. “Jesus, it’s barely November—do you want to leave?”

“No.  No, I’m all right.”

“Jack, it’s no big deal, it’s a cheap breakfast and I wasn’t really hungry anyway—“

“Nikki.”  The steel in his voice stopped her in midsentence.  “This is what he wanted.  What he
did
.  Making his victims associate cultural symbols with the worst thing they ever experienced.  I can’t hide from it, Nikki.  I
won’t
.  If I do that, he’ll have won.  I refuse to let that happen.”

“I—okay, Jack.”

“I’m not going to go into fucking hibernation every year from the end of October until halfway through January.  I’m not going to lose my mind every time I notice some idiot still has their Christmas lights up in March. 
I’m not going to let him beat me
.  All right?”

Nikki studied him for a moment, then nodded.  “All right.”  She went back to eating.

A minute later, she glanced over at the window.  “Shitty picture, anyway.”

Jack permitted himself a small smile, because he knew Nikki would expect it.

Inside, he felt colder than ever.

***

Jack: If we’re going to work together, it’ll require a certain amount of trust.

Remote: Of course.  I’ve provided you with details of my process; are you offering to share some of yours?

Jack: I don’t think you’d be interested.  My methods are directed at obtaining information, not obedience.  They tend to be extended and brutal.

Remote: I had deduced as much—and you’re right, the mechanics of suffering hold little interest for me.  I was merely being polite.  Courtesy is a necessary element of any partnership, too.