Superpowers (25 page)

"Oh, no," said Bert O'Brien. "Oh, god. Oh, no."

EDITOR'S NOTE

I hadn't heard of Bert O'Brien or Hiram Crawford or Jacques Claudel or Ross Ingebretsen or Althea Morris Ingebretsen before I started interviewing Charlie Frost. Since then I've searched libraries public and private, government archives, the World Wide Web, and the
Big Book of Conspiracies
for information on those five people and their activities during World War II, and I've found precisely two things: jack and shit. I've been unable to reproduce Mary Beth Layton's research or, as I've said, to discuss any of this with her. Bert O'Brien, as you'll learn, died recently and can no longer confirm or deny any questions I might put to him. Hiram Crawford may be dead as well, although the evasions I encountered from various British agencies lead me to believe that there's some very polite obfuscation going on over there.

So you may be wondering how someone who calls himself a journalist can present such an outlandish story without even a shred of evidence. Here's the thing: I never said Bert O'Brien's story was true. I merely repeated his words as they were told to me by Charlie Frost. Filters, remember?

However, I believe that Bert O'Brien's story
was
true, despite the lack of evidence. Partly I believe it
because
of the lack of evidence. You see, I have a theory, but it involves a digression.

Fact: on December 16, 1998, the UN ordered its weapon inspectors out of Iraq after chief inspector Richard Butler reported that Baghdad was being less than cooperative. The Hussein government suspected that Butler was working for U.S. intelligence, a fact that Butler later admitted.

Fact: in August and September of 2002, an overwhelming number of American media outlets reporting on weapons inspections spoke of Iraq "kicking out" the weapons inspectors.

In other words, the news media rewrote history.

It could be argued that the distinction is minor. Perhaps. But if you think that's the first time something like this has happened, I've got some special Kool-Aid I'd like you to try.

Bert O'Brien spoke of military control over the media during World War II. He believed that the military didn't want the public to know that the "Yankee Doodle Dandies" were on the frontlines, so they kept the story quiet.

"Even assuming he's right," you might say, "the military doesn't control the media now, so that kind of thing couldn't happen today."

The military doesn't control the media now, that much is true. Money controls the media. Corporations that have only our best interests at heart, so long as our best interests are in the best interests of those corporations.

Do you think these people have no stake in controlling information? Do you think they're above portraying their products in a positive light, burying scandals that implicate their advertisers and shading news stories to cast their pet politicians in a favorable light? If so, then you need to put down the rose-colored crack pipe and look around.

I make it a point to bring to light the facts that these people want buried. But what worries me, what keeps me awake at night, is knowing that there are things I'll never be able to find out. I won't even know where to look, because the truth is being concealed. They're hiding the facts. They're rewriting history. And in my darker moments, I fear that there's not a thing we can do about it.

SATURDAY

This is the difference between our cultures," Solahuddin said. "Respect for elders is one of the tenets of Islam. My grandparents live in my father's house, and will until their deaths."

They were finished eating. Only their coffee cups sat on the table alongside their separate checks.

"What if they get sick?" Jack thought of his father in the rented hospital bed, tubes coming out of his holes. He wondered if his own death would be gradual, or if his heart would simply seize up.

"We care for them. This can be costly, but we value our elders. They can teach and advise. And as they share wisdom and experience, their own well-being is improved."

"That makes sense." Jack wondered how long he had left. Every second he was dying. Only for him, a second was, what— an hour? He didn't know of an objective way to measure it, and he didn't want one. It would be like counting down to his death.

"Of course. It is this lodging of the elderly in dormitories and waiting for them to die which makes no sense. Do you not agree?"

"I guess." Jack's hair was starting to fall out. He'd lost weight, and his skin had gotten loose. He was having trouble sleeping.

"Your mind is not on our conversation. Are you thinking of this man whom you visited in this elder's prison?"

"Just thinking about something he said." Jack leaned forward. "Sol, what do you think happens when we die?"

Solahuddin folded his hands. "Are you thinking of your father?"

"Yeah." Jack didn't look at Solahuddin while he lied. Solahuddin was a good friend, although Jack hadn't known him very long. Not long in normal time. Years, perhaps, in his own.

"Muslims believe that this world is preparation for the next. There we are sorted according to the lives we have lived. It is much like your Christian afterlife, with Paradise for the just and Hell for the wicked."

"But what is it we need to be prepared for? What's going to happen in Paradise—or Hell—that's so challenging?"

"I do not know, my friend Jack."

"Maybe there isn't anything to be prepared for. Maybe there's nothing."

"I do not believe that, but it is possible."

Jack leaned back. He wasn't ready to die. He wanted to marry and have kids. He wanted long summer days in the fields and warm summer nights under the stars.

He dug his wallet out. "I have to go, Sol."

Solahuddin nodded. "Very well. I have much to do this weekend myself. I cannot believe that school begins on Tuesday. Will I see you tomorrow morning?"

Jack hadn't told his mother about school. Telling her he wasn't going would mean telling her why.

He could do a lot of things in a month. He should get started.

"If I have time," he told Solahuddin.

SUNDAY

Harriet wouldn't look at him, wouldn't speak. Ray kept talking to fill the silence, saying everything, even the horrible things he'd thought but never intended to say. She just hung her head, and it was ten minutes before he realized she was crying.

Ray looked down at his kitchen table and tried to think when last he had raised his voice to Harriet. He couldn't recall. Being a cop had taught him that shouting never solved anything.

It was Marcus Hatch's fault. Hatch's face was tattooed on Ray's vision—the smug, surprised expression when Ray told him that yes, Harriet was his daughter. Ray knew immediately that there was a history, that Marcus and his daughter were or had been sleeping together. It hadn't made him angry at the time. Sitting there with Ed in Hatch's house, he had been too aware of the things he had to hide. (Hatch had served coffee and sandwiches but refused to say a word about Green Star and politely threatened to bring the ACLU down on their heads, causing Ray to picture ACLU lawyers representing both sides of the case, victims of anonymous superheroes vs. journalist protecting his sources.) The fact that Harriet was sleeping with a boy who believed the government was poisoning the water supply with mind-control drugs was just one more thing he couldn't tell anyone, one more string that could unravel his career and family both.

He wasn't angry anymore, not after having unloaded all of his hurt feelings on Harriet. He was sorry, for losing his temper and making her cry. He
wanted
to feel angry. He wanted to be cold and hurtful until Harriet apologized for lying and screwing up and growing up.

He set his jaw and handed her a box of Kleenex.

She blew her nose and started crying again. "I wanted to tell you."

"Well. You didn't."

"I knew you wouldn't approve."

"I don't. It's unsafe, and illegal, and people have gotten hurt. Do you know how many lawyers have their fingers in this now? They smell money."

"We don't have any money."

"You kids are in the middle. The city, state, police, university, gas company—somebody's going to pay for all this, and you'll be ruined in the process. I know you wouldn't have gotten into this if you didn't think you were helping. But if they get their hands on you, you won't have a future."

Harriet yanked another Kleenex from the box. "I was thinking about quitting," she said as she wiped her eyes. "But I'm changing my mind."

"Goddammit, Harriet—"

"Maybe I should have told you. But I'm not ten anymore. I don't tell you everything. You don't want to know everything.

"I respect your advice. But we can do things no one else can. We've made mistakes. But we've helped a lot of people, too, and I don't see the wrong in that."

"Harriet, I can't let you do this."

"Then you'll have to arrest me."

MONDAY

They were alone. The apartment was clean, everything neatly put away, for probably the only time all semester. Charlie took an air-conditioned breath and dove in.

"I don't think we should see each other anymore."

He read her shock, but there was also relief. She had known this was coming. Charlie already knew the arguments she would raise.

"You made this decision for us?" Mary Beth asked. "Did you read my mind to find out how I'd react? Is it what you expected so far?"

The words didn't hurt much. It was self-defense, and he could feel the remorse behind the anger.

"At first I thought we could just work through things," Charlie said. "But we don't talk anymore. That's my fault, too. But there are things you think sometimes that you never say. You do that because you know that I already know them. You think we don't need to talk about things because I already know what you think. You forget that I don't necessarily agree with you."

"You're holding what I think against me? Why can't you judge me by my actions?"

"I don't want to judge you. That's the problem. You think that because I know your secrets that I'm the arbiter of your worth. As long as we're together, you feel like you've been found worthy of something."

"Please. Don't flatter yourself. You're not that important."

"Exactly. It's not about me. Possibly you think I'm cute, but the reason you're with me is because there's no work involved. You don't have to worry about me finding out anything awful about you, and you don't need to worry about looking inside yourself. Being with me is like confession without the penance."

"I don't know what that means."

"You won't find out if we stay together. I can't make this feel good, Mary Beth. I care about you, but I don't think this is right for either of us, not right now."

"Not right now," she mimicked back at him. "You think after this that we'll ever be together again? You think I . . ." She stopped.

She wouldn't cry until she left the apartment, until she was down the sidewalk out of sight of his window. He heard her thinking this, and he heard her realize that he would know she was crying no matter where she did it, that he knew she was thinking about it right now.

She left without another word.