The Switch

51

Tanner became aware that he was talking, or maybe mumbling, to someone in front of him, in a very white room. His vision was blurry, and everything seemed strangely bright. He felt hungover. He was able to make out a woman with short blond hair sitting across a table from him.

“A brother and a sister,” Tanner was saying, his words slurred. He must have been asked if he had any siblings. Who was this woman asking him questions, and where the hell was he? His feet felt cold, and he realized he was wearing socks and no shoes.

“Hey, where the hell are my shoes?” he said, his voice hoarse.

He was in a white room that seemed to have nothing in it except the long table he was sitting at across from the blond woman. On the wall behind her was a large mirror. He was still dressed in his clothes, but they’d taken away his shoes and his belt.

He hurt in a number of places. The knuckles on his left hand. His right side. A painful spot at the back of his neck, at the base, where the wasp had stung him. No, he remembered, it wasn’t a wasp, more like a needle, a hypodermic syringe. A large area on the back of his right arm felt bruised and tender. His lower back, around his right kidney, was painful and covered with a bandage.

He remembered now: he’d been grabbed outside the sports club, he’d fought with a couple of guys, and he must have been injected with something, and then he was hustled into the back of an SUV. They’d put opaque goggles over his eyes and earphones over his ears, and then he couldn’t see or hear anything.

“And where were you born?” the woman went on.

“No,” he said slowly. “I’m done here. Where the hell am I?”

“This shouldn’t take much longer.”

“Not gonna take any longer. Because I’m not answering any more questions. I want to know where am I, and am I under arrest or not? What’s the deal?”

The door came open and a man stepped in. He said, “Excuse me, Deborah. I’ll take over now, thank you.”

He was middle-aged and stoop shouldered and wore an ill-fitting navy-blue suit with a dress shirt and no tie. He had dark hair, which looked colored, cut short, cut into short bangs atop a high forehead.

He gave a lopsided smile. The man had a craggy, pitted face. A homely face, but somehow a friendly one.

Deborah got up with her clipboard and exited the room.

“Who are you?” Tanner said.

“Earle.” He put out his hand as if to shake.

Tanner ignored his proffered hand. The guy smelled like Irish Spring soap.

“You’re Michael,” the man said. “Mike?”

“Tanner.”

“All right, Mr. Tanner.” He spoke with a deep-southern accent. His voice had an abrasive edge, like a buzz saw. It sounded familiar. It had been the voice over the headphones earlier, when he’d just been taken.

“You have a last name, Earle?”

“I think my Christian name is good enough for now. You certainly did a number on my friend Joshua.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Pretty sure you broke his nose.”

“Oh, right. It got in the way of my fist.”

“The reason we brought you here is that you are in possession of a laptop computer that doesn’t belong to you, on which there are numerous top secret classified documents. Are we in agreement on at least this much, Mr. Tanner?”

“Who are you?”

“National Security Agency. You’ve probably heard of it.” When Tanner didn’t reply, the craggy-faced man went on: “Let’s just make this simple. You need to hand over that laptop forthwith.”

“You want to tell me what laptop you’re talking about?”

Earle sighed, like the disappointed father of a wayward son. “Mr. Tanner, please don’t waste your time and mine. My agency has the legally established right to read your e-mails and your texts and much else besides. And not just you but anyone and everyone you’re in touch with. Which includes your wife, from whom you appear to be separated, your friends, and your employees at Tanner Roast.”

“You’ve been reading my e-mails and listening to my goddamned phone calls?”

He smiled, displaying a spread of crooked teeth. “I didn’t say we did anything. I merely said we have the right under United States law. It’s perfectly legal.”

“So was slavery.”

“Fair enough.”

“And so much for my constitutional right to privacy.”

“Privacy? Really?” He shook his head. “Get over it. No such thing anymore.”

“Says who?”

“Last time you upgraded software on your computer, I’ll bet you clicked that little Agree box, right? But did you actually read what you were agreeing to? Who the hell’s gonna read twelve thousand words in seven-point type, right? You don’t know what it says. What if it requires your first-born child? A pound of flesh? Welcome to America, land of Click Agree! You didn’t read the privacy policy, and you wouldn’t understand it if you did.”

“That’s got nothing to do with—”

“Fitbit knows how much you exercise and how long you sleep, and Netflix knows when you stopped watching Legends of the Fall and when you’re binge watching Arrested Development. You’ll give away data on all your purchasing habits in order to save a quarter on Honey Nut Cheerios.”

Earle scratched the top of his head, mussing his hair. “Forget privacy; what we all really want is convenience. We write private e-mails that our employer has the legal right to read, am I right? Every time you use your SpeedPass on the turnpike or swipe your debit card at Walmart or buy your meds at CVS, you’re being tracked. You got OnStar in your car, Waze on your phone? You know they track where you went and how fast you got there, and they can sell your data to anyone they want? And if you don’t know all this, you’re not as smart as I thought. You really think you got privacy anymore?

“Every time you walk down the streets of the city your picture’s being taken by a surveillance camera. There’s automatic license-plate readers all over the place. Google knows everything you’ve ever searched online. We live our lives in public all the time, like it or not. We’re on Facebook for hours posting pictures of our dinner or Emma’s pie, and noting Important Moments in our lives, like Matt’s graduation and Kelly’s confirmation and the baby’s christening. We’re posting our political opinions and our musical tastes and what we think about Donald J. Trump. But the kids, they’re the ones who really get it. They know we live our lives in public now. They’re always on Twitter or Instagram or Snapchat — that is, when they’re not texting. They tell each other everything; they put everything online; they don’t think twice. They know there’s no such thing as privacy anymore. We all love our social networks and we love convenience and we really love exposure. It’s the transparent society, and you know what? It’s not half bad. You wanna guess why crime’s been going down in New York City? You think everyone’s gotten nicer? The cops are better? Hell no — it’s cameras! They’re everywhere, and we behave better on camera; we just do. Surveillance is civility, my friend, always has been. Surveillance is civility. You got nothin’ to hide, you got nothin’ to fear.”

Tanner stared at Earle, who had finally fallen silent. “That laptop doesn’t belong to you.

“In point of fact, those classified documents are the rightful property of the National Security Agency. They concern matters of national security, and under the law, once we demand them back, you are required to give them to us. No matter whose computer it is. It’s the law. It’s really that simple.”

“You drugged me.”

Earle shrugged, said nothing.

“I’m a legal US citizen, and you—”

“Mr. Tanner, let me be clear what your situation is. By receiving and holding top secret documents pertinent to our national security, you are in violation of 18 USC section 793. Which basically says, anyone who ‘receives or obtains’ a document relating to the national defense has committed a felony and shall be sentenced to a term of not more than ten years in prison.”

“I have no idea what’s on that laptop. If you tell me there are classified documents on there, okay, sure, maybe there are, but how the hell would I know that?”

“Actually, Mr. Tanner, you passed on classified national defense information to a journalist, knowing it was classified, presumably with the intent to publish. And then a few days later you leave your home and go totally off the grid. You want to tell me that’s not suspicious behavior?”

Tanner didn’t reply. After a few seconds, Earle went on. “Look at it this way. You have a business that requires you to spend time in Guatemala, Honduras, Ecuador, and Nicaragua, countries where the CIA has historically had extensive involvement.”

“Right. Where I was buying coffee.”

“A perfect cover. Precisely the sort of legend we’d set up. Michael Tanner, coffee guy. The perfect part to play if you’re an operative who needs to travel a lot. To countries with active insurgencies, death squads, people with long memories and deep pockets.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“It would certainly explain how you managed to take out a highly trained ex-military specialist.” He shrugged. “Personally, I’m agnostic as to whether you’re a spy or a traitor. But certain colleagues of mine, including most notably my supervisor, have looked at your bio and have serious concerns. Give you an example. When Deborah asked if you’ve ever lived abroad, you conveniently left out the part about your junior year abroad. In Moscow. I find that interesting. It makes me wonder whether there’s a part of your life we haven’t been aware of.”

Of course: Earle had been watching through the one-way mirror on the wall. “I have no idea what I might have said on drugs.”

“I’m not making any accusations, Mr. Tanner. I’m just telling you what it looks like. I’ve been trying to assure my colleagues that you’re simply a good man who made a bad mistake. I think you’re just a guy who got lucky. Or should I say, unlucky. You somehow ended up with someone else’s laptop. You saw that it had some interesting stuff on it, maybe newsworthy, so you make a copy of the files and hand a USB drive containing the documents in question to a friend of yours you drink beers with every week, who also happens to write for The Boston Globe.”

“Oh yeah?” Tanner said, sarcastic.

“Maybe you weren’t familiar with the laws on the mishandling of classified information. And maybe, in a more innocent time, the courts would have given that a pass. Dismissed all charges. But not these days, my friend. Not given the terrorist threat we live under. All right, look, Mr. Tanner. If I wanted to, I could have you arrested in about half an hour, and you would be prosecuted to the fullest, I promise you. But today you’ve won the lottery. Because I’m choosing to believe in your basic goodness. And I’m giving you twenty-four hours to save your life.”

Tanner just looked at him.

“I don’t care what Psych Analytics says. I think you’re exactly who you seem to be. And I think you’re in over your head. Doggy-paddling in deep waters. And I’m here to throw you a lifesaver. You only have to do one thing. Come back tomorrow with that laptop computer. And any copies you might have made, flash drives, hard drives, everything.” He handed Tanner a white business card. It was blank except for the name “Earle Laffoon,” in small type, and underneath it, a phone number with a 410 area code. “Call me or text me at this number no later than ten A.M. tomorrow, and we’ll meet you, wherever you are. You’ll have the laptop with you.”

“And in return?”

“In return you no longer have to worry about your friends from Fort Meade.”

“I want this deal in writing.”

“I’d be happy to shake your hand.”

“Handshake deals are worthless.”

“You have my word.”

“I don’t know you. I want it in writing.”

“Not going to happen. That’s not in the offing, and let’s be honest, Michael, you’re not exactly negotiating from a position of strength, now, are you?”

Tanner said nothing.

“Understand something, Mr. Tanner. By letting you go, I am putting my own career in jeopardy. You are, after all, a security risk. So I will be taking this extremely seriously. And if we don’t see you again within twenty-four hours, I will be forced to escalate. You really don’t want me to escalate. And we’ll find you anyway — we always do.”