Time of the Octopus: Based on the True Story of Whistleblower Edward Snowden

02:28 A.M._

“And so then you decided make information about NSA surveillance of internet users public?” the Lawyer asked.

“Yes and no,” Kold replied. “I simply realised that there’s a war going on in the world, an undeclared, quiet but cruel war. It’s a world war and it would be impossible to work out its scope because it has no end. Conflicts of interests of political, religious and economic groups in the end are embarked on a neverending fight of everybody against everybody. Nowadays, there are a number of conflicting sides. There are rich people who are interested only in increasing their wealth. There is the digital generation which doesn’t want to live according to their fathers’ covenants. There are lumpens who demand bread and entertainment and at the same time refuse to work. There are islamists, who are trying to create a World Caliphate. One quiet player, quite strong until recently by historical standards, left the stage and left very suddenly and unexpectedly.”

“Are you talking about communism?” asked the Lawyer.

“Of course. So,” Kold put his fingers to his forehead, “At first I asked who the octopus harms the most. In other words – who is its main enemy, Who should I pass the information to for it to work? But gradually it dawned on me – I mustn’t choose a side, I mustn’t become a player in the big game on the ‘great chess board’, especially because information can get classified and used to harm others. That is how I realised that I have no alias and lost heart – but it was Orwell who returned me courage.

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“I think that one incident can play a colossal role in the life of every man. I mean accidents of history. If you think about it, the whole of history consists of such accidents.

If Frederick Barbarossa hadn’t drowned during the Third Crusade then there wouldn’t have been the Great Arabic caliphate.

If the Scottish king Alexander the Third hadn’t broken his neck when he fell off his horse, Great Britain would not have existed.

If the beauty Thérésa Cabarrus, lover of the Commissioner of the National Convention Jean-Lambert Tallien, hadn’t ended up in prison, then there wouldn’t have been the coup of 9 Thermidor and the insidious tiger-cat Maximilian Robespierre would’ve sent his enemies to the guillotine again.

And if the Mayflower had hit the rocks by Cape Cod, the United States would not have existed, at least not in the way it does now.

Isaac Asimov described it all much better in his book ‘The End of Eternity’. But I am talking about something slightly different – an accident in the life of a particular ordinary man. For example, a man like me.

It happened – yes, it did happen! – after I came back from Europe but before I went to Hawaii. Well, as I said I wasn’t going through the best time in my life. After the story with poor Herr Hagen I was questioning everything so seriously. Am I serving a good cause? So seriously I almost died, as I said before.

I’ll elaborate. I wasn’t doubting the rightfulness of protecting your country; it was the methods I was doubting.

From our early years, all Americans know: the good always act with ‘clean hands’. Batman will never take hostages, Superman will never blackmail anyone, Spiderman will never hit someone from behind, even if it’s his only chance.

Of course adult life and especially espionage and the intelligence service are not made up the adventures of the superheroes in Marvell cartoons, but…

The basic principles and methods of existence, damn them, can’t be so radically different! That’s why what my so-called colleagues in Zurich committed became like some giant crude humvee smashing through the fragile and colorful stained-glass window of my reasons for serving.

Now my soul was showered in their shards but nothing has appeared in their place and I had no idea who to talk to about it. The most logical thing would be to meet up with Baseball player. After all, he was a psychologist and a good one, but something held me back from talking to this man. Perhaps it was the fact that Mr. Jenkins was a true pro and able to dig into the darkness of someone else’s souls. And I, as you’ve already gathered, was wary of the professionalism of my colleagues.

It was a clear. damp September morning. I was on my way to the Agency’s headquarters in Fort Meade, not far from Baltimore. I was listening to the radio – old Bon Jovi songs were playing and drinking cold coffee from a plastic cup and singing along with John without any enthusiasm:

‘It’s My Life!’

Slowing down behind a big shiny tanker truck carrying chemicals, I turned my head and saw her on the other side of the road.

Neolani.

She was standing at the bus stop looking into the distance as she waited for a bus. There were a couple of teenagers nearby looking just like we did seven years ago. It was beginning to drizzle.

She hasn’t changed at all. Only the piercing ring in her bottom lip and her bright make-up have gone. But I had seen her in many ways, including like this, homely. She hadn’t put on any weight, hasn’t changed her hairstyle or style of clothes. She was still the same Heavenly girl.

My first instinct was to lower the window and call her. But then the engine of the truck in front of me roared, and letting out a dark cloud of diesel exhaust from underneath its shiny chassis, the truck began to move.

I had to move to. There were a few cars behind me and some red Japanese pickup was already honking impatiently – displeased with the fact that I, in the opinion of its driver, was lingering.

I got to the nearest cross road – which was quite far away – turned round and raced my Nissan back, praying to God, the Universe and Mother Nature for the bus not to beat me.

I don’t know why I was doing it, or what came over me then. I had been deeply angry with Neolani after what happened in the Garage. I had even wanted to kill her back then, to be honest. To take a knife or get a gun, go to the college and there right in front of everybody thrust the blade into that beige knitted top where it bulged with her chest. Or to fire a gun into her face from short range, but before doing it shouting, like in a movie: ‘Die, you lying bitch!.’

But the offence and bitterness were forgotten, covered over by new events, and then there was the Recruiting depot, Master Sergeant Vesterhauzen and other things. Neolani’s image faded and became an unclear silhouette, a bleak picture in a dull frame hanging on the back wall of my memory.

Then suddenly I had seen her! And everything came back to life, became bright, clear and etched in relief. The memories crashed back like ocean surf and my leg almost suffered a cramp as I tried to press the gas all the way down to get to that damn bus stop!

She hadn’t left. She was still leaning with her shoulder against the post. And she was still wearing a similar top – knitted and beige. Flared trousers, handbag of hemp fiber, amber earrings, feathery hairstyle – damn, she really hasn’t changed at all!

I stopped my car by the bus stop, leaned over and looked out of the passenger window and, just like Mr. Jenkins, said:

‘Mrs. Neolani! Would you be nice enough to give me a little of your attention, dear lady?’

She turned her head at looked at me with perplexity and indifference. Then a shadow of irritation ran across her face and after it – a happy grimace of recognition and, straight after, a smile.

‘Josh? It can’t be you!’

‘It can, Mrs. Neolani.’

‘Actually Miss,’ she began to flirt. I grinned and opened the car door.

“Would you like a lift? Get in.’

She nodded and got into the car.

‘How are you?’ I asked, pulling away.

‘Everything is great!’ she replied. A standard answer to a question like this but I suddenly cringed because that former, real Neolani, would have never replied like a classic housewife from the East Coast. She would’ve said: ‘All is cool, dude!’ or ‘Things are ringing like bucks on the counter!” or, at very least: ‘The case is in court, babe!’

But she replied the way she did and I felt sad thinking that I’d turned out to be a man who experienced the rightness of Heraclitus – one indeed cannot enter the same river twice…

‘Where would you like me to take you?’ I asked, trying to be polite.

‘Home. Do you remember my parents’ home?’

‘On Aquaheart Road?’

She laughed.

‘’It’s hard to forget a street like that,’ I smiled.

Actually I had been going in a completely opposite direction – the Agency’s headquarters were located halfway between Baltimore and Washington while Neolani’s parents lived in Glen Bernie, much further to the east.

But because I didn’t have set working hours and I had no meeting arranged in the Agency, I left the large Baltimore-Washington Parkway, turned on to the Paul Pitcher Memorial Highway and headed the Nissan towards Curtis Bay.

All the way there, we were chatting pleasantly, remembering old friends and funny events. But neither she nor I mentioned that wretched day or the names of the guys in the Garage back then.

I remembered the house where Neolani’s parents lived very vaguely, and for some reason I thought it was a small two-storey cottage on the east coast.

In reality, the house turned out to be neglected, with a shabby door and dirty windows. Only one thing I was right about: it indeed was two-storey high.

The hall and rooms of the ground floor were littered with junk, old chairs, boxes and bags.

‘Follow me!’ Neolani called. ‘I live upstairs.’

Her bare feet slapped on the wooden staircase – just like they did back then. I followed her, avoiding the dream-catchers hanging from the ceiling.

‘Where are your parents, Neo?’

After a short pause, an indifferent reply came from upstairs:

‘They died, Josh. Just like they lived – happily and on the same day. An overdose. I’m selling the house.’

Upstairs, I found myself in a bright room, flooded with pale autumn sun, with a big bed in the middle. Neolani was lying on it face down with her arms spread.

‘You were almost right with Mrs,’ she said hollowly. ‘I am getting married.’

“Congratulations. Do I know him?

‘You do. It’s Bach.’

‘Is it? And what…’ I couldn’t find what to say.

‘And that’s all!’ she turned around sharply and sat up, pulling up her knees. ‘The Garage burnt down five years ago together with a drunk Pincher. Studies finished and everyone went all over the place. I got hit by a car and spent two years in the hospital. The only person who visited me there was Bach. I’m not blaming anyone, and especially you. It’s retribution, everything according to the laws of karma. I do know that I stand guilty before you, Joshua-boy, very-very guilty, that’s true, but – and try to understand me – I will not be asking for forgiveness, because…

‘It’s My Life! It’s my… your life…’ I murmured the words of Bon Jovi song.

‘So when’s the wedding?

‘We are free people. There’s no future – have you forgotten?’

…Then we were lying, naked, and she was smoking and I was looking out of the window at the clouds floating by. A strange unexplainable emptiness rang inside me. Somewhere deep in the bottom of my soul, dark water was splashing – the water in which I had almost drowned a few weeks ago. I knew that if this water rose it would drown me from the inside, and I would die. But now I felt very content.

Neolani moved and touched my arm.

‘Bach and I are moving to Cleveland after the wedding. He has relatives in Ohio and his father’s brother has a medical clinic in the city. I’ll work there.

‘Doing what?’ I asked for the sake of asking something.

‘At first as administrator. While I was in the hospital after the accident I did a distance learning course for ‘manager in a sphere of medicine’.’

Everything went silent. Cars swept along the street outside. Somewhere in the distance some kind of juvenile country music was playing. A sleepy autumn fly crawled across the window.

‘I should go,’ I got up and began to get dressed. As I buttoned my shirt I heard Neolani crying.

‘Don’t comfort me!’ she shouted as she saw me watching her. ‘Go. Go away! Take something from downstairs as a souvenir – and goodbye, Joshua-boy! Goodbye forever!’

I went downstairs and walked through the hall. By the door, I tripped over a bag, some old books fell out – Huxley, Camus, Heinlein, Orwell… I picked up a volume with ‘Animal Farm’ and ‘1984’, opened it and saw an inscription in red ink on the flyleaf: ‘Neo, remember: if an object is no good for one purpose, it can be used for something else.’ And a signature: ‘Dad’.

I took the book and left this weird house. I sat in the car for a while looking at the porch – for some reason I thought that Neolani would jump, run out, wrapped in some ridiculous blanket, would run down the path to the gate…

A police car woke me out of my stupor – stopping next to me. I must’ve had a strange facial expression because the second officer shouted:

‘Sir, is everything alright?’

I nodded.

‘Everything’s great!’

They left. I took Orwell and opened it at a random page. Running my eyes across the page, I read:

Having flipped through a few pages, I came across an odd paragraph:

This fragment discouraged me. I wanted some clear conclusion to the morning – and I carried on turning the Orwellian pages.

My attention got drawn to another fragment:

And suddenly I realised the name of the octopus from my dreams. And many things fell into place – as if some mysterious force, some real life magic, had lifted the broken pieces of the stained glass of my beliefs into the air, whirled them in an enchanting dance and then joined them together into a complete image.

But it was a very different picture from before. Orwell had become the catalyst that had triggered a complex bio-chemical reaction in my brain. I felt I had gained vision and became blind at the same time. And all because I met Neolani. Or in other words, thanks to a chance…

Of course, I took Orwell to Hawaii. And there – in many ways thanks to Orwell – my transformation happened, or to be more precise, reached completion.”