Tag - A Technothriller (37 page)

After the meeting with Annika in London, I went to Paris and New Boston and both had been a waste of time. I’d cut both trips short. Instead I spent more time with the publisher I met in San Francisco.

In San Francisco, the editor for HarperCollins had invited me to his Env in Sacramento for dinner. When I offered him Sir Thomas’s memoirs for publication, he jumped at the chance. Strictly speaking, Sir Thomas didn’t need a publisher. At his last public appearance over six billion people had watched him on a datafeed. I could have hired a publicity and production company to get the book out but I was concerned about how much time I’d have to do that properly. The book would need editing and formatting, and I wanted to include moving as well as static images. So I had decided to go to Harpers. It was slightly out of my remit to do this, but I hadn’t made any firm commitments, just dangled the project and gave them a first refusal. We’d talk details about the cred and rights later. They’d assigned an editorial team to the project and we’d parted company just before lunch on Thursday.

The blinking white dot was rapidly approaching the big red dot. I had to make my mind up. I could change at Changi and head back to Sisik or I could meet Mariko. I yawned. I was tired and felt like I was still on London time. The Lev was empty, the air smelt stale. I thought of Annika Bardsdale and guiltily switched my thoughts to Mariko. My Devstick vibrated in my pocket. It was Mariko.

“Where are you?”

“I should be at Changi in about three minutes.”

“Great. Come straight home. I’ve taken self-time today.”

“Good, I’ll see you soon.”

She smiled at me and cut the connection. I was looking forward to telling her how I had resisted sleeping with one of the biggest flick stars ever.

***

Gabriel read what he had typed one more time.

Earth, 10 January 2110

My Fellow Humans,

It is with great humility that I write this letter to you. I am asking you to get involved in stopping what is currently happening. I ask this not for my sake, but for humanity’s sake. I had hoped to provide you with hard evidence relating to the crimes of Sir Thomas Bartholomew Oliver, however recent events require that I act now to tell you what I know. Because I have yet to find the hard evidence that would prove guilt beyond doubt, I am asking merely for your time to consider that what Sir Thomas is telling you may not be true.

I understand fully that many of you will read this letter and ignore it as a plea from a wanted ‘crazy’ man, which is how it will be portrayed by those that wish me dead or worse. Be assured it is not. I am safe and perfectly sane. Ignore the contents of this letter at your peril. No one can find me without my wishing them to, so consider: how do I benefit from telling you this? I benefit only if you believe what I say and take immediate action to demand our government acts with transparency and in our true interest.

When I was nine years old, in November of 2074, I shared a dinner with Bo Vinh and my father, Philip Zumar. At that dinner, Bo Vinh told my father that he had discovered evidence of a secret society called the Hawks. He told my father that the Hawks were increasingly frustrated at the equality that was being achieved on Earth and that they planned something to change that equality. Just over a month later, on the 1st of January 2075, Bo Vinh was assassinated.

My father spent the rest of his short life trying to find evidence of who had murdered his friend. Before his could disclose his evidence, he was killed for learning it. Shortly after that, so was my step-mother. On the 26th of October 2075, I watched as Sir Thomas stabbed my step-mother, Mariah Claire Oliver, in the stomach and thrust a dagger into her heart, killing her. I was witness to this event and that is why I am being persecuted.

There is a conspiracy and a secret society called the Hawks. Some of their members are criminals, but some of their members, like Sir Thomas, are also in positions of high legal authority. The bombings that have been happening are not my work, nor is it the work of anyone I know. What has been broadcast about a gang of criminals called the Hawks is pure fabrication by Sir Thomas Oliver. Sir Thomas and his nephew, Jonah James Oliver, represent the worst that humanity can be. Selfish, ruthless and without morals, they prey on the weak, and corrupt all that they touch. If they cannot corrupt, they exterminate.

The tragedy of what has happened in my life could happen to you. It is what happens when those in power are corrupt and when there is no higher power to hold that corruption in check.

In the interests of transparency and for the sake of humanity, we must:

- Suspend Sir Thomas from duty

- Ask for a full disclosure and investigation into Sir Thomas’s actions since the bombings began

Use your voice. Ask.

Your Fellow Human,

Gabriel Alexander Zumar

He pressed submit. The code left his Dev and traveled to the Sydney Stock Exchange as a buy order on the Ent Broken Hills Mining. Two seconds later a broker picked it up, accepted the price offered by the bank in Kinshasa, Gabriel’s front for the order. Gabriel confirmed the buy, completing the transaction. The code was now buried in the Broker’s contacts list on his Dev. As soon as the broker contacted someone on his list the code would go with the contact. Within five minutes the code would be untraceable and within an hour, at 10:25am Sydney time, those who had it on their Devs would send out Gabriel’s letter to everyone in their contact lists.

Gabriel swiveled his Siteazy to face the sea. He had purchased this land when he returned to Australia in his early thirties. Aboriginal money and contacts had made it possible for him to build an identity that he had been living for the past sixteen years in plain sight and yet out of sight. The sea and his yacht gave him access to travel without passing through security zones and he seldom visited cities.

When he needed to travel he went under fake identities and had accumulated hundreds of those over the years. But now his image was broadcast everywhere so he remained at home. The reclusive owner of Vanishing Point Vineyards. Gabriele Esposito, never interviewed, never appeared in public, but produced the famous Pinot Noir of Vanishing Point, South Australia. The organically managed vineyard grew fifty tonnes of grapes a year and sold all of its wine before the growing season had ended.

Gabriel stood up and walked out to the large deck that faced the sea, leaning on the railing. The letter was a risk, he knew, but they were running out of time. He would have preferred to wait until he had solid evidence against Sir Thomas but he couldn’t wait. It was out there somewhere, of that he was certain, but Sir Thomas was a wily old survivor who would stop at nothing to gain his ends. The announcement after the last bombing, the maiming and taking out of action his only contacts within UNPOL, had meant that time had run out. The killing of the Board of Governors had removed any of the governance that might have held Sir Thomas back. Given the free hand he now had, as verified by Secretary General Deng’s appearance with him, Sir Thomas was too close to gaining total control and forcing the Tag.

Yes, it was a risk. But it was a calculated risk. He’d been thinking about it for a week and now the time had come to act. If nothing else, the bombing might stop – but even that was a long shot. What was more important was to get the message out so that the billions of bloggers and members of online communities could begin to focus on Sir Thomas.

When it did, he reckoned Sir Thomas would come up with more lies about criminal gangs, perhaps even with evidence that he would fabricate. But then Gabriel would respond with another letter.

The one piece of evidence that Gabriel had, he couldn’t use yet. That evidence was Jonah James Oliver who existed as a result of Sir Thomas’s actions in Darwin. He had deliberately left Mark out of the letter. It would have been his brother's death warrant if he spilled that Mark was Jonah. No. Better let that one play out. There was still time. Sir Thomas might play safe and kill Jonah. That was a very real risk. But if he thought that Gabriel remained ignorant of who Jonah was then Mark would survive and be in a better position to gain the trust of Sir Thomas.

At the crucial moment, they could reveal that Mark was Jonah. Prove it beyond doubt with a DNA test. His DNA and Mark’s would match, proving they were brothers. With this irrefutable evidence Sir Thomas could be brought down. But that wasn’t enough. Even with Sir Thomas out of the picture, there was still a risk that the Tag Law could be voted in. That was the biggest risk of them all.

Gabriel looked at the time and picked up the imaging scope. He pointed it at the horizon opposite the house and waited for his yacht to appear. The swell crashing into the shore told the story of the weather out in the Bass strait. They’d be flying with this wind, he thought. A sail appeared on the horizon. He zoomed in the scope. It was them, and they were flying. His yacht, the main hull out of the water, and with its wings extended. The scope detailed the plume of water rising from the twin wings where they touched the water. It was doing at least eighty kilos.

Leaving the scope hanging on the railing, he walked to the path that led to the beach. The deck of his house was two hundred meters above sea level, and as he descended the steep path to the beach he knew the yacht was fifty kiloms away, approaching fast. Ten minutes later he stepped onto the white sand of the beach, warm in the morning’s sun. He couldn’t see the yacht now, as it had dropped below his horizon, and he walked out to where the surf rolled in to the shore. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun to the east, he faced south and waited for it to reappear.

The wind tore at his white cotton outers. The surf was high, perhaps two meter swells, and a few surfers were out testing their skills on the waves. The yacht’s high mast and distinctive sail came into view and within minutes it had rounded up into the wind on his mooring. The mooring was three hundred meters off the beach. He saw the crew of two climbing into the dinghy slung underneath the wings and releasing into the sea. It turned and pointed its lifted nose to the right of him and he waved. The crew waved back and the inflatable dinghy paused its run to catch a wave and then came in fast, powering through the surf. The roar of the throttle reached him through the wind.

He walked down into the surf to catch the dinghy’s nose and the crew of two jumped out into the surf. The three of them pulled the dinghy until it was out of the reach of the sea and then laid it down in the sand. Panting with the effort, Gabriel looked across at Martine Shorne and said, “I missed you too.” He turned to Maloo and stepped to him, giving him a bear hug and lifting him off the ground. He said, “Great job, brother. Thanks for getting her out.”

“Ah, no worries, mate. It was a piece of cake.”

With his left arm around Maloo, he held his right arm out and Marty came under it. Hugging her close he kissed her temple and said, “Come on. Let’s go up to the house. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Showered and with a white towel wrapped around her head and a gold sarong wrapped around her body, Marty walked into the large living room. Gabriel, who was sitting on a large white cloth sofa, rose to greet her. The walls were decorated with a bark paintings and other aboriginal art. A huge yirdaki hung on the wall nearest Gabriel. It made Marty think of her conversation with Billy.

Folded out on low wooden table in front of the sofa was Gabriel’s Devstick. Next to that stood a bottle of wine and two glasses. He gestured at it with his hand.

“Will you join me in a glass?”

“It’s a bit early, isn’t it?”

“Well, my internal clock is a little out of whack. I’ve been working nights and sleeping days. So for me this is around about when I normally have a dinner and then head off to sleep.”

An uneasy silence settled. The brief but wild romance that they shared when they had met was now a memory trying to find a foothold in the present. It had been a little over three months since their two days of bliss in Tahiti, and Marty wondered if he still felt the same.

Gabriel smiled a little and walked across the room holding out both hands palm upwards. She took his hands and he pulled her close into him as she wrapped her arms around his back. Gabriel, a head taller than her, placed his hand on her neck and pulled her head into his neck.

He whispered, “I’ve missed you every day since we parted. I know this is difficult being here with me like this, but there’s no pressure. If your feelings towards me have changed, I will understand.”

She turned her head, and reaching up with her hands, pulled his head down to kiss him. She finally broke the long kiss and leaned back to look at him. “I feel the same. I didn’t want to leave you in Tahiti, and if I’d been there on my own accord, I wouldn’t have. But I was there because Flederson sent me to meet you and I had to report back.”

“I know. We each have our duty. Speaking of which, come and have a look at this and tell me what you think.”

“Sure, and I’ll have a glass of that wine too. I’ve been awake since midnight. That yacht of yours is something else. We topped a hundred kilos per hour coming into the Bass Strait with that southerly behind us. It kept us busy but that water ballast system, which Maloo told me you put in, works great.”

“Yes she’s a beauty – but nothing compared to you.”

“Compliments and wine in the morning – are you trying to get me drunk?” she said playfully, taking his hand and being led over to the sofa. Gabriel looked at the time on the Devstick. 10:14am. He turned the folded-out Devstick toward her and gestured at the letter on the screen.

“In one minute this is going to be all over the planet.” Her blue eyes flicked back and forth as she read Gabriel’s letter. Finished reading, she reached over for the glass of wine that Gabriel had poured for her. Her eyes flicked to the bottle.

“I shared a bottle of this with a very interesting man in Darwin recently,” she said and gestured with her hand at the bark paintings and the yirdaki on the walls around the room. “You wouldn’t happen to know him by any chance?”