2. You said I “roamed through the office suite firing indiscriminately.” This is totally biased. I was not roaming. And I was not firing indiscriminately, or else why didn’t I kill the five people who were in the brainwashing room with me? I will tell you why: because these five were average all-American citizens who I was trying to protect, not kill.
3. The part about the “spray of gunfire” really made my blood boil. There was no spraying. I decided what to shoot and I shot it.
4. Then in the article of 16 Sept. you said that I calmly and methodically went through the office suite executing people. If I was so calm and methodical then why did you write all that stuff about roaming, spraying, firing indiscriminately, etc. This shows the bias that is in your writing.
5. I am not a reclusive loner. As you would understand if you had to WORK for a living, it is cheaper to live out in the middle of nowhere. This does not make me a loner, just a poor honest workingman.
6. Finally (this is the BIG POINT of my letter), every single word of your coverage makes me out to be a psycho. Like you would never even consider the idea that I might ACTUALLY BE RIGHT!
WAKE UP AMERICA! The so-called election of the president is a SHAM controlled by the MEDIA MANIPULATORS who have turned Cozzano into a ROBOT by planting a CHIP IN HIS HEAD that receives secret coded transmissions from SATELLITES. These same MEDIA MANIPULATORS have also put BRAIN WAVE MONITORS on average people’s wrists disguised as DICK TRACY WRISTWATCHES.
One day I will be recognized as the hero I am for uncovering this secret conspiracy. Then you, the Washington Post, will be exposed for what you are: A TOOL OF THE CONSPIRACY that helps to control people’s brains by putting out BIASED SO-CALLED NEWS.
You will be hearing from me again soon, I am sure.
Sincerely,
Floyd Wayne Vishniak
fifty-one
THE COZZANO campaign was a third-party effort, which meant that it had to fight for every voter and every state. It had gotten off to a relatively late start in July and hadn’t really gotten rolling until August; then Cozzano had suffered in the polls for a couple of weeks from his surprising choice of Eleanor Richmond as running mate.
Since then, Cozzano had crushed everything in his path. In city after city he strode up to the microphones, utterly relaxed and confident, shrugging off his aides, ignoring the notes and teleprompters, and spoke. The words poured out of him effortlessly. He wasn’t speaking to the journalists; he seemed to be speaking directly to the American people. In his homburg he looked like a figure from the middle of the century, like one of the men who had defeated Hitler and charted the course of empires and alliances. Compared to the sniping, weasely sons of bitches who had been leading America for the last few decades, he seemed like a throwback to the days when leaders were leaders, when there was such a thing as a great man. He looked as if he would have been right at home at the Yalta Conference, sitting with Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin. Whether he was meeting with foreign leaders or tipping a hotel doorman, he conducted himself with surefooted dignity and gentlemanly grace mixed with a kind of earthy, scab-knuckled vigor.
He did not seem to be running for anything at all. He seemed to be going around the country just being himself.
Mary Catherine didn’t know a lot about presidential politics, but she knew it was significant when they ended up in Boston for an overnight stay. Massachusetts never went to anyone except Democrats; the fact that Cozzano was there meant that it was now up for grabs. It meant that her father was heading for a fifty-state sweep.
They stayed at a magnificent hotel along the waterfront with a huge arch that opened up like a gateway on Boston Harbor. This was, of course, Ogle’s choice; the arch made a great backdrop for television appearances, and the proximity to the harbor made it easier to bash the Democrats on environmental issues.
The campaign had rented out a floor of suites. Mary Catherine and William A. Cozzano shared a two-bedroom suite, which was normal. She came straight from the airport and got settled in while her father hit a number of campaign stops, including tours of some high-tech firms in Cambridge.
The Cozzanos traveled with a lot of luggage, which was an easy thing to do when you never had to carry it yourself, and you had your own airplane. Not all of it was clothing. Some of it was equipment that Mary Catherine had bought for use in her father’s therapy. Early in the campaign this had been simple stuff, like wads of stiff putty that Cozzano would squeeze in his left hand to develop strength and dexterity. By this point in the campaign, late in September, he was way beyond the putty-squeezing stage. He was now almost completely ambidextrous. In fact, he could sign his name with both hands at the same time. The left-hand signature looked similar to the prestroke version, albeit bigger and lazier. The right-hand signature was completely unfamiliar, though she had to admit it looked more presidential.
They had just flown into Boston’s Logan Airport from a string of campaign appearances in Arizona. Mary Catherine had insisted that since it was going to be a long flight, Dad should write her a letter, and he should do it with his left hand. He had grumbled at this suggestion and tried to find ways to avoid it, but she had insisted, and finally he had buckled down to the job, ejecting all journalists and aides from his private cabin and sitting down with the big fountain pen gripped securely in his left hand and a pad of lined paper on his lap, writing the letters carefully, in block capitals, one at a time, like a schoolboy.
She had left him alone to the task. But when she came back an hour later, he was typing on a laptop computer.
“Dad!”
“Peanut,” he said, “it was driving me crazy. I thought my head was going to split open.”
“But you need to work on your right-hemisphere—”
“Spare me the neurobabble,” he said. “Please observe that I am typing. I am typing a letter to you. And I am using both hands.”
Now, alone in the hotel, she turned on Dad’s laptop and opened up the file named “Letter to MC.”
Ddeeaarrest 3Maarryee Ccaattheerine,
3As eyqowuals claentter s1e3e my therapy is progressing well. I have you to thank
wfaovres rtahveage gdraedast sbter1ifdreese I have made since you signed onto the
tcearmapfaeiegn. wIrtcs whea1s1 been a constant joy having you with me. As you
hdaavde pfreoabrasbly naovteirceeed Ibad carmew having some involuntary twitches in the
fdiandgers aodfres emwye left hand, but under your supervision I have no doubt
tgheatt stchriasbb1e small problem will clear up sooner or later and then I can
tgeo11 b3aec1k to my old southpaw ways. I hope that this letter is long
eenroausgeh 1feotrter me to receive at least a gentleman’s C.
Yxoxuxrs affectionately,
ydoaudr Father
She spent a while looking it over. The letter consisted of eleven lines. The first few words of each line were garbled, but she could usually puzzle them out from the context. For example, the word campaign at the beginning of line five was spelled tcearmapfaeiegn. It had been contaminated by several extra letters. Mary Catherine opened up a new window on the computer’s screen and teased out the extra letters: they spelled terafee.
Terafee didn’t mean anything. If you said it fast, it almost sounded like therapy. While Mary Catherine was typing it into the new window, she noticed that all of its letters were on the left side of the keyboard.
The letter complained of involuntary twitches in the fingers of the left hand. As he was typing, Dad must have noticed his left fingers pounding out a few unwanted letters and been unable to control it.
It was interesting that the twitches only occurred toward the beginning of each line. Mary Catherine went through the letter line by line, teasing out the left-hand letters and leaving behind only the ones that made sense. The letter her father had intended to write went like this:
Dear[est] Mary Catherine,
As you can see my therapy is progressing well. I have
you to thank for the great strides I have made since you signed onto the campaign. It has been a constant joy having you with me. As you have probably noticed I am having some involuntary twitches in the fingers of my left hand, but under your supervision I have no doubt that this small problem will clear up sooner or later and then I can go back to my old southpaw ways. I hope that this letter is long enough for me to receive at least a gentleman’s C.
Yours affectionately,
your Father
The letters that had been typed by the “involuntary twitches” of William A. Cozzano’s left hand read as follows:
DEAREST 3AREE CATE
3 EQWA1S 1ETTER 13
WAVES RAVAGE DADS BE1FREE
TERAFEE WRCS WE11
DAD FEARS A VEREE BAD CREW
DAD ADRES EWE
GET SCRABB1E
TE11 3E1
ERASE 1ETTER
XXX
DAD
Someone knocked on the door of the suite. Mary Catherine jumped.
It had to be someone in the campaign, or else they would have been stopped by the Secret Service. Unless it was Floyd Wayne Vishniak, of course. But the famous spree killer of Pentagon Plaza probably would have made a lot more noise.
She went to the door and peered through the peephole. Then she opened it up.
“Hello, Zeldo,” she said. “I thought you’d be with Dad.”
He rolled his eyes. “Touring high-tech firms,” he said, “is not my idea of an interesting time.”
“Would you like to come in?”
He seemed uncertain. Maybe a little wistful. “I have to catch a plane,” he said. He nodded toward the window of the suite. “Going to take the water taxi over to Logan and fly back to the Left Coast.”
“You’re done with the campaign, then?”
“For now,” he said. “I’ve been called back. Your dad’s been perfect for the last couple of weeks, there’s no point in my tagging along anymore . . . we have other patients to work on in California.” Zeldo reached into his satchel and pulled out an unmarked manila envelope, half an inch thick. “I’ve put together some data that is relevant to your efforts,” he said, “and I thought you might like a hard copy.”
“Thanks,” she said, taking the envelope.
She sensed that something was going on. Something in Zeldo’s tone of voice, his careful and vague phrasing, reminded her of the conversation in James’s bedroom on the Fourth of July.
“Well, stay in touch,” she said.
He seemed inordinately pleased by this offer. “Thank you,” he said. “I will. I respect your activities very much and I respect you too. I can hardly say how much,” he added, looking significantly over his shoulder. “Tell your dad I’m going to take a few liberal arts courses, as per his suggestion. Good-bye.” Then he turned around, slowly and decisively, as if forcing himself to do it, and walked toward the elevators.
The envelope was full of laser printer output. Almost all of it was graphs and charts tracking various new developments in William A. Cozzano’s brain. There was a cover letter, as follows:
Dear Mary Catherine,
Burn this letter and stir up the ashes when you are finished with it. Your suite has a working fireplace that will be suitable.
Let me just make a few general statements first.
Politics is shit. Power is shit. Money is shit. I became a scientist because I wanted to study things that weren’t shit. I got involved with the Radhakrishnan Institute because I was excited to take part in a project that was at the leading edge of everything, where neurology and electronics and information theory and philosophy all came together.
Then I learned that you can’t escape politics and power and money even at the leading edge. I was about to resign when you came back to Tuscola and insisted on being made the campaign physician. This did not make Salvador happy but they had no choice but to let you in.
I knew what you were up to before you even started: you were putting your father through therapies designed to create new pathways in his brain that bypassed the biochips. I volunteered to stay on and follow you and your father on the campaign because I knew that otherwise Salvador would put someone else in my place, and he would eventually figure out your plan, and tip off the bad guys.
For the last three months I have been tracking your work, following developments in your father’s brain through the biochip. I have not said anything because I didn’t want to tip them off, so I will say it now: you are on the right track. Keep it up. In another four months (Inauguration Day) he should be able to function without the biochip, not perfectly, but good enough.
I have enclosed a schematic for a small device you can solder together using parts from RadioShack. It will emit noise in the microwave band over small ranges (
Let me know if I can be of further use. I am fond of you and I hope, perhaps fatuously, that one day if we cross paths again you will allow me to take you out to dinner or something.
Pete (Zeldo) Zeldovich
Mary Catherine wandered out onto the suite’s balcony. The harbor view was magnificent. Immediately to the north she could see the skyscrapers of downtown Boston’s financial district standing out against the brilliant blue sky of the New England autumn. Logan Airport was just a couple of miles away, directly across the harbor, and beyond that she could see the Atlantic stretching away so far that the curvature of the earth was almost visible.
The airport water taxi was just pulling away from the hotel wharf. Zeldo was standing in the back, his Hawaiian shirt blazing among dark business suits. He had his legs planted wide against the rolling of the small boat, and he was looking directly up at her.
She waved to him. He raised his fist over his head in a gesture of solidarity, drawing stares from the men in suits. Then he turned away.
Mary Catherine went back into the suite, burned the letter from Zeldo in the fireplace, and erased the files on her dad’s computer.
The schematic for Zeldo’s microwave transmitter was buried in the middle of a stack of graphs. He had hand-drawn it in ballpoint pen on a sheet of hotel stationery. It was a network of inscrutable electronic hieroglyphs: zigzags, helices, stacks of parallel lines, each one neatly labeled with RadioShack part numbers. Mary Catherine folded it up and put it in her wallet.
fifty-two
ELEANOR’S MOTORCADE steamed across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, and then immediately on the Maryland side, took the exit to the Inner Loop. To the left was the sewage plant, Bolling Air Force Base, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the Navy Yards. To the right, wooded hills, and then the projects, and then the decay of Southeast—one of the great free-fire zones in urban America. Eleanor had been to three funerals of friends and relatives who had been shot to death there, and on her way to the third one she had almost been run off the road by a careening SWAT van.
D.C. was a great, historically black city that had been colonized, in a few places, by rich whites. Lacking a traditional organized crime network, it had become the battleground of a drug war among competing groups: Jamaicans, Haitians, New York elements, and home-grown Washingtonians competing for the lucrative trade to service the insatiable demand of the Beltway professionals. The police could only wait until the “market worked itself out,” as one police official put it. Once turfs and boundary lines had been established, the murder, it was thought, would stop.
Instead the violence had infected a whole new generation with the notion of the cheapness of human life, and the flow of weapons into the region had made semiautomatics available to even preteens. The doctors who worked emergency rooms in the District had become some of the world’s leading experts on the treatment of gunshot wounds. During the Gulf War they had been sent straight to the front lines, where they felt right at home.
Awaiting Eleanor was the Lady Wilburdon Gunshot Wound Institute, an ugly, brand-new, fortresslike structure built on
the bulldozed foundations of the first of the War Against Poverty projects. Its architecture reflected its function, which was to treat people involved in deadly combat. The place had been made secure and bulletproof to discourage shooters from coming by to finish off their victims while they were being worked on by the doctors.
The only shooters here now were carrying cameras. Eleanor got out of her limo and followed her advance person through a wall of photographers and cameramen. She made her way, along with her Secret Service escort, to a small auditorium in the institute. Already present on the stage were the Mayor of D.C.; the medical director of the institute, who was a young black Gulf War veteran named Dr. Cornelius Gary; and the founder and namesake, an imposing Englishwoman named Lady Guenevere Wilburdon. An empty seat awaited Eleanor.
“Ms. Richmond,” Lady Wilburdon said, extending her hand, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to your inauguration.”
“Thank you so much, Lady Wilburdon, but we do have to go through the election.”
“Pfft,” Lady Wilburdon said, and waved her hand as if shooing flies away.
Eleanor repressed an urge to laugh. This was exactly the kind of attitude that she had sported, back before she was a candidate.
They were not able to converse anymore before the ceremony began. It opened with a presentation of songs by the massed choirs of several local churches, a lengthy, involved oratory-cum-prayer by the Mayor, and the presentation of Dr. Cornelius Gary, the executive director of the institute. Who in turn presented Lady Wilburdon, who said nothing except to introduce Eleanor, who dedicated the institute.
“It was nice to have met you, Lady Wilburdon,” Eleanor said after it was over.