“I described our current civilization to our new friends. It was clear to them that complicated ideas are no longer valued by our media or the general population. Take a look around you, Dr. Dressler. Is anyone reading political manifestos these days? How many people would sit still to listen to a lengthy, sensible speech about our current problems? This world is moving fast, and our consciousness has mirrored that reality.”
“But what’s the story we’re supposed to remember?”
“As ideas lose their power, stories and visual images become more and more important. Leaders offer competing stories, and this is what passes for political debate. Our friends are reminding me to create a powerful story. Let the tension build for awhile and then tell a new story that offers a solution.”
Ten minutes later, he was sitting in the back of a limousine being driven to the airport. Cherry trees were flowering in the suburban countryside and their pink blossoms trembled as the car raced down the two-lane road.
Michael saw his face reflected in the tinted glass and turned away. Who was he these days? The question kept drifting through his thoughts. The only way he could define himself was by thinking of others. He wasn’t his father-and he certainly wasn’t Gabriel. Both of them worried about small things, what a particular person did or said. But most individuals weren’t important in the grand narrative of history. For gods and great men, the world was a blank page to be filled with their own vision.
The limousine entered the airport through a side gate and stopped at a building where charter pilots filed their flight plans. A six-passenger jet was waiting on a side runway while the maintenance crew inspected its landing gear.
“Tell the pilot to get everything ready,” Michael said. “I need about five minutes to finish some business.”
“Very good, Mr. Corrigan.” The driver took Michael’s luggage from the trunk and carried it over to the plane.
Michael switched on his notebook computer and used a sat phone to reach the Internet. Ten days ago, he had told his staff in Britain to register all of the Evergreen Foundation vehicles with a British company called Safe Ride. Now Mrs. Brewster’s Jaguar sedan was connected to the company’s computers. The Safe Ride staff could give travel directions to Mrs. Brewster, unlock the car doors if she misplaced her keys and track her vehicle if it was stolen.
It took only a few seconds to find the Safe Ride website and enter a code that allowed him to access the tracking system. Typing in the Jaguar’s registration number brought up a satellite photograph of the Cornwall coast. And suddenly, there it was: Mrs. Brewster and her driver were a little red dot traveling on the B3301 rural highway.
Typing quickly, Michael put the local British time in one corner of the screen-it was 7:38 in the evening. Mrs. Brewster was rushing to the Portreath airport to meet the head of Argentina ’s top anti-terrorism unit. The Young World Leaders program connected her to police and military staff in dozens of countries. When these powerful men flew into the local airport, Mrs. Brewster was waiting for them, all charm and smiles.
Michael pushed his cursor across the monitor screen. He followed the route to the airport, noting where the narrow coastal road came close to the sea cliffs. The images provided by the GPS satellite were amazing. He could see bridges and beaches, towns and farmhouses. A request for more information created another box on the screen; now he knew the exact speed of the car and the fact that an authorized key was in the ignition. Mrs. Brewster had spent most of her life trying to establish the Panopticon. We’re almost there, Michael thought. And you’re the one being watched.
The red dot passed through the town of Gwithian and reached the coast road. Michael quickly scrolled back and forth across the screen, and then made his choice. He accessed a second website set up by Nathan Boone’s technical staff that allowed him to control radio chip devices. A day earlier, his contact at Wellspring had opened the Jaguar’s hood and placed an explosive squib on the car’s power steering fluid container and a second squib on the car’s brake line. Both squibs were small-about the size of an American penny-and would leave no trace once they exploded.
