Figuring a ten to fifteen second lag time, he set off both explosives. Michael wondered what it was like inside the car. Too bad there wasn’t a spy cam. The driver would suddenly realize that the steering wheel no longer responded to his touch. Perhaps his foot slammed onto the pedal, but nothing happened. Was there a moment of panic? Was there time to scream as the car smashed through a guard rail and glided downward into the sea?
On his computer screen, the little red dot veered off the road, traveled across a thin patch of cliff and then disappeared. Michael turned off the notebook computer, closed it with a snap, and got out of the car. The pilot and his driver were waiting for him like an honor guard as he strolled across the tarmac to the plane.
Three sea gulls sat on the edge of a railing and contemplated the half-eaten breakfast on a serving tray. Michael waved his hand at them-go away-but the birds weren’t intimidated. Finally he took a piece of muffin and threw it at the ocean. The birds squawked, glided downward, and immediately began squabbling with each other.
He was sitting on the balcony of a three-room hotel suite in West Los Angeles. If he turned slightly to the right, he looked out at beach, ocean, and blue horizon. Young men played volleyball, flinging themselves across the sand, while a girl wearing a bathing suit and roller skates practiced her figure eights on the pedestrian path. Michael sat above it all in a padded chair with a thermos of coffee. The volleyball players and the girl on roller skates had no idea what was about to happen. In three or four weeks, almost every child in California would be part of the Panopticon.
Michael switched on his computer and checked his messages from the different teams working for the Special Projects Group. The anthrax scare in Japan had caused a wave of hostility toward immigrant workers and other foreigners. In France, a new law was being proposed that required a biometric ID card for anyone for wished to enter a government building, a school or a museum.
New threats were being introduced in three other countries. In Australia, a toxic chemical had been placed in a shipment of oranges that were being sent to regional grocery stores. Two Catholic priests had been assassinated in South Germany and an unknown Turkish group had claimed credit. In Great Britain, a car bomb was about to go off after an FA Cup match in Manchester.
The half gods had taught him that fear was much easier to sell than tolerance and respect for freedom. Most people were brave only when they saw others taking a stand, and that wasn’t going to happen this time. Fear had a strong constituency-those government leaders who realized that the changes would increase their own power.
The door to the suite clicked open and he heard a woman’s voice. “Mr. Corrigan! It’s Donna!”
“I’m out here.”
Donna Gleason pulled the sliding glass door open and stepped onto the balcony. Although she had spent the last ten years in sunny Los Angeles, the public relations consultant was famous for only wearing black. She had very short hair and looked like a nun with a clipboard.
“I just talked to the president of the Los Angeles Press club. Normally, they fill half the auditorium for these lunch-time presentations, but this event has broken all the rules.”
“That sounds promising.”
Donna sat down at the table and poured herself a cup of coffee. She talked very quickly, as if everything had to be delivered in 30-second sound bites. “Three television stations are sending camera crews and there will be reporters from Internet sites, radio stations and the print media. Everyone was asking me about the title of your speech: ‘Save Our Children.’ I’ve told them that you’ll start talking at lunch and will be famous by suppertime.”
Michael carefully examined Donna’s face and saw no signs of deceit or insincerity. In the last few months, he had learned a great deal about the media experts who shaped and packaged images. The good ones had a special talent; if you paid them enough, they became true believers. He wondered what would happen if he pulled out a rifle and announced that he needed to shoot the dangerous skaters and bicyclists on the beach path. Donna might have a difficult transition period, but eventually she would convince herself-yes, it really was a good idea.
“When do we leave?”
“Let me check on that.” She turned to the open doorway and screamed. “Gerald! Preston!”
Donna’s two assistants reminded him of Scottish terriers, one white and one black. Clutching cell phones, the young men appeared in the doorway.
“Time of departure?”
“We should leave in ten minutes,” Gerald said. “They eat a box lunch at twelve-thirty and the speech is scheduled for one o’clock.”
“Anything else we need to know?”
“Mr. Boone has arrived with one of his men,” Preston said. “He wanted to know if you require a security presence.”
“Yes. Have them wait in the hallway.”
