Transparency Charles Royce (phonics reader .TXT) 📖

this point of his self-proclaimed covert mission for the FBI.

He sits down at a computer away from the others, sets up a DigiNow Café account. He copies the flash drive over to the computer hard drive and stares out the front window.

Being in Chinatown never used to bother him. Now it reminds him of Lennox, and their torrid affair while it lasted. At least twice a month, Lennox would “run his weekend errands” so he could meet Josh at a Chinese dim sum restaurant just a few blocks from Lennox’s condo, maybe sit in the back, talk for an hour or so, laugh hysterically. Occasionally, if Micah was out at one of his late-night meetings, they’d sneak up to Lennox’s condo, make out for a while, hold each other until Lennox would say it was time to go.

Josh sees a hooded man out the window walking by, glancing inside as he passes. The man is about Lennox’s height, Lenny’s build, skinny but muscular. For a moment, Josh’s heart pounds with the anticipation he used to feel, the unrelenting want, the unquenching need to see the man who had seduced him, loved him, transformed him.

And this company killed him.

The hooded man passes. Josh turns back to the computer, his need to stop the perpetrators, the sadistic people who’d killed Lennox, who’d framed Jenna for the murder, fueled once again.

Josh opens the file. The computer is sluggish. He maneuvers through the basement level of the South Tower at a snail’s pace, each rendering taking three or more seconds to materialize. He’s frustrated.

“Why do computers make me so angry?” He partly mouths it, partly speaks it. “They’re supposed to work; they’re just supposed to work.”

An Asian man glances in his direction.

Josh pretends to sing, mouthing fake words in an off pitch, “Ba-da-bop-pa.”

Finally, the four rooms of the secret floor appear, in glowing blueprint splendor. Josh clicks on each room.

WASHINGTON has an incredible number of electrical outlets, wiring of all kinds stretching all around the room—fiber, cable, ethernet. HOOVER has the same on its back wall. JEFFERSON looks empty.

Wait. What’s that in between JEFFERSON and the storage closet? He zooms in.

“Come on, come on, come on.” Josh’s leg begins to throttle up and down, waiting for the new frame to render.

The scene completes. A small opening labeled EMERGENCY EXIT leads to the small subterranean parking lot.

“Got it!” He quits the program, winks at the staring Asian man.

He trashes the program, empties it, removes the flash drive, shoves it in his pocket and leaves.

AS JOSH WALKS to Canal Street to hop the subway back to Hell’s Kitchen, he feels an itch on the back of his neck. He rolls his head, looks behind him.

A hooded man.

Can’t be the same guy.

To be sure, he stops in front of a Chinese grocery store, focuses his eyes on the reflection in the window. The hooded man walks past him, turning his head away as he passes.

Same guy.

Josh turns around, starts walking to the subway. The hooded man follows him.

“What am I doing?” he asks himself again, knowing the trains don’t run nearly as often after midnight. He’ll be down there, virtually alone, nobody to call out to, nowhere to hide.

About halfway down, he hears the subway train coming. He rushes down the flights of stairs, then another, then another. He jumps down the final five steps, runs to the waiting train and enters just as the doors close. As the train pulls away, he sees the hooded man turn and run back up the stairs.

Classic spy shit, Josh thinks, heart thumping. He can’t decide if he’s petrified or exhilarated.

And he’s trying to work out who the hooded man could be.

West? No, he’s too much of a chicken shit.

Billy? He’s dead.

Somebody from CAAD?

JOSH WALKS DOWN the maze of hallways, still looking behind him.

He stops at his storage room, turns the light on. He leaves it open just in case anyone knows he’s here and comes looking for him.

After walking down the hall, he raises the fake thermostat to reveal the keypad. He uses the SSD. The key lights up, as does the keypad. They swirl in unison. The wall opens with its normal rattle.

“Shh,” he says to the wall. He’s nervous, shaking even. He thinks about popping another Xanax, skips it.

The time on his FBI phone says 1:02 a.m. He uses his facial recognition, then enters his password. He texts Agent Pillsbury.

I’m in.

He walks down the stairs. “Please be unplugged, please be unplugged.”

The login computer is just as he left it.

His phone vibrates.

Good luck! Text me if you need me.

He texts Agent Pillsbury again.

Login was fine. I’m continuing down the stairs.

He sees three dots. He stops to make sure there are no further instructions.

An audio file comes through. He presses play.

“This isn’t a play-by-play. I said text me if you need me.”

He smiles. He walks down the hall, the ambient hum growing louder. He stands in front of a door with an etched photo of George Washington, an uninspired representation pulled directly from the dollar bill. He places his ear on George’s eyeball; the hum from the other side is much louder, and the heat emanating from the metal door is warm to his cheek.

He places his key on the keypad, the door unlocks.

With hesitance, he opens the door just a little. He sees a row of small laptops on the floor, tiered in threes, with plugs running to dozens of outlets on the wall. He checks the corner. No camera. He opens it wider. More rows of computers in groups of three stacked on stands. The far corners are clear. He opens the door completely.

The narrow room is filled with computers, maybe twelve rows by twenty groups of three computers, each running what looks like a program of sorts. He closes the door, checks the final corner. No camera.

He walks to the closest computer, bends down, stares at the monitor, trying to make sense of the lightning-fast automation happening before his eyes. Words and phrases pass by like