Джозеф Файндер - The Switch

“I don’t sell a lot of properties out in MetroWest. But Katya does. Let me get back to you.”

She called back a couple of minutes later. He drank some more coffee. In fact, he began to realize, he didn’t mind it. It was bland and undistinguished, but not bad at all, really, as a caffeine-delivery system.

“Tanner,” Sarah said. “Okay, this house is actually off the market, and it’s empty, and the seller’s moved to Florida.” She gave him the combination to the front-door security lock.

“Sarah, don’t meet me there. It’s not safe for you to be around me. Okay?”

“I wasn’t planning to drive out to Concord, come on.”

“Just wanted to make sure. Actually, hold on a second. You have our ATM card, right?”

“Sure.”

“I need cash.”

“You have the card, too, right?”

“Sure. But I can’t use it.” It would set off an alarm, just like a credit card, and they’d locate him quickly.

“How can I get you the money? I suppose I could hide it in the house somewhere.”

“You’d drive out to Concord after all.”

“Late afternoon I can do it.”

“Thank you. But I don’t want you to do that. They might be tracking you to find me.” He also didn’t want anything to happen to her, but he didn’t want to scare her by saying it. “Maybe you could bring it over to Lucy at the office and I can make arrangements with her.”

“Okay. How much?”

“Whatever you can withdraw from savings. A thousand, two thousand, whatever.” Cash wasn’t crucial, but it would help.

Near the Dunkin’ Donuts was a Starbucks. They had Wi-Fi, but Tanner needed a computer. He passed a funky-looking coffee shop that he knew served excellent coffee. Karen had tried them, but they used Counter Culture out of Durham. At the intersection of two main streets he found the Concord Free Public Library, a handsome Georgian building with white columns.

Exactly what he needed. He entered the library and found his way down a hallway to the reference desk. Nearby were a number of computer terminals for the patrons’ use. He sat down in front of one and opened a browser and then pointed it to Gmail. He entered his personal e-mail address, “TannerRoast@gmail.com” — more evidence, as if he needed it, that he worked too hard, that he’d let his business take over his personal life. He clicked the “Next” button, and a red error message popped up:

SORRY, GOOGLE DOESN’T RECOGNIZE THAT EMAIL.

Certain that he must have typed it in wrong, he typed “TannerRoast” carefully and got the same red message.

SORRY, GOOGLE DOESN’T RECOGNIZE THAT EMAIL.

He sat back in his chair, perplexed. He hadn’t typed it in wrong twice. Gmail didn’t recognize upper- and lowercase in your e-mail address, so that wasn’t it. He entered it again, all lowercase, just in case that made a difference.

SORRY, GOOGLE DOESN’T RECOGNIZE THAT EMAIL.

The burner in his pocket rang. A few people looked around at him disapprovingly. He pulled the phone out. Sarah calling from the burner he’d given her. He answered it softly, while striding out of the room and into the hallway. “Sarah,” he said.

“Did you change the password?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The bank card doesn’t work. The ATM. It locked me out — it swallowed the card!”

“I didn’t change anything, Sar. Maybe you could call the bank and see what’s wrong.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I will. I’m sorry about this.”

“I don’t get it,” he said.

But maybe he did. He returned to the computer he’d been using near the reference desk. Once again he entered his Gmail address, and once again he got an error. Google doesn’t recognize that email. It wasn’t that the password had been changed. He couldn’t even get that far.

There was no such e-mail address.

Just like his ATM card didn’t work.

He went to Yahoo.com and signed in to the account he’d just created the day before, at Carl’s house. It was a fake name and the number 322, which was his house number when he was a kid. This time it opened. Two e-mails in its inbox: one was the video automatically e-mailed from the wireless camera Scott had set up in the woods. The other was an invoice from Scott for a little over a thousand bucks.

Then he opened another browser window, Facebook.com. It was the sign-in page. One blank was for e-mail or phone; the other was for the password.

A red box popped up. The email you’ve entered doesn’t match any account. Sign up for an account.

As if no such account ever existed. He had an account, a Facebook page, which he rarely visited. He tried it twice, got the same error, and didn’t need to try it again. He couldn’t get into Facebook. His account no longer existed.

With increasing disbelief, he opened up Amazon.com. He clicked on “Sign in,” which took him to another screen where he was supposed to enter his e-mail address and password.

A red-outlined box popped up, a caution sign, and the words:

There was a problem

We cannot find an account with that email address.

He opened Netflix.com and got:

Sorry, we can’t find an account with this email address.

Please try again or create a new account.

What other accounts do I have? he thought. Oh yes: the bank. He opened BankofAmerica.com.

A pink box with a big red triangle with an exclamation point on it. We don’t recognize your Online ID and/or Passcode. Please try again or visit Forgot Online ID & Passcode?

One after another after another, he was unable to log in to any of his online accounts. Accounts weren’t found. We don’t have a record of any account with that e-mail. Even CraftBeerTemple.com greeted his log-in with an uncomprehending stare. He didn’t exist.

It was unnerving to the point of terrifying. In the Internet-dominated world, Michael Tanner had become a ghost.

Tanner’s entire digital existence had been wiped out. As if the whole Internet had been hit by a power surge. Or someone had flipped a switch.

How was this possible?

He had to get money soon, if he was going to stay “out here,” as he thought of it — outside the ambit of his regular life. And he had a queasy feeling that the NSA might have gone even further than erasing him online. What if they’ve seized my assets? Did they have the power to do that?

Heart thudding, he looked up his bank’s customer service number and entered it into his phone. Then he walked back out to the library’s hallway and out the front door. A series of voice-mail prompts came up, telling him to listen carefully “as our menu options have changed.”

He barked out, “Customer service,” and after a few minutes of advancing through the phone tree, a distracted and squelched young male voice asked how he could help.

“My online account isn’t working,” Tanner said. He explained.

It took a long time for the distracted kid to understand, but he finally decided to bump Tanner’s call up to a supervisor.

A woman came on the phone who sounded much sharper. “This is Audrey Jones, may I help you?”

Tanner explained.

Audrey answered without hesitation. “Certainly, sir, it looks like there was some sort of a security breach on your account, but I’m sure we can straighten this out easily. You just need to come into our offices on Boylston Street in Boston.” She gave a street address.

Tanner hung up immediately.

Come into our offices. That sounded wrong.

They thought he was simpleminded and trusting, and that he’d surface in order to walk into an NSA ambush, a setup.