Джеффри Дивер - The Goodbye Man

Shaw eyed him, said nothing.

“‘Claustro’ is Latin for ‘bolt,’ as in bolting the door. And who doesn’t know what ‘phobia’ is? All those Jeopardy! questions. Do you watch Jeopardy! ?”

“No.”

“Of course you don’t. No time. Busy, busy man. So, I apologize for the” — he lifted his arms — “windowless chamber. Master Eli is security minded. Insists that we all be. You, me, all God’s children. Our Assistance Unit boys sweep for listening devices. Did you know that you can buy high-tech bugs on Amazon , of all places? And get next day delivery if you order within four minutes and seventeen seconds.”

Shaw eyed him warily because that’s what somebody of Skye’s background, suspicious of authority and being in a closed space like this, would do.

The man seemed genuinely cheerful. However, Shaw thought: he’s softening me up. Shaw kept part of his attention attuned to the door behind him. He wondered if Hugh might come up with a Taser or choke hold, which when properly applied can render one unconscious in six seconds. Death rarely takes longer than ninety.

He glanced around, as if viewing the room. The head of the Assistance Unit had left silently.

Curious.

The man’s fat fingers typed on the tablet. Then he looked back to Shaw. “I’m Journeyman Samuel.”

Shaw looked for improvised weapons. The chair, the tablet, a pen. All would work. None well.

And “Journeyman” again. What was that about? It was a title, obviously, not a name — but what did it indicate?

More reading on the tablet. “There are certain applicants that Master Eli likes to flag, Mr. Skye.”

So they believed his fake identity.

Shaw offered silent thanks to Mack McKenzie.

Colter Shaw had had occasion to use false identities in the past; it’s not illegal if you’re presenting yourself as someone else to private citizens, and if you’re paying your way. Mack was an expert at ginning up documentation to turn you into someone else: driver’s license, non-active credit cards, employer ID and insurance, and shopper loyalty and AAA cards.

The real problem isn’t the documentation, though. It’s the damn internet, the place where everybody first turns to see if you’re really who you say you are.

Shaw hadn’t anticipated facial recognition but he had guessed that his cover would be checked, and Mack had worked hard to shore it up. When he’d decided to go undercover, she’d placed a call to one of her specialists: a “massager,” he billed himself. His bots would roam the Clearnet and dark web and eradicate or deeply bury references to his clients. Shaw’s own reward-seeking website was temporarily suspended and many of the news stories about him were either scrubbed or weighted down with so much autobot baggage that his real name sank to the bottom of Google and Bing and Yahoo.

At the same time, the savvy software would flood the web and social media sites with a phony identity: in this case, real and Photoshopped pictures of Shaw — as Carter Skye — on vacations, in news stories (fake news was de rigueur nowadays, of course, and so very easy to produce and place), employment and education records, blogs, Twitter and Facebook posts, Instagram, Snapchat. Like pregnant spiders, these bots would populate that ethereal world with gigabytes of data about Carter Skye.

Like Adam Harper, Skye had a troubled background — petty crimes. And like Harvey Edwards, there’d been some violent offenses in his past, assaults, including one with a deadly weapon.

Samuel now looked him over, a grandfatherly gaze. “People like you are perfect for the Foundation. You’ve got a bit of a past, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean, the law?” Shaw frowned. “Half of it was trumped up. Cops give you shit. I don’t put up with it.”

“Understood, understood. See, some people come here on a lark. Not really committed. You’re the kind of person that’ll keep your head down, do the work. You want to get better. I can feel it. You’d be a credit to us. And” — he lowered his voice slightly — “Master Eli likes those in his flock who are, let’s say... presentable. And you, Mr. Skye, are not hard to look at.”

A bit of flirt laced Samuel’s words. Shaw gave a cautious nod, simultaneously acknowledging the man’s meaning and gently rejecting the overture.

The matter was settled, and no harm done.

“This means, I’m pleased to tell you, that if you want to sign on for the training, you’ll be placed in our expedited program. We feel you’d be an asset to the Foundation.”

“Well, I... Sure. Why not?” Still wary.

“Excellent. Now, let’s get to the nitty-gritty, shall we?” In the manner of all good salesmen, Journeyman Samuel devoted himself entirely to the task. He set the tablet down and looked Shaw in the eye. “The Process is expensive but you get—”

“—what you pay for.”

“Indeed, indeed, indeed! Master Eli is committed to making the Process available to everyone so he’s created an ingenious fee structure. Yes, there’s a large payment for the ITP, the Initial Training Period. The seventy-five hundred you saw on the application. Master Eli knows it’s substantial but that guarantees commitment. You put that kind of money into anything , you’ll follow through. Think about those health club memberships — you force yourself out of bed at five a.m. not because you want to work on your pecs but because you don’t want to waste those two thousand buckolas. Am I right?”

He charged ahead without waiting for Shaw’s response. “Now, if you’re satisfied with the Process, the Foundation offers one-week refresher training sessions. Most people return at least two or three times a year.”

“What’s that cost?”

“Two thousand a week. But we offer a lifetime enrollment plan. You pay a nominal fee for expenses — a few hundred — every time you attend and you agree to leave the Foundation five percent of your estate when you die. For that, you can come back as often as you like. I’d recommend that. A number of people sign up.”

Shaw gave a scoffing laugh. “Maybe it’s something to think about. I don’t have any money. It was all I could do to scrape together the seventy-five hundred. But a will? I don’t even have one.”

“We’ll take care of that for you.”

“Well, you really want five percent of a 2006 pickup and my CD collection, be my guest. But... well, is there a guarantee of some kind about this Process?”

This brought a smile to Samuel’s round face. “As you’ll see, a guarantee wouldn’t really be practical. But once you go through the Process, you’ll know that it works. Depression, loneliness, anxiety... They’ll be things of the past.”

“I don’t want drugs. I got into trouble before.”

“None of that. What you need to cure your ills is already within you. Master Eli simply gives you the skills to fix yourself. And it works. Oh my, it works. So, Mr. Skye, I’m pleased to say that you’ve met all the criteria for the training. I do hope you’ll sign up. However, first...”

Samuel extracted from the top desk drawer a single sheet of paper. “You’ll have to be comfortable with the rules. Master Eli has found that the Process works best when we’re on a smooth ship. Or a tight ship. Whichever one, you get the idea.” Samuel chuckled.

Then the smile vanished, as he grew serious. “And I must tell you: infractions do have consequences.” He slid the piece of paper toward Shaw.

Welcome, Companions!

The cornerstone of your training, the Process™, is a completely immersive experience. Master Eli has developed a series of simple rules to guarantee that you will get the most you possibly can from your time here. We ask that you follow them at all times.