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Or, if I could, Have you no shame?
Instead, I ask, “Why do you think he’s in Rio de Janeiro?”
And just like that, I’ve given credence to a lie. I have no choice.
“Well, it’s a city where one can disappear into a crowd, make connections and bribe local officials. Where better for a man who’s supposed to be dead? Of course, there’s no reason to believe he’s staying there. A man like Victor Sovereign can’t linger in one place for very long. Sooner or later he’ll be recognized, so he has to pick up and move. That means he needs resources. He needs associates who can get him documents, currency, weapons…”
I let Dirk talk. He has more than enough bullshit to go on as long as he wants. After six months of this charade, I can do it in my sleep. Just ask questions to lead the guest from one subject to the next. There’s an outline on my desk, should I need it.
Somehow Victor Sovereign leads to government drone surveillance, which then turns into a screed on government overreach on everything from guns to farm subsidies. It’s pure drivel, but Dirk speaks with an unflagging fervor — which is probably why so many people watch his show every week. He knows how to get people good and mad, even if they’re not quite sure what they’re mad about.
“Kate, what are you thinking?”
I’d tuned him out. I’ve lost the thread.
“There’s a lot to think about there,” I lie. “What I want to know is, what can the average person do about it?”
When in doubt, bring in the audience.
“I’m glad you asked!” says Dirk. “I’m calling on everyone in your audience and at home to keep their eyes open.”
This gets him going on until Stephanie, my producer, buzzes into my earpiece to wrap it up.
“Dirk, thank you so much for coming on the show,” I say. “I hope you’ll be back soon.”
“Anytime, Kate.”
I turn back to the crowd, standing up and stepping around my desk.
“That’s our show, ladies and gentlemen. As usual, remember what I say: never stop asking questions. You can learn something from everyone and everything from someone. Arthur Henderson is up next, as always, to pick up where we leave off. See you tomorrow.”
The audience applauds; Dirk stands and gives a bow, like he’s some circus performer.
The stage lights darken as a pair of security guards march up to me. Dirk tries to approach, but they get in his way. Before anyone has a chance to say a word to me, I head backstage.
I say nothing as an assistant takes off my mic and I hand over my earpiece. Stephanie watches in silence. I don’t think she likes me. I wouldn’t be surprised; I’ve never said a word to her that wasn’t part of the job. When the show’s over, I pretend I’m alone. I don’t speak to anyone — none of the writers, or the assistants, the cameramen, makeup, catering — not if I don’t have to.
Someone’s always listening, after all. I never see them but they’re always there. I’d rather my coworkers think I’m a stuck up bitch than have my monitors think I’m asking someone for help.
I don’t want to get anyone killed.
As soon as we’re done, the guards usher me to the elevator, then out the loading dock to a limousine waiting. They don’t touch me; I come along willingly. Built like Greek gods, there’s no chance I could ever fight them off or run away. They know I won’t even try — even if I managed to escape, the consequences wouldn’t be worth it.
Once we’re in the car, tinted windows hiding me from the curious eyes of New York’s pedestrians, the guards fasten a metal collar around my neck. A slender, simple ring, it locks into place with a click. One wrong word between here and my apartment and the collar will shock me until I pass out. They tested it on me at full power once, so I’d know how it feels. I’ve made sure not to give them an excuse to use it again.
The guards walk me into my building, ride the elevator to my floor and see me to my door. An unseen operator remotely triggers the lock. I don’t have a key anymore. They won’t let me carry a jagged piece of metal, and they want me dependent. The purse hanging from my shoulder is just for show: it’s filled with wadded-up paper. No money, no identification, nothing I could use to defend myself or attack someone else.
I head straight for my bedroom, not wanting to receive a shock from the collar. Of course, it isn’t a bedroom anymore: it’s a padded cell. I raise my arms over my head, allowing the guards to strip me. They examine me, searching me just in case I somehow managed to hide something in my ass or pussy; when I would have pulled that off is a mystery, seeing as how they watch me at all times.
Once I’m clear, they shackle and chain my hands and feet, then gag me with a thick, rubber bit. Then they lock the door. Someone will show up later to take me to the bathroom, then feed me dinner: either a plain turkey sandwich or a garden salad.
On my birthday, they brought me a slice of pizza.
A television built into the ceiling turns on, replaying the interview with Dirk Shannon. Groaning, I lie down on the mattress and dig my face into my lumpy pillow. After a second, the TV blares a warning klaxon.
They want me to turn over and watch the show.
“Not today!” I shout, the words garbled by the gag. “Please!”
