“No, really,” insisted the man. “My good deed for the day.” He had a distinctive southern accent and looked the part of a Richmond businessman as Mark quickly tried to assess if he’d been made. He kept his hand out, the dollar bills hanging in the air.
“I thought I knew everyone around these parts. You new?” said Stephen, the owner of the Gourmet cart. Stephen was well known to all of the regulars. “It’s nice when everyone’s trying to throw money at me,” not giving the man a chance to answer. “Good sign for business,” he said as he deftly took both men’s money and made change before anyone could argue.
“Thanks anyway,” said Mark, as he quickly took the cup from Stephen.
“Robert, Robert Schaeffer. I just started up the street,” he said, pointing toward the large grey Federal Reserve building. “Just moved here from Savannah.”
“Mark Whiting, I’m in the same building.” Mark was watching Robert’s every move, trying to quickly figure out whether or not information was being offered or taken away.
“I know, I saw you head down the hill. I’ve had to move around a lot,” said Robert, “and I’ve learned if you want to find the good coffee you have to follow the locals,” he said raising his cup with the familiar Gourmet logo. “I like your pin,” he said, gesturing toward the small circle of stars. Mark flinched just a little and stepped back as the last of the morning stragglers squeezed past him to buy something from the cart. Stephen made a point to leave the two men alone.
“I used to have one,” said Robert, “but I lost it in one of those moves.”
So it was a warning, thought Mark, to let him know he had his own personal Watcher now. A made man who had decided to rejoin Management. They always made the best Watchers.
Everyone in this game knew who they were playing against. That was never a secret. After all, Management had chosen each of them for the list when they were only twelve years old and had guided them through their education and first jobs, calling on them occasionally to make a certain choice, vote a certain way or join a particular group. It was generally never heavy-handed so that all of it would go unnoticed by the masses of people who, generation after generation, were never chosen to be a part of the network.
Every town, every country had the disenfranchised who were unaware of how the system really worked but railed anyway against how closed-off it all appeared to be.
What was at stake in this game was knowledge and how the rules were being manipulated. That’s what the missing file might tell the wrong people.
Knowing he was picked out changed everything for Mark and made him wonder if the file had already found a new home. He thought for a fleeting moment about his three kids but knew that it was pointless to try and get out.
If he was already in harm’s way there was very little he could do at this point to change whatever it was Management had in mind. The best he could hope for was to get an idea of what they were planning and pass it on later if he got the chance. Maybe the guy would say just a little too much. Suddenly his mouth was dry.
“Are you hoping this is more of a permanent move?” asked Mark.
“For at least a year or two, maybe. It’d be nice to settle down with the boys for some time. I’m a widower and its tough dragging the kids everywhere especially since they’re all starting to get a little older and entering middle school.”
Mark hesitated for a moment. Robert appeared to be reaching out for shelter. Mentioning the boys’ age was a message. Perhaps they had been chosen and were about to start entering the right groups and attend the right schools. This was where it became impossible to turn back.
“Sorry about your wife. That’s tough, being a single parent.”
“Yeah, and I’m fairly new at the job. Carol, my wife, she’s only been gone less than a year. We’re all still adjusting and now this move. The boys aren’t all that happy with me right now.” He looked nervous, quickly licking his lips. Mark noticed his fingernails looked chewed to the quick and he had dark circles under his eyes.
“Maybe we should head up the street,” said Mark, suddenly acutely aware of how vulnerable they were talking out in the open. “I need to get back to my desk. Thanks Stephen,” he said, waving goodbye. Stephen nodded and started packing up the cart. The morning rush was over.
The two men started slowly walking up the sidewalk toward the Federal Reserve at a pace that passed for quickly in the south but resembled more of a stroll.
“You have any family in the area?” asked Mark.
“No, all of my people are from Georgia, have been for generations. I still have a brother in Macon who works for Mohawk Industries. Two sisters but both of them moved to Florida. I guess most of us felt the need to head out on our own.” He dragged out the words, glancing at Mark.