Ways and means, p.28
Ways and Means, page 28
Alistair was practically folded over in his chair, at once impatient for Nikolai’s explanation and dreading his every word.
“Herve had always been cynical about politics,” Nikolai said. “He made his donations, to his senators and his congresspeople, his PACs and his whatnot. But he felt the country was doomed. He had no hope of anything changing.”
“Changing how?” Alistair said.
“All his life, Herve has hated the government,” Nikolai said. “His father taught him it was the enemy, and when he went into fracking he saw this for himself. His whole career, it was one long war. Not only against regulators, the EPA, but the liberal activists, the media—the bureaucrats, the elites. These people, Herve felt, they looked down on him, on everyone, wanted to control them, and every year they gained more power. Over how you can make your money, how much of it you can keep. Over what you are allowed to say, what you are allowed to think. These cozy elites, they oppressed the ordinary men and women of this country, kept them down by taking away their economic opportunities, by telling them that they had no place in the future, that they were dirt. Herve was sick of it. He had had enough.”
“Then what?” Alistair said.
“He should never have stopped working,” Nikolai said. “When you are working, you have no time to think. But he sold his company, and around that time the Tea Party movement was in full swing. He felt things might be turning around, and he began to pay more attention. All the Party’s ideas—a crippled federal government, elimination of income tax, of environmental regulations, a return to absolute freedom, a country ruled by the people and for the people, as it was meant to be—these are ideas he had always held dearly. He had never dreamed of seeing his vision gaining such wide appeal, such urgency. But then the fever broke, the Party’s ideas became co-opted by politicians in Washington and watered down, and business as usual returned. Herve was not surprised—he was too cynical for that—but a fire had been lit in him, and a fire had been lit, he believed, in millions of people like him. The politicians in Washington would never do anything. To bring about real change, revolutionary change, you had to go to the people, you had to find them where they were hiding. He had unlimited time and money at his disposal, and he began to think of his legacy.”
Alistair breathed slowly, fighting back his nausea.
“He put out feelers,” Nikolai said. “To people he knew of, groups he had heard of, always through intermediaries. Groups that shared his interests—antigovernment people, separatists, gun rights activists, visionaries of the libertarian state. Groups that he didn’t care for so much—white supremacists, Confederate freaks, guys with Nazi memorabilia—but that he knew could be useful. Futurists, survivalists, preppers, militias. He saw at once what needed to be done, if only there were someone to do the work. All these people, these men, they were lying low, festering, hiding out on the internet. Herve wanted real action. And these groups were disorganized, they did not work together. They had no larger aim, no guidance, no leader. Herve felt that if you gave them a common mission, gave them structure and funding, they would be more effective. No one had ever tried it before, no one had tested their collective power. Let them have their little philosophies, their little flags. As long as their eyes are on the prize, they will be useful.”
Alistair worked to open his throat. “Useful for what?”
“For a while it was not going anywhere,” Nikolai said. “I assumed the project would die out, and I hoped it would. But then, last year, Herve got a lucky break. Right away, before anyone else, I think, he saw how valuable he could be.”
“He?”
Nikolai took a sip from his mug and smiled bitterly. “Their candidate,” he said. “Their big blond buffoon. He spoke to all these people, all these different groups. The man is so hollow, so vague, so meaningless, you can make him mean anything you want. Herve saw this. All these different groups, he could unite them under that man. He could tell them that their day had come, and that now they had to band together, so that they could make the most of this moment.”
“Make the most of it how?”
“For the last year or so, the point persons—ex-law enforcement types, ex-military types—they have been recruiting,” Nikolai said. “They have been buying up sites—camps, compounds, warehouses—where they can gather these groups. Where they can train them and lay out their plan.” He caught Alistair’s eye and looked at him pleadingly. “You must understand that I am not on board with this plan! I am only the money man. I am only the mediator. I set up the holding companies, I keep the books, I keep track of the point persons’ progress and I report back to Herve. And I am the only one who speaks to him. The point persons know who Herve is, but the recruits know nothing about him, and they never can. That is my job—to make sure Herve’s identity remains a secret.”
“What is the plan?” Alistair said.
Nikolai shook his head. He laughed the way people laugh at funerals: strangely, helplessly. “Herve speaks of phases, and we are in the first,” he said. “Bring the men together, organize them, train them, arm them, and then start small. A demonstration here, a protest there. Show up at polling sites, show up at the next land dispute between the government and a rancher. Occupy a state capitol building, block roads, be seen. Get the message out. Recruit more followers, bring in more money. Show that you are many, that you are unified, that you are not going anywhere. Do this consistently, in every corner of the country. Show leaders at every level that you must be reckoned with. Bring more and more of them over to your side. Divide their loyalties. Sow chaos. Lay the groundwork.”
“The groundwork for what?”
Nikolai sipped from his mug and exhaled slowly. “Herve talks of a final phase,” he said. “The libertarian wet dream. The federal government brought to its knees, a new constitution, an America you would not recognize—a very old one. Herve likes the way America used to be, all separate communities, living as they please, by their own rules, with their own laws—‘city-states,’ he calls them. Unrestrained self-interest, unchecked will. He likes the idea of the vacuum the destruction of the federal government will create, because he knows what will fill it—free enterprise. The freest you can imagine.”
“If that’s the final phase,” Alistair said, “what comes in between?”
Nikolai fell silent for a moment, turning the mug in his hands. “I have been to Herve’s house, in Williston,” he said. “He has big windows that look onto his property. The land there is flat, and you can see all the way to the horizon. He gets up early, he stays up late, he hardly sleeps. And all day he looks out those windows, and he can see nothing standing in his way.”
Alistair pitched forward. “You’re telling me about demonstrations,” he said. “You’re telling me about land disputes and occupations. And then you’re telling me about a new America, with no federal government, with different laws. You’re telling me about the first phase and the last phase and Andy’s showing me guns, he’s showing me maps. Tell me. Tell me what happens. What comes in between?”
Nikolai set down the mug and put his face in his hands. “I do not know!” he said. “Herve does not tell me, and I do not ask! I do not want to know—I cannot! Thousands of these people, eventually tens of thousands, all armed and angry. You can imagine, can you not? That is all I can do. That is enough!”
Alistair could hardly breathe. He put his own face in his hands. Attacks on federal buildings, kidnapped politicians, rogue networks in the military and police, a counter-media and a counter-trade, sieges and demands, secessions and barricades, contests over goods and natural resources ending in devastating, map-redrawing concessions: on and on his mind raced.
“My only comfort,” Nikolai said, “is that I know it will never work.”
“How do you know that?” Alistair said. “You just said he can’t see anything standing in his way—how do you know that?”
“The men Herve is recruiting,” Nikolai said, “they may be motivated, but they are stupid. They are only little boys. Their candidate will lose, and they will lose their fighting spirit. Herve cannot change the world, not by himself. Sooner or later his self-preservation instincts will kick in. He will see the futility of the project and cut his losses. And he has lost quite a bit already. He has spent ten million, though as far as he knows he has spent double that.”
“As far as he knows?”
“As soon as I learned the truth, I began planning my exit,” Nikolai said. “I have been putting money offshore. I guess my time in banking was not so useless. I am almost ready. If you want to live a long life and never work again, you need a lot.”
“How can you be so sure he’ll fail?”
Nikolai retrieved his mug and swirled it. “I am not so sure of anything,” he said, “except that your country’s future does not look good. The things Herve believes, the things his men believe, even if the election does not go their way, even if the project comes to nothing—I am European, I am familiar with all of this. I am afraid it is coming for you.”
Alistair turned to the window, to the vast, twinkling city, and turned back. “Why didn’t you go to the authorities?” he said. “Why aren’t we going to the authorities right now?”
Nikolai sat upright. “You will not,” he said. “We will not. Herve will do anything to protect the project, anything to protect his secrecy. If it were ever discovered that he is funding this operation, he would go to prison, and he would lose access to his billions, and then he would not be able to do anything at all. He will take any action to protect himself. He will, and he has.”
Alistair held himself still. “What do you mean?”
“When you are dealing with so many people, there are occasional indiscretions,” Nikolai said. “People who learn things they should not. People who open their mouths. I have seen people come, I have seen them go. And I have never heard from them again.”
Alistair fixed his eyes on the floor. He willed it to break open, pull him down and swallow him, whisk him, by means of a magic portal, to any other reality.
“If Herve gets wind of any mistake, any betrayal, any deviation from absolute loyalty,” Nikolai said, “he will act quickly. He will not tolerate liabilities.”
Alistair said nothing.
“You were wrong the first time,” Nikolai said. “How much better it would have been, if Herve was only cheating investors. But you were also right.”
Alistair looked up.
“I have been living with this for three years,” Nikolai said. “It is eating me alive. I cannot sleep, I cannot talk about it to anyone. And then you come along. Your face is like the sun. I thought, ‘As long as I protect him, I can be less lonely.’ And you did make me less lonely, and I have protected you. There is no trail connecting you to this project. There is no evidence you had any involvement with it. You should not have used your personal computer—Herve has people who can track these things. But I think, for now, that you are safe.”
“Why me?” Alistair said.
“I told you. For three years, I am living—”
“Not you,” Alistair said. “Herve. If he cares so much about secrecy, why would he let you bring me on?”
“He was not happy at first,” Nikolai said. “But I assured him I had worked it so that you would not find anything out. I think he felt bad for me. He has his soft spots. And when I told him about you, where you are from, how you had struggled, he became interested. When he met you, he liked you. The men he is recruiting, he understands them, he feels for them. But there is something special to him about a person like you.”
Alistair spoke over a lump in his throat. “Like me?”
“A person who tries to join the world Herve hates, to succeed among the elites, to play by their rules, but who is turned away at the door. Herve saw your desperation. He saw your pain, your anger. He believed you understood each other. He hoped you might join his cause.”
It was somehow the worst thing Nikolai had said, somehow the very worst, because it was true. Alistair and Herve had, in a certain way, understood each other. And now the nausea returned. “What about Andy?”
“I will take care of him,” Nikolai said. “I will pay him off and I will scare him. He will go quietly.” He took the last sip from his mug and caught Alistair’s eye. “And you will go quietly too. I will give you your last payment, when I have it. And then we will say goodbye.”
Alistair held his gaze briefly and then looked away.
“I am sorry,” Nikolai said. “I am sorry to see you go.”
Alistair went. He returned to his dorm, pretending not to hear Vidi’s greeting when he entered. He escaped to his room, rebuilt his cocoon, and remained in it all weekend. That he could do nothing, say nothing, forget nothing: the thought kept him pinned to his bed and kept him awake.
On Monday, in an access of terror and need, he accepted an invitation to the Eros Ananke. As he was preparing to leave Nikolai called him on the burner and told him he could come for his last payment. Alistair thought about refusing it, but having given almost all his money to Andy he knew he’d be in dire straits without it. It seemed the ultimate testament to the ultimate intractability of money that amid everything his mind should go here: that the homo economicus in him should never be diverted from the one object to which it gave absolute meaning. He told Nikolai he’d come but left the burner at home. In his hand the thing felt like fire.
When Nikolai opened the door to his apartment he handed Alistair the envelope. “I am taking care of it,” he said. They lingered for a moment, staring at each other silently, and parted ways without a goodbye.
At the Eros Ananke he told Mark and Elijah that he’d quit his job with Nikolai. He felt he had to publicize his break from him, however vaguely, to make it real. Elijah proposed a meal out, and as they were leaving Alistair left his jacket, containing his envelope, on their couch. He assumed he’d return, he needed to return: to be naked with them again, a clean babe in the woods.
But things between Mark and Elijah had reached their logical end. At dinner they fought loudly, continuously, hideously. Alistair barely listened. He glanced up only occasionally and only at Mark. Even in his anger Mark’s face still shone with tenderness, with discernment, with goodness. From where Alistair sat such goodness seemed a galaxy away.
Amid the men’s arguing he gave up hope of returning to their apartment. He’d retrieve his cash the next day. Because he hung his head the whole way back to Palladium he didn’t at first notice Nikolai when he arrived.
“I have been waiting here for hours,” Nikolai hissed to him on the sidewalk. “I called you a hundred times.”
Alistair noticed Nikolai was carrying a bag.
Nikolai said he’d contacted Andy and offered to get him his money. But Herve’s tech hounds, it appeared, had seen Andy’s emails before Nikolai had had the chance to delete them. Nikolai had begun to suspect something had gone awry, he told Alistair, when he’d kept calling Andy and getting only voicemail. Finally, hours before, just after Alistair had picked up his cash, Nikolai had thought to look up local obituaries. Andy’s crucial mistake, Nikolai said, had been mentioning Herve by name in his last email. It wasn’t about the money: a hundred thousand was nothing to Herve. But his name, his protection from the authorities, was everything to him, and there was nothing to stop a blackmailer from taking things too far.
“They made it look like a suicide,” Nikolai said. “I do not know how, but I do not doubt they are professionals. A twenty-four-year-old kid with no money and a new baby—no one will second-guess it.”
Alistair’s panic kicked in with cruel immediacy. It gave him not a moment to feel anguish, to feel grief.
Herve’s men were surely coming for them, Nikolai said. He himself was leaving that night and he suggested Alistair do the same. “I do not believe they know where you live,” he said, “but it is only a matter of time.” He went on, his voice a sharp whisper. They’d made a mess, he said, and Herve didn’t like messes. Surely Herve believed he’d be better off if they were simply no longer around. “You have seen what he is willing to do. Now he is coming for us.”
After Nikolai left Alistair went upstairs, spurred by his terror, slowed by his paranoia. The news of Andy’s death came to him only as a fact that his fear processed with computational disinterest. Even all through the following day, as he said his goodbye to Mark, as he unloaded on Maura, as he boarded a ShortLine to Binghamton, he struggled to wrap his mind around Andy, to contemplate him as anything other than a factor in his panic. It occurred to him, as the bus made its way upstate, that he’d lived his whole life in one state of panic or another: a panic to get away, a panic to get rich, a panic to help his mother, a panic now to survive. His heart had been so consumed by panic that it had hardly been able to let in any other feelings. Little did he know, as he hunkered down in his seat, that when he arrived home he would have a whole summer to feel them.
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On the Fourth of July Maura and Alistair made cookout food for their indoor, sunless holiday: pigs in blankets, a watermelon salad, a sheet cake with patriotic frosting. They didn’t know when Nikolai would arrive, but they were ready. Alistair’s duffel lay open by the couch.
Maura, peering at its contents, noticed the wooden cross lying atop a stack of T-shirts.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“An experiment,” Alistair said. “Maybe a replacement.”
“For what?”
