The Traveler's Companion (4 page)

Iverson took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “If he comes back, I want you to initiate Level Four.”

She put her hands on her hips, grinned, and said, “Level Four hasn’t been tested in the field yet.”

“No time like the present.”

* * * * *

Bomb disposal usually wasn’t part of Iverson’s workday, but Gibbons had insisted he conduct the analysis of the book personally. Considering no one knew what the electronic device inside the book was for, precautions had to be taken. Not only did the bulky bombsuit he was required to wear make examining the book nearly impossible, but he had also been told that it had failed to save the lives of a number of experts. The analysis took place in an interrogation room, which had three stainless steel walls and a thick acrylic observation window. Should the people outside care to watch his internal organs paint the walls, they could do so in comfort and safety.

Iverson used a pair of surgical clamps to open the cover. The binding creaked and made a fan of the first few pages. There was a hand written inscription on the flyleaf:

YOU ARE INVITED!

C.C. Go

A black leather pouch was glued to the inside cover, sealed with a gold-colored metal button. Iverson carefully popped it open. A thin plastic device was inside, an electronic gadget of some sort, but it looked like a gimmicky child’s toy, the type one might find in a cereal box. The phrase “Get in the Zone” was written on its face with the word “in” on a red button affixed to the center. He dared not activate it. Carefully, he extracted it with a pair of tweezers and put it on a tray held by a gloved assistant who then carried it away as if it were a bomb.

There was no indication of copyright information or a publisher’s seal on the first few pages. It was obviously the work of a private printer. The ivory-colored paper was made with a cotton fiber that gave it a crisp, antique feel, and would have been easily deemed too expensive for most publishing houses.

The dedication read: For Sophia.

Later he would have his researchers run the name through the database of aliases. He flipped through the rest of the pages and found nothing but words.

He removed the helmet and said, “The book’s clean.”

* * * * *

After the book had been x-rayed several more times to make sure it contained nothing more than serif font, Iverson’s assistants scanned the text into the database. He was able to read it on his computer in the comfort of his office.

The Traveler’s Companion
began with an author’s note:

At twenty-eight years of age, I awoke one morning and was suddenly alarmed to discover I had no reason to get out of bed. I was so wracked with despair that the idea of going through another day was nearly too much to stomach. I had gone to a decadent party in the Swiss Alps the night before. The rooms had all been laden with hashish, opium, and tobacco smoke. Although I never touched the stuff, I thought maybe my malaise the morning after was some sort of contact hangover. As a rule I usually didn’t attend these types of gatherings, but the girl I was dating at the time had talked me into it. I quickly regretted the decision. For hours I endured her shamelessly flirting with a young celebrity until I couldn’t take it anymore. I just walked out. I left her there without so much as a goodbye. In my opinion I was doing everyone a favor because another minute of the bullshit and I would have strangled somebody.

She was nowhere to be found that morning. I assumed she had gone off with the actor. It was a slight blow to the ego, but the fact that it was actually over between us came as the only relief that horrible morning.

I finally did get out of bed, and when I got to the bathroom mirror I saw something horrifying. I didn’t recognize the man in the reflection. It was like there was nothing behind my bloodshot eyes. For the first time in my life I went to my knees and prayed. I prayed for my soul. I prayed for peace. I prayed for answers. Why was this happening to me?

Later that day, I was scheduled to fly back to France, but somehow I ended up at the train station in Geneva. As a child I had taken the train dozens of times. I had fond memories of watching the countryside race by outside the windows. I needed time to think, to go back in time and find out where I had gone wrong.

As we left the Swiss border, I began to think of my childhood. The complexity of adulthood was overwhelming to me. I longed for simpler times. I had always considered myself a seeker, but now I was lost. How had I gotten so far off the right path?

A black man was sitting across from me. He had a mushroom-shaped afro, watery eyes like pearls in a shell, and full lips. He was wearing polyester khaki slacks, a pair of athletic sneakers, and a short-sleeved button down shirt. A notepad and pens were in his breast pocket. By anyone’s definition, he was a nerd.

I had never been the type to just strike up a conversation with a stranger. Most of my life I had suffered from a nearly pathological shyness, probably from a childhood on the move, never living in any one city for more than a year and therefore always the new kid. In this instance, for reasons I can’t explain, I felt inclined to make conversation. I learned he was a scientist, a string theorist. At the time I knew nothing about subatomic strings. His explanation of protons, neutrons, and quarks was Greek to me, but I was totally fascinated. We talked nonstop to Paris and later we corresponded by email, and over the next few months we had many conversations by telephone that went into the late hours of the night.

I quickly learned that I would never understand quantum physics, but the theoretical themes intrigued me. In my loneliness and isolation, I found comfort in a place billions of times smaller than the nucleus of an atom. For me, there was an obvious correlation between basic quantum mechanics and morality. In science, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Buddhist monks believed the wave of a hand could be felt at the end of the universe. For me, whether it was science or philosophy, Newton or a Tibetan monk, the idea was the same: my actions were causing depressing reactions. I hadn’t been suffering from a hangover; I had come to a dead end after years of being on the wrong path. Everything about my life was superficial; my relationships were ones of ease and convenience. The work that had brought me so much success lacked meaning for me.

I was disconnected.

The underlying truth of Newton’s theory and the Chinese axiom tells us that in order for action and reaction to work, all things must be connected. Being disconnected is unnatural. Once I reconnected with the universe, amazing things began to happen. Life presented me with a series of meaningful accidents. One beautiful thing led to another. To me, it was obvious that more than just mere chance was at work. I was being led. I was on the path to my destiny.

At the end of my journey, the discovery of the Zone was the universe’s gift to me. It’s a monumental step forward for us as a species, and will spark much debate. It’s a new world fraught with peril, but luckily, the dynamics of right action apply in the Zone the same way they do in our daily lives. When it comes to navigating the Zone, one must first truly understand the mysterious connectedness of all things. The universe cannot be seen as machine with a benign source. For all things there is a purpose and for all time there is a reason. A little faith won’t contaminate the scientific model. Without science we would have never found the Zone, but without a moral compass we would be lost there. Our intentions must be pure. The journey into the Zone must start within the individual.

I have always believed that whatever world or reality we inhabit in our short sojourn through life, the goal has always been the same: one day we learn to become our own best travel companions.

C.C. Go

ONE

What is the Zone and how do I get there?

Imagine you walk into a room and find a computer. This computer, you soon discover, is more powerful than any computer you’ve ever seen. It can create programs of immense complexity. After some tinkering, you get it to play music. Properly programmed it could create incredible opuses, putting Mozart and Bach to shame. It could even facilitate a work of musical perfection. But, to your dismay, you realize that writing a program complex enough to be deemed perfect is beyond your grasp. After more study you realize that, although the computer was powerful enough, creating the perfect program is beyond human ability.

Only God could program this computer and create the perfect musical work.

Welcome to the Zone.

For now let’s define the Zone as a creative machine. It’s a place where something can be created from nothing. The Zone is both the chicken and the egg, a hermaphrodite organism that can impregnate itself. But then what or who created it? Maybe it’s like St. Christopher said: “There was nothing because God hadn’t created it yet.” In my humble opinion this is probably as good an answer as we’ll ever get in understanding the origins of the universe. Any true understanding of it is intellectually impossible. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. After the Age of Aquarius appoints its scientific kings, the greatest opponent to the kingdom will be ego. The king’s men will slowly slay religion by pointing out all its obvious failings, telling you they’re doing us all a big favor. But the new boss will be the same as the old boss, for the quest for enlightenment will be exchanged for the pursuit of empirical knowledge, and the Holy Grail will be an equation they’ll tell you explains all existence. Instead of saving souls, they will promise to save us from our own illusions and fears of the unknown. They won’t. Mystics learned long ago that the golden carrot science chases is inedible. Happiness, truth, and meaning come from within.

The fact that the origins of the universe are a mystery
is
the answer.

Deal with it.

Embrace it.

Thankfully, there’s an oasis within the enigma. The universe has compassionately given us a reprieve from the existential question mark at the end of our existence. It’s our ability to be creative! It soothes the aches. Fills the void. No disconnection. It doesn’t last, but it’s better than nothing. For a moment we understand it all.

In the Zone, we can put our understanding to work. Anything can be created there. Music. Art. Life. There’s no limit to the complexity of the work. We could even create something of perfection if only we knew how.

As far as Iverson could see, the book was apparently nothing more than a sententiously written first person narrative that listed his spiritual and philosophical beliefs. It offered a sort of homage to his former books, playing on the idea that this destination was the Inner Self. In later chapters he quoted spiritual thinkers, talked of meditation, humility, and selflessness. For all intents and purposes, this was a self-help book.

Iverson couldn’t find any mention of Go’s other books or what specifically he had done with them. The only indication of a destination in this book was a place he called “the Zone.”

Iverson anticipated a team of code breakers, psychologists, and literary experts arguing over the text. Because of its spiritual overtones, they might postulate that this was some type of a manifesto for a cult. Or maybe C.C. Go had turned over a new leaf and this represented an apologia written to redeem him from a life of hedonistic criminality. Of course, there was no concrete evidence he had written the type of books of which he was suspected. Had a rumor gone out of control?

Iverson had only one question: why had he left it for them?

CHAPTER 4

“A self-help book?” Gibbons asked.

“It appears to be written that way,” Iverson said.

“How did he get it on the premises?”

“We believe he has Angela’s badge.”

“Great,” Gibbons said, gritting his teeth.

Angela chimed in, “In my defense, Director, I was wrestling with a coma victim.”

“The point is, when he returns, we’ll be ready,” Iverson said.

Gibbons tossed a pen onto the desk, fuming. “Who is this guy? Tell me something useful!”

“Based on the book,
The Traveler’s Companion
, I’ve been able to update C.C. Go’s psychological profile,” Angela said.

“Great. Let’s hear it.”

“In his author’s note he talks about how seemingly chance events were actually caused by a mysterious omnipotent force leading him to his destiny. The instructional tone of the book suggests his destiny is to help or save mankind, like Moses taking the Israelites to the Promised Land. At first glance it’s textbook messiah complex, but the way he’s going about it reeks of ego. He cavorts with celebrities. He’s mass producing a so-called work of altruism using expensive paper, leather binding, and gold lettering. Mister Go is a narcissist, and a narcissist’s real desire is to be loved. Usually the neurosis stems from the love they didn’t get from their parents, and someone like him might believe that, once a savior, he will finally get the love he’s always wanted.”

“I see,” Gibbons said. “He’s like a cult leader. But he’s not necessarily looking for power.”

“No, sir. Megalomaniacs crave power. C.C. Go is much too private and elusive a person to navigate the social intricacies of power. On a psychological level, it would entail too much responsibility. On a spiritual level, having it would be counter to his beliefs. You’re the only megalomaniac here, Director.”

“
Excuse me
?”

“What she means is that, as a narcissist, his Achilles’ heel is a deep-seated need to be loved,” Iverson said. “Who better than Angela to exploit that weakness?”

“Quit selling, Iverson. I get it,” Gibbons said, rubbing his eyes. “This long night just got longer. Angela, would you mind getting us some coffee.”

“Only if you promise not to kick any ass until I get back,” she said.

“I can’t promise, but I’ll try.” He ogled her as she left the office.

“I’ve put her on Level Four,” Iverson said.

“Level Four? What the fuck is Level Four?”

“She operates on levels of intensity, each of which—”

“Will it affect us?”

“No, sir. Only the target.”

“What does Level Four do?” Gibbons asked.

“I’d have to start from the begin—”

“Well, we got plenty of time!” Gibbons said, throwing up his hands.

“In the beginning, our team asked one question: can a man love a machine? Getting a man sexually aroused is easy. In fact, when Angela was just a series of ones and zeros, a software program, we unleashed her on the Internet. In twenty-four hours she had over three thousand hits. Her suitors knew nothing about her save for a terse description in a profile and a few carefully placed phrases in a chat room. But what we really wanted to know was: could a man
love
a machine?”

“That’s what you do all day? Solicit pervs on the Internet?” Gibbons asked.

“The data suggested that the idea of a woman was as emotionally intoxicating for these men as a real woman, maybe even more so. Real women are flawed, but the girl who exists in their imaginations is perfect. For a man to love a machine it would have to nurture his fantasies while divorcing him from reality. Luckily nature beat us to it. Romantic love isn’t much more than mind-altering chemicals released by the brain for the purpose of propagating the species. But to get the brain to release the drug, the object of his desire has to fit the necessary criteria. The trick is to fool the mind into thinking the criteria have been met,” Iverson said.

“Can’t imagine the Department of Defense is beating down your door,” Gibbons said.

“The DoD wants a leather-clad vixen with a bazooka. But why create a soldier when we could crown a queen?” Iverson asked.

“Meaning?”

“Imagine Angela inspires romantic feelings in a man. All of a sudden she has power over him. She might be able to influence him from committing some heinous crime. She persuades him to turn himself in to the authorities. No bloodshed necessary. Hasn’t it always been the goal of the DS&T to save lives, even the lives of—”

“Save the public service announcement, Iverson. We need the Terminator and you want to sick Jane Eyre on his ass. Whatever happened to blowing these bastards back to hell where they belong?” Gibbons asked.

“With her there’s no collateral damage, no destruction to property, no post-traumatic stress disorder. Her programming saves lives.”

“What if he’s gay? They go shopping together?”

“If Angela’s successful, phase two will deal with those types of snags,” Iverson said.

“Phase two?”

Angela entered the room holding three cups of coffee. She set a cup in front of Gibbons and then handed one to Iverson.

“With phase one she can bring us coffee, and for only twelve billion dollars. If tax payers only knew,” Gibbons said.

“Wait until you try it. Worth every penny,” Iverson quipped.

She put the third cup before an empty chair and sat down.

Iverson, watching her with slight concern, asked, “Who’s that third cup for, Angela?”

“That’s not for her?” Gibbons asked.

“I thought Mister Go might want one,” Angela said.

“He’s here?” Iverson asked in a pitch higher than usual.

There was a knock at the door.

“Call security!” Gibbons cried out, jumping up from his seat.

Iverson stood as well, pulling out his cell phone and wielding it like a buck knife.

Another knock at the door.

“Should I get that?” Angela asked. She stayed seated, her fingers intertwined on the conference table.

“No!” Gibbons shouted.

The door opened. A man in his early thirties, wearing a black button-down shirt untucked, a black blazer, a pair of denim jeans, and white leather sneakers, stood under the doorframe. At first glance it was difficult to determine his nationality: the full lips of a German, the aquiline nose of a Greek, the bronzed skin of a Polynesian, and, his most anomalous feature, bottle-green eyes. An attempt had been made to mousse a head of voluminous, wavy hair to one side.

“Mind if I come in?” he asked.

Iverson shut his phone with a snap and put it in his pocket. For now, he didn’t feel threatened. His first impression of this stranger was that he belonged in one of the many nightclubs in the city, chasing girls, drinking too much. He was unimpressive as a wanted man.

“Do you know where you are?” Iverson asked.

“This is the CIA, right?” the man replied with a grin. “Sorry for the intrusion, but I lost my date here earlier. I should apologize for her. I wasn’t aware she was under the influence of a hallucinogen. I attract basket cases, what can I say?” he said with a shrug. “I want you to know I took care of her.”

“Took care of her?” Gibbons asked ominously.

The man chuckled and said, “I mean I took her home.”

Angela stood up gracefully, put her shoulders back to accentuate her breasts, and took the cup of coffee to the man standing in the doorway. She made sure to make eye contact and offer a warm smile. “Hello. We haven’t been properly introduced. My name’s Angela Iverson.”

The man accepted the cup greedily and said, “You are striking!”

Angela smiled coquettishly and said, “Please come in.” She lightly took him by the arm and escorted him to a chair at the conference table.

“Who are you?” Gibbons asked. “And how the hell did you get in here?”

“That’s kind of a long story,” the young man said. He squinted to look at Gibbons’s badge and then read it aloud: “Director Mark Gibbons.” He fell into a chair with a weary sigh. “I’m beat.”

“And what is your name?” Iverson asked.

“My name is C.C. Go,” he said, brushing off some imaginary lint from the arm of his coat.

“C.C. Go is it? Got I.D.?” Gibbons asked.

As the young man reached into his back pocket, Iverson asked him, “You said you lost your date here. Who were you referring to?”

The intruder looked at Iverson’s badge. “Your name is Iverson, too? Like hers.”

“Angela is my daughter,” Iverson said.

“I didn’t realize the CIA was a family business,” C.C. Go said, smiling, amused by the idea. He handed a passport to Gibbons.

Gibbons looked it over, sighed, and then asked, “Where is Melissa Fleming, Mister Go?” He closed the passport and set it on the table in front of him.

“She’s at home resting,” Go said.

“Resting? You realize she was in a coma when we found her?” Iverson asked.

“She’s fine now,” Go said. “Can I have my passport back, please?”

Reluctantly, Gibbons slid it over to him. He would’ve liked to check its authenticity.

“Is she okay?” Angela asked. “We should probably have her looked at by a doctor.”

“Yes, Mister Go. Why did you take her away? How did you take her away?” Gibbons asked.

“I took her because she might not have ever come out of the coma under your care. No offense. Right now she’s in her apartment in Paris. When I left her, she said she was going to take a shower and then go to bed,” Go said.

“You left her alone?” Angela asked.

“She’s fine. Might have a hangover tomorrow, but otherwise she’s completely healthy,” Go said.

“Paris, France?” Gibbons asked.

“That’s right. I have the address if you want it,” Go said.

“In a minute,” Gibbons said. “First I’d like you to explain how you got her to France and then came back here in just a few hours.”

“I did it in less than a few hours—significantly less—but explaining how I did that would involve a very lengthy conversation,” Go said. “I think showing you would be easier than telling you. I’m not so keen on the science anyway.”

A bolt of shock went through Iverson’s body. “The science?”

“Show us what?” Gibbons asked.

“You got the book, right?” Go asked. “What’d you think? Too ethereal? It’s hitting stores tomorrow morning, so any critiques would be greatly appreciated, albeit a little late.”

“The book will be in stores tomorrow morning?” Iverson asked.

C.C. Go looked at his watch. “It’s almost midnight. So, yes, in about nine hours my book will be on the shelves.”

“You published that thing?” Gibbons asked.

“At great personal expense I had the book printed, and I’ve decided to give it away for free.”

“Free?” Gibbons asked.

“Are you building a church?” Angela asked.

Go chuckled. “No. Nothing like that.”

“We’re not exactly sure what to make of the book, Mister Go. Is it self-help? A philosophical treatise? Is it fiction or nonfiction?” Iverson asked.

“Fiction, nonfiction. Such distinctions aren’t made in the imagination, man. My book deals with the inner need of all humans to be creative, both physically and mentally,” Go said.

“What the hell does that mean?” Gibbons asked. Gibbons wasn’t jiving with Go’s hipster vibe, like using “man” instead of “ma’am” or “sir.” Gibbons believed CIA officials deserved old-school respect.

Iverson, however, suspected it was all an act. Mr. Go was enjoying messing with authority figures.

“Why did Melissa come here, Mister Go?” Gibbons asked.

“I assume because you were having her spy on me,” Go said matter-of-factly.

“She told you she was a spy?” Gibbons asked.

“She told everybody. She wasn’t very good at it, obviously. For future reference, socialites aren’t what they used to be. These days they’d do anything for celebrity.”

“Did Melissa come here because she had something to tell us?” Gibbons asked.

“Yes,” Go said.

“Do you know what it was?”

“I do,” Go said.

“Mind telling us?” Gibbons snapped, annoyed with the banter.

Iverson cringed. He feared Gibbons was overwhelming the young man with accusations and putting him on the defensive. Mr. Go’s airy attitude about kidnapping a girl from a CIA infirmary was obviously annoying Gibbons, but an interrogation wasn’t going to work. So far, Go was cooperating.

“Sure,” Go said, taking a sip of coffee. “She wanted to tell you about the new book.”

“Yes, the book. Tell us, Mister Go, what’s the electronic device attached to the inside cover for?” Iverson asked.

“It’s for getting in the Zone. But yours won’t work until tomorrow morning. We’ll be activating the remotes right after a press conference around nine a.m. eastern standard time,” Go said. “It’s going to be amazing. You’ll see.”