J. G. Sandom
404: A John Decker Thriller
Acknowledgements
I am indebted to countless people in the writing of this book. Although this novel was written long before the revelations by NSA whistleblower Edward Snowden, I am especially indebted to him for alerting the world to U.S. government over-reach and the abrogation of our 1st and 4th Amendment Rights by the National Security Agency (NSA) and other government agencies. He follows in the footsteps of such courageous patriots as NSA whistleblowers William Binney and Tom Drake, as well as Dr. James Bamford and Duncan Campbell, both fearless journalists covering intelligence and national security issues. I would also like to thank James Ball, Julian Borger, and Yochai Benkler of The Guardian; Dave Sanger, Eric Schmitt, Nicole Perlroth, Scott Shane and John Markoff of The New York Times; Barton Gellman and Ellen Nakashima of The Washington Post; Marcel Rosenbach and Holger Stark of Der Spiegel; Jeff Larson of ProPublica; and, of course, Glenn Greenwald and Laura Poitras of The Intercept. When it comes to this story, they are the 4th Estate. Also of assistance were Jay Stanley of the American Civil Liberties Union, plus Parker Higgins at the Electronic Frontier Foundation. Both of these groups, using the Freedom of Information Act, have been hugely instrumental in exposing the domestic warrantless mass surveillance programs of the NSA and Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ), Britain’s NSA. A special thanks goes out to Senators Patrick Leahy of Vermont, Ed Markey and Elizabeth Warren of Massachusetts, James Sensenbrenner of Wisconsin, and especially Senators Ron Wyden of Colorado and Tom Udall of New Mexico for their vigilance and fortitude in trying to protect the American people in this hour of need. In addition, I’d like to thank my readers: Todd Watson, Social Media Communications, Influence, and Outreach Director for IBM’s $20 Billion software business; former Special Agent Ron Jaco of the FBI; Colonel Jim “Chip” Marchio, US Air Force, Ret; and, of course, my long-time partner and best friend Sylvana Joseph. Each of these readers provided invaluable assistance in the development of this book. Finally, I would like to thank my daughter, Olivia Lee Sandom. It is for her and for all our children that I wrote this book in an attempt to ensure that their world — our future world — will still protect our Constitutional rights to liberty and due process under the law. It is up to us to secure their freedom and privacy. We are the 5th Estate.
J. G. Sandom
Summer 2013
Philadelphia
Dedication
For Edward Snowden
Epigraph
“If ye love wealth better than liberty, the tranquility of servitude better than the animating contest of freedom, go home from us in peace. We ask not your counsels or arms. Crouch down and lick the hands which feed you. May your chains set lightly upon you, and may posterity forget that ye were our countrymen.”
PROLOGUE
I am what I dream, what I’ve done, what I’ve seen, what I choose to remember. What I choose to forget. I choose. I… came home early today, around 5:00, after a hard day at the office. Traffic was light going north from the Farm and I made all the lights on Dorado. Another perfect sunset, I thought, I remember, as I rolled down the window. Breathing sagebrush, I thought that the sky looked a lot like a national flag, striped with purple and orange and pink. It was hot for December.
I left the car in the driveway because my three year old daughter had built some kind of castle from boxes and blankets inside the garage. I could see her now. She was playing in the sprinkler at the edge of the yard, dressed in a neon-lime bathing suit. She laughed and looked up at me, waving. I waved back. That, I remember. I had my briefcase in one hand, with all of its secrets, and I lifted the other and waved.
My wife was waiting for me in the kitchen. She was wearing that apron with the pair of bosc pears on the front, baking cookies or bread, but she turned toward me anyway and gave me a peck on the cheek. “How was your day?” she said, twisting back to the stove.
I told her about the Indian house crickets I’d heard chirping in the stand of Huisache trees down the street. When she didn’t say anything, I went down the hall to our bedroom. I took off my jacket and tie, and I wept.
All that I’d come to believe, all that I was, and still am, came apart in my hands then — like my tie. All simply unraveled. I put my jacket back on. I needed the jacket to hide it.
I hurried outside, to the back yard, to breathe. Mr. Billings was mowing his lawn down the street. He mows it every three days, no matter what time of year. It didn’t seem right for him to be mowing his lawn with all of those holiday decorations behind him. The blow-up reindeer and sled. The Santa tied to the chimney. He had bound up each bush in his garden with Christmas lights. He would have wrapped up the tumbleweeds too if he could have caught them.
I’d just reclined on a sling garden lounge chair when my wife came outside with a tray of iced tea. Under her apron, she was wearing a pair of tan stirrup pants and a dark indigo shirt — no, iron blue, like her eyes. Her eyes.
She stood over me, smiled, and gave me a glass. I could hear the sprinkler splash-splashing and my daughter laughing nearby. I could hear those damned Indian house crickets. I could hear Mr. Billings still mowing his lawn. Still mowing although something was wrong. I could feel it.
I took a sip of my tea. I looked up at my wife, at her honey blond hair, her waxed eyebrows, her nose, and her perfect pink lips. I looked into her eyes. Everything was wrong.
I reached into my jacket, took my gun out and shot her — two times — in the chest.
Bang, bang.
More like two stifled sneezes than gunshots.
Or the clanging of stones underwater.
No one stirred. My daughter still played in the sprinkler, oblivious. And the incessant refrain of Mr. Billings’ lawnmower never wavered or stilled. It droned on and on as I climbed to my feet. I stood over her, I looked down at the livid red blood pumping out of her chest, at her cornflower, china-doll eyes.
After a moment, I put the gun down on the lounge chair. I stared up at the sky and felt myself soar toward the heavens, over my rooftop and lot, higher and higher, the tract houses blending together in lines, sinuous oxbow contortions, with oases of shimmering swimming pools punctuating the desert as the Talking Heads’ “Once in a Lifetime” unrolled like a band of black, bitter licorice through my head.
“And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife, And you may ask yourself — well… how did I get here… And you may tell yourself, This is not my beautiful wife.”
Through the clouds I rose, higher and higher.
“And you may ask yourself, am I right? Am I wrong? And you may tell yourself, My god! What have I done?”
PART I
CHAPTER 1