The Unfolding, page 24
The General smiles. He is enamored with Metzger, who is as wily as the General himself. Both men have an affinity for esoteric, mostly useless information shared in great detail.
“I once went negative for a stomach product, planted a rumor in medical circles that the product ate holes in the lining of a stomach, worse than an ulcer. And because the first sign was pain, ‘victims’ were wrongly instructed to take more of the medication over a period of days, and by then, it was too late. The firm didn’t last eighteen months.” Metzger tells the story with an absence of affect as though it were the score in a ball game and not a life-or-death application of misinformation. “What about you, General; you ever stir the pot?”
“Well, I’m not one to brag, but there have been times I’ve put someone who wasn’t up to the challenge in a difficult spot to see him squirm. But there’s always a point, a lesson to be learned. ‘The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday; Facta, non Verba; We Quell the Storm and Ride the Thunder; Whatever It Takes; Balls of the Corps.’
“Kissick, are you always good? Do you ever cheat, steal, or lie?” the General asks.
“I’m not as perfect as I seem,” Kissick says.
The Big Guy snorts so hard that he sounds like a water buffalo.
“What was that for?” Kissick asks.
“The ‘as I seem,’ ” the Big Guy says. “It implies that to others you seem perfect—you don’t.”
“In what ways are you not perfect?” Metzger asks.
“Change,” Kissick says.
“What?” the General asks.
“If someone gives me the wrong change, I don’t correct them.”
“You mean if they give you too little, you eat it?” the Big Guy wants to know.
“Of course not,” Kissick says. “If they give me too little, I correct them, but if they give me too much change or simply undercharge me, I let it go. The world can handle that, my making a few extra cents here and there. One year I calculated it at $451.26, that’s what I took from the world that wasn’t mine. But then there’s also the calculation for ways in which I was robbed.”
“Robbed in what way?” Metzger asks.
“Sometimes overcharged, or a parking meter that runs fast, a taxi that’s cheating, a wrong price at the checkout, a food item that you order but don’t receive.”
“You keep track of that?” the General asks.
“I have been known to.”
“It seems painful and minor,” the General says.
“It was $1,843.89 the year I kept track of it. Over ten years, that’s easily 20K that goes unaccounted for. At 6 percent interest, that’s another $15,816, and at 10 percent, it’s $31,874 in interest. But as you know, we have some 19 percent funds, so the total would be $113,893 with $93,893 of that in interest. And I often do better than 20 percent a year. What looks like pennies to you is tens of thousands to me.”
The Big Guy is both impressed and agitated. Metzger and the General love it.
Kissick continues. “I look at investments in a holistic way. I like to aggregate money, gather my sources together; and I’m a huge fan of compound interest. It’s something I have a true passion for. My greatest fear is poverty. My parents constantly talked about the times their parents couldn’t pay the bills and lost their homes and their cars; sometimes they didn’t have money for food or clothing. My father went into business for himself when he was sixteen; he financially carried his whole family out of poverty into a different world. But there was no amount of money in the bank that was enough for him. There was no amount that would make him feel safe, and so he diversified; he had money in banks, in the market, in real estate; he bought and sold almost anything he could get his hands on and managed to build a little empire. Land was cheap; he built housing developments and named the streets after his relatives. Ursula Way, Fishwick Path, Robert Road, Donald Street. And you know what part I’m proudest of?”
“What?” the Big Guy asks.
“He built quality houses; he used good materials. No one ever complained about Dick Kissick’s construction.”
“Impressive,” the Big Guy says. He can’t help but notice that Kissick is tearing up as he’s telling them all this. The crying makes him nervous.
The Big Guy pats Kissick on the back. “How about we head inside. I’m sure Mary has a little something special for us.” He takes the guns from Kissick, carries them back to the house, and puts them back under lock and key. For the moment, he doesn’t put the key back in the lockbox but hides it in his office. He’s not sure why, just a feeling.
Mary has made cookies and a giant pot of hot cocoa.
“I highly recommend it with bourbon and a little cayenne pepper,” the Big Guy says. “It sounds strange, but a dash of the hot stuff cuts the sweetness and gives it a kick.”
While they’re snacking, the hunt team returns; the judge has something with him in a bag that he drags into the kitchen.
“A little trophy to take home?” the Big Guy asks.
“More a memento than a trophy,” the judge says. “It was Tony who bagged the prize.”
“I got a mountain goat,” Tony says. “It’ll make a nice rug or maybe an antler lamp.”
“Whatever,” Eisner says. “At least you brought the whole thing back.” He turns to the judge. “Watching you cut that animal apart was something that will leave me permanently changed.”
“It’s called field dressing,” the judge says.
“Dressing in any form is not what I saw,” Eisner says. “Unless you’re calling spilled blood mixed with snow and dirt dressing.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know.”
“Like what?” Metzger asks, putting himself into the mix.
“Like you don’t cut the throat to bleed the animal if you’re going to mount it. Leave the feet if it’s a bear and think about the shape of the mount, basically cut down and around the shoulder.”
“I like the idea of bear feet,” Metzger says. “I’m surprised that no one has used it as a product name, hell of a lot better than Bag Balm.”
The judge’s game bag is taken by Sonny to be packed in ice for its return flight and finishing in the Lone Star State. Tony’s goat is already being processed by Sonny’s brother, who wants to know if it’s okay for them to give the meat away.
“Please do,” Tony says.
“You know,” Bo says, smiling. “This is great. This is wonderful. Today reminds me of days I had as a boy. The whole family would be on a trip, skiing in Austria or the Swiss Alps, and we’d either be out on the slopes or in a restaurant having a family dinner and a stranger would appear out of nowhere and hand my father something. It could be as big as a suitcase or as small as a cigar. No one said anything; my mother never let on that it was strange. Whatever my father was doing or saying, he’d just keep going. I thought that was normal. I thought that fathers worked all the time, day and night, around the world.”
“Remind me, what did your father do?” Metzger asks.
“He worked for the government,” Bo says.
“In a particular department?”
“In an agency,” Bo says, and leaves it at that.
The men take a break to refresh themselves, especially the hunters, who have the metallic stink of hot blood gone cold. The Big Guy notices dried blood under the judge’s nails. He takes Mary aside and asks her to put a nail brush in his bathroom.
When they reconvene, drinks are poured and dinner is served. Mary has outdone herself with steak and potatoes and green beans with slivers of almonds. Christmas-style is what Mary calls them. A good red wine is aerating, bold and deep in flavor, and is poured as the conversation progresses.
Dr. Frode has brought to the table an ancient doctor’s satchel. He pulls out a glass bottle and proceeds to wash his hands at the table.
“It’s not you, it’s me,” he says, as each of the men clocks his activities. “I know too much.”
“As far as I know, the only way to really clean your hands is to piss on them,” Bo says.
“Correct,” the doctor says. “But this I make myself; it smells terrible but cleans great.”
“Frode, that’s not a common name,” the Big Guy says. “Is that correct or a typo?”
“Nordic,” the doctor says. “It means wise and clever. First name is Gunnar, ‘he who stands alone.’ Turned out to be prophetic when my father left my mother for the widow next door and I would go back and forth between the houses in a sad domestic version of Red Rover. As in Red Rover, Red Rover, we call Gunnar Frodeover.”
“Were your parents Vikings?” Bo asks.
“Not really. They were dermatologists in Los Angeles.”
“Smells like turpentine,” Bo says.
“Elements of that,” the doctor says. “Among other things.” Frode has a long beard, too long for a man in his late fifties, and has an old-fashioned corncob pipe sticking out of his mouth.
“Recognizing that we are not well-known to one another,” the doctor says, drawing the judge’s focus across the table, “I return to your question, Who am I? Like you, I am not the person I appear to be on the surface. Where to begin? I was always unusual—”
Bo makes a sound. “It’s a bio, not a birth announcement.”
“I’m not sure I asked him a question,” the judge says to Eisner. “Did you hear me ask?”
The doctor ignores them. “How best to describe myself? I’m a catastrophic thinker. I go as dark as possible and then some. My wife thinks I’m paranoid; I call it prudent. We live in Bethesda, which to me is political ground zero; we’ve got air purifiers, filtration systems, a fallout shelter, all the bells and whistles. Given the information I see on a daily basis, I can tell you that it’s only dumb luck that we’re all still here.”
“Interesting,” the judge says.
“I have a whole other life as a tinkerer; that’s where the money comes from. A number of years ago, I came up with some medical items: stents and adhesives and whatnots that turned out to be quite lucrative. Every year I launch a few things; this year it’s kosher pet chews—Jew Toys. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to check the kitchen before we eat. It’s a habit I can’t quit, food preparation, safety, and all that.” The doctor excuses himself from the table, taking his mystery satchel with him.
“He’s going to inspect the kitchen? I bet that’s a first,” Tony says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Mary clocks him.”
“Do you think he’s carrying drugs?” Eisner asks.
“What kind of drugs?” Bo asks.
“I’m sure he has drugs,” Kissick says. “My brother is a dentist and even he travels with all kinds of drugs, just in case.”
“Not regular drugs, mind drugs like they make in labs—LSD and MDMA and the kind of stuff they used to use for experiments.” Eisner starts singing Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit.”
“You’re out of tune and I don’t think he’s carrying anything with him,” Bo says. “His ego is so big, it’s all he can manage.”
“What’s with the pipe?” the judge asks. “What’s he smoking?”
“He doesn’t smoke it; he sucks on it,” Kissick says.
“Smells like mothballs and peppermint,” the judge says.
“It’s herbal,” Kissick says. “He makes it himself.”
“Marijuana is herbal,” Bo says.
“I hope he’s not in the kitchen doctoring our dinner,” Eisner says.
“You’re being paranoid,” Tony says.
“I’m being careful.”
Metzger pipes up. “Brand-wise, he reminds me of Colonel Sanders.”
“How do we know he doesn’t have a wire in that beard?” Bo asks.
“If you fellas don’t think he’s a good fit, there are others, medical men who were in the military. I know a guy who worked at Plum Island,” the General says.
“Is that a tropical retreat? The atoll where they tested Castle Bravo?” the judge asks.
“No, it’s where they did all the bioweapons experiments off the coast of Connecticut,” Bo says.
“Long Island,” the General says.
“Both,” the Big Guy says. “It’s between the two.”
“Brief delay,” Mary yells from the kitchen.
“When I was younger, I had a bit of a problem,” Eisner says. “That’s why I’m so fanatic about exercise—I need the endorphins.”
“Cocaine,” Tony says. “Look, Eisner, we know everything about you. I can assure you that Dr. Frode is not in the kitchen fucking with your food; he’s more likely quizzing Mary about how long the butter has been out on the counter. He’s a stickler for microbes.”
“He’ll be fine,” Kissick says. “He wants in and he can contribute on many levels. He’s very crafty; there’s money streaming in through various sources, arranged almost like the human body, capillaries into veins, veins into arteries. If he wasn’t in medicine, he’d be a brilliant moneyman.”
As they are segueing to dessert and the Big Guy is about to ask Kissick to explain the shape of the organization and why it cannot be structured like a company, the General interrupts. “Before we get into how the FBI took down the Mafia using RICO laws, there is something else we must discuss.” He stands and begins walking in laps around the table. “The gray zone is not a movie about a zombie apocalypse. The gray zone is neither here nor there; its boundaries are indeterminate and not covered by an existing set of rules. That makes it the ideal place for you folks to do your work. In this zone you can take advantage of known vulnerabilities; you can disrupt and disable, exploit information, use proxies and the disinformation campaigns that Eisner and Metzger design. These are time-tested tools that have been used with excellent results around the world. Today, we find ourselves in a unique position, in a more modern world that has yet to be truly explored, or should I say exploited; and by that I mean technology, communications, social media, changing public opinion by creating public opinion. One of the finest tools in the gray zone is language—what you say and to whom you say it. Historically, we have used everyone from New Orleans jazz musicians, abstract expressionists, and lady chefs who liked a nip of sherry; we have used film and radio and television to sell Americans and the world on a vision of what this country is all about.”
Eisner chimes in. “Reference point: the phrase America First isn’t the same as the American dream. The ideas behind the first phrase can be traced to Thomas Jefferson and his relationship to other countries. The dream phrase was coined in 1931 as a criticism of individual wealth and was meant to spur a return to equality and wealth for the nation over the individual. The Progressives thought it undemocratic to be a millionaire. By the 1950s, it had metamorphosed; the American dream was both a symbol and a vision of success and prosperity, and we sold it not just at home but around the world.”
“What he’s saying,” Bo says, “is that manipulating the mainstream media is a cheap and effective way to get the message out.”
“Exactly,” the General says. “A program I call ‘the half-baked potato restuffed,’ meaning that you eat it because you like the way it tastes, but you have no idea what you’re eating.”
“And then there’s just shit we make up,” Metzger says. “Science fiction, pure fantasy.”
“How do you know the difference?” Kissick asks.
“Difference?” the General asks. “What difference?”
“Between what is real and what is made up.”
“I’m not sure that I should be the one to break this to you,” the General says, “but it doesn’t fucking matter; the only important thing is that people believe what you’re telling them.”
“On a technical level,” Metzger says, “the difference is that misinformation is bad intelligence shared without harm. For example, ‘the world is flat.’ Disinformation is bad intel shared with the intention to harm: ‘if you jump off that building, it’s okay; you’ll bounce back up.’ And malinformation is genuine information shared with the intent to cause harm: ‘just between us, the stock market will crash’ or ‘your family is in danger.’ A great example of this is when Mark Antony, defeated in the Battle of Actium, hears the false rumor that Cleopatra has killed herself. He then kills himself.”
“You create the bullshit and then you spread it,” the General says. “Getting good spread, echo, and repeat is how you make it real. The more times it is repeated, the more real it becomes. By real I mean true—your fiction becomes fact. And at this time, despite the fact that the first television was sold in 1929, the majority of people don’t know the power of technology to influence decision-making.”
“Some of it is old-school,” Metzger says. “You start a radio station, a TV network—in many ways, it’s easier now than ever; you can do it online—it’s not like when David Sarnoff started NBC and competed against William Paley at CBS. Sarnoff was a boy from Minsk who came to America and got a job working for Marconi sending telegraphs. We’re in the twenty-first-century version of that same moment—and it’s called the internet.”
“I thought you were going to say it’s called FOX,” Bo says.
“Too new to be true,” Metzger says.
It’s a love fest between the General, the doctor, and Metzger. Bo and the Big Guy are smiling at each other. Bo is fucking glowing, but that might also be because he’s near the fireplace.
“The ancient Chinese general Sun Tzu believed the indirect approach to war was about deception and uncertainty, creating confusion, dividing allies. What you’re playing is the long game that evolves under the radar,” the General says.
The Big Guy looks at Metzger and sees that his face is reptilian, snakelike—big eyes, narrow jaw, cold skin that looks preserved or more like petrified by forty years of Pall Malls, Camels, and Kools.
Metzger meets the Big Guy’s glance and, as though reading his mind, says, “I started smoking when I was eight; I had a butane lighter from Esso. I loved to set the flame up high. I’d light up pretty much anything I could get my hands on just to watch it burn.”
