I’d spent a reasonable amount of time with her as Jenny’s plus-one at events and liked and respected her, but Jenny’s continued absence at these meetings stood between us. In this case, though, I needed her. As I started to answer her question as to how I knew it was accurate, I suddenly felt incredibly foolish telling her that a high school kid gave it to me. It didn’t get any better as I filled in the details. Even I had to admit, the possibility that some high school kids doing their club project had solved the problem that had stymied the leading intelligence agencies in the Western world did not sound particularly credible. When I told her that a kid named Brain riding the Beast had cyjacked Cher to get my attention, she looked at me with great sympathy.

And it didn’t get any better when I hummed a few bars.

She savored one Cheeto as she considered her response. “This is the kind of information that changes lives, Rollie,” she said as she slid my printouts back to me, “especially yours and mine. I’m willing to take that risk, but only if you can prove to me without any doubt this is legitimate. I can’t take that chance until we’re one hundred percent certain this isn’t complete bullshit.”

“Any suggestions?”

She held one long slim Cheeto between her teeth as she considered that. Then she crunched down on it. “I guess you could call the NSA and ask them if somebody around there had cyjacked an airliner. But other than that…” She shrugged.

The rest of the meeting that night is sort of a blur. As I listened to a litany of scary news, I just couldn’t help wondering how I could prove the kid’s claims. And there was a lot of bad news. The situation was getting worse. The administration was getting more active. The thin line between docile opposition, which the White House encouraged, and an effective movement was close to being crossed. The rapidly growing resistance had finally forced Wrightman to react. More people were being questioned and detained. A two-stater passed along a rumor that the White House was producing and posting antigovernment social material, then working with providers to identify people who passed them along. Those names were added to a secret watch list.

That night, for the first time, I heard people threatening violence. A squat, balding professor from American University was waving his arms furiously as he complained, “This is bullshit! When is enough going to be enough? We keep meeting here to tell one another how bad things are, but we’re not doing anything to stop it. It’s time we stopped talking and start to take some action.” He reminded me most of a burly union organizer from a 1950s black-and-white B movie, maybe played by Broderick Crawford, exhorting workers to march on the bosses.

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep myself from saying anything. These big talkers infuriated me. I’d seen the damage they could do. Obviously we were a long way from planting IEDs along the 495, but stuff like that begins with blowhards like this professor planting those seeds.