But as our government took increasingly bold steps to limit individual rights, some of those same governments had become alarmed. British prime minister Bix Dickens had expressed the concern of the UK when he publicly asked Wrightman to consider the consequences before taking actions to curtail civil liberties. Vice President Hunter had reassured Europe that these measures were temporary and would be removed once the threat had diminished. That all might change if I could get this evidence out. And if it raised doubt, the UN might be compelled to take some action. It could shatter these still-fragile alliances and might lead to censure, political isolation, even economic sanctions.

Once I started imagining the possibilities, I started to feel a little better. The weight of the entire Western world might be brought against Wrightman to force him to release all the political prisoners. Who knows, with enough support maybe Congress would show some balls. I could see it happening. Sure, it was only a glimmer, a flea on the labradoodle of life, but it was real. Well, it was possible. It was something. My mind transformed hope into excitement, which my body turned into adrenaline that my heart pumped through my body. My parts were all in on this one. I started sweating.

For any of that to happen, though, the evidence had to be irrefutable, it had to be conclusive, and I had to make it public. I was working it all out; I’d have to find out where Hack was. Get an answer from him. If he verified the graph … I was trying to figure out who had his address. I could go over …

“You okay there, Rol?” Charlie Fitzgerald asked loudly. I caught myself. I had gotten so into my fantasy that without realizing it I’d broken my personal speed record for lat pulldowns. The rapidly clanking weights had attracted Charlie’s attention.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I was just thinking…”

“Be careful with that,” he joked. He rolled his eyes back and forth as if warning me to keep my thinking down.

“Right.” I eased back into a rhythm. I can close my eyes right this minute and be back in that gym. I can hear it, smell it. That was the first time I’d worked through the possibilities. Did I believe it? Probably not. But at that moment I needed it. Hope was the only weapon I had.

I didn’t kid myself. Big rewards require big risks. A government willing to kill its citizens to gain power, as I was certain Wrightman had done in Detroit, would do whatever was necessary to hold on to that power. Was I willing to take those risks? I considered myself a risk-taker but not a gambler—an odd combination. If I believed I could control the narrative by making my own decisions, I didn’t hold back. I had run into that building believing I was quick enough to get out. But if success depended on the roll of the dice or turning over a card, I was much less gung ho. I was the kind of guy who sat on 16 in blackjack and never put more than three hotels on Park Place.