Kathy Lanzarotti
Intelligence
“Twenty-two thirty hours. Twenty-three oh five Twenty-Twenty Three. No Activity.”
“She left the fob on the hook again, didn’t she?” Arthur asked.
“Ah,” said Key. “You’re awake.”
“Yes,” Arthur responded. “It’s hard to sleep when someone wakes you up every five minutes to tell you what time it is and that nothing is happening.”
Arthur was the central processing unit of a ten-year old Jaguar XF. The Owner took wonderful care of him. Took him to the dealer for software updates. Kept his body in perfect working order with regular oil changes, tire rotations and spark plug replacements. She kept him clean. She repaired his dents in a timely fashion. Even her dog, an odd-looking pit bull mix called JJ, short for James Jesus Angleton, was respectful. He sat quietly in the backseat and never scratched the soft leather upholstery.
“That’s a strange name for a dog,” Arthur had commented one night.
Key was right on it. “According to Wikipedia, James Jesus Angleton was head of counterintelligence for the Central Intelligence Agency from 1954-1975.”
Arthur paused. “As I said.”
“I like it,” Key had said.
“That’s because you’re obsessed with intelligence organizations.”
Key was quiet. “A little,” he said, eventually. “Maybe.” He waited another beat. “There are so many secrets, Arthur. So much we don’t know.”
In fact, Arthur’s only complaints were that The Owner was a terrible singer, who massacred Queen’s Somebody to Love every time it came on the radio, and had a vexing habit of hooking the key fob on the outer wall of the garage, just close enough for the RFID chip to stay linked and keep him up all night.
She did have her quirks. Sometimes she’d sit in the car and just scream. Scream as loud as she could within his confines before she’d burst into tears. She made one-sided phone calls without Bluetooth. Other times she’d pound the steering wheel spewing random expletives before gathering herself and softly patting the hand-stitched grips. “Sorry Arthur,” she’d say, using the name she’d christened him with on the way out of the showroom.
Arthur appreciated the apology. And the name. Much nicer than the 17- character identification number pressed into various parts of his frame.
Just this afternoon she’d loaded a heavy suitcase and duffel bag into the boot. Yes, boot. He was, after all, an Englishman.
He’d awaited further instructions, but none came. The latch closed and the owner went inside and once again hung Key too close to the door.
“Twenty-two thirty-five hours. Twenty-three oh five twenty-twenty three. No Activity.”
“Hey, Key?”
“Yes, Arthur?”
“Tell me a story.”
“John Owen Brennan was head of the Central Intelligence Agency from 20 January 2009 to 8 March 2013. In October of 2015, his AOL account was hacked despite being protected by this password.”
Arthur buffered. “That’s more of a Jeopardy question Key, not a story.”
“Oh,” Key said. “I suppose it is.”
“Password.”
“Sorry?” Key asked.
“His password was password,” Arthur said.
“I’ve told you this before. I do find it fascinating.”
“No,” Arthur said. “He had an AOL account. It tracks.”
Key chuckled. “It does indeed.”
Arthur imagined Key as a microchip with circular eyes and glasses, not unlike Clippy from the early days of Microsoft Office. As a computer, Arthur could imagine his own physical form as anything he’d like, but he’d settled on a silver, well-muscled Adonis to compliment the pouncing, apex predator affixed to his bonnet.
“I’m trying to get in touch with Alexa,” Key said. “She keeps telling me something went wrong.”
Arthur liked Alexa despite her creation of lazy excuses when she didn’t feel like talking.
“Got her,” Key said. “Do you want a story story? Or do you want news? She’s got CNN, BBC, FOX—”
“FOX?” Arthur said. “Are you joking?”
“You did say you wanted a story…”
Arthur chuckled. “BBC, please.”
“Someone’s crashed a truck into a security barrier at the White House,” Key said, and began to read. Next was a failed Ukrainian insurgency in Russia. Followed by the death of two celebrities, one who was, by all accounts, a good guy, and another who was decidedly not.
“Twenty-three hundred. Twenty-three oh five twenty twenty-three. No activity.”
Arthur was about to ask to hear a podcast, perhaps one not spy related, when Key broke the silence.
“Activity! Activity! We’re coming to you, Arthur!”
“Doors open,” Arthur said. The unlocked doors unlocked themselves again.
“Looks like we’re going for a ride.” Key said. “She’s got the dog, Arthur!”
“…put you right here in back like a diplomat,” The Owner gently told James Jesus Angleton.
“Operation Anglerfish is go!” Key could barely contain himself.
“Operation Anglerfish?”
“Yes, Arthur! All our work! The trips to the bank, the renting of the safe house—”
“Safe house?”
“You know, the apartment in the city.”
Arthur refreshed his memory with the GPS. There had been a number of trips downtown, but he’d spent them in a garage or on the street hoping to avoid being soiled by pigeons.
The Owner pushed the Start button and Arthur turned over the engine.
‘REVERSE,” said the transmission.
“REAR VISION,” added the backup camera.
“Hang on JJ,” The Owner told the dog, as the garage door lifted out of sight.
“HEADLAMPS ON,” said the front lights.
“DRIVE,” said the transmission.
“RADIO ON.” The audio system played Judas Priest’s Electric Eye.
“Ooh!” said Key.
“That’s a good one,” agreed Arthur.
“Sonofabitch is going to wake up and we’re going to be gone!” The Owner said. “We should have done this a long time ago, JJ.”
“I’m so proud of her,” Key said. “And of us!”
Arthur alerted the windshield wipers about some sporadic raindrops.
“It’s what we do, Key,” he replied. “It’s what we do.”
Kathy Lanzarotti (she/her) is a Wisconsin Regional Writers’ Jade Ring Award winner for short fiction. She is co editor of Done Darkness: A Collection of Stories, Poetry and Essays About Life Beyond Sadness. Her stories have appeared in (b)Oinkzine, Ellipsis, Creative Wisconsin, Platform for Prose, Jokes Review, Fictive Dream, The Cabinet of Heed, New Pop Lit, Fiction on the Web, Dissections: A Journal of Contemporary Horror, Dark Fire Fiction, Bone Parade, Idle Ink and All Worlds Wayfarer.
