A Violent Peace: A Novel

By Andrew Schmitz

When Ezra Quinn unexpectedly lands his dream job overseas, he soon finds himself living in luxury, but in an unstable country. Alif Zahir, the intelligent and passionate founder at Quinn’s new company, assures him that their initiatives are committed to using the latest technological advances to assist governments in keeping the peace.

He’s mesmerized by the exotic, silky-haired Leila. She whispers tales of a life different from his own, of the struggle of a people without freedom, of tragedy and hope.

Quinn digs further to uncover the truth. The vague answers and contradictions unsettle him. And so do the veiled threats. Then the betrayals, disappearances, and violence begin. The stakes are high for himself, his friends, and the people who cry out for peace.

The risk-averse Ezra Quinn has a decision to make. Which side truly offers freedom for the people? And is he willing to pay the price?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spinning Door
• Release date: Sep 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781950687060

Book preview

Author

1

The phone call dragged him out of a dream. In the hazy seconds while he lay suspended between dream and reality, he tried to cling to the dissolving fragments. He had been looking across a river. A river or an ocean, formed not of water but of hands, palms open and raised to the sky, waving.

The jangling ringtone chased the last of the waving hands into the gray ceiling, and he groaned and turned over and fumbled the phone off his bedside table.

Yeah?

Is this Mr. Quinn? A slight accent; not British, not Indian.

This is Ezra Quinn, yes.

You do not know me, but I am a respected businessman. I am in San Francisco on a business trip, and I have a proposal to make to you.

Sorry? Quinn scrubbed at his eyes with a fist and squinted at the clock. It was eight in the morning. Who would call at eight on a Saturday morning? Uh… you’re here in San Francisco and you have a proposal? What sort of proposal?

I apologize, but I am unable to divulge this information over the telephone. You are free this morning, I believe. Please join me at the park of Potrero del Sol. Potrero Avenue. You know it? He rolled the r’s, but it wasn’t a Spanish accent. Something from farther away.

Yeah, I know Potrero.

Excellent. Near the southern entrance of the park, there is a bench. I will be sitting on this bench, wearing a red scarf around my neck so that you will know me.

I guess I’m not sure quite why…

Believe me, Mr. Quinn, the idea I will propose to you will be more than worth your time. Please join me at the park in one hour. Nine o’clock.

And Quinn was left holding the humming phone to his ear. He put on his glasses and stared out the window. The fog clung to the top of the apartment building across the street, and he felt it was clinging to his skull as well: a curling, coiling mist that held his dream of the open hands and the man’s exotic accent and a sense that out of the uncertainty and melancholy of the last few months, something was emerging: something fresh, something strange.

It was chilly, and he buttoned a jacket over his sweatshirt and clutched his coffee in both hands as he walked. He could have taken the trolley, but he needed the movement and the bite of the morning air to clear his brain.

Potrero was seven blocks away. He turned in from San Bruno Ave. Already he could hear a few early-bird skaters grinding the concrete basins in the center of the park. Farther away, someone was playing Radiohead on a car stereo. Set back from the entrance was a painted labyrinth and beyond that, on a grassy slope, was a bench.

A man was sitting on the bench. He was wearing a dark suit, with a tasseled red scarf around his neck, and his hands lay on a briefcase across his knees. As Quinn approached, he unwound the scarf, folded it, placed it carefully in the briefcase, and then stood and extended his hand.

Mr. Ezra Quinn. Thank you so much for agreeing to this meeting. My name is Mr. Mustafa Sufyan. He was clean-shaven, with thick, trimmed eyebrows. Now, did you bring with you your mobile phone?

Sure.

Forgive me, but you will please place the mobile into this device while we have our discussion. It is purely a muting device so that unwanted listeners cannot overhear. Setting the briefcase on the bench, he took from it a small silver box, opened it, and handed it to Quinn. You may hold the device so that you can be sure I will not steal your phone. Please have a seat.

Somewhat bemused, and feeling he was taking part in a wacky foreign TV show where everybody else knew the script but him, Quinn set his phone in the box and pressed the lid shut.

So what’s it all about? he asked, sitting and holding the box on his lap. The slats of the bench were cold on his thighs.

Ah, yes. So, let me first assure that you are Mr. Ezra Quinn, at present working as a computer scientist for the Orbotica Corporation of San Francisco?

That’s me.

And you have an advanced degree in robotics and computer engineering?

Quinn nodded.

Excellent. Now, my employer is a company similar to the one you work for. It is entitled Azure Oasis Technologies. You have heard of it?

Quinn hesitated, shrugged. Maybe. It’s a pretty crowded space.

No matter. We are one of the leading companies in the surveillance and robotics field in the Middle East. Our clients include royalty as well as five-star businesses. He sounded as though he were reading off a brochure. We have been growing at the rate of two hundred percent for the last four years, and expect that rate to escalate in the coming decade.

And you have an opening?

Yes. A leadership opening, and one that you are impeccably suited for. It is a position in wearable surveillance technology, just as you have been working on.

Okay. Quinn stared at him. But why the secrecy? He tapped the silver box. Why do we have to meet in a park? Why didn’t you just email?

These are the conditions of my employer. As you say, your area of expertise is a crowded space, and perhaps your company would not be happy if they know you are looking elsewhere.

All right. Quinn nodded slowly, though he had half a mind to just get up and walk out of the park. All right. And so… what’s your offer?

A one-year contract, up for renewal at the end of every year. Everything paid for: food, lodging, entertainment. You will have a driver at your disposal, as well as a personal manservant. A state-of-the-art laboratory, unlimited research and development funds, a crew of highly qualified technicians at your disposal. You will be doing work similar to that which you accomplish here, with certain modifications. Again the man sounded as though he were reciting; as though the speech had been rehearsed.

And the pay?

Twice what you make now, paid into a bank account of your choosing. Tax-free, obviously. In addition to this. Mr. Sufyan opened his briefcase, took out an envelope, and handed it to Quinn. Inside was a check for a hundred thousand dollars.

What the hell? What’s this? Quinn asked, holding the check by one corner as if it might be poisonous.

This is in appreciation of your time this morning, Mr. Quinn. A gift, you might say. But also, of course, an indication of our generosity.

Quinn laid the check on the silver box and stared at it, rubbing his palm with a bitten thumbnail.

So where would all this be? This laboratory, and… He trailed off.

Our office is based in Dubai. In the United Arab Emirates. A pleasant city, highly modern, far from the current strife in the region.

Quinn looked up from the check with its alarming string of zeros. At the base of the knoll a couple of kids—third- or fourth-graders, he guessed—were trying to get to the center of the painted maze, twisting this way and that, losing their balance.

He shook his head slowly. I don’t know if I… It all seems just…

It is sudden, I know. But believe me, Mr. Quinn, this is the opportunity you have been waiting for. I will give you five days to make your decision. Feel free to investigate Azure Oasis as you wish, but I ask you to keep your investigations confidential. Use an anonymous browser, so that your search items do not appear on your computer profile, and do not discuss our company with your companions. In five days, if you decide to accept our offer, be at San Francisco International Airport at nine fifty-five a.m.

He reached into the briefcase once more and withdrew a second envelope. This one contained a first-class Emirates ticket to Dubai.

Please remember to bring your passport to the airport. And also, please leave all your electronics behind: your computer, your mobile phone. You will receive new electronics when you land. The money is yours whether you decide to accept the offer or not. We hope you will choose the first option, of course.

And suddenly the meeting was over. Mr. Safyan plucked the silver box from his lap and handed him his phone. Then he stood, shook Quinn’s hand with a little bow, and walked briskly down the path to the park entrance, a straight, dark figure. Quinn watched him till he rounded the corner of San Bruno. He didn’t look back.

The kids in the labyrinth were standing on opposite sides of the circle, arguing about whether it was okay to step over a line. Quinn watched them for a few minutes. From where he sat, the path to the center was obvious, but the kids weren’t going to get there anytime soon. They were still arguing when he got up, pocketed his phone, and walked slowly back to his apartment.

---

Well, obviously it’s a no, right? Quinn stroked the beads of sweat on his Icarus porter, drawing lines, watching the drops gather.

What did you say the company was? Joey asked. He was looking around, trying to flag a waiter.

I’m not supposed to talk about them. They’re legit, though. I looked them up, and I’d heard of some of the customers. A couple of big oil companies. A cable company. As well as actual royalty. Princes and stuff.

But what about your idea, that glove idea… What was it?

Hands Across the Sky.

Hands Across the Sky. Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it? Do these waiters have invisibility cloaks? The dude was just here a second ago. Now, I thought… last time we had a beer, you were all gung-ho about quitting and starting this Hands thingy. You were going to start fundraising, you told me.

Yeah, but here’s the thing. I work at this place for a year or two and I’ve got the cash to start it up on my own.

Jeez. Seriously? Joey stared at him.

The dude handed me a check for a hundred thousand. Just for having the meeting. And when I start working it’s all take-home—everything’s paid for. Food, housing.

Um… so why are you saying it’s a no? Seems like a big juicy yes to me.

Quinn sipped the porter and wiped the foam off his upper lip with the back of his hand. Well, you know. I’ve got my dream job, right? I’m living the techie life in San Francisco, center of the world. And there’s Pam.

Joey pursed his lips and breathed out slowly through his nose. All right, Ezra— he began, but the waiter had finally arrived, and they ordered: Barrelhead burgers and sweet-potato fries.

And another Icarus for me, Quinn called after him as he scurried off.

Joey held up a finger and tugged at it. Listen, he said. First, you’ve been griping at me for months about the job: you can’t stand the hours, you can’t stand the whining, you’re so far down the chain you don’t even know what you’re working on anymore. He seized another finger. Second, you told me Pam was over. We were sitting right here last week, and you told me it was over.

I know, I know. Quinn pushed at the bridge of his glasses. But the job thing. I mean, everyone whines, don’t they? And Pam called on Tuesday and we went out. Had a pretty okay time.

Joey shook his head. Listen to you, man. ‘A pretty okay time.’ Is that what you want out of life? A pretty okay time? He leaned across the table and smacked Quinn’s cheek, quite hard. That’s life, okay? That’s life, reaching in and saying hi.

---

What did he want out of life? It was a good question. As Quinn walked back to his apartment, slightly drunk, he knew that the ticket to Dubai was the smack on the face he needed. All his working life he’d taken the straight, safe path: computer science because he was good at it, job at Orbotica because it was in his field, dating Pam because she was in the next cubicle. Sometimes his life seemed so predictable he wanted to scream. He’d work his way up in Orbotica till he was a manager. He’d marry Pam, and they’d have two kids. Eventually they’d retire to SoCal, and he’d dye his hair and drive around in a refurbished 1967 Mustang. Then he’d die, probably of a heart attack while working on his golf swing.

The Hands Across the Sky notion was the closest he’d come to breaking out. The idea had arrived one day when he was so frustrated at work, he’d just walked out at two in the afternoon. They had been working on software for a glove that could read vital signs: heartbeat, breathing rate, blood pressure. But his manager was being exasperatingly coy about certain aspects of the product. She wouldn’t tell them who would be using it or why they needed certain modifications. Finally, a fellow worker figured out that it was a secret Department of Defense project and blurted out the information in a meeting. The worker was fired on the spot, and the rest of them were sworn to secrecy and had to sign ten pages of non-disclosure agreements.

Quinn had stalked out of the building, muttering that he’d never go back. He took the trolley down to the Wharf and walked over to Black Point and crouched on the slope, within earshot of the crowds and sea lions, but screened off by a stand of pines. Alcatraz stood half-veiled in mist, and the plaintive cries of the foghorns might have been the ghosts of its long-departed prisoners. And in that lonely moment, Quinn imagined a glove that would allow him to take someone else’s hand, somewhere else in the world—anywhere else in the world. That would allow him to feel that person’s heartbeat, or a squeeze, or a tap on the palm. That would allow him to twine his fingers through someone else’s or walk with joined hands swinging. The name of the device, Hands Across the Sky, was instantly on his tongue.

It was a ridiculous idea, he knew, and yet somehow wonderful. There were no obvious applications, no clear ways of making money off of the thing, but he knew there were people out there who, like him, desired to hold another person’s hand. To feel that connection. Crouching in the damp grass, he reached out and flickered his fingers at the fog, then looked around quickly, hoping no one had seen him.

Hands Across the Sky became a touchstone; an antidote to the drudgery. He’d bring it up over lunch at work, or over beers at the Barrelhead, and almost relished the scoffing. But there were always one or two listeners whose eyes went faraway and dreamy, whose hands drifted away from their bodies for a moment, fingers tapping the air.

You could make the gloves in shimmery colors, one said. You could have it so you could write on someone else’s palm, another said. What if you could open your hand and just see the other person’s eyes there… And he’d nod and they’d share a smile.

He knew he’d never make a go of Hands. It was just there to show that he had a different facet; that he could be creative as well. It was the flip side of whatever DoD horror they were facilitating. But now…

He reached his tiny apartment and let himself in. The familiar smell of stale laundry and desiccated pizza. Crumpled sheets on the bed, clothes strewn across the floor. He kicked the clothes into a pile and sat on the mattress looking out the window. The fog had rolled in again.

2

Five days later he was standing in line at the Emirates counter at the airport. He’d quit work two days before, and had had a little party at the Barrelhead last night, with Pam and Joey and a couple of the guys from work. He was pleased by the air of mystery he’d projected.

No, I can’t say too much about it, I’m afraid; the project’s a complete secret.

No, even the location is secret. Somewhere in the Arabian Peninsula is all I can tell you.

The secrecy had stemmed from necessity—he had no clue what he’d be doing—but Pam had looked at him with a curiosity and respect he relished, and he tried to keep his expression taut and world-weary.

Now, though, as he stood in line gripping the handle of his suitcase, he was terrified. At least the check had gone through, he told himself. He’d have padding and the means to survive for a year or so. He might do some traveling if things didn’t work out. Still, the images of violence on the news—the bombings, the beheadings, the massed hordes with raised weapons—flickered through his mind. Though he knew Dubai was nowhere near the battle zones, he had a sudden panicky notion that the plane would land amid lobbed mortars and black-veiled, Kalashnikov-toting militants. He pictured himself, in his Vans and gray hoodie, sprinting across the tarmac, chased by a blood-spattered ninja wielding a scimitar.…

The woman behind the counter called Next, please, and he shook his head slightly to clear it and stepped forward.

He’d flown on some fancy business trips to Europe for Orbotica, but he was unprepared for Emirates First Class on the A380. He had a tiny private suite on the upper deck, with a fold-out, full-length bed. He could order anything he wanted off of an extensive menu, and there was even a bar where a few business suits and bejeweled women sipped cocktails.

Soon he had plates of tidbits scattered around his mattress—coconut-crusted shrimp, skewers of spicy lamb, sushi, exotic fruits. He tried to watch a movie, but instead, spent most of his time staring out the window at the shifting cloudscape. In some places they seemed brushed in one direction, as if by a gigantic comb; in others they were stirred to a lather. He imagined he could read his future in their slow metamorphoses.

Toward the end of the fifteen-hour flight, he took a shower and put on