Free Exchange of Goods and Services

A Short Story

Josh followed the light morning crowd as it trickled into the terminal’s public entrance, one hand on the silenced .17 in his overcoat pocket and the other reaching to turn up his collar against the spattering rain. He strode past the departure desks and up the long escalator leading to the security checkpoint. Here he diverged from the morning’s passengers as they began to queue for their patdowns, turning to an unmarked door in the cluster of offices immediately right of the zigzagging security lines. He pulled the door open and stepped inside a closet-sized office, occupied by a single laminate and chipboard desk shoved against a wall. Behind the desk an immaculately suited giant was stuffed uncomfortably, turning the leaves in a white plastic binder. Josh pulled back the outer layer of his own tailored suiting, and something within caused the man at the desk to nod slightly.

With that, Josh squeezed around the desk, forced to slide sideways to fit. He opened the door at the back of the office, stepped into a gleaming steel elevator accented with mahogany wood, and latched the door behind him. He allowed the elevator’s scanner to read his RFID chip card as the internal double doors slid shut, obscuring the office’s door and blocking out his view of the man at the desk still stolidly examining the binder. The elevator started downward on a ten-floor journey as Josh breathed a quiet sigh. Time for work.

One thousand feet below the public terminal of one of the world’s largest European airports, a parallel world transitions from night to day. Coursing through its buried veins, the financial operatives of three continents rub tailored shoulders. Where no sun can reach, the fractional legions of hyperpower conduct business too bespoke and bizarre for the daylight. Cloistered into over six hundred (mostly) identical suites, each fitted to order for the outré uses of its lessee. To be aware of the place’s existence alone is a permanent step into a shadow world.

Josh had worked in private sector finance and investment for long enough to see some things that were difficult to explain at dinner parties. Then he got a tip from an Army buddy that his service record meant he could make more money standing outside a conference room than negotiating inside it, if he didn’t mind rewriting his resume. A couple years of this career pivot had stuffed his onshore and offshore accounts. They had also shredded his marriage more thoroughly than a half-decade of seventy-hour weeks chasing the C-suite. The nagging suspicion that Niki saw him primarily as an asset to her modeling career was confirmed once he started coming home from two-week contracts needing a listening ear. The “break” still hadn’t officially ended.

He checked his smart watch, then his chip card opened the door to Room 399. Exactly as the brief instructed, a small footprint completely filled with archival shelving. Josh’s opposite number at the front door followed him into the room, watching his movements with practiced nonchalance. They all had their instructions. Josh selected a blank white case from one of the shelves, opening it towards the guard so the contents could be confirmed. Josh would remain in the dark as to what item or items his employer was receiving in transfer. The guard nodded once, then checked his own smart watch.

“I have a confirmation receipt. You’re good to transit this one. Have a nice day, sir.”

Josh nodded and walked out, the small case under his left arm while his right hand gradually released its grip on the pistol. He never felt fully at ease. So far his fears had been totally unwarranted. It was a twenty minute walk to Room 117, where his card got him through the door and he slid his cargo onto a shelf that looked just like where he picked it up.

Because no part of this transaction takes place on national territory, nothing will ever be noted by national governments. No tax burden will be generated, and technically no sale actually occurred. One party, likely an individual or corporate entity using Josh’s employer as a shell, now holds whatever he had carried in a diplomatically immune rental facility, Room 117. In an unconnected fit of generosity, they placed a substantial donation in a 501(c)(3) connected to the magnate or company or family or zaibatsu that rented Room 399. All of this occurring in a facility beyond the jurisdiction of local and national authorities, and absent from any publicly available blueprints of the airport.

As he walked back to the contractor entrance, Josh saw an alert: his hourly fee deposited, plus a bonus. Not for the last time, he wondered what he had carried between those two rooms. He tried to remember what steps had led him to this moment, this world. He had been trying to remember ever since the first time he fulfilled a contract at the Facility. Some connection in the finance world had led to a connection in the private security word, which had led him here. But he couldn’t remember the faces or conversations, no matter how many times he tried.

He finally allowed himself to relax as he walked out of the terminal into the weeping drizzle of midmorning. The car was waiting in the loading line, wipers fretfully swiping across a blacked out windshield. He dropped into the immaculate back seat and stared at the tinted screen separating him from the driver through the twenty-minute commute back to his apartment. He didn’t have a lot to distract him from the job anymore. The place apparently leased to a holding group that interacted with contractors, the same name that appeared on the deposits in his escrow wallet. It had come tastefully and severely decorated. Even with the small floorplan he felt lost inside without Niki. Watching for texts wasn’t a good hobby, so he tried waiting for work emails instead.

He woke up suddenly to the sound of the storm outside hammering the window with increased intensity. Odd hours meant that he often dozed on the leather couch in his tiny living space whenever he sat down. He checked the time and realized he had slept for several hours. Then he checked his notifications and realized he had three emails and as many texts, all from his contact at work.

“Report immediately emergency overtime pay authorized…”

He started swearing profusely as he struggled to retie his shoes. How long had they been trying to reach him? Just when he felt they were starting to trust him with bigger and more confidential assignments. Had they already given this contract to someone else? He checked the street in front of the apartment from his fifth-story front window, breathed a deep sigh. Their car was back in front of the apartment complex. He could still salvage this.

He still couldn’t see the driver, much less speak to him. He kept checking his phone to see if they’d responded to his texts, hoping he hadn’t sounded too desperate. The rain instantly soaked his suit as Josh stepped back out of the car in front of the terminal. He faintly heard his watch chime, checked as soon as he was underneath the awning. Contract instructions in his email, which meant that he must not have screwed things up too badly.

Free Economic Zones exist in many port cities and transport hubs across the world, with more in development each year. It is thought that they centralize billions in trade activity annually, licit and illicit. Attracted by incentives such as low or waived taxation, minimal regulatory oversight, and intentionally loose import-export control, brokers of shadow goods set up shop. Money washed, art fenced, chemicals transported, bodies traded. All within walking distance of families bickering through the wait for their flight to Disney World.

As if his day couldn’t get more stressful, Josh started getting flurries of texts as soon as he reached the elevator. First one, a like a tentative feeler, then a steady stream in twos and threes. They were all from Niki. He couldn’t stop himself from reading them, even as he scrambled to find Room 44. The contract just instructed him to “provide site security for event in progress,” so he took a guard position outside the door in the hallway and kept poring over his texts.

“josh I know this is weird but I need you to trust me”

“i don’t know how i got into this but i dont want to be here anymore”

“somebody at work told me about a job in Europe and i dont know anyone here”

“arent you over here right now, where are you staying, can i just stay at your place”

“if they let me go from work i will need a place to stay”

Josh tried to ignore the increasing racket coming from behind the door. He needed to think. Niki hadn’t called or texted in more than a month, and last time was to send him a picture of his stuff she was throwing out. Now she sounded weirdly desperate, if not exactly ready to mend fences. What was going on?

It would have to wait until after work. He was already borderline in danger of losing contracts after his little nap this afternoon, he thought. Just get through this one and get back to the apartment, and you can figure it out. The exact kind of thinking that had broken things up in the first place. But Josh didn’t want to think about that right now.

A literal black hole beyond the prying eyes of the public or the authorities, staffed by picked security professionals and encased in a gargantuan Faraday cage. In many FEZ areas, the only thing not permitted are devices capable of video recording and transmission. At one point a rumor spread that one facility in the United States, later connected with Dark Web emporium Silk Road, conducted all of its business via pen and paper. A bubble of anachronistic secrecy to preserve the hedonism of the future.

An hour later Josh walked out of the terminal, trying to ignore the little snatches and glimpses always clinging to him and instead enjoy the small hit of powerful self-importance that came with every trip through the bustling crowd. The patch inside his jacket and the pistol in his hand marked him as someone different. Above these peoples’ ridiculous worries. A trusted agent of a secret society. Another successful day of not screwing all that up.

Niki had stopped texting, and he still hadn’t decided whether to answer any of them yet. He tried to work through all of the feelings with a double highball on the balcony, but couldn’t make himself focus on her problems. They hadn’t shared each other’s lives for quite a while, not really. The split schedule, keeping two different households so that she could keep up New York shows and he could court higher-paying contractor groups in LA, had started things off on the wrong foot. He figured neither of them had really helped things, between his own obsessive pursuit of the next level and her cheating, at lease the stuff he knew about because of media pieces. Supermodel wife, finance husband, two empty houses and two full bank accounts. If he was honest, he had probably pivoted to private contractor work just for the excitement.

And now that he finally had things going, she wanted to waltz back into his life and ask for help? He had told her for years that her “friends” in the industry were absolute sharks. Warned her that she was being taken advantage of and used by her little orbiting halo of hungry garbage people. Those were their first big fights. Now wasn’t the time for him to complicate things any further. Something somewhere inside wanted to text “hey” and he probably meant to, before the drink and the day dropped him off to sleep on the lounge chair.

He barely woke up before he was checking his watch and cursing. He was going to get fired if he couldn’t get ahold of himself. Was he really going to let his ex ruin this? Technically they hadn’t signed papers yet, but this job was real and right in front of him. And he was about to lose it.

“Josh, we’d like you to report for a unique opportunity. I’m putting together a compensation package specifically for you that includes a discretionary bonus due to the sensitivity of the assignment. I recommended you specifically, and our firm will be watching closely to determine if we can put you in charge of a detail covering similar assignments.”

He had never gotten a personalized message from them. This was a big deal. And he was still trying to wake up. He fired off a few texts to let them know how eager he was for the opportunity thank you for your consideration sir, then bolted for the door. As he checked his pistol in the back seat of the car, he realized he hadn’t checked Niki’s texts again. There was one more unread.

“hey im going to this party tonight with some people from work. sorry i kinda freaked out on you. ill figure things out. hope youre doing good josh.”

His head hit the black leather as he stared at the car’s interior. He was so tired. He just needed this job to be over. He could figure things out.

Josh fast walked through the milling afternoon crowd and hit the office entrance while the car was still trying to pull away from the departures curb. He flashed his identification, willed the elevator to go faster, and barely kept from jogging to Room 4. He reminded himself to stay calm. This was an executive suite. If he acted like he belonged here, he would. Whatever he found inside, he needed to focus on the job and stay professional.

The room past the guarded door was at least ten times the size of a typical space, dark inside except for stabbing lights from randomly mounted accent spotlights. One of the two doormen followed Josh inside.

“They’ve been expecting you, sir. Grab a drink and meet them at the back of the room. I think they’ve already gotten started.”

Weaving his way past arrangements of designer furniture clustered around openings in what felt and smelled like a small forest, Josh reached a clearing of sorts, the open space surrounded by men in suits. He wondered if everyone was sweating as badly as he was; the room felt muggy and damp as the reptile house at a zoo. It took him a few minutes of visual adjustment to be able to pick out any details. Meanwhile his subconscious kept up a constant clattering of observations, sane and insane. How did they keep these trees growing underground, and why? How come all the men in suits were also wearing balaclavas? What were these five women doing at the center of the circle? And what was Niki doing here?

He dropped his glass into the dirt and leaves on the floor, where it bounced once.

The masked men turned to look at him for a full second. The figure closest to Josh broke the silence softly, returning to an easy businesslike patter.

“Gentlemen, now that my security consultant is here we can begin. He will oversee the escrow of all your bidding and ensure that all items are correctly transferred to your room. Unless anyone has an objection, shall we open up the bidding on Lot One?”

Josh barked something incomprehensible, even to himself. He realized he was trying to get Niki’s attention, but she seemed either mostly asleep or very high. All five women huddled into a loose group, each dressed in the kind of surreal hyperfashion that Josh learned to despise from one too many Milan trips. The man was speaking again, and now a quick rush of gentle laughter fluttered around the circle. Josh had stopped listening. Part of him screamed that he needed to keep his focus, to stop embarrassing himself in front of these people. But the rest of his mind demanded something very different.

Multiple watchdog organizations recently signed an international petition for regulation and crackdowns against suspected human trafficking rings flourishing in connections with FEZs. The true extent of these operations is of course unknown, but is believed to be growing as major cartels find new business partners in the legitimate business and finance worlds. The stories surfacing from these underworlds continue to demand attention.

“Is there a problem, Josh?”

One of the suits was a foot away from him, murmuring through a black silk mask. Josh forced his eyes to focus, willed his heart rate and breathing back under control. The next few minutes would be very important. He realized that he already knew what to do, hadn’t even truly debated the decision.

“Nikita is leaving this room with me.”

Josh thought he could see the man’s eyebrows elevate even in the dim light.

“That…is going to be a very difficult proposition. The typical rate is approximately…”

Josh cut him off with a raised hand, then displayed a series of account totals on his watch.

“These are confirmed by your accounting systems, and most of them are escrowed by you anyway. Take it all.”

The man in the suit made a hissing noise that could have been surprise, barely concealed laughter, or something else.

“You understand, of course, that this development will be very challenging for your prospects here?”

For answer, Josh dropped the watch into the man’s hand, strode to the center of the silent ring, and gathered Niki’s arm. He didn’t expect that they would let him leave the room, but none of the shadowed figures said a word as he maneuvered Niki, stumbling over her high heels, through the darkened trees and out the door of Room 4.

Josh could feel the guard following them back out into the hall, even without turning his head. That was more like them. His post-adrenaline shakes still hadn’t started yet, and Niki was walking a little better, so maybe whatever she was coming down from had started wearing off. Josh was starting to get angry. So when he cut inside a random room, interrupting the negotiation in progress by dumping his magazine of .17 subsonics into the chest of the guard stepping over the threshold, Josh only worried about the consequences in the moments afterwards. But as he hurried Niki back down the hall towards the elevator, he started to chuckle wildly. There certainly were no cameras, or innocent bystanders.

Niki started to cry softly as they exited the elevator. Josh awkwardly adjusted his arm around her, felt her pull close. They made their way into the line for the departures desk after he had scanned the board for flights. He realized that he had dropped the pistol into a wastebasket in the office outside the elevator. Good thing, he thought to himself with another chuckle as he reached for his credit card. They would need to get through security.