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BY THIS TIME, I am corresponding with Isabella myself. I'd love to chat by e-mail, ending with: Come on, Isabella. I'm only responding because I liked your piece "I, Stalkerazzi" and because I'm tired of getting emails from people you have approached for attributable comments asking me "what is his deal? If you check with your advisors, they'll tell you that no legitimate publication (at least in the United States) lets a subject see a piece before it's printed. One day she mentioned her picture appearing in a newspaper so I did a search and turned up the article and called the paper and had them mail it to me. She's agreed to my compromise on editorial review, correcting the transcript of our interview instead of the story itself. I'll fly to a major airport and get instructions to drive to a secure location where heavily armed security will meet me, strip-search me, and take me by small plane or car to a more secure location.

" Second, if you are actually John Richardson of Esquire and you have a legitimate media interest in an interview I will consider it under very strict conditions. If you are interested enough to be persistent you will get a hold of him. Right off the bat I can tell you that we will require editorial control on the final article. It's actually a firing offense, as TK found out in Vanity Fair a few years ago. But here's the thing--in the week it took to arrive, I became so close to this invisible woman that when the envelope came, my heart started to pound. No recording devices or cameras and after a two-hour interview I will have to remain in place until a "distance barrier" is established.

I'm getting more used to her rhythms, from girlish hesitation to aloof poise to these sudden sunbursts of energy. So maybe she still doesn't have good answers for all my questions--the reason she doesn't just hold a press conference is because she still feels some family loyalty despite the arranged marriage and relentless hunt and possible murder attempt--but now all the lousy answers seem to fit together. It's disguised.""Do you ever think your parents might read it? "David is more controlling than my father was.""But better looking," I say. "He doesn't like it when I flirt with him, and he doesn't have a sense of humor." She looks down her nose at the Bushmaster. And even now she sometimes thinks she's just acting like a spoiled rich girl and if Yves hadn't bolted from the table maybe she would have tried to make it work--but why would her father want to marry her to a guy who was going to treat her like shit for fifty years? But the subject makes her emotional, turning her mind to all the things she has lost. They "chronically underestimated" the search effort. Fortunately Isabella had resources of her own--tens of millions, which was good because the team was expensive and they couldn't fly commercial anymore. Eventually they would have to find a way to stabilize the situation. She has nightmares, lots of stuff about being chased and not being able to run fast enough. She doesn't know how to have relationships, to flirt and be normal. Even after her blog cost her two lawyers, she still kept publishing the damn thing. "She's this postadolescent redhead," he says with a meaningful shrug. "How do I know you're not just her boyfriend posing with a gun and there's just the two of you and no security team at all? It's a .223 fifty-five-grain full metal jacket, about two inches long.

Emotions move quickly across her face but she's restrained, an attractive quality. "I'm thinking the Web log was a mistake," she says. "I want to know if that thing is really necessary--that's what you should ask him."David acts somber. There I was, rejected already even before I was a bride. And it was very clear that I would only be the wife, never the lover, never the desired--and I will only marry for love." She'll never understand why her father was not "amenable to argument." It wasn't like the families were a particularly good business match or anything. "It gets tough."At this point I notice the lovely cuff links with pale-blue oval stones. "He smiles like this is the most ridiculous thing I've said yet, and pops a bullet out of the chamber of his rifle. As I walk out through the hushed lobby a moment later, the friendly clerk says, "Goodbye, Mr.

So I've never been amused by the thin line between reality and illusion and never really got why artists and philosophers think it's so damn interesting. Because rational thought is sequential, like Marshall Mc Luhan said. Maybe I was wrong, maybe she just seemed cold because she was a reserved person, like Meryl Streep in A Cry in the Dark. I was really far too cold, too reserved to be a very good girlfriend, I expect. Get on the Concorde to Paris and fly to Nice that afternoon. Then I call the travel agent and book the ticket, the hotel, the car. The meeting is going to be pushed forward a day--or canceled. "He said she and her security people have been separated," he tells me the next morning, "and they believe she's been snatched."Snatched? But he always told her to build some sort of "dead-man trigger," some envelope to the authorities or message that would pop up on her Web site within forty-eight hours of her abduction. Richardson," she says, and waves over a bellman who guides me to what seems like a private elevator bank and slides a magnetic card into a slot, pressing the number for the top floor.

And now that I'm running my e-mails through an encryption technology called Hushmail, the runaway heiress is giving answers that must be studied: My mother hasn't been much the subject of my writings because she was always on my side. She's just a woman in the last vestige of truly male dominated enclaves. She enjoys her role in many ways as a power wife and a charity socialite, but she always wanted a bit more. My office puts holds on tickets for all four places, and more and more I begin to believe in her, if only because it would seem rude to be talking to someone and not believe in them a little. I suppose I might have been considered good "fling" material. Slowly discover that there might be some challenges for you in the corporate world. (Indeed, it better not be, because I had more of that than I knew what to do with.) Start exploring your options, slowly, carefully. Then, suddenly, have it taken away and a very obvious prison put in its place. Later the mystery man calls again and says the reason nobody called to cancel my meeting is because they felt it was too much of a coincidence--"They're setting up a meeting with you and she gets taken." What? "Will you be all right or would you like to be escorted?

Eight people responded to that first cryptic post, ranging from sarcastic ("Saddam! ") to lit crit: "The writing's a bit too Palahniuk--a little too obvious about trying to sound dramatic and cool."But Isabella pressed on with another installment. Seventeen generations of sinister momentum."It was heady stuff. Then Isabella posted again, this time a long and convincing description of the spycraft of escape--getting passports, draining bank accounts, hiding liquid assets (particularly some loose diamonds I knew I could sell for local currency), a life reduced to a laptop and a passport. I ran and ran as fast as I could until I was completely out of breath.

"My family is an alarmingly influential pillar of a small European country," she began, drawing a family portrait that mixed Masterpiece Theatre with The Godfather. Seventeen generations of dynastic preservation and succession machinations. Some of the most plummy writing was about her father and her fear of being committed to a mental institution, the quiet wedding ceremony somewhere after which I'm committed somewhere with pink colored walls and progressive ideas about narcotics therapy.

"If she is my client," he said, "I would hardly admit it to the media." The next day, Kelley posted an update saying that "a source familiar with the family" told them that the family was thought to have hired either Pinkerton or Kroll, "the firm retained to track the assets of the Marcos fortune and Saddam Hussein in 1991." They wanted to handle this quietly. I've been up I know not how long and I dare not go outside. Okay, to hell with it--these negotiatons are off the record. But I don't want to be another phony in a phony world so I also tell her I am feeling very uncomfortable. So let me be perfectly clear--if this is a spoof and you are negotiating in bad faith, I won't feel bound by this agreement or any other. Yes, he says, although he advised against it, Isabella is willing to do interviews under certain strict limitations.The war in Iraq had just started and she was lonely. "I'm going to buy a ticket tomorrow and head to my next waypoint if I can."MAYBE YOU WERE BUSY with war or making a living, but in the last few years the reality-and-illusion crowd has completely colonized the Internet. For thousands of years religious fanatics have been telling us that the physical world is an illusion and that we should focus on singing hymns or doing yoga. She drew deft pictures of the strange town where the flat light from overcast skies hurts my eyes or the man blowing on his cappuccino, raising steam that gives the impression that he is surrounded by his own personal microclimate.Maybe it was stupid to start a Web log, but that was better than the temptation to pick up the phone and call somebody from her old world. Keep your watchful eye on me--so that you might notice if I vanish suddenly. Now it's postmodern philosophers saying that reality is a matrix filled with invisible forests of signifiers best represented by obscure French and German words. She teased her readers with hints about dating on the run: SWF, 20-something, flight risk with multiple identities seeks man of few words and fewer questions for semi-formal dating experiment.(Spent the night in jail with a broken nose when he mouthed off to one I guess.)... At first it was played off like there was a problem of some kind but if I came home it would all be fixed. The more I realized how much I had been giving away. Maybe it's time to reconsider this whole journalism deal, this business of letting things happen and taking notes. "I'll call you again at and give you details.""Where is it going to be? But I stuff a tape recorder and a camera into my backpack and walk down California Street. ""A Bushmaster AR-15."A minute or two passes and then the door opens behind me. On the other side are the modernists and perverts who say we should take ambiguity as a challenge and invent the future as we go along. She's thin and pale, with significant hollows scalloped under her eyes and fine hair that orangey color you get when you try to go blond but don't quite make it. So I ask why her father would have someone shoot at her and she says it's all a bit confusing, maybe it wasn't her father at all, just some random thing. "I want people to believe that I'm real," she says. And the Internet dream state is not just a vast slump of losers dreaming away in their pods; it's the digital confessional, where people drop their guard and explore their fantasies and make swift and deep connections in the anarcho-syndicalist hive where we are dreaming the future. clear One." Then he heaves a big sigh and unslings the Bushmaster AR-15 and opens his jacket and pours himself a glass of Pellegrino from the big green bottle on the table.

It was only later that I found out it was by design. It makes you feel like an eternal ten-year-old, waiting for Dad to honk the car horn. ""I'll tell you at ."Just after , the phone rings again. But both sides agree with this: The minute we put names to things, we stepped into a symbolic world where nothing would ever be fixed and solid--where we are haunted by words, the ghosts of real things. About five-seven, slender, and elegant in black heels and black pants and a white top. But it still feels like I'm gliding on magnetic rails. Then she looks up at David and he says he's sorry but all they can really say at this time is that two bullets hit the car, one whizzing through the air in front of her and the other passing through the seat cushion under her legs."It just seems insane," I say."It is insane," she answers. And Isabella's talking about hiding in the shadows and trying to look bored and never knowing how much she can tell people--or say, a guy--when suddenly she stops. I haven't talked to anyone except security for so long, I don't know what I can say anymore.""Do you want a moment to compose yourself? She says she does and walks past him to the bathroom. He holds his stance but says he's sorry for misleading me with the thing about getting snatched, and I realize that it is getting very hot and stuffy in this room. "I actually feel very exposed right now."A few minutes after that, she ends the interview. David holds his stance in the bedroom doorway and talks on his earset. It's hard work holding a gun like that on your feet for two solid hours.Surprisingly, I have discovered that she is actually Ms. On the other hand, I didn't want to develop feelings for some pretend person. But minutes after that it becomes clear that Mecoy has never actually spoken to Isabella, only communicated with her by e-mail. Later Mecoy follows up with a memo repeating all the points above, ending with a flourish that's pure Isabella: Please be aware that this interview is expensive (these security measures are costing her in excess of ,000), risky and inconvenient. I don't really have any clue what they "want" other than to spend money and sleep with women. For years I had an American Express platinum card that some guy with a green eyeshade in a basement somewhere just paid the bill for. I was stranded in Scandinavia and had to call home to get back--and then was forced to attend the social event I had been avoiding. (He was on both the Arab and the Jewish blacklists at the same time at one point.) ... THAT NIGHT, MECOY gets a message encrypted through an anonymizer in Liechtenstein. And then the phone rang and it was the guy and he said someone from the security team called him in the middle of the night asking if he knew where she was.She is accepting your assurances that this is a serious interview and will be quite upset if you are, as she says, "playing games."I WROTE A STORY about a con "artist" once, a scumbag who made million selling shares in the life-insurance policies of terminally ill patients who existed only in his imagination. One thing I learned from that lovely experience is that hustlers always accuse you of conning them. And maybe on some level they believe it and use it to justify all the nasty things they do. You have to stop clicking and cutting and get out the yellow marker. In other Internet relationships I've learned that you have to fill in for all the missing physical cues with glimpses of your daily life and emotional reactions, so I mention that I was also raised by servants and sent to an elite private school, things you might think a lonely person on the run might use to start a personal conversation. Periodically she copies our e-mail strings to Mecoy. ON JULY 9, I open my Hushmail account and find this: Make plans for a flight to: Las Vegas El Paso Seattle San Juan, Puerto Rico Well, this is progress. I spent a lot of time sneaking into night clubs, trying to be more exposed to "teen socialization" and the rituals thereof. Rent a car and e-mail a description of the car and the hotel and wait for further instructions." A few minutes later, he calls back to ask if I have a valid passport. It came from a guy he's written to before, supposedly a friend of Isabella's. So he shot an e-mail right back at the guy asking Who are you? They couldn't find her and they thought she'd been snatched.On shes.Isabella responded immediately: The news posted on The Agonist has got me to the point that I'm not going to get a wink of sleep (ever again? By this time Isabella's readers had turned detective. In the next phase the virus jumped borders with an article on Wired News by a writer named Leander Kahney with hyperlinks to the dozens of Web logs which by now were debating the reality of Isabella. Later she posted an entry on her blog under the title "TK."SO ISABELLA AND I are collaborating on an interactive fiction. Maybe all the circuitry humming in the background makes you fall into some kind of digital swoon, but I can't stop myself from musing on the meaning of it all, our religious need to fill the emptiness of the Internet with a more perfect version of ourselves. But it really comes down to this: Isabella is almost certainly some fat-assed Internet loser, and the loser on the other end of the modem is me. So I tease her about being hypersensitive and she writes me a reply in the middle of the night. I do seem much more abrasive in email than in person I am told. I got illness in the family and relationship issues and you're driving me crazy. I know that many clever people think there is no truth and therefore nothing to trust. I BEGIN AUTODIALING PANAMA, talking in muy malo español to a very impatient receptionist. If I would e-mail him a list of questions, he would respond with a list of their requirements.



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