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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.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.Herrhausen was a German banker killed in November 1989, by an extremely sophisticated bomb in one of Germany's most famous crimes. She's Helmut's daughter and would be in her very early 20s now. And stella attacked the skeptics: Some of the commentators here seem to be totally bereft of even a smidgen of compassion. And there was a New York literary agent named Bob Mecoy who said he was ready to represent Isabella even if she didn't exist: "Though it's a better story if it's true, it doesn't necessarily matter. That's a subjective and bullshit term bandied about by media types to mean whatever suits them that day. After cooling down, I make another attempt to break through. When I get through to Ceaser again, he says he's waiting for instructions. Then she writes me again, apologizing, saying she's been going through a hard time.But other readers had softer hearts, like the one who told her to be strong. For Isabella to have taken the risks she has taken, far beyond flight, it is a foregone conclusion that she must have had more than a few not so great reasons to motivate her to do so. In substance the letter demanded that The Agonist turn over any names or identifying information of sources for the Isabella story as well as remove any related material. If it turns out not to be, I'll pitch Isabella as a fiction writer." THE LIST OF BELIEVERS GREW. Swinging for the fences, trying to work the game on all levels and be honest at the same time, I tell her a wild story that happens to be true: A couple of weeks ago, I met this girl on the internet. And on she went for another month and more than twenty-four thousand words, about how she found an underground money manager who helped her launder her trusts and came upon a blond man with eerie pale skin trying to force the door of her hotel room and dreamed about the same blond man sniffing her panties and about the long saga of her lonely girlhood at an elite private school and sneaking into her father's ornate library to pore through the stacks of books until the light of the dawn in the window alerted me to the new day and I had to creep up to my room again.

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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.

Reading this story, you're still in that symbolic world. Isabella sits in the armchair at the other end of the coffee table. "But I wouldn't put anything past my father."Then she tells me about being on the run and always having security around and having to plan each move and feeling like she's traded one prison for the next. Doubtless air conditioning would interfere with their sophisticated counterspy gadgets. "I'm more composed now," she says with a nervous laugh. Sometimes she looks to David, who responds in a soothing and measured voice somewhere between Secret Service man and camp counselor. Relaxing, working the muscles in his shoulders, he tells me he got his start "some years ago" in counternarcotics work somewhere in Latin America and researched this carefully before getting involved.

Half of the wild loops on my pad won't make any sense later. When she says it's exciting to defy her father, the light flashes in her eyes. Several times she says she's feeling more relaxed, and once when David interrupts to tell her to be careful, she teases him. What tipped it was her family, how ruthless they were. In the first few months on the run, they found a bug at least once and had to blow town a couple of times when the searchers got too close.

(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.Then there was Alain, who arrived at her parents' house in a motorcade of three sleek, black sedans filled with beautiful and elegant men in beautiful and elegant dark suits and gave her the Montblanc Meisterstück pen that changed her life shortly before he was spectacularly murdered in the heart of Germany that late November day so long ago.BY THE MIDDLE OF APRIL, when winter was still hanging around like tuberculosis and the war was still going strong, a newsblogger named Sean-Paul Kelley posted a story on saying that "a major media outlet" was asking whether Isabella was real and a "former agent from Simon and Schuster" was sniffing around a book deal.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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