Streams of Babel (29 page)

"Do they think that, like, I should have been taking all my money and giving it to the poor people in India, or something?" he asked.

I just sat there.

"Where would we send it, Scott? I mean, I wouldn't want to send money to the poison-making guys to help their families. That makes no sense."

"Neither do you. Take a nap." I reached for the remote. Cartoons only added to the lunacy, but he right-handed the thing
and stared at the Road Runner pecking chicken scratch beside some Acme pile of explosives.

"I do so make sense," he muttered. "I just want to know what I would have to do, so poor people wouldn't think I was a bad person."

"From what I get off the telly, most terrorists are not poor."

"Really?"

"Really. They're from the middle class. This isn't a money thing."

"So then ... why would they want to kill us?"

"Relax, Owen. It could still be an EID. Don't listen to my constant ranting. Maybe USIC just suspects something, and I've been wrong before—"

I made a quick stab for the remote, but he was faster. "Should we be sending all our money to the Afghans?"

I had to leave. I stood up, felt the throb returning to my leg muscles, and tried to shake them out.

"Dude. We don't
have
any money," I snapped.

"Oh yeah," he said.

I figured I should go back to Cora's cube. I could stand it for ten minutes at a time. Moran and Dempsey gave me some story when I got here last night that Cora's father actually was coming, that he had called, and they'd heard his voice, and he was a real guy. Until he showed up, she was alone, and the thought bugged me, despite that she had no idea what was what. After that, I'd go see what USIC agents I could find skulking about in Administration, and I could stand on their toes and refuse to lay off until information leaked out their sinuses.

SHAHZAD HAMDANI
FRIDAY, MARCH 8, 2002
12:10
P.M.

I AM NOT in Trinitron long enough to take off my jacket, but I can sense the presence of my old foe, VaporStrike. Posts flash before my eyes ...
They will anoint the waters with Red Vinegar—rivers will run red in Colony One
...just as they did the night he first had posted them in November while I watched, amazed, from Pakistan. Now, he is under the same roof with me.

A message appears on my screen:

Capture terminal 26!

So, Tim is here. That terminal is behind me across the room, but I dare not turn to look. My cowboy spirit fills me as I capture the screen and see both Omar0324 and VaporStrike, finally together again. They are idling. I feel that my hair is standing straight up in suspense and that it will draw attention.

I scroll upward in their chatter, and it is plain Arabic, all about a Dr. Scholl's foot powder taking away an itch between Omar's toes. I remember from previous posts that he is obsessed with American over-the-counter products. Finally, chatter appears in Persian:

VaporStrike:
What is the word on the dead woman's offspring? Has the young girl died?

Omar0324:
She is comatose. If she had developed her problems at home, she would be gone. The hospitalization prevented it thus far.

VaporStrike:
You think she will succumb?

Omar0324:
I am certain.

VaporStrike:
How do you know? You say Red Vinegar is unpredictable.

Omar idles, and so I translate and send that much to Tim. I hate to end on a question and not an answer, but Omar takes more than five minutes before replying.

Omar0324:
If she doesn't die of her own accord in a few hours, I will help her along.

I send it full of typos from trembling fingers. The implication is that Omar has access not only to this hospital but also to this girl. Is he an employee there? Can he move about undetected as a visitor?

VaporStrike:
You are taking too many risks.

Omar0324:
No. We have invested much. ShadowStrike has earned some gratification regardless of the risks. USIC is doing its best to keep the situation a huge secret, but we have every reason to believe they have stopped the ingestion of Red Vinegar. The sixty or seventy deaths we anticipated may now be reduced to fifty or sixty cases of mild flu. I don't mind personally killing off the symptomatic ones. Our colleagues deserve that much.

I see this very big
bingo!
and send it along to Tim with the word SHADOWSTRIKE in scream. Perhaps it is the name of this terror cell. I ignore my frustration that I cannot surf for new websites launched and see if I can find any new rhetoric, knowing this term. But in a moment, it seeps away as more words post.

VaporStrike:
How will you kill her? Not poison. Say no.

I flinch, sensing his sarcasm.

Omar idles. I keep waiting to hear a scuffle behind me. I think USIC will topple VaporStrike to the floor and put the handcuffs on him. But Trinitron hums, business as usual.

Omar finally posts:

Call me a weak man in this sense. I saw the girl last night around eight o'clock. She was sleeping. A raving beauty. She looks half Persian, if you're asking me, but skin like porcelain. As my favorite new substance is so disfiguring, am I to tarnish her in order to complete our mission? I am not so inhumane.

A disfiguring substance. Smallpox? Tularemia? Both terms are among the most dreaded terms of bioterror to v-spies this year. I type like mad for Tim.

A body drops into the seat beside me, and I realize it is Miss Susan on her cell phone.

She says into her phone, "Shahzad, don't look at me."

I keep my eyes on my translation.

"Tim says you're typing so loudly it could draw attention. Calm down a little."

I translate softly, mortified at my indiscretion, but my medication coupled with my thoughts leaves me feeling electrocuted. She drops something on the table between our stations, and I realize it is an earpiece. She meanders to the beverage line and I pretend to scratch my ear while fumbling it into place.

Tim's voice says, "Can you hear me?" and I nod while scratching my forehead. I hit
SEND
on the script about the favorite disfiguring substance and a few moments later, I hear him mutter nervous curses.

VaporStrike:
My brother, you speak of a young woman's beauty, which is superfluous. Why don't you allow me to come and complete the task for you. You are a scientist. I am a trained assassin.

Omar0324:
You're too important to jeopardize.

Tim's whisper comes through clearly in my ear, "What's in Red Vinegar, you devils..." We have many questions. I type steadily to keep my nerves controlled.

Omar0324:
To put yourself in jeopardy would not serve the greater good. I am a ready and willing sacrifice.

VaporStrike:
As am I.

Omar0324:
I fear, my brother, that your willingness suggests things other than patience, such as a lack of faith in our research.

VaporStrike:
I trust in your abilities to mutate an airborne agent of bioterror into a waterborne agent. I trust in your abilities to predict its efficacy as a killer. I do not entirely trust in your ability to bring it all to pass before USIC figures out our plan and stops it.

Miss Susan is beside me again. "Stay calm," she says into her cell phone. "You're doing great. I can hear Tim, too."

Omar0324:
I feel that you just want to partake in the thrill of a face-to-face meeting with a victim. I will contact you by phone when I am sure it is safe. I have a detailed plan.

I almost groan audibly upon hearing of the phone. If USIC has neither located nor identified Omar, then they may not be able to hear this phone call. I pray quickly that he will change his mind and post where he wants VaporStrike to go. When he replies, however, I am disappointed, but only for a minute.

Omar0324:
For the moment, take your strength in what has already been accomplished, and leave the rest to me. The Americans cannot undo what is done. Red Vinegar is slow but steady, as was its mother Q.

The post is in French, so the letter Q is its English equivalent. I think Q stands for Queen, and do not understand them entirely. I hit
SEND.

Tim mutters curses and puts the translation together so fast that it leaves me stunned.

"Susan, Red Vinegar is Q fever ... I'm going outside to call—" and silence follows, as if he took off his mouthpiece.

I feel victorious on this news; however, Q fever is not what I expect to hear. My readings over the past months presented it as a disabler and not a killer. However, it is a well-known airborne agent of bioterror, on the list of substances intelligence would take rather seriously. I get a chill thinking of terror scientists mutating it to a waterborne agent. If air is like adhesive tape, water is like paste, making germs stick to organs and tissue with that much more efficacy.

I flinch as a new voice comes through my ear.

"Keep sending posts," it says. "Johnny and Michael are back here. Susan, get the kid out of there just as soon as they exit."

I don't understand this wish to "get me out" as quickly as possible. I perceive that Trinitron is crawling with USIC at this moment. I want to be part of any discussions. Some chatter bumps onto my screen.

Omar0324:
Don't waste your energy, my brother, stewing over v-spies and traitors to the Truth. We will find them and snuff them out. Their paltry little victories will be short-lived and remembered no more.

And with that, Omar exits, off to wander Inner Space where I am not allowed to chase him. I am relieved, for once,
struck with what Hodji used to call on a good intelligence day "information overload." I type the personal threat slowly, trying not to focus on it. However, it was similar to a threat left by PiousKnight last night, and it makes me wonder ...
Do they think we are watching and reading?

VaporStrike logs off, too. Miss Susan nudges me and says to her cell phone, "The subject is leaving, Tim. We'll let him exit, and then we'll leave."

VaporStrike may have a half dozen tails on him, I do not know. And if I ask, they will not tell me. Miss Susan is glancing over one shoulder with her turned-off cell phone to her ear. Finally, she folds it up with a snap.

"He's gone. Let's go"

"Where are we going?"

Before she can answer, I hear a collective sigh that seems to come from many terminals. At least six men stand up and walk quickly back to what must be Tim's terminal. I see Michael there. I stand up, and Miss Susan grabs my arm.

"Leave them alone," she says. "There are some outsiders in here right now, too. We don't need to add to the convention. Besides, they can't talk to you anymore."

I think I have misunderstood her English. I just watch as she puts her cell in her pocket.

"I don't need to hear much, thank you, but I can greet them, in honor of my father, may I not?"

But she tugs at my sleeve. "Come out to my car, and I'll tell you why you can't talk to them."

So I pass by this cluster of agents without so much as a nod. They act as if I don't exist. My face is quite hot by the time I get into her car and close the door. She starts the engine.

"We're letting you go," she says. "You can't work for us after today."

I think I am in a nightmare. I cannot right then remember the word
fired,
so I say, "You are quitting me? I do not understand you."

"I talked to Michael right after I dropped you off," she says, pulling out into traffic. "You said you were Ashad Ali Hamdani's son?"

I remember feeling I may have committed an error when I told her, by the way she stared. I cannot deny it now.

"Ashad Ali Hamdani talked incessantly about his eldest son, and four of his five FBI contacts now sit on this very squad. You're not eighteen. Michael says you're fifteen if you're a day."

I am sixteen, but do not correct her, as I perceive this as a very minor problem. Hodji's words stick under my ribs: "
Americans would shit themselves before letting a teenager spy on their turf,
" but that was said before I brought them the mother agent of Red Vinegar, a pending attempt on a girl's life, and many clues to help them find Omar.

"I will call Hodji. He will tell you the many things I have done in Paki—"

"Look, you might be able to fool Hodji Montu and Roger O'Hare about your age. They work in the field. But you can't fool us for too long. We don't hire children."

"You insult me," I mumble. "You insult my family."

She smirks angrily. "I insult you by telling you your age? It's a fact. You can't get insulted by the facts. If your age isn't enough, you have another problem. An agent picked up your friend Tyler Ping fifteen minutes ago. He's at police headquarters right now, telling us everything from Catalyst's address on Long Island to what asthma medications won't give you the shakes. What in hell have you been telling your new little friends in school?"

SCOTT EBERMAN
FRIDAY, MARCH 8, 2002
12:15
P.M.

CORA'S CONDITION WAS the same when I went back up to the ICU. Her body, to put it in layman's terms, was wired up like the back of a hard drive. I watched her eyes flicker once, but that's normal for comatose patients. I sat there beside her, and the heart monitor's regular bleeping got on my nerves too badly to stay.

I figured I had to get some sleep, at least for a couple of hours—the problem was where to do that. My uncles had left for their homes, almost too easily. With Owen sick, I would have thought they would refuse to leave—at least Uncle Davis, the self-employed guru of fortune. There had been no way to keep that much from the two of them. I wondered if Steckerman had confided in them, asking them to leave. I wanted to reach my hand down USIC's throat and pull out information.