ELEVEN
SHAHZAD HAMDANI
TUESDAY, MARCH 5, 2002
2:45 A.M. KARACHI TIME
THE NIGHT AIR is thick. I cannot sleep but only stare at the silhouetted clump of my packed bags. We leave for the airport at seven thirty. This thing is happening so very fast. I know the seriousness of USIC's need, and I don't begrudge them the desire to put someone very multilingual in the Trinitron café quickly. But I fear I will lose more than I will gain, ironically, if I make this trip.
Hodji has been lecturing me for three days on what it will be like. "In America, the intelligence agents play on a team. You stay on your base. You have to do as you're told and not ask questions. They will not share things with you like Roger and I sometimes do." Of course I understand the American baseball and playing your particular base. But I also wonder what will happen if I see leads that I could chase for them.... Will they let me do it? Will they tell someone else to do it, and I will never know the outcomes of my own accomplishments?
My time is all but gone for working freely. I get out of bed, tiptoe around my bags, and head silently across Aunt Hamera's garden over to the café. I can see my computer blinking in the dark as I put the key into the lock. I rarely shut down. For some reason, it makes my asthma worse to see my screen dark and not reaching out to the world at large. Hodji says it is a form of claustrophobia. He jokingly calls it in English "computero-phobia."
I glance down the street to the boardinghouse before entering the café. A light is on in the last second-floor window—in the room Hodji had taken for his fake job as a "traveling salesman of paper products." Last night he went to Karachi to take care of business. Possibly he was checking in with other v-spies.
The light means he came back in the night—he plans to accompany me to America—and he is not sleeping, either. I suppose his other v-spies didn't turn up enough to inspire him to relax. I switch on the light in Uncle's office, knowing Hodji will see it. Perhaps he would like to come and see my new program jump through many hoops.
And Roger's words, calling the extremists' program a "double whammy," have been in my heart since he said them. I have been counterprogramming, finding ways to combat a translating and a disappearing chatter program.
First, I have pirated many obscure translation programs and have worked them into my search engines. Hence, my search programs will hopefully hunt for keywords like "Colony One" in two dozen more Indo-European languages.
And last night I finished an auto-search component that will search chat rooms constantly instead of manually—even as I sleep. It should automatically script any chatter that contains my keywords in any of those languages.
I approach my terminal anxiously, as if it contains a snake. And what do my eyes behold but a wonderful sight: The whole top half of the screen is filled with alerts, at least nine of them, looking like this:
ALERT: VaporStrike is Online: http://www.trinitrononline.com/chat/hodgpog-hall/%729.36.24%/ Enter2:07am Exit2:27am.
ALERT: PiousKnight is Online: http://www.cheezyfriez.com/chat/nonames-hall/%617.92.18%/ Enter2:22am Exit2:28am.
I glance joyfully down the list, reasoning quickly that VaporStrike has been online twice with Omar0324 and once with their other extremist comrade, PiousKnight. And Omar0324 has been on once with several other unknown log-ins, and these I might be able to trace.
I click tentatively, remembering Uncle's favorite saying: Life is never so easy. The text file that was supposed to copy the chatter is empty. This can only mean that their chatter has disappeared before my program found them.
The café door opens, ringing Uncle's cowbells and making me jump.
"What are you doing? You're supposed to be getting your beauty rest. How's your asthma?" Hodji's voice rings too loudly for this hour. "Ready to get rid of it for good?"
I have more pressing priorities. I go to the second ALERT link, and find that again I have a chat link but no scripted chatter.
"You oughtn't wear that cologne," I mutter against my disappointment. "Smells too expensive."
"It's just ordinary Old Spice. You can buy it anywhere."
"Smells American."
"Well, that's surely not the same as expensive. You're offending the French and the Italians. What else are you doing?"
I explain my success in devising alerts and my failure in scripting chatter. It makes him stare for a moment. "Shahzad. You found these guys chatting while you were sleeping? Are you serious? You could sell that program for a million bucks in America just the way it is."
My chest rattles when I sigh. "You Americans ... always thinking about money."
"No, thinking about opportunity." He points to my last ALERT. "Look at this one. It has no exit time yet."
I click on it quickly, as it states that VaporStrike is online with Omar0324 in an Arabic chat room.
VaporStrike and Omar are idling, and I scroll up in their chatter to see many white blanks, though I do see again the rift in their erasing-chatter program: It leaves their names but only erases what they say. If I cannot catch them while chatting, I will at least know when they are up to their tricks.
Hodji goes to make coffee, and I drum my fingers on the keypad, thinking I will feel much better when I have my two cups. I have been drinking coffee since age nine, as it is the best thing around here for asthma. It will wake my brain. I am not prepared to see this phenomenon unfold on-screen, but suddenly, here it is:
Omar0324: You may ask your questions. I am much obliged to finally discuss this with you at liberty.
VaporStrike: Will local doctors figure out the contents of Red Vinegar?
My neck snaps at VaporStrike's frankness, which is both offensive and elating. They must feel very confident with this new program.
Omar0324: You give the medical community too much credit, my friend. They will not figure it out this year—or next.
VaporStrike: How can you be so certain?
Omar0324: Red Vinegar is not a known biochemical agent. It is a mutation. Even the CDC has not ever seen it before.
I am too stunned to say bingo! I don't realize at first that I am reading Sindhi, one of the Indian languages. And before I can wheeze, the text is gone.
"Hodji!" I call. "Come quick!"
As he gallops to me, I spit out quickly, "Red Vinegar is not a natural agent of bioterror, but a mutation of something the CDC knows. These terrorists think the CDC would not recognize it."
I don't have time to script the chatter before it disappears. But here comes more.
VaporStrike: I don't understand your sciences, nor do I want to. I did think, however, that we would see more deaths in March, being that the affluent use more water, washing sometimes several times a day.
Omar0324: If you see more deaths in March, it will be because of weak immune systems, not because of compulsive scrubbing. You can rub Red Vinegar in your eyes, mix it with soap, and wash your hands in it. Your little cuts and pimples are safe. You have to drink it-glass by glass-over many weeks.
I give this news to Hodji while he sits at a terminal beside mine, muttering, "'You have to drink it ... glass by glass...' That's disgusting. We need to write it if we can't script it."
But I am busy watching and verbally translating languages in which I have many gaps, all off the top of my head. Hodji rushes to switch on another terminal and type. Omar and VaporStrike are translating their little secrets however they wish—and probably the recipient translates it again if he can't understand what is sent. With some multilingual translation program only a click away, they are like children with a big box of crayons.
I see fresh chatter fly up in Pashto, a primary language of Afghanistan.
Omar0324: Red Vinegar weakens the immunity system. The cause of death is usually other infections. Its only signature is the weakening of tissue such as that found in blood vessels. Through fluctuating fevers over many weeks or months, it turns veins and arteries to overcooked egg noodles. They burst, rip, clog, causing stroke, clots, aneurysms...
/> I repeat the rest as best I can, and Hodji is typing furiously.
He exclaims, "Maybe it's a hoax."
We have discussed this possibility many times, and this chatter brings the idea back again. Most secret chatter is posted by philosophic extremists, not scientists. They are well versed in bomb making and violent schemes of bloodshed, but this talk of mutated agents of bioterror is scientifically based. They say it is nothing USIC has ever seen before.
"Spit it out!" Hodji nudges at me in excitement as a new post flies up.
"It's Punjabi," I say in my native tongue, which allows me to recite it easily.
VaporStrike: Will you tell us if any local newspaper implies the deaths are not natural, so we can download the articles?
So ... Omar has access to local newspapers. I announce to Hodji that we now have more proof that Omar is living near Colony One, wherever it is. Omar's answer is even more critical.
Omar0324: Whatever appears in the newspaper will be strange and unintelligible. USIC is looking for a poisoned water supply. That we could strike at a vein or a smaller portion and not infect a whole city is not in their thinking.
I stammer in confusion, "They've hit ... a street. A ... neighborhood. One side of a mountain or a part of a village ... just a part—"
"How in the hell is that possible?" Hodji asks.
"They do not say."
Hodji mutters again that it's a hoax.
"But who would go to all this trouble to translate and erase hoaxes?" I point out, and he does not answer. Anything is possible, but I do not want to think I have been chasing down a hoax for four months.
Who is this Omar? Where is Omar? I feel we will have the location of Colony One if we can find this elusive player. Is he a businessman? A scientist? A doctor gone mad? On which continent?
Omar and VaporStrike are idling.
"Did Roger find any place yet where two women have died of brain aneurysms?"
"Yes, several" Hodji nods. "But it's a big world out there. I'll see if I can get cell reception and call him ... He needs to know about this chatter, pronto."
Hodji dials a three-digit number that will put him through to Roger anywhere on the globe, if it is a good night for cell reception over my village.
"Where is he?" I ask.
"You don't need to know that," Hodji answers, to my annoyance. "We have to practice being in America now. You can't ask questions on your new squad and expect to get an answer."
"But..." I feel my chest tighten with panic. "This says Red Vinegar is very real and very dangerous, and it would be hard to detect. He may be drinking it, for all we know—"
"Not your problem," he mutters, refusing to look at me.
"Shall I search for agents of bioterror that are known to be most easily mutated?"
He waves the phone in the air, as that sometimes helps find reception. "I think the CDC can handle that ... once Roger gets ahold of them."
"But I want to know."
"Ringy dingy," he says with relief and puts the phone to his ear. "Then, search now, because I can't promise what they'll let you do in America—Roger? It's me. Turn on your e-mail ... I don't care what meeting you're in. We've got a red-hot bingo."
Both Omar and VaporStrike log off suddenly, and I wonder if it is because I have been in there as an invisible log-in, which means I am not entirely invisible. I do not show up as a log-in in the chat room, but if they are cautious, they will see "number of guests: 3" when they are the only two present.
Hodji sees them leave and turns to his screen, rubbing his eyes. He did not come here with his contact lenses, I suppose. "We have to tell Roger what we got. He says he can't get to his secured e-mail for a couple of hours."
I study Hodji's scramble of notes. "Red Vinegar is a mutation of a biochemical agent ... you cannot be harmed by washing in it—you have to drink it. We have that it will weaken the immune system, and often other germs are the cause of death."
It is hard to think, as Hodji is repeating all this approximately two words behind me the whole time. "Red Vinegar, it weakens veins and arteries, turning them to..." I hunt for Omar's exact words. "...to overcooked egg noodles. It causes strokes and aneurysms."
I have no more memory space available in my head, and his notes, in English, are too full of typos. Hodji sticks his face right up to the screen. "We have that only a small piece of Colony One was hit, not its entire water supply. We have no clue how they did that, but we know Omar lives nearby. This is a gold mine."
I just sit dumbly, watching the printer kick and begin to print out all that he has typed. "Do you want a fax or an e-mail?" Hodji asks, and then says, "Good, because the fax machine works as well as the cars, telephones, and ATMs in this godforsaken village."
I suppose that means Roger wants an e-mail. I translate Hodji's notes to Arabic so that I can fill in the sentences correctly and not fill my head with English on top of all these other languages. While they take wild guesses at potential biochemical agents, I wonder with sudden hope if this major bingo means I can continue working from Pakistan.
Hodji puts his cell phone back in his pocket finally, and I ask as much.
He does not look enthusiastic. "Look what we just went through, kid. You can use the intranet structure at Trinitron to your advantage, maybe. You can cache the screen faster than you could script the chatter ... and using the intranet, they won't have any of the usual signs that someone might be watching."
My father went to America and died, and I will get my foot in some trap as well.
I try telling myself I will be much safer in America than in a small village on the outskirts of Karachi. I tell myself that Roger is in Africa because he's traced the two dead women to an African community, and not to the shores of the land my father loved. I try. But there is a sinking feeling inside my ribs. It has to do with how it is late in Africa, and even important people need to sleep. Yet Hodji just interrupted Roger in the middle of a meeting. It is likely that Roger is not in Africa....
"Let's just say ... wherever Roger is, you helped put him there. Okay?" Hodji mutters anxiously as I express my anxieties one final time. "You've done a great job for us here, Shahzad. All good things have to change."
"Can I call you? Once in a while?" I ask. I do not like his silence, how suddenly he seems overwhelmed in something unspeakable, something relevant to his safety and my safety and the security of operations. He looks like he does when he speaks of Twain. Only now, he is saying nothing and looking at me.
I put my fingers to the keypad. I will download any articles I can find on agents of bioterror that have been successfully mutated to unrecognizable forms. I want to use my final hours wisely and not get caught up in sentimentality.
However, I want to save an hour for myself—to walk the beach at dawn, gaze at the Arabian Sea, and think of my carefree boyhood one last time. Perhaps then I will feel more ready to put my feet on the soil where my family died.
TWELVE
CORA HOLMAN
MONDAY, MARCH 4, 2002
4:10 P.M.
I FOLDED MY ARMS across my woolly sweater as I paced into my living room and tried rubbing the chills out. The sweater was never worn before. It had been one of Oma's last gifts before she realized I no longer liked to wear oversized clothing. Despite the turtleneck beneath, the wool itched, and the rubbing didn't stop my teeth from chattering. This relapse of flu came over me during Aleese's service, about the time Reverend McNaughton was showing off her photographs. And while it hit me quickly and furiously, I could only think that Scott Eberman sat three rows behind me, and it was my solemn duty not to give him anything else to worry about. I don't think I let myself move a muscle until the service had ended.
Now I stared out my living room window, maybe half an hour after the Blumbergs dropped me off. Cars were parked all the way to the corner. Every spot was taken, except the one where the huge puddle spread outward in front of my house. All the people were mourners. But they were all down at the Eber
mans'.
Are you proud of yourself? Congratulations. You're alone again ... and sick.
I knew I had sent out a thousand little "messages" at the service to those who wanted to come here afterward—thank you, but no thank you. It had all been an autopilot routine, easy as crossing my legs, and at the moment, autopilot was all I'd had.
A couple that had just parked at the corner walked by on the other side of the street in nothing but light sweaters. It's like summer out there. What's wrong with my body? What in hell killed Aleese?
All my intense staring was not helping my headache, and I moved toward the kitchen. On the windowsill, I saw the sample packet of Tylenol the paramedic had left with me four nights ago. I had put it there when cleaning, not really having a place for medicine. Oma and I simply never took any. Aleese always referred to her morphine as a "cure-all," and anything of lesser strength as "a fart in a windstorm."
I tore open the packet and swallowed the Tylenol with a large glass of water from the spigot, then went more slowly to the living room. Reverend McNaughton had given me the photos he'd shown at the service. I had perched them on the couch in the same place where Aleese had lain, without really thinking about what I was doing. The little child stared soulfully at me ... Stunning shot. Where did Aleese get her nerve—to love this strange child enough to capture her aura and immortalize it, while I was forever the brat? Was I born with cloven hooves?
The eyes of the dead foot soldier seemed more focused on Aleese than me—toward heaven. My amateur photographer's mind couldn't help seeing the situation needed to take this photo. My mother had run through some third world battleground. She had stopped by this corpse, perhaps many others, and she studied this one long enough to relive the man's last moments. She smelled the blood, heard the buzzing flies, maybe even endangered her life by not running. But she had felt instinctively for the sun's angles, moved until they were across the corpse's face, raised the camera, and focused. She probably bent over with one foot on either side of this corpse's left knee. The smell must have been unbearable.