This boy is under a dozen tubes and wires. He looks a little like the boy downstairs, but he is not quite so big. He is more lean and slightly older, with golden hair instead of yellow. I cannot think of what ICU stands for, and Roger has not told me, but it is very serious, obviously.
I take this Scott's hand. He does not move, and though Scott's eyes are sometimes half opened, Roger has mentioned not to mind this. He said the boy has an aneurysm on his brain and one on his heart, also. His coma is caused by a drug that slows his heart enough to prevent the heart aneurysm from bursting. He can either be alert and quickly dead, or comatose until they can figure out what to do with him.
"I don't know how the doctors can help," I explain to him in Punjabi, "because I am not a medical person. I am a v-spy now and forever. I promise, with Allah as my merciful friend, that I will find those bad people for you. My father would want me to."
I could say much more, but Roger is suddenly beside me. It renders me unable to think, except to understand that I am in quite a predicament here. I make a decision. I will deceive him, but it is more than to get information. I will lie to get away from yesterday. I so long to be my old self—to be useful and productive and a part of important issues, to help this boy, his brother, and the girl with the yellow hair and lively eyes.
"You know what? Skip the fourth patient," he says in Punjabi. "Despite that she's under sedation, you might scare her out of her wits. You heard that some ShadowStrike whore got in here yesterday, right?"
"Yes. He tried to attack the girl." I realize he thinks my squad told me, and my giving a detail back will reinforce this. I decide to play into the conversation as if yesterday never happened. It makes me breathe more easily to pretend as much.
"He tried to inject her with something deadly. CDC still doesn't know what it was, though they're working on it. Scott Eberman and I stopped him."
"I suppose they are not dying fast enough to please Omar," I say.
Roger nods. "Fortunately, the guy injected it into her IV bag and not directly into her bloodstream. They're growing overly confident. Omar took a great risk. This time, he lost."
He nodded at the bed. "The overexertion almost blew Scott Eberman's heart wide open, and it may yet. Anyway, we got one of their goons. We're still trying to make him, but his IDs are all false. He can rot in the can until we figure that out"
I find my voice, but can only say, "Congratulations"
"And the same to you. Not that we have time to discuss it. Maybe Michael's not being so stupid after all. Most of what I had to tell him concerned you. This doesn't end with the arrests, you know. We need evidence that will stand up legally. We don't have enough yet. We need chatter—we need them confessing to each other what they've done. That would be great."
"Any specifics?" I ask.
"Anything with new names, first of all. We got a couple because they posted a website. Did you see it?"
"No," I confess with irritation. I could have been the one to find it, were my hands not tied. "I had to settle for discovering what the 'Q' in 'Mother Q' means"
"I saw that. Good find, Kid. Actually, the CDC has suspected it was a Q fever mutation for several days now."
I am surprised but do not ask the source of this. Roger often gave me many intelligence details in Pakistan, but only surrounding those issues that he perceived I needed to chase chatter.
"We need more background confirming which guys actually poisoned the water. Maybe they're bragging between each other on how they only infected one small part of the water supply that runs into five streets. We found the device they used. It was hooked up to the sewer line in front of the house belonging to the first dead woman. A confession that links specific people to it would be a profound bingo."
I nod. "And what about their predictions on how the virus will act?"
"That's not a main priority right now. The CDC predicts that the worst is over as far as very sick people turning up. ShadowStrike made a major error. They weren't considering America's bottled-water fetish, especially among the more affluent folk. Most of the people on those streets haven't drunk from a tap in years. Six people on that street have turned up 'suspicious' and were tested, but the CDC is calling them 'acute,' and telling them they have the flu for now. It acts like a flu, and it will go away with antibiotics if it hasn't reached a certain toxicity level. We're trying not to start a panic, which means holding off telling anyone anything until we have more answers."
"I have read all the panic protocols," I say.
"These four kids are being called 'chronic.' Very high toxicity levels. We haven't seen any more like that."
"Perhaps you would like for me to try to locate the other terror scientists? Perhaps, if they developed the germ, they would have developed an antitoxin in case they should infect themselves."
Roger nods. "Keep trying. Omar and VaporStrike are the only big guns we've identified so far from ShadowStrike. Omar probably was involved in designing the germ. VaporStrike, while not a scientist, is a higher-up, and possibly a trained assassin. PiousKnight and Catalyst are just puppet men. We think that they and four others worked in a discount shoe store in a nearby town for a few months as a front. Look for anything containing 'store' or 'shoe store' or 'shoes.' It appears that in the middle of the night of December 28, they drilled the water main that serves five streets—including Steckerman's. It's pretty obvious that they mapped out their plan to include his household. They buried a container filled with a concentration of the hot agent and a transline connecting to the water main. It was set to release the stuff over a period of four months. It was an experiment. If they'd had a couple of dozen deaths, they planned to repeat it other places. Now they know Americans generally don't drink much tap water—at least not enough to make it worth their while. They target the very successful—the stockbrokers, the lawyers, the doctors, the professors—but they'll go back to the drawing board."
"I will do my best," I say, though my conscience is seeping through. But now, I have to ignore its pangs. Roger would die if he knew I was terminated and he had spoken so liberally.
He goes on. "Well, they're getting a bit boastful lately, Michael says, though I haven't seen their brags firsthand. If they start bragging—admitting their actions and applauding one another—we can use that as a confession"
I nod, thinking of Tyler's captured phone chatter, Omar admitting to telling a whole roomful of students what he did. Roger will see that soon enough.
"Should Red Vinegar still be a priority in my search engines? The chatter of yesterday alluded to them maybe moving onto newer—"
"No, replace it with something else. Just 'vinegar' or 'poison' or whatever you think is worthy. The CDC probably has enough on Red Vinegar now. The germ was baptized by the CDC 'Q3 Fever' or just plain 'Q3.' The '3' in Q3 is for the mutations that their Level Four specialist went through to make it waterborne and unrecognizable to any scientist alive in this world. Q3 won't penetrate your scalp with your shampoo or bother too badly with the bug bite on your ankle or hit people in the face when you sneeze. You have to drink it—daily."
He seems to be quoting something I scripted once recently. He would be adding insult to injury, except I am focused again on these important patients, watching Scott breathe with a machine.
"You think they will die?"
"I don't know. The problem, according to the CDC, is that no one can figure out yet how to flush the Q3 virus and undo the damage. It could take time ... I'm not sure if they have time. Q3 amasses in the bone marrow and eats away at the lining of the veins and arteries on its travels. At a certain toxicity, it starts to turn veins to mush. They develop weak spots that fill up, burst, and bleed out, usually in the head, but they could happen in your chest or other places, too. Many people these days live through aneurysms, but if your veins are slowly being stewed, it decreases your chances. The CDC has some drugs to try. They're optimistic, but it's tricky. A medication strong enough to kill the germ could also do damage to
compromised veins and arteries."
"I will try to find the scientists, try to find an antitoxin" I draw my eyes away from Scott so as to think practically. "Anything else?"
"Yes," he speaks softly. "Michael doesn't even know this yet, so I'll tell you myself. Omar and VaporStrike are in the black hole. We're thinking they must have gotten suspicious when we hauled their flying monkey out of here yesterday. But that's not the worst. I'm ashamed to say ... Catalyst and PiousKnight are among the missing, also. If any of them come online, try to get an IP address immediately."
I cannot help but show my surprise here. VaporStrike and Catalyst had been tailed by USIC. I have never heard of American intelligence losing someone they were tailing.
"We're just people," Roger says. "That's what this country doesn't understand. They want a foolproof plan. But as long as it's just people running things, mistakes can be made. PiousKnight and Catalyst went into a little boutique in the train station up on Long Island. Those things are so small that the agent didn't bother to go in with them. They never came out. We had the owner arrested, but it appears he merely took a hundred bucks to let them out the back door, and he knows nothing. We haven't picked them up again."
My asthma pulls tightly in my chest. For a moment, my heart feels torn in half, as the better half of me certainly wants to say immediately, "They are at Astor College." But the limpness that has overwhelmed me since being fired is suddenly replaced by a swelling of importance. I would not call my silence revenge, but more a clawing for the restoration of my dignity. Perhaps it is as Hodji proclaims: What goes around comes around.
Roger's cell phone rings. He looks at the screen. "It's Michael. I'll tell him I talked to you personally."
My instincts say to stop him and confess immediately. It would mean trouble, but far less trouble than walking out of here and letting him hear this truth from my irate former supervisor. But Roger dashes for the stairwell. "I can get reception outside—"
And the door closes behind him. It is too late. I break quickly for the double doors and a different stairwell. Everyone will be infuriated with me in this strange and new country—except Tyler. I jump down the stairwell that empties out near where he is waiting in the lobby. My wheezing does not help my clarity. I start to see the error of my decisions. USIC could have me put in jail just to keep me out of their business. I could stay there for a very long time—until whatever month, or year, their business is finished.
FORTY-FOUR
TYLER PING
SATURDAY, MARCH 9, 2002
1:25 P.M.
SO, WE GOT BACK to the car and Hamdani was wheezing so furiously, I thought I would have to say "Screw this" and drive him the hell right up to the emergency room door.
But a few minutes after he stopped running, his breathing started to ease up. I drove fast and turned up the radio so I wouldn't have to have a heart attack and crash my mom's Audi. But then, he wanted to talk, and minus oh so much air, I had to turn the thing down to hear him. He saw a man named Roger, a USIC bigwig, was all I could get.
"And?"
"...didn't know I am fired."
"And?" I waited, but he wheezed only. "Did he tell you anything good?"
After a stare fest out the window, he finally nodded.
Not what I expected.
"You messed with a USIC agent's head?" I asked. "Are you crazy? And they said I was the one on a suicide mission"
"Perhaps I am crazy," he wheezed. "I have too many things to ... to feel! I do not know where my life is!"
I guessed I could relate. I turned the wheel. "I'm just pulling into a side street. You can have your nervous breakdown with some lovely view. That's the best I can offer."
I buried us between two parked cars in front of a fairly nice Victorian home with a brick walk and a willow tree. If I were new to America, I would be happy to see a willow tree and some well-kept, East Coast history. He watched the tree sway, and his wheezing cut back yet again. But he looked forlorn.
"Just get it together," I said as calmly as possible. "And then we're driving back home. We're going to forget all this stuff with Astor College—"
"Wait," Shahzad cut me off, staring at the roof of the car while banging a fist on his chest. "I could go to the jail for what I just did! Roger and Hodji love me. But they love their jobs more. Their country more."
He thumped his chest rhythmically, giving in to one new thought after another. "They could put me in ... crazy hospital. They could ... deliver me to the Syrians."
"You're letting your imagination run wild," I said.
He nodded finally, like I made sense. "I just ... I have never defied them before yesterday. Not ever."
Three days in America, and he's already a derelict. "The worst they could do is put you in juvenile. In fact, I'd say that's a definite. They'll probably keep you there for your own protection. I've never seen a juvie, but I understand it's not a picnic."
"You must go to Astor College," he said.
I hung on to the steering wheel. "You've just misled a USIC agent into giving you intelligence, and now you want to go play freelance mole? How is that going to help anything?"
"Omar, VaporStrike, PiousKnight, and Catalyst ... all are not to be found," he said. "If we can find them..."
Now he sounded like me. If Catalyst was in the black hole, and we could dig him up for USIC, that would be quite a favor. If PiousKnight, VaporStrike, and Omar were all there it would be a beyond-huge bingo. They wouldn't dare throw us in juvie after a stunt like that.
"Here's a plan," I said. "Pretty harmless. Let's just go see if we can find the place. Maybe we'll get lucky. Maybe we'll see Catalyst or PiousKnight hanging around outside. You know what PiousKnight looks like, right?"
"I understand he has had a tail, but he has not been in Trinitron." He shakes his head.
"But he knows Catalyst. So, maybe we would see Catalyst walk past a window, and we can tell USIC where he is without actually meeting up with him."
Hamdani looked into my eyes desperately. Obviously, it meant a lot to him to look capable to these USIC guys.
"I just don't want to risk looking doubly moronic by telling USIC before we check it out," I continued. "What if Catalyst gave me a phony address or something? People have invited me to parties before, and they think it's funny when I show up to a vacant lot in the Bronx. But it would be nice to call USIC with an address."
The MapQuest directions led me to an apartment complex four towns over, and I could see signs to Astor College buildings along the way. I imagined the campus was picturesque, but this complex must have been on the outskirts. The scenery had changed a lot since we left Trinity Falls, not that the neighborhood was ugly, per se. There were trees and little fake lakes and water fountains. Still, every apartment looked alike for endless circles and cul-de-sacs.
As I approached what I thought was the right place, we didn't just get lucky—we got extra lucky. Catalyst was standing out on a little balcony, looking down on the parking lot like he was waiting for people. He waved at me. I waved back. He ran inside enthusiastically. We got so lucky that suddenly we were unlucky.
I stammered to Hamdani, "Don't know if he saw you ... I'm taking the risks! Jump out and get in the fucking trunk! Do it fast—"
But before Shahzad could even get out of the car, Catalyst came out a first-floor sliding glass door and trotted to us with a smile.
"Shit," I announced with a huge grin on my face. There was nothing to do but park and get out.
Here is something interesting: This Catalyst was the nicest guy you'd ever hope to meet. It had been so easy to approach him on the street after Trinitron that night, interest him in my computer prowess, and offer him something. It took no effort at all.
Now he smiled broadly and shook my hand with both of his hands. "I am so glad you could come. Introduce me to your friend."
"This is Shahzad," I said, remembering something I'd heard while hacking on my mother. When you take a fake name, you try to keep y
our first name. That way, you don't get confused easily.
"Are you a computer guru as well?" he asked. His English was so perfect, you wouldn't believe it. It was British perfect, or breathy perfect—poetic somehow.
"Um, I am okay on computer," Hamdani said, studying the guy's shoes and looking not amused. He bowed instead of offering his hand, and Catalyst bowed back. I wondered that Catalyst didn't recognize him from Trinitron. Thursday night, Shahzad had gotten up for coffee about the time that Tim figured out I had hacked into his terminal and captured his screen. Catalyst had nodded, and Shahzad had cracked me up, looking ready to shit himself. I hadn't remembered that until now, but maybe it didn't matter. Catalyst didn't seem to remember.
"Well, I hope you will be my good friend, too. A man can't have too many friends, right?" His smile almost sparkled with pixie dust. "I am Raoul. Come, and let me introduce you to my friends. We are watching football. You like football?"
"Sure," I said, and to cover Hamdani's slight wheeze, "Where do you get football in March?"
He smiled with enthusiasm. "From the satellite. It is known as soccer here! The Ethiopians are having a tournament this week. One of our friends is from there. We are helping him feel less homesick."
"Oh." I felt my guard letting down as I eased away from the revelation again: This guy poisoned a town. But he thought we were friends.
Inside were seven other guys. The first one we met was Manuel, obviously the same Manuel who was talking to Omar yesterday when we hacked into that phone call. I wouldn't forget his voice so fast. I couldn't place his accent, but it was proper like Catalyst's, and he looked about the same age. He introduced us to five guests and the host. The host looked midtwenties also, but the others looked like college underclassmen, and all but two had foreign accents that were familiar but that I couldn't quite place. I tried not to look like I was making value judgments. But I realized Catalyst said only first names, and I wondered if that was recruitment protocol or just normal American party behavior. I hadn't been to enough parties or been introduced to enough people my own age to really know.