Stephen Hunter - Soft target

“So far,” Ray said, “I think you’re doing swell.”

Fuck!

That’s the way it goes. It’s there, then it’s not.

Special Agent Neal had navigated the SCADA diagram and was dragging toward the security functions block, to call it up and open the doors and Nothing. Zip, nothing, nada, zero. The dead blank of unviolated cyberspace.

“What happened?” yelled Benson.

The crammed-in audience ignited. Hoots, squeals of anguish, a chorus of profanity. Even luscious Holly Burbridge winced.

“Goddamn, he knew,” said Neal.

“What?”

“Well, that’s a very frail way in. It’s not permanently hardwired. It’s not wireless. It’s old tech, like science fiction rocket ships with clusters of cords everywhere. It’s not in space, cyber or otherwise, it’s there in a gadget, a magic box, something that looks like a climate control gizmo on a wall; it’s not covert. So, whack. He sees it lit up, he smashes it to bits, and we’re totally fucked.”

Nobody said a thing.

Finally Neal said, “Dr. Benson, you’re the boss. Can’t you say anything inspiring?”

“No,” said Dr. Benson.

“So since this went nowhere,” said Neal, “do you kids want to put on a musical?”

“Jeff, how can you be so good at pulling perverts out of the woodwork and so goddamned bad at this?”

“Because perverts are idiots and this sonovabitch is super smart.”

“Or lucky.”

“Smart makes luck. Dumb makes bad luck. Too bad he’s not taking pictures of four-year-olds in- Okay, okay, okay.”

The okays tumbled out of his subconscious like a fluid from a broken bottle, but they did not signify breakage so much as connectivity. He thought he had, he maybe had, there was something, it was so vague, it was just beyond knowing, he had it, it skittered away, he “What?”

“Just a minute. Let me think something through.”

The imam watched his two daughters play in the twilight of an early-fall Minnesota night. It was sixty degrees and clear, the air tranquil, the stars beginning to show in the glow under the elms, which had begun to go red/orange/brown as they dried. The girls, Sari and Ami, were bright, lively, beautiful children, full of gaiety and mischief. They were easy laughers, as if much in the world merited delight, and now they rode the swings in the Twenty-Third Street Park, first Sari pushing Ami, and then Ami pushing Sari.

“Don’t push too hard,” the imam called to Sari. He was afraid that the older child’s energy and enthusiasm would catapult the younger from the seat and off she would sail, into space. It was an image that came to him in dreams sometimes: his children, falling. He would waken in the dark, drenched in sweat, then go check. No, the girls were all right.

He saw a figure slide onto the bench beside him but didn’t turn to look. Through his peripheral vision, he saw this fellow-young man-take out a paperback of a huge novel called Crime and Punishment, open the dog-eared copy to a certain page, and pretend to read.

“You are late,” the imam said.

“Not really,” said the young man, not looking up. “The FBI was on you on the way here. It was only one agent and he didn’t have listening gear and he didn’t stay long. I think it was just a random checkup. Now he’s gone. I followed him to the expressway to make certain, then doubled back.”

“Ah,” said the imam. “So we are secure?”

“Unless you’re a double agent, then yes, we are secure. How was your trip?”

“It went well. I connected with General Aweys. He selected twelve of his youngest fighters. As you requested, they are unsophisticated in Western ways, uncontaminated by the Internet. They barely know how to operate cell phones.”

“Good.”

“One of them, Maahir, is a bit older, more jaded. He is what you might call a sergeant. He is the commander, such as it is.”

“Good. He can kill Santa Claus. He’ll obey me, right? I don’t want attitude. He’s not going to give me shit when I give the orders?”

“I have spoken to him. He is the instrument of your will, as you are the instrument of Allah’s will.”

“We will have to have a theological debate in hell as to whose will I’m obeying.”

“It is a tragedy that you have no belief, not in the Faith or any faith, or any system that seeks to impose order. You love only death and you live only to destroy, a fine young man like you, and Allah has selected you for this task and brought you to me, and together, atheist and holy man, we will strike such a blow, avenge the great, tragically fallen Osama. Then I will go to paradise, brother, and I will be the first to greet you, as I’m certain Allah will grant you provisional entrance.”

“It’s actually not true that I have no faith,” said the young man.

“I worship at the church of Saint Joan Jett. I love rock and roll. It’s my deity. Now give me the details.”

“Through a brother who runs a Somali Relief charity in Toronto, I have brought the men-the jihadis-in by groups of three and four. They have been granted temporary Canadian visas and are staying in the relief organization’s dormitory in the suburbs of Toronto. They have their instructions. Do not mingle with the others, do not talk to anybody, do not talk to infidels, obey all rules of the facility, be a humble leaf, floating with the current. But on the day of days they will be ready; all have seen battle. All have fought with Hizbul Islam, in battles and operations in Wabra and Mogadishu, in-”

“Please. I tried to understand the Somali civil war from Wikipedia. It was like reading Herodotus in Chinese.”

“Always the comedy, even if I don’t understand it. All have lost brothers, sisters, parents. All are hard and bitter and can do the necessary without flinching.”

“My kind of folks,” said the young man.

“When the week arrives, all will be driven to the busy border crossing at Niagara Falls and cross over secretly, hidden in a truck which makes regular passage over the border, owned by another believer who owns a carpet company. I myself will drive them from Albany across America to the safe house here, where they will rest for a few days. Are you sure you don’t want to bring them to the mall one or two at a time and let them get a feel for what they are doing?”

“Sorry, no. One of them would fall in love with a Somali girl selling videos or waitressing in a coffee shop or collecting parking fees, and his mind wouldn’t be on his work and he’d fuck it up. Somehow, he’d find a way to fuck it up. They have been promised jihad, the slaughter of infidels, and a ride to paradise. I will make good on those promises but they must obey operation discipline until the fun begins. That’s the basic rule-no comedy here, or we will be penetrated and destroyed. I shouldn’t have to tell you again. Do you need more money?”

The imam was a little guilty about the money. He had used some of it to purchase the services of a prostitute twice in Somalia and to buy some extremely profane pornographic DVDs and to take his girls to Chuck E. Cheese’s, which they loved. He still had over six hundred dollars left. But he couldn’t turn it down.

“Well,” he said, “one can always use cash.”

“No feasts, no Last Suppers with the little lambs. Anything, anything you do out of the ordinary might alert the feds. So far, they don’t seem to be onto anything, but we’re so close now, I’d hate to see this thing fall apart and spend the rest of my life getting reamed three times a day in prison for nothing.”

“I understand, I obey, I am thankful.”

“Good, then that’s it.”

“There is one other thing.”

“Okay, what?”

“Death.”