Terror Machine

by Denison Hatch

  “Can I put it into navigation?” Omer asked Murad.

  “No!” Murad yelled.

  “Why?”

  “Just don’t. I pretty much know how to get there.”

  They headed east into Long Island, eventually exiting the highway and turning down a road framed by warehouses. At the final building, a skinny man stood underneath a lone streetlamp, playing on his cell phone. The two brothers parked and exited their father’s van.

  “Joey?” Murad asked.

  The skinny man didn’t say anything. He just nodded and stepped towards a small access door to the warehouse. He entered the structure and disappeared into the darkness.

  “Are we supposed to go in there with him?” Omer asked.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Murad finally responded.

  They stood out in the cold and misting rain for about a minute.

  “Maybe I should go in,” Murad said.

  “Are you sure? Is it safe?”

  “They’ve already been paid for . . .”

  At that moment, the massive warehouse door began to rise. They had their answer. Once the door was open, the two brothers could make out a forklift heading their way, holding a square plastic container filled with a viscous liquid. The container itself sat inside an aluminum cage designed to provide extra support. The whole contraption was about the size of a washing machine.

  “Turn the van around,” Murad instructed Omer.

  The skinny man operated the forklift. He drove the container towards the van and then stopped and waited for Omer to back it up.

  “Can two of us carry it?” Murad asked.

  “Heavy but doable,” the man said.

  “And you’re Joey, right?” Murad asked.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay,” Murad answered after a moment. “But there’s two containers, right?”

  “Correct,” the man answered.

  Omer jumped out of the van and ran around to the back. He opened the doors. Omer and Murad stood on each side of the container and lifted it into the back of the van. There would be just enough room for two containers and nothing more. It took about twenty minutes for them to fully load the van with the mysterious cargo. When they were done, Murad handed the invoice and written address to the skinny man.

  The man grabbed the paperwork. “Thanks,” he said. “Did you write down this address?”

  “No.” Murad shook his head. “Only what’s on there.”

  “And no phones, right? No Google?”

  “As instructed,” Murad confirmed.

  “Good,” the skinny man said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. He flicked the lighter and lit the invoice. The three men stood in the dark and watched the fire engulf the invoice. The paper burned until it transformed into a piece of ash, which was picked up by the wind and carried off into the mist.

  “Good doing business,” the skinny man said. “Remember—you were never here. I was never here. We never met. This never happened. That’s how my people operate, and we expect our counterparts to do the same—or else.” With that, the skinny man walked back into the warehouse, and the bay door slowly rolled shut.

  “Or else what?” Omer asked Murad, a tinge of anxiety in his voice.

  “What do you think, Omer?” Murad said. “Don’t sit around worrying. Just follow his instructions. I know I will.”

  “What is this stuff?”

  “Chemicals.”

  “For what?”

  “Our product.”

  “And what’s that, Murad?”

  “You’re just helping out, brother. You’re not a member of the club. So shut up and remember our deal, all right?”

  ▪

  “This is your brother?” were the first words out of Alim Hanafi’s mouth when he saw Omer pacing behind Murad and into Best Diner. It was well after midnight.

  “Yeah. Like I told you . . .” Murad said.

  “What’s your name?” Hanafi asked.

  “Omer.”

  “Are you a man of faith, Omer?”

  “I’m a Muslim,” Omer said as he nodded, but then he shrugged in a decidedly noncommittal manner. He’d promised his brother that he’d help out, not alter his life philosophy.

  “A good Muslim?” Hanafi inquired.

  “Sure,” Omer said.

  “Absolutely,” Murad added. “You don’t need to worry about my brother. He’s a solid kid. Knows when to keep his mouth shut. He has respect.”

  “Fine,” Hanafi said. “Because we need your hands, but we don’t need loose lips. Everything’s coming to a head. So, young Omer, the only reason you’re allowed in the club is because of Murad. I don’t know you. But I do know Murad. Very well. And . . . I trust him.” Hanafi turned to Murad. “And the pick-up?”

  “The van’s full,” Murad said.

  “Excellent timing. I’ve received word that our investor has arrived.”

  “The man from Dubai?” Murad asked.

  “Yes. He’s in New York,” Hanafi said. “Bring the chemicals downstairs.”

  Omer and Murad opened the back of the Steinway Cleaners van. They lifted one of the plastic containers and painstakingly carried it down to the basement. It was tough going, like moving a dishwasher, with only inches to spare on each side of the stairs. Hanafi could have helped, but instead he simply watched from the bottom level. Once Omer and Murad reached the basement, the brothers were able to lay the container on a dolly and push the liquid down the hallway. They placed the container in a large storage room filled with all manner of industrial restaurant supplies. Then they repeated the process one more time. After the final trip, Omer followed Murad into the prayer room in the basement.

  “Tea or cookies?” Murad asked.

  “Sure,” Omer replied. Omer gazed around the room. There was nothing particularly out of the ordinary about the space. It had the same familiar look—austere, yet faithful—that Omer knew from most prayer rooms.

  “So what’s the technology you’re working on? What’s in those containers?” Omer asked.

  Murad cut Omer a sharp look, but Hanafi jumped in.

  “Fuel,” Hanafi quickly replied. “And the technology is proprietary. Can’t talk about it with you—not yet. That’s the truth about innovation. Once it’s out there in the ether . . . you lose it. And then there’s no saying whose hands it will end up in—”

  All of a sudden, a bookcase in the back of the room began to rotate into the wall, revealing a secret passageway.

  “That’s all for now, gentlemen,” Hanafi said. “Go on home. I’m sure you’re tired. And thank you, Omer. It was wonderful meeting you.”

  Omer and Murad stood up. As Hanafi attempted to hurry them out and close the door, Omer caught sight of Maximilian Borin emerging from the bookcase. Omer was fascinated. Behind the doctor, he was briefly able to see what looked like an operating room. And in the center of the room, Omer saw a man sitting on a chair that was bolted to the ground.

  Then the door to the prayer room closed in front of Omer’s face.

  And with a click, the door locked behind them.

  ▪

  The man in the machine was Darab. He had a rough face with a thick but short beard that covered the numerous valleys of his face. He had lived in the building above Best Diner for about eighteen months—fully paid by Hanafi. Hanafi watched the doctor prepare the machine. Darab didn’t seem particularly nervous, but the doctor did. That made sense. Darab had been working with the machine for months. At that point, he wanted what the machine was pushing. But Dr. Borin, on the other hand, needed the machine to do exactly as it was designed to do. No one in the club wanted another Abdel Hayat situation on their hands.

  “Are you nervous, Darab?” Hanafi asked.

  “No, Alim,” Darab shook his head. “Excited.”

  “You are so well prepared, dear one. I am proud of you.”

  Darab and Hanafi watched Dr. Borin tinker with the large machine in front of them. Officially termed
a neural-control interface device, Hanafi simply called it “the machine.” He didn’t need to know how it worked, although Dr. Borin always tried to explain it. He just knew that the machine was the result of Dr. Borin’s entire academic career. It was not a mind-control device like in the movies. It could not literally move the subject’s legs and feet. What the machine did was deeply imprint a thought, which eventually transformed into nothing less than a directive, within the subject’s mind. What Hanafi and Dr. Borin had discovered was that each subject required slightly different preparation. Neither Abdel nor Darab had been inclined towards martyrdom. However, Abdel had been more devout—initially. A hypothesis was growing between Hanafi and the doctor that a blank slate such as Darab was actually better than a zealot like Abdel. Only further testing, and action, would confirm or disprove their hypothesis.

  “How many more sessions will I need?” Darab asked.

  “Not many,” replied Dr. Borin as he worked behind the long tube positioned above the chair. The top portion of the machine, hanging over Darab, was a reconditioned MRI device. Dr. Borin wanted to replace it. It was old and slow, but it was still quite functional. Dr. Borin’s pioneering work in neural-control interfaces had begun when he was first trained as a radiologist. He had realized that the live brain scans created by MRI machines had other applications beyond simply identifying tumors. For example, the machine could identify the periods of time—perhaps even in fractions of seconds—when the subject’s brain was most susceptible to suggestion or learning. The machine, in effect, was capable of an exacting form of hypnosis. During the brain’s most malleable moments, Dr. Borin’s machine would use a combination of audio and electrical stimulation to present new ideas. The technique was similar to the old slip-frame technique of flashing a cup of soda for one frame into a movie theater full of thirsty people. But now, due to his innovation, Dr. Borin was able to flash ideas into his subjects’ brains at the exact moment they would be best absorbed.

  After a few more moments, Dr. Borin was done. He made sure everything was hooked up before nodding at Hanafi. They moved to each side of Darab and locked his arms in place. The doctor carefully applied multiple Skintact electrodes to Darab’s chest. The restraints around Darab’s arms could withstand quite a bit of force—but they were medical, not medieval. A dedicated-enough mind would be able to yank free of them. They’d had that problem numerous times with Abdel, but so far Darab had proved to be an easier subject.

  “Ready, Darab? The session will be three hours. Remember, you’ll hear a loud beep every fifteen minutes and then a long, extended chime at each hour.”

  “I’m more than ready,” Darab said.

  “You’re doing the hard work,” Hanafi said, “not the machine. You’re well on your way towards the infinite. We’re just helping you get there faster.”

  Dr. Borin reached up and slowly lowered the MRI over Darab’s head. The doctor stepped over to a computer and ran his custom software. A simulated voice spoke to Darab while Hanafi and Dr. Borin quietly left the room.

  “Hello Darab. Please say it with me three times,” the computerized voice began. “I will drive to . . .”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MAXIMILIAN BORIN WAS IN THE wild, but he was trapped. Two days prior, Dr. Borin had called his mother’s cell phone from a new number—one Jake and the joint task force had not known about. Within three minutes of Jake answering Maxine’s phone, Dr. Borin’s new phone had been turned off. However, three minutes was an eternity. The feds now had the coordinates for the doctor’s physical location, and thus Jake had become responsible for the biggest break in the case yet.

  Dr. Borin had returned to his apartment in Brooklyn late Monday night, and he’d been holed up in the small unit ever since. Susan and Pete Mack had decided, smartly, that Borin was worth much more to them if he didn’t know he’d been found. The owner of Borin’s building had been more than happy to help the feds enact their plan. The landlord allowed Dennis Fong and Shep Moseley access to the HVAC system in the basement of the building. The ultimate odd couple, Fong was a hulking man with zero-percent body fat, a shaved head, and a clipped, reserved personality. Moseley, on the other hand, was a social glad-hander who dressed in preppy corduroys and never combed his floppy hair. Moseley, as Mr. White’s second-in-command, was there to supervise while Fong actually did the work. In this case, it had only taken Fong thirty minutes to push a fiber-optic camera attached to the end of a thin remote-controlled plumbing snake up three stories of heating vents and position it to stare directly into Dr. Borin’s living room.

  ▪

  Jake, Tony, Fong and Moseley sat inside a large Con Edison van located a block away from Dr. Borin’s apartment. For the last few hours, they had been treated to the still-life reality show that was Dr. Borin’s life. He hadn’t even left the apartment for food. However, things were quickly becoming more interesting. As Tuesday afternoon arrived, it became clear that Borin was preparing to leave the apartment.

  The joint task force was ready for this eventuality. In fact, they were more than prepared. Tracking Dr. Borin was set to be one of the most impressive surveillance operations that the NYPD, in cooperation with the FBI, had ever conducted. There were fifty—yes, fifty—men and women operating in the streets around Borin’s apartment. Every single one of them was highly trained, meticulously costumed, and camouflaged—and they were all working together as one large amoeba. There were numerous ways to conduct a surveillance operation, but the most exhaustive and effective technique was waterfall surveillance. The basic concept of waterfall surveillance was that instead of rotating a handful of surveillance operators around a target, the team used so many agents that it would be extremely unlikely for the target to spot one repeated face during any twenty-four-hour period. The benefit of waterfall surveillance was that it was almost impossible to counter. The negative was the massive manpower and communication required. As a result, waterfall surveillance was only conducted by nation-states, and even then only on the highest priority cases.

  When Maximilian Borin exited his apartment and stepped onto the sidewalk, there were already ten sets of eyes on him. Practically every single person on Borin’s street was employed by a law enforcement organization. That’s what made waterfall surveillance so effective. Borin could spend valuable time and energy trying to figure out which one person, if anyone, was watching him while not realizing that the answer was everyone.

  When Dr. Borin turned the corner away from his block, he passed by a homeless man sitting on a stoop and warming his hands over a small camp stove. The man had strewn his belongings out on the stairs and had been there the entire night. He’d proudly collected about eighteen dollars. He was also an FBI agent. For every block that Borin would walk that day, no matter how far he traveled, he would be passed or followed by anywhere from one to five agents. Should Borin decide to board a bus, taxi, bike, scooter, or Uber, the team was ready. In addition to the fifty agents on foot, another thirty-five were spread out in twenty different vehicles within an eight-block radius—on mopeds, bikes, cars, and trucks.

  In the meantime, Jake and the others in the Con Edison van kept up the pace a few blocks behind Dr. Borin. They tracked him via reports, not visuals. Borin was walking through Brooklyn, heading north towards Queens. After about an hour, the team concluded that this wasn’t a simple jaunt to the grocery store. They were excited. Dr. Borin walked for about two more hours before finally reaching the northern section of Astoria and entering an area where the main artery consisted of Steinway Street. Finally, he began to slow. He seemed a bit more comfortable, perhaps having convinced himself that if he was being followed, he’d shaken everyone. He had not. After another few minutes of darting back and forth across Steinway, Dr. Borin stepped into a restaurant.

  Within fifteen seconds, a nondescript Honda Civic parked across the street from the restaurant. The car had blackened windows and shiny aftermarket rims. Everything about it fit right into the neighborhood, including the
man with slick gelled hair yelling into his cell phone and smoking a cigarette while frenetically tapping ash out of his rolled-down window. While the driver spoke, the woman next to him used her cell phone. She turned and asked her companion to smile for a photo, which he did begrudgingly.

  But instead of taking a photo of the man, the woman’s phone was trained on the restaurant across the street. Her high-resolution photographs were quickly routed to the entire joint task force, from Jake in the van to Susan, Pete Mack, and Mr. White at One Police Plaza. Within seconds, the entire team was focused on the next target of their investigation: Best Middle Eastern Diner.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MURAD AND OMER AMIN WEREN’T all that different from one another. Both wanted lives quite different from the ones they lived, and both had secrets. One of Murad’s secrets was cigarettes. He was a pious man in almost every aspect, but his sin was the cigarettes that he’d begun smoking when he was fourteen and never stopped.

  Murad’s sin, or what Hanafi would call haram, had a side effect—wandering. It was usually walking, but sometimes it was also joyriding in his father’s vans. It all came together to make Murad the eyes and ears of the neighborhood. When he wasn’t at the mosque, the dry-cleaning business, or Best Diner, Murad was wandering around Steinway. He liked to walk and smoke, hiding his cigarette behind his leg or simply throwing it to the ground if he spotted anyone who might disapprove.

  Murad enjoyed moving. It made him feel free. He liked to think he could keep going one day, never returning back to his normal surroundings, and end up somewhere other than where he was. He would daydream about this future version of his life, God willing. He would loosely strategize about how to get there. His thoughts always began with criticism of the disgusting regularity that surrounded him before morphing into an imaginative dream of the rich and sumptuous world he might soon occupy halfway across the globe. He would think of himself as a financier in Dubai or an arms dealer in Syria or the owner of an exotic-car dealership in London.