by Rich Foster
“Don’t move,” the guard snapped.
Shocked and not thinking clearly, Nadim tried to stand up. The second guard brought his club across the back of Nadim’s other thigh. He lay sprawled face down, against the cool concrete floor, his body shook with pain. The gleam on the guards boot was ebony black and three inches from his face.
“Do not move unless you are ordered to. Do not think. Do only what you are told to do and nothing more. Now stand up.”
The guard’s voice lacked all emotion. It seemed to Nadim that the man was indifferent as to whether he struck him or not. He lay still looking at the glossy shoe.
“Stand up.”
Nadim pushed himself up to his knees. His rubbery legs shook. He found it difficult to stay balanced.
A black bag was put over his head.
“Walk.”
Nadim shuffled forward. Hands on his elbow guided him through halls and turns. They went up on an elevator and then down. How many floors Nadim could not tell. He heard voices that echoed down the halls. He heard other prisoners, buzzers, steel bars clanging.
“Stop.”
Nadim possessed no idea where he was. He stood still, waiting. A door opened with the clatter of steel on steel.
“Two steps forward.”
He took two steps and stopped. His legs ached, the muscles yet spongy. Behind him, a door closed. Curiously silence encompassed them, the sounds of the prison were cut off.
From the control room Eddie Ames watched the guards walk the prisoner down the corridor of D Block. Eddie pushed a button, the third door on the left swung open.
On the monitor, Nadim entered the cell. The guards removed his handcuffs and shackles. They left the black sack on his head. They left the cell. The door clanged shut.
Eddie spoke into a microphone. “You can remove the sack.”
Nadim tentatively pulled off the black bag and saw what was to be his entire world for at least the next thirty years, a sink, corner shower, writing desk and metal cot hanging from the wall. On the thin mattress were two sheets and one blanket. Beside them lay a paperback manual entitled,
Admission and Orientation
Department of Justice
Federal Bureau of Prisons
United State Penitentiary
Administrative Maximum Prison Praxis
Next to this a cardboard file box held his worldly possessions. A few snapshots of his dead parents, a prayer rug, and a federal prison issued copy of the Koran.
Nadim’s legs failed him, he folded onto the cot and silently wept.
*
That night, after the kids were tucked into bed, and his wife dozed in front of the television, Eddie turned on his computer and got on line.
At the prison they were only numbers but on Wikipedia they had names. Abdul-Alim Khalili, known to Eddie as #52718-039, was the failed bomber of an airplane landing in Salt Lake City. His attack came during a lull in the war on terror. People had become lax, almost indifferent to the warnings from the Department of Homeland Security. When Abdul’s bomb blew a hole in the side of a Global Airways jet, people paid attention. In national polls, all metrics for assertive action against terrorism rose in subsequent surveys. The increased use of backscatter x-ray to electronically strip search U.S. citizens barely caused a ripple of complaint.
Eddie skimmed the article. Abdul-Alim’s journey from the gritty streets of Karachi to the confines of Praxis was long. During an interview with a reporter from NPR, Abdul told of the madras school he attended, where he was recruited. The Imam told him that Allah had a great plan for him, if he would only join the Jihad. Soon, Abdul said, his school day ceased to focus on the rudiments of reading and writing; instead he began a course of hands-on-learning. In a basement room he learned how to make bombs from household products. He studied diagrams for simple fuses. And when his hands were not busy his mind was occupied by lessons about the sins of the Great Satan.
He boasted with pride about the first time his bomb was selected for use in jihad. The bomb tore through a Karachi street market. He told the reporter that it shamed him when only three people died, but at least one was a girl who was out in public without a hajab, evidently a harlot. Under Shiria law, all harlots deserved death.
“What you doing, babe?”
Lisa came up behind him and wrapped her arms around him.
“Just looking up these lunatics I watch at work. I never really thought about their past before.”
“It’s late, why don’t you come to bed?”
“In a little while.”
Lisa nuzzled his neck before giving him a quick kiss. “We could fool around?”
“Yea sure, in a little bit.” He was not really listening, he should have. A quickie and a good nights sleep would have left Eddie with a long life to enjoy. Instead he stayed up and read the histories of the men he guarded. His fingers danced across the keys entering a-half-dozen names like Zho Zhengzhong You, Edwin Alec Darwin, and others who were previously or currently interned on the political wing.
*
Deep under the Blue Ridge Mountains in a secure vault pulses the heart of CANNIBAL. It lives inside a computer system that dwarfs any system in the private sector. In fact it is capable of penetrating idling systems and borrowing their processing capacity, when it leaves and closes the door, no one could discern it was ever there. CANNIBAL’s computers consume data by the zettabytes and the yottabytes. Its tentacles are tied into satellite arrays, data centers, and telecommunication centers. If you have used a phone or a computer, your words have flowed through its systems.
CANNIBAL electronically watches the world for numerous stealth agencies of the government. It neither grows weary nor does it sleep. Upon request, CANNIBAL will watch data streams searching for arcane facts, tangential points of contact, anomalies or coincidences that would shock credulity. Feed in a matrix of conditions and CANNIBAL will search and wait until it finds a match. Feed in more parameters and it will learn to throw out some hits and pursue others. If they are looking for you, CANNIBAL will hunt you down.
During the night, among the billions of Internet searches that day, CANNIBAL detected, someone who had searched for at least six names that appeared on a matrix. This happened with regularity. Maybe it was a student doing an essay on spies. Perhaps it was someone who read a news story about a spy then searched for others. It might be the odd author doing research for a book. But this was different.
*
“We had a hit last night.” Clemson passed the terse summary across the desk to Van de Meer. “Someone ran six of the eight names on our list.”
Klaus arched his eyebrows, “I assume this was not some kid doing a term paper?”
“If it is, then he lives in Red Lake twelve miles from Praxis.”
Van de Meer scanned the summary. The names of Praxis’s more notorious inmates stood out on the paper. “Who is it, then?”
“The IP address belongs to Edward Ames. He’s a guard at the prison, been there two years.”
“What’s the profile say?”
“Federal Bureau of Prisons gives him a clean bill of health. Good job performance and no screw-ups. His credit sucks, though it is improving. Two years ago like any good American, he was buried in credit card debt. Since he started at the prison he’s been digging his way out slowly, very slowly! If someone is pushing cash his way it doesn’t show in his life style.”
“Stable?” asked Kurt.
“He’s got a wife and three kids. He’s a registered Democrat, but hasn’t bothered to vote the last two elections. No arrests, or he’d be out of Praxis. The guy likes to speed on his way to work, four tickets in two years. The scan on credit card purchase shows a guy who lives modestly, drinks a little and buys too much junk food.”
“So what was he looking for?”
“Maybe he’s just curious about his work?”
“After two years?”
“Wafi was just dropped off there, maybe it stirred the guy’s interest? Do y
ou want me to have Warden Hill pull him from D block?”
“No. Leave him in the rotation. If someone is pushing Ames or has him fishing I don’t want to tip our hand.”
Van de Meer lit a cigarette and studied the ceiling tiles for a minute. “Send someone out there. Nose around. You know the drill. Shake the tree and see what falls out.”
Chapter 10
Louis Speers was a lean man who tended toward the nondescript. Average in height. Medium complexion. Standard Caucasian features. A thick mustache and beard, but well trimmed. He was a man readily overlooked, and if noticed, more easily forgotten. The only oddity about him, if someone was able to detect it, was that the tips of each of his fingers were coated by silicon molded into a fingerprint pattern that was definitely not his own.
He stood at the bar in Marie’s, a restaurant that looked out over Red Lake. As he sipped his Budweiser, he easily passed for another working stiff stopping for a ‘quick one’ on his way home. Occasionally Speers tossed a couple nuts into his mouth while he waited. On the television a football game silently played itself out while Country Western music blared.
Speers hated Country Western for that matter he hated being in the countryside. He was more at ease in an urban environment. Too many open acres or wooded hillsides left him vaguely uneasy. Not that he was incapable of surviving in the woods, years before, the United States military trained him to survive anywhere. But he preferred working in cities.
Beyond the sliding glass doors a deck overlooked Red Lake. Its surface was covered by a rough, wind-driven, chop. Idly, he wondered what secrets lay beneath its surface. Whose missing spouse might be resting with the fish? What weapons of what crimes were discarded beneath the water? He knew that somewhere in its depths there was a submarine that went down during a training exercise during World War II, back when the Navy used the deep lake to train crews safe from spying eyes.
Speers ruminations were broken by the man who came in the door. Louis watched him in the bar’s mirror. As the man reached him Speers unexpectedly spun around. His arm holding the beer collided with the man. Beer spilled.
“Terribly sorry about that.” Speers splotched at the man’s uniform with a napkin. “Didn’t know you were there.”
“The other man was equally apologetic, wasn’t looking myself. I’m okay.”
“Well, let me at least buy you a drink.”
*
A week later a terse report lay on Van de Meer’s desk: “Subject: Edward Ames, Surveillance Summary: Made informal contact. Nothing in the conversation to indicate he has radical views. Questions about where he worked elicited only standard approved answers. No grudges, gripes or complaints mentioned. Conclusion: No risk at this time.”
Chapter 11
Winter settled itself on Red Lake. The water froze over by mid December. Iceboats darted across the lake like the sailboats did in summer. Snow piled up in great drifts along the road as the plows struggled to keep up. Somewhere there was global warming but not in Red Lake. They had record snowfalls.
Sheriff Gavin Gaines was in his late sixties. He was broad shouldered and fairly fit though his gut was given to bulging over the top of his gun belt. His head was covered by gray hair, cropped short. His only excess was a thick mustache, which he unconsciously stroked when lost in thought. He was the Canaan County Sheriff for more years than most people remembered.
As he eased the cruiser out onto the highway stray flakes blew through the air. Another front was moving in. Gaines cruised through town out toward the lake road. A quarter mile up the road under the light of a streetlamp he saw a pickup truck pull around the corner and onto the highway without slowing. People tended to roll though stop signs in the wintertime. It helped them maintain traction and momentum. Gaines would normally let it slide but the taillights took off rapidly ahead of him before disappearing around a curve.
Gaines spent little time writing tickets. There was plenty of paperwork on his desk. On the other hand, he’d seen too many bodies pulled from the wreckage of speeding cars. He pushed the accelerator toward the floor winding up the powerful engine. A few curves later her saw the same taillights ahead. On the straightaway he rapidly closed the gap. Two curves later he was able to see the shape of the pickup. Gaines reached over and flipped on the rack lights atop his squad car. The roadside lit up with flashing red and blue light. Almost immediately the pickup’s brake lights lit up, too.
When the driver rolled down his window, his license was already in hand.
“Shouldn’t hit the brakes when you’re speeding.” Gaines said as he looked over the license. “It tells me you know your going too fast.”
“Yeah. I was late. I was speeding. Can we do this quick so I’m no later than necessary?”
Gaines found such honesty refreshing but was not a man to be hurried.
“Well, we all have mornings like that Mister Ames.” Gaines said as he looked over the license. Noting the uniform, he added, “You work at the prison?”
“Yes, sir. And I’m going to be late for my shift.”
Gaines ignored the excuse. “Take it easy. I don’t want to be showing up at your house to tell your wife your dead.”
Eddie was about to roll up his window when he thought to ask, “How’d you know I was married?”
“The ring when you gave me your license.” Gaines said pointing to Eddie’s hand.
*
Eddie’s work rotation had him assigned to the medical unit. Aside from a mark in his record and fifteen minutes off the clock he felt he got off easy. Another ticket and he might lose his license, at best. No license and he might lose the job.
Mentally he chafed at the invisible chains that kept him punching a clock. He loved his family but the constant demand for money was a prison sentence with no parole. Doctors, clothes, school supplies, food, insurance. They never quit. The credit card bills never fully satiated. Whenever he was close to closing the balance something broke down of someone became sick. He dreamed of just getting ahead a little bit ahead. Perhaps with a promotion he could start to put a little aside or doing something extra for the family.
The Medical Unit was easy duty. There were staff people to chat to and the flow of inmates usually slow. The patients in the lock-down ward were mostly too sick to be a danger. Problems with inmates usually occurred on the way to or from the unit.
Time in the medical ward was a break from the monotony of prison life. There were seldom any incidents in the clinic. Which is not to say that inmates did not try to snatch drugs, scalpels or anything not nailed down in the hope of smuggling them back to their cell. However, after instituting a system requiring inmates to strip and put on a hospital gown before entering the clinic, thefts became virtually impossible.
Inmates entered the clinic from the changing room. Eddie walked them to an examining table were they were handcuffed to the table. When the doctor was done, they were either admitted to a bed where they were again cuffed or escorted out to the changing room.
The morning was unusually quiet. If tardiness was inevitable this was not a bad day for it to happen, Eddie thought. No inmates were waiting. The doctor was in his office to write up notes. On the ward, orderlies were occupied collecting meal trays.
Eddie took the opportunity of being alone to sit down at the computer. He hunt and pecked typed in “Edwin Alec Darwin’. The name came up. Eddie clicked on the file. Across the top it said ‘Deceased’ in red letters.
He scrolled down. The file held a photo, Darwin's date of birth and death, his Bureau of Prisons ID number and the cause of death, which was listed as heart failure. But what he found curious was that Darwin had never been to the infirmary, not once in twenty years. His file was empty!
Eddie quickly typed in Zhou Zhegzhong You. Again the only record was an intake physical, date of birth and BOP number.
He tried Abdul-Alim Khalili and found the same thing. Zilch. Nada. Nothing.
He was not sure what it meant. Perhaps they kept the records in
another file? That seemed unlikely. Could the government be withholding medical treatment from D block prisoners? Questions darted through his mind.
He returned the computer to the screen’s homepage.
Later he casually asked the doctor, “How often do you see inmates from D block.”
“Can’t think of any. At least not in the two years I’ve been under contract. We only see them if they complain. Kind of hard to get sick when you never have contact with anyone.”
Eddie smiled. “I should be so lucky. I catch every bug my kids bring home from school.”
All that day temptation nagged at Eddie. He thought how with a little bit of risk he might get ahead. On the drive home the idea became a plan.
After dinner he went down to his basement. At his workbench he mounted an old pair of standard issue work boots in the vice. He drilled out the instep side of the rubber heel. Into this hollow space he slipped a flash memory card.
Later after Lisa went to bed he went online and downloaded numerous pornographic files from the Internet. If he was caught at the prison with the contraband flash drive he could claim he was only hiding his pornographic proclivities from his wife and wore the wrong boots to work. It was unlikely he risked more than a reprimand.
As he hoped, nothing went wrong. The nails in the boot masked the metal in the flash drive; he walked in without any problem. When he left he carried copies of the D Block prisoners medical records with him. Something was amiss at the prison. Eddie hoped to make something of it. Visions of disposable cash danced in his head, perhaps a trip to Hawaii with Lisa or Disney World with the kids. It was impossible to get ahead. This might be his big chance.
Chapter 12
Calder Hill ruled ADX Praxis, the Warden was a large man with a surfeit of body hair except upon his head. He was big, brash and tough. Before becoming a warden, he walked the tier blocks of Federal prisons for twenty years as he came up through the ranks. He feared no one nor allowed anyone to intimidate him. The lone exception was Claus Van de Meer.