He went back to Amanda’s profile and scanned through more of her posts. He read stories about her old life, looked at pictures of her friends and family. He got an idea for who she was. It made him wonder more and more about this girl. It made him want to meet her in person sometime.
While he was stalking her profile, a message indicator popped up on the screen. It was CamaroChick19. What a coincidence. He opened the message.
“OMG. Glad to hear from you. I was worried. Sorry to hear about your loss.”
Victor didn’t want to tip his hand too much. He didn’t want CamaroChick19 to know he knew her real identity. Still, he couldn’t resist a little testing of the waters. A little toying with her.
“I appreciate your thoughts. You know how it is.”
He eagerly waited for her reply. Would she acknowledge the loss of her mother? Would she flip out thinking he knew who she really was? How would she react?
“Yes, we all know how it is. Every one of us is touched by death at some point in our life.”
She didn’t take the bait, only replying with some generic placating remark. It could mean anything.
“Thanks for talking me out of the knockout game. It would have been a bad idea. You were right.”
He needed to engage her. He didn’t want her to dwell on whether he’d figured out her identity or not. He didn’t want her to think he was toying with her and possibly cut off communication. He wanted this to continue. He needed this to continue. This single interaction, this single thread, represented all he knew of normalcy. It was stirring new emotions in him. He knew nothing of girls and relationships, but this intimacy made him feel like he had someone on his team for the very first time in his life.
“I’m glad you didn’t do it too. I’m trying to save you for bigger and better things.”
Victor had no way of knowing how accurate the statement was.
“Like what?” he asked.
“Like making the next big viral video, of course.”
Victor had nearly forgotten just a few short days ago that was his only goal in life. Now he thought about the legal charges hanging over him and the dead body in the freezer. All of it made the idea of viral video fame seem very far away.
There was probably no avenue left for him to achieve that now. There was no way he could show his face on the internet after the police figured out what he’d done here. He would have to go on the run and try to create a new identity. It took money to do that.
If he couldn’t run, he would fight back. It had worked with Stanley. Perhaps it would work with the rest of the world.
“Can I get back to you tomorrow?” CamaroChick19 asked. “I have some family business going on today and can’t be online very long.”
“Sure,” Victor replied. “Just message me whenever.”
29
For several days, Mohammed had been losing his shit over not being able to get a response out of DeathMerchant6o6o6. Now that they had reestablished communication, he felt a little better. He feared DeathMerchant had gone ahead with doing that stupid knockout game to get revenge on his boss.
While Mohammed could understand the man wanting revenge against someone he felt had wronged him, it was small potatoes compared to what Mohammed and his brothers had in mind for the man. He needed to preserve him for slaughter at a larger feast. Revenge was the consolation of one angry man. What Mohammed had in mind was consolation to entire nations of angry Muslims who felt Western culture was being shoved down their throat.
Fortunately for Mohammed, the leadership was excited about his impending action in Frankfurt. As Miran promised, a man showed up at their apartment the day after they were last summoned by the elders. Mohammed gave him a list of the things he needed, including everything from the vehicle, the munitions, the technology needs, and human assets.
Planning the Frankfurt flashmob took very little effort because Mohammed already had all of the fake social media accounts he needed to distribute the invitations. He also knew how he was going to pull it off down to the smallest detail. The only loose ends in his life circled around DeathMerchant6o6o6 and whether he was going to perform as expected when they tried this same action in America.
Mohammed couldn’t worry about that today. He had bigger stakes to be concerned about. At that very moment, a black Mercedes van was being stolen from an impound lot outside of the city. The man who stole it was to deliver it to a secluded spot in the countryside. There it would be loaded with wrapped gifts and a new driver would get behind the wheel.
The new driver was a fellow Syrian who had just come into the country in the past few days. He had no documentation and was in no way known to the German government. Even if his picture was plastered across every television and computer screen in Europe his was not going to be a face anyone recognized. He came from a remote village with no power and no internet. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, he’d never been photographed before in his entire life. He was as close to untraceable as anyone could be.
When the driver was behind the wheel of the van and on the way back to the city, Mohammed received a text message notifying him to be on a nearby street corner in five minutes.
“Come on!” he instructed Khebat. “It’s time.”
The two men slung travelling backpacks over their shoulders and left the apartment. They walked quickly to a nearby corner where they waited less than one minute before a van stopped for them. It was the same van used to transport them from the mosque to the abandoned warehouse. Although several of the same brutish faces were onboard, Mohammed and his roommate would not be blindfolded and bound this time. They were the stars of this show.
They tossed their bags inside and took seats against the wall of the van.
“Do you have our gear?” Mohammed asked.
“Everything you asked for is in here,” a man replied as the van merged back into traffic. Mohammed had carelessly asked the man’s name once before and been ignored. It was apparently part of the compartmentalization of information. There would be no names.
A briefcase was extended toward Mohammed. He opened it and fished out two laptops and two cell phones. Mohammed studied the phones.
“Are they activated?” he asked.
“Less than five minutes ago,” the man replied, sliding into the passenger seat of the van.
Mohammed and Khebat would run this operation while driving around the city. In the case anyone somehow had the technology to retroactively triangulate the location from which the flashmob instructions were sent, there would not be a single location but many throughout the city. By that time, all the devices used would be destroyed.
“Send the reminder,” Mohammed told Khebat. “Time, place, the song that will act as trigger, and what to do when they hear it.”
“On it,” Khebat said, opening the laptop and powering it up.
Mohammed powered up the two phones and began sending out the same reminders through a variety of fake social media accounts.
“There are responses,” Khebat said. “People are also sharing the information. Apparently people find the idea of participating in a random act of kindness to be inviting.”
“We’ll see if they feel the same tomorrow,” Mohammed said.
“The driver is thirty minutes from the destination,” the man in the passenger seat said, reading a message from his own phone.
“Good,” Mohammed said. “Remind him to drive very carefully and to notify us when he is parked on the square.”
The man did as Mohammed asked.
Their own driver continued a random path in and around the city while Mohammed and Khebat each worked their way through a list of prearranged tasks. They used dozens of social media accounts, posting to them through anonymous web browsers and anonymous servers. Despite the discomfort of being jostled around on the floor of the windowless van, the time flew quickly.
“The driver is pulling up to the square now,” the passenger said.
Mohammed nervously glanced at t
he time display on his laptop. He had no idea they’d reached zero hour. This was it. It was too late for any more postings or messages. All that was left was the action.
Mohammed opened a video window on his screen. The van was outfitted with two cameras. One was streaming to his laptop, the other to Khebat’s. Both laptops were recording the video for later distribution. For recruitment. For taking credit.
“Tell him to roll down his windows and play the song,” Mohammed instructed.
The man sent the message. “What is the song, just out of curiosity?” he asked.
Mohammed smiled. “The Beatles. With a Little Help From My Friends.”
The man frowned. “I don’t know it.”
Mohammed shrugged. “Some will find a cruel irony in it. It will deepen the pain.”
“Then it is a good choice,” the man agreed.
“Ask him if people are coming toward him,” Mohammed asked.
The man sent a message. “They are gathering outside of his vehicle,” he announced after receiving a response.
“Instruct him to open the side door and start handing out the gifts.”
As the Syrian driver slid open the door of the stolen van, both Mohammed and Khebat’s video windows filled with the anxious faces of people excited to participate in a random act of kindness.
Mohammed made an exclamation of shock. He could not believe so many people had shown up. It was beyond his wildest expectations.
“How many gifts are there?” Khebat asked.
“Twenty-four,” Mohammed replied.
The cameras were both inside the van streaming an image through the open door. They could see the driver smiling as he handed gift-wrapped packages to expectant hands. When he’d handed out all of the packages, there were still more outstretched hands. The Syrian shrugged apologetically. He said nothing. He didn’t speak nor even understand their language.
The driver quickly disappeared into the crowd and left the scene, leaving the van with its open door and streaming cameras still in place. On their screens, Mohammed and Khebat saw the throng of disappointed participants who hadn’t received gifts wander off empty-handed. As they cleared out of the way, the men could see further into the square where those who had received gifts were gathered into a circle.
“What happens now?” the man in the passenger seat asked. He’d moved to the back of the van and was staring over Mohammed’s shoulder at the streaming video.
Mohammed frowned at the man’s proximity, his stale breath blossoming right into his face. “They remain in a circle until the first song ends. During that time they are supposed to pick out someone in the crowd who is deserving of their gift. Deserving of a random act of kindness. When the second song starts, they are given thirty seconds to deliver the gift to its recipient.”
“Why thirty seconds?” the man asked nearly in Mohammed’s ear.
“Because at forty-five seconds into the second song, all devices detonate simultaneously,” Mohammed replied.
The audio feed from the cameras detected the fading of the first song. Mohammed’s heart raced until he felt it would punch its way out of his chest. He’d listened to this song over and over. He knew exactly where it would be at thirty seconds and then again at forty-five. On his feed, he watched the circle of gift-givers dissipate, eagerly rushing to the folks they felt were deserving of a gift.
A woman in a business suit smiled as she gave her gift to a disheveled, likely homeless man. A young man in a jogging suit and athletic shoes gave a gift to a city worker emptying trash cans. A young mother and her daughter gave a gift to an elderly lady. On and on it went until all twenty-four gifts were distributed. Everyone had met the thirty second obligation.
Mohammed’s heart was racing in his ear. He felt unable to breathe, so heavy was the weight of anticipation. “How far are we from the square?”
The driver of his van replied, “Less than a mile away.”
“Pull over!” Mohammed ordered. “Lower your window!”
The driver did as he was told.
“Why?” Khebat asked.
Mohammed did not even have time to answer before the devices began exploding. The synchronization was not perfect and there was some chaos as people figured out it was the gifts that were exploding. Some recipients who hadn’t yet opened theirs began throwing them, trying to get away from them, but there was no escape.
“I can hear it!” the driver said.
Mohammed heard it too. While he’d expected they may lose the video feed, they did not. They were able to record every moment of the chaos until the last bomb detonated. There were screams and crying, sirens began to wail.
“Did you get enough video?” the man from the passenger seat asked, returning to the front of the van.
“I think so,” Mohammed said. “Miran should be pleased.”
The man pulled out a mobile phone and sent a text message. The streaming image on the two laptops went blank. Mohammed and Khebat immediately went to work saving the video files and uploading them to cloud-based storage.
“You blew the van?” Mohammed asked when he was done with the file.
The passenger nodded. “It was a little touch Miran added.”
Mohammed understood Miran had more experience at this. He’d survived a long time by not missing details such as that.
“Are you done with those laptops and phones?” the passenger asked.
“Yes,” Mohammed replied.
“Put it all back in the bag,” the man said. “I will dispose of it.”
“Where do we go from here?” Khebat asked. His voice betrayed the fear they would be taken care of as a loose end, just like the van at the square and the bag with the phones and laptops.
“America,” the man replied. “My job is to get you to the Stuttgart Airport. You will board a flight to Cancun. From there, you will be placed aboard a container ship that will deliver you to the Port of Mobile in the American state of Alabama.”
Mohammed felt the operation was a success and hoped that bought them some time. It was difficult to predict the actions their leadership would take. Sometimes they responded in an unpredictable and final manner. One never knew. They could just as easily reach Mexico and find their leadership had arranged for a drug cartel to kill them and dispose of their bodies.
“Before I leave the country I need to message my American friend,” Mohammed said. “I don’t know if my phone will work internationally.”
“Then do it,” the passenger said.
Mohammed opened the messaging app and composed a quick message to DeathMerchant6o6o6.
“Family emergency. Have to go out of town. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can.”
30
The rush of adrenaline had obviously exhausted Victor because he fell asleep soon after getting Stanley’s phone set up and messaging CamaroChick19. Around dark he woke up in Stanley’s recliner feeling extremely well-rested. In fact, he couldn’t remember sleeping that well in a long time.
He stood and stretched. Despite the relaxation a good nap brought, he was aware he was naked in a strange house with no dry clothes to wear, no money, and no plan. He also needed to do something about his mother. She talked to Stanley every day, usually several times. She would be expecting to hear from him. She was probably sitting at the kitchen table right now with a cigarette and a cup of Sanka waiting on the call.
He didn’t know what to do. If he called her on behalf of Stanley, she might ask to speak to him and then Victor would have to lie. She might detect the lie and come over. Maybe what he needed to do was text her something from Stanley’s phone. Maybe that would put her mind at ease for one more day.
Victor whipped out a quick text, his naked bulk luminous in the glare of the screen:
Stanley: It’s been a long day trying to whip this shit bird into shape but I think we’re making progress. Probably best you give us a few days to work this out. If he sees you I’m afraid he’ll come sniveling at your ankles like a little bit
ch and we’ll lose what progress we’ve made. I’m hoping in a couple of days I can graduate the little booger-eater from man school and send him home with his first set of training testicles.
Victor laughed hard and long at his impression of Stanley. Clara responded before his eyes even quit watering.
Clara: Whatever you think is best, Stanley.
Victor scrolled back through Stanley’s texts, looking for some indication of any pet names or endearments they used with each other, something that would assure Clara it was Stanley on the other end of the communication. He found what he was looking for, though it nearly made him throw up in his mouth.
Stanley: It is for the best. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, my little butter biscuit.
While Victor had the phone open, he checked the social media apps to see if he had any messages. CamaroChick19 had sent him another message while he was asleep. He hoped she wouldn’t be out of touch for very long. He’d come to look forward to her messages. Maybe it was related to the death in her family?
Victor put the phone back on the counter. He looked around the darkening house and realized he had immediate needs that needed taking care of. He needed to find some clothes that fit and he needed to find some money. Surely an old crow like Stanley would have some cash hidden around the house.
There was a narrow hallway leading from the living room into the bowels of the house and it was logical Stanley’s bedroom was down that way. He flipped on a switch and found himself venturing down a gauntlet of portraits. There was Stanley and his wife, their dog, and all possible combinations of the three of them. Some of the pictures had Stanley in a leisure suit and others had him with dark hair. It was a lifetime being played out in reverse. There were also pictures of a young, stout Stanley in his navy uniform with a woman who must have been his wife. Others were taken on the deck of various ships and in ports around the world.
There were three rooms off the hallway. One was a bathroom surprisingly similar to his mother’s bathroom at home. There were fuzzy rugs, fuzzy toilet tank covers, and fuzzy Kleenex box covers. No wonder Stanley liked Clara, they had the same taste in bathrooms.
Random Acts Page 18