She looked at Nerd as if to say, ‘Does everything look okay?’
“You alright, Nerd? You look pretty banged up. What happened?”
The red-headed man, looking even whiter than usual, brought his gaze up to meet David’s. The familiar flamboyant cockiness was missing from his expression. “They...” His voice broke and he looked away. “They shot him, David,” he said in a low voice. “They shot him in cold blood.”
The words traveled down David's spine in twisting currents. “What? Who? Who shot who?”
“John. They shot John––and they took Brad.”
David slumped down on the edge of the desk in shock. What? His mind tried to wrap itself around the words, and a wave of nausea washed over him. “Who?”
“Terrorists,” said Nerd. “They broke into the truck and shot him.” He swallowed hard. “Twice. In the chest.”
David struggled to let the information sink in. “Why?” He shook his head. “And what happened to you? Did they hit you?”
Nerd nodded and wiped his eyes. “They gave me a message.” He looked up at David. “The only reason I’m alive is because they gave me a message.”
Cindy put the first-aid kit down and stood up. “They hit him over the head and left him in the truck. When we couldn’t reach the team, we called the police. They found Nerd in the truck with John. Brad was gone.”
David looked at Cindy, then back to Nerd. “Wh- what was the message?”
“They said in two days, Allah is going to give a gift to the people of the United States, and that their demands would soon follow.”
Two days? David’s head felt light. It was happening. It was really happening. There was a plot to kill the President, and terrorists were involved! Was it connected to the hazardous material? Were they going to make a bomb? He swallowed. “I don’t suppose they said what the gift was?”
“No,” said Cindy. “But we’re guessing they’ll want to use the station to broadcast their threats and propaganda.”
“Have you called Homeland Security?”
“I can’t say.”
David squinted at her. “Oh. Okay. I get it. You know, it was my team that got hit. I feel like I’m part of this.”
“We’ll tell you what we can. But for now, just hold tight.” She gave him a pat on the arm and walked over to another desk.
David crouched in front of Nerd. “Wow, this is totally crazy. Have you ever been involved in anything like this?”
“Truck operators don’t go to dangerous sites. They send reporters and cameramen to do stupid stuff. Smart people don’t do stupid stuff.”
“Where were you?”
“They hit us right before the art show. I was going to run switch for the art piece, not fight terrorists. And John...”
David had never seen Nerd so pitiful. Every word caused his lips to exaggerate. The incident had completely shattered his normal outgoing persona, exposing a vulnerability everyone knew he possessed. It was, after all, why everyone put up with his normally flippant personality.
“They had silencers, but the shots were still so loud. It was horrible. I thought I was dead.” His lip trembled. “They grabbed my hair and whispered in my ear. Real close. Then one of them hit me with his gun. That’s all I remember.”
David stood. “Nerd,” he said, carefully considering his words. “I know you’ve been through a lot this morning, and I completely understand if you say no. But do you think you could help me look up some information about the terrorists?”
Nerd looked at him blankly. “How would I do that? We don’t know who they are.”
“My son saw something this morning, and...” David stopped. “Can I tell you in private?”
Nerd looked to either side. “I guess.” He looked down at the wad of bloody bandages in the trash can, shook his head, and blinked up at David. “Let’s go down to my office.”
Chapter 13
Nerd’s office was the wire room in the basement, where every Ethernet cable in the building coiled down to its multiple main frames in less than fashionable green aluminum caging. Boxes of electronics filled every corner, and in the middle of the room five monitors sat atop a black work table, competing for space among a clutter of components and partially dissected gizmos.
Nerd opened a silver box and flicked some switches. “It’s safe down here,” he said, looking up. “We can talk freely. What were you saying about your son?”
“There’s an Arab guy who lives down the street from us.” David stepped into the caged area. “I’ve always been a little wary of him because he never responds when I smile and wave at him. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt, thinking maybe he was just an unfriendly guy, which is not a good trait for someone of Middle Eastern decent, what with all the hysteria about terrorism going on. Anyway, I just brushed it off. But this morning Ben said the guy had a handgun in the waist of his pants and two boxes of hazardous materials in the back of his van.”
Nerd’s eyes widened. “Whoa. Right down the street from you?”
David produced a wry expression and gave a nod.
“You must be freaking. I mean totally freaking.”
“I’m certainly not happy about it.”
“Where is this house?”
“At the end of my road.”
“Let’s take a look at the map.” Nerd switched on his monitor. “I know your town, what’s your address?”
“105 Birchwood.”
He typed in David’s address, zoomed in on his street, and tracked down to the Arab’s house.
David pointed. “That’s the one.”
Nerd called up the address, switched to another program, and entered the data. A record for the house popped up on the screen.
“Hamid Abdul-Jilal. Owner of the house for two years.” He cracked his fingers and called up another program. “Let’s see who this Hamid guy is.”
The name of the program was People Tracker. Nerd typed in the name and address. With a click, the screen loaded up a profile. In the upper left corner was the face of the Arab. The rest of the page contained information: schools attended, licenses acquired, history of residences.
“That is amazing. I have to say, Nerd, I’m impressed.”
“You should be, it took me two years to earn the credits to get this off a hacker buddy of mine.” He stopped and pointed a finger at David. “This is top secret stuff. You tell anyone and I swear I’ll erase your social security number.”
It was probably an empty threat, but David lifted his palms. “You have my word.”
Nerd tapped the keys in rapid succession. “This is a hacker resource that combines four government trackers into one WYSIWYG interface.”
“Wuzywig?”
“What you see is what you get.”
David furrowed his brow. His knowledge of computers could fit inside a package of chewing gum, with enough space left for ten sticks.
“You can find everything there is to know about someone, police reports, medical records, national security threat assessment, everything but personally protected records like financials and password protected web access.”
Do I have a page like this? David wondered. Could any hacker in the world dig up vital information about him? “Does everyone have one of these?”
“What? A record?”
“A page like this.”
“Yup. Everyone has a page. The more mistakes you make, the bigger your page.” He tabbed over to another copy of the program and clicked a bookmark. Nerd’s name appeared at the top of the screen, but there was no picture, and the information was limited to common knowledge: name, address, job... “Everything you do is a matter of record, when you get your tonsils removed, register a car, get a passport. Your entire life is recorded by the government, hospitals, schools, the military. All the personal records that were once kept in filing cabinets are now held in computers, so they can be transferred across the Internet from one institution to another. With the right access, you’d be amazed at what you
can find. And as you can see here,” he pointed, “it is possible to hide yourself in the system. But it takes a lot of work.”
“What does mine look like?”
Nerd brought up another window, his fingers moving like lightning as he typed. David’s picture appeared, and the screen filled with a sea of personal data. David scanned down to an entry for the Boston Public Library, which listed a book titled, The Heart of Fascism. He pointed. “I don’t remember taking that out.”
“The government keeps a list of books that fit a certain profile. If you borrow a book on the list, your name is flagged in their database. The more you do it, the more you rise up on their priority list.”
“How do you wipe your slate?”
“You want a clean record like mine?” Nerd chuckled. “Every piece of data on the list comes from a different source. The best way to have a clean record is to not get on the list in the first place. Once you get on it’s very hard to get off. But there are ways.”
“What ways?”
“You have to have connections. Some people spend their whole lives exploring the system, looking for loopholes. They’re the ones who can do it, the rest of us have to watch our step. The data stream is like Google, it never forgets. If your name ends up on a blog because of something stupid you did or said, it’s a matter of record on Google. Everyone who queries your name will get that information, whether you like it or not. And it doesn’t matter how old the information is. The most obvious way to get rid of it is to do lots of great things, which will bury the bad search data. The other way is to know someone at Google. In the case of your records, you have to know people.”
David’s brow furrowed. “Let’s get back to the Arab.”
With a couple of clicks the Arab was back up on the screen. His record was much smaller than David’s. Was someone helping him cover his tracks? The basic information was there: address, phone number, make and model of his car; but more sensitive information like medical records was missing.
“Why doesn’t he have any dental records and stuff like that?”
“Because this is a forgery.”
“Really. How do you know?”
“See this date?” Nerd pointed to the screen. “This is the earliest date on the record. That means, as far as the computer understands it, this guy didn’t exist before that date. And since I’m pretty sure he isn’t twelve years old, we have a pretty big red flag. This guy probably acquired a driver’s license with a falsified birth certificate, then used it to begin a new identity. That’s what I think.”
“Is there anything useful here?” David stared at the screen.
“Yep. He used this identity to go to Harvard, and according to this––he has a degree in chemistry.”
“–A terrorist with a degree in chemistry––that does not sound good.”
“And, he’s probably a professor there now. Look at this.”
An intercom on the wall crackled. “Nerd, you down there?”
Nerd ran over and pressed the red button on the white face. “Yep.”
“You need to get up here. And if you see Chance, tell him to come too.”
He pushed the button again. “Be right up.”
Chapter 14
David squeezed into the conference room and was immediately assaulted by a mixture of cologne and perfume competing with hot breath and furniture polish. The shades were drawn, the track lighting dimmed. A large screen TV sat staring blankly at the far end of the room. David glanced around, there were many faces he recognized. The general manger sat with the news director and assignment editor on either side of him; various department heads and legal staff stood behind them; and the six o’clock news anchors and lead reporters lined the left side of the table. But down the other side was a row of suits David didn’t recognize. Apparently everyone, who was anyone, had been called into the shade darkened room.
David and Nerd squeezed in behind the news anchors, and the general manager brought his hand up. The room fell quiet. Briefly he looked around. “I thank you all for coming. As most of you know, there was an incident with one of our news teams this morning. While reporting on the art show downtown, their truck was overtaken by an unidentified terrorist group.”
There was a murmur throughout the room.
“The producer for the team,” he spoke louder, “John Luntz, was pronounced dead at the scene, and Brad Knight was taken hostage. Now I know that many of you were close to John, and I realize this is hard, but we need all of you to stay focused on the tasks at hand. John was a great guy, and the best way we can honor his life, at this point, is to do our jobs and help get Brad back. And speaking of getting Brad back,” he indicated to the group on the right side of the table, “these men and woman are from the FBI. They will be setting up a command center on site to monitor events as they develop. They’re doing everything they can to find Brad. Work with them.”
He paused and looked pointedly around the room. “As you should already know, the station has been sealed. Anyone who does not work here, or who does not appear on this list,” he tapped a clipboard with his finger, “will not be allowed in. Got it? He put the board down and picked up a remote. “Now a few minutes ago, we received a video from a man who said he was given money to drop it on our doorstep. The label has computer generated Arabic writing.”
Another murmur filtered through the room.
“Naturally, we believe it is from the terrorists.” He motioned with his hand for quiet. “No one has viewed this tape. It could be anything. So if you’re squeamish, now is the time to step out.” He looked around the room. “Alright.” He pointed the remote at the TV.
Someone flicked off the lights.
A knot developed in David’s throat. Please don’t let it be dismemberment. Anything but dismemberment!
Brad Knight in an orange jumpsuit appeared on the screen, and a low gasp came from the assembled group. Brad was sitting in a chair in front of a black curtain. Duct tape covered his mouth and circled his ankles. They had all seen images of similarly clad news reporters in Iraq. They were aware of the be-headings, they’d seen the news clips. But it had never been this personal, never this close to home.
The shot had a surveillance quality to it. The camera was fixed.
Somewhere in the room a door opened and closed, and Brad’s eyes looked left. A figure came around him and crouched down. Dark eyes peered through a red and white patterned head covering. “You are now wondering, are you not, Kafirs?” He spoke in a milky baritone with an Arab accent. “You are wondering if terror has come to your streets? And what this will mean to your precious freedoms? Will you stay in your homes for fear of the judgment, or will you go spend your money and meet the wrath of Allah where you purchase your sins? Be not deceived. The Great Satan is being judged. Those who respect earthly ties and comforts, profits and pleasures, more than Allah and his prophet, will be cut down by his sword. There is no safety from the wrath of Allah. No corner where you can hide, you lovers of the Zionists. You will know fear.”
He shifted his weight. “I address you at News Channel Seven. I want the message you just heard put on your six o’clock news program. If you fail to broadcast it, we will execute your reporter.” He paused, his dark eyes bore into the camera lens. “There will be no negotiation. We will give you three messages. If you air them, your reporter will live.” He stood and disappeared behind the camera. There was a shudder in the image, and the screen went black. The impression of Brad’s pleading eyes burned into David’s memory.
The lights came up to show everyone in stunned silence.
The general manager spoke. “I know that was hard to watch. It isn’t easy seeing someone you care about in a life threatening position, but you need to focus on the tasks at hand. This day is going to be tough on all of us, but this is the business we’re in. It’s our job to get close to the action, and sometimes we pay a high price for being so close. So now is your opportunity to prove you have what it takes to make it in network ne
ws. I’m not telling you to go out and get yourselves killed. I’m saying turn over some rocks, get on the phones, follow up some leads. –But leave the ground investigation to law enforcement. Your job is to report the story. Their job is to nail these Cretins. Got it?”
He looked over at Karen Watson, an attractive dark-haired Spanish woman. Next to Brad, she was the best field reporter at the station. “Karen, I want you to go through Brad’s files and see what you can come up with. He was working on an Arab money laundering piece.”
“Mosques and Money,” she said.
“Yes. Find out if there’s a connection. There’s more to this story than a mere kidnapping. Something big is brewing.” He stabbed a finger at her. “And pass everything on to the FBI. Remember, this is a team effort.”
She scribbled on a yellow pad. “Yes, sir.”
“I want this clip run in the first block of the six o’clock newscast. Dawn, call Brad’s family and let them know ahead of time. I don’t want the broadcast being the first they hear about this.”
“Will do.”
He turned to the news director. “Any thoughts, Jim?”
“We need to make the story more than just a hostage piece,” Jim responded. “People are going to want to know how this ties into national security and the border.” He looked at Cindy Coulter. “When you write the copy, add in room for some street interviews. We’ll get a crew downtown to grab some live reactions.”
She nodded.
The general manager gave a glance to the news director. “Thank you, Jim.” He looked around the room. “I’m now going to turn the meeting over to Agent Paul Cooper of the FBI.”
The man’s jet black hair was tight on the sides, and his strong tan features held an unmistakable confidence. “First,” he said in a deep gravelly voice, “I want you all to know that we have been following this terrorist cell for some time. We believe this group is responsible for a recent theft of radioactive material, and we have strong evidence to conclude that they are planning to detonate a dirty bomb in a major city. Our sources say it will be New York, but new leads indicate that it very well may be Boston.”
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