Soft Target

by Rachel Brune

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah, something they were putting together to run on some Hezbollah music television program. Looked like gangbangers with gold chains, rapping about killing infidels. Weird shit.”

  “So where do you guys come in?”

  “We—take all this information, sift through it, try to see where it’s leading.”

  “For instance?”

  “For instance—shit.” Kyle’s pretzel mustard was now decorating his tie. He dabbed at it ineffectually, then flipped the tie over his shoulder. “For this past mission, we put together certain e-mail traffic, plus some public statements—you know, posts in a couple of the jihadist Web sites, plus some information from your old guys at the OCCB about some potential weapons trafficking. Add that together, and it made a pretty good certainty for the first stages of some terrorists doing stupid shit.”

  Scott shook his head. He wiped the remains of his lunch off his fingers with a napkin, balled it up and tossed it in the trash. “Kyle, I gotta be honest with you. I don’t understand what I’m still doing here. I screwed up, and I did it big time. I tried to get Morris to release me back to OCCB, but for some reason, she wouldn’t let me go.”

  Mabry rubbed his hands over his face. “I’ve been volunteering for every tour coming down the pike, but nobody’s biting.”

  MacAllister frowned. “I thought you just picked up a command?”

  “Yeah,” said Scott. “Did my change of command a couple months ago. But they’re not due on deployment rotation for another year.”

  MacAllister leaned his elbows up against the railing. “Listen man, you been out there in the wild a while. It was bound to catch up to you.”

  “Nah …”

  “Shut up and listen to me, man.” He shook his head, looked Mabry in the eye. “It was the same when I got back. You’re burnt out. You need a break. You’re still a good officer, and you have the analytical experience. You can think, and you’ve seen these patterns. Take a couple months, work with me, and when you’re ready we’ll get you back up to tactical.”

  “I just—”

  “I know. You spent what—two deployments? Three? You’re out there, busting in doors, leading your troops, you get back and all of a sudden you’re off your game. You’ve got too much going on. You’re making stupid mistakes and doubting yourself. It’s bullshit.”

  “What’s bullshit?”

  “You’re not Superman. The excitement of being back is wearing off. You’re wondering what’s going on back in country. You miss that adrenaline, you miss that extreme importance of every single moment you’re alive. I’ve been there. Hell, most of us on the team have been there. It’s going to take a while to stop wanting to go back. In the meantime, concentrate on what we have here. You’re lucky. You get to come back and keep fighting. Half the people in my unit came back to work at a desk at some corporate hellhole. Hell, my first sergeant is back managing a McDonalds over by NYU.”

  Mabry shrugged. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Yeah, okay? I’m right. You know it. Come back to the office. Sit down. Take a look at what we got. Let me know what you think. And after work, we’ll find some dirty bar, grab a beer, and tell war stories till they kick us out.”

  The accommodations in the Analysis/Threats office consisted of four crappy desks and five chairs of varying origin and color, all of which were occupied. Kyle pulled out a folding chair from behind the door and handed it to Scott.

  “Here you go.” He pointed to one of the desks where a woman dressed in slacks and a button-up blouse had neatly stacked piles of paper around a laptop, taking up exactly half of the desk. He pointed to a series of overflowing boxes, then pulled a series of folders from a filing cabinet and handed them to Scott. “Take a look at these. These are some recently completed analyses. You can catch the gist of the format, and Gina there can show you the database on the computer. We’re a little short, you’ll have to share. We do a lot of stuff on hard copy. You’ll find we’re pretty much visual thinkers here. It’s hard to see connections on a tiny screen. Okay, I gotta go, I got a meeting.

  “Gina? He’s all yours.”

  Gina looked up, not unfriendly, just busy. “Have a seat. Take a look at the I&Ws Kyle gave you. Ask me questions when you’re done.” She returned to her keyboard.

  “I&Ws?”

  “Intentions & Warning Estimates.” Her voice was impatient but she kept her face bland.

  “Ah.” Scott sighed, opened the folding chair, and sat down at his half of the desk. He opened the first folder.

  The first analysis was coded with a title that took Scott a minute to puzzle out. He figured AQ—BKYN meant Al Qaeda, Brooklyn, but what 5492 meant, he couldn’t figure. He skipped down to the brief synopsis. Apparently, the analyst had found that the information making up the meat of the analysis had equated to nothing more than wishful thinking by an angry unemployed man who had seen too many action movies. He flipped through, skimming each of the subheadings. The estimate consisted of three sections, the TAPIS, or Terrorist Attack Pre-incident Indicators, and the supporting information such as Web posts or e-mail traffic, a series of hypothetical courses of action, and the analyst’s conclusion.

  Three hours later, Scott looked up. The office was empty except for Gina, still inputting data on her computer.

  “Where is everyone?”

  Gina looked at her watch. “It’s after five. Most people don’t stick around. You’re off the clock, you know. No overtime.”

  “Ah.” Scott closed his file.

  “Interesting reading?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Those are just some of the dead leads. Tomorrow, we’ll start you working on some live ones of your own.”

  “Uh huh.” Scott rubbed his eyes, drank some cold coffee from the cup he had filled after his second or third folder. “I have a question.”

  Gina tapped a few more keys, saved her work, shut down her computer. “Shoot.”

  “This information you’re getting in here, I noticed it’s mostly Web traffic.”

  “Yeah, that’s what we get from the other alphabets. They get something that pings NYC, they send it to us and we get to wade through it.”

  “What about any kind of PIO?”

  “PIO?”

  “Yeah, you know, street work. CIs?”

  Gina shook her head, laughing. “Nah, we’re strictly analysts up here. We don’t run anyone, we don’t get our own stuff. Trust me, I’ve tried. We get to look at old news and figure out if it’s too late to do something about it.”

  “Huh.”

  Gina closed the top of her laptop. “Don’t worry, champ. What we do is still important. At least Kyle gets to sit in a meeting every once in a while and keep someone briefed. Anyway, I’m out of here. You leaving?”

  “Yeah. I’m done.” Scott drained his coffee, arranged his papers, and followed his new coworker out into the cool fall evening.

  The digital clock had barely hit nine, but Scott was already in bed. Dinner had consisted of takeout Indian food that was better than he thought it would be, washed down by four or five beers.

  His cell phone rang. It rang several times.

  “Mabry.”

  “Hi, this is Mark Granger.”

  Click. Dial tone.

  The phone rang again.

  “Yeah?”

  “Um, Mr. Mabry? This is Mark Granger. I was wondering if I could ask—”

  “Call this number again—I’ll kill you.”

  Click. Dial tone. Mark thought about dialing Mabry’s number again, then decided that perhaps another method of getting in touch would be advisable.

  Chapter Six

  Morning came with a blood-red sky. Scott popped an energy shot and headed out the door. His run route took him down by the river and he began with a slow jog. He dodged early morning dog walkers and other joggers, some with strollers, some with Blackberries, and picked up his pace. He ran without an iPod, choosing to let his body set its own
rhythm.

  Reaching the thirty-minute mark, Scott slowed to a jog, then to a walk. Bouncing on his toes to maintain his blood pressure, he began alternating pushups, sit-ups, shadow boxing. He completed about two minutes of each then began again. Pushing himself, he felt his breath coming harder. He coughed, hacking phlegm out of lungs more used to a morning cigarette than a morning jog.

  It had taken every ounce of willpower to push himself out of bed, but if he was heading for a desk job, slacking on his morning workout was not a good idea. After about twenty minutes of circuits, he stopped and stretched thoroughly. There was lingering tightness in his thighs and calves, and across the top of his shoulders. He planned to pound that out with a good heavy bag workout in the evening, but for now he just stretched. On the run home, he alternated slow jogging with all-out sprinting, tiring himself to the point that climbing the stairs to his sixth-floor walk up felt like the road to perdition.

  Mark looked at his watch. It might be too early to call Mabry again. He was losing his nerve. He didn’t think the man would really kill him, just for calling, but he was uncertain enough to plan his next approach in a crowded area.

  The message blinked at him on the screen. It had popped up late last night, and Mark was still trying to come up with a good game plan. Excitement warred with apprehension, and inadequacy. If what was written there were true, this would be both the biggest break, and the most dangerous story to fall into his lap. The e-mail appeared to have been sent only to him, but he couldn’t be sure. He was torn between immediately bringing it to his producer to begin work and prevent himself from being scooped, and the desire to keep it to himself, to develop it and then to present the story. He desperately needed to avoid being told to ignore it in favor of something with flashier visuals and a more advertisement-worthy narrative.

  “Granger!”

  Taggert stuck his huge head out of his office and bellowed across the newsroom.

  “Granger! Get your ass to the Washington Park dog park. There’s been some sort of mad dog attack.”

  Granger stood up to see over the cubicle walls. “Dog attack?”

  “Yeah, get down there. I want bloody Fido on the ten o’clock spot!”

  Taggert disappeared back inside. Mark grabbed his jacket from the closet and his cameraman from the cafeteria, and headed out the door.

  “This city dog park is normally the scene of happy pooches getting to know one another.”

  Cut to B-roll of dogs running around, owners giving them treats.

  “But today, it was the scene of a vicious attack that left one animal and his owner in fear.”

  Cut to Park Avenue Princess, and his owner, Tiffany. Mark had bought the dog a hot dog, and it had ketchup smeared on its chin. From the right angle, it looked like something else.

  “I just don’t know what to say, this has always been a treat for me and Princess.” Expensive hair color, smudged mascara.

  Cut to: Owner hugs Chihuahua, smoothes his pretty pink dress and hair bow. “But today that vicious animal…” Trail off, tears.

  “Yes—today Princess, a valuable show dog, was attacked by one of his fellow canines. Officials caution all dog owners using this park to ensure that their dogs are leashed in accordance with the City ordinance.”

  Cut to Mark with a microphone in front of a uniformed park official. “Sir, do you think that there will be repercussions from this attack?”

  “Are you kidding me?” The official smirked. “Some bowser barks at that little bitch and she pees in that chick’s Gucci purse? Nah, there ain’t going to be any repercussions, except some spoiled brat needs a new Gucci purse. In fact, that’s all I’ve been hearing for the past hour. She won’t shut up about that—BEEP—purse.”

  “Yes, thank you. That was Miles Derek, city park official. And this is Mark Granger, reporting from the Washington Square dog park. Back to you.”

  Eddie flipped back to MTV as he heard Alan come back into the apartment. He was supposed to be watching the studio shows, but had grown bored and was watching the news. His notebook, upon which he was supposed to record certain observations, was suspiciously blank.

  “Hey man, how’d it go?”

  Alan shrugged. He pulled out the wad of cash in his pocket, peeled off a few bills, handed them to Eddie. “Is Dodger around?”

  “Nah, he went down to the corner, get a coupla beers.”

  “Good. Turn that off and come in here.”

  Eddie turned the television down and sauntered into the kitchen.

  “Yeah, man, what’s up?”

  Alan paused, listening to the scanner. There was a robbery in progress, but it wasn’t down at the corner. Dodger wasn’t doing anything stupid—at the moment.

  “All right.” Alan grabbed some leftovers from the refrigerator, picked up a fork that wasn’t too dirty and began to eat and talk. “I’m done with the narcotics. That’s run its course.”

  “So what you got now?”

  “You know all this research you been doing?”

  “Yeah, you want to call it that.”

  “Well, why you think I’ve been having you do it?”

  Eddie shrugged. “I dunno. You want it done; we do it.”

  Alan sighed. “When I showed up here, I told you, I had a plan.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, something that will put our mark out there. Something that won’t be ignored.”

  “Like a holy war?”

  “Yeah, like a holy war.”

  “Hey man, I been in a lot of wars. Turf wars, whatever. Holy war’s just another name for beating the shit outta someone that deserves it. You said you got a plan. So what’s next?”

  “What’s next is, we need more people. People who aren’t going to get noticed, who can go anywhere in the city and no one will pay any attention to them.”

  Eddie laughed. “You need my cuz, man, he rides a bike all over mid-town, goes into all kind of high-rise offices, places he couldn’t get into otherwise. Nobody notices.”

  Alan looked at him thoughtfully. “Would he be interested? We could pay him a share, but I need someone solid. Can’t have anyone that’s going to run to the cops as soon as they figure out what’s going on.”

  “Nah man, he’s good for it.” Eddie shrugged. “Did some time, he’s not going to run and squeal.”

  “All right, talk to him. See if you can get him to find one more person for us. That should be good.”

  “What about you? You got anyone?”

  “I do. But they’ll be coming in right before we head into the final stages.”

  “Whatever, man.”

  A loud noise from outside the door startled Eddie and sent him whirling around. Alan placed a hand on the weapon hidden in the small of his back.

  The door opened and Dodger stumbled in. He looked at the two men, staring at their serious expressions.

  “Yo, who died?”

  Alan shook his head. “Come in here.” He pulled out a map of New York. He had circled ten locations in red ink. They were randomly scattered throughout the boroughs.

  “These areas are ten twenty-four-hour delis, easily reachable by subway, each of which keep large amounts of cash late in the evening. You said you both had experience in this sort of thing?”

  Dodger and Eddie looked at each other and smiled.

  “Yeah,” said Dodger. “We’ve got experience.”

  * * *

  Nina had asked MacAllister to sit in on the interview, and he stood next to her as they observed the suspect in the next room. The feed from a hidden video camera projected onto a small screen in a central observation room.

  “I still don’t understand why I’m here,” said Kyle.

  “You see things other people don’t,” said Nina.

  Kyle refrained from mentioning the bruises around the subject’s neck, the ones that drifted lower.

  Nina sighed. “And because you speak near-perfect Arabic, and I don’t.”

  It was a sore point with he
r, that the Army had trained her to speak near-perfect Russian, and then assigned her to a unit deploying to the Middle East.

  “How’s everything going with the new addition to your team?” she asked.

  “You mean Scott?” asked Kyle.

  “Yes,” said Nina. A message buzzed on her phone. She looked at it quickly, turned the phone off and put it back in her pocket.

  “He’s still angry,” said Kyle. “Angry and not readjusting well. I know the feeling.”

  “Me too, but I hope he gets over it,” said Nina. “Crap. That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”

  “No problem, I won’t squeal.”

  Nina took a long look at him, a tall, weathered man who kept himself in good shape even when he was shuffling paperwork instead of fighting bad guys. “I appreciate that.”

  The moment passed.

  “You ready to talk to this guy?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Kyle. “My skills are a bit rusty. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.” Nina finished the last of the coffee she held in her hand. “Let’s do it.”

  The inside of the interrogation room, or interview room as the officers preferred to call it, was carpeted, and contained three padded chairs around a round table. The room was as comfortable as the NYPD could make it on an overly-stretched budget.

  Nina and Kyle entered the room. The subject looked up. Nina carried a folder and seated herself at the table. Kyle pulled a chair a short distance away from the table and sat down, arms folded.

  “Mr. Geahry? Am I pronouncing that correctly?” asked Nina.

  The man didn’t answer. Kyle repeated the question in Arabic. He started, then stared at Kyle. Finally, he nodded.

  “I’m Nina Morris, with the Joint Terrorism Task Force.” Nina opened the folder, waiting for Kyle to translate. She flipped through pages, keeping them just out of the man’s line of sight. “It says here you were read your Miranda rights at the scene?”