Soft Target

by Rachel Brune

  Silence.

  “No problem,” said Nina. “We’re just going to read them again for the record, to make sure you understand them. Just try to relax and if you have any questions, feel free to ask them. All right?”

  The man frowned, confused. The officers who had picked him up at the warehouse had not said a word to him other than reading him his rights. He somehow expected more.

  Nina smiled. The man was on his way to being off his guard. Experience taught fear shut people down, made them uncooperative. Physical abuse and intimidation were the easiest to resist, given the resulting sense of righteousness on the part of the detainee. Make them comfortable and treat them decently, and you instantly confused about ninety percent of all criminals.

  “As I read this, will you make sure he understands them, Mac?” asked Nina.

  “I understand English.” The man’s voice cracked.

  “Do you need a drink?” asked Nina. “Mac, will you get Mr. Geahry some water?”

  Kyle raised his eyebrow, but left the room. Nina waited while he was gone, her silence unnerving the man sitting across from her.

  When he returned, setting a plastic cup of water in front of Geahry, Nina read the man’s rights from a piece of paper, enunciating slowly and carefully. He followed her lip movement, sipping furtively from the glass.

  “Now that I’ve read you these rights, do you wish to speak with us?” asked Nina.

  The man looked from her to Kyle and back again. “Do you think I need a lawyer?” His words were slightly accented, but the accent was local.

  Nina shrugged. “I can’t really advise you on that.”

  “Look,” said Kyle, leaning forward in his chair. “Right now, this is just a formality. We’ve got you at the location; we’ve got a shitload of guns. If you want to lawyer up, that’s your right.”

  “I didn’t know those kids were there,” said Geahry.

  Nina shrugged. Kyle waited.

  “I’m not a terrorist.” Geahry started fiddling with his cup, bending the plastic until it formed a deep indentation. “That was just a favor for a friend.”

  “Some friend,” said Nina.

  Kyle shook his head. “Well, you’re here, twisting in the wind.”

  “Look, I said I’m not a terrorist,” said Geahry. “I’m from Brooklyn, for Chrissake.”

  Kyle and Nina looked at each other, then back at Geahry. Kyle covered his mouth, hiding a laugh.

  “This was just a business deal,” said Geahry.

  “With who?” asked Nina.

  Mark had been trying to get back to the office, but Taggert had called him on his cell, and e-mailed him an address upstate and strict instructions to come back with a story for the five o’clock news. His hopes that it would actually be a story he wanted to cover were dashed when a picture of a cauliflower resolved itself on his smartphone screen.

  “Seriously?” Mark controlled his voice very well, he thought. “This is a cauliflower. Who gives two shits about a cauliflower? What, are we trying to selling produce now?”

  “That’s not just any cauliflower—that’s a giant cauliflower that some farmer grew down the river from a nuclear power plant.” Taggert’s voice didn’t lose any of its overpowering miasma through the phone. “Just get your ass upstate.”

  “Come on, Taggert, didn’t you see the paper I left you on your desk?” Mark had decided to print out the e-mailed manifesto and leave it for his boss, in the hopes of being able to pursue the story with official sanction.

  “Yeah, I saw that shit.”

  “And what did you think?”

  “I thought it was bullshit. Some wannabe trying to get attention. When he starts blowing shit up, then you can go and cover it. Now get your ass in the van and go shoot the damn broccoli.”

  “Cauliflower.”

  “Cauliflower! GO!”

  Taggert parting directive rang in Mark’s ears as he got in the van. He started the vehicle and pointed it toward the George Washington Bridge. One deformed cauliflower, coming up.

  The elderly man on the television screen was in full rant, finger extended in the air, subtitles clicking away underneath, the musical inflections of his voice ranging up and down the scale. The NYCN logo framed the screen. The news commentator, a perky brunette, broke in mid-rant.

  “And that’s the latest message from Al Qaeda, delivered today to the Al Jazeerah network. And now, for something truly bizarre—a nuclear cauliflower. Mark?”

  The bartender uncapped a Corona, deftly inserted a lime wedge, and slid it over to her only customer.

  “Do you want me to put on the game?”

  “Nah, this is fine.” Mabry pushed the lime into the bottle, tipped back the beer, drank half of it in one swig. He felt for his pack of cigarettes, pulled one out.

  “Ah, shit.” He put the cigarette back. The ban on smoking in bars was something else that had cropped up while he was away on one of his deployments. “Sorry. I keep forgetting.”

  The bartender shrugged, took out her cigarette. “It’s a free country. Help yourself.”

  Scott lit her cigarette with his lighter, then lit his own and returned his attention to the screen. Work had been several hours of entering data from other analysts’ files. The theory was that he would learn the format and get a feel for the analysis by typing out other people’s work. It was a good theory, but it made for a frustrating day, and he had decided to skip the gym. His head ached from watching a computer screen for so long.

  The door opened, and the bartender stubbed out her cigarette and threw it in the sink.

  Scott briefly looked back, than did a double take. Mark Granger made his way gingerly to the bar.

  “I’ll have what he’s having, and another for my friend here.”

  “Your friend, huh?” The bartender looked amused, perhaps because Mark had taken a seat at the bar several places down from Scott. “Coming up.”

  “Forget it.” Scott held his hand up to stop her from serving him. “I’ll take care of my own drinks.”

  “No problem.”

  Scott took a final drag on his cigarette and looked around for someplace to stub it out. Mark accepted his beer from the bartender and eased down to sit next to Scott.

  “Mr. Mabry, I want to—”

  Mark watched in disbelief as Mabry deposited his cigarette butt in the beer he had just ordered. He looked at the beer, looked back at Scott, then decided to say nothing and instead gestured for another one.

  “Look, sir, Mr. Mabry, I’m sorry, can I call you Scott?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, look I realize we got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry for that.”

  “Can you turn this up?” Scott directed his question at the bartender. Granger’s own face filled the screen, cut to the giant cauliflower. “This is a really compelling story. Nuclear broccoli.”

  “It’s a cauliflower,” said Mark.

  “Whatever.”

  “Okay, so I understand why you’re mad.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, you’re mad because of my airplane stunt.”

  Scott chuckled. “Is that why I’m mad? Because I beat some punk up who was trying to sneak a knife on a plane. Kid, you’d have to get me on a really bad day for that to make me mad.”

  “Oh,” said Mark. “So, you’re mad about the other night?”

  Scott signaled for another beer and didn’t answer the question.

  “Okay, I’m sorry about that. I thought I was helping, you know, showing people that the NYPD were still heroes, protecting us from terrorism.”

  “Heroes? Damn it, I almost shot a kid.” Now, he was getting mad.

  “Yeah, but you didn’t. I thought I was helping you out, pushing that angle.”

  Scott finally turned to face Mark, who pushed his stool back from the intensity in the soldier’s face. “I screwed up. You made me out to be some hero. I don’t need that kind of help.”

  Mark was silent. Scott turned back to the bar, then ar
ound again.

  “What the hell are you doing here anyway?”

  Mark reached in his pocket. He pulled out two sheets of paper folded in quarters.

  “I received this yesterday.” He pushed the papers down the bar in front of Mabry. “Go ahead, take a look.”

  Scott pushed them back.

  “Come on, check it out.” Mark unfolded the paper and pushed it back in front of him. “Jeysh Muqadissi fi Amrik.”

  “What?” Startled, Scott looked down at the paper. “Jeysh Muq …”

  He pulled it closer, began to read. “Where did you get this?”

  “I told you, someone e-mailed it to me.”

  Scott read through the first page, turned it over, read the second. Mark watched him.

  “You know what the name means?”

  “Yeah. It means Holy Army in America.”

  “Holy Army?”

  “Or Sacred Army.” Scott raised an eyebrow. “Are you writing a story on this?”

  “I can’t yet.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?”

  “You ever heard of, ‘If it bleeds, it leads’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, well for my boss, there has to be gallons and buckets of bleeding before it gets close to airing.”

  Scott looked pointedly at the television screen.

  “There are exceptions for alleged nuclear fallout.” Mark edged closer. “Listen, I need to write this story. This is probably the first serious lead I’ve found since I’ve started this job, and I can’t let it go.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t see how I can help you there.”

  “It’s easy. You’re a terrorism expert, right?”

  Scott looked at him strangely. “Not really.”

  “But you work on the Joint Terrorism Task Force?”

  “Yeah, doesn’t make me an expert.”

  “Whatever, you work on the task force; you’re a war hero; you can be the angle I can work here.”

  Scott clenched his fist, crumpling the paper in his hand. “Listen paper boy, I’m nobody’s angle.”

  “Right, right, sorry. Okay…I can understand that. What I meant to say was, look. I’m desperate here. I need to cover something other than…than …”

  “Broccoli?”

  “Cauliflower. You haven’t seen this before? Then look, I’m offering you this lead. All I’m asking is, work with me. Help me write this story.”

  “And you’ll keep me out of it?” asked Scott.

  “Hell, no!” said Mark. “You’re, like, central to the whole thing.”

  Scott started shaking his head.

  “Wait, wait.” Mark pushed away his empty beer bottle. “You’re part of the task force, you came back from Iraq—hell, you beat the crap out of a suspected terrorist on your flight home.”

  “I beat the crap out of you, dumbass.”

  “Yeah, but you thought I was a terrorist. This story will show people what a true hero is, what a soldier is, fighting the wars. You’ve gotta admit, people need heroes.”

  Scott uncrumpled the paper, smoothed it out. “I think you’re mistaken. People don’t need heroes like me.” He signaled for another beer. “Hell, people only remember there’s a war going on when a new movie comes out.”

  “Okay, so—given that’s true,” said Mark. “Help me change that.”

  “Can I take this with me?” Scott held up the paper.

  “Yeah, sure, I have it in my inbox still,” said Mark. “So what about it?”

  “I’ll have to ask my boss,” said Scott. He was pretty sure that Nina would do him the favor of nixing the entire plan.

  “Okay, no problem,” said Mark. “What’s his number? I’ll call him myself.”

  Even better. The reporter would probably piss Morris off so badly, she might even send Mabry back to the NYPD where he belonged. “It’s a she. Nina Morris, JTTF commander. You’ll have to call through the main task force line.” He read out the numbers for Mark.

  “Okay, great, no problem,” said Mark. “Looking forward to working with you.”

  He offered his hand, but Scott turned away, back to reading the manifesto before him.

  * * *

  “Excellent idea.”

  Scott wondered if reality had suddenly warped.

  “Excellent idea?” he repeated.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “How can it be an excellent idea?”

  “Task Force Eden got splashed all over the press the other night,” said Nina. “And some of that was positive and some of that was negative. We took out an entire warehouse, and all we got for it was some scared kids and a couple of punks with some AKs.”

  “But this—” Scott gestured with the paper. “This is nothing. I read through it a bunch of times, but I don’t think there’s anything there.”

  “Who gives a shit, Mabry?” said Nina. “Take this reporter through the paces, show him what we do here on a daily basis to keep his little butt safe at night from the bad guys, and get him to write something nice about us.”

  “But—” said Scott.

  “Get down to public affairs, get them to give you some information on this reporter,” said Morris. “They’ll help you out with some talking points. Make us look good.”

  Her phone rang. She picked it up.

  “Morris.” She cradled the receiver between her neck and shoulder, noticed Scott was still sitting in front of her. Using her hand, she waved him out.

  “Yeah, Mac, we’ve been tracking it down…no, I haven’t heard anything back yet.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mr. Song stared tiredly over the counter and up the barrel of the sawed-off shotgun. After only three months in New York, he could barely speak English, but this was the third time someone had pointed a weapon at him.

  “Cash! Cash!” The man holding the shotgun was agitated, and the barrel wavered. Song, following the movement, was slightly dizzy.

  “Yes, yes.” He opened the register, pulled out the bills and handed them over. His partner, his brother actually, had advised him that it was the best thing to do when someone came in to rob the store. There were video cameras to catch the suspects, and they had insurance. Still, his brother was a little behind on the payments, and these men were wearing ski masks. Song watched as they grabbed the money he had been about to put in the time-locked safe, and ran out of the store.

  As the door swung closed, the man with the shotgun poked his head back in.

  “Salami, I lick ‘em! Jihad!” The man slammed the door shut and ran after his companions.

  Sighing, Mr. Song closed up the register again and dialed the police.

  Scott sat at his half of the desk and read through the small sheaf of papers the press officer printed out for him. He sighed heavily, realizing that he had stared at the same paragraph for a half hour, and it still didn’t say anything he wanted to read.

  “Is it hard being famous?” Gina grinned to show him it was a joke.

  “No, it’s fucking fabulous,” said Scott. “Where’s my damn limo?”

  Gina laughed. “Hey man, it’s your own fault you’re so pretty.”

  “Yeah, ha ha.” Scott’s grin dissipated. “Apparently I’m supposed to highlight the major successes of Task Force Eden, while minimizing the possible exposure of said reporter to any potentially sensitive or classified information.”

  “Huh.” Gina cracked her fingers, one by one, using her thumb.

  “All I work with is sensitive information,” said Scott. “Besides, this guy doesn’t give a crap about anything except this.” Scott pulled out the papers and showed them to Gina. “Take a look at that, tell me what you think.”

  Gina read the e-mail, frowned. “Jeysh Muqua—? What is that?”

  “Jeysh Muqadissi fi Amrik. It’s Arabic. Means ‘Sacred Army in America’.”

  “Huh,” said Gina. “Never seen this one before. Let me run it, see what pops up.”

  She put the paper down next to her laptop and pull
ed up a search screen. She typed the name into the TEW database.

  “Nope, nothing.” She shrugged. “What the hell, let me try Google.”

  She typed in the Arabic translation, then the English translation.

  “Anything?”

  “Nope. Zip. Nada.” She turned to Scott. “If you want, I can try a couple of other things, but it looks like there’s nothing there.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Scott. “I didn’t think there would be anything to it.”

  “You want to open a folder on it?”

  “Yeah, I’ll fill out a form, but in the end it’s one e-mail. If our database isn’t turning anything up, there’s not much to go on.”

  “It’s your call.”

  Scott looked at his watch and groaned. On cue, the phone rang. He picked it up. “Right, okay, I’ll be right down. No. Tell him to stay down there. I’ll come get him.” He hung up. “Dumbass showed up. Catch you later.”

  Alan was in a vicious mood, and Eddie wondered if he was armed. Dodger had fortuitously stepped out for cigarettes and wasn’t back yet. Eddie hoped that he remained far away until everything blew over.

  “Fuck.”

  “What’s up, boss?”

  “You see this?” Alan pointed to the television screen. Mark Granger stood in front of the remains of an ice cream truck that had crashed into a bridge in Central Park. The driver, still in his clown hat and nose, sat dazed next to the vehicle, blood pouring down his face. The clown face gave Eddie the creeps.

  “Yeah, some truck crash with a spooky fucking clown.”

  “That reporter right there. You see him?”

  “Yeah, he’s on all the time.”

  “He reports on this? This is nothing. I send our warning to these reporters, and this is what the news reports on?”

  “You sent them a what?” Eddie was confused. He didn’t remember writing or signing anything.

  “Forget it,” said Alan. He was silent a few moments as another explosion built up. The news switched to a talking head wearing a long beard. Arabic subtitles scrolled under the channel logo. A translator’s voice layered English over the soundtrack.

  “Fuck! Some cave-dwelling hypocrite can send a completely boring, unthreatening video, and the entire country panics. What the hell!”