Streams of Babel

  One of the guys in the back said, "Is he retarded?"

  I changed the question to distract Inas. "Did your family manage to get him in honors with us? Or is he mainstreamed into normal prison life?"

  She giggled fantastically. "Shahzad is a genius. He's in honors, despite his English. He can do anything on the computer—anything. In fact, he got a job at Trinitron after school. Pretty miraculous, yes?"

  Miraculous. Shahzad's head slowly turned as the word Trinitron bounced through the air. I figured it was a blast of humility—another thing the Pakistanis around here are good for—but it didn't make me less jealous.

  "Who did you know to get that job?" I demanded. The software specialists at the Trinitron Internet café have to double as busboys, but they get tips as well as great wages, and it's the best gig outside Manhattan for high school and college computer heads.

  "No one," he muttered, as he hunted for English. "I just send them my programs is all."

  Hmm. I'd applied there, sending them my best programming sequences (nothing reflecting my hacking prowess), and got a standard "no thanks, no explanation." Maybe Trinitron read my school disciplinary file. And you have to know someone.

  I left them without saying good-bye and sat two feet from a proctor. The Xanax I'd taken at the end of fourth period made me more relaxed than a jealousy fit would usually allow. Maybe that second one was kicking in already. I was relaxed enough to look at the crazy facts of my so-called life for what they were. I can do that every once in a while.

  When you find out that your mother has brought you here so she can help steal secrets from the parents of school friends, what do you do with your life? How do you hang around with anyone? What strings can you pull to get a great job?

  I've been kicked in the head enough times around here in the past four years, and sometimes that's how thoughts strike me. Like a kick in the head. Ker-blam, Tyler, your life is so goddamn embarrassing that it's pointless to be near anybody.

  Ker-blam, it's your old lady who deserves to get kicked in the head, so why do you insist on standing in proxy for her? Are you any less embarrassed after your blood is spilled and your eyes are swollen shut?

  I winged the bagel fifteen feet into the garbage can. Two points. I had eaten breakfast already. I always ate it, because I made my mom breakfast every day. I kept thinking tomorrow some USIC agent was going to get wise to her and, who knows, maybe some Hollywood ending transpires—he sticks a gun barrel in her mouth and jerks the trigger. Or she'd get sent to American prison forever and ever, and my last name would be all over fucking Fox.com and MSNBC, and the White Mound could finally lynch me and get off with a misdemeanor. Every morning could be the last time I ever see her, so I make her breakfast, and she answers her voice mail while eating my eggs and ... baggles.

  That Shahzad guy is classic, I have to confess. Computer guru? Computer guru better than moi ? He didn't have any connections? He had a bad case of the liarooskees.

  Anyway, here's what you do when you can't get close. You make friends with information. I would have to find out what this Shahzad was all about, how he got my damn job. Once he decided he hated me, too, I would at least have information.

  Ker-blam, Tyler, what good is information if you never do anything with it? It's not like some babe you can take to the movies. You're like that Jeffrey Dahmer guy. Only you collect facts instead of fingers.

  Hey, maybe you should just take too much of one of your numbing agents, carve into your chest with a razor blade, MY MOTHER IS A SPY. GOD BLESS AMERICA, BUT YOU PEOPLE ARE FUCKING STUPID, and then slowly bleed to death. Would that be rich?

  What in hell would she do with my body?

  TWENTY-SIX

  SHAHZAD HAMDANI

  THURSDAY, MARCH 7, 2002

  7:35 P.M.

  AT MY TERMINAL inside Trinitron, I have Catalyst's screen captured on my own. He is one of the many patrons, though I do not know which one. My USIC contact is at a terminal somewhere behind me, just like Hodji often was back in my village. I get most communication from him via instant message, though I have an earpiece if I need it. That much is the same, too.

  But everything else is changed. Here in America, I don't know who my contact is. I only know him by the name "Tim," and I don't know what he looks like. I am not allowed to turn around and try to figure out which patron he is. I wait for Catalyst to write his response in a chat room, and it is taking him forever.

  As Hodji predicted, I am to do nothing if I am not told. I feel like a computer myself, and I think the Americans like to waste time. It is a busy night, and Trinitron is five times the size of our Internet café in Pakistan, with more than forty terminals. In Pakistan, I could sweep or clean up.

  Tim IMs me. "Be patient. He's still eating his brownie..."

  I nod slowly, staring at my screen. Tim can see both me and Catalyst, supposedly.

  Catalyst is online with PiousKnight, though I cannot make out where PiousKnight is chatting from. There are certain types of servers people can use which do not present an IP address or embedded codes, and therefore we cannot tell where they are. PiousKnight has been at Trinitron before, which means he could be in a city nearby. But technically, he could at this moment be in the Middle East, Africa, or South America. I have not seen VaporStrike or Omar0324 online since the night before I left Pakistan.

  My nervousness is largely due to my new asthma medication, which makes me breathe so clearly that the silence is now overwhelming. The side effects make me twitch and have a racing heart. I try to remember how v-spying has always made me feel like the American cowboy.

  I look toward the wall and a little over my shoulder, which seems like a safe thing to do. The boy whom I had injured over the bagel incident today is one row in back of me. Tyler Ping. He probably is doing some homework, of which we have so much. He seems busy, watching his screen, and not interested in me.

  I understand that the American boys thought he was responsible for the bagel incident, and they were not very nice to him. But he taught me "how do you, too," and never fussed over taking wrong blame. He seemed nice enough.

  I turn back, and chatter starts to appear, post by post. It is slow, but I recognize Pashto, a primary language of the Afghans, and cache the screen after each post. I have realized the erasing-chatter function they are employing for secrecy will not work in a copy if it is cached via intranet. I immediately translate it anyway, because Tim is waiting. I type in Arabic, which is easier for me, then run it through QuikTranslate for English, so Tim can understand it.

  Catalyst: Have there been any more deaths in Colony One?

  PiousKnight: Omar reports only the two women, of brain aneurysms. Be patient.

  Catalyst: Is the medical community suspicious, being that they both met the same end?

  PiousKnight: I have not heard that. However, Omar has reported some suspicious activity in Colony One. Omar says a notice has gone out to residents on five streets that a water line was inadvertently broken by the Utilities Department affecting them, and people should not drink the water.

  Catalyst: Are these among the streets that Omar targeted?

  PiousKnight: They are the exact streets.

  Catalyst: That cannot be a coincidence. The Americans are a roaming devil. They learn their intelligence by osmosis.

  I translate Catalyst's last line and try not to smile. I have been their osmosis—but I do not gloat. For one thing, I personally do not even know the continent of Colony One. USIC obviously has figured it out, and it is one important finding that I have not been central to. Back in Pakistan, I could take this chatter and surf and put many things together, but here, I am only to wait. It is maddening, and it is only my second night working here. Fortunately, some of the homework took all my free time in the school today. I have no chance to dishonor my agreement with USIC by surfing without permission.

  I send more translated chatter on to Tim as it appears:

  PiousKnight: Fear not. The damage cannot be undone.
The Red Vinegar they ingested will not cease to do its work. Those who are not symptomatic may still become ill, based on their consumption to date. Those who are symptomatic already will not have Providence on their side. You will see more deaths, my friend.

  I am not a scientist, so my familiarity with bioterror is limited to what I read online. My fingers itch to surf, though I only translate and hit SEND. I could find out the contents of Red Vinegar based on these clues. I have helped USIC with small clues many times.

  But PiousKnight posts again:

  They have their little informants and v-spies, traitors to the Truth, who helped them discover that the poisoning is localized. We will sniff them out and squash them, too, in good time.

  I cache and type the translation, trying to focus on Red Vinegar and their implication that its effects cannot be reversed. I don't want to focus on their personal threat. I send it to Tim with a pounding heart but no comment.

  Catalyst moves on:

  Has the CDC identified the contents of Red Vinegar in the water?

  PiousKnight: They may have found the water suspicious by now, but they will never identify this germ. It is unrecognizable.

  "Not a known biochemical agent. It is a mutation" is how Omar0324 referred to it in Pakistan.

  Catalyst: But the effects will become obvious in April, yes? Flulike symptoms will show up, and people will succumb, correct?

  PiousKnight: Omar is confident. He states that he is already developing several new vinegars, from mutations with more fluency in water.

  I almost jump as I see this development. I send it to Tim quickly, though my fingers tremble worse.

  He curses softly and says in my earpiece, "Get on your own screen and log in to their chat room as BlueSky382. I want you to ask them a question."

  BlueSky382 ... I had seen this log-in and had scripted it often for Hodji and Roger. They never mentioned to me—no one did until today—that BlueSky382 is a USIC undercover log-in. Probably several v-spies in USIC use it to play mole.

  I log in as Tim suggests, but my nervous side effects double as I prepare to post, because I have rarely played this type of v-spy. There are actually two types of v-spies. Most are moles, who pretend online that they are somebody else, and they strike up artificial friendships. Then, there are the track 'n' translators, of which I am one of the few. I can use computer searches and translation skills to my advantage more easily than most v-spies, but Hodji did not like me ever to speak to the extremists. It is too dangerous for my age, he said, and therefore I usually entered chat rooms as an invisible v-spy—hacking past the log-in—and they were not aware of my presence.

  I hear Tim speak plainly as I hesitate. "Greet them. Then ask if they need more money for funding."

  My heart beats loudly. I am not well briefed on BlueSky382. What money term do I use? Dollars? Denari? Francs?

  Before I know what keys I am striking, I send an IM to Tim. "You are sure Catalyst is not aware of us?"

  He replies, "I'm positive. Why? You nervous?"

  I will never admit to this. I force myself to log in, and I greet Catalyst and PiousKnight in Arabic. I pretend all the white space between their log-ins means nothing to me. They idle for some time, then PiousKnight posts back in Arabic.

  PiousKnight: Greetings, my brother. How is your weather today?

  Tim immediately mutters into my earpiece, "Tell him it's been raining for two days."

  Long Island, New York, is sunny and balmy like summer, so I presume BlueSky382 is pretending to be elsewhere.

  I post it. They ask about what my new pet parrot has thought to say lately, how my sick wife is. I realize the v-spies have embellished quite a story for this BlueSky382, far beyond what I had been capturing in Pakistan. Each time, Tim knows exactly what to say, and I post it.

  I notice the Arabic from Catalyst and PiousKnight has stayed Arabic, and it stays visible on the screen, as if they have turned off their translating/erasing programs just to speak to me. I presume BlueSky is not someone they entirely trust.

  "Ask if they need more funding," Tim encourages into my ear. "Use the euro."

  So, I post,

  Do you need more euros at this time?

  They idle, and I don't like this posting blindly. I had no idea until just now that USIC would either pretend to be a donor or actually send cash, and I haven't a clue what the extremists will say back. I presume that Tim is trying to get an actual mailing address from them. USIC can find out more about the terror cell with it.

  PiousKnight: Donations are always appreciated.

  I post,

  What address should I use?

  without waiting for Tim, as Hodji has mentioned this trick several times as used by his moles.

  They idle long over my question about the address, though Tim mutters, "Good, good..." Catalyst posts what I am totally unprepared for:

  Where are you now?

  My heart-arousing medicine makes my hair stand. And I hear some snorting noise in my ear, which I presume is Tim, who thinks these men are funny.

  "We're breathing into your necks, you stupid morons," Tim snickers. "Tell him you're still in Hamburg, Germany."

  Hamburg.

  I post quickly.

  Catalyst: Yes, I forgot. Use our Hamburg address for money orders: Friends of the Orphans of the Lost Cities, Box C-112, Hamburg, Germany, 01-55979.

  I think Tim will be disappointed, but he sends me Hodji's word: "Bingo!" Maybe in Germany they find post office boxes more promising than in the United States or Pakistan.

  But before I can bask in my successes, Catalyst blindsides me with another question:

  Do you live in Hamburg proper, or in a suburb city of there?

  At the same time, I receive an IM from Tim:

  Have to take a phone call ... hang steady until I get back.

  I can hear a cell phone ringing several rows back from me, but I dare not turn to look. I wonder if Tim has been sending these messages to some USIC meeting, and now the agents want to speak to Tim for clarification. He will have to go outside, as cell reception amid all these electronics is ironically horrible.

  I lay my fingers on the keys, then remove them again. I wonder if Catalyst is trying to find out about me, as we are trying to find out about him. I don't want to answer in case other v-spies have given other details. After an eternal thirty seconds, Catalyst posts:

  Are you there?

  Before I can think, I post "yes," then realize my error. I was not inclined to stupid mistakes in Pakistan, but I wasn't a visible mole, either.

  Catalyst: Well? Where are you located?

  Anything but an answer will be insufficient. I type:

  Sorry, phone rang. I am in Hamburg proper.

  There is idling, and I glance to the side, hoping to see the silhouette of someone returning to a station behind me. It is approaching nine o'clock, and the patrons are thinning out. But Tyler Ping is still working behind me, and no one is coming back to a workstation.

  Catalyst: Last month, you reported moving to Frankfurt. You move around a lot.

  My heart goes too crazy. He is mole sniffing, I am almost certain. And I wonder how Tim can be so casual as to take a phone call. I drum on my keys and decide to post,

  We are visiting family.

  I see no one come back to a station from the corner of my eye, but realize I am craning my neck a lot, and it will make me stand out.

  Catalyst: How long have you been where you are?

  The post glares with suspicion. I feel like he knows I'm in America, and for only two days, and he wants to taunt me. Tim's IM flashes on my screen:

  I'm back.

  Whew. I bang out to Tim quickly:

  Read chatter! How long has BlueSky been in Hamburg?

  His voice sings softly but clearly through the earpiece. "Tell him eleven days. Remind him you and your wife are graduate students visiting from Lebanon."

  I post these things, and Catalyst turns to chitchat about the funding for orphan
ages and him appreciating my past donations. I force myself to post the comments Tim speaks, but my nerves are wearing thinner. I think I should get an asthma medicine with fewer side effects or not take it at all at work. Better to wheeze than tremble and hear my heart bang.

  For the second time this evening, some cloddish busboy drops the lid to the huge, metal coffeemaker in the back. It bangs onto the metal counter. I shoot out of my seat, standing straight up. The jump makes me extremely conspicuous, and I turn up the bottom of my shoe, pretending to look at it, before sitting down again. Tim IMs me:

  Something bite you in the butt?

  I send back:

  My foot is asleep.

  I scroll back up to see if I missed any chatter, thinking how Aunt Alika said to call my doctor back and tell him this "wonderful" American medicine is making me jump out of my skin. But it is not a custom that I can conceive of very well. If you get American medicine in Pakistan, you are considered very lucky, and you put up with whatever comes with it, no questions asked.

  I hear the voice of Tim again.

  "Shahzad, don't panic. But I'm getting activity readings from your terminal that someone has hacked in and captured your screen. It could be just one of those glitches, but I want you to log off, okay?"

  In other words, someone else in the café has captured my activity and is watching it, trying to detect what I am up to. Someone suspects I'm spying. They could have seen my IMs to and from Tim.... I feel disconnected from my trained protector after logging off, in spite of the earpiece. I sit looking at nothing but my screen, hearing my heart bang, and feeling dizzy.

  "Now go get coffee. Take your time. I just want to see if anyone in here is watching you."