Streams of Babel
At first I thought it was funny there were no girls at this party. Then I remembered tales from some third world guys at school who had just landed here. They said they would not see their wives until their wedding day and things like that. They didn't drink, didn't do drugs. I decided that maybe to these guys, this was a party.
There was a huge bowl of greasy potato chips in the middle of the coffee table, and all these guys were grabbing handfuls and munching. They drank sodas out of the can. Food didn't seem so important at a party, either, so it smelled more like a recruitment party than a regular party.
"What can I get you?" Catalyst asked, holding up a can of birch beer.
I nudged Hamdani and pointed. "You have to try that—birch beer. It tastes a lot like root beer."
His eyes kind of lit up for the first time that day, and I remembered the bagel saga when he met the White Mound. He liked trying new stuff. This could relax him, though his asthma wasn't making any noise right now.
Catalyst bowed and went off to the kitchen. Manuel was in there. They spoke in a foreign language that, just by the inflections, I took to be Arabic. Any words that floated out of the kitchen were all gibberish to me, but I think Hamdani was trying hard to overhear some of it. He kept his eyes fixed on the television, except when they muttered things in the kitchen. Then, they would drop to the floor like he was concentrating.
I nudged him at one point and just muttered the words "Getting it?" meaning their conversation.
He shook his head no, so I guessed it was too soft. I wondered if Manuel was PiousKnight and continued to wonder after Raoul/Catalyst came back with two cans of birch beer. I might have shit a small brick if Catalyst had handed me an open cup filled with soda—just considering his track record with poisoning people. But it was a cold can out of the refrigerator, and it cracked and fizzed when I pulled the top. Hamdani and I drank birch beer while these guys all shouted at the soccer match.
At a commercial, Manuel took the empty bowl of chips into the kitchen. Catalyst followed. They spoke English this time, so I got it by shutting my eyes and focusing.
"Do you think Omar will still come?" Catalyst asked.
"Didn't you speak to him on his cell today?"
"No. He didn't answer it"
"Why not? He always answers his cell."
There was a long pause and something I couldn't decipher, and then Catalyst muttered, "...cell is done for. He thinks he picked up a..." and more mishmash, but I couldn't help trying to fill in the blanks.
He thinks he picked up a phone tap... which would have been me.
I cheered with the other guys as one team fumbled, and inside I was going, Ohhhhhhhhh god. I had been thinking the arrest at the hospital drove Omar underground. Could I have added to his suspicions by tapping his phone line? Could he have suspected?
If you're me, and you're always in trouble with somebody, you do things right off like tell yourself how it's not your fault. I told myself USIC could have been more grateful for programming freebies at police headquarters, and I would have done anything they wanted. I wouldn't have bugged Omar's phone if they'd asked me not to nicely.
But Hamdani took a deep breath and let out some death rattle, and I had to feel responsible that I brought him here into a den of god-knows-what kind of cutthroats and soon-to-be fanatics.
I figured I would get us out of this right now, not do another single thing to piss off USIC—just go home and slice my jugular. I had to think fast, because we'd been here only five minutes.
I got up and stuck my head in the kitchen. "Do you guys know if there's a drugstore around here? My friend has asthma. He'll be fine if we just get some stuff for it. He forgot his canister."
All true, all neat and tidy, and it would get us out of here. Or so I thought.
"He has asthma?" Catalyst asked, showing concern. "I, too, have asthma."
He glanced into the living room at Hamdani, and said, "Come in here, my friend. I will give you something for it"
He opened a kitchen cabinet and pulled out one of those inhalers. My heart dropped into my pisser, though I had no clue if I was being smart or being paranoid. Some weapons of bioterror are waterborne, others are airborne. Almost all can be produced in aerosols. Shahzad came slowly forth with wide eyes and his quick, nervous breathing left no question. He obviously shared my thought: Do you accept aerosol medication from a guy who goes around poisoning people?
"Thank you, I cannot," Shahzad stuttered. "I have something specific I take"
But Catalyst held it out to him. "Don't you have an inhaler, too? This is standard medication. Please. Feel free."
Shahzad's wheeze tightened noticeably. Still he said, "No thank you."
"You sound like you might die," Manuel noted with a nervous but polite grin. "Please. Let us do something for you"
I suddenly doubted my fears because the thing had been so unplanned. The two looked absolutely lost and confused over Hamdani's refusal to inhale an aerosol medicine they had offered. They were either sincere and not acting, or they were the Antichrist. Shahzad took the canister in his hand and tried to read it. I casually bent over him. I don't know what I expected—maybe to see "Catalyst Jones" on the canister, or something else with his log-in. Dumb wad. I did notice the name wasn't Raoul.
"This is yours?" I asked.
Catalyst started to nod and must have realized my problem—the canister didn't say Raoul Somebody.
"Oh!" He laughed pleasantly. "It is actually my brother's. He and I share the same genetics, same asthma, same medication. Please! You will feel better!"
Hamdani stared at him so long and wheezed so ferociously that Catalyst and Manuel both stared without moving. It's like a bad devil came along and suddenly peeled a layer out of the room. When we came in, the air in the room was white with a calm party aura. It suddenly changed to red—red air from red alerts going off in their brains.
Something told me—with dead certainty—the game was up.
Their faces were red with the shock of suspicion. Hamdani's acting was for shit. Red alert. Red alert. The game is up. Up. Up.
"What's the matter?" Catalyst laughed, but the skin on his face had tightened somehow. He asked, laughing incredulously, "Do you think I will poison you?"
When Hamdani didn't answer, Catalyst took the canister back and gazed for what was probably another five seconds, but a civilization could have risen and fallen. Game over. Game over. He knows.
I just didn't know how to get us out of the house. Hamdani couldn't even run. Catalyst put the canister down on the counter, crossed his arms, and laughed to himself. "Let us discuss what is making you so afraid of a harmless person like myself," he said.
Harmless. He had enjoyed saying it. I figured I might puke on him Exorcist style, if Hamdani didn't beat me to it. Hamdani took a step back and leaned against the sink, finding something on the floor to stare at, not that it helped.
"You were in Trinitron the other night," Catalyst remembered. "I waved at you. I wondered what on earth was making you so nervous. I was making you nervous ... wasn't I? Today, you showed up with my new friend Tyler."
We stood there so stupidly while he put two and two together. It was the stupidest moment of my life. But what do you say? Do you stand there and tell the truth? They already knew it.
The soccer team must have scored, because the guys in the living room came to life, and it made me realize how softly Catalyst had been speaking. Manuel walked slowly around behind us, as if blocking the way in case we tried to run.
I felt his hulking presence as Catalyst laughed quietly to himself, staring at the floor. "I must ask you this. Because if it is untrue, you will not understand me, and if it is true, it will show in your faces. Here it is: My friend Omar believes that our conversations online have been watched—that our privacy has been invaded by someone perverse. That someone would not be you two, would it?"
I shook my head no and faked confusion along with Hamdani, but our acting must have been even
worse than I gathered, because he laughed even harder. He was almost hysterical for a moment. "This is what American intelligence drums up to throw at us? Two boys who tremble over an ... an asthma medication canister?" He put his hand over his eyes like he was ashamed to even look at us, and his laughter got higher in pitch.
"You're crazy," I said, my pride buttons being seriously pushed. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but you're freaking me out all of a sudden, and we're leaving."
"I don't think you are leaving," Manuel said, with ominous politeness in his voice. He was still blocking the door.
I spotted a set of knives on the counter, and Catalyst must have watched my eyes. He was still laughing but said, "Unless you want to end up like Daniel Pearl, don't even think of it."
Daniel Pearl is now famous. He's a journalist who was beheaded by terrorists in Karachi about six weeks ago. The beheading had been taped, and the beyond-sickening clip was still all over the Internet. My head banged with Michael's words from when he sat in my bedroom yesterday: "They're beyond dangerous. You have no idea what you're tangling with."
I said something appropriate, like "shit," and Hamdani coughed.
"Do not try anything," Catalyst said, still in a low voice. "Do not think that those boys will help you. If we were to tell them everything now, and ask them to choose between your way of thinking or ours, I am quite certain they would side with us and help us to dispose of you. They have measured up that far, despite that they know only a little about us yet. I assure you it is not our wish to harm you in front of new recruits. But you should be aware that we could kill you in less than five seconds if you try anything. Without guns, without knives, without even our fists. Though you may wish to have been beheaded once we are finished."
He stood there a few moments more, enjoying watching us squirm like two butthead guys in high school who had bitten off more than they could chew. I had a brief thought that I could get ahold of the aerosol can by Catalyst's left elbow. But Manuel loomed from behind, making that seem all but impossible, too.
It turns out I didn't need a game plan. What sounded like an explosion came from the living room moments later. The front door flew off the hinge, and bodies piled through, holding guns, screaming in loud voices. Before I could count to ten, there must have been a dozen agents in every room screaming, "Get on the floor! Everybody on the floor!"
FORTY-FIVE
SHAHZAD HAMDANI
SATURDAY, MARCH 9, 2002
2:00 P.M.
HODJI TOES ME in the backside and mutters in Punjabi, "Thanks."
He means that I have led him to these men. I feel more relief than humiliation, though not much more. I have my nose turned to the kitchen tiles along with the swine we had been chasing for months.
"Get your hands out of the cabinet! Get on the floor now!" Hodji shouts at Catalyst. And while I cannot see what he was trying to do, I hear triggers clicking—several of them—and believe many guns are pointed at his head.
"Frisk them," Hodji says, and I feel hands pushing and probing at my bones and try to remind myself with gladness that such would find any hidden weapons on Catalyst and thereby protect us.
With my asthma smoldering, I turn my head to the side to breathe. I see Catalyst lying on the floor like I am. Whatever he was trying to reach for in the cabinet has not worked, and he is without any deadly weapons now. The female agent over us does not object that I have turned my head to the side, but when Catalyst tries to do the same, she hollers, "Nose to the floor!"
He complies. It lets me know that the agents are aware of who I am. But what they have planned for me and Tyler cannot be good. For one thing, all people lie on the floor, and we lie with them for what feels like eternity. A few frightened cries and sobs rise from the living room, and I am reminded that these recruits are probably not versed in any ShadowStrike business. They are shocked. USIC agents begin ripping, cutting, breaking things, obviously looking for something.
I have nothing to do but lie there and study Catalyst's long hair, which is rich dark chocolate brown, like an angel's. He does not look nervous, and I try to reflect on him and his thoughts as opposed to Hodji and his thoughts, because the former in this case is far less painful. I think perhaps Catalyst is not nervous because there is nothing in this apartment to implicate him. Perhaps he does not think USIC has much on him.
My eyes fix on Catalyst's hands and at first it is because I am aware of how limp and loose his fingers are, as his left hand flops over his head. His fingers dangle as if he were asleep, and despite that this seems arrogant, I wish I had his nerve. He is less afraid of Hodji than I am.
His fingernails are cut like I have never seen others cut. Most men cut their fingernails straight across. But he has cut his on either side, so that there is a slight point in the center of each. It isn't a dramatic point, and his fingers have a nice and shiny manicure. You would hardly notice it were you not lying on a floor beside the sight with nothing to distract you. I remember earlier thinking he looked like a musician or artist, and I wonder now if he plays classical guitar and his nails help to pluck the strings better. That would be ironic, him playing a beautiful instrument. It kills time, this wondering.
The agents are being very slow and methodical. I hear tape ripping off a roll often and plastic bags rattling.
Then two pairs of boots stomp into the kitchen, kneeling above my head, and hands are pulling things out of the cabinet under the sink. I perceive one agent is opening bottles and sniffing them, and passing them back to another agent with Baggies and roll tape.
"Here's something," the female agent says, but I cannot see where she is pointing.
My birch beer can is still in my hand, but suddenly it is gone. I hear the agent above me sniffing the can. He stands very still. Hodji stands in the doorway, studying Catalyst carefully.
Tyler mutters very softly, "Oh shit, oh no..."
"Quiet!" the sniffing agent roars.
I nearly jump as he takes Catalyst by the hair and sits him up. He sticks the soda can in front of his face with a gloved hand and says, "Drink this"
My head comes off the floor. I cannot help it. I lie like a sphinx, poised in horror, recalling terrible premonitions from home—that I could accidentally drink the very poisoned water I seek out. I am poised in horror to see whether or not Catalyst will drink from the soda he gave me. He looks at the agent, looks at me, looks at Tyler, but doesn't raise the can to his lips.
Tyler makes two more "oh shit"s, and the agent kicks him hard in the leg.
"Drink it!" the agent demands of Catalyst, as Hodji moves slowly toward him.
Equally slowly, Catalyst takes the soda can, toasts me with it, and swallows the whole can. He wipes his lips dramatically afterward.
My head splatters on the floor like a jelly mold. All I can hear is the roar of my asthma and Tyler yelping in relief. Catalyst bangs the empty can down two inches from my nose. He is full of impudence now, and his ironically kind smile has a glint behind it.
I say to the agent, "Try his asthma canister."
They do not answer. I don't think they are pleased that I am addressing them. However, the agent who told Catalyst to drink the soda now holds out the white canister.
"Use it," he says.
I watch sphinxlike again, but without so much terror, as I had not taken any of the medicine.
Catalyst rolls his eyes to one side and then the other, and slowly he raises the inhaler toward his lips. I wonder quickly if USIC has been stupid. I wonder if they have handed him an aerosol weapon which he can turn on us. Hodji is watching him carefully, but not with any panic that I can perceive. Catalyst brings it slowly to his lips, presses down, and inhales.
Again he drops the thing in front of me, smiling, giving me no look of betrayal.
Hodji stands over my head while Catalyst sits cross-legged right beside me.
"Where is it?"
"Where is what?" Catalyst asks.
"This house is dirty," Hodji
says. The word "dirty" in this case means that USIC believes something dangerous is hidden here. "We can look at every inch of every item in here under a microscope, and you can rot in jail while we go through all that. But I know this house is dirty."
As the other two agents point guns at Catalyst, Hodji turns and looks into the cabinet right behind where Catalyst is seated. It appears to be empty now. Above it on the counter sits a bottle of blue glass cleaner. Hodji takes it carefully in his gloved hand and smells it. The cap has been removed and it has already been smelled by the agent who was sniffing everything in here.
"You were reaching for this when I came in," Hodji says, eyeing him.
"Yes," Catalyst agrees with ease.
"You were going to clean the window, I suppose?" Hodji asks, kicking at a sponge that had fallen out of the cabinet and lay by the stove.
Despite the invitation, I am very amazed when Catalyst says, "I get the impression you find glass cleaner dangerous"
Somehow, Hodji returns his smugness equally. "I'll tell ya what. I don't believe it's glass cleaner."
I stare at the blue liquid. It looks like glass cleaner to me, but I am used to reading atrocious things about terrorist germs in liquids, and I don't have the nerves of steel that Hodji has. The thing swiftly becomes to me as threatening as a bomb, and I cannot peel my eyes from it, despite that Catalyst laughs in that good-natured way I am utterly sick of.
"Mr. USIC agent," he says. "Your little monkeys asking me to drink this and inhale that, they underestimate my commitment to our goals. I am a willing sacrifice. You cannot believe that those items are not tainted, simply because I took them."
I tear my eyes from the blue liquid to find them gazing at each other, trying to seek something from the other as instinctively as jaguar cats. Catalyst is looking to see if he can dismay Hodji, I gather. Hodji is trying to read his mind, as to what in this house of millions of molecules is dangerous, and what is not.