Homeland: A Novella

Monday, June 19, 2006- 1017 EST - Undisclosed Location

The Watch Technician stared at the LCD wall, reflecting about his job and spacing out on the ever-shifting blob that represented Lucifer. He felt a vague frisson of irritation at himself for having internalized the idiotic titles that had been assigned both his job and the project by the higher-ups.

Watch Technician, indeed... DubyaTee. Makes it sound like I work in a little shop in Times Square fixing dinged-up Rolexes, the W.T. fumed.

In fact, the W.T. had a doctorate in computer science from Stanford, a J.D. from Penn, twelve years experience in the FBI, and a Top Secret security clearance with Special Compartmented Information access and Level IV Special Access Program clearance.

The only person in the program with higher clearance than me is that dickhead Poindexter himself. The thought of Poindexter having access to anything about the project that the W.T. didn't rankled. The W.T. was one of only a handful of people, also insultingly designated W.T.s, who actually understood what Lucifer did, end to end.

Lucifer was, of course, only an internal designation. The program's name had been changed from Information Awareness Office to Protective Information Vigilance and Trust Executive Office, the PRIVATE Office, in 2003. That's politics in modern America in a nutshell -- form over substance. The program was authorized, funded, and moved into the Executive Office of the Vice-President with barely a squeak of protest once the name was comforting enough. The W.T. spun around in his Freedom chair to face the selection monitor bank. Sophia had spit up another possible hit. She had been getting much more accurate in the last few months.

Lucifer was linked to almost every internet node in the world, all of the NSA, Naval and Army Intelligence sig-int, every credit verification and ATM system, every phone switch and cell node, the computer systems of every government agency in the United States and most of its allies and trade partners, the MIB, banks, hospitals, insurance companies, transportation companies, and utilities; they all fed the Beast. The net grew wider and finer every day.

The problem was how to make sense of the almost 700 petabytes of information now washing through Lucifer every day, especially given that the number was growing. Of course, the original specs, written by Poindexter while he was still at Syntek, were for 666 petabytes, hence Poindexter's pet code name. Guy's really twisted... the W.T. bristled.

The only practical approach to the problem was to grow a colony consisting of billions of search algorithms competing to find the most relevant data sets. Determining what was relevant and what wasn't was Sophia's job; she judged the results, outputted the best candidates and assigned reproductive rights to the retriever algo as a reward for work well done. She was a massive neural net and the most advanced expert system on earth. Though she was nowhere near human in complexity, she was beginning to do a fine job of judging whether a data set represented possible terrorist activity.

A process of natural selection in the belly of Eros constantly brewed up new search algorithms. Eros was the second main component of Lucifer; she was the crèche in which the evolution of new code was fostered. Eros vetted her mutants for viability and system compatibility, then released them into Lucifer to sink or swim on their merits. The W.T. no longer even pretended to understand how the code coming out of Eros worked. It had an elegant non-linearity that, quite simply, was not human.

The W.T. examined the profile that Sophia had approved. It looked fairly promising. Salah Tarif, a.k.a. Sal. Thirty-six-year-old native of Lebanon. Immigration records indicated entry to the U.S. in 1984 at 14 years of age with political refugee status, permanent residence at 18, citizenship at 23 when he married a U.S. citizen.
Yep, that's a possible deep sleeper, the W.T. thought.

Target currently employed by Mennonite Central Committee of Akron, PA, as CFO. It was a faith-based charity for feeding third-world children threatened by starvation.

Focus on Iraq and North Korea, my, my, isn't that an interesting combination- very axis-of-evil. Seen a lot of that, covering terrorist funding by moving it through charitable accounts. Won't Shrub blow a gasket if we found a sleeper in one of his precious faith-based organizations? Diverting money from U.S. taxpayers to pay for terrorism- that'd be a hoot...

Church records indicated he attended and donated regularly. Hmmm. Seems like the guy is so deep he even espouses another faith. How did he hook up with the Mennonites?

Ah, deceased wife, Julia Graffen, died 1999. Mennonite. No kids. No strings holding him back, why did he stay? Marriage must have been a sham to get citizenship.
This is interesting... he still has family in Lebanon, some in the Syrian military.

So what specifics fingered this fellow?

Seventy-four air trips to various parts of the Middle East and Asia in the past 13 years. Eight of those just in the first half of this year. Increasing travel frequency.

Twice had contraband lifted at the security screen, a knife and a screwdriver. Wow, I'm surprised earlier algos didn't sweep this fellow up.

Bank transfers. Large amounts. Third party accounts. Most recently $314,300 to the Ahvaz branch of Bank Saderat, Iran. $162,930 to Garanti Bank in Ankara. Another $1,230,000 to KCCB in North Korea. Those accounts were still open and in the name of his employer, but most of the money was long gone. Withdrawn in the form of negotiable instruments such as letters of guarantee. Damn hard to trace those; almost as bad as cash.

Undisclosed containerized shipments from China to North Korea, and from Pakistan and western Turkey to Iraq ordered for delivery ex quay from the same IP as Sal's email. Interesting shipments. Food... or weapons?

Multiple addresses: a house in Akron, PA; a condo in Philadelphia, PA; another condo in Reston, VA. All three sold in the past 90 days. No forwarding address. This guy might have just been activated.

Voice recordings from telephone, pay phone, cell phone... The W.T. listened to several and realized that Sal apparently spoke fluent Arabic. The W.T. thought that he also heard Aramaic. This guy sure looks like a promising lead.

The W.T. gathered together the information he had reviewed, marked up the translation request form on the intranet, attached the Arabic and Aramaic language sound files, and delivered the whole jacket electronically to the EOVP in a Top Secret/SCI Access encrypted E-velope.

A while later, the W.T. sighed and glanced at the time on the monitor. Those translations were top priority, but they would still take a few hours. He sent out his own custom-designed agents to gather more information about Sal. The small details, or the lack of them, are often the most telling things about a person.

After about an hour's search, the W.T. had a fairly complete profile of Sal's life. Credit history and purchases, memberships, medical records, employment records, known associates, police records, court records, newspaper stories, marriage records, wife's medical records. The W.T. saw that there were no kids because she had a hysterectomy at 18 due to cervical cancer; cancer that ultimately killed her at just 25. The W.T. was convinced that the marriage was not a sham by the fact that $32.99 had been charged to Sal's credit card by the florist CELEBRATIONS! for a small memorial wreath every month for the past seven years.

The W.T. was beginning to have serious doubts about his initial assessment of Sal as he read the court records. During 1989, in Atlanta, Sal had walked in on a robbery in progress in a QuikTrip market. The W.T. had been able to access a video of the incident from the trial records. The W.T. ran his MPEG codec and dragged the time tab until he saw the relevant portion beginning, then hit play.

Sal walks in, seemingly unaware that anything unusual is occurring, and startles the robber. The robber has some customers down on the floor by the refrigerators while he robs the store. A woman in the group, sobbing inconsolably, has two kids with her and begins to panic as the robber snaps around toward the door and yells at Sal.

"Wha' da fuck! I sha’ cap yo' ass, foo'! Whack motherfucka. Get yo' ass on da groun', jigga!"

Sal looks at the robber and at the people on floor by the cooler and starts to comply. The robber walks over to Sal, bends over him and holds the gun above Sal's head, pointed downward. His body language is absolutely feral and mocking.

"Das ri' byotch! And stay down 'less yo' wan' suck on dis 'ere pizzle!"

The woman's nerve breaks. She scrambles up, clutching her children's hands and scuttles for the door. Sal is still on his hands and knees. The robber stands erect, swivels, and fires into the woman. She crumples, skidding forward with inertia, and lands like a disposed Kleenex on the linoleum. The children begin to scream.

"Shut da fuck up! Shut yo' fuckin' mout'! Ah, fuck! Fuck! Shit, now I gotta... Lor' he'p me..."

His gun hand visibly shaking, the robber points the gun at the children who are heaped atop their fallen mother, screaming. A flurry of action occurs.

The W.T. shuttled back to try to understand what he was seeing. After a few tries, he slowed the playback speed by two-thirds.

Sal, instead of continuing to the floor, bolts forward. The robber's back is toward him. Sal blows right by him. He clearly could have tackled the gunman, but doesn't. He runs for the children. With the robber distracted, the clerk pulls his gun out of hiding and points it at the robber's side.

Two shots rip the air, almost simultaneously. One crashes through the side of the robber's chest. The other, fired by the robber, screams toward the children. Only Sal has gotten there first. He throws his body over the children and intercepts the bullet with his lower back.

Closing the video window, the W.T. leaned back, whistling low. Pretty intense stuff. Sal's medical records indicated that he had lost a kidney from the gunshot wound. The robber had survived and was on death row with one functional lung and partial paralysis. Prison records also indicated that Sal had visited him eight times.

If Sal is a sleeper, he must have some military training... why not take out the gunman? And why is he visiting the bastard who shot him?

This guy really must care about kids. Makes kids his work. Takes a bullet for two strange kids. Yet he marries a woman who can't have any?

Why would he join the Mennonites and stay to work with them after her death? Is he actually converted?

Is he trying to save the shooter's soul?

The pieces just don't fit. Sal is just... too genuine. His life, just too random.

The W.T. rolled a few tentative conclusions around in his head. Sal really cares about kids. He would give his life to save just one without even thinking about it. The woman he loved couldn't have kids, but he loved her so much he married her anyway and he started working to save other people's kids from starving. He adopted and stayed with his wife's faith because he had a genuine spiritual conversion. He is even trying to redeem the bastard who shot him. These were the only answers that made any sense to the W.T. Having sifted through the electronic detritus of so many people's lives over the years, both at PRIVATE and as an FBI special agent, the W.T. thought he could distinguish a real life--marked by serendipity, sheer dumb luck, real feelings and real convictions-- from a cover.

Sal has a life, not a cover.

The W.T.'s terminal farted loudly as a masturbating chimp popped onto the screen. Poindexter calling. W.T. clicked on the ape's engorged groin and Gen. Poindexter's face appeared on the monitor.

"We just got the translations back. I'll take the rest of the jacket on target Tarif, Watch Technician." Cockgobbler never seems to pass up a chance to use that damn title.

The W.T. gritted his teeth, "Fine. I'll send it over. But new evidence that the original algos didn't harvest looks exculpatory. Seemed like a good hit at first but..."

Poindexter cut in, "You don't know what we found in those voice recordings. Send the file. This one is out of your hands now."

The W.T. was amazed. Could my instincts have been that wrong? He had expected the translators to find orders for baby food and conversations about shipping rice, millet, and pulses.

"What did the translators find in the recordings, Sir?" He wondered if the vocally capitalized 'sir' would work, sometimes did on egos as big as Poindexter's.

"That's need-to-know, Watch Technician. Send the jacket to me. Good work. I'll make sure the President is aware of the excellent job you're doing here, son." Poindexter made the little moue that passed as his smile.

The W.T. thought, Yeah, sure you will, you fat toadying bastard! You are gonna make sure my name gets nowhere near that file.

The W.T. said, "Thank you. I'll send the jacket as soon as it's complete. I still have a few custom algos out there that have not reported back yet."

Poindexter's beady little rat eyes narrowed, "Don't take too long, Watch Technician. I want to see that jacket on my terminal within the hour. Poindexter out." The window sucked down to a point as if flushing down a toilet. In its place was a baboon with a very red ass pointing at the camera, centered on the point where the window disappeared.

The W.T. sighed. "Shit. Poor bastard," he murmured aloud. Well, it was out of his hands. He vowed that when he ran the program that the people on the front line would be listened to and given more authority. He felt very sorry for Salah Tarif. Sal seems to be more than a decent fellow; he seems to be a genuinely good man. Maybe even a hero. And he's about to have his life ripped apart.

He spun back to his programming terminal and started running Sophia though some test recursions that wouldn't spawn any log entries so that he would have some time if his few remaining agents came back too soon. He considered for a moment just how to proceed. He was determined to get his fingerprints all over this file before it went out. This President and the next will know about my work here, dammit. This project is mine! I made it work! That bloated weasel is not going to claim credit for my work without a fight. All he did was write an Orwellian mission statement and plagiarize the illuminati for a logo!

After a few judicious modifications on some of the more useful files, the W.T. sent Sal's jacket to Poindexter.

Thursday, June 22, 2006 - 1120 EST - Crawford, TX

"Yes Johnny, I've seen the file. We've been waiting a long time for this chance... I agree... No, I don't think that people will have any problem with this, I think they'll believe it. The thing about this is, I want that court record sealed. That's a problem. There's a right way and there's wrong way to go about this, you see? The right way here is, all we have to do is listen to Karl. He knows about these things, you see? You know how smart he is in sellin' this sort of thing. Heck, he could sell stink to a skunk... Make the preparations, Johnny, Project Armageddon is a go. Ha! Dang! I always wanted to say somethin' like that." He hangs up the phone and turns to the monitor installed on his desk.

"Dicky, you sure this thing is gonna work out? I mean, you think the Pentagon's gonna be enough?"

Dicky's face on the screen looks wan and haggard, pasty grey. The medical equipment in the background hums and pings. "Yes, 43, trust me. Things are going to be more than fine."

Saturday, July 8, 2006 - 0640 EST - Near Philadelphia, PA

Sal always enjoyed the rail ride into the airport. He loved trains. They reminded him of one of his favorite memories.

He was probably four, or maybe five, years old, travelling by train from Bayrut to Dimashq for the first time. It was just him and his mother. He felt so proud and protective, being his mother's guardian for their journey. They were visiting family in Dimashq, though he really couldn't remember what second cousin or great uncle or other obscure relation they were travelling to see.

He did remember the baklava his mother had bought for him from the train's vendor cart. He remembered as if it were happening now, sitting in the cabin with his mother, eating the baklava as the train wrestled up Mount Lebanon to Dahr al-Baidar. He sat at the window licking his fingers and trying to lick his face clean as the temperature dropped with the elevation.

Then the view. It made the flesh of his face tingle it was so beautiful. At that age, he hadn't any idea of the size of the world, but then he saw it. The sky was overcast, rain all but inevitable, but the air was clear. From almost 1500 meters up, he could see the Mediterranean, a blue flannel blanket tucking the whole world in for a nap. The coast of Lebanon fading into grey haze an impossible distance away.

As they rounded the mountain, the Beqa'a valley crept into view and the tumult of ten thousand years of human habitation spread out before him. A perfect map with every detail true to the original, and seeming so close that he could reach out a mighty fist and smash the oldest city in the world into chalk and ruin.

Turning from the window, he saw his mother looking at him in a way she never had before. "My little man, I've never seen your eyes so open," she said, her own eyes turbulent.

Of course, the commute from Akron to Philly had little to recommend it by comparison. But it was easier than driving, especially now that he had no car.

He had decided to make his commitment to the Community more manifest. Sal had sold the house in Akron and the condos in Philly and D.C. He was moving into the group housing project in Akron. He would take a small pay cut and stay in one of the bachelor units rent-free.

It made sense to him not to have so many possessions pulling at his attention when all he really wanted anyway was his work and his friends. And almost all of them were people he worked and worshipped with. He would be in Philly and DC much less often now that he was CFO rather than legislative affairs director. And he hadn't used either condo more than a handful of times in the past year anyway. And the house... well, maybe trying to stay away was what drove him to work so hard. Maybe he had already absorbed all the memories he could from the home that he and Julia had shared. It felt right to let it go now. Besides, it was a waste of money that could be used for good works.

Having transferred to the airport line at Suburban Station, Sal exited the train at concourse C and took the escalator to the ticket lobby. Once Sal got to the head of the line he was nodded over by a ticket agent. He presented his ticket and took his passport out of his jacket pocket.

"Sir, has anyone given you anything or asked you to carry anything for them?" The agent rattled this off, accepted his passport, and barely stopped before plunging ahead with her second pro-forma question.

"Has your luggage been in your possession at all times?"

"Yes to both," Sal said smoothly.

"Someone gave you something, Sir?" By this time she was peering at her terminal in a confused manner rather than looking at Sal.

"Yes, a man I've worked with for the past 10 years gave me a book for a contact in Iran."

"I see. There is a problem with my computer. Please wait here." The agent stepped over to the next kiosk, picked up a phone and punched a number. While talking on the phone, she was staring straight at Sal as if she expected him to disappear.

Stepping back to her own kiosk she said, "Thank you for your patience, Sir. This matter is beyond my control. My supervisor with be with you shortly. Please step aside to wait. Thanks again."

Sal couldn't help but notice that she did not return his ticket or his passport. Lord, give me patience. I knew I shouldn't have been forthcoming about this silly gift.

Two Federal Air Marshalls walked into the ticket lobby from a secure-area door behind the ticketing booths. They spoke briefly with the ticket agent and one took his ticket and passport. She pointed at Sal and they came over.

"Sir, I'm Air Marshall Tucker. This is Air Marshall Winsett. I'll have to ask you to accompany us, Sir." Tucker was brusque and professional.

"Officer Tucker, the book is right here. And I would be happy to submit to a more thorough search at screening. Is this really necessary?"

"Please accompany us, sir. This isn't about any book."

"May I ask then what it is about?"

"There are just some questions that we are going to have to ask you." Tucker picked up Sal's carry-on from the counter, shoved Sal's Halliburton behind the counter with a significant nod at one of the ticket agents and turned to go, looking over his shoulder to make sure he was being followed. Winsett fell into place behind Sal. They led him to the door into the secure area.

Sal wondered if it was his appearance that had prompted this inquiry. His skin was the color of café au lait with the slightest olive undertone. Sal's nose was prominent and slightly hooked, almost Semitic. His upswept brows and slightly kinked hair were both jet black, almost blue. He was often considered a handsome man by both men and women. His Middle Eastern origins were not the first thing you noticed about Sal, but were obvious if you were looking for them. Sal shrugged inwardly. After all, given the odds and history of the problem, he would be using racial profiling if he were in charge of the Transportation Security Agency. When they realized who he was, the interview would be over soon enough.

Sal climbed the stairs between the two Air Marshalls. Reaching the top, they walked along the glass-enclosed hallway in the direction that Tucker indicated. Sal could look down upon the ticketing lobby at the people milling or waiting down below. He couldn't imagine the immense logistical and intelligence task that ferreting out the few bad grains in that bushel would entail. The thought calmed him and gave him an odd sense of sympathy and companionship with the Marshalls. Such a daunting task they undertake every day, and for such an ungrateful and self-absorbed mob. I won't make their job any harder with any resentment. They deserve better. And no doubt I'll be done with this sooner if I make their job more pleasant and efficient.

They arrived at a metal door with a code pad mounted next to it, Winsett took Sal's shoulder and gently turned him so that he could not see the pad while Tucker entered the code. Well-trained, not sloppy, thought Sal. Tucker held the door open as Winsett guided Sal through the door with a gentle hand on his arm.

The room was almost stereotypically suited for interrogation. A large one-way mirror dominated the back wall and the others were devoid of ornament. Video cameras were mounted high in all four corners of the room. Yet some features went against stereotype. The carpet tiling formed a subtle and attractive beige motif. The bright cheery yellow of the fiber-clad walls and the skylight made the room glow with positive feelings. The effect was actually welcoming. A couch along one wall and a small desk with three comfy-looking chairs completed the furnishings.

A man waited in the single chair on the far side of the desk. He wore no uniform. He rose to his feet as the three men came in. He watched Sal as he walked across the room but said nothing. Sal did what came naturally and walked toward the man and stuck his hand out, "I'm Sal Tarif. I'll be pleased to help clear up this misunderstanding, Sir."

The man glanced down at Sal's hand and sat back down without taking it. He steepled his hands and said, "Salah Tarif, you are here because you are suspected to have material information about terrorist activities, or to be a terrorist yourself, and are considered a threat to commercial aviation."

Sal felt as if he had been struck hard in the head. He groped for a chair and collapsed into it. All he could find to say was, "Huh?"

Saturday, July 8, 2006 - 1646 EST - Philadelphia, PA

Sal didn't know how much more he could take. He had yelled at his tormentor, Frank Sallinger- the Security Supervisor of Philly International, more than a few times over the past few hours. Sal had responded fully to all of Sallinger's questions, but it was increasingly hard to hold his temper. He really had no idea at this point if there was anything he could say that would satisfy Mr. Sallinger.

"Look, Frank, I understand that I am on some sort of list that the government circulates. But there must be some way of correcting it. I am not a terrorist. I pose no danger to anyone. I run a children's charity. I am a Christian. My family have always been Druze, not Muslim." He felt guilty even as he said it. Suggesting that the Druze had any less reason to resent America than any other group in the region was deceptive, at best. But he knew that nearly all Americans were ignorant of Lebanon's history. "I have no animosity toward America. I am a citizen. I am an American. I have explained these things. You have by now gone over my belongings with every tool at your disposal. I carry nothing dangerous. I am not a threat to anyone. All I want is to get on the next flight to Amsterdam and go about my business."

"Mr. Tarif, as I have told you before, you are free to leave at any time, but there is no way to get off that list I know of and you are not getting on one of my planes until I'm satisfied you are not a threat."

Just then the side door swung open and a head popped in and said, "They're here."

"'Bout time," said Sallinger, standing and stretching up onto his tiptoes, joints popping. He put his hands on his hips at looked at Sal with pursed lips and said, "You are a sharp one, Tarif. You would have fooled me if I didn't know better. I would have let you go."

What on earth is he on about?

Through the door came two men, dressed in suits, accompanied by Air Marshall Tucker. They stepped up to Sal as he sat in his chair, and he was almost as stunned as Sallinger's first words had made him when they flashed their FBI badges.

"Special Agent Wooten," said the taller of the pair.

"Special Agent Horvath," the shorter said, placing his badge back in his suit coat. "Salah Tarif, you are under arrest on suspicion of money laundering, conspiracy to commit or abet terrorist acts, and conspiracy to engage in narcotics trafficking. The President of the United States has designated you as an enemy combatant. You are hereby notified that warrants have been served to search your office and your rental storage facility earlier today pursuant to the Patriot Act §213. Please stand."

Sal rose to his feet, hardly able to believe that this could be real, "Aren't you going to read me my rights?"

Horvath stepped behind him and as he snapped on the cuffs, said, "Nope. You don't have any now."

Saturday, July 8, 2006 - 1800 EST - New York, NY

The news directors of the country’s major media outlets were very happy to oblige the whispers that certain people had placed in their ears. The weekends were slow news days and something like this, if pushed hard for the whole weekend, could roll on its own inertia for several more news cycles.

The network anchor intoned seriously, "International terror has a new face tonight. An FBI joint task force, acting upon information developed over months of painstaking investigation, using the latest legal tools and in coordination with the PRIVATE Office, has made an arrest that sources inside the FBI say will shake international terrorism to its very foundations."

A frame of Sal looking particularly menacing after having yelled at Sallinger was shown on the Chromakey next to the newscaster.

"His name is Salah Tarif, whom sources say is a deep-cover terrorist who has been lurking in America for more than 20 years. He is said to have run a secretive world-wide web of terrorist finance linking Iraq, North Korea, Syria, Iran, Lebanon, and beyond while cynically hiding behind a children's charity. Who is this international paymaster and financier for the acquisition of weapons of mass destruction, terror, and drugs? How did he penetrate the United States to become a so-called 'citizen'? How did he mastermind the movement of drugs, money, and death throughout the Axis of Evil? All that and more, coming up on Fox News... We report. You decide."

Sunday, July 9, 2006 - 1040 EST - Washington, D.C.

Deputy Assistant Attorney General Emmanuel Goldstein had a letter from the office of the Office of the Pardon Attorney in his pocket that could make his career.

Manny knew that what it directed him to do was unethical at best, but he had been assured privately that success would give him the Criminal Division; and failure, well... it was best not to contemplate that yet.

He had to act quickly. Bad enough it was a Sunday, he had to have statements in place by 0900 tomorrow for the Monday news cycle and the Grand Jury.

He took a car out of the pool and headed towards Andrews. He was going to chopper down to Petersberg Medium; the best candidate was there. Abdul-Razzaq Baqar, the Pakistani hawaladar busted for laundering drug profits for the Taliban and Kashmiri separatists, was first on his dance card.

Manny surmised that Baqar had seen yesterday's broadcasts about Tarif and called the Pardon Office with an offer. Manny nodded, Yes, that opportunistic bastard Baqar saw his opening- probably actually had dealings with Tarif. Took a chance that the AGs office would be hungry for state's witnesses.

As a hawaladar, Baqar had pretty much a blank check to turn state's witness against almost anyone doing business in that part of the world because most would have used hawala. The only reason he hadn't yet was no prosecutor would touch him. His credibility was zero.

The hawala system allowed anyone to transfer money to just about anywhere in the world at low cost and with the speed of a phone call. Banks couldn't match hawaladars for low cost and speed of transactions. The lack of paperwork, and the ability to interleave cash transactions into normal import-export transactions and leave not a trace made it perfect for money laundering, drug and weapons purchases-- and emergency food relief, and remittance of pay for foreign workers, and a host of other legitimate transactions.

It would just be Baqar's word, but it would be enough, because in hawala, that was generally all there was.

Once it gets around that Baqar has cut a deal, the rats will come out of the woodwork, and then I can afford to be choosy about who I deal with. I might want to bring in an assistant later today. Hmmm... this is going to be big news; the public exposure couldn't do me any harm. I should hold out to do the 0900 press conference... give the impression of being in charge. Good practice.

Manny sped down the 301 towards Andrews. This is gonna be sweet. First time I get to req a chopper!

Sunday, July 9, 2006 - 1940 EST - Andrews AFB

His nose was itching again. Sal shook his head around inside the hood hoping the heavy canvas would sooth the itch. He guessed it had been almost a full day of sleep deprivation now. It was hard to tell while in hooded immobility, bound to an uncomfortable chair with the drone of white noise washing over him. The static was interrupted only by periodic squawks of punishingly loud noise to keep him awake. By now he was starting to feel considerably more afraid than sorry for himself or enraged at the government.

No one was listening, or if they were they didn't care. He had needed to use the restroom awhile back and had yelled out for what seemed like hours. Finally, he had no choice in the matter. It was humiliating to have to urinate on yourself, yet oddly pleasurable and satisfying. A memory of the body, Sal assumed- the pull of the infantile.

He knew that this treatment was meant to soften him up for interrogation, but he couldn't figure out what it was that they wanted to hear. If he told them the truth, they wouldn't listen. They would simply keep punishing him like this until he lost his mind. He was on the verge of panic. Better that he find something to tell them that would satisfy them - even if it was a lie.

What is it they think I've done? They say I'm a terrorist, but I've never hurt anyone in my life. They have arrested me and allowed me no defense; presented me with no credible charges I can refute.

Money laundering? Of course, he knew how to do such things; so did every CFO in America. Yes, he had disguised funds in order to pay bribes and incentives; so had every charity and corporation doing business in the region. But he had never purchased drugs or weapons. The charges against him were ludicrous.

Surely people will recognize how silly this is and demand the government let me go? Reg! Surely Reg will set the record straight? Bring the lawyers to demand access? Organize the Mennonite community to protest? But how long will it take? How long can I stand this? How long before I am no longer the man I was? God, please give me the strength to endure this trial. Give me the wisdom to accept your plan. Make me a worthy vessel for your will.

Sal started to shiver with fear and his breath came shallow as the panic attack set in.

On the other side of the door:

"When are we going to interrogate him, Sir?" asked Lieutenant Linda Schryver. She was seconded from army intelligence out of Ft. Huachuca to the Inter-Service Anti-Terrorist Intelligence Task Force.

Her commander here was Brigadier General James Bettry, Commander of the Task Force. He was an imposing figure.

General Bettry shook his head, "We aren't."

Lt. Schryver looked very much her youthful 25 years as her eyes widened at the Major's announcement. "Wha... Sir? I don't understand, Sir. He is starting to lose control, now is the time to begin the interrogation."

General Bettry shrugged, "Linda, I'm very sorry it has to be this way. You should know how important you are to your Nation, but there isn't time."

Lt. Schryver tried very hard to parse this sentence. It made no sense at all to her. Then the General stepped forward and drove a crudely sharpened metal bed slat up through her solar plexus and into her heart. The General stepped back as she fell, dead before meeting the floor.

The General checked his uniform for blood, considered Linda's dead body for a moment, then snapped off a sad salute. "You were the first casualty of the second revolution, soldier. There is a place for you in history, even if it won't be the right one." He then took a rag out of his pants pocket and scrubbed at the lower portion of the slat where he had held it.

The General's cell phone rang. "Bettry," barked the General, a little hoarsely.

"Sir, the nest is prepared for the eaglet."

"Acknowledged." The General snapped the phone shut.

The General unlocked the door to the prisoner's room, took the key from his ring, flipped it toward Linda's body, and opened the door.

The funk of urine and susurrus of white noise washed over him. The prisoner must have sensed a change in the room because he tried to turn and said, "Thank God you've come! I'll answer any questions you have, just please take off the hood!"

The General said nothing, just walked across the room as he removed a syringe from his jacket pocket. He stuck it firmly in Sal's upper arm and pushed the plunger home.

Sal flinched and exclaimed, "What?! There's no need for that! I will answer honestly. You don't need to give me pentathol. I don't understand. Why won't you speak to me? Speak to me! Goddamn you, speak to me..." Sal's head slumped forward in unconsciousness.

The General placed the slat carefully into Sal's hand at several different angles then tossed it through the open door. He walked over to the bed and casually flipped it over. A slat was missing from underneath.

The General took out a Leatherman, flipped out the saw and busted it off with his blunt, powerful fingers. He used this to saw through the plastic bindings at the prisoner's wrists. Again he wiped the tool thoroughly, put it in Sal's hand and dropped it on the ground, making a mental note to destroy the Leatherman later.

He pulled the hood from Sal's head, dropped it and slung Sal's body over his shoulder. His face took on a grimace of distaste as Sal's urine soaked his shoulder. He carried Sal out into the corridor.

The General walked down the corridor and kicked open a fire escape door. Alarms rang out throughout the building. He hurried across the parking lot to his Humvee, the bell of the fire alarm ripping through the night.

He none-to-gently tossed Sal's body into the back of the Humvee, covered it with a tarp and clambered behind the wheel. He was pulling out of his spot as someone finally emerged from the building.

The General turned the Humvee toward the figure. The MP waived down the General. Betry leaned out his window and barked, "We have an escaped prisoner! I found the Lieutenant and I must have been right behind him. I'm going to organize the perimeter alert. Stay here and preserve the crime scene."

"Yes, Sir!" The MP looked around and hurried back into the building.

The General started making phone calls as he drove, mobilizing the search for the escaped prisoner as he drove off the base and headed north for DC. He also contacted a discreet reporter.

Monday, July 10, 2006 - 0900 EST - Washington, D.C.

Damn, this thing is getting big, thought Manny as he walked up to the podium. Since the announcement last night that the terrorist Salah Tarif had escaped from custody at Andrews, murdering a young female Lieutenant in the process, the story had burst wide open.

A fugitive terrorist mastermind is loose in the United States, escaping from under the Air Force's nose. It was all there was on the news; the press couldn't get enough. Every service was here- thank God I pressed to get this conference.

He was going live on every affiliate in the world. No sound bites; millions would hear every word he said.

He stepped up to the podium, remembering not to clear his throat. "Good morning. I am Deputy Assistant Attorney General Emmanuel Goldstein. There will be no questions. This is a prepared statement. We cannot jeopardize any litigation by revealing too many details at this time."

"As you know, the terrorist and designated enemy combatant Salah Tarif last night escaped confinement at Andrews, murdering young Lieutenant Linda Schryver in the process. Our hearts and our prayers are with Lt. Schryver's family and friends today. To them we promise, justice will be done for our fallen soldier."

"Today, I have new, very credible evidence of Salah Tarif's role in the finance of global terrorism and narco-trafficking. Several witnesses and co-conspirators have voluntarily come forth to detail the long and convoluted history of Tarif's extensive network of drug running, money laundering, and illegal weapons dealing. I will personally secure indictments on the basis of these witnesses and independent evidence from a Federal Grand Jury this very day."

"We will produce incontrovertible evidence of how Tarif funneled money from a network of heroin dealers to terrorist groups world wide for the purchase of weapons on the black market. We know that he was key in the acquisition of weapons of terror such as C4 and Stinger Missiles. We know that he was the financier behind a plan to acquire nuclear materials from former-Soviet states to build weapons of mass destruction with them. We know that he was instrumental in the acquisition of small pox, military grade anthrax, and Legionella by terrorist networks. And perhaps most sickening, he operated this terrorist syndicate while cravenly hiding behind a charity to feed starving children."

"Once this terrorist kingpin is brought to ground, we will bring him to justice. It will, of course, be up to the President to determine when and if he stands trial. But my office will vigilantly pursue every lead and every clue to bring down the terrorist empire that Tarif has built. When the time comes we will hold him to account for Lieutenant Schnyder's murder and the death and misery he has spread throughout the globe. We will break every link in the chains of terror in which he has bound the peace-loving people of this Nation. We shall sever the arteries of tainted money flowing into the Axis of Evil from his corrupt and vile heart."

"If you are watching now, Tarif, know this: you may flee, but you cannot long hide from justice. We will stop you Salah Tarif, you Shylock of Shame."

"Thank you. We will have another briefing as soon as there is news to share with the people. God bless America."

Manny felt pretty good about his presentation as he exited the Justice Department briefing room amid a flurry of futile follow-ups. He thought that he had gotten in a few phrases that would be useful as sound bites over the next few days. If he got really lucky the catchy little sobriquet 'Shylock of Shame' would stick and become Tarif's media moniker. Manny felt that being Jewish himself it would be politically safe for him to use Shylock as a reference.

He also had tried on for size calling the Criminal Division "my office". Hopefully Gonzales would like the way that sounded too. In all, not bad for a first time out. he hoped that something juicy gave him another shot soon. He returned to his office to watch the reaction from the pundits and spinners. Sean Hannity came through with the agreed upon compliment of him as, "Ashcroftian". Put a marker down for Hannity, Manny enthused.

Monday, July 10, 2006 - 1420 EST - Washington, D.C.

Sal awoke disoriented. For a few moments he just lay there trying to put his mind back together. He couldn't recall what had last happened. Didn't remember going to bed. Had no memory of preparing for sleep. No shreds of dreams half remembered. All the things that should be there upon awakening were absent. He burrowed his head under the pillow. And bolted upright.

The hood.

He looked around expecting to see the gray block walls of his cell, but instead he saw the pale gold carpet, pleasant furnishings and filtered light of a comfortable hotel room. What the fuck? Sal was not a man who cursed, even mentally, but the words came to mind unbidden.

He tried to take stock rationally. He examined himself. Nude. His forearms stung where there were some superficial scratches and a faint impression of his bonds. He smelled really bad, like piss and b.o. He touched his hair- greasy. His face- a few days growth. His upper arm was slightly painful and swollen- a tiny mark. The hypodermic. Sal had, of course, never experienced sodium pentathol, but the media never portrayed it as knocking you out completely. He thought that he should have at least some vague memories of interrogation. So I was drugged, dumped and stripped. Where are my clothes? He looked about without moving. He realized that he was afraid to move. He took some deep breaths. Got out of the queen-sized bed. No clothes in sight.

Is it over? Did they realize their mistake and get rid of me? Just another guy sleeping off a bender in hotel? No evidence left behind; just my word that any of it ever happened. Sal felt a tiny splinter of hope begin to grow inside him. If it was true, he was certainly going to go along. He would never even mention this bizarre episode in his life. He felt wronged, but growing up in Lebanon, he knew that much worse things happened to people every day. He was just grateful that it was over.

Sal looked around the room. It turned out to be a suite. There was a pile of junk in the living room around the couch and all over a few tables that had been pushed together. Wires, electronic parts, and stuff Sal had no frame of reference to identify. This doesn't make any sense. He began to feel a little less optimistic. Maybe his tormentors hadn't just walked away and left him.

He walked over to the window and pulled aside the curtain. No balcony and he was high up. He could see a river and the Kennedy Center. I must be in DC... Am I at the Watergate? He went back in the bedroom and dug through the nightstand. Yes, a room service menu of the Watergate. Then he noticed that there was no phone by the bed. He toured the room again; no phone at all.

He tried the door to the room and couldn't open it. He fiddled with the locks to no avail. It was locked from the outside somehow. He beat on the door and yelled out at the top of his lungs, "Help! I am being held prisoner here! Please help me!" Ear to the door he heard nothing. Damn... So I am locked in a suite at the Watergate with a bunch of stuff that looks like someone is building a supercomputer, naked, with no phones. It's not over. But, what is the point of this?

The scariest things in life are those that we cannot understand. If you don't understand something, you'll never know when it will decide to reach out and swallow you whole. Sal felt very much like he had just slid down the gullet of such an enigma. He could feel the panic attack starting. This is not me! I am not subject to panic attacks! Breathe! Relax! Don't lock up! Think! Sal fought to master the panic, but he felt as if there was an alarm going off in his brain insisting that he run. Any direction- just run until the danger was left behind. But there was nowhere to run.

He went into the bathroom with its marbled fixtures and was slightly soothed by its relative normalcy. He looked in the mirror and an extremely scared and filthy fool looked back at him. How has my life come to this? OK. Be calm. This has got to work out some way. I am an American citizen. They can't just do whatever they like to me. I have some rights, don't I? This isn't Lebanon.

Maybe this is some sort of test. A government test to see how innocent people respond to the psychological pressure of a false accusation. Some ill-conceived experiment in psychological warfare. Maybe they want me to figure out a way out of this?

Lord, I'm afraid. Help me understand, please?

Sal took a shower and it felt fantastic. He had begun to feel a little calmer and more optimistic in the shower. He toweled off and used another towel to wrap around his waist so that he did not feel quite so vulnerable.

He went to the living room and sat on the couch. Perhaps the answer is here? Maybe they want me to use these things to try to escape? He began to sort through the equipment before him. Some of it was commonplace, but much of it he simply had no idea what it could be used for. There was nothing he could see that would help him bust through a solid-core, metal clad door or make a phone call for help.

He stepped back into the bedroom and realized that there was an armoire there that he had not opened. There was a television inside. He looked for a remote and couldn't find one. Upon investigation he found that there was a panel at the base of television that flipped down, with great difficulty, to reveal controls. He switched the set on. It was on CNN.

The beast swallowed him again. He sat back on the bed and watched as they libeled him over and over. They said he had killed a young woman, an Army Lieutenant from Arizona. They said he trafficked in drugs; but he wouldn't have a clue where to buy so much as a marijuana cigarette. That he sold terrible weapons to terrorists; but he couldn't even look at a weapon without feeling sick since he was shot. How can anyone believe these lies? They are so fantastic- like a children's book with boogey men and villains. Only the villain is me. Why isn't anyone defending me, asking where the proof is?

And there it was: a voice in the wilderness. Asked for comment about their erstwhile CFO, a spokesman for MCC in a taped statement said, "We have full confidence in Mr. Tarif. We feel sure that these charges against him are mistaken and he will be found innocent of all charges. He is a member of the Mennonite Church, a pacifist and a proud and decent American. We urge the government to allow Mr. Tarif access to counsel when he is found. We urge all Americans to reserve judgment until Mr. Tarif has his day in court."

As mild and reasonable as it was, the commentators tore the statement apart. They mentioned that the President had already suspended all federal faith-based funds going to MCC pending further investigation of possible malfeasance within the charity. Oh, God. They will be hounded and harassed because of me. Outside contributions will dry up. The charity will be crippled. More children will starve because I am too stupid to extricate myself from this mess!

Sal threw himself on the bed and began to weep as he had not wept since childhood.

In the suite next door:

Brigadier General Bettry and two Marine Captains watched the bank of monitors. Bettry felt a brief surge of pity at the sight of Sal crying on the bed. He quickly replaced it with contempt.

"I think he has probably left sufficient trace in there by now and he's fiddled with the weaponizing equipment. Break down surveillance and then secure the prisoner, gentlemen. Once the scene is prepared, tip off the staff. I'm going ahead to make preparations." Bettry returned their salutes and let himself out of the suite.

He stripped off his gloves as he walked, his boot heels cracking down the as yet uncarpeted corridor. This floor had just been renovated and was not yet open for business. He flipped the door to the emergency stairway open with his hip, noting the expert security bypass on the door. Back to Andrews and into history.

Monday, July 10, 2006 - 1800 EST - Washington, D.C.

News production coordinators around the nation waited anxiously to cut to Washington for National Security Advisor Hadley and Homeland Secretary Chertoff's announced press gaggle starting at 1804. That would allow anchors to summarize the days news and lead in before cutting to the live coverage that would constitute the evening's top news.

At precisely 1804, Hadley swept into the White House Briefing Room with Chertoff right behind him. Hadley stepped to the podium and threw back his shoulders as Chertoff took up a post to his left.

He spoke in clear, slightly over-pronounced tones, "This evening I have troubling news for America. Terrorist mastermind Salah Tarif is at large as we speak and a manhunt, conducted by the FBI and greater Washington area police departments, is underway. The NSA and the PRIVATE Office have intercepted electronic signal intelligence that indicate Tarif may have succeeded in smuggling one or more portable nuclear devices into the United States. I urge the American people to be calm and resolute. There is no evidence that Tarif has a target or that the devices are active. FBI Director Freeh has placed Tarif at number one on the FBI's most-wanted list and the President has made Tarif's capture the Administration's number one national security concern."

"Intercepted phone calls, made by secure satellite phone and encrypted digital cellular, have been decoded and translated from Arabic to reveal this plot. Again, there is no reason for panic. The President is closely monitoring the situation from his ranch in Texas and the government is mobilized to meet the terrorist threat posed by Tarif. For more on our response to this potential attack I'll turn it over to Homeland Security Secretary Chertoff. God bless America." Hadley stepped off to the right Chertoff moved in front of the podium.

"Thank you, Steven. I have upgraded the Homeland Security Advisory System to condition Severe in response to this new information concerning the Tarif terror network. This is the highest level of threat and it indicates that there is an immediate, credible, and corroborated threat of grave terrorist attack up our nation. I urge all Americans to obey specific instructions from your state and local authorities regarding restrictions on movement that will follow this conference and to be vigilant but calm. Be assured that all elements of the Homeland Defense Forces are on high alert and ready to prevent an attack on our nation. I'll take questions at this time..."

Tuesday, July 11, 2006 - 0540 EST - 19,000 meters above the Atlantic ocean, 100 kilometers from the Delaware coast.

General Bettry hated flight suits. They were probably the reason why he had spent his career in Air Force intelligence rather than in command of a wing of his own. He shifted in his flight station to try to unpinch his penis; it was starting to make him cross.

His pilot had filed a flight plan for a training mission here above the Atlantic in a B-2A Spirit Stealth Bomber. Of course, plans were subject to change.

Like any battlefield commander faced with implementation of his plan, he was jittery and experiencing some self-doubt. Was there anything I missed? Some detail I failed to account for? He had the advantage because he knew the man who had designed the defenses he faced and he knew the systems intimately. It was galling that his colleague the Colonel had done such a good job. What Bettry was about to do was unthinkable; but it was the job of a good warrior to think the unthinkable- and then prepare for it.

His was a good plan, but like any combat mission, there was substantial risk, some might say a certainty, that something would go wrong. The main mission parameter was to remain here on the training station until spaceborne radar platforms were over-horizon from DC at 20,000 meters and the Patriot batteries he faced would be blind from space. He wouldn't have much of a window, but it would be enough. The Multi-Theater Target Tracking Capability radar system wouldn't be fully operational until 4th quarter 2008. There were no geosynchronous radar satellites up yet, only low Earth orbiters; the plan depended on that small vulnerability. A B-2A certainly had radar reducing capabilities, but there was no way even it could elude the MT3C system once it was fully online.

Once the radar satellites capable of detecting the B-2A were out of the picture, he could advance on Washington. Insertion into the airspace above DC would also be tricky. He had blackmailed the Sergeant Major in charge of the secondary, offsite AN//MPQ-53 phased array radar to ensure a malfunction during the critical time window. This would deprive the Patriot batteries of the bi-static radar capabilities astutely provided for by his colleague.

A stealth aircraft flying nearly head-on toward a radar emitter and detector was almost invisible. However, a detector set at some distance away from the emitter greatly increased the odds of getting a return signal. The timely failure of the secondary radar, which provided such bi-static capability to the Patriot batteries on ground zero, would greatly enhance his chances of not being detected.

That edge was crucial; were he detected so far off plan he might not get toasted with a Patriot, but the very fact that he was there would be too coincidental to explain away. He had to be invisible.

0547. Satellites down. Time to move. He gave his pilot the signal. Perhaps it was time to speak to the Shylock of Shame.

"Are you awake back there, Mr. Tarif?"

"Out of that bunk and on your feet, soldier!"

Sal slowly became aware that someone was talking in his ear.

"Hey, Terror of the Western World! Wake up!"

"Huh? What? What's that?" Sal heard a slight pop in his ear as he spoke. He tried to wipe the saliva that had run across his cheek and found he couldn't move at all. For that matter he couldn't see much except for vague dark shapes. He couldn't hear much except his own breath and heart and the sarcastic voice in his ear. He felt a comforting vibration though, and he was warm.

"Ah, awake at last, sleepyhead. Good. I certainly wouldn't want you to miss what's next."

"What? Who's there?" Sal slurred groggily.

"Not very sharp for a terrorist mastermind, are you?" the mocking voice crackled into his ear.

The events of the past few days crashed back into Sal's mind. His entrails felt watery. "What's happening to me?" Sal asked plaintively, almost a whine.

"Oh that... you are becoming immortal, my dear man. You will be more than you ever dreamed. Your infamy will be historic. Your usefulness, unlimited."

Sal almost wanted to giggle at the histrionic sentiments, but he was just a little too convinced that the speaker was being serious. "Please. I beg you. I don't understand. Why can't I move? Where am I? What the FUCK DO YOU WANT?!" Sal screamed so hard that he though he throat might crack open.

Sal felt the panic and rage and injustice of his persecution wash over him in a hot torrent such as he had never felt. He struggled against whatever bound him, but could only wiggle slightly regardless of his adrenaline fueled rage.

"My, now. Temper, temper. We'll make a proud warrior for Allah out of you yet. Oh, thai>t's right... I suppose it's a little too late for self-improvement programs at this stage of the game."

Panting and shaking from stress chemicals coursing though his veins, Sal struggled to control himself and frame a question that would not be met with derision. "Who are you?"

"Well, why not? I am Air Force Brigadier General Adam Bettry. Would you like to know who you are?"

"Very well, who am I?" Sal saw no reason not to play along if it got him some information.

"You are the terrorist mastermind who is about to detonate a nuclear device on United States' soil, vaporizing the Pentagon, and thereby prompting declaration of martial law."

The sheer impossibility of what he was hearing set Sal laughing as hard as he had raged before. He was gasping for air and wondering at the uncontrollable spasms of giggles coming from him unbidden when the voice came again.

"I like a man who can laugh in the face of adversity, Mr. Tarif. You know, I think I understand now why the Bond villains are always driven to bare their souls and reveal their plans to Bond when he is in their power. It really is an immensely satisfying feeling..." a great rumble of a chuckle, "and very amusing. Of course, the problem for you is, you are no James Bond. Are you Mr. Tarif? You are just a little accountant that the whole world is convinced is evil incarnate. You are just a guy who never wanted all that much from life who now has a nuclear weapon strapped to his ass. Just a decent hard-working American who is about to be dropped out of a stealth bomber to nuke the Pentagon. Isn't life odd, Mr. Tarif?"

Sal wasn't sure which one of them it was, but he was convinced that one of them was mad. Or... and this was a possibility that Sal admitted with great difficulty... neither of them was mad. This was really happening. It was all true. And that left Sal with a third conviction that he had never before had reason to examine.
God was mad. Mad as a fucking hatter.

"Still with us, Mr. Tarif?"

"What is the point of this? Why are you doing this? Why me? Wh..." Sal struggled to stop himself from babbling out more questions and to wait for answers.

"Fine questions, Mr. Tarif. I don't really have time to be comprehensive; we are approaching our target very soon. The gist is this: the system doesn't work. Hasn't for some time. I am part of a group of people- I wouldn't call it a conspiracy, it's far too big for that- call us of a like mind. We are in the military, in government, in business, in academia - everywhere really. We believe that the so-called checks and balances of the Constitution have become cumbersome, slow and useless. An excuse for institutional sloth and failure rather than a means to protect some theoretical minority. Is there really any question any more about how this country should be run? Any big questions?"

"None that matter to anyone who matters."

"We want to free the greatness of America. To cast off the restraints that hold us back from being what we were meant to be and cherish those values that make us great. You see, we only want the trains to run on time, as it were. We do not propose to abolish the forms of government we now have, nor the idea of democracy. We cherish democratic values. Ever wonder why most people don't use their vote? It is because they know in their hearts that the real value of democracy is in the idea of democracy, not in its use."

"We don't want the military to run things- not at all! As things stand, the military is part of the problem. A 400 billion dollar behemoth that still doesn't keep us safe. Oh, the claws, the fangs, the wings, the eyes, the fiery breath, these are all potent. But the body, the tail, the guts of the beast are bloated, corrupt, and obsolete. That is one of the reasons we have chosen this target. It is time to immolate the beast in its own fire so that may emerge anew. Fierce, competitive, cunning, and ready to pounce and rule the world. Only by destroying the gravid bureaucracy and logistical apparatus of the military can it be replaced with private enterprise. Adaptable, efficient, ruthless, profitable, and competitive support and logistics, that is the laudable by-product of our actions here today. All of the military will be as effective as its fighting men and women."

"Sometimes, to move the customs and traditions of a country or an institution in the right direction a great shock is required. We have tried smaller, more protracted efforts. The War on Drugs? People who think as I do planned and executed that. Unfortunately, it didn't sufficiently free the authority of the state and people tired of it too quickly. It became all too clear that the enemy was really just ourselves and our indulgences, and then the War was hampered by people's complacent insistence on rights and limits."

"This time, we won't make that mistake. The enemy will be credible, alien, frightening; an enemy to make people take refuge in the power of the state. You, Mr. Tarif. You, and others like you. Oh, there are some real ones out there, no doubt. And they will strike at us in small ways. And we'll kill them. But they have their own agendas. They have proven incapable of sustained and rational action."

"But you! You will be so much more reliable, Mr. Tarif. You can be trusted to set the stage for policy. You will have unlimited resources. You will have unlimited followers. You will go anywhere. Accomplish anything. Dare everything. You will be the ultimate enemy, Mr. Tarif. Because you do not... er, will not, exist."

"You will exist only in our propaganda. If the time comes when you are no long useful, it will be trivial to dispose of you, declare victory, and revel in the triumph. But I will assure you, my future nemesis, that day will be a long time coming. You will be one of the giants of history. A decoy to America's enemies and a rallying pennant to her friends. Striding alongside me on the road to glory, the dark face of Janus to mine of radiant light. You will make dear departed Ussama bin Laden look like a choirboy. So congratulations, Mr. Tarif. You will achieve what most men crave and never achieve; fame, victory, reputation, respect, and fear. Who knows? Maybe someday you'll even have a child to follow in your footsteps."

Sal groaned with the agony of the knowledge he now carried. God was mad and he was about to spend eternity in the presence of an insane divinity. It never occurred to Sal to question whether God existed at all. That was a given. The bedrock of Sal's life. So the only alternative was the one Sal had been forced to believe.

After such an odd and unfamiliar political manifesto Sal didn't know what he could possibly say. It wasn't as if he had given up, really, so much as he didn't have any more choices; or perhaps he had never had any choices at all. Knowing he had only minutes, maybe seconds, to live, it was hard to know how best to use the time. Pray to a God too loony to heed him? Seek some last words to spit into his tormentor's soul? Beg for his life?

Sal looked into his heart and found unbidden the words that would be his last. "May God forgive you. No one else ever will. The truth will be known. You think that you can dictate the truth, but it is greater than you. My life is a fact that can't be buried by any lies you heap on it. I have lived my life as well as I could. I've been the best man I knew how to be. That won't die here. People knew me in a way that your lies can't shake. Someone will find the key to unlock all your lies. And when truth is unlocked, people will claim their freedom."

As he finished, the vibration around him intensified, and he felt the vertigo of free-fall for the first time. Suddenly, he was looking up at a jagged black plane against a blue-black sky that rapidly dwindled from view. Still unable to move, he realized that must be encased within some sort of cocoon. His cocoon rolled slowly over so that he was head down, facing the earth. He felt no wind and realized that he was looking through a window in front of his face.

He could see a constellation of lights below him, like stars in the sky, but with patterns and order that spoke an intelligent plan. He could see a great swath of the DC - New York metroplex cascading away over the horizon. He imagined he could stretch out his mortal hand, scoop up those lights, and fling the mightiest city on earth back into the firmament to burn eternal amidst all the billions of suns.

He felt a light jolt against his back, breaking him out of his reverie, and then another against his right side. Course corrections. Sal thought about all the military personnel who would be at their desks in the Pentagon. At least it was early and relatively few would be there. He felt far worse for them than he did for himself. He wouldn't even be conscious of his death, it would come so swiftly. He would just blink out of existence. So many of them would not be so lucky. He felt unexpected resignation and peace as he dropped though the atmosphere toward the target.

Sal wondered if one could really make choices in Heaven or if everything was already decided, as it seemed to be on Earth. He could really see no reason why it would be any different. He hoped that he would be allowed to see Julia once again. But he didn't dare allow himself to wish too strongly. It seemed to Sal that it was always the very things he wanted with all his heart that were destined to elude his grasp. And it was the very things that he hated most that had been forced upon him, apparently.

Sal vowed that if he got to heaven, he wouldn't assume that God was sane. He would assume that He wasn't, and tell Him only what He wanted to hear. If he was guarded, if he was clever, if he was deceitful, if he was all those things that he had manifestly failed to be in life, perhaps he could find a way to be with Julia again, and to abide in peace with his wife.

He was getting pretty low now and could see the shape of the Pentagon below limned by security lights.

I wonder if I'll hit first or if I'll just

Tuesday, July 11, 2006 - 0559 EST - The Pentagon

A false day dawned over the Potomac.

In the air high above:

"The die is cast. Over."