sake.”
Michael waved it away as irrelevant. “Brother Stephen told me that the boy was a threat, a troublemaker. Now he’s a frightened boy again. A neutralized threat. No permanent harm was done.”
“Brother Stephen is a liability,” Kendig said. “I don’t like the way he is with the prisoners, and I don’t like his attitude around the other soldiers. I think you empower him too much by allowing his shenanigans.”
“He is a fine and loyal soldier,” Michael said. “He and Sister Colleen will both be honored for their service at the bridge in Washington. That was simply brilliant.”
“So why risk the victory with the broadcast? Videos like that can be traced directly back to you.”
Michael shook his head. “Impossible.”
“It’s not impossible, Michael. It’s inevitable. The feds have uncanny resources to track down Internet broadcasts. Crazy resources that we can’t possibly match.”
“I have it covered,” Michael said. He made a point of keeping his voice modulated and under control. He would not honor shouting with shouting of his own. “Brother Kirkland is quite the computer whiz. He assures me that everything about our transmission will trace back to a computer in Flint, Michigan. When we broadcast again, the signature will trace to Islamabad. We will have to let enough time pass for them to believe we took the family to Pakistan, which will fit perfectly with what they want to believe. That will leave us free to operate even less encumbered by the authorities than we already are.”
Kendig stood again. “Do you hear the hubris in your words? You think you’re invincible, and that’s the kind of attitude that will bring us all down.”
Michael sighed. This was all such a waste of time. “I apologize, Brother Kendig, if I have sprung too big a surprise. I should have been clearer in my communication. But right now, what’s done is done. The mission is progressing.”
“Is it?” Kendig pressed. “Is it really? Is my mission progressing, or is it only yours? Is it possible that you’re having too good a time playing with people’s minds?”
Suddenly, Michael felt very real concern. “Tell me, Kendig, what exactly is your mission? Maybe we have in fact grown apart.”
“My mission is to set things straight again. To set this country straight again. I’m tired of watching the rich run roughshod over the poor. I’m tired of watching my community swirl down the toilet while places like New York and Washington and Los Angeles thrive in the shade of immorality. My mission is revolution.”
Michael smiled. He felt warm again, comforted by hearing his own words recited back to him. “And the revolution begins with small bands of operatives creating havoc. We have succeeded in Washington and Kansas City and Detroit. A strike team leaves tonight and another tomorrow to deal more blows to the Users, and after they are successful, there will be more. The rage against the Islamists will be-pardon me-biblical in proportion.” He chuckled at his own cleverness.
Kendig seemed frustrated, as if he didn’t feel he was getting his point across effectively. “But the prisoners-”
“Without them, there would be no face,” Michael interrupted. “You were right about that. I am, in fact, putting a face on our mission, and that face-those faces, in this case-will unite America in a desire to bring Islamic terrorists to their knees. The government will finally do what they should have been doing all along, and while they are focused on the phantom we have created, we will move in to cut the head off the snake.”
Kendig cocked his head. “What are you talking about? What snake?”
Michael brought his feet down from the table and leaned closer. “ The snake,” he said. “The only snake that matters. The United States government.”
Kendig cocked his head, intrigued. He lowered himself into a seat again. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Michael smiled. “Ah, but I am telling you. We fulfilled the GSA contract today, Kendig. Our panels will be installed in time for the president’s holiday address.”
It was the achievement of a dream.
CHAPTER TEN
With Rollins gone, the atmosphere in the room felt less homicidal.
“Why would they take hostages in the first place?” Jonathan asked his assembled team.
Their chorus of confused looks told him that he hadn’t stated his question clearly enough.
He explained, “You’re a terrorist group, okay? You’re against this or for that, and you do your big nasty. You make a big mark. You’ve won. Why do you want hostages?”
“To create more terror,” Boxers said.
“No,” Gail said. “I see his point. They’ve already scored on a big scale. They’ve already ruined hundreds of lives. In the showbiz that terrorism has become, imperiling a single family seems like something of an anticlimax.”
“But they told us what they were looking for,” Venice said. “They told us that their goal is for the United States to abandon its interests in the Middle East and Central Asia.”
Jonathan stood and started his classic problem-solving pace around the room. “Something’s not adding up for me,” he thought aloud. “If we take them at their word, they’ve already killed dozens of people. They said in the video that the killings would continue until they got their way, but they know they’ll never get their way. Even if a complete withdrawal was imminent, a threat like this would cause a delay, just to keep the world from thinking that the U.S. had blinked.”
He paused in his stroll to give a long look to the frozen frame of the Nasbes. He kept his finger pointed at them while he turned to face his troops. “With that many people already dead, how do these two rise to the level of bargaining chips? That doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Maybe you’re thinking too hard,” Boxers said. “They’re terrorists, for God’s sake. Do you really think they’re parsing every word?”
“Does it matter?” Venice asked, cutting to the chase. “Does the reason they were taken really have anything to do with planning their rescue?”
He gave her the short answer: “No.”
Venice turned her attention to her ever-present computer and tapped a dozen keys. “Here’s the easy stuff,” she began. “The transmission site for this Web broadcast is an address in Flint, Michigan.”
“That’s the Muslim capital of the U.S.,” Boxers said.
“Yes, it is,” Venice confirmed.
“The FBI is going to be all over that place,” Gail said.
“Already done,” Venice said. “According to ICIS, they raided the place about twenty minutes ago.” Pronounced EYE-sis, the Interstate Crime Information System was a largely unknown outgrowth of the 9-11 attacks, in which data from ongoing investigations were tracked by computer with details made available only to a select few law- enforcement officials with specifically approved federal clearances. And Venice.
“I’m going to guess from the look on your face that they found nothing,” Jonathan said.
“Just a frightened college student with something of a gaming obsession. They’re going to question him, but nobody thinks he’s the guy.”
“Any geek worth the tape on his glasses can set up a false routing for Internet transmissions,” Gail said.
Venice’s eyes flashed. She did not like having her thunder stolen.
Jonathan scowled. “Is the college kid part of the Muslim community?”
Venice tapped some more. “Farouk al-Somebody. You’ll have to figure out the pronunciation on your own.”
Jonathan declined. “No, that’s okay. It’s a Muslim name.” A thought blossomed in his mind, and as it grew, he waved his forefinger at nobody in particular. “So, riddle me this. If you’re a badass terrorist group, and you can reroute your Internet electrons to anyplace in the world you want them to be, why reroute them to the heart of the Muslim community in America?”
“To throw the authorities off the scent,” Boxers said. It was the most obvious thing in the world.
“No,” Jonathan said. “That’s why you reroute the signal in the first place. But if you know for a fact that the feds are going to trace the false location to its source, why wouldn’t you tag the signal to a computer in the heart of the Bible Belt? Or to someplace in France? Why the very heart of American Islam?”
