and a full investigation into his past had begun before his PUI had reappeared. No one could tell how it had disappeared, or how it had come back, and although everyone suspected the ‘Gang of Four’, no one could prove it and therefore no one dared say anything.
Marty looked at the image of the naked man sitting on the Biosense, his feet not touching the ground in the White Room. Jibril Muraz, a name from the Lebanese culture, Jibril meaning Gabriel in Arabic. The man didn’t look as if he was of Arabic background and his DNA didn’t match that of the common Lebanese ancestry streams. He could have chosen a common Caucasian origin name, but he didn’t. That was an interesting question. Given that everything this man had done was carefully planned, she had to assume that the choice of name was deliberate.
If he chooses an Arabic name then is there a relationship to that Geographic? Or is the fact that he is a Caucasian more relevant and the name is meant to be translated? If the first name means something then so does the surname, Muraz. There isn’t a straightforward translation into English for Muraz, unlike with Gabriel. Therefore if it isn’t straightforward, perhaps it is an anagram.
She stood and stretched. Her one hundred and seventy-eight cents frame twisted to the right and left to work out the knots in her spine which sounded with satisfying pops as she wrenched it sideways again. She straightened and walked across the black floor barefoot until she reached Dom sitting in the north-eastern corner of the room. Dominique, ‘just call me Dom’ Signora, was an anthropologist with triple degrees in social, biological and cultural anthropology, and he loved jazz.
She said, “Have you got anything on his DNA?”
Dom swiveled in his Siteazy to face her, his hands on his thighs. “No matches. Nothing. Of course, this guy’s too good. But his DNA is fascinating.”
“Why?” she asked and sat cross-legged on the floor beside him. He turned the Siteazy back to the Dev in front of him and tapped a key on the console.
“Look at this,” he said, pointing to the DNA chart. He had constructed a most likely origin from the DNA — matching it with other known DNA and bringing it down back through time to its various sources. “This is some mix. French, Polynesian, English, and Greek. How’s that for a combo? These are the most obvious strands. Do you know how many matches we have on record?”
“No, not off the top my head,” said Marty with an innocent smile.
“Sorry, of course you don’t. Well, the answer is none, and the probability of that…”
“Yes. Off the scale. That I do know.”
Dom stretched out his legs in front of him and folded his hands behind his head. He said, “I’m thinking about his whole meditation thing as well. He had to learn that somewhere and certainly his demeanor is really more Asian than anything else. Well, the point is, when you throw that into the DNA mix the whole picture becomes even more confusing because now it adds Asian culture into that mix.”
“What about the linguistics of the statement?”
“Ah the linguini,” said Dom, and smiled at his own joke, his eyes darting to Marty to see if she smiled too. “I was hoping you’d ask me that because it rounds out my current theory nicely. The answer is the linguistics are almost deliberately American in Geographic origin. Which supports my theory that this Jibril comes from everywhere.” At this Dom let out a burst of laughter and Marty had to smile.
“All right. Go down the strands again and see if you find any close matches,” she said, rising in a fluid motion, not using her hands to push herself off the floor. She turned and walked south west to the opposite corner of the room.
Entering the University of Dubai at fourteen, and before she had finished her first year in behavioral sciences there, Fatima Farzi had written a book on behavior that became the course book for the first year students the following year. By her second year she had passed the level of knowledge acquisition required to become a doctor and asked her professors what she was going to study in her third year. Typically, a Masters in behavioral sciences was a four year course. Her professors, with nothing left to give, asked her to keep writing. She had just turned seventeen when she produced the new course material for the whole four years. Working on it full-time she finished it within six months. She was now nineteen, a virgin, extremely shy, and perhaps the most brilliant member of the team.
Marty laid a hand on the teenager’s shoulder and leant forward to see what she was working on. Fatima jumped slightly and turned to Marty. On seeing it was her, she relaxed and smiled. She loved Marty like a big sister, and Marty felt the same way about Fatima, protecting her from the masses of UNPOL.
“Anything?” she asked, and nodded at the image of Jibril, or Gabriel, on the screen.
“Yes, the absence of behavior is a behavior in and of itself, and that is all I’ve got. Sorry.”
“That’s OK, it’s not your fault. I’ve got nothing either, just ideas and they keep changing. But what do you mean, the absence of behavior?”
Fatima smiled her shy smile, which Marty knew meant that she was about to hear something very clever and unique.
“I cataloged his behaviors from the moment of containment to his escape. He gives away nothing. There is no behavior. He doesn’t get angry, sad, happy, confused or mad. The whole time, he maintains a singular behavior. And that is his behavior. He is totally under control at all times. His behavior is no behavior. Which means his behavior is control.”
“OK,” said Marty, “and where does that leave us? What else?”
Fatima chewed her bottom lip as if debating whether or not to share with Marty what she knew. Marty waited patiently, softly smiling an encouraging smile. Fatima blurted out, “I think he’s really handsome,” and blushed bright red, her eyes flashing and looking around the room to see if Dom or Stanislav had heard.
“So do I,” Marty said and squeezed Fatima’s shoulder lightly. “Very handsome. But how about his behavior? Is there anything else you sense?”
Fatima had been feeling guilty, but on seeing Marty’s smile and hearing her confirmation, felt better about what she had really been thinking about Jibril. She said, “If he is controlling his behaviors to the extent that he can hide all of them from our observation then the conclusion we can draw is that he is operating on at least two levels. One level is his public persona and the other is his real persona. The important thing here is that we believe his public persona is his real persona when in fact it is a fabrication. This means that he is capable of controlling not just his behavior but the behavior of others so they perceive him incorrectly. He exploits the concept of ‘at face value’ and projects that face value convincingly through his passivity. Getting people to perceive something when you’re doing nothing is quite a skill.”
“Yes. That’s good thinking, Fatima. Excellent. How about why? Why is he doing this? You’ve given me what he’s doing and I agree with you, but why is he doing it?”
“Don’t know.”
“Can you think about that for us?”
Fatima smiled. “That’s what I’ve been doing. I’ll think some more though. Are you hungry yet?”
“Not yet. Why don’t you wait. I should be ready in another hour and then we can eat together, OK?”
Fatima rolled her eyes at Marty’s look and stance. Fatima loved to eat and her body reflected that. At ninety kilogs in weight and only one hundred and fifty cents tall, Fatima was a plump girl with the most beautiful eyes that Marty had ever seen. “OK, Marty, another hour.”
Marty smiled at her and straightened up. With a pat on Fatima’s shoulder she walked across the room to Stanislav. Stanislav sat in between and equidistant from Dom and Fatima, in the south east section of the circular room. Marty had chosen the north west area in honor of one her favorite flicks, and she and Dom guarded the door that entered from the northern-most point of the room. They each had a quarter circle of Devscreen that could be divided up or made single at a touch on the track-balls in their Devcockpit consoles.
Stanislav entered the ‘School of Hard Knocks’ the day he was born, traveling the hardest road of them all to the 188th floor of UNPOL Headquarters Deep Trace Operations Unit. An orphan raised by the City of Tyumen, Stanislav was brilliant at mathematics. The Tyumen Technopark had been his gateway to being recognized, as his skill in cryptography and eavesdropping was first exploited by the Russian mafia. Upon leaving the squat cement block of a school where his brilliance at mathematics was ignored by his teachers, he was recruited by the Russkaya Mafiya and placed in Tyumen technopark to steal secrets.
He was seventeen when he was arrested for supplying confidential information gleaned from the airwaves of the Corps and Ents operating in Tyumen. Ordered to contribute a year of his time to working with UNPOL, cracking
