Mind's Eye (46 page)

Heather glared at Fyfe with absolute contempt, but wisely remained silent.

“So was it worth it?” said Altschuler. “All the murders, all the schemes? You were already a rich man. How much more money did you need?”

Fyfe laughed. Whether in the persona of John Delamater or Cameron Fyfe, the man rarely smiled, and almost never laughed. But he did now. And there was something very chilling about it. “Come on, Nick,” he said. “How much longer are you going to wait. Tell them already.”

“Tell us what?” said Altschuler, and from Hall’s expression, he was suddenly unsure he really wanted to know.

Hall locked his eyes on Altschuler’s and shook his head woodenly. “He didn’t do it for the money,” he said. “We thought it was about greed and power. That he was a brilliant, psychopathic businessman run amok. But I’m afraid the truth is even worse than we thought,” he added, his tone as grim as his face. “
Far
worse.”

55

Fyfe gazed down at his helpless, handcuffed prisoners and realized he was enjoying himself. He hadn’t faced off against anyone who was close to his equal, which included his recently deceased partner, Kelvin Gray, for a long, long time. These three had done well. Forced him to make better moves to win than were typically needed, including the move to verify Hall still had ESP, of which he was very proud.

But they would never understand him.
Could
never understand him. Their brainwashed worldview wouldn’t allow it. They thought he was a psychopath, but he was more compassionate and more pious than any of them.

His parents had arrived in the US in 1985. They were heroes. And ultimately martyrs. Leaving the land they loved, Saudi Arabia, to come to the Great Satan was a sacrifice no one should be asked to make. But they made it proudly.

They were brilliant, and true believers in the Koran. And they took the long view. They would try to gather intelligence for others to use in the war against the West, a war the West was too arrogant to even know it was in until September 11 of 2001.

And they taught their sons well. Taught them to love Allah and hate the decadent West. Taught them to be pious. And taught them to be patient, for the Koran said, “Be patient in adversity; for, verily, Allah will not let the reward of the righteous be wasted.”

And their parents planned to be more patient than any other devout Muslims in history. They devoted their lives, not to their own glory, but to assuring the glory of their sons decades in the future. They devoted their lives to honing human weapons capable of striking at the heart of the West. Teaching their sons through love and patience the serenity that was the Koran, and the false deity of secularism that was the soulless American way of life.

He was given the putrid American name of John Delamater, but his parents made sure he loved and respected his real name, Hassan Ahmed Abdullah, and that of his older brother, Rashid. And his parents had made every sacrifice for them. They had disappeared when he and his brother were in college. He had later learned through sources in Saudi Arabia that they had believed the US authorities were closing in on them, so rather than put him and Rashid at risk of discovery, they had martyred themselves in Jerusalem, strapping bombs to their chests and blowing up a school bus, ensuring the soulless children within would never grow up to become the enemies of Allah.

His parents were without equal. No sons had ever had more devoted parents, and he knew that even now they were both in the special place in heaven reserved for martyrs.

His father had always told Hassan and his brother that they would be the most potent weapons ever unleashed, because they were born in the US. In the belly of the beast. They could speak like a native. Pretend to believe in the decadence of the society, all the while using this to sharpen their hatred. They could blend in and bend the rules ruthlessly to get ahead, to gather resources around them until they could come up with a way to destroy the West.

Their parents had taught them the concept of Taqiyya, or concealment, which, taken broadly, specified that until that great day that Islam was ascendant in the world, they had the right to proclaim one thing and do another. It was the ultimate ends-justify-the-means provision. If Hassan had to pretend to love America while secretly despising it, this was fully acceptable. Whatever he had to do to defeat the infidel was acceptable; adapt to Western styles, cheat and steal from infidels, ignore his obligation to prayer for long periods of time when he might be discovered. Allah was a forgiving God, and would understand transgressions that were in service to a greater cause.

Hassan never doubted his destiny. He was a chess prodigy, and his brilliance in chess extended to every area of thought. So he bided his time. Became wealthy so he could pursue his goals, whenever he found the right project.

He wasn’t interested in anything that had been tried before. Bombs—conventional, nuclear, or dirty—did not interest him. Destroying buildings did not. He was determined to deliver to the West nothing less than a Sampson-smash blow. To fundamentally shift the game in favor of Islam and sharia law forever. And he was just a handful of years from doing just that. Even his brother was now fully on board, having once thought his plans were far too ambitious.

And Hall had been right. The man they knew as Fyfe had played a brilliant game, and he would enjoy sharing this with the three Westerners before he burned them alive.

“What are you waiting for, Nick?” said Fyfe, finally breaking the extended silence that had fallen over the panic room. “Tell them.”

A weary frown came over Hall’s face. “The short version,” he said, his voice lifeless, “is that Fyfe, or Delamater if you prefer, is really an American-born jihadist named Hassan Ahmed Abdullah. The ultimate sleeper agent. Along with his brother, Rashid. Who also goes by the very American name of Ed Cowan.”

Altschuler blanched. “You have to be
shitting
me,” he said.

“If only,” replied Hall miserably.

“I don’t understand,” said Heather. “What does any of this have to do with
jihad?”

“Do you see, Nick,” said the man they had known as Cameron Fyfe. “Even now, it’s impossible for you Westerners to see it. Even when it is staring you in the face.”

“See what?” said Altschuler in confusion.

“Before I tell you,” replied Fyfe, “I will explain the superiority of my ideology. I know I’m wasting my breath on infidels with little time to live, and who are incapable of understanding. But I will do so anyway. As an exercise in patience. You Westerners automatically think the true believers of the word of Allah are barbaric. Luddites who want to turn the world back many hundreds of years. And this is anathema to you. But this is only because you worship the false god of technology. But what has technology led to? Weapons of mass destruction. Addiction. The loss of human connection. Man is moving too fast. He has no time to revel in the world Allah has created. To pray. To contemplate. Instead, he is moving ever-faster on an ever-shortening treadmill. Your attention span is gone. No matter how much technology you have, all you crave is the next advance. The next toy. Your lives have become hollow, superficial, meaningless, and unfulfilling.”

Fyfe paused. From the expressions on the faces of his prisoners, he could sense they were actually conceding the truth of some of what he was saying. This surprised him greatly.

“You’re like a sprinter who will sprint forward forever,” he continued, “just for the exhilaration of the sprint. Sprint until your heart explodes or you hit a mine—because you can’t stop. And you don’t have any real idea where you’re going. True believers shun modern technology. Because we don’t want to poison our true natures with secular toys. The human psyche isn’t built for these so-called advances, even as you crave them. Consider experiences like playing a game of chess on the beach, or walking in the woods with a friend, discussing philosophy. Contrast this with rushing around like headless chickens juggling multiple electronic gadgets at once. Multitasking far beyond the human ability to multitask. Are you happier under
this
scenario, or more stressed out? Is technology truly indispensable, truly the source of happiness? Or is getting back to your human, spiritual roots the key?”

Given the oratorical skills Fyfe had demonstrated at the press conference, Altschuler wasn’t surprised he could be so persuasive, even in defending the indefensible. “You do make some good points,” he acknowledged. “When put in this way, a return to a simpler life does sound alluring. But you’re also romanticizing these times. Before technology, man had a short, brutish existence. Ravaged by lack of access to clean water, by disease, and by a complete lack of sanitation. Surrounded by an ever-growing accumulation of human waste. Days were filled with heavy burdens, boredom, and drudgery.”

“I’m not suggesting we set the clock back to zero,” said Fyfe.

He opened his mouth to offer additional arguments but then closed it again. He could debate this for hours. But what was the point?

“It’s time to change the subject,” said Fyfe. “I’ve wasted too much time on this already.”

“So will you now tell us what we’ve been missing?” said Heather.

Fyfe sighed. “Just remember that you asked for this,” he said. “And that you were too blind to see it.”

He paused. “Consider the implant technology. And surfing the web with your thoughts. You’ve managed to see every possible problem with this but the most obvious. You see issues with privacy and with addiction. And naturally, the decadent Western mindset sees everything through the prism of pornography and sex.” He shook his head in contempt and disbelief. “But do you know what you don’t think twice about? Letting someone stick a device in your
brain!
One that can hit visual and auditory neurons. Not to mention other vital real estate. Even after you learned I’m a jihadist, you still couldn’t see it.”

Fyfe noted that Hall’s expression didn’t change. The mind reader knew full well what he was getting at. But Hall’s two companions suddenly looked ill as the obvious finally hit them like a kick to the gut.

“I’ll be the CEO of the company that will have the
monopoly
on implants,” continued Fyfe. “Not everyone in the West will want them immediately. But enough will. The rich and powerful will get them first. It’ll be too big of a disadvantage for them to be left out. But soon the masses will follow suit. Before long, the technology will be hungrily adopted by all the peoples of the world.” He raised his eyebrows. “With the exception of devout Muslims, of course.”

His features hardened and a chilling intensity came over him. “And
I’ll
control the product and its production,” he whispered. “Think about it! Millions and billions of Westerners willingly sticking something in their
heads
. Something that
I
control. If you can implant a power cell that runs on glucose, why can’t you implant one that can be triggered to release trace amounts of botulism? A toxin so potent that a single kilogram could kill every man, woman, and child on earth.”

He let this chilling thought hang for a moment and then continued. “But this would be crass and inelegant. The possibilities to wreak havoc are endless. I’ll have backdoor access to the brains of massive numbers of people. You think the Internet has unleashed some bad computer viruses? Wait until you see what
I
can unleash. Inside your brains. I can send instructions to the system to blind everyone who has implants. Or instead of having the implants stimulate neurons in the visual cortex, I can have them hit the pain centers of the brain on my command. Or even worse,” he added with a malicious gleam in his eye. “I can have them hit the pleasure centers.”

Fyfe could tell from the puzzled expressions of his male guests that only Heather, who looked properly horrified, realized the full implications of this last.

“Heather,” he said. “Why don’t you tell your friends about the Olds and Milner experiments. I can tell by your reaction you’re familiar with them.”

Heather swallowed hard, but didn’t reply.

“Don’t be shy,” he said, gesturing toward Heather with his right hand. “Please. Enlighten your friends.”

When she didn’t immediately begin, he shot her a look of such pure, distilled menace that her breath caught in her throat. “I
won’t
ask you again,” he said.

Heather scowled but did as he asked. “In the 1950s,” she began, “James Olds and Peter Milner implanted electrodes in rats. In the nucleus accumbens. Which has also been called the pleasure center of the brain. This region plays a role in sexual arousal and the
high
people get from certain drugs. In later versions of this experiment, rats could cause this region to be stimulated by pressing down on a lever.” She shuddered involuntarily. “Turns out the rats would repeatedly hit the lever, as many as seven hundred times an hour, ignoring food and water. Until they died from exhaustion.”

Fyfe smiled humorlessly. “A perfect metaphor for the West, wouldn’t you say? Only
your
lever brings technology. When will you get enough? Fewer and fewer of you read anymore. More and more engage in an endless orgy of promiscuity and sexual deviation. The four of you in this house were on the eve of a technological revolution, and yet you copulated last night, out of wedlock, like worthless, filthy animals in heat. Pushing the orgasm lever as often as you could. Your society is already soulless, mindless, and purposeless. No time for reflection into the mind of Allah. You
already
want to activate your lever over and over, ignoring all else, until your deaths.” He shrugged. “So why not allow my technology to activate your pleasure centers more directly? Give you what you want.”