Streams of Babel (23 page)

If we're telling the whole truth here? My mother is not in America because she likes the place so very much. I found this out in eighth grade, after thinking for years that we'd come here to be upstanding American citizens,
émigrés elitus.

But I don't want to make Mom sound more clever than she is. Dr. Germ is the Iraqi scientist. My mother is the North Korean gopher. She's a wannabe scientist with only half a Ph.D., and the most she'll ever be famous for is dropping off and picking up. She drops off to the North Koreans what she rips off from her American bosses at KTD BioLabs in Newark, and I'm not supposed to know any of this, of course, but I'd have to say she's largely responsible for my Cingular hacking prowess. Normal boys must find some way to be close to their flesh and blood, yes?

Inas's cousin Shahzad pulled an even bigger boner. I guess he knew enough English to understand a huge explosion had gone off behind him, and that it erroneously had my name tagged on it, not his.

He pulled his arm away from Inas and walked over beside me, gazing behind me as if this negative energy force from the White Mound was in some way interesting.

"Hi! Um ... excuse me. My English leave me when I make stupid."

The mound behind me was silent except for a dull hum of giggles. I actually prayed for the guy—for a split second.

"This
my
baggle. I am sorry. Okay?"

Some asshole was asking, "Can you fit your weenie in the hole?" but the other guys were shushing him. Shahzad should have walked away at that point, I figured.

"I don't understand your saying, I am sorry. I am Shahzad. How to you too."

He held his right hand out to me, first. I shook without actually laughing and said, "I think it's, um, 'How do you do.'"

"Oh! How do you, too!"

He moved back to the White Mound and stuck his hand out again. They were laughing in a way that sounded truly dangerous. A major annihilation fest was brewing.

"Shahzad!" Inas grabbed his arm again. If fear had a color, it would be beautiful Pakistani maroon. I was ready to jump in for her, I was.

"Um ... can you just forget about him?" she asked the White Mound. "He's really, really new and ... all of that."

There's not much response to Inas, what with all her beautiful blushing and humble heart attacks, unless you can be an even bigger prick than I am.

"Listen to me, my man," one said to this Shahzad. "You don't do a bagel at lunch, unless it's a sandwich, and that's not in the state budget. And don't tell me you've never done a cafeteria french fry. It's the only truly edible entrée on our infamous menu."

I jerked around front, so I wouldn't have to remember which of the White Mound had warmed to Inas.

"Oh, I see many french fry in Pakistan," he said, "but not like those at Kentucky Fry. I eat Kentucky Fry last night. Much very good."

Miss Fat Arms handed me my bagel, too. I was in awe of some people's magical ability to keep from getting annihilated. No such magic ever came
my
way, and the fact was making me want to yell, "Where's my cream cheese?" just to send her back again and keep them waiting longer.

Instead, I pulled a small green pill out of my shirt pocket and popped it in my mouth. I said to Miss Fat Arms, "It's an aspirin, yeah right." Then I turned to a security camera and waved.

I had the thought that maybe if I got busted, my mother would be completely humiliated and sent to North Korea. I've grown tired of trying to scare her out of here with e-mails, the source of which she wouldn't guess in a million years. They said erudite and charming things like "
I KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND WHAT YOU ARE DOING IN AMERICA.
"

Since she's almost completely incognizant of my existence, my triathlon hacking skills are beyond her wildest imagination. My only reward has been to hear her pacing the floor at night behind closed doors and talking on this one new cell phone I haven't figured out how to hack into yet. It was gratifying for a while, but lately her pacing and blathering in Korean half the night have been boring me through and through.

So was the White Mound.

"No, no. Cheese sucks on french fries. Just do ketchup." Todd Coffey, of all people, was warming up to this guy.

"Yeah? Well, excuse me, um. This baggle don't taste much very good."

Inas was giggling. "He, um, just wanted to try Jewish food. He never met anyone Jewish in his whole life."

"Oh yeah? Meet me."

I had to jerk my head around to see Dave Kogan shaking Shahzad's hand, a couple other kosher hands reaching out, voices echoing, "Forget 'How do you
too,'
that is bullshit. You know 'bullshit'?" and showing him five different versions of stupid-American-boy handshakes.

A couple of them went on about lox and cream cheese and tomato-basil cream cheese and all this stuff.
How did the bastard do that? The day I walked up to the White Mound, all "I'm sorry I held you up" and, worse, "Your Jewish food sucks," I would have about thirty seconds to live.

"Miss Dolores! Get the man some cream cheese! We'll wait," Todd Coffey said.

It was Inas, that's what. Her sweetness could bewitch the worst of the worst.

I turned one more time, and Shahzad had actually turned Kogan's hand over and was looking at it alongside his own, as if he were looking for some sort of differences.

One of the guys in the back said, "Is he retarded?"

I changed the question to distract Inas. "Did your family manage to get him in honors with us? Or is he mainstreamed into normal prison life?"

She giggled fantastically. "Shahzad is a genius. He's in honors, despite his English. He can do anything on the computer—anything. In fact, he got a job at Trinitron after school. Pretty miraculous, yes?"

Miraculous. Shahzad's head slowly turned as the word Trinitron bounced through the air. I figured it was a blast of humility—another thing the Pakistanis around here are good for—but it didn't make me less jealous.

"Who did you know to get
that
job?" I demanded. The
software specialists at the Trinitron Internet café have to double as busboys, but they get tips as well as great wages, and it's the best gig outside Manhattan for high school and college computer heads.

"No one," he muttered, as he hunted for English. "I just send them my programs is all."

Hmm. I'd applied there, sending them my best programming sequences (nothing reflecting my hacking prowess), and got a standard "no thanks, no explanation." Maybe Trinitron read my school disciplinary file. And you
have
to know someone.

I left them without saying good-bye and sat two feet from a proctor. The Xanax I'd taken at the end of fourth period made me more relaxed than a jealousy fit would usually allow. Maybe that second one was kicking in already. I was relaxed enough to look at the crazy facts of my so-called life for what they were. I can do that every once in a while.

When you find out that your mother has brought you here so she can help steal secrets from the parents of school friends, what do you do with your life? How do you hang around with anyone? What strings can you pull to get a great job?

I've been kicked in the head enough times around here in the past four years, and sometimes that's how thoughts strike me. Like a kick in the head. Ker-blam,
Tyler, your life is so goddamn embarrassing that it's pointless to be near anybody.

Ker-blam,
it's your old lady who deserves to get kicked in the head, so why do you insist on standing in proxy for her? Are you any less embarrassed after your blood is spilled and your eyes are swollen shut?

I winged the bagel fifteen feet into the garbage can. Two points. I had eaten breakfast already. I always ate it, because I
made my mom breakfast every day. I kept thinking tomorrow some USIC agent was going to get wise to her and, who knows, maybe some Hollywood ending transpires—he sticks a gun barrel in her mouth and jerks the trigger. Or she'd get sent to American prison forever and ever, and my last name would be all over fucking
Fox.com
and MSNBC, and the White Mound could finally lynch me and get off with a misdemeanor. Every morning could be the last time I ever see her, so I make her breakfast, and she answers her voice mail while eating my eggs and ...
baggles.

That Shahzad guy is classic, I have to confess. Computer guru? Computer guru better than
moi
? He didn't have any connections? He had a bad case of the liarooskees.

Anyway, here's what you do when you can't get close. You make friends with information. I would have to find out what this Shahzad was all about, how he got my damn job. Once he decided he hated me, too, I would at least have information.

Ker-blam,
Tyler, what good is information if you never do anything with it? It's not like some babe you can take to the movies. You're like that Jeffrey Dahmer guy. Only you collect facts instead of fingers.

Hey, maybe you should just take too much of one of your numbing agents, carve into your chest with a razor blade,
MY MOTHER IS A SPY. GOD BLESS AMERICA, BUT YOU PEOPLE ARE FUCKING STUPID
,
and then slowly bleed to death.
Would that be rich?

What in hell would she do with my body?

SHAHZAD HAMDANI
THURSDAY, MARCH 7, 2002
7:35
P.M.

AT MY TERMINAL inside Trinitron, I have Catalyst's screen captured on my own. He is one of the many patrons, though I do not know which one. My USIC contact is at a terminal somewhere behind me, just like Hodji often was back in my village. I get most communication from him via instant message, though I have an earpiece if I need it. That much is the same, too.

But everything else is changed. Here in America, I don't know who my contact is. I only know him by the name "Tim," and I don't know what he looks like. I am not allowed to turn around and try to figure out which patron he is. I wait for Catalyst to write his response in a chat room, and it is taking him forever.

As Hodji predicted, I am to do nothing if I am not told. I feel like a computer myself, and I think the Americans like to waste time. It is a busy night, and Trinitron is five times the size
of our Internet café in Pakistan, with more than forty terminals. In Pakistan, I could sweep or clean up.

Tim IMs me. "Be patient. He's still eating his brownie..."

I nod slowly, staring at my screen. Tim can see both me and Catalyst, supposedly.

Catalyst is online with PiousKnight, though I cannot make out where PiousKnight is chatting from. There are certain types of servers people can use which do not present an IP address or embedded codes, and therefore we cannot tell where they are. PiousKnight has been at Trinitron before, which means he could be in a city nearby. But technically, he could at this moment be in the Middle East, Africa, or South America. I have not seen VaporStrike or Omar0324 online since the night before I left Pakistan.

My nervousness is largely due to my new asthma medication, which makes me breathe so clearly that the silence is now overwhelming. The side effects make me twitch and have a racing heart. I try to remember how v-spying has always made me feel like the American cowboy.

I look toward the wall and a little over my shoulder, which seems like a safe thing to do. The boy whom I had injured over the bagel incident today is one row in back of me. Tyler Ping. He probably is doing some homework, of which we have so much. He seems busy, watching his screen, and not interested in me.

I understand that the American boys thought he was responsible for the bagel incident, and they were not very nice to him. But he taught me "how do you, too," and never fussed over taking wrong blame. He seemed nice enough.

I turn back, and chatter starts to appear, post by post. It is slow, but I recognize Pashto, a primary language of the Afghans,
and cache the screen after each post. I have realized the erasing-chatter function they are employing for secrecy will not work in a copy if it is cached via intranet. I immediately translate it anyway, because Tim is waiting. I type in Arabic, which is easier for me, then run it through QuikTranslate for English, so Tim can understand it.

Catalyst:
Have there been any more deaths in Colony One?

PiousKnight:
Omar reports only the two women, of brain aneurysms. Be patient.

Catalyst:
Is the medical community suspicious, being that they both met the same end?

PiousKnight:
I have not heard that. However, Omar has reported some suspicious activity in Colony One. Omar says a notice has gone out to residents on five streets that a water line was inadvertently broken by the Utilities Department affecting them, and people should not drink the water.

Catalyst:
Are these among the streets that Omar targeted?

PiousKnight:
They are the exact streets.

Catalyst:
That cannot be a coincidence. The Americans are a roaming devil. They learn their intelligence by osmosis.

I translate Catalyst's last line and try not to smile. I have been their osmosis—but I do not gloat. For one thing, I personally do not even know the continent of Colony One. USIC obviously has figured it out, and it is one important finding that I have not been central to. Back in Pakistan, I could take this chatter and surf and put many things together, but here, I
am only to wait. It is maddening, and it is only my second night working here. Fortunately, some of the homework took all my free time in the school today. I have no chance to dishonor my agreement with USIC by surfing without permission.

I send more translated chatter on to Tim as it appears:

PiousKnight:
Fear not. The damage cannot be undone. The Red Vinegar they ingested will not cease to do its work. Those who are not symptomatic may still become ill, based on their consumption to date. Those who are symptomatic already will not have Providence on their side. You will see more deaths, my friend.

I am not a scientist, so my familiarity with bioterror is limited to what I read online. My fingers itch to surf, though I only translate and hit
SEND.
I could find out the contents of Red Vinegar based on these clues. I have helped USIC with small clues many times.