Streams of Babel (27 page)

I'm talking about Hamdani now, and a little
Newsweek
story I had taped to my bulletin board, because I was so jealous of the kid in the story that I'd have to gouge his eyes out if I ever met him. My eyes floated to it, and I could feel my heart banging. It was a one-column story amid news about the formation of USIC. The words glared back about an unnamed sixteen-year-old guy from somewhere in Asia: "...' The Kid is such a proficient v-spy that he could turn any day of the week into Christmas for American intelligence,' said an unnamed source."

I scanned, though I knew the article by heart. He had been the talk of my fave hacker chat room for a couple weeks. Every hacker in the country was jealous as shit of this guy. The article didn't say the Kid was from Pakistan, only that his ability to v-spy had prevented two bombings in 2000, one in London and one in Nepal. It had said that his value to our government was
not only his programming skills but his skills with many Asian languages, and these languages are a problem with the American intelligence community. It had even been thought that they move people like that around all the time to keep them safe.

If I could run into Hillary Clinton in Bloomie's, could I run into the Kid in a Long Island high school?

No, I told myself. I'm a realist. I thought maybe this was some transmutation of the Real Guy, some wannabe who wasn't doing too bad. However, what I'd been watching all night was this Shahzad cache screens written in hieroglyphics of god-knows-what, and he would type out the Arabic, translate it to English, and send it to god-knows-who called Tim. How many people like that could there be in the universe?

I could never hope to work as a spy. I'd flunk a polygraph as soon as they got to the part "Is your mother an assistant researcher at KTD BioLabs?" But whoever he was—the Kid or a wannabe—maybe I could lend him a hand. In light of my mother's embarrassing escapades, I owed this country something.

But what could I do that would be most helpful? I opened all the cached screens and read them again.

Omar says this, Omar hopes that, Omar's the devil fucking incarnate,
what with his red and upcoming vinaigrettes, yeah, puke. I knew enough to bet money that Catalyst knew something USIC didn't, or he wouldn't still be walking the streets, telling me his name was Raoul. Maybe it's the contents of this water poison that he's going to spew his next time online, or maybe it's the whereabouts of this Omar creep.

And here is something that's even better than drugs for me. I do stuff like this, and it makes up almost all the hours when I'm not in lust for yet another Xanax:
I bet that I can find out
who this Omar guy is, knowing nothing more than Catalyst's e-mail address.

It would take a few days, but I sat back down, put my fingers to the keypad. I headed off to places that could get me five to ten years in a federal prison if the government found out.

But they wouldn't. And besides: Jail would have to be a less deplorable address than the one I've got now.

CORA HOLMAN
THURSDAY, MARCH 7, 2002
9:35
P.M.

"CORA, YOU HAVEN'T met me, but I'm a friend of your mum's. My name is Jeremy."

I sat up slowly, actually forgetting my headache and jitters for a moment. Adrian and Tannis turned to the television, completely unaware that I was hitting some cosmic lottery. The man's British accent hummed so beautifully. I wanted to ask how he wasn't dead, after what I'd seen in Aleese's journal. September 10, 1996. I'd assumed it was a death date, but could it be the date they left each other? My instincts were still strapped to appearances and how not to look quite so unlovable.

The best I could do to meet both situations was give an awkwardly loud "Hi!"

He was nicer than Aleese. He laughed. "Oh dear. You know of me. What in hell did your mum tell you?"

It didn't sound like a fatherly introduction, but what made sense in my life? I tried not to let my smile fade as he went on.

"I just this morning heard of her passing. I surf online for her name every month or so. I always come up with nothing, but this time I came up with the
Atlantic City Press's
obituary. I'm too late for the service, I suppose, but I wanted to at least see you, give you a hug, and extend my condolences."

"That's ... great," I struggled happily. I needed him here, for superficial reasons, and very deep ones that I couldn't put into words. I came up with a shy and trembling "I ... am excited to see you."

"I should have called before traveling, but I had a problem in London striking up a correct phone number. I've only gotten it now, by finally tracking down a live voice at the church where her service was held. The minister gave me your number. And I'm at Kennedy Airport."

That was only about three hours from here. My heart was beating so hard it was giving me an earache. "Please feel free to come now," I said.

"But I understand from someone staying at your house that you're under the weather. I'm sorry to hear that."

Don't go home to Europe now.
"But ... I'll wait up for you. They don't make visitors leave at this hospital."

My hand was shaking. My whole arm, actually. I felt weak up to my shoulders. I really had no proof at all that he was my father. I just assumed it. At the moment, I really didn't care what he thought. I just had a powerful, irrational wish to belong to someone.

"Any good hotels down your way?" he asked.

I mumbled a couple and said, "I'm afraid all the beds at my house are taken right now." He didn't have to know the Ebermans were forced to be there. He could think I had friends.

"Don't wait up for me," he said. "Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow, how is that? I have to brace up for hospital visits, I'm afraid. After your mum's injuries from some of our wild escapades, I'm almost phobic of the places. But you'll be a great excuse to try once again to overcome that."

I said quickly that I would most likely be released in the morning, so to call before he came. I handed the phone back to Jon, who had been standing over me and listening with some satisfaction.

No matter how badly I felt, I didn't want to drop off to sleep with all the questions running through my head. Could Jeremy Ireland fill in the holes for me? How on earth did Aleese hurt her arm so badly that she gave up living? Was he my father? What happened in Mogadishu?

I started to tell the guys that he would come in the morning and they could leave now, thank you very much. But I was out of breath in some strange way—like I was breathing but the worsening throbs in my head were absorbing all the oxygen. My hands and feet felt tingly, but in the mess of hot chills, I couldn't do anything but lie there and huff. I knew it was Owen coming through my door, in spite of the mask, but his presence here made so little sense I just stared.

"What's up?" Dempsey asked.

"Rain's in the emergency room," he said without a drop of energy in his voice. "She's got this headache from hell, and maybe half an hour ago, this blood started running out of her ear."

I shut my eyes as he moved toward me and told myself I had dreamed it. It's amazing how a strange thought can come so clear when your mind is completely out of whack. I told myself quite plainly that I was pulling a trick on myself that I'd learned in sophomore psych, which was to take your own pain and suffering and project it on to someone else.
My
ear was bleeding.

Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was my eyes, because the tears that would hardly fall ten minutes ago made little tickly feelings as they streamed down my cheeks. And if Rain was in the emergency room, why was Dempsey saying right beside me, "Oh Jesus, get the nurse!"

I just needed to look good when my father showed up tomorrow. I needed to look like one of my Barbies, with my hair tucked neatly in a French twist as I searched for the perfect handbag. I needed to be
perfect.
I just needed to sleep...

SHAHZAD HAMDANI
FRIDAY, MARCH 8, 2002
7:05
A.M.

FRIDAY, I WAKE to a bright and sunny American morning. I do not feel tired, despite that Hodji has told me I will have incredible jet lag through the weekend. It comes to my memory immediately why I had attended school yesterday instead of resting at Aunt Alika's house until Monday. Inas. She is not shy like the girls from Pakistan, and coming from Beth Israel Hospital the day I arrived, she had talked quickly and with excitement.

"You like math, don't you? I signed you up for the math club! Friday we are taking a field trip to the Einstein Museum in New Jersey! But you have to come to school on Thursday to get permission slips from your afternoon teachers..." The rest of her rapid English is lost on me entirely, as I grow excited about seeing things belonging to this Albert Einstein. Yesterday, she spoke to my teachers for me. My permissions are ready.

I rise with my insides smiling, but as I look out the window,
I remember more. Inas mentioned late yesterday after we leave him in the cafeteria that Tyler Ping is in math club.
Uh-oh.

If Tyler did capture my screen last night and he is a friend of Catalyst, then I want to speak to Tim before I spend a whole afternoon with Tyler. That he could be a friend of Catalyst seems very incredible. Yet I cannot dismiss that Catalyst could now know about Tim and me.

I reach for the cell phone USIC had given me. But there are no calls, no numbers for me to follow backward.

I take the easy way out. As we get off the bus to school, I simply disappear. I figure that I will explain something later—that I got called in to work or something. Tim can help me with my lies, but first I have to get to him.

I go for an extralong stroll toward what I think is work, comforted by the sun's familiar presence as I pass by apartments, then houses, then bigger houses, then huge houses. The sidewalks are smooth, white squares, and the road is black cake. I have not seen a lawn up close before today, and at one huge yard, I stop and pull some green threads and smell them. Aunt Alika has told me that in the spring American grass turns very, very green, and I have seen such pictures on the Internet. I think it is silky and tastes sweeter than the dune grass of home.

Nearly three hours have passed since I left the school, and I am elated over my new asthma medication for enabling me to walk without wheezing—farther than I have in years. As I approach Trinitron, I think I will simply wait around until someone from USIC shows up. But I don't have to wait at all. A car comes around the corner, pulls up beside me, and the passenger door opens. I recognize a woman from my brief squad meeting in New York on Wednesday. Her name is Miss Susan.

"Get in," she says.

I lower myself slowly into the passenger seat, and she is pulling away from the curb before I can finish closing the door.

"Where have you been?" she asks. "D'you forget to go to school today?"

I am confused. "You look for me at the school?"

"We told you in our meeting we don't have the manpower to watch over you," she says, putting on her blinker and turning down a side street. "We bugged your phones, though. Call it part of USIC's speedy screening process. A technician happened to catch the absentee message that came through from the school. We thought you might have, um ... gotten yourself lost."

"Not lost," I inform her. "I walk to here because of a problem at the school."

She picks up her cell phone and presses a button. "It's me, Michael. I've got him. He says he had problems at school and decided not to go."

I think she has misunderstood me, but it is confusing, because her words are accurate. After Michael the Superior speaks to her, she glances at me. "You have to go to school, even if the dog ate your homework. It's the law. Didn't you know that?"

"Yes...," I say quickly. "But you see. There is a boy ... supposed to go to Einstein Museum with math club. And I think he is friend of Catalyst. I want to ask Tim before I am to speak to this boy."

Her neck spins toward me, and she loses her place in the driving lane. She relays this information on to Michael as she pulls into an even smaller side street.

"His name is Tyler Ping," I continue. "He sat behind me last
night at work ... maybe captured my screen. He left with Catalyst. Tim is already gone."

"What'd we tell you to do if you felt unsafe?"

I squirm in frustration. "You give me cell phone but you fight about numbers."

She groans. "We're suddenly inundated with problems in other areas. Could you have stayed out of trouble for four days, at least? You gave us a good scare while taking your little walking tour. You should have stayed home where we could find you. You can't just drop into the black hole like that. Understand?"

Go home and do what?
To be alone with a computer is, for me, like being a glutton left alone with the refrigerator.

Miss Susan chatters on with Mr. Michael in her brash English. I grow beyond annoyed, because if I were in Pakistan, I would be free to find out who Omar is by now. I could do what I want and find out many more helpful things. I feel like one rupee in Uncle's dirty jar of rupees back in his dirty office closet. If this is sophisticated American teamwork, then it seems counterproductive.

"He's looking into this Tyler Ping," Miss Susan says as she snaps shut her phone. "I'm dubious. I've never heard of him. He's an upperclassman?"

"Yes."

"High school kid ... I'm real, real dubious."

I feel my face turning toward her, and it is hot underneath. "Maybe you underestimate him. And me. That is a shame. Maybe I go home now."

She has turned off the engine and reaches for the key, rolling her eyes a bit. "You want me to drive you back to your aunt's? I've got six places for every hour today."

"I want to go home to Pakistan ... where I am free to be man."

She doesn't turn on the engine after all, but she stares, and I sense a little more humility, or more compassion, perhaps. "You're doing a
lot
for us, Shahzad. A lot more than you realize."