May 3
9822 Watchung Road
Essex County
Short Hills, New Jersey
4:54 P.M. EDT
The Apple MacBook flickered slightly at the same moment that the overhead light went out; with the shades and curtains pulled closed for security against any overly inquisitive outside eyes, the room plunged into a semi-darkness lit only by the laptop’s screen.
The computer itself soldiered on gamely; an icon at the upper corner simply transformed itself from a stylized replica of a power-plug to that of a battery, fully charged.
Not so for the external disk drive, connected to a multi-outlet power strip that itself connected to a wall outlet; its blue eye-light blinked and expired as the sighing whir of the disk inside, starved of electrical sustenance, spun down and grew silent.
Most critically, the modem through which the computer had been linked to the Internet also went dark, breaking what Ziyad had considered a most promising online chat.
This one was quite close, Ziyad told himself, disappointed. He very much fit the profile we seek: disillusioned, a sense of abandonment, suitably pliable…
… and angry. Yes, very angry—in need only of a focus, a target on which to use that anger.
Ziyad sighed, shrugged.
No matter; I will connect again with this prospective young colleague later. Or not. Many fish swim in this discontented sea; there will be others. And while Ahmad assures us we will soon leave this godless place … surely, to resume this very fruitful labor requires only a computer and a connection to such people through a web that is indeed worldwide. We can continue our work from anywhere.
From down the hallway, he heard voices: some angry, some alarmed.
The former, perhaps outraged that their cable television connection to some trivial football match has abruptly ended, Ziyad told himself. The latter … indeed, would not police cut electrical power before entering on a raid?
Ziyad rose, now mildly alarmed himself, and eased back a corner of curtain.
No surrounding police cars, no cordon of armed men, nothing but the expanses of green lawns and the ridiculously over-large palaces these people construct for themselves…
He heard the calm—and calming—voice of his leader and relaxed.
Ahmad Abu Khaled is wise, and his wisdom has brought us great success, Ziyad reassured himself. His endeavors are blessed by heaven, and all will be well…
As if in reward for his faith, the overhead light returned to life. So too did the disk drive—and more importantly to his needs, the modem.
• • •
“It is all done automatically,” Ian Tatum was explaining. “The generator senses a loss of electrical power to the house, and switches itself on.”
He smiled. “You may thank Her Royal Highness for her foresight, Ahmad; had she not paid for a more than adequate generator, the production you intend for today might have required rescheduling. One cannot record from a video-cam without electricity.”
“We are alone in having electrical power,” Ahmad said. “There is none in the neighboring houses. This interruption is not common here in America.”
“Perhaps not as common as it is in your land, Ahmad. But it happens on occasion.”
“Indeed. On very special occasions, perhaps?” He gestured toward the disappointed knot of sports fans gathered around a small television console, channel surfing; regardless of the setting, the screen displayed only visual static.
“It would appear there is no signal,” Ahmad said. “This too is uncommon here. As uncommon, perhaps, as a disruption of traffic signals in a major city?”
“Perhaps so,” Ian Tatum said. “What does it matter to you? By the time you are ready to send recorded copies of your little show to Littrell’s network or anywhere else you feel is appropriate … well, I am confident they will find some way to distribute your message. How they do so is not your concern, is it?”
He waved a hand, the gesture imperious and distinctly dismissive; an overly sensitive man might even have interpreted it as insulting.
“As for any other ‘disruptions,’” Tatum said, “may I suggest that they, too, are not your concern. Be content with what you have obtained. There is always a bigger picture to everything, Ahmad. Wheels within wheels, so to speak.”
• • •
Ziyad frowned.
Still no signal, he told himself.
He continued checking his equipment, tweaking the connection cords, seeking a solution.
All appears to be working—computer, modem. If there was a power surge, it seems to have caused no obvious damage—but I cannot connect. It is as if the Internet itself is no longer operating…
It puzzled him. But Ziyad was a realist.
Of course, that cannot be.