Shereen Khouri sat on the bed in her suite in the luxurious Waldorf Astoria. Although her reservation was for a whole week of pampering, she would barely be there a day. She would walk out that very afternoon to never be seen there again. Her straight black hair slid down her back and shoulders as she huddled over her laptop. She checked every comment and pledge left by those who wanted to joined her radical plea to bring down the most powerful nation in the World.
She sighed and straightened her back, staring at nothing in particular. Her mind went to the months of training Masae Norfolk put her through. It was imperative, the pharmaceutical tycoon told her, that she took part in the company’s marketing campaign. And the public act she was about to perform would be the best way to show one of the new products worldwide. Governments were already lining up to purchase the experimental weapons developed in Pharma-NorTech, but this would make the signing agreements easier. Shereen understood the type of power Masae was after as part of major international health organizations and governments: The power of death and life, the power of changing nations’ cultures, the power that affects the life of even the youngest of human beings. It was the power of a god she sought to obtain at any cost.
The woman underneath Shereen’s skin, wrappings, and persona frowned at the actions of the cyberwizards working for Masae. In every social site, there were people embracing and joining her pretend cause, though most of her followers were fictitious characters created by the skillful computer coders planting trolls in abandoned warehouses in the lost corners of Europe. She worried about those susceptible souls to social media’s indoctrinations and slogans. It made her sick to her stomach and wished she knew how to stop her mother’s criminal pursuits.
She glared at the screen and all the opened windows. The planted cyber carriers bounced messages from one corner of the world to another raising the wanted red flags along the way. The sneaky bugs were designed to stay visible for a while and dissolve once their task was accomplished: to shock and alarm agencies around the world. No one was safe and people in fear are easily manipulated. The hackers made it difficult to the international special forces to pinpoint the source or the country as it constantly changed.
The young woman’s reflection on the screen caught her dark eyes. Who was she? Who was this woman? Regardless of her real and broken identity, she had to embody the shell of a woman, believe like Shereen, breathe like her, pray like her, raise her hand in protest like her in spite of the veracity of those influenced beliefs. Afterall, everything was made up even her existence. She had to forego the bits of authenticity she was trying to build for herself, for the Norfolk’s business expansion. Shereen inhaled and exhaled the peonies’ fragrance emanating from the bouquet on a table near the bed, those flowers were real, the had been cut off their plant and soon would withered in the vase and die. Much like her own existence. So what was the point of life? She shook off those thoughts, today she would begin the most dangerous test yet.
Shereen awaken the laptop’s screen and checked the status of the mission on the laptop. Today, I will execute judgement in the land of superficiality. The beast of the West will fall, and its throne will crumble before its inhabitants’ incredulous eyes. She read what was supposed to be her last message left on her social media sites, alluding to the attack as if it was hers. Each sentence was carefully crafted with explosive words to goad the National Security Agencies. The day of great joy in America was about to become a day to remember. An unprecedented storm was coming their way and it would hit the Georgia Dome hard. The message ended, leaving to the agents’ imagination how the attack would happen. Yet she hoped that the only tragedy for American football fans, would be not seeing the Dallas Cowboys face the Pittsburgh Steelers after decades of trying.
“See you at the game.” Shereen murmured, closing the laptop and leaving it on the desk as a gift for the agent who would soon burst into the room, hoping to find her there—but she would be gone.
The olive-skinned woman got dressed in faded jeans and a white T-shirt under a thin leather jacket. She put on a pair of comfortable walking boots to complete the outfit. Every item picked to fit her profile in Phipps Square, the shopping mall flashing the most expensive designers required by the celebrities living in Atlanta. She would blended in her environment.
There was a reddish sun reheating the black asphalt. Shereen left the window and went through her leather bag one more time. Everything was in order. There were seven thin canisters containing the intelligent gas nestled in some menstrual pads. If her bag was scanned they would pass undetected. Months of rigorous work in the laboratory would be tested on the masses. Devote fans would become unaware testing specimens, if the agents didn’t arrest her first.
Shereen was ready. The Swiss watch on her wrist notified her it was 5:00 p.m. One more hour and the show would begin. Time to go.
She wore her handbag and left the room. She took the stairs instead of the elevator. Exercise would keep her energy high. She waved a friendly hand to the guest assistant on duty behind the reception counter as she walked out of the sumptuous hotel.
Cherut in Atlanta – February, 2007
Eli Roth, an American special agent for the UN ghost organization Cherut, sat next to a large potted plant by a window inside a trendy café near the Georgia Dome. He studied the people coming and going in the eclectic atmosphere, breathing the smoky scent of freshly roasted coffee beans. The mission was to spot possible terrorists on their way to the Dome. But as was his habit for the last two years, he searched in every female face for Mila Ferro, the woman Cherut had lost.
Ever watchful, Eli gazed out of the window at the myriad of people walking by and cars circulating the congested roads. He sipped his coffee and looked at Amidor, sitting across from him.
“Social media is buzzing about this alleged terrorist attack, but I agree with Amidor. The issue might not be as portrayed on the web,” Eli spoke through the communication device that kept the Cherut agents in the mission connected. They were also in position and ready around the stadium.
Amidor kept his eyes nailed to his laptop and his expert fingers dashing through his keyboard. He surveyed the invisible threads blocked to the inexperienced eye. Upon awakening in modern times, he had settled together with Gadiel, Leo, and Hadi in a modest house in culture-minded Jabotinsky Street in Jerusalem. There, the Cloud Warriors had acclimated to the new times, plunging into twenty-first century life. In Amidor’s case, he had studied computer science. He approached technology and the sciences as a thirsty man in a water fountain. “I’m one hundred percent sure that most of the online people aren’t real. We are talking about planted information leading everyone to believe we are dealing with a large radical group of terrorists,” Amidor concluded, taking a sip of his cup of coffee without taking his eyes of the screen, but keeping a hand on the keyboard. Cyber espionage was like child’s play for him, the eyes and ears of Cherut in the vast world of the internet.
“My thoughts exactly.” Eldad Shalit, the Israeli agent, replied through the secure line connected to his car’s Bluetooth as he exited the parking lot nearest to the stadium. “I just got a confirmation from our Israeli tech wizards that indeed, as Amidor said, it’s a designed grasshopper. It leaps from one IP to another appearing in different parts of the world and reproducing as it jumps.”
“Nasty bugs!” grumbled Amidor, typing away a fast series of instructions to catch the reproducing bug before they executed their programmed orders. “But once they accomplish their task, they disappear.”
Let the Game Begin, Atlanta – February, 2007
Winter was prevailing in the country, although it was hardly felt in the southern city. The clear sky was giving way to a timid, full moon. Shereen drove toward the gigantic construction which was hard to miss. Viewed from afar, the stadium resembled a giant star on earth, and from close up, it looked like an active beehive full of people coming and going like bees. She parked her car in the nearest parking lot and waited for the masses to pass her. Americans of all ages sauntered out of the parking lot with candid and unwary smiles.
As soon as Shereen climbed out of the car she drove, a dense smell arrested her nostrils. The residue of the tailgate parties still lingered in the air: an oppressive scent of humidity, cigarettes, beer, and fast food. She realized was hungry. She hadn’t had a bite to eat since breakfast at five that morning. Although her stomach churned by anxiety and the smell of greasy food, eating before the big show would be a good idea.
Upon arriving at the entrance, the immense stadium prevailed in front of her. It reduced her, causing her to falter and almost stumble backwards. The plan is simple and quick, Shereen thought over and over, looking around. If no one has caught me yet, then this is how it’s supposed to happen. She studied her surroundings and noticed the police cars parked close by the main entrance and officers in uniform circulating.
Shereen joined the entry line, always inspecting her surroundings. Because of her training she knew some of the people around were agents profiling every attendee standing in line. The line advanced at a good pace. She glanced at each of the faces coming and going, playing a recognition game to spot agents and members of anti-terrorist forces in civilian clothes. She looked at the couple standing awkwardly by a concession stand. They held hands but their eyes were too occupied with those passing by. There was a rugged man in worn clothes, standing against a lonesome tree smoking a cigarette casually inspecting those walking by.
As she approached the ticket booth, she felt the heavy gaze of a man who had been hunched over his smartphone as if deciding to stand in line or continue playing on his phone. He stared at her and hesitated. Yes, it’s me, Shereen thought, smiling in the man’s direction. What are you waiting for? Shereen turned to the cheerful girl, scanning her entrance ticket.
“We’ve spotted the woman.” the undercover agent—the man in the worn clothes—alerted through his device. “We are going in.”
Shereen continued through. The colossal stadium opened before her eyes. The crowd served her as moving walls, opening and closing, keeping her out of the agents reach. She was out of sight. Music blasted through the speakers. Large groups of rowdy people talked and laughed on their way to the concession kiosks. She followed them and got a hamburger. She ate it in three bites before making her way down to her seat.
Time for a soda. Shereen thought, reaching into her bag. She pulled out the first canister. Click. The gas disseminated in seconds, impregnating the air around. She kept on moving down the bleachers like a tightrope walker, balancing on the narrow rows. She slipped and almost fell a few times while people pushed her to get to their seats. She kept stepping down without looking at the first victims inhaling the gas. Some collapsed and those sitting hunched as if fallen in a deep sleep. Despite the commotion behind her and in her heart, she continued with the task opening canisters and releasing the gas.
Surely the agents had her in sight, she thought, but it was a moment of euphoria across the stadium and Shereen was a small distraction competing with celebrity arrivals. Besides, the special forces were probably trying to avoid causing panic. Extracting her without noise would be better for everyone. The show was about to begin. The broadcasting screens captured glamorous wives and girlfriends in their reserved seats, cheering for their husbands’ team. People didn’t register what was happening. Fainting could occur for a number of reasons and at most inconvenient times, as for the gas, it was imperceptible. But it took a desperate girlfriend’s screams, seeing her boyfriend collapse unconscious to unleash panic in the crowds.
People burst out of their seats and pushed their way out of the bleachers, many fell, injuring themselves. Undercover special operation agents and policemen ran after her, stopping to check the injured and give their location to the paramedics and rescue teams.
“There aren’t explosives!” yelled an agent through his ear piece. “We are dealing with a possible biological attack. People are falling unconscious.”
Shereen opened the last canister and another two dropped on their seats as she stumbled down, moving sideways, almost out of the way of the paramedics rushing in.
“Shereen, stop! Hands up!” an agent warned, pointing his gun at her chest. “You are surrounded! It’s over!”
Shereen stopped and did as she was told, but a woman a few steps behind her screamed and cried so loudly that she had to take a look. Shereen turned in an impulse and a silenced gun was fired.
Shereen fell. The agent next to her, although confused and looking in every direction, yanked her up by her arm and pushed her out of the stadium. “I have her. She got shot. Not by one of us.”
The gigantic screens projected the commotion, fans everywhere begun to panic and tried to run out. Emergency teams rushed in to help.
Outside, Shereen encountered another group of people pointing phone cameras at her face. They had to be pushed by the police to get to the vehicle. More sirens approached from every direction. She staggered. The officer gripped her arm and shoved her into the armored car; and immediately, they rushed to the hospital with sirens blasting.