Terror Machine

by Denison Hatch

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  Omer tiptoed up the stairs of his house, attempting to be as quiet as possible. The second he reached the inside entranceway, he dropped the charade. All of the lights were on inside the living room, and his father, mother, and Salma sat solemnly at the dinner table.

  “What’s going on?” Omer asked innocently before taking one more step and discovering the answer himself.

  Murad and Dr. Borin stood in the living room. Murad was holding a gun.

  “We’re a family that eats together, Omer. So we’ve been waiting for you,” Murad replied sarcastically.

  “The cops are going to show up . . .”

  “No shit. Salma’s lucky you’re back.”

  “That’s it!” Azza Amin stood up from the dinner table. “I’m going to bed. And you . . . Murad . . . You are leaving.”

  “Mother, I promise you . . .” Murad started towards his mother. He jabbed the gun in the air, spiking the weapon back and forth in Azza’s direction. “I won’t hurt you—never, ever would. But you can’t leave. Not until Omer and I have spoken.” Murad pivoted towards Omer and pointed the gun directly in his face. “What’d you do, Omer?”

  “The fuck did you do, Murad? You’re a murderer now? A terrorist? Is that how you want to be remembered? That’s how you’re going to protect our family?” Omer screamed at Murad.

  “We had a deal.”

  “We have a deal,” Omer said.

  “You broke it. You squealed.”

  “I did nothing.”

  “What do you think, doctor? You’re the mind guy. Is he lying?”

  Dr. Borin stared at Omer. “He’ll do.”

  “Not what I asked,” Murad said.

  “I’m cutting to the point . . .”

  “So if you weren’t talking to the cops, where were you?” Murad yelled at Omer.

  “I was out. I was at a . . . concert.”

  Moradi and Azza gasped simultaneously.

  “I’m not talking about your concerts, pretty boy. The only people who don’t know about that are our parents. I’m talking about you tipping off the detective from that band—the one on TV. Jake Rivett.”

  Omer glanced at Salma, who had a pained expression on her face. No one said anything for a moment.

  “He was going to kill Pat,” Salma finally said tearfully.

  “And now what’s he going to do?” Omer asked.

  “I told you to get out, Murad!” Azza yelled at her son again. She stood up and paced towards him. Murad held the gun in the air to try to stop her, but Azza kept pushing.

  “Sit down!” Murad yelled.

  “Shoot me! Shoot. I will not sit down. You’re inside my house.” Azza had tears in her eyes as she bum-rushed Murad. He didn’t shoot, instead grabbing her in a bear hug with the gun still in his hands while she tried to whack him with her forearms.

  “Mother, please. I love you.”

  “I love you too,” she wailed.

  “I’m the brave one. I’m the one who’s going to change our destiny. Isn’t that what you wanted? You hate the same things I do. Why are you trying to stop me?”

  Behind them, Dr. Borin answered a phone call and listened.

  “We’ll be right out,” the doctor said. He hung up and nodded at Murad. “The man from Dubai is waiting. They want to go.”

  Murad shoved Azza away suddenly. She fell to the ground between him and Omer, and Murad trained his gun back on Omer.

  “I promised you, Mother, I will not hurt you. I keep my promises. Even this kid . . .” Murad gestured with the gun at Omer. “Although I do want to hurt him, I won’t.” Murad paused for a moment. “We’ll let him do it to himself. We got to get out of here before the place turns to hellfire. Only good thing about all the police is they might need some uniforms pressed, Dad. Make sure you give ’em a business card.”

  Murad grabbed Omer roughly by the arm and shoved him towards the door. Dr. Borin followed.

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  On the street outside the Amin family’s house, a black SUV idled. The passenger door opened slightly, and Omer could make out a young man’s pristine, model-like face inside. Murad roughly pushed Omer into the back seat. Once he was seated, Dr. Borin tapped something metallic onto the side of Omer’s neck. Omer only felt the slightest pinprick, but within seconds a toxic chill spread through his veins. He turned towards the doctor and saw a syringe. He blacked out as the knockout agent took over.

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  Moradi Amin turned on the television after Murad and the strange white man had left with Omer. The horror of the Times Square bombing was all over the screen. Moradi only shook his head in shell-shocked despair. He couldn’t believe that after everything he’d accomplished in life, this was the result. His family’s entire life story was about to become international news. Why had Allah reached down with his fingers and touched upon them like this? What had he done? How quickly the American dream could turn into a nightmare. Times Square was covered in cameras, and the entire attack was there in full HD. Moradi could only watch in horror as his own company’s van, with the logo for his laundry business plastered on the side, drove into the middle of Times Square before engaging with a SWAT team and blowing itself to smithereens. The broadcaster was now a detective agency as well, of course. They’d pulled the logo off the van, expanded and sharpened it, and had a correspondent standing outside the family business in Astoria, just down the street. What’s more, an unruly crowd of men—mostly white, mostly angry—stood protesting in front of the building. Moradi knew his creation was in jeopardy. He’d built the cleaners inch by inch, dollar by dollar, and day by excruciating day. Now, out of the blue, it stood at the center of a terror firestorm.

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  Moradi ran down the street. His business was only a few blocks away, but the distance felt infinite. By the time he arrived, the crowd had grown exponentially from what he’d seen on television. Plenty of reporters and news media were approaching the scene, but the only true ruler that evening was chaos. The police hadn’t shown up yet, although Moradi could hear sirens. As he stepped foot onto the block, he heard glass breaking for the first time. It started with a single brick, thrust by an adrenaline-pumped man in the shadows, but quickly one brick turned into many. One by one, the windows of Steinway Cleaners were systematically smashed. The rioters began to use other items—crowbars, baseball bats, flashlights, whatever—to break out the glass from the windows and gain entry to the business. Some of them were there to steal, others just to gawk. But as Moradi finally reached the front of his store, he saw a group of men pouring gasoline over the clothes inside. He stepped up to the doorway and began yelling.

  “This is my property! I demand that you vacate the premises! You will be arrested!” Moradi screamed at the top of his lungs.

  “This is yours?” one of the men asked him.

  “Yes, it is. Now you will get out!”

  After the first punch arrived, Moradi didn’t say anything else. The rioters jumped him in a frenzy, pushing him to the ground and kicking him repeatedly. He curled into the fetal position, pain stabbing his body with each impact.

  Within thirty seconds, the assault was over. Moradi snuck a glance from between his fingers to confirm that the cops had arrived. After they pulled the last rioters off him, two cops hauled Moradi himself off the ground. The crowd parted, and the police began to yell orders and engage in crowd control. The cops carried Moradi from the sidewalk to the street, where their squad car was parked. Moradi realized that although the police were pushing the rioters away from Steinway Cleaners, nothing was being done about the fire. Flames licked through the entire first floor of his business.

  Finally, Moradi was guided into a sitting position on the back bumper of a police vehicle, guarded by two lukewarm blues. Through his two black eyes, he could only watch with sadness while his life’s work burnt to the ground. It was quite a macabre sight. The fire burned red hot and no one was there to stop it. The police didn’t seem to think it was their job, and he di
dn’t see any firefighters on the scene yet. None of the numerous newscasters seemed to be upset by what was happening, either. They turned their backs to the fire and filed their reports—Moradi’s misfortune all the better background for their breaking news.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE LAST SIGHT OMER AMIN expected when he finally opened his eyes was a stunning skyliner view of the Manhattan sunrise. But that’s what he saw—a vista of the city framed by floor-to-ceiling glass. Omer had never been in a room like this before in his entire life. He perceived that he was sitting in an ultra-modernist apartment way, way up in the sky—about fifty stories in the air and soaring over Gotham. This place was out of Architectural Digest and the future, combined. A hedge funder’s dream, the apartment must have been worth untold millions of dollars. The room was extremely sparse. There was basically nothing in it besides wide-plank light-wood floors, white walls, and the view. Omer craned his neck left and right. That’s when he discovered a second fact. He was strapped into a chair. He looked at his hands. They were each handcuffed onto a large office chair, which seemed to be bolted to the ground. Then Omer looked up and—damn it. There was that white MRI tube. Omer finally realized he was sitting underneath Dr. Borin’s machine.

  The door opened. Murad and Dr. Borin entered first, followed by two more men. Behind them, Omer spied an immaculate living room—complete with modern art, oversized furniture, smoke-grey marble, and a sprinkling of antiquity-era sculptures. Then the door closed. Omer gazed at the two new men’s faces. The first he didn’t recognize—a man with a rough face, wearing black activewear, a chest bag, and sneakers. He seemed to be a bodyguard. Omer recognized the second man. It was the same face he’d noticed inside the SUV that had picked them up at his family’s house. The man was young and was of Middle Eastern descent. His deeply cut cheeks and designer duds made him look like nothing less than a fashion model. He was clearly in charge.

  “You’re the man from Dubai?” Omer asked.

  The man nodded with a slim grin. “Dubious description,” he said.

  “Everyone was waiting for you,” Omer replied.

  “It seems I’ve arrived in the nick of time.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” Omer twisted towards Murad as he asked the question.

  “It’s just like Dad always says . . .” Murad announced. “You’re either part of the problem or you’re part of the solution. What do you want to be?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “I won’t let you be a problem,” Murad said, “which is why we are going to allow you to be part of the solution—a big, big part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dr. Borin stepped behind Omer. He tinkered on a laptop set up on a small table.

  “Do you want to kill?” Dr. Borin asked suddenly. When no one replied, he asked again. “Omer, do you want to kill?”

  “No . . .” Omer replied. “Who? What do you mean?”

  “Of course you don’t. I’ve been waiting for over twenty years for this moment,” Borin orated while he configured the machine. “I think we’ve done it. Darab proved that. But we need you for the final test, with our benefactor here watching. You’re the dream. I know you don’t want to do what you will eventually, but I must remind you of something. Before you met me, you were destined to be nothing. Now, you will be part of one of the greatest scientific evolutions in human history. That can never be taken away from you. Never!”

  “You’re totally out of your mind,” Omer said. “What’s the point? Why go through all the trouble? Aren’t there enough terrorists out there who want to be suicide bombers?”

  “You’d be surprised,” the man from Dubai said. “But your job isn’t to ask questions.”

  “No, indeed,” Dr. Borin said. “Your job is to be the P.O.C.”

  “What’s a P.O.C.?”

  “You, dear brother, are our proof of concept,” Murad finally answered.

  Murad and the man from Dubai slowly helped lower the MRI machine over Omer’s head while Dr. Borin continued to tap on the controls to his invention. After a few more seconds, Omer could hear their movement stop. He couldn’t see anything at that point, the incredible panoramic view now blocked by the off-white plastic surface of the MRI machine a few inches from his eyes. He was strapped in and immobile. That’s when the curiously attractive female voice began to speak. Her words were clearly emanating from speakers near his ears, but it sounded as though she were inside his brain. And all she was saying was the same thing over and over again . . .

  “His name is Rivett,” the woman said. “His name is Rivett. His name is Rivett.” She repeated herself over and over again. Finally, she said, “Say it with me.”

  Omer didn’t reply.

  “Omer,” she said. “Say it with me.”

  “His name is Rivett,” Omer whispered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  SUSAN HERLIHY WAS CRYING. RIVETT stood in her office and wasn’t sure what to do. He’d never seen Susan cry before, but then again he wanted to cry, too. The loss of Pete Mack and Jack Markle, as well as the other members of the SWAT team, was utterly devastating. Jake had always wondered what it would take for Susan to seem vulnerable. Now that he knew, he wished he didn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally said.

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

  “I’m pissed.”

  “Me too,” Rivett confirmed.

  “I wish I could tell you to pull a Rivett on this guy . . .”

  “On Hanafi? Still can. Happily. With gusto.”

  Susan shook her head.

  “We can’t torture him. But I can certainly get rid of him,” Mr. White added from the corner of the room.

  “Maybe later, Sheldon,” Susan answered, only half joking.

  “You’re the boss,” Mr. White replied, only half serious.

  “You know I love myself a cowboy, Rivett. I almost married one once.”

  “I know. From Galveston. But he talked too much and was a scaredy-cat.”

  “You have a good memory,” Susan replied. “That’s why I always liked Pete Mack. He was the opposite. He was cautious, but at the end of the day he suited up. Balls of steel and he never advertised it. You could have learned something from him. Just remember, Jake—you’re being taped, and there’s about five guys from each agency watching outside. Don’t get hot under the collar. Get answers,” she concluded.

  “Roger that, Susan. Don’t worry. Things are going to turn around.”

  “Funny thing to say right now . . .”

  “We got Hanafi. That’s why.”

  “He’ll be slippery,” Mr. White added.

  “Yeah. But at least there’s a crack in the egg. You know?”

  “I do.” Susan nodded. “Don’t lose the yolk.”

  “So . . . now?” Jake asked.

  “Now.”

  Rivett walked out of Susan’s office and down the hallway towards the interrogation room. He passed by Tony and Moseley, who nodded. Tony gave a thumbs up to indicate that all of their recording equipment was working.

  “Break a leg, Rivett,” Shep Moseley said.

  Jake could easily identify the correct interrogation room, because it was the one with the police officer standing outside and packing a submachine gun. The guard moved aside.

  Jake entered and took his first good look at Ali Hanafi. Cult kings fascinated Jake. He called them kings because the members of a cult always end up not just following but also revering their leaders. Whenever Jake met a cult king like Hanafi, he was always surprised to find them quite ordinary—at first. Usually their mildly pleasant exterior was simply camouflage for their intelligence and cunning. That’s why he was staring at an utterly ordinary man in almost every respect. From the ten extra pounds around Hanafi’s waist to the slightly formal yet ultimately casual polo shirt he was wearing, and with day-old stubble but still stubbornly parted hair, not much drew the eye about Hanafi. At the same time, he was certainly a valid fo
e. Somewhere along the line, Hanafi had managed to organize and carry out two major terror attacks in New York City without even a scent of his plans escaping into the ether.

  The second Jake stepped into the room, the battle was on. Jake also knew he was in a losing position. He—and, by extension, the world—needed what Hanafi had and Hanafi knew it. There was only one way to break down a man like that. The guy needed to think he was winning.

  “How you doing?” Jake began nonchalantly.

  “Fine,” Hanafi said. “Do I get a lawyer?”

  “Do you want a lawyer?”

  “Yeah. I already told them that.”

  “They’re getting you one. I know you’ve been read your rights, so I’m not going to repeat them.”

  “Rights . . . What a joke. Did they read my brothers their rights in Guantanamo?”

  “You had brothers in Guantanamo?” Rivett asked. “I didn’t know that . . .”

  “No,” Hanafi said. “I guess cops don’t get metaphors.”

  “What makes you think I’m a cop?” Jake asked as he sat down at the table in front of Hanafi.

  “Huh?” Hanafi was startled for a moment.

  “Just messing with you.”

  For a brief moment, Hanafi allowed himself to smile.

  “Fuckin’ Five-O, through and through. Son of a cop, too. How’s that for ya? Real New York, huh?” Jake said.

  “Had me there for a second . . .”

  “Alim . . . That’s what you like to be called, right? Alim Hanafi?” Jake said. “You know, I’m not here to try to drag you over the coals and pull every single piece of information out of you. I’d like to. I really would. But I’m not going to, because I can’t. You wanna know why?”

  “Why?” Hanafi asked.

  “Because it wouldn’t work. You’re smart and you know it. And I know you know it. So, really, I’m just curious. I want your point of view.” Jake took a long breath before the next words came out of his mouth. “What do you get out of all this?”