Victor glanced at the time on his phone screen. It was almost nine P.M. Most evenings he had a standing online appointment at this time. He'd been hanging on a certain game server for several months now, playing with the same group of guys on a variety of games. He never had met any of these players in real life and he didn’t know any of their real names, but they were as much of a social life as he had. Most of the people he actually knew in person were stupid. They didn’t understand any of the things he felt were important.
He put the lid on his chips and moved to the desk chair, booted his computer, and clicked on the icon to open the game they were playing now. He selected the server then entered his login credentials and was verified. Online, he went by the name DeathMerchant6o6o6 and he thought it was the most badass name he’d ever come up with. Sometimes he even strapped on one of his knives to put himself deeper into character. Some days, he never came out of character at all. He would sit at the counter at work, scribbling the moniker DeathMerchant6o6o6 on a scratch pad over and over.
The list of players began populating and he saw the same familiar names he recognized. His friends, or the closest thing he had to any. Victor slipped on his gaming headphones, adjusted his microphone, and jumped into the chat. He fell into the comfortable banter like a man greeting his coworkers around the morning coffee pot. It was a feeling of belonging he didn’t have in his everyday life. There were reasons for that. Some of those reasons were his fault, others were not.
It started with his personal appearance. He was a large young man, quite tall and overweight. He had stringy hair that was overly long and not washed frequently enough. It was crudely cut by Victor himself and hung over his eyes. He considered his hair to be both a filter through which he viewed the world and a mask that concealed him from it.
He dyed streaks of red and blonde into his hair and scruffy beard. In an urban high school his appearance would not have been unusual. As an adult working with the public in a small town it made him stand out in a way that was not entirely positive. He was fortunate the town had a gaming store or he may not have been able to find a job at all. In that environment, he blended in as well as anyone with his appearance might.
His manner of dress had been cultivated over several years of experimentation. He usually wore black cargo pants and combat boots. He had a variety of black t-shirts and tank tops he wore with them, topped off with a black hoodie. He accessorized with a trucker’s wallet chained to his belt and a pair of fingerless black gloves he only took off at home. In those clothes, he felt like a warrior stalking the surface of the Earth. It was his armor. It was the uniform of DeathMerchant6o6o6.
The gamers gave it a few minutes to see if anyone else was showing up. About ten minutes after nine they started a round. The matches lasted around forty-five minutes. This game was a combat shooter and those were Victor's favorites. He’d never shot a gun in real life but had mastered an arsenal of online weaponry. His current preference was the Beretta 92 and the Aug Steyr. With those two weapons and a few grenades he was practically unstoppable. He also carried a badass knife because edged weapons were part of his identity.
Most nights he played at least three or four matches. He had played as many as ten, staying up half the night drinking energy drinks and eating candy bars. His mom thought it was a total waste of time but it was his favorite thing to do. Who was she to judge? She just didn’t understand. What had she ever done in her life to ever accomplish anything? When had she ever had as much fun as he had on those nights?
She never had. She was stuck in the 1950s where all life was about work and being a good citizen.
After several rounds he called it a night. The other players called him names and made fun of him for logging off but it was a good-natured ribbing. They were his tribe. As such, he always felt a tremendous letdown when he signed off at the end of the night and powered down his computer. After the combat and the intense chatter that went with it, it was depressing to suddenly find himself back in the basement again. Those moments were when he was most aware that his real life was way less exciting than what he did online.
He wondered if this was true for the other guys he played games with. He thought about logging back in but it would definitely make him look like even more of a loser. They would give him some serious shit about it. He was too tired to fight back tonight.
He settled into his recliner and picked up a warm can of soda, taking a swig. Maybe he’d just watch some more videos. He’d received notifications that new videos from his favorite channels were available. He watched until he fell asleep in the chair.
5
In Frankfurt, Germany, Mohammed Karwan slipped off his headphones and sat back in his wooden chair. He rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. His eyes were tired from staring at the screen and he’d needed a bathroom break for over an hour now. While this was work, it was sometimes engaging work that sucked him in much as it did the young Americans he played with. He was more careful now to not lose sight of the end goal though, after seeing Machmud get his brain deep-fried. Mohammed was fully aware he’d been given a deadline in the truest sense of the word.
Mohammed was a Syrian who fled to Germany in 2008. He lived in a simple apartment with two other men, all Syrians who’d moved to Germany around the same time. That number was now reduced to one other man after Machmud’s disappearance. Mohammed had several online identities, and his only function was to spend time on the internet cultivating relationships in chat rooms, on social media, and on gaming servers. He was to look for weakness, for vulnerabilities that might one day be exploited. While he worked at this methodically and strategically, the imposition of the deadline turned up the heat on his efforts. He had to produce results within the next couple of weeks or meet what would likely be a very unpleasant fate.
Mohammed’s roommate Khebat knocked on the doorframe of Mohammed’s bedroom. Mohammed thought he was gone and had not even heard him enter the apartment.
“How is the progress?”
Mohammed shrugged. “Among one group, I feel like I am part of their circle but it’s hard to tell. We joke and pick on each other but I’m not certain I’ve reached the point where I can call one of them up on the phone and ask for a favor.” Mohammed stood and stretched his back. "I'm starving. I can’t remember the last time I ate."
"There's food in the kitchen," Khebat said. "I picked up shawarma and tabbouleh on the way home. There also falafel."
Mohammed headed off to the kitchen and filled a paper plate from the plastic containers stacked in two large takeout bags. He filled a glass of water at the sink and sat down at the table. Khebat came in and sat across from him.
"Do you think they’re serious about this deadline?" Khebat asked.
Mohammed was the senior man in this group but he was never told any more than the rest of them. They had been there together. They had heard the words from senior leadership. He shoved a forkful of tabbouleh in his mouth. "You have doubts? After what they did to Machmud?"
Khebat frowned and stood up, pacing the room. "It’s not like we’re goofing off. We’re trying. Every day we try."
“Apparently not all of us were trying equally.” Mohammed was referring to their roommate who had become too immersed in the online world and the relationships he was building. So immersed he was having relations with women he met in chat rooms. So immersed they exchanged intimate pictures.
“It’s not easy to befriend total strangers. The leadership wants us to build communication histories. They want us to radicalize and convert. None of those things are easy.”
Mohammed watched Khebat pace. "We’ve talked about this. It's a courtship. Start with building a relationship," he said. "You have to find the right vulnerable person. You have to befriend them, make them want to do things to please you. Target the vulnerable and friendless. If you befriend someone like that, they will do anything we ask of them."
Khebat waved a slender hand at Mohammed. "I was comfortable with this w
hen there was no pressure. Now that we have a deadline, I’m terrified.”
Mohammed understood his fear. He enjoyed life in Germany. It felt like more than moving to a new country, it felt like moving to a new century. He had no interest in returning home to play cat-and-mouse with the Americans in the mountains. He had no interest in living in a village and herding goats.
"Look, I have one target that I feel I am making progress with. He might be the one. He goes by the user name DeathMerchant6o6o6. He is a little older than some of the other players I've met but is probably no more mature than your average American thirteen-year-old. Seems like a loser. I’ve picked up that he has a job, he can drive, but he still lives at home. That’s exactly the kind of person we are looking for."
"His user name would play well in the American media. Do you think you can inspire him, my brother?" Khebat asked.
Mohammed shrugged. He was tired from hours of staring at the computer screen and his eyelids were heavy. "I will certainly try. I am no more anxious than you to return to that warehouse and face the consequences of failure."
“I will pray for your success. May it save all our lives," Khebat said.
Mohammed came to Germany as a teenager after the death of his parents. Extended family in Germany had help arranged his emigration. The same relative had also assisted him in finding work in the construction business. It turned out what was described as the construction business was merely a cover for bringing young men into the country to continue the jihad on another front.
The electronic front.
While some men brought to Frankfurt did actually work in construction, many others, like the men Mohammed shared his apartment with, spent their days hanging out in chat rooms on behalf of their organization, attempting to radicalize young Westerners. The idea was that the vulnerable and impressionable might be converted and convinced to strike against their own nation. It had been a successful tool. There was nothing that struck fear in the West like one of their own turning against them, becoming the enemy from within. The idea made them fear their friends and neighbors.
Mohammed and his roommates received training to assist them with their new roles. They were taught the basics of psychotherapy, such as how to use reflective listening to encourage people to talk about themselves without appearing to be invasive. They could draw people into revealing things about themselves without feeling like they were being interrogated. It was both art and science.
The men became skilled at telling lonely people with poor self-esteem the things they wanted to hear. They offered encouragement, pretended to be a friend, pretended to care. All the while they planted seeds. They watered those seeds with friendly messages and support, then waited for them to sprout. The idea was to eventually measure the degree to which their trust was rooted by asking for small favors and increasingly more personal information. If those small requests were granted, they would gradually ask for larger and larger things until they asked for the largest thing of all–assistance with carrying out a terror attack on American soil.
Khebat stopped pacing. "I’m getting back to work. If there’s anything I can do to help you with this DeathMerchant let me know."
Mohammed paused his ravenous eating. All of the conversation with Khebat only reminded him of how dire their situation was. He needed something big and he needed it soon. The senior leadership scared the hell out of Mohammed. While he'd seen his share of brutality in his life, these were men who held no compunction against plucking out someone's eye with their fingers, cutting off a man’s limb, or stoning an impure woman to death. When those men looked at him, under their dispassionate gaze he felt as if each were assessing the ways in which they might kill him if the occasion presented itself. It might be with burning oil or it might be with a knife. He might meet his God in a single damaged piece or many small pieces. It was the nature of this business in which he found himself.
Mohammed set his fork down. "I will make it happen. I will think of something."
Despite his exhaustion and need for sleep, Mohammed decided some fresh air and a walk might clear his head. Except for the hooded trip to the warehouse, he hadn’t even left the apartment in three days. He told Khebat he was going out for a while and left the flat.
The men lived in a neighborhood of similar apartments. Their neighbors were tech workers, wait staff, bartenders, and retail clerks. People were coming and going at all hours. It was the perfect cover for men who needed a place where they would not stand out. The men were only as friendly as they had to be. Being rude and aloof would only serve to make them more memorable to people. They did not socialize, and they did not engage in any more conversation than was necessary.
Deciding a cup of coffee may steer his brain in the right direction, Mohammed wandered up the Kaiserstrasse. At a café run by an Iraqi immigrant, he found an outdoor table and seated himself in an uncomfortable aluminum chair. He resisted the temptation to pull out his phone and start surfing the Internet. It was more important he apply his thoughts to solving his problem.
He watched the crowded streets until a waiter approached and Mohammed ordered a cup of coffee. The waiter returned with an espresso-sized cup of the stout, cardamom-scented brew. Mohammed took a tentative sip. It was bitter and had a slightly gritty texture that played over his tongue. It reminded him of home which, again, reminded him of his mission and his dilemma.
The café overlooked Frankfurt’s Hauptwache. It was a major shopping district and the streets were full of people. Mohammed ordered a second cup of coffee. While he waited for it to cool he heard a shout from the square, followed by the blaring of loud music. With this being Frankfurt, and with Mohammed's background, there was a moment of panic where he thought it might be a terror attack. His eyes scanned the crowd trying to assess the situation, watching for people running, trying to determine the center of activity so he could flee in the other direction.
He scooted his chair back and prepared himself but no attack materialized. The music got even louder. He heard a voice shouting and frowned. No, not just shouting…counting.
A random group of people standing in the square, folks who appeared to have no connection to each other whatsoever, suddenly began dancing. Mohammed's brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The people steadily worked their way into a cluster until all of those who were dancing were gathered together. Still dancing, they organized themselves in a single straight line. Then the music paused, the dancers froze, and a different song began playing. All of their movements were somewhat synchronized, but not perfectly so. There was still a degree of spontaneity to it that indicated it was unpracticed.
Mohammed looked around and noticed the dancing had the attention of almost everyone at the café and along the streets. Many were giggling and stopped to watch. A few moved along with utter disregard, as if the activity was yet another nuisance in an already overcrowded and irritating city. Mohammed noticed a couple at a nearby table watching with smiles on their faces.
“What is this?” Mohammed asked in his tentative German.
“A flash mob,” the woman replied.
Mohammed nodded as if he understood, though he hadn’t the slightest idea what that meant. He returned his attention to the dancers and saw their line begin to encircle a young couple. The woman looked embarrassed but the man smiled broadly. She looked at him, wondering if he had somehow organized this, but he merely shrugged and gave no indication. The music suddenly stopped and the man took a knee. He extended something toward the young woman.
It was a ring box. This was a marriage proposal. Judging by the cheers that went up from the crowd, she must have accepted. The man stood and they hugged.
In moments, the crowd dissipated and the young couple remained, hugging and talking in the crowded square. The whole thing materialized from nothing and then disappeared as if it had not even happened. Mohammed pulled out his phone now, entering the term flash mob into a search engine. He soon learned it was an activity t
hought to have originated in America. Any random person might organize one using the Internet. It was scheduled beforehand that everyone be in a certain place at a certain time. The mob activity would begin upon a prearranged signal usually initiated by the organizer.
Mohammed had never heard of such a thing but it would not surprise him that it originated in America. He’d never been to the country but it seemed to be a place where people devoted their time to utterly ridiculous pursuits. Mohammed had almost forgotten about his second cup of coffee. He noticed it in his hand and tossed it back with a loud slurp.
A thought coalesced. Perhaps there was a way he might utilize such an activity. He removed a bank note from his pocket and dropped it on the table. He left the café, his mind racing, his mouth unable to stop itself from curling into a smile. He would have something for the leadership now.
6
Cole’s partner in his residential company was a man named Larry Tiller. The two had been friends for over twenty years and business partners for half that time. Their company, Patriot Residential, was a small construction company, but work was steady. They employed a lead carpenter named Guadalupe Munoz, or Lupe for short. Lupe had come into the company with Larry, having worked for him several years prior to the creation of Patriot Residential.
Larry and Cole had a small crew of carpenters who worked for them on a regular basis. They also had several steady subcontractors they used almost exclusively. Years in the construction business had taught the partners that being lean and flexible was the key to survival when the bottom fell out of the market. They'd seen many contractors, many friends, lose everything from running too many jobs, too many employees, and carrying too much debt.
Random Acts Page 4
