Random Acts

by Franklin Horton

  Mohammed and Khebat did not know the men who met them at the dock but they were greeted in Arabic. After days with strangers it was good to be among people with whom they at least shared a common language.

  The men who picked them up handed off a shiny new tackle box to the captain. Mohammed and Khebat were ushered away to the parking lot while the captain discreetly counted the money stacked in the tackle box. When he was satisfied that all the money was there, he nodded at a crewman, who reversed them away from the dock. The man with the shotgun did not lower it until they were well away from land.

  The travelers stowed their packs in the rear of a white Chevy Tahoe and climbed into the back seat. Their journey continued with a drive several hours northeast. They engaged in trivial conversation with their hosts, no one mentioning anything that might be privileged or compartmentalized information. There was zero tolerance for compromised information, and only one fate for someone who talked too much.

  It was dark when they arrived at a remote convenience store outside of some small Alabama town. The store was not part of a national chain or franchise, being what was typically referred to as a “mom and pop” operation. The store had living quarters upstairs that were the same size as the store.

  The original owners of the store, an elderly couple, had lived up there for thirty years while operating the store. When they finally decided it was time to sell, they were pleased there was someone interested in buying the operation, though they were a little surprised to find that their buyers were of Middle Eastern descent. There weren’t many of their kind in the area. But a buyer was a buyer and money talked.

  “This is where you will stay tonight,” the driver, a man who identified himself as Nasr, informed them.

  “Only tonight?” Khebat asked.

  “We will move you every night for a while,” Nasr said. “Just in case you are being followed.”

  “You have that many safe locations?” Mohammed asked.

  “We have hundreds,” Nasr replied.

  “How so many?”

  “We have been buying small stores with living quarters since 2008. It gives us a way to house people who need to move discreetly. People for whom hotels are not an option.”

  “That’s incredible,” Khebat said.

  Nasr parked the Tahoe behind the store. The men retrieved their backpacks and followed Nasr up a set of wooden stairs to a landing. Their host opened a cheap brown door and led them into a sparse apartment with green shag carpet and paneled walls.

  “There is food and drink,” Nasr said. “The television works. There are two beds in each room and a bathroom at the end of the hall. My friend and I will be staying here with you tonight.”

  “Is there internet available?” Khebat asked.

  Nasr reached in his shirt pocket and retrieved a cellular hotspot. He tossed it to Khebat. “I was told you would need access.”

  Khebat examined the device. It was battery operated. It had good charge and good signal. “If you will excuse us, we need to get caught up on a few things. Does it matter which room we take?”

  “No,” Nasr replied. “Take whichever room suits you.”

  “I’m grabbing a drink,” Mohammed said. “Do you want one?”

  “Yes,” Khebat called, already in the empty bedroom unpacking his laptop.

  Mohammed soon joined him, getting out his own laptop. With no furniture in the room other than beds, each took a bed and plugged their computers in. They logged onto the wireless network created by the hotspot.

  “I’m going to check messages and social media,” Mohammed announced. “It would be helpful to me if you could check the spyware we placed on DeathMerchant6o6o6’s computer.”

  “It will take a moment to process that,” Khebat said. “When his machine was on, it sent a data file to a server. I have to download the file and review it.”

  Mohammed checked his various accounts. He’d received no messages from DeathMerchant6o6o6, which kind of surprised him. He’d expected to have one waiting on him.

  “I’ve got a text file from the keylogger,” Khebat said. “It’s a small file. Looks mostly like websites and passwords.”

  “Do you have the websites’ addresses?” Mohammed asked. “That could tell us something.”

  “Reviewing them now.”

  Mohammed began typing a message to DeathMerchant6o6o6 from the CamaroChick19 account.

  “Ibn il sharmoota,” Khebat cursed.

  “What is it, my brother? It isn’t like you to speak so.”

  “DeathMerchant6o6o6 has repeatedly visited one site over and over again. It’s on social media.”

  “CamaroChick19, right?” Mohammed said.

  Khebat shook his head. “No. Amanda Castle.”

  Mohammed frowned. “That name seems familiar from somewhere.”

  “You’ll know the picture,” Khebat said, turning his laptop to where Mohammed could see it. On the screen was the profile of a very familiar young woman. The woman whose pictures Mohammed had been using for his CamaroChick19 profile.

  “How?” Mohammed asked. “How did he find that profile?”

  “Perhaps an image search,” Khebat said. “If he’s tech savvy at all it would not be difficult.”

  Mohammed deleted the message he’d just written. He didn’t know what to do. If DeathMerchant6o6o6 contacted the woman she would not know him. It would come out that Mohammed had stolen those images for his own use. All of his work would unravel.

  “Is this a problem?” Khebat asked. “Can’t we just proceed without him?”

  “This plan hinges on having him take the blame,” Mohammed said. “It loses effectiveness if Americans can just dismiss it as another act of Middle Eastern terrorism. The real fear comes from it being one of their own. You saw how excited Miran was about that aspect of the plan. Do you want to disappoint him?”

  Khebat did not, imagining the boiling oil filling his cavities. “What do you think your DeathMerchant knows?”

  “I have no idea,” Mohammed said. “I guess I should just message him and see how he responds. If he responds.”

  Khebat paused in thought. “What do you know about DeathMerchant6o6o6? Or the real person behind him, that is?”

  “Quite a bit. He uses DeathMerchant6o6o6 on gaming servers and on his social media accounts. He posted from work one time, and I caught his real name on his nametag when he posted a selfie. It also told me the name of the place he worked. I called them and got the address of the location he worked at. I called that particular store and, through a little manipulation, got one of the employees to give me his personal cell number.”

  “Social engineering,” Khebat said.

  “Exactly,” Mohammed agreed. “Hacking 101.”

  “Did you get a home address?”

  “I did. I called the cell number they gave me and told DeathMerchant6o6o6 I was calling about a video game rebate form he’d submitted. I just took a chance that, as a gamer, he’d filled one of those out before. Turns out he must have because he didn’t bat an eye at the question. I told him I needed him to verify the street address before I mailed out the rebate. He gave it right up.”

  “So you have everything?”

  “I could take you to his house tomorrow,” Mohammed said.

  “Then perhaps you need to.”

  “What good will that do? If he knows I stole those pictures, he may not respond to my messages anymore. We may not be able to manipulate him into participation.”

  Khebat set his laptop down and swung his legs off the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and spoke softly to his friend. “We don’t need him to launch the attack. We just need him to take the blame. We could have anyone drive that van and distribute the gifts, just as we did in Frankfurt.”

  “What about DeathMerchant?”

  “We tie him up and keep him alive at the house. We use his computer to send out all the messages. We leave a trail of breadcrumbs leading back to him. I have all of his passwords in the text f
ile from the keylogger.”

  “Then what do we do with him? We can’t exactly leave him tied up for the police. That would look suspicious,” Mohammed pointed out.

  “During their investigation, the police will raid the home and find him dead of an apparent suicide.”

  Mohammed nodded. “That could work.”

  “It will work,” Khebat said. “We’ve come too far to let this fall apart now. We must take control and keep control.”

  “Nasr!” Mohammed called.

  In a moment, the man stood in the doorway to the small bedroom. “Yes, what is it?”

  “We have a problem,” Mohammed said. “We need to attend to it in person.”

  “What is required?” Nasr asked.

  “Transportation to the city of Charlotte, North Carolina.”

  “I will make arrangements,” Nasr replied. “When must we leave?”

  Mohammed looked at Khebat, then back at Nasr. “Immediately.”

  41

  Nasr left his companion at the apartment over the convenience store and set out in the Tahoe with Mohammed and Khebat. He drove for most of the night to get the Syrians to Charlotte, North Carolina. The pair did not sleep, hammering away at their laptops and phones, and occasionally having a hushed consultation. They only stopped for bathroom breaks and hot cups of rancid convenience store coffee.

  They reached Charlotte in the early morning hours, which worked out well for them. There was enough light to see but few people were out moving around. Using the address stored in Mohammed’s phone and a GPS app, he guided Nasr to DeathMerchant6o6o6’s neighborhood.

  Using the mobile hotspot during the drive, the Syrians studied the neighborhood and had a vague familiarity with the layout. One particular website even offered a view from the street, showing them exactly what their target house looked like.

  All of the homes in the old working-class neighborhood were similar, with overgrown hedges separating them from the street and sections of chain-link fence protecting the yards. The houses were all variations of the same basic house. They had white aluminum siding and white aluminum awnings shading each window. There were aluminum roofs over the small side porches supported by wrought iron posts. Most of the houses had detached garages. Mohammed was amused to see how many had cast-iron Eagles over the garage door, which was apparently some sort of American custom.

  “Stop here. Drop us off," Mohammed ordered.

  "What exactly are you going to do?" Nasr asked.

  Mohammed was silent for a long time. "I don't know," he finally said.

  "Do you need assistance?" Nasr asked.

  Mohammed shook his head. "I don't think so."

  “If you will forgive me for saying so, you two look more like bookkeepers than warriors,” Nasr said. “Is it your intention to engage a target?”

  Mohammed didn’t want to say too much. “Quite possibly.”

  “Are you up for it, my brother?” Nasr asked. “Have you killed before?”

  “I have killed many men,” Mohammed lied. “Another added to the pile is of little consequence.”

  He didn’t meet Nasr’s eye, but knew the driver did not believe him.

  “Do you even have a weapon?” Nasr asked.

  Mohammed shook his head. In Frankfurt, they were discouraged from possessing any due to the risk of drawing attention if it was spotted on their person. Then, of course, he hadn’t been able to carry one on the flight and had no opportunity obtain one since arriving in the United States.

  Nasr reached into his back pocket and retrieved a small pocket pistol. "It's only a .380. It's my backup but it's better than nothing."

  Mohammed took the pistol, examined it briefly, and then discreetly tucked it into his own pocket.

  Nasr assessed Mohammed. "You do know how to use a weapon, don't you?"

  Mohammed nodded. "You may see us as nothing but computer geeks, my brother, but do not forget I am a Syrian. We crawl from the womb with the curved dagger in our teeth. We are warriors."

  Nasr smiled. "Forgive me, brother. I meant no insult."

  “All is forgiven,” Mohammed replied.

  “Then as you wish,” Nasr said. “Should I stay close by?"

  "No," Mohammed said. "Remain in the town until you hear from us. We will text you when we need you."

  "No problem,” Nasr said.

  "Should we take our packs or leave them in the vehicle?” Khebat asked his friend.

  Mohammed appeared uncertain.

  "It's always possible something might happen to me," Nasr said. "It's best you keep your gear with you in case we do not cross paths again."

  That settled the issue. Mohammed and Khebat removed their packs from the vehicle and slung them onto their backs. They were aware it made them conspicuous in the suburban neighborhood so they would have to find a place to stash them as soon as possible. Despite it being early morning, there would be joggers, dog walkers, and newspaper delivery people.

  Khebat got out and shut his door. Mohammed was close behind him. They oriented themselves to their immediate location then began walking, using a GPS app on their phone to assure they were headed toward the target house. In minutes, they found themselves at the end of a driveway.

  Mohammed looked up and down the street to see if anyone appeared to be observing them. He saw no one but understood that behind the drawn curtains could lurk any number of nosy old ladies spying on them. In fact, they could be calling the police at that very moment. He understood that the longer they stood there assessing the situation the greater the opportunity for someone to question them.

  "Does it not appear as if the side door is standing completely open?" Khebat asked.

  Mohammed had not even looked at the side door nearest the driveway, he’d been so focused on whether they were being watched or not. When he turned his attention to the house in front of them, he did indeed see the door nearest to the driveway was standing wide open.

  "Open door and no car in the driveway. That would make me think someone left in a big hurry,” Khebat observed.

  "We should take a look. We can't stay on the street forever,” Mohammed said, though his stomach was knotting at the thought of creeping into a stranger’s house and trying to subdue them.

  “Agreed.”

  Mohammed unslung his pack and handed it to Khebat. "You stash the packs behind the garage. I don’t want them inside in case we have to make a hurried escape."

  Khebat did as he was asked and Mohammed approached the house. He climbed the concrete and stood on the small covered porch. He started to knock on the open storm door and announce himself, to ask if anyone was home before entering, but decided against it. At this time of year there were probably people sleeping with their windows open. Knocking would only draw their attention.

  When Khebat had rejoined him, Mohammed spoke in a low voice. “I remember from gaming with him that he lives with his elderly mother. Just the two of them I think.”

  Khebat nodded.

  Mohammed led the way, stepping into a mud room with a coat rack on one wall and shoes neatly lined against the base of another. When they were both inside, Khebat gently closed the storm door, swinging the broken pneumatic closer out of the way.

  “They should fix that,” he whispered.

  Mohammed looked at him dryly. “You’re a home inspector now?”

  Khebat gestured at the dangling piece of metal. “It’s broken.”

  Mohammed started to draw the .380 pistol from his pocket but decided it was better to appear harmless in case they ran into an inhabitant of the house. Plus, shooting someone would either alert the neighbors to their presence or result in injury to DeathMerchant6o6o6 which was exactly the opposite of what they wanted at this point. They wanted him to appear as a fresh suicide when the police came looking. Like a man unable to cope with the consequences of the act of terror he’d just committed.

  Mohammed moved from the mudroom to the kitchen, gesturing at Khebat to follow. They found the kitchen to be
in general order with just a few signs of someone having been here. There was an empty pizza box on the counter and a pizza pan on the stove top. There were several empty plastic cups scattered around the counter and a dirty plate in the sink. The garbage can was only about half-full with most of the contents being empty 2-liter soda bottles.

  On their way deeper into the house, they came to an open door that led down into the basement.

  "I'll check the basement," Mohammed said. "You check this floor and the upstairs if there is one." Although Khebat agreed, he appeared hesitant to venture further alone.

  The basement stairs were dim but there was the glow of lights in the basement, illuminating the steps enough that Mohammed could descend without turning the light on. He crept slowly downward, into the musty bowels of the home, cringing each time a step cracked or popped beneath his feet.

  When he reached the bottom of the steps he found himself in a square hallway. The left door led to dark unfinished storage spaces. The right led to an extremely cluttered living space. The only sound was the whir of cooling fans on electronics. Mohammed's eyes went from LED to LED, finding several active gaming systems and computer desktops. All were operational and connected. Occasionally, there was the faint click of a hard drive as it conducted some routine system function.

  The bed was a jumble of scattered blankets and stained sheets. There were dirty clothes carpeting the floor. Every flat surface–the nightstand, the dresser and the computer desk—was covered with used cups and food containers. The most impressive feature of the room was an entire wall devoted to edged weapons. There was all manner of exotic sword and ancient martial arts weapons. There were tactical knives, survival knives, and hunting knives. There were combat knives, some clearly designed for such esoteric assignments as killing zombies. Those were designated by their garish neon green handles.

  "The lair of a death merchant," Mohammed whispered with reverence, his finger tracing the curved blade of a Kukri.