9
October 18th.
Antonin Nikolai Zarovich:
“…I can’t and won’t tell you that this is the right thing to do. I am just a soldier in this war. I am offering you my service…”
He is beautiful. Fascinating. Magical.
“…I hand you a weapon, nothing more, and tell you that it may give you the upper hand in this war that you fight. It is your choice to use it or decline…”
I cannot take my eyes off of him. I watch the video—which must have been discreetly pirated, because the session was supposed to have been securely closed—and drag the time-slide back and forth over the choicest sound-bites.
“…This will be an act of violence on an unparalleled scale. Not genocide, but ideocide…”
My hands are trembling—have been trembling since the first playing. I have to breathe, have to sort out what it is I am feeling.
There is dread. Dread at the possibilities, if this intelligence is even remotely accurate. (It may be propaganda, generated from either side—a manipulative hoax).
I freeze the video on the notebook screen. I see a strong handsome face with a long scar, a face with deep passions.
“Where did you say you acquired this?”
“A contact in Belgium,” Heinrich tells me again. “He’s a new player. Gunter Gerhardt. Calls himself a Neo-Wahabi.”
Yes. Pretty young German hothead. Butch haircut and engineered muscles—he could make a good living in the Union sex industry. A child full of bravado. Another bully with a bloodlust to feed, gathering a small army, making his name by murdering helpless tourists.
“I have heard his name. And where do you suppose he got this?”
“Sympathizers within the Council. Staff. Aides. Interns.” Heinrich seems less than concerned, both with the source and the content. “The Coalition has created so many adversaries… It could have been anyone. If it is authentic, I would expect there would be many who have been disturbed enough by it to break security.”
“But you do not believe this is authentic?”
He shrugs. Goes to the bar. Mixes himself another vodka martini.
“Something like this could stir dissent, if it was even remotely credible,” he assesses, then shakes his drink. “It might stimulate fresh recruitment. Instigate actions against UN targets.”
I let him enjoy his drink while it is freshly chilled. I stare at the face on the screen.
“Do we know him?” I ask, gesturing to the pretty scarred face.
“Just what it says he is in the video: Michael Ram. Army Major. Special Forces. Certainly not his real name.” Heinrich smiles a bit at that. “But the scar and the distinctive armor—that has been seen. The mysterious ‘Grayman.’ The Coalition’s new ‘black’ strike teams.”
“Exactly what is described in this video,” I focus him.
“Possibly. But I doubt they can do what they say they can.”
He looks up and catches the look in my eye. It sobers him appropriately.
“Don’t you think we had better find out?”
He thinks about it. Appears uncomfortable.
“We would have to get online,” he considers nervously. “I doubt human intelligence would serve. We would need to hack…”
“Carefully,” I agree with him. “And be ready to burn the bridges.”
“Yes, Warlord.” He finishes his drink and leaves quickly.
I look out the window. From the hotel, the spire of the Eiffel Tower is almost visible in the haze over the gray cityscape. I remind myself: it looks so much prettier at night, all lit up.
I will miss Paris.
I sit down and run the video again.
Grayman Book One: Acts of War Page 56
