In the thin slice of time between the present day and the dystopian future we've been reading so much about, Chris Dawkins, a young man of uncertain everything, finds himself in the FBI's crosshairs when he accidentally signs the online Terms and Conditions to join an Islamic extremist group. (And I suppose YOU read all the fine print?)
With the help of his billionaire boss Jasper Wiles and badass attorney Biz Byner, Chris must thread a narrow path to freedom, squeezing through the colliding worlds of law enforcement, the news media, Silicon Valley, entrepreneurial jihadists, teenage dark web nuclear arms dealers, rogue military officers, street hustlers and side hustlers, living their own truths all.
One part thriller, one part action-adventure, one part buddy comedy and nine parts social and political satire, Lacking Evidence to the Contrary depicts the ageless struggle between uncertainly and conviction in a postmodern world where nothing is as it seems.
In the thin slice of time between the present day and the dystopian future we've been reading so much about, Chris Dawkins, a young man of uncertain everything, finds himself in the FBI's crosshairs when he accidentally signs the online Terms and Conditions to join an Islamic extremist group. (And I suppose YOU read all the fine print?)
With the help of his billionaire boss Jasper Wiles and badass attorney Biz Byner, Chris must thread a narrow path to freedom, squeezing through the colliding worlds of law enforcement, the news media, Silicon Valley, entrepreneurial jihadists, teenage dark web nuclear arms dealers, rogue military officers, street hustlers and side hustlers, living their own truths all.
One part thriller, one part action-adventure, one part buddy comedy and nine parts social and political satire, Lacking Evidence to the Contrary depicts the ageless struggle between uncertainly and conviction in a postmodern world where nothing is as it seems.
HAZIM PROVINCE, ZAZARISTAN
ELEVEN YEARS AGO
War rose and set over Zazaristan like the scorching desert sun that baked its arid plains. At times, it beat down with merciless intensity, killing all that was beautiful and allowing only natureâs most twisted, stunted, and ugliest children to thrive. At other times, as it was during Fareek Wazaanâs eighth year, war would recede over the horizon, but its energy would never entirely cease to radiate from the land.
To Zazaris, the cycle of war was just a way of life, and the only one most had ever known. Not that Fareek especially liked it, but how many West Virginian coal miners liked mining? How many Amazonian fisherman liked fishing? For that matter, how many Amazonian fish liked the Amazon?
Man and fish alike are born into places and times that simply limit their options.
On this morning, Fareekâs options quite literally numbered in the thousands, in that he stood surveying a small mountain of stones which he and his father were using to build a wall, or âqoomahâ in Zazarish, around their property.
âBring me one this big,â said Fareekâs father, holding his thick palms about a foot apart.
Mr. Wazaan was a mason. It made for a steady and decent living since things were constantly being blown up around the country. After every job he completed, Mr. Wazaan would take any leftover bricks or stones home and use them to continue the wall he and Fareek had been working on since Fareek was five. The wall currently measured six feet tall and over 1,200 feet long (the Wazaans did not own all that much property, but Zazaristanâs zoning laws are pretty flexible) and because the source material was free and ever-replenished, the construction showed no signs of stopping. The father and son liked to work on the wall together on mornings when Fareekâs mother and sister were at the market.
Fareekâs job was to select stones and ferry them over to his father, who would fit them into place. He picked over two or three, looking for one the proper size.
âDonât let the rock outsmart you, son!â his father called out, repeating one of his favorite sayings for the thousandth time. âAnd if it does, donât worry. Iâll smash it with my hammer,â he said, grinning and tapping his five-pound hammer into his open hand.
âHow many stones do you think are in this pile?â Fareek asked as he grabbed one about the size of a football.
âThere is no telling,â answered his father, who quickly added, âAt least a thousand,â because Fareek was one of those kids who would insist upon an answer.
Waddling over, cradling the stone, Fareek continued. âIf you started with one stone, and then tried all 999 of the rest to get the two that most perfectly fit together, and then tried each of the 998 to join with the first two perfectly and so on, do you think there is a way for them all to fit without having to break any?â
Fareekâs father took the stone from Fareek, gripping it with one hand as he studied its shape and the shape of the space in the wall before him.
âNo,â he said, deftly cracking off a chunk of the stone with his hammer and setting it into place on the wall with an audible click.
Fareek took his fatherâs point, which was that in this life nothing was perfect, but with a little effort (and/or hammer smashing) one could make it close enough.
The sound of an engine made them both stop and look back toward their house as a pickup truck came into view and bounced over the dusty expanse toward them. Mr. Wazaan set his hammer down and squinted at the approaching vehicle.
Raising a cloud of dust, the pickup came to a halt about fifty feet from where the two were working and a man wearing sunglasses got out of the passenger seat. The driver remained behind the wheel. Two men with rifles sat in the bed.
âGood morning, mason,â Sunglasses called out.
âGood morning, sir,â Mr. Wazaan responded, making a subtle hand gesture to the man that said, Wait there, I will come to you.
âStay here,â he said softly to Fareek and walked over to greet the visitor.
Mr. Wazaan and the man engaged in a conversation beyond Fareekâs earshot, which began with the man speaking for a minute or so and pointing to Fareek once or twice before Fareekâs father responded, shaking his head. The man then grasped Mr. Wazaanâs shoulder and gestured toward his men in the truck, then pointed at Fareek, and then back toward the house.
Once again, Fareekâs father shook his head and raised his hands as if asking a question. The man reached into his robe and pulled something out, handing it to Fareekâs father. He then spoke to the men in the bed of the truck, who sat up a little straighter and regripped their weapons.
The man once again gestured toward Fareek and said something that made Mr. Wazaan turn and look at his son with an expression Fareek had never seen before.
Fareekâs father began walking toward him and Fareek trotted to meet him halfway.
âFareek, these men want to hire me for a job,â his father said as they met. âIt is a big job that will take a few months. I will be working out of the country, so you may not hear from me.â He handed Fareek what the man had given to him, which was a fairly thick roll of cash. âGive this to your mother when she returns. I⌠I have to go now.â
Fareek didnât know what to say. His father had never left home for a job before and these men did not look like construction workers or tradesmen.
âGoodbye, Dad,â he finally managed. âI will look after everything for you and Iâll keep working on the wall, too.â
âThank you Fareek. I will return as soon as I can. Stay out of trouble.â
He gently rested his hand on Fareekâs head for a moment. He turned, walked back to the truck and climbed into the bed, wordlessly joining the armed men. The truck rumbled to life, made a three-point turn and drove away as Fareekâs father gave a final wave.
Fareek squinted into the rising sun to watch him go. After the truck had disappeared from sight, Fareek turned back to the unfinished wall, his eyes landing on his fatherâs hammer.
A few short years from nowâŚ
CHAPTER 1
SOUTH TABOOR CITY, ZAZARISTAN
MONDAY, 3:33 p.m. ZST
A man with a pointy beard entered Conference Room A in a windowless building on the southern outskirts of Taboor City, Zazaristan.
âWho would like to hear a joke?â he asked the nine men seated around a rectangular table.
Fareek looked to his left and right. None of his co-workers spoke up or raised a hand. Their pointy-bearded boss Wahiri Shwarma wasnât much of a joker and didnât seem to be in a good mood. The leader of the Militant Islamic Liberation Front rarely was.
Against his better judgement, Fareek said, âI would.â
âOf course you would, Fareek,â Shwarma snapped. âMaybe if you focused a little less on joking and a little more on jihad, our viewership metrics would be in better shape.â
Fareek worked as MILFâs Information Technology Director and his job description mainly entailed creating the organizationâs internet and social media presence, which meant he shot videos of Shwarma yelling into the camera and posted them on the internet. The viewership metrics were fine, incidentally, but Shwarma subscribed to the Japanese business philosophy of kaizen, which called for continuous improvement, as well as an unnamed philosophy of his own invention which called for belittling his employees.
As Shwarma settled into his chair at the head of the table, Fareek leaned to his left and whispered to Samir, âThat was a terrible joke.â Samir bit his lip and put his head down, pretending to make notes.
Shwarma quickly scanned the room for absentees. Seeing none, began the meeting as he always did.
âThe budget is tight this month, everyone. Letâs keep expenses under control. Now, everyone with Security Clearance K or lower, get out. Wait in the hall.â Several MILFers got up and left the room. Shwarma then droned on about cost savings for six or seven minutes, and after fifteen seconds, not one person except Shwarma could give a crap, so why would you be any different?
When the budget report concluded, Shwarma said, âOn to Operations. Level Six and lower, get out. Tell the men in the hallway who are Level Silver and above to come back in.â
When the appropriate personnel were in place, Shwarma turned to Rahim Lotfi, MILFâs Operations Director. âRahim, how many soldiers did we send forth last week?â
Rahim referred to the notepad in front of him. âTwo, sir. To Montreal and Hamburg. They should be securing cover employment by now.â
Shwarma said, âAnd they are aware that with the exception of the monthly botcoin tributes they make to our cause, they are never to contact us? Or each other?â
âYes. They have been well trained, sir,â said Rahim. âI have made it clear that operational protocol is to await orders indefinitely and breaking with these rules could compromise and destroy our entire movement.â
âGood,â Shwarma said. âWe wouldnât want a repeat of the Honolulu situation, would we, Rahim?â
âNo sir, we would not,â Rahim agreed humbly.
To the entire group assembled around the table, Shwarma said, âLet us say a prayer of thanks, on your own time, after work, to these brave men who are doing Allahâs work. Most of you are unaware of their identities, for your own protection you understand, should you ever be captured. But rest assured I have recently coordinated several damaging attacks with our unsung comrades living among the infidels in the West.â
âCould you tell us about one?â asked Fareek. Several of the other MILF officers looked expectantly at Shwarma.
Shwarma shot Fareek a look.
âIf Fareek insists on compromising our security,â Shwarma said peevishly, âI suppose I can offer a few details.â He thought for a few seconds.
There was that one thing he had read about on the internet that morning. Something about an explosion in England. The internet reported that the cause of the explosion was unclear. That was key, of course. On the other hand, there was no loss of human life, nor even injury, which, for Shwarmaâs purposes, wasnât ideal. But in this life, what is? Wasnât the whole point to build a bridge out of convictions, strong enough to span the gap between what one knows and what one believes?
And so, Shwarma had to once again convince these dusty fools gathered before him that he was actually orchestrating violent worldwide attacks.
Several years ago, when Shwarma was struggling to make it as a young, independent jihadist, he struck upon the idea of streamlining his operation and cutting overhead dramatically by eliminating the costly business of actually planning and executing terror strikes. Simply claiming credit for random acts of misfortune from around the world seemed easier, safer and obviously, far more profitable. The trick was in quickly producing a claim for the âattackâ before the gas company or whatever could conclude their investigation and report what actually went wrong. By then the real story just sounded like a cover-up and was always reported as some tiny squib, whereas Shwarmaâs version of the event was a headline.
Nothing succeeds like success of course, and MILFâs well-documented record of successful operations did not escape the notice of the other jihadist groups in and around Zazaristan. Shwarma, again thinking outside the box, offered these groups access to his ânetwork of operativesâ as well as certain resources and support personnel. With time, vision and good old-fashioned salesmanship, Amalgamated Jihad International was born.
These days AJI provided accounting, payroll, training, logistical support, advertising and social media services to a network of fourteen âRegional Jihadi Franchises,â including Shwarmaâs flagship operation, MILF. One could say it was all a bit pyramid scheme-y, but Shwarma would accept that as a compliment and point out that those pyramids were fucking hard to build.
And the upkeep! He lowered his voice, indicating that this bit of intel should not leave Conference Room A. âI assume you have all heard of the recent bombing in England. One of our soldiers, some of you may know him as Agent 75, some others as Agent Polaris, has bravely attacked the Western dogs!â
The England explosion actually took place at the Kenâs Donut Korner in the Brighton Mall. Second Shift Manager Pete Burrough had had long day on the business end of the food court. To make matters worse, his vape pen was dead and his charger had been MIA for a few days. Desperate times and so on, he borrowed a close-enough charger from the lost and found box and jammed its square-ish plug into his penâs round hole.
Mankind will never know what substance may have been in that vape pen, but what can be said for certain is that Burrough forgot all about the unholy pen/charger union as he locked up Kenâs Donut Korner for the night and headed home. The electrons and whatnot in the penâs battery then took about forty minutes to decide to explode. Every speck of the pen itself was vaped. Sizzling bits of heavy metal festively arched across the prep area and into still-warm deep fryers One, Two and Three and thatâs where things really got started. When the fire marshal arrived, he could see that the cause of the blaze was clear; some sort of kitchen accident. An electrically-ignited grease fire if he had to guess. He only hesitated to immediately identify Kenâs Donut Korner by name at the insistent suggestion of Kenâs legal counsel, who had also quickly responded to the emergency call.
Shwarma continued, âToday, the world will learn that MILF has struck this blow against the Western infidels!â
He couldnât quite remember if MILF had placed an agent in Southern England or not, but luckily Fareek didnât press the issue with more questions. The bigger deal Shwarma made of this England business, the more work it would end up being for Fareek anyway. Fareek didnât want the trouble of all that, but sometimes he couldnât help himself.
The other MILF staffers all exchanged impressed and gratified looks, each assuming that some of the others had a hand in this successful operation, but due to MILFâs strict policy of operational compartmentalization, they were unable to discuss it any further.
âSpeaking of which,â Shwarma went on, âRahim, what is the latest news on The Weapon?â âThe Weaponâ he referred to, as they all knew, was a suitcase nuclear bomb that MILF had been negotiating to buy from some Chinese underworld figures for going on three months now. So far, MILF had paid a deposit, an âacquisition fee,â and a âconveyance chargeâ and the item in question remained âin transit.â More accurately, it remained âa crate of lead weights, various parts from a Superior Nantango (a knock-off Super Nintendo manufactured in 1995) and two sealed glass beakers, one filled with neon yellow NitrousCitrus C4! energy drink and one filled with red FacePunch C4!, both marked with scary-looking radiation warning stickers.â
The âChinese underworld figureâ in question, seventeen-year-old Huan Xing had assembled The Weapon in his parentsâ garage after watching Die Hard III and put it up for sale on the dark web, where it was won at auction by Shwarma, whose bid was enough to put a sweet Calibre de Cartier watch on Xingâs wrist. Now Xing had his eye on a Ducati motorcycle and thus needed the agreed upon balance payment from MILF that was due upon delivery. Two weeks ago he had actually packed up The Weapon and shipped it to the Macau offices of DelanoGoss Logistics LLC (motto: âYour business is none of oursâ), who in turn shipped it via IHL Central Asia to Zazaristan. Where Xing figured it would sit, like his motherâs good tea set and every other nuclear weapon in the world for that matter, waiting for just the right occasion that in all likelihood would never come. And if, by chance, MILF ever discovered The Weapon to be a fake, Xing would be first to point out that the dark web auction made no explicit guarantees of The Weaponâs capabilities and in fact noted in small print that the buyer shall accept The Weapon âas isâ and that âall sales are final.â
âThe Weapon remains in transit,â answered Rahim. âHowever, the Remote Detonation Module arrived this morning along with a message that The Weapon will follow shortly.â
Rahim produced an aluminum briefcase, placed it flat on the table, and popped it open to reveal a black, handheld numeric keypad with a large round knob and a rubbery, curled wire that plugged into a black box with four extendable antennae. The two components fit snugly into custom foam cutouts. They would have to be custom made, as a vintage ColecoVision controller and a Wi-Fi router are not available for retail sale as a set.
The assembled MILF staffers ooh-ed and aah-ed appropriately and Shwarma beamed with satisfaction, a look that would have cracked up Xing had he been there to see it instead of sitting in 7th period trigonometry class. Sending the âRDMâ to MILF to keep them on the hook was a stroke of genius that he reminded himself of every time he looked down at the Cartier on his wrist, although cutting the foam neatly was a pain in the ass.
âExcellent, Rahim,â Shwarma said. âNotify me immediately when The Weapon arrives. Samir, tell everyone to come back in.â He had privately started to worry about The Weaponâs continual delays but seeing the Remote Detonation Module with his own eyes put his mind at ease. He made a mental note to contact Bashir Hallazallah, the leader of the Jihadist Islamic Zenith group to boast of his new acquisition and to ever so subtly imply that MILF may be willing to part with The Weapon should the right offer come along.
When and if Shwarma could flip The Weapon for profit, he would enact his most daring and ingenious plan to date: clearing out MILFâs bank accounts, shaving off his beard, moving to Dubai, buying a mixed-use building, living on the top floor, renting out the middle floors as apartments and opening a fro-yo shop in the commercial space on the ground level. May God will it.
He forced himself to put thoughts of personal mid to long-range financial goals aside for the moment. When the staff was fully assembled again, Shwarma got up from his chair to walk around the table and more closely examine the Remote Detonation Module. It was a most opportune time to fire up the troops and he didnât want to waste it.
âBrothers!â he shouted. âThe time of reckoning for our Western enemies is nearly at hand!â He caught Fareekâs eye and made a subtle gesture with an invisible pen, which Fareek understood to mean, Write this down, Iâm about to get rolling. Fareek uncapped his pen and flipped his notepad to a fresh page as Shwarma continued.
âGod, in his wisdom, has bestowed upon us the power of the⌠theâŚâ
Atom. The word was atom.
Rahim thought he was going to say âsun,â but wasnât entirely confident speaking up and wisely kept his mouth shut. Fareek went ahead and wrote down:
¡ Power of atom
but declined to prompt Shwarma as he enjoyed seeing his boss twist in the wind a bit.
âArmy?â said Samir, earning himself a swift slap to the back of the head.
âUniverse!â Shwarma bellowed, adroitly turning his slap follow-through into a dramatic flourish. Fareek annotated:
(universe)?
Shwarma was heating up now. âThe sins of the infidel devils will be revisited upon them a thousand times over at the hands of Godâs righteous warriors, the Militant Islamic Liberation Front! From the ashes of their failed moral wastelands, we shall build a bridge with our beliefs to a new caliphroyoâcaliphate! A new caliphate that will span the earth in the name of the one true God!â With that, Shwarma seized the ColecoVision controller from the case in front of Rahim and thrust it over his head, stretching out the spiral cord and putting a pretty fair strain on the superglue Xing had used to affix the cord into the hole he drilled in the back of the router.
âGo forth, my brothers, and help me usher in the time of MILF!â Shwarma handed the controller back to Rahim. âAlso, whoever cooks fish in the break room microwave, knock it off! New business? No? OK then, meeting adjourned. Fareek, come with me. Levels Blue and Purple, wait three minutes before you are dismissed.â
Shwarma strode from the conference room and a few staffers who had not gotten a close look at the RDM earlier made their way over to inspect it. Fareek had a quick look himself, then gathered up his notebook and followed Shwarma. As he left, he could hear Rahim explaining, âNo, the instructions have not arrived yet. The Chinese felt it was too dangerous to ship the unit and instructions togetherâŚâ
Shwarma was waiting for Fareek in the hallway with his hand open. Fareek knew what he wanted and without a word, dropped a USB thumb drive into Shwarmaâs palm.
At Shwarmaâs request, every Friday afternoon Fareek moved the weekâs computer data to a USB drive, which Shwarma then took possession of on Monday afternoon. Shwarma had seen many of his former colleagues go down because of sloppy cyber security, so he was fastidious about keeping incriminating data off the grid as much as possible. Shwarmaâs grasp of technology was spotty at best and out of necessity, he was forced to give the young, but intelligent and resourceful Fareek what was considered one of MILFâs highest security clearance levels (Capricorn). As such, the two of them essentially conducted a private meeting each week following the 3:30 staff meeting.
âWhatâs on this?â Shwarma asked, holding up the drive.
Fareek rattled off, âThree potential recruits, and videos from Behrouz, Hashimi, Khalil and Razzaq. Hashimi and Khalil both claimed the plane crash in Kuwait, by the way.â
âWhat?â Shwarma clenched his fist around the USB, then took a deep breath. The headaches of his job never ended. He literally could not make the rules about making claims any simpler. Honestly, these franchisees were like drunken kindergarteners. And was that a tone Fareek used at the end there? Shwarma sometimes wondered if his smart-ass technology officer knew toomuch.
âIs that right?â he said, as casually as he could manage. âPerhaps they worked together. You havenât uploaded those yet, have you?â
âI did on Friday, like always,â Fareek said.
Shwarma said, âDownload Khalil.â
âWhat do you mean?â
âTake it down. Un-upload it. You can do that, right?â
âThatâs not going to help those viewership metrics you mentioned.â
Smart-ass. âJust do as I ask, Fareek. I donât want anyone seeing that video.â
âI can remove it from our site, but itâs impossible to be sure it hasnât been copied or forwarded beyond our reach.â
âJust do it,â Shwarma repeated.
By now, the pair had made their way downstairs to MILFâs âstudioâ where the operationâs video production gear and electronic equipment were kept. Fareekâs office was a cramped cube built into the corner.
Shwarma went straight to the far corner of the studio, where a small jumble of cardboard boxes had been stacked. He rooted through one and pulled out a cell phone.
âDid you hear?â Shwarma asked Fareek. âEgypt has a new Minister of Defense.â Shwarma opened the folded flaps of a smaller box and withdrew an envelope full of tiny sim cards. âMostafa is out. Jalib Ibrahim is in. I thought Iâd give Mr. Ibrahim a call to congratulate him on his new position. Go into your office and close the door, Fareek. I need privacy for this. Take down Khalilâs video, then write up my script. Start with the claim for the England operation, then wrap it up with something about The Weapon.â
Fareek put down the tripod he was setting up. As he exited, he silently wondered how Jalib Ibrahim would respond to Shwarmaâs standard proposal to new government representatives but knew the result would be the same as it always was in the end.
Shwarma had by now managed to mate the phone with a compatible SIM card, creating an untraceable burner. He powered it up and dialed from memory. A Turkish-speaking man answered the call. Shwarma referred to his personal phoneâs contact list and with the help of a phonetic Zazarish/Turkish chart he had taped to the wall, read off the number for the Egyptian Defense Ministerâs Office.
Several thousand kilometers away in Cairo, Jalib Ibrahim sat at his new desk, and for the twelfth time in three days, read the handwritten letter that had been left for him by his predecessor:
Dear Minister,
If you are reading this letter, it means one of several things. Actually, that is mere vanity. It can only mean one thing: the time of Mostafa has ended and your time has begun.
I recall the day I first sat in the chair you now occupy and read the letter that my predecessor, Minister Abboud, left me. In truth, it was little more than a photocopy of a squashed and hirsute nether region I could only assume belonged to Abboud. (Donât worry, I had that copy machine replaced years ago.) The message was short on specifics, but I took its meaning to be that all leaders are sometimes forced to follow, and thus the view.
Turning to more practical matters, I have found that it served me well to speak mostly lies into the large phone and mostly truths into the small one.
Egypt forever,
Habib A. Mostafa
The squashed-butt photocopy part made enough sense to Ibrahim, and he was thankful that the generously proportioned Mostafa had opted not to continue that tradition, but he was uncertain about the phone business. There were in fact two phones on his desk, one large and one small. The large one was modern, with multiple lines, dozens of buttons and a small video screen. To Ibrahimâs dismay, it rang dozens of times a day and he found on the other end of the line all manner of politicians, defense contractors and military officials. With Mostafaâs advice in mind he had refused to give the number to his wife, insisting that she exclusively use his cell phone. The smaller of the desk phones was an old, black rotary dial model. The old phone was unlabeled and unlisted in the Defense Departmentâs directory and it produced no dial tone, so Ibrahim had begun to conclude that it was purely decorative and Mostafaâs advice regarding it somehow allegorical. And then it rang.
Ibrahim quickly folded the letter and slipped it under his desk blotter. He hesitated for a moment, then had a thought and picked up the receiver. He spoke the thought aloud. âThis is Jalib Ibrahim, Egyptian Minister of Defense.â
This was Shwarmaâs favorite and most lucrative side-hustle. In Arabic, he said, âAsalaam Alakaim, Minister Ibrahim. My name is Mohammad Mohammad. I call to offer happiness on your job and chance for lucky friendship.â Shwarma spoke fluent Zazarish of course, and his English was pretty good, but his Arabic was not great.
âThank you, Mr. Mohammad. May I ask how you got this phone number?â
Shwarma loved being Mohammad Mohammad, international power broker, deal maker and (why not?) heart breaker. âOf course, Jalib. Friends do not keep secrets and I am friend of you. Mostafa gave me number. He and I worked together many years. I hope we work many years, too.â
Ibrahim kept reflexively looking at the ancient black phone, then at the blank caller ID screen on his large desk phone. It was maddening to not see a number displayed.
âPerhaps, Mr. Mohammad,â he said. âWhy donât you first tell me something about yourself and the nature of this relationship you claim to have had with Minister Mostafa.â
âI tell you this. I am speaking to you on a move-around phone which I will break today, later. You is speaking to me with Ericsson Model DBH 1001 circle number phone that is connect with many kilometers of⌠uh⌠orange metal wire to electricity box in Cyprus, owned by a friendly Turkeyman who enjoys money.â
As Shwarma/Mohammad spoke, Ibrahim lifted the phone and looked at the faded label on the bottom. Ericsson DBH-1001.
Shwarma/Mohammad continued, âI donât know lots of phone wire science. You donât need lots of phone wire science. Know that old phone/new phone makes special connect and nobody can listen to us. Hooray.â
âNot that I am surprised in the least, you son of a shoe,â Ibrahim growled, âbut youâre obviously a criminal. You can offer me nothing and I will not be drawn into your crooked ways. Goodbye, Mr. Mohammad.â
âThere is terrorists at work in Egypt.â Shwarma/Mohammad calmly replied, knowing the young minister would not let that go by. Hearing no click, he went on with his pitch. âYou know MILF? You and me know that MILF is brave and handsome, fighting for God. But Americans? They donât like MILF. They call MILF terrorists, drop booms on MILF, chase MILF everywhere. Maybe into Egypt if they think MILF is there.â
âThere is no intelligence to suggest that,â Ibrahim said, speaking the truth as instructed.
âThere is video,â said Shwarma/Mohammad. âMILF leader giving great speech. Pyramids in background. If Americans see video, you will have many questions to answer, Jalib. Americans will want to visit. Many, many Americans for long, long time. Ask Afghanistan.â
âWhere is this video? I want to see it.â
âWhy? No need for anyone to see it. Trouble only. I call you to offer gift of no more video. I make it go away for you. When video go away, no more MILF in Egypt. Hooray.â
Ibrahim was not a stupid man. His time in the service of his government had taught him a thing or two about the kind of agreements this man was offering and like hot dogs or pop music, he knew the process of making them to be horribly repugnant. âThank you for the most kind offer, Mr. Mohammad,â he said. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. âMay I offer you small gift in returââ
âTwenty botcoins.â
Ibrahim scoffed. âNever.â
âTell Americans Mohammad Mohammad says hello.â
Exhaling, Ibrahim said, âTen.â
âNineteen.â
âEight.â
âFifteen.â
âTwelve.â
âThirteen.â
âTwelve.â
âThank you, Jalib. Twelve is good good.â Shwarma was in fact very pleased with twelve, considering there was no video and never would be unless Ibrahim wouldnât play ball. If that were the case, Shwarma would have made Fareek put a background shot of Cairo up on the studioâs green screen and stood in front of it with the camera rolling as he yelled something to the effect of, âCome and get me, you sons of bitches!â
Shwarma/Mohammad wrapped up the call by informing Ibrahim which of the Egyptian governmentâs funds Mostafa had found the slushiest in the past, instructed him how to transfer the money and wished him good health. He hung up and removed the burner phoneâs battery and SIM card. On a hook next to his Turkish translation chart was a ball peen hammer, which Shwarma used to individually smash the phone and card. He then walked over to Fareekâs door and opened it up.
âHow did it go, Boss?â Fareek asked, looking up from his keyboard.
âI took twenty botcoins from the Egyptians, Fareek. The Minister of Defense bent to my will like a blade of grass. I probably could have gotten thirty.â
âIs twenty a lot?â Fareek asked. He knew it was, but he also liked to take the air out of Shwarma when he could.
âYes, twenty is a lot! With that, you could buy four Chiller King fro-yo machines. The big ones.â His giddiness had caused a brief slip and remembering that the fro-yo business was a secret plan, he smoothly added, âUh, or like, ten rocket launchers.â
While Shwarma was making a âsaleâ as he called it, Fareek had been busy preparing for Shwarmaâs video address. The standard AJI contract required them on a semi-monthly schedule.
âI put your speech in the teleprompter, Boss,â Fareek said. âWhat background do you want?â
âIt seems we will not be âtravelingâ to scenic Egypt after all, so letâs just go with the black MILF banner. And add that line about bending to our will like a blade of grass in there somewhere. Iâll be right back.â With that, Shwarma abruptly left the studio and Fareek got back into the teleprompter program. After a short contemplation, he slid the âgrassâ simile in right after the part about the sins of the infidel dogs. It read back pretty nicely, although there was no telling what would actually end up being said as Shwarma tended to drift from the script fairly often.
Fareek then crossed the room and rolled up the studioâs bright green backdrop, exposing a banner draped against the wall that read: âMilitant Islamic Liberation Frontâ above the organizationâs slogan: âOnly God can judge me.â
Shwarma now returned, carrying the case that contained the Remote Detonation Module. âI want this in the video,â he said, patting it. âIâll sit at a table and have it right in front of me.â
Usually Shwarma stood while making his videos, so now Fareek had to grab a plastic-topped folding table and lug it up to the front of the studio. Shwarma put the case down and went to fetch a chair for himself while Fareek popped the case open and swung it around to face the camera.
âNo, no,â Shwarma said as he shuffled back, carrying a chair. âFace it AWAY from the camera, so the contents will be unseen by the viewer. Fareek, something I learned very early on in the jihad business is that there is very little Westerners fear more than the unknown. To them, the unknown is far more frightening than anythingâŚâ Arriving at the table he glanced at the apparatus in the case and read the embossed âCOLECOâ name on the keypad. â⌠the Cole Company could ever devise. So, we will leave the case a mystery and let our enemies only imagine what devastation lies inside.â Shwarma was quite pleased with himself.
âInteresting,â Fareek said. In his experience, the unknown was usually not so bad, but Shwarma was the boss, so he spun the case around. He walked back to the small video camera and sighted through it, zooming and tilting a bit. Shwarma sat down and rolled his shoulders as if loosening up for a boxing match while saying âGrandma bought a chicken, a chicken for Grandma,â which, when pronounced in Zazarish, is a mouth relaxation technique like saying âUnique New York, red leather yellow leatherâ in English.
After a few reps, he settled down and stared into the camera.
âReady?â Fareek asked. Shwarma nodded, seeing the red light above the camera lens blink on.
âThree, twoâŚâ Fareek said, then after a beat silently cued him with a finger.
âBrothers! The time of reckoning for our Western enemies is at handâŚâ
When I open a book that is billed as whimsical satire, I get an ominous feeling that I'm about to waste hours of my time on something that falls far short of funny. But this novel had me hooked.
The beginning, which seemed to contain a lot of detail about silicon valley computerey stuff, didn't entirely grab me. But as I read on, I found myself really liking Chris, the slightly bumbling software developer, and his glamorous but ultimately decent boss. The spy agency guys were believably idiotic, the hotshot lady lawyer witty and intelligent, the Islamic extremists amusingly venal (or bored).
One of the things I really love about this book is how immaculately and intricately it is plotted, and yet how (semi) believable it all is. I love that Chris can sign up to jihad accidentally. I love the goat wrestling. I love the come uppances. I love that the story humanises participants on both sides of the modern crusades.
My only quibble is the author's asides. They add unnecessary coyness, and they pull me out of the moment. I don't need the author to remind me how absurd the whole thing is. I get that.
Overall, for me this book is a tour de force. I'd love to read more from this author, he has a gift.