Patriot, M.A. Rothman [reading like a writer TXT] 📗

to the ground,” the man said in Mandarin. Connor wasn’t fluent enough in the language to speak it with confidence, but he could understand it well enough.

He pulled up the man’s files, which were attached to the queue entry. The man was angry, and it was very possible that he believed what he was spewing, but he didn’t fit the profile of a terrorist. Father of four, successful, no outstanding debts. And the timbre of his voice was the Chinese equivalent of machismo. He wasn’t a threat.

For all its highly advanced, top-of-the-line tech, the Summit supercomputer couldn’t differentiate between actual, credible threats and mere boasting. Because that distinction wasn’t based on a formula, but a gut feel. Showing once again that human intelligence couldn’t yet be bested by the silicon beasts the computer geniuses were making.

Job security, Connor thought.

He made a note that the call contained no actionable intelligence, and marked it for the system to archive. The agency never deleted anything, unless of course something needed to be deleted, in which case that particular something never actually existed in the first place.

He clicked through calls for the next hour, listening to angry people spout anti-American vitriol. Most of the country wanted to believe that America was doing great things for the world—and Connor knew they were—but there was always a lot of hate for the United States, justified or not. And not just from places like Iran, but from everywhere. Even from the US’s so-called allies.

The sun was now peeking over the horizon. Connor leaned back in his chair and stretched. Only twenty more calls in the queue. He looked over his shoulder through the interior office windows. People were finally starting to stream into the Bullpen, dropping off gear at desks and topping off coffee at the cart that building services had just dropped off.

John Evans, one of the analysts, caught Connor’s eye and waved as he weaved through the cubicles. And judging by Evans’s expression, Connor knew exactly what he was going to say.

He pulled off his headphones as Evans pushed open his office door. The man was ten years Connor’s junior, with thick brown hair combed over and slicked with ample amounts of gel. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his Bugs Bunny tie was loose around his collar.

“Offsides, huh?” Evans said, grinning. “Can you believe it? A whole season down the crapper because some guy can’t line up correctly. I mean, that’s their whole job, right?”

Connor tossed his headphones on the desk. “You know I’m a trained killer, right? I can take you out with a paper clip.”

Evans laughed, eyes darting around Connor’s office, scanning the walls. “Oh crap, did you finally get your Double-O? No? Well, then I don’t have anything to worry about. Do I?”

“You’re really a pain in my ass, you know that?”

Evans stepped into the office and let the door shut behind him. He nodded to Connor’s computer. “Anything going on today?”

“Just people wanting to blow up America. You know, same old same old.”

“Freaking job security, right? And now word on the street is that Europe blew up last night.”

“Yeah, I saw the emails—breezed through most of them. Some guy hates America, am I right?”

“Pretty much. But the same guy keeps bubbling up on a bunch of our lists. His name is Müller. He’s claiming to be the instigator of some new revolution or some nonsense like that.”

Connor rolled his eyes. Every couple of years, someone claimed to be the next valiant white knight, destined to bring justice to the vile hegemony that was Western democracy. “Oh, I’m sure he is. Just like Achmed here.” He hitched a thumb at his computer. “Achmed wants to bring death to all the unbelievers and infidels. You guys ordering out today?”

Evans hesitated, then snapped his fingers. “Oh crap, it is Friday, isn’t it?”

“All day.”

“Yeah, I think so.” Evans scanned the Bullpen through the windows. “I need to find Sarah. She said she was going to get us a discount this time. I guess she ‘knows’ the manager.” He grinned. “I also hear that she’s—”

Connor waved him off. “I don’t even want to hear about it. You’re not sucking me into your rumor-mongering.”

Evans feigned shock and put a hand to his chest. “I don’t even know what to say about that. You cut me deeply.”

“Not as deep as Sarah will if she finds out you’re talking crap about her.”

“Who’s talking crap? I’m just curious about the lives of my coworkers. You know, looking out for their best interests.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Evan pulled the office door open. “You in for a twenty-piece?”

Connor nodded as he reached for his headphones. “Yeah. Let me know when they’re taking orders.”

As Evans rushed off to solidify their lunch plans, Connor clicked through to the next call. It was barely time for breakfast, but Connor could already feel his stomach rumbling for Buffalo Wild Wings. Mango Habanero, boneless. He’d pay for it later in the day, but they were his favorite.

The next call had come from somewhere in the East China Sea, registered and logged at nine p.m. local time. Voice print analysis was listed as pending.

A male, probably middle-aged by the sound of his voice, spoke in Arabic. “They were right, Abdullah.”

Connor made a note on his legal pad: Unknown Male One.

A second voice, also a middle-aged male, responded. “You found it?”

Connor wrote: Unknown Male Two - Abdullah.

While most people liked to keep their notes on the computer, Connor preferred hand-writing his. It was faster and allowed him to focus completely on the call rather than deal with the CIA’s unnecessarily difficult and clunky document system.

Unknown Male One answered, “Yes.”

“Allahu Akbar,” said Abdullah.

“Allahu Akbar,” Unknown Male One repeated. “And as far as we can tell, it’s intact.”

“And it will function?”

“He will inspect it further very soon.”

“The Prophet shines his face upon you, my friend. Soon our holy task will be accomplished for the glory of Allah.”

“Allah be praised,” Unknown Male One said. “The Great Satan will soon learn the error