“These are all hate crimes against Muslims?”
“No. Some are against Jews.”
“By Muslims?”
“Not always. Some are from anti-Semitic and anti-Zionist groups composed of Christians and others, but—”
“So, we’re seeing hate crimes go up, but they’re not all specific to the message of the Goddess?”
“No, but—”
“This is supposition, Circe. I can surf the Net and build a case that the widespread popularity of Hello Kitty was responsible for the fall of the Nixon presidency.” When she looked blank, he gave her a Cheshire cat grin. “Hello Kitty hit the U.S. in 1974, same year as Watergate. I bet I could do a flowchart and probably make a good enough case to get a book deal out of it.”
“How do you know this stuff?”
He grinned and tapped his head. “I am filled with useless trivia. I’d clean the hell up on Jeopardy! Point is, kiddo, this data is interesting, but it still doesn’t make your case.”
“That’s the thing, Hugo; with the Net it’s almost impossible to collect hard, verifiable evidence. That’s why groups like the Goddess use it.”
“Say that’s true, so how do we separate that out and give it more credence than the ten billion other equally well-documented conspiracy theories, lies, exaggerations, wishful thinking, and pure bullshit that comprise the World Wide goddamn Web?”
Circe sagged. “What are you saying, that we ignore it?”
Vox looked genuinely surprised. “Hell no! I really think you’re on to something here, kiddo, but we’re talking about making a case to the lunkheads in Washington who have an ironclad record for ignoring good leads and following bad ones.”
“The DMS is different,” she said.
“Sure, and if we take this to the DMS and we’re wrong, D.C. will fry us. No one is supposed to bring anything to them unless it’s verified to the highest possible probability, and right now that isn’t how we can label this. Personal belief alone doesn’t cut it.” He took a breath. “In the meantime, what’s your next step?”
She was momentarily flustered, then steadied herself with a breath. “I created a few e-mail accounts with goddess names and have posted responses phrased to coax a more definitive statement, but most of the posters are clearly not core to this. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet gotten any responses that I can say are clearly from someone in the know.”
“If someone even is in the know.”
“If,” she agreed reluctantly. “But I believe that the Goddess is real, and I believe that the group she represents poses a real threat.”
“I hear you, but until we have facts we can’t build a case for it being a clear and present—and therefore actionable—danger.” He tossed the report onto the desk. “What do you suppose their motive is?”
“I don’t know. ‘Chaos’ doesn’t seem to be a profitable goal.”
“I guess not.” He tapped the report with a half-eaten Gummi worm. “You know, ever since you brought this to me I’ve been back and forth with the State Department, the FBI and CIA, and the Israelis. None of them think that this is coming from Israel. I mean, beyond the tension that’s been going on since—oh, I don’t know, Moses parted the fucking Red Sea, there isn’t anyone in Israel who thinks Jews are involved in this at all.”
She nodded. “The more I read the Goddess’s Net postings the more I’m convinced they are designed to do the reverse of what they’re saying, just like the Protocols. By pretending to support and justify Israeli aggression against Islam, they’re actually trying to frame them as terrorists. The problem is … it might be working. Whether they blew up the mosque or not doesn’t matter as long as the right people think they did.”
“Which brings us back to the third-party possibility.” He rubbed his eyes. “Keep on this. But maybe you can drop a bug in the ear of that British broad you’re friends with.”
“Grace Courtland?”
“Yeah. Get her take on it, but on the down low. Nothing official. If she thinks you have something, then I’ll reach out to Mr. Church. But take it slow, kiddo. One step at a time.”
Chapter Seventeen
Whitechapel, London
December 17, 5:25 P.M. GMT
Director Childe arranged to have me detailed to the Metropolitan Police unit working the neighborhood around the fire scene. When I explained that Ghost was, among other things, a bomb sniffer, that amped up my usefulness.
No official statement had been given about the three assassins, but rumors within the police department hinted that an American was involved and that the officers might be tied to a terrorist cell responsible for the London Hospital bombing. My name was not mentioned, and yet the constables I worked with treated me with distance and caution. Fair enough, because after what happened outside Barrier I didn’t trust any of them, either.
Everyone in London was paranoid. Everyone had reason.
The search team to which I was attached was composed of more than three hundred officers and detectives, and a comprehensive door-to-door search was under way. Everyone was being interviewed.
First thing I did was visit the fire site. Jerry Spencer was already there when Ghost and I arrived. Jerry was in his fifties, with iron gray hair, an unsmiling face, and intensely dark eyes. His mouth wore a perpetual smile of disapproval and disappointment.
I held out my hand. “Jerry, great to see you. How was the flight?”
He eyed me like I was a side dish he hadn’t ordered. “Joe,” he said without inflection. He kept his hands in his pockets. Jerry looked down at my dog and grunted. Jerry didn’t have any pets. I suspect he wasn’t allowed to.
“Taking it back,” I murmured as I lowered my hand.
“Heard they tried to make a run at you,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Fuckers.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. I waited for him to say something else, maybe ask after my health and well-being. He started walking toward a pair of his assistants who were unpacking his gear from several large metal suitcases.
“Do we have anything yet?” I asked, falling into step beside him.
Jerry shrugged.
“And that means—?”
“It means fuck off until I call you and tell you I got something.”
“Love you, too, man,” I said, and clicked my tongue for Ghost. We left Jerry to it. Gloomy bastard.
I JOINED UP with the constables working the door-to-door. They partnered me with a very bright but also very young detective sergeant named Rebekkah Owlstone. She coordinated two dozen teams and together we met with thousands of residents; we asked tens of thousands of questions. We took names, dates, addresses, observations, speculations, rumors, unfounded accusations, political diatribes, opinions, and crackpot theories. What we didn’t get was a solid lead of any kind. We kept at it through the rest of that terrible first day and straight through into the new day that dawned gray and bleak and devoid of promise. We were no further along than we had been the day before.
I called to check on the shooters, but so far the background checks hadn’t popped up any leads.
We were chasing phantoms.
Interlude Eleven
The State Correctional Institution at Graterford
Graterford, Pennsylvania