He knows how to pander to his subscribers. That’s where he excels. My effectiveness with him lies in giving him the truth. It’s taken a long time but I sense that he’s beginning to trust me. I noticed that he blamed his takedown on Lana Elkins before he made any attempt to confirm what I’d told him. The confirmation will come easily enough — I’ve made sure of that — but taking my word for what happened to him was a critical step.
When he does his own digging, he’ll also find that while the attack originated at CyberFortress, it was not from Lana Elkins exactly. It hailed from Jeff Jensen. When he discovers that, it will make him feel smarter than his anonymous helper. I want him to feel smarter than me.
Eventually, I’ll even let him find that Elkins has a weakness for gambling. I know she won a hand of Texas Hold’em online yesterday by drawing a second jack. After compromising that gambling site and installing a back door, I’d waited months for the alert that Elkins had returned to it. And it was I who made sure she got her second jack. I’d have happily dealt her a third, if she’d needed it.
I’m luring her in much the same way I lured Vinko, by playing to what might prove her greatest weakness. Her $137 win will twitch in the back of her mind. That’s the seductive nature of addiction. The desire burns softly, invisibly, until it bursts into flame with the sudden onslaught of irrepressible need. Elkins and those like her can turn the flame back down, but the memory of pleasure doesn’t die quickly; its dissolution is slow and inversely related to the speed of a quickening pulse.
So the heat lingers for the Lanas of the world, wrapping them in temptation until they succumb, blinding themselves to everything but pure want. Until that delicious tipping point comes, Lana will tell herself that she can beat her addiction, but I will do my best not to let that happen. I’ll replace the ads on her phone with ever more enticing ones. Cards will appear on her screen with jingle-jangle casino sounds, and when she sees them landing on green felt they’ll whisper of the silent thrills she’s known so many times before.
She’ll submit.
But… if she manages somehow not to compromise herself with gaming, then in all likelihood she’ll be at those Gamblers Anonymous meetings to rendezvous with others who share her weakness, a move that will expose her mercilessly.
Fascinating, the way the holders of the nation’s secrets unburden themselves to complete strangers in a church or civic meeting hall. Not everyone who attends those sessions is of good will. That was how I observed Lana firsthand. Once I even sat next to her. We exchanged knowing, empathic nods when a man spoke of emptying his family’s nest egg to bet on the “ponies,” as he referred to them affectionately. When he finished, Elkins rose to admit that she had also squandered unconscionable sums. I nodded at her again, lying once more. Gaming does not appeal to me in the least, not when I double down on my life every day. But my hatred of Lana Elkins is so strong I could kill her.
But I might not have to. Vinko has made it demonstrably clear that he wants her dead, too, now that I’ve linked Elkins to the hacking of his site.
He and I share so much more than our dislike of that woman. We both despise moderate Muslims. Vinko’s absolutely correct when he says they are really wolves in sheep’s clothing. He must be greatly encouraged right now because federal authorities blamed his previous provocations for vicious attacks on Muslims in St. Paul, Dearborn, Oakland, Omaha, even in the liberal bastion of Cambridge, Massachusetts. The FBI is asking anyone who might know his real identity to step forward. Fat chance. Vinko’s secrets are safe with me. A few dead here, a few maimed there… the list of attacks will only grow longer and more welcome.
And I will make sure Vinko’s fire burns brighter.
Chapter 5
Lana didn’t sleep well. Too much unfinished business loomed in the darkness. Emma had stormed upstairs last night, more upset over Tahir’s threat to her relationship with Sufyan than a neo-Nazi’s online threat to her life. Steel Fist isn’t real to her, but her boyfriend’s uncle is, Lana thought, swinging her feet out from under the covers and easing on her slippers.
Don lay on his back, still sleeping, arms flung wide. She let him grab a few extra winks and headed downstairs, knowing she’d have to drive home the gravity of Steel Fist’s words to Emma before she went to school. Lana wished she could just lock the girl up for the duration. Of what? Lana asked herself immediately. Because this is our life now.
She pushed a button on the automatic espresso machine and heard the grinder go to work. Sitting on a stool, she glanced at a wall clock: 6:36 a.m.
The steam hissed and the beans gave off their enticing aroma. The last drips dimpled the dark surface.
Lana cradled the cup, blowing softly over the steamy brew. She remembered the windswept waters of the Black Sea and Don sailing her to a perilous rendezvous with Galina Bortnik. Lana and Don had been forced to work together after having had no contact for most of Emma’s life. And to think they’d not only survived that mission but been reunited. A potent brew of danger, physical chemistry, and rekindled love had brought them back together. Lana still couldn’t parse the appeal. She just knew it was as real as the rings they’d slipped back onto their fingers. They’d already talked about making it formal — again.
“’Morning, Mom.”
Emma glided past, putting the espresso machine back into service.
“How’d you sleep?”
“So-so.”
“Same here. We need to talk.”
“I’m pretty sure I made my position clear last night.”
“This is not about saying you can’t see Sufyan. I wouldn’t do that, Em. That’s not on my agenda.”
“It’s sure on Dad’s,” Emma shot back.
“Your father’s been worried about the whole religious thing with Sufyan’s family, and after last night I think we both have to admit there were grounds for that.”
“He’s never liked Sufyan.”
“I honestly don’t think that’s true, Em. They’ve talked plenty about basketball and—”
“They’ve talked plenty about everything but Islam. He won’t say a word about that to him.”
“He’s not comfortable with it. Give your father—”
“Neither are you. Admit it.”
Emma’s arms and legs were crossed, her coffee mug pressed against her shoulders hard enough to whiten her fingers. Closed up like a bank vault.
“I’m a skeptic about all religions. That’s no bulletin. But I’ve never tried to sway your beliefs. Who drove you to church for choir practice and Sunday services? And if you become a Muslim, I’ll be driving you to a mosque.”
“I can drive myself now.”
“Point taken.”
“Yours, too.”
“Look, your happiness is most important to me, not whether you believe what I believe. I could be wrong about all that stuff. Maybe St. Pete’s going to meet me at the Pearly Gates and give me the old heave- ho.” Which eked a smile out of Emma.
“Do you really mean you’d accept it if I became a Muslim?”
“Absolutely. I just want you to know that your choice is yours alone, and not confused with feelings for someone else.”
“I don’t think that’s what’s happening here, Mom, although I do love him.”
“So what are you going to do about his uncle?”
“This is America, not the Sudan. Tahir’s going to have to deal with our feelings.”