because he is planning to cross over?" I spell it out. "I thought of it first thing last night, but I had also hoped perhaps he was looking for a country in which to practice a new designer germ without attracting attention to himself."
"He could have done that in Ethiopia," Tyler points out. "Or the Sudan, or fucking Greenland..."
I finish and turn to wash my hands, shaking my head at the challenges. "I don't believe USIC has agents in Tijuana. Their base south of the border is Mexico City, and I would imagine that having received that e-mail from us, they sent whomever they had there to look for him in Cancún. Perhaps he is not even in Tijuana but drawing off its server. Perhaps he is in Europe. The agents will be angry if I sent them to Cancún for nothing."
"The agents don't know you sent that tip," Tyler says and starts to pee. He can't withhold a hooting laugh. Obviously, they did know. They just have to pretend they don't know for the sake of their policies. Regardless of a source's age, they are not going to send a script like our gift of last night into the shredder and pretend they didn't receive it.
"Relax. You're not responsible for how they interpret the info that you so graciously send." Tyler continues. "Who was Omar talking to, and what did he say?"
"He was talking to VaporStrike," I say, which will be news to him. This is the first resurrection of VaporStrike online since he and Omar escaped Trinity Falls together.
I think Tyler will be very impressed by this, but he doesn't stop to think of it, in light of his other question: "Did they discuss their new germ that can turn a corpse into a skeleton in four hours or less?"
"Indirectly. He said, 'Fire will fall upon Colony Two.'"
I hear Tyler stop peeing, midstream. My troubles with ShadowStrike and the Trinity Falls water poisoning started with online chatter I captured in November of last year. It was this: "Waters will run red in Colony One."
Tyler mutters curses and follows with what I believe will be the next Question of Our Lives. "Where in hell is Colony Two?"
It seemed that the place was already known by both men, and they did not name it outright. But, anyway, Tyler would not assume the answers would be so easy. The question is rhetorical.
He flushes and then begins his washing ritual, which is quite involved, using very hot water and his own prescription soap bar each time, with suds rising to his elbows. It is disturbing to watch the scalding water run over his pustules, and I turn and face out into the hallway.
He finally brushes past me, and I know he is rushing to my terminal to see this chatter. He cannot understand it, as I have not yet translated it. I sit, saying, "They were having an argument. About the location of Colony Two. Omar does not like it."
"Why not?"
"He wants to strike a group of engineers on convention," I say, copying and pasting. "Aeronautical engineers. Aero companies make weapons for military use as well as the planes which transport them."
"So, their thought this time is to do damage to a weapons manufacturer," he says. "What are we expecting? Aero executives to croak in their hotel beds and turn into puddles of bone and large intestine before their wives and kids even realize they're dead?"
I ignore his sarcasm and consider the logic. "Perhaps this is one of those conventions for executives only, and the families will not be struck."
Tyler cannot endure the wait. "How difficult can this be to trace? How many aerospace engineering companies are there that create arms
and
are having a convention?"
"I have only begun to check on that. But it appears that of American companies inventing parts as well as, say, missiles, there are well over five hundred. Most participate in an annual convention."
The translation appears on the screen, however tattered from lack of synonymous terms. I create what I perceive to be proper English where there is none, and he reads behind me.
OmarLoggi: I have studied the weapons
"He could have done that in Ethiopia," Tyler points out. "Or the Sudan, or fucking Greenland..."
I finish and turn to wash my hands, shaking my head at the challenges. "I don't believe USIC has agents in Tijuana. Their base south of the border is Mexico City, and I would imagine that having received that e-mail from us, they sent whomever they had there to look for him in Cancún. Perhaps he is not even in Tijuana but drawing off its server. Perhaps he is in Europe. The agents will be angry if I sent them to Cancún for nothing."
"The agents don't know you sent that tip," Tyler says and starts to pee. He can't withhold a hooting laugh. Obviously, they did know. They just have to pretend they don't know for the sake of their policies. Regardless of a source's age, they are not going to send a script like our gift of last night into the shredder and pretend they didn't receive it.
"Relax. You're not responsible for how they interpret the info that you so graciously send." Tyler continues. "Who was Omar talking to, and what did he say?"
"He was talking to VaporStrike," I say, which will be news to him. This is the first resurrection of VaporStrike online since he and Omar escaped Trinity Falls together.
I think Tyler will be very impressed by this, but he doesn't stop to think of it, in light of his other question: "Did they discuss their new germ that can turn a corpse into a skeleton in four hours or less?"
"Indirectly. He said, 'Fire will fall upon Colony Two.'"
I hear Tyler stop peeing, midstream. My troubles with ShadowStrike and the Trinity Falls water poisoning started with online chatter I captured in November of last year. It was this: "Waters will run red in Colony One."
Tyler mutters curses and follows with what I believe will be the next Question of Our Lives. "Where in hell is Colony Two?"
It seemed that the place was already known by both men, and they did not name it outright. But, anyway, Tyler would not assume the answers would be so easy. The question is rhetorical.
He flushes and then begins his washing ritual, which is quite involved, using very hot water and his own prescription soap bar each time, with suds rising to his elbows. It is disturbing to watch the scalding water run over his pustules, and I turn and face out into the hallway.
He finally brushes past me, and I know he is rushing to my terminal to see this chatter. He cannot understand it, as I have not yet translated it. I sit, saying, "They were having an argument. About the location of Colony Two. Omar does not like it."
"Why not?"
"He wants to strike a group of engineers on convention," I say, copying and pasting. "Aeronautical engineers. Aero companies make weapons for military use as well as the planes which transport them."
"So, their thought this time is to do damage to a weapons manufacturer," he says. "What are we expecting? Aero executives to croak in their hotel beds and turn into puddles of bone and large intestine before their wives and kids even realize they're dead?"
I ignore his sarcasm and consider the logic. "Perhaps this is one of those conventions for executives only, and the families will not be struck."
Tyler cannot endure the wait. "How difficult can this be to trace? How many aerospace engineering companies are there that create arms
and
are having a convention?"
"I have only begun to check on that. But it appears that of American companies inventing parts as well as, say, missiles, there are well over five hundred. Most participate in an annual convention."
The translation appears on the screen, however tattered from lack of synonymous terms. I create what I perceive to be proper English where there is none, and he reads behind me.
OmarLoggi: I have studied the weapons
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