The Perfect Weapon

The modest house at 1953 Pine St. in Elk Grove was like any other house on the block. A ranch built in the post-war period, it had the same off-white aluminum siding as all of its neighbors. A tidy and perfectly squared-off lawn led to a small staircase, a tiny porch, and a plain white front door. A large living-room window looked out over the street. As with every other house on the block, the shades were drawn. It was occupied by a husband, a wife and two teenage children. All in all, it was not a noticeable house.

On a street full of gossips, nobody talked about it.

The family did have the occasional visitors. Bland-looking men and women in bland-looking rental cars. They always came during the day, when the husband and children were out. But otherwise, nothing seemed the least bit amiss.

But on January 27th, 2010, all of that changed.

On that day, at 11:14am, 1953 Pine Street became the talk of the town. In a rush, a fleet of bland-looking rental cars with bland-looking drivers and passengers jammed the street. And one after another those visitors walked up to and knocked on the front door. It opened, they walked in, and it closed.

The rumors began to fly. Was the woman in the house dealing drugs? If so, why did she live in such a modest home? How did so visitors fit in such a small house? And how come nobody ever saw who opened the front door?

There was no way the neighbors could have known the truth.

Just that previous night thousands and thousands of small black creatures had appeared in various cities around the world. The creatures were just two inches long. They flew on micro-wings and appeared  to be nothing more than over-sized flying cockroaches. But a few, in Cairo and Damascus, had been noticed by men and women who could tell something was different about them.

They recognized the creatures for what they were. Not insects, but robots.

Through secure communications channels that connected the spies of the world, their discovery laboriously traveled upstream. Notes were conceived, and hand transcribed on one-time pads. They were then transmitted by shortwave radio or satellite phone to central operations organizations in Washington, Tel Aviv, London, Paris and more. And in each of those stations, communications officers decoded the messages and rerouted them up the chain of command. Messages then flowed from intelligence bureau to intelligence bureau - trying to figure out which country was behind the micro-robots. Hours passed before they realized that none of them were. Within minutes of that realization, emergency protocols were triggered. Presidents and Prime Ministers around the world were informed that something was wrong.

However, try as they might, they had no idea what it was.

Of course, they all knew who it was. There were black robotic insects appearing across the globe. They didn't know what the bugs did, they didn't know who had delivered them. But every one of those intelligence agencies knew who had created them - the breadwinner of 1953 Pine St.

And so, in a rush of anonymous and spontaneous pilgrimage,  they made their way to that address.

Group by group, they walked up to the white door and knocked. A camera analyzed their faces and determined their identities. Their backgrounds were reviewed and then, moments later, a servo pulled open the door and welcomed them into the home. Each group was ushered into the plain-looking foyer of the single story house. They would then stand on an 8-foot square carpet while the front door was closed and their faces were screened a second time, to insure no uninvited guests had snuck in.

Finally, the entire carpeted area began to sink beneath the floor level. It was an elevator, cleverly built into the fabric of the post-war ranch. Nobody acted surprised, because every one of the guests knew where they were headed. Beneath the home was the weapons laboratory of the world famous - if you worked in the right world - Amelie Bedeau. Of course, if you did not work in the right world, then she was invisible.

Even her family did not know what lay beneath the foyer.

Amelie was a woman with a fascinating history. Her specialty was micro-electronics. While Hamas hunted for collaborators, they knew nothing of the insect-like creatures that attached themselves to clothes, embedded themselves in cracks, and clung to curtains throughout the territories. Israel knew so much because Israelis were listening to everything. Amelie had created the devices that enabled it. Predator strikes in Yemen and Pakistan were driven by intelligence her devices had provided. Other high-profile terrorists had simply disappeared, injected with poisons by insects she had created. Countless other acts of violent espionage, unreported in any media, had been enabled by her.

When it came to watching, and when it came to killing, Amelie Bedeau, mother of two teenagers and a wife to a workaday husband, was simply the best there was.

And she was not surprised in the least by the sudden arrival of her visitors.

They, however, were in the dark. They'd known of dozens of her robots working at a time - but never hundreds or thousands. Before, they'd always known who she was working for. This time they did not. And they'd always known what she'd built - what purpose was to be served. This time they did not.

It worried them.

Amelie had broken her lab into two. One half of it was a viewing gallery, with rows of seats for the representatives of various intelligence services, State Departments and Foreign Ministries. All had contracted with her in the past. The other half, shrouded in darkness and protected by bulletproof glass, was her workspace. She knew who was coming and she waited patiently for them to arrive. And when everyone was seated, she raised the lights on her side of the room.

Her shock of red hair was her only flamboyance.

"Welcome," she announced.

The crowd, not used to volunteering information or words, just sat silently.

"Obviously, I am aware of why you've come. Some of my creations have popped up on your radar. I believe," she said, holding up an example, "These are the devices you are so curious about."

Nobody in the room had actually seen one, they had only read reports. They craned forward for a closer look. But the insect was tiny, and nearly impossible to see.

"My visitors," she continued, ignoring their curiosity about the device, "After years of work, and using funds you have given me, I am pleased to announce that I have created the perfect weapon."

The fear was palpable. It was unsaid, but every man and woman in that room was wondering what, exactly, their funding had unleashed.

"It is small," Amelie continued, "But not as small as some of my other creations. It can fly great distances. It can be sustained by solar energy. And it contains within it the unmakings of governments."

She paused.

A map behind her lit up.

The cities of Tehran, Rangoon, Cairo, Jeddah, Damascus and Minsk.

"These governments."

Agents and diplomats reached for their secure phones, eager to warn somebody, anybody of the impending geopolitical destabilitization. 'Disaster!' was the thought rushing through their minds. Even those who looked forward to the destabilitization reached for their phones. It would not be seemly to stand out.

"I'm afraid gentlemen," said Amelie, "That your mobiles will not work here."

Reluctantly the phones dropped back into waiting pockets.

"These devices," said Amelia, "Are all part of a mesh network. A concept explored by the American government for their littoral naval vessels. Most of my devices have been small, and operate alone. But these perfect little machines work together for a greater effect than any one could possibly provide."

She paused again.

"And in five minutes, I will turn them on."

A man with a German accent blurted out, "What do they do?"

Amelie smiled, "Mr. Schwendtke," she replied, "They communicate, and they hide, and then they communicate again."

As confusion settled over the room, Amelie dimmed the lights and disappeared.

But a single red light remained on. And a timer next to it. And the minutes ticked by - feeling like hours. And then the timer hit zero, and the light turned to green.

Moments later, on massive screens, the images and words began to trickle in. Pictures of protests, messages of dissent - the baby steps of coordinated resistance.

Minute-by-minute the images and messages grew and multiplied.

Revolution was brewing.

And, somehow, Amelie had unleashed it.

Mr. Schwendtke blurted out again, "But what do they do!"

Every voice waited to hear the answer.

And then Amelie gave it to them.

"Every cell phone and every wi-fi connection, indeed, every wireless communications device in these cities, is now free. The robots are a network, a backbone of communications unhindered by tyrannical governments. Pictures and videos can be shared with the world. Opposition movements can coordinate their activities. And governments are unable to stop them. They communicate, they hide, and they communicate again."

"My friends," continued Amelia, "My little black bugs are the perfect weapon."

"My friends," she concluded, "My little black bugs are freedom."

Waking Up

I hate waking up.

You're there, sleeping peacefully, enjoying wonderful dreams. Your wife is tucked up next to you and your infant daughter is snoring away in the room next door. The morning light comes through the windows and the alarm clock goes off - and all you want to do is enjoy a little more peace.

Of course, it never works that way. You get up, you trudge to work, you battle through your day and you look forward to sleeping again later that night. When it comes time to wake up, I have an aversion to adventure. Yes, I do have a career. I've even recently applied for a promotion. But there isn't really much adventure in that.

Most mornings, I battle the alarm clock - putting off the inevitable. All my half-baked reasoning abilities array themselves against the clock, explaining why I don't need to get up. The clock battles back, but it is hopeless. The arguments are about to overcome the simple mechanical device when one of two things happens. Either my wife prods me to wake up, offering her far more cogent arguments in defense of the clock. Or, as is happening now, my daughter Sophia starts crying because she's hungry.

Inevitably, the tide of battle is turned. With its allies behind it, the clock proudly declares its victory. Just out of spite, I yank its cord out of the wall.

I stumble out of bed, making my way to Sophia's room. I pop her up on the change table, change her diaper, sit her on the ground and head to the kitchen to make her breakfast.

At this point, everything is normal. But it's about to change. I'm placing Sophia  in her high chair when I hear a knock at the door.

That is unusual.

I put Sophia back on the floor, shout up to my wife, "We've got company!" and trudge to the door. I open it, wearing my pajamas.

Standing on my front porch are three men, all wearing dark blue suits. They have somber faces and, to a man, blond hair and piercing blue eyes.

What the hell are they doing here?

"Are you Mr. Kleeban?" one of them asks.

"Yes," I answer.

"Mr. Kleeban, do you work as a network security officer at Lower Lakes Bank?"

Uh oh. I must have missed something, or screwed something up. This is not going to be good.

"Yes," I nod.

"May we come in?"

I'm going to welcome them in when I realize it is probably about time to start protecting myself. Still half awake, I ask: "Are you with the authorities?"

The man looks at me. He smiles. And then he says, "No," in a thick Slavic accent - something he had covered earlier. "We are not with the authorities."

I am doubly confused, for a moment. And then I understand. I am a network security officer, an Internet gatekeeper, at a bank with $25 billion in assets. I've read the reports before - gangs visit people in their homes, and hold the families hostage until a heist is complete.

I guess it's my turn. And then, finally, I wake up.

In an instant I make up my mind. I try to slam the door with every ounce of force I have. But the man sticks his foot in and starts pushing back.

I know he'll overcome me, but I might have some time. "SUSAN," I shout, "GRAB SOPHIA AND RUN!"

Susan bounds down the stairs, confusion in her eyes. I'm glad I let her know we had company. Given how little she knows, she moves like its an old practiced drill. I guess there are benefits to being a nurse. She scoops Sophia up in her arms and rushes towards the back door. She's just about to get there when it opens. Two more men in suits are waiting outside. Susan backpedals in fear. With a few gestures, they stop her and guide her back into the house.

Sophia starts screaming and I get a knot in the pit of my stomach.

The men force the door open and I back away in fear. "Upstairs," they say to Susan, pointing. She goes, leaving me with a worried glance. Two men accompany her.

"Please, Mr. Kleeban, take a seat." The man gestures to the sofa.

I sit.

"Mr. Kleeban," says the man, back in his American accent, "My name is David Anderson and this is all going to go very easily. Your wife is going to call in sick - I'm sure she has already. Your daughter is going to spend a day home with her mommy. And you are going to go to work."

"And?" I ask, wondering what they need me to do. In my mind, I assign 'Mr. Anderson' his chosen name.

"And nothing," says Mr. Anderson. "You are going to go to work, you are going to sit at your desk, and you are going to do nothing more than you absolutely need to. Follow your routine, but don't pay too much attention to any reports or keep your eyes too alert for any suspicious activity."

I'm confused.

"Mr. Kleeban," says Mr. Anderson, "We have a way into your bank's network. We are going to steal a great deal of money. In this operation, we would not be so stupid as to actually rely on you doing something for us. All you have to do is not notice what is going on. Believe me, that will be better for your career than spotting something and failing to pass it on."

I nod, stupidly. A hole big enough to steal a vast quantity of money. How? I'm pretty careful and any substantial transfers will be watched by the receiving bank. How can they hope to pull a large-scale cyber heist off? Not only that, but this is just weird. I've heard of gangs taking bank executives hostage in order to pull off conventional heists. But taking me hostage to pull off a cyber-heist is very very different - and possibly brilliant.

"Don't concern yourself with the details," says Mr. Anderson, "Go to work, don't do you job and when you come home, your family will be here safe."

I nod.

"Now," he says, "Get dressed."

Mr. Anderson's bodyguards follow me upstairs. I get dressed. I come back downstairs and he is waiting for me. "Here are your things. I've taken the liberty of replacing your cell phone and your Bluetooth with identical copies. You can't make any calls or send any emails - but you can receive my calls."

I nod and take my briefcase, keys and cellphone. The Bluetooth goes in my ear.

"And don't think about doing anything stupid." says Mr. Anderson, "You aren't the only man in your position. And some of the others have instructions to watch you. So, we'll be watching and listening to everything you do."

And look at his eyes, and they are deadly serious. He isn't lying. I decide to press my luck in either case.

"Just to protect my job," I say, "When can I notice a problem?"

Mr. Anderson considers, and then states, "We'll be done by 10:30."

He gestures and I go to the garage, and head to work. One of the bodyguards accompanies me.

I've seen the movies. I've read the reports. They'll let me go. Right?

Except... I've seen all of their faces. I've heard their voices. They know I can pick out details about them. I don't know much, but it might be enough to convince them they can't let me, or my family, live.

I've got to find a way out.

It can't be something obvious. They are watching me. They have spies.

I get to work, and there is nothing amiss. I walk through security with a nod, a flash of my badge and a smile. I walk past my team with 'a Good morning.'

I can't help but wonder who is watching me.

My phone rings just as I'm approaching Saul Frank's desk.

In my ear, Mr. Anderson speaks, "Tell Saul to help Jim with his project."

Saul is my backup, monitoring web security.

They know where I am, and they've thought through the angles.

I tell Saul to change tasks, he's confused but with a little discussion, he complies.

"Good," says the voice of Mr. Anderson.

I head into my office, turn on the lights, put down my briefcase and sit down behind my desk.

I'm in no hurry to log in. Maybe somebody will notice.

Mr. Anderson does. "Log in, Mr. Kleeban," says the voice in my hear.

I comply and he hangs up.

Immediately, I notice a small red icon in the lower right corner of my screen. Tech Support is on my computer. Somebody is watching my screen. I'm supposed to not notice and so I look away and try to get the icon out of my head. My head notices the clock: It is 8:45.

No computer, no cell phone, I can't trust any people. What can I do? They'll be done by 10:30 and I'm sure they padded it. I have until 10:15 at the absolute latest.

But I don't know what to do, so I begin my daily routine.

The clock says 9:25 when I'm struck by a solution. Tech Support can't see my second monitor. With a few keystrokes, I quickly send a web browser to that screen. I'll be able to send out a message and they won't be able to see.

I start typing, and then my phone rings again.

"Don't try it again. We aren't stupid."

Indeed.

I close the browser.

How do I save my family?

As if to answer my question, Mr. Anderson states, "Just keep working."

And so I do. And he hangs up.

At 10:05, I decide to let nature call. I get up. Predictably, the phone rings.

"I'm going to the bathroom," I state.

"Fine," says Mr. Anderson, "But understand we're watching you there as well."

I understand.

I need to get a message out, and they can't know or they'll hurt my family. I hope to bumpto  somebody and give them a message - but I know it won't work. I see people, but I wonder about every one. Will they report me?

I use the restroom and return to my office. I'm searching desperately for insight. But nothing is there. And so I sit at my desk and stare at the small red icon. The clock is threatening vengeance - 10:15.

I'm out of time.

And then inspiration strikes.

I can't risk telling one person because. But if I tell everybody, it will be too much for them to stop. I will know my message will get out and they won't have any more chips to play or any more threats to make. The tables will have turned. I pick up my desk phone and dial the public address system.

My cell phone starts to ring.

I ignore it.

I speak slowly and carefully into the desk phone.  "There is a cyber robbery in progress. Call the the Treasury and the FDIC immediately. My family, at 5634 N. Hillside Drive is being held hostage. Call the police and get them there as soon as possible. They should be looking for five men wearing dark blue suits. All are white with light colored hair and blue eyes."

I put down the phone.

And then with a shudder, I pray to God that it works. I pray to God that the thieves decide it's better to run that to commit any more crimes. Crimes against my family. I pray to God that the police can get to my house fast enough.

My cell phone is still ringing.

I hope there is something I can do to convince Mr. Anderson he is better off cutting his losses instead of making a point.

I quickly prepare my arguments, and then I pick up the phone.

Mr. Anderson speaks first. "Mr. Kleeban," he says, "I am not Russian. I am actually an investigator working for your Bank. I was tasked with confirming your problem-solving skills prior to our extending you your promotion. Congratulations, you have passed our test."

I sit in stunned silence.

Mr. Anderson continues, "I expect you will take the position - not to do so might result in significant embarrassment. Just as a legal matter, you will note that at no point did we actually threaten you or your family."

I nod, knowing he can see me.

"Good, report to HR when you get a chance."

With that, 'Mr. Anderson' hangs up.

Jason Webster

Under his breath, Jason Webster recites the Shahadah to himself, again and again, "There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet."

He is approaching the security check point, and he is praying that he can clear it.

He doesn't need to worry.

Just before entering the airport, Jason Webster had swallowed two latex balloons. Like a drug mule, he was transporting what he needed to hide inside of his body.

Customs might have caught him, airport security doesn't have a chance.

He places his shoes and laptop bag on the conveyor. He empties his pockets of any metal. And he walks through the detector. No beeps. No attention.

Even if there were profiling, Jason would be missed. Jason Webster is white. He is wealthy. And he's covered all of his bases. His round-trip ticket has been purchased with a credit card. He has a student visa. He never handled the contents of his latex balloons. His legal name raises no questions whatsoever.

He picks up his bags and walks towards his gate.

His stomach is beginning to hurt, but he puts it out of his mind and casually continues his passage.

"There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet." He whispers it under his breath.

Jason Webster is a student. He has received a Bachelor's Degree in Fine Arts - searching for meaning in beauty. He was a good student, but he was disappointed in his search. And so he searched elsewhere. He attended the dry churches of his native London - nothing. He experimented with drugs. He tried sex. But still there was nothing.

And then he found Islam. It started with a local mosque, and there was a taste of what he wanted. There was a taste of greatness in service to Allah. But it wasn't enough. He wanted total service, without question marks, doubts or room for dissent. Without moderation. And so, before long, he had broken with the congregation and had fallen into a smaller group - a more radical group. They met at a home, and they plotted death. And Jason discovered a way for his life to have meaning.

It started with swallowing two latex balloons.

Boarding comes and Jason breezes through. His papers are in perfect order.

His stomach is bothering him more now. He tries hard not to visibly wince - and he succeeds. He knows what is going on, the balloons are too large to digest. He is prepared for an uncomfortable trip.

The plane pulls back from the gate and with a roar of its engines, it takes to the skies.

Jason closes his eyes and silently recites the Shahadah again and again in his head. He is wearing a headset. He hopes his seat mate will think he is singing a song.

The beverage cart comes and he asks for water.

He checks his watch. It is 12:35pm.

5 more minutes.

He surprises himself. He is totally calm. He knows what he was doing and why. He hates his old world. He hates the weakness. He hates the emptiness. He hates the vanity and the promiscuity and the self-serving ways. He hates the blasphemy.

In the past months, he has learned so much, and he has so much to teach.

And he will teach. He will drive others to meaning.

It is what his service demands.

He opens a small medicine bottle and pulls out 5 capsules of fish oil. He recites, quietly, "Allahu Akbar" and he swallows the pills.

It is done.

He debates telling the pilot what he has done. But the orders are strict. Nobody is to know.

And so he waits.

Inside his stomach, the capsules break down and the oil is released.

In turn, the latex balloons begin to dissolve.

They are two parts of a binary explosive.

Jason Webster closes his eyes.

The explosives mix.

And the airliner splits apart in the sky.

----
In Washington DC, a TV newscaster is handed a piece of paper. He reads it and nods his head in disbelief. He looks at the off-camera man who handed it to him. Something is said and the newscaster grows pale.

And then, with a studied voice, he announces, "This just in. Seventeen, repeat, seventeen intercontinental airliners from Europe, Asia and North America have disappeared from radar without any indication of their fate. We will provide you more information as soon as soon as it breaks."

----

Walls alone can never make us safe.

----
* The above process of radicalization is loosely guided by the 2007 NYPD Report Radicalization in the West: The Homegrown Threat
* The bomb described will not function. I do, however, invite any would-be terrorists to try it out.

Betrayal

The smell is what I love the most. The smell of wet fir and pine and cedar. They assault my nostrils and I draw them in. They remind me of simpler days, of childhood days playing in this self-same forest.

I inhale deeply and keep running.

I love this land.

The land, however, seems to be, at best, ambivalent.

The brush is tearing at my soaked clothes, the chill of the air is beginning to pierce what is left. The rain is coming down in sheets, obscuring my vision. They are conspiring against me.

I run harder.

Perhaps, somehow, I will outrun my pursuers. But I am not hopeful. They are on horseback and I am leaving a trail as clear as a red carpet. And they are not fools.

I run past a tree, and then step behind it. I need to catch a moment's breath - and I need to listen for my enemies.

I hear nothing.

Then, with frightening stealth, an arrow strikes the tree, just above my head.

How can they be ahead of me?

I look up, but I see nothing. The forest is empty.

Cowards.

I step away from the tree and pull my sword from its scabbard.

They will kill me, I know. But at least I will choose how I die.

My body will not fall hiding behind some tree.

Whoever shot at me is slow with a crossbow. So death does not come immediately.

Instead, I hear the horses coming. Moments later, with fogging snorts, they draw up in front of me. Lord Phillip and two of his soldiers.

Phillip nods his head in mock courtesy, "My Lord," he pronounces.

I nod in return.

Only the day before, the man was my most loyal vassal. The Kingdom had rested on him. And I had rested on him - enjoying the privileges of royalty, occasionally wielding its power, but rarely watching the politics of court. They had never interested me.

A fatal error.

I heard a rumor - Phillip was raising an army to dispose of me. But I knew it was too late. The man would have spies everywhere. I had abrogated to him without even knowing I had done so.

So I changed my garments, to commoners clothes. And I fled.

I was King. I could build my own support. I could raise my own army. Or at least I hoped so.

I got as far as the gate of the city. As I ran towards it, I saw a group of horsemen approaching: Lord Phillip had arrived.

I felt naked as he rode through the gateway. Common clothes were suddenly no disguise. I could have bowed my head, but my pride held me back. I was King, not he. So, instead, I tried my best to stealthily slip my way through the crowd - and to the gates of freedom.

I was almost there when Phillip saw me.

They could have killed me then and there. But I was King. To commit regicide in the public square would have undermined Phillip himself. He could arrest me. He could charge me with treason. And then, in time, he could hang me. But he could not execute me.

I was not going to die in the noose, and so I ran. And Phillip gave chase.

I ran for the forest and disappeared into the brush moments later.

It felt like a lifetime ago - but it had only been a few minutes.

Hours before, I'd been King. Now, everything had changed. Everything, even the Land, seemed to be conspiring against me.

I had been a weak King. But I was not going to be a weak man.

"On your knees," I command, solidly.

Phillip laughed. He seems pleased with his position.

"My Lord," he says, "You want to die a King. But you are no longer a King. And for my part, I harbor no desire to kill you."

I hold my ground.

"Think about it," he states, "I could dress up in the Articles of State; I could don the crown, the royal garments and the scepter. But I would never be legitimate. Such heights are beyond a man like me."

"So why betray me?" I ask.

"My Lord," says Phillip, "I might not desire Kingship, but I do seek power. And I do seek wealth. An so I just want to modify our old relationship. You will be King, and I will be your vassal - de jure. But de facto, I will rule. I will collect the tax, I will command the Lords of the Kingdom, and I will provide you with a bodyguard to keep you and your family safe."

In other words, I was to live as his hostage, under the watchful eyes of his servants.

"I am King," I state.

"Of course," says Phillip his cheerful demeanor unaltered, "You may still be King. The terminology will just be altered some. You wouldn't be the first King to serve in title alone."

"I am King," I repeat, "And this is my Land and my People. I will not betray them with falsehood."

Phillip leans forward in his saddle, and his cheerful expression disappears. His eyes turn threatening..

"Betray them?" He asks, "Your weakness has already betrayed them. If you will not be King - my King - then I will rule without you. But there will be uprisings. There will be battles. There will be wars. And your beloved People will be slaughtered by your pig-headed stubbornness."

"I am King," I repeat.

And so Phillip draws his sword.

"If it is your will, then that is how you shall die."

He spurs his horse forward and raises his weapon. I resist the urge to cower or cringe in anticipation. I extend my blade in defense.

With a deft stroke, he disarms me. He raises his blade for a final sweep. I hold my ground.

And then he stumbles back, a silent arrow suddenly protruding from his chest.

Phillip falls from his horse, gasping for air.

Moments later, a look of fear and confusion in his eyes, he is dead.

His soldiers, confused, frightened, and suddenly without a commander, stay as they were.

I order them to dismount and disarm. And they do. I pull their weapons from them.

And then I turn to the forest.

It still appears empty.

"Reveal yourself!" I command.

There is a rustle amongst the brush and then a serf rises from the forest floor. A crossbow is in his hand. I could not imagine how he had laid hands on such a weapon, but I push the question out of my mind, and ask another.

"Why?" I ask.

He drops to one knee, bows his head, and then solemnly pronounces, "You are King."

Violin Boy

The building had the feeling of grand dreams worn away by time and reality. Solid brick walls pockmarked and dirty. Huge glass windows, covered over in places with cardboard and tape. Hallways littered with graffiti. It was a high school, but not the place to nurture dreams.

For the vast majority of students, it was simply a way point along a path to nowhere.

Jerome Smith was quite possibly the only exception.

Jerome was short and dumpy. He was a quiet kid. And he was the school's only promising academic. He listened to teachers. He not only read his homework, he read other things as well. He was, in other words, a smart kid who wanted to grow.

Almost nobody in that school knew his real name. They called him something else, "Violin Boy." For years, he'd been carting his violin case everywhere he went. Nobody at school had seen him play - but the rumors multiplied. The dominant theory was clear: he'd inherited the violin from some rich relative and it was too valuable to leave at home. Maybe he didn't trust his two sisters, his mom, or their various and sundry boyfriends.

No matter.


It was a cold December morning when the Principal knocked quietly on the door, thrust himself into the classroom and passed a simple note that changed Violin Boy's life. The teacher read the note and a long-lost expression - and expression of hope and pride - crossed her face. She stood up, banged on her table for a modicum of quiet and then read the note to class:

"Jerome Smith," she started.

"Who??" said some kid in the back row.

"Violin Boy," another voice announced derisively.

"Jerome Smith," the teacher started again, "A college representative is waiting for you in Counseling."

You wouldn't have known it from his face, but Jerome wanted to cry. For him alone, this school was a rung on a ladder - and for the first time in his life it looked like he might just reach his dreams.

The class erupted in catcalls. Every student in there knew what college meant, and every student was jealous. Some were jealous angry, but more than a few were jealous and proud. Violin Boy might make it. Violin Boy was their hope too.

But they catcalled nonetheless. Just as they'd beat him countless times.

Social decorum required it.

Violin Boy stood up, quietly. Meekly. And he shuffled out of the room - leaving it to its explosion of conversation and its absence of hope.

He made his way down the littered halls - preparing himself for what he was going to say. "Disadvantaged kid. Single-parent family. Black. Awful neighborhood. But a persistent kid. A kid who had overcome massive odds to get out of the ghetto." He knew his story well, but he rehearsed it nonetheless. He'd never told it to anybody, but he still hoped it'd work in its first reading.

He approached Counseling, knocked on the door and waited.

"Come in," announced a deep voice from behind the glass. With a buzz, the door was unlocked.

Jerome Smith opened the door, stepped inside, closed it and then looked up.

The man facing him was no college administrator.

The man facing him was dressed in a $1500 suit. He was polished and clean. His diction was perfect. While he'd come from the neighborhood, everybody in the city knew who he was. He was the CFO.

Violin Boy turned back to the door - hoping he could leave. But the CFO spoke one simple sentence and Violin Boy stopped. "Boy," he said, "Sit down, I want to talk."

When the CFO asked, you tended to listen.

So Violin Boy did as he was told. Reluctantly, he sat - his violin case laying across his lap. He lifted his eyes and allowed them to meet the CFOs.

He expected hard eyes, cold eyes - but the CFO's eyes were soft, and seemingly caring. It was easy to forget who he was.

"Mr. Jerome Smith," said the CFO, "I hear you wanna go to college?"

Meekly, Violin Boy nodded.

"Well, Mr. Jerome Smith," said the CFO, "I would like you to go to college."

Violin Boy nodded again, silently.

"Some excitement?" said the CFO, a little edge in his voice.

Violin Boy nodded again. He was trying to hide his fear.

"I guess that'll do," said the CFO, "Here's the deal. I will pay you to go to college. Tuition, room and board, everything. I want you to have an education. Specifically, I want you to have an education in Finance and an education in Chemistry. You think you can do that?"

Violin Boy nodded.

"I didn't hear you," said the CFO.

"Yes," said Violin Boy, quietly.

"So," said the CFO, "You are going to get yourself a BA, and then I'm going to provide you with your Masters. On the street."

"Can you do that for me?" asked the CFO.

Summoning every ounce of his will, Violin Boy whispered, "No."

"Excuse me?" said the CFO.

"No," answered Violin Boy, slightly more loudly.

"I thought you said that," said the CFO, sitting back in his chair.

He paused for a moment, pursing his lips, his soft eyes resting on Jerome Smith's shaking hands.

"Boy," he said, "Do you know why they call me the CFO?"

Everybody knew that. But Violin Boy waited for the explanation.

"They call me that," the CFO explained, "Because I recognize I'm only the second-in-command. I might run the money and I might run the gangs, but the Devil himself is still my boss."

"Now," continued the CFO, "You know how this works. You're a smart kid, a promising kid. But you go to college, some black inna' city nigga', and they'll eat you alive. I know, I was there. But you go with me behind you and you will succeed. No worryin' about tuition, no worryin' about a job after school. You will be on a ladder. And I will put you there. Now, what do you say?"

Violin Boy again answered, "No."

The CFO leaned forward, "Boy," he said, "Look at me."

Violin Boy lifted his eyes - fear written across them.

"Boy," said the CFO, "Let me tell you something about my job."

Violin Boy waited.

The CFO continued, "I run a multi-million dollar enterprise. We clear over $150M a year in profits - tax free. We have a superb organization from sales and marketing to distribution and competitive analysis. And the entire organization hinges on one thing. You know what that is?"

Violin Boy shook his head.

"Boy," said the CFO, "Everything rides on people. Now, I've got three kinds of people who work for me. I've got Bodies. Grunts. Pushers. They stupid, but they'll do anything for me. You know why?"

Violin Boy shook his head again.

"Because," said the CFO, "I've broken them. Bodies is all they are. Their souls? They sacrificed their souls early on. And they are so ashamed of what they've done - what they've done for me - that they've written themselves off. I've got Bodies who've put caps in they sisters, they mothers and they baby brothers. Those Bodies, they'll do anything if it means they don't have to look in a mirror. Of course, you've got to keep those boys busy or they'll likely kill themselves."

The CFO paused.

"Do you want to be a Body, boy?"

Violin Boy shook his head, no.

"Didn't think so," said the CFO.

"Now,", he continued, "In the second group we've got the Spirits. These boys, and even a few girls, I didn't need to break them. They come broken. They are killers - but not outta shame. They're killers because they love it. They love the danger and they love the blood. They are spirited, so you gotta keep a tight leash on 'em. Of course, these boys - you gotta give 'em sometin' to do or they'll find sometin'. And you don't want that. Now, I'd ask if you are a Spirit, but something tells me you ain't one of these."

Violin Boy didn't move.

"And then," continued the CFO, "We got the last category. The Brains. These boys are cold, calculating - they see the angles, they know the numbers, they have a feel for the business. They make everything dance. Now, boy, you are a Brain - and there aren't a whole lotta you out there. Understand?"

Violin Boy muttered, "Yes."

He raised his hand. "Yes?" asked the CFO.

"What are you?" asked Violin Boy.

"I am a Spirit and a Brain and as far as I'm concerned, motha fuckers like me are better off dead."

He chucked, paused again, and regained his train of thought.

"So," he continued, "Mr. Jerome the Brain. You are valuable. And so I want to recruit you. No, no,"

The CFO paused, his eyes hardening.

"I WILL recruit you. You will become my trusting and loyal friend. Now, you know how this works - you've seen it done and I know you pay attention. You ain't stupid. In most cases, I'd start off offering protection - and then I'd go straight to the threat. But you, you need something else. You need a future and so I started off very generously. I offered you a future: A college education. A guaranteed job. A real challenge in life. And it sounds like you want to turn me down. Is that correct?"

Violin Boy nodded.

"Well," said the CFO, "If you were a Body, I'd just kill you. I can't have people in this neighborhood ignoring my needs. But you ain't a Body. You valuable. So I'm not gonna to kill you. Here's how it's gonna work. And remember, you can stop me at any time and I'll become your best friend. You understand?"

Violin Boy muttered, "Yes."

"Okay," said the CFO, "So, I'm gonna start by killing your sisters. Then I'm gonna kill your momma. And their deaths will be on your head. And then, I'll just start killing kids at this school and kids at the playground. Bodies are gonna pile up until you agree to my offer. Do you understand?"

Violin Boy nodded.

"So," said the CFO, "Do you want to go to College for me?"

"No," answered Violin Boy, as firmly as he could muster.

The CFO was surprised. And then Violin Boy, without waiting for dismissal, got up from his chair and walked out the door.

The CFO pulled out his cellphone, speed-dialed a number, and said simply, "Tonight."

And then, with a touch of anger in his voice, he added, "I'll come."

---

They weren't driving a flashy car. It was a gray 1985 Buick Lesabre and they planned to torch it in about 15 minutes.

The lights were off and it was sitting in Park at the beginning of Hamilton Road - Violin Boy's road. The driver, the CFO, had his foot on the brake.

Next to him was a Spirit - a MAC-10 in his hands. He was looking forward to the screams that would come. Behind him, a Body, his SKS aimed out the window. He was soullessly going through the motions of murder.

The Spirit and the Body chambered their first rounds.

The CFO lit the wick on his Molotov cocktail.

And then, he stuck the car in Drive.

But before he could punch the gas, the windshield was shattered by a bullet.

And then, in quick succession, three more rounds came flying through where the windshield had been.

One bullet in each man's head.

The car slumped forward as the CFO's foot came off the break. It bumped into and old Chevy parked along the side of the street and came to a stop. The wick on the Molotov cocktail burned down and the car exploded in flames.


Nobody saw him, but Jerome Smith smiled.

And then he methodically unscrewed the silencer from his rifle, pulled the scope from its mount and collapsed the stock. And then he carefully placed everything back into place - in the custom foam mold in his violin case.

And then he stood up and walked away, once again the image of a meek, and slightly overweight, child.

He allowed himself a small chuckle.

He'd enjoyed his evening.

The CFO, like so many others, had misjudged him.

He was a Brain AND he was a Spirit.

And he was going to college.