Bleeding Edge - Pynchon Thomas (список книг .TXT) 📗

“A Nazi car? Good, so I’ll sell it . . .”

30

If you read nothing but the Newspaper of Record, you might believe that New York City, like the nation, united in sorrow and shock, has risen to the challenge of global jihadism, joining a righteous crusade Bush’s people are now calling the War on Terror. If you go to other sources—the Internet, for example—you might get a different picture. Out in the vast undefined anarchism of cyberspace, among the billions of self-resonant fantasies, dark possibilities are beginning to emerge.

The plume of smoke and finely divided structural and human debris has been blowing southwest, toward Bayonne and Staten Island, but you can smell it all the way uptown. A bitter chemical smell of death and burning that no one in memory has ever in this city smelled before and which lingers for weeks. Though everybody south of 14th Street has been directly touched one way or another, for much of the city the experience has come to them mediated, mostly by television—the farther uptown, the more secondhand the moment, stories from family members commuting to work, friends, friends of friends, phone conversations, hearsay, folklore, as forces in whose interests it compellingly lies to seize control of the narrative as quickly as possible come into play and dependable history shrinks to a dismal perimeter centered on “Ground Zero,” a Cold War term taken from the scenarios of nuclear war so popular in the early sixties. This was nowhere near a Soviet nuclear strike on downtown Manhattan, yet those who repeat “Ground Zero” over and over do so without shame or concern for etymology. The purpose is to get people cranked up in a certain way. Cranked up, scared, and helpless.

For a couple of days, the West Side Highway falls silent. People between Riverside and West End miss the ambient racket and don’t get to sleep so easily. On Broadway meanwhile it’s different. Flatbeds carrying hydraulic cranes and track loaders and other heavy equipment go thundering downtown in convoys day and night. Fighter planes roar overhead, helicopters hang battering the air for hours close above the rooftops, sirens are constant 24/7. Every firehouse in the city lost somebody on 11 September, and every day people in the neighborhoods leave flowers and home-cooked meals out in front of each one. Corporate ex-tenants of the Trade Center hold elaborate memorial services for those who didn’t make it out in time, featuring bagpipers and Marine honor guards. Child choirs from churches and schools around town are booked weeks in advance for solemn performances at “Ground Zero,” with “America the Beautiful” and “Amazing Grace” being musical boilerplate at these events. The atrocity site, which one would have expected to become sacred or at least inspire a little respect, swiftly becomes occasion instead for open-ended sagas of wheeling and dealing, bickering and badmouthing over its future as real estate, all dutifully celebrated as “news” in the Newspaper of Record. Some notice a strange underground rumbling from the direction of Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, which is eventually identified as Robert Moses spinning in his grave.

After maybe a day and a half of stunned suspension, the usual ethnic toxicities, fierce as ever, have resumed. Hey, it’s New York. American flags appear everywhere. In apartment-building lobbies and up in apartment windows, on rooftops, in storefronts and corner groceries, in eateries, on delivery trucks and hot-dog stands, on motorcycles and bikes, on cabs driven by members of the Muslim faith, who between shifts are taking courses in Spanish as a Second Language with a view to posing as a slightly less disrespected minority, though whenever Latino people try putting out some variation like the Puerto Rican flag, they are reflexively cursed and denounced as enemies of America.

That terrible morning, so it was later alleged, for a radius of many blocks surrounding the towers, every pushcart disappeared, as if the population of pushcart owners, at that time believed to be most of them Muslim, had been warned to keep away. Through some network. Some evil secret rugrider network possibly in place for years. The pushcarts stayed away, and so the morning began that much less comfortably, obliging folks to go in to work without their customary coffees, danishes, donuts, bottles of water, so many bleak appoggiaturas for what was about to happen.

Beliefs like this take hold of the civic imagination. Corner newsagents are raided and Islamic-looking suspects hauled away by the busload. Sizable Mobile Police Command Centers appear at various flashpoints, especially over on the East Side, wherever, for example, a high-income synagogue and some Arab embassy happen to occupy the same block, and eventually these installations grow not so mobile, becoming with time a permanent part of the cityscape, all but welded to the pavement. Likewise, ships with no visible flags, pretending to be cargo vessels, though with more antennas on them than booms, appear out in the Hudson, drop the hook, and become, effectively, private islands belonging to unnamed security agencies and surrounded by stay-away zones. Roadblocks keep appearing and disappearing along the avenues leading to and away from the major bridges and tunnels. Young Guardsfolk in clean new camo fatigues and carrying weapons and ammunition clips are patrolling Penn Station and Grand Central and the Port of Authority. Public holidays and anniversaries become occasions for anxiety.

Igor on the answering machine at home. Maxine picks up. “Maxi! Reg’s DVD—you got copy there?”

“Someplace.” She puts him on speaker, finds the disc, pops it into the machine.

She hears a bottle clink against a glass. Kind of early in the day. “Za shastye.” Followed by a rhythmic wood thumping, as of a head against a table. “Pizdets! New Jersey vodka, 160 proof, keep away from open flame!”

“Um, Igor, you wanted to—”

“Oh. Real cute Stinger footage, thank you, takes me back. You know there was more.”

“Besides the scene on the roof?”

“Hidden track.”

No, she didn’t know that. March didn’t either.

It’s raw footage from Reg’s Unnamed Hashslingrz Project, nerds staring at screens, as expected, plus an officescape of cubicles, lab and recreational spaces, including a full-size indoor half court inside whose chain-link fencing white and Asian yups, all flagrant elbows and missed jump shots, run around authentically distressed city asphalt screaming inner-city insults.

What she’s still been only half expecting is the shot where Reg walks in the wrong door and we see young men of Arab background, intensely breadboarding together something electronic.

“You know what that is, Igor?”

“Vircator,” he informs her. “Virtual-cathode oscillator.”

“What’s it for? It’s a weapon? It makes an explosion?”

“Electromagnetic, invisible. Gives you big pulse of energy when you want to disable other guy’s electronics. Fries computers, fries radio links, fries television, anything in range.”

“Broiled is healthier. Listen,” she takes a chance, “you ever used one of these, Igor? In the field?”

“After my time. Bought a few since, maybe. Sold a few.”

“There’s a market?”

“Very hot area of military procurement right now. Many forces worldwide are deploying short-range vircators already, research is funded big time.”

“These guys in the picture here—Reg said he thought they were Arab.”

“No surprise, most of tech articles on pulse weapons are in Arabic. For really dangerous field-testing, of course, you must look at Russia.”

“Russian vircators, they’re what, highly thought of?”

“Why? You want one? Talk to padonki, they work on commission, I take a percent of that.”