Home Sweet Homeland

"ECHELON stations are only based on US soil or on the soil of our closest allies, the UK, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. They intercept huge amounts of telephone, fax and email messages from all around the planet: some reports say maybe up to three billion messages every twenty four hours. The ECHELON computers scan each message for suspicious words or addresses. And it happens that the guy you've been writing to so freely is on our watch list of suspected terrorists. That's why ECHELON has been copying all the emails he sends and receives, and that's why we're here."

Elisabeth gaped at the agent in stunned disbelief: "But he's just a guy I met in a chat room. His name's Jesse Kansas, he lives in LA. He seems like any other guy. Why would I think he's got anything to do with any terrorists?"

"His offline name is Abbas Sarak, he was born in the Gaza strip, and two of his family have been suicide bombers. We think he has links with Hamas. But it's true he can pass as an ordinary American citizen. There's no reason why he shouldn't, he's been living in the States since he was five."

"But I didn't know anything about any of that! I was just chatting to some guy in LA!"

"Chatting?" The other guy, Jarrel, was grinning at her.

Elisabeth felt her cheeks flush as she realized they must all have read the emails she'd sent to Jesse, or whatever the hell is name really was. Oh, God!

Scott edged an inch or two closer to her along the edge of the desk: "Elisabeth, let me explain how the system works on something like this. A red light comes and a team like ours goes out to check on whether it's a genuine alarm or a false one. And if we decide it's a false alarm and sign off on that, then we get the blame if we've made a wrong call. If there's an incident down the track which leaves thousands of US citizens dead and it turns out it was because this investigating team made a mistake . . . well, our careers would be the least of our worries. We'd probably end up squatting inside cages in Cuba ourselves. You'd understand that."

Elisabeth nodded: her throat was tightening as if somebody was putting a noose around it.

"OK, so what we do first off in a situation like this is a background check on the subject we're interested in. That's mainly pulling together our computer sources. So when I checked on you, Elisabeth, I found Ms Straight as an Arrow lady. Elisabeth Mary Manning, aged 32, has worked for the Department of Transportation for seven years, married to a nice guy called Peter for three years. Peter is a lobbyist for the chemical industry, doing very nicely, thank you, and you live with your nice guy as a nice couple in a nice twelve-story condominium with a nice view of the Potomac river. Nice seems to be the only four letter word I can find in your background, Elisabeth. Maybe it should even be stamped in big gold letters across the cover of your dossier."

He got up and walked over to the window, looking out across E Street towards St Dominic's Church: "What do you think, Jarrel? Do you think Ms Manning is nice?"

Jarrel had folded his arms and was grinning over them down at Elisabeth. "Sure, she's nice. Nice long blonde hair, nice face, nice figure, nice tits. Yes, Elisabeth is certainly nice."

"Hey!" Elisabeth protested at the agent's comments on her breasts.

"Elisabeth," Scott cut in, "I think I really need to make you understand where we might be going from here. Now, one choice is to say that you're this altogether nice lady who just happened to get in touch with the wrong guy and now you know the score, the problem's over. If you worked for an insurance company and your husband was a dentist, that's probably what I'd do. I'd just warn you about not contacting Abbas Sarak again and then walk out of your life. Unfortunately . . . " Scott's voice trailed off as if he was unwilling to break some bad news. He glanced towards the female agent.

"Catherine, let's hear from you."

Catherine gave Elisabeth the sort of smile a wolverine would give a trapped rabbit.

"But you don't work for an insurance company, Elisabeth. You work for the Transportation Department and since 9/11, that's become one of the most sensitive areas of government administration. Plus your husband knows just about everything there is to know about most of the chemical plants across the country. You two are a terrorist's dream couple: you can tell them how to hi-jack a plane and your husband knows exactly where crashing it will cause the most damage to a target city. No way will I certify you're in the clear until we've done a positive check on you and your husband."

"Yes, that's our problem," Scott agreed, still speaking as if he were rather regretful about the situation.

He came over and sat on the desk again, even closer to Elisabeth.

"Or rather it's your problem, Ms nice lady Manning. You see, when people know that Homeland Security have got an interest in somebody close to them, they get very antsy. To do a positive check, we have to ask around. Once the Transportation Department knows about your contacts with a possible Hamas link man, well . . . I guess they couldn't just up and fire you, Elisabeth, but I think you'd be well out of the loop promotion wise. In fact, I think you'd probably find yourself working your time out in some cubicle so far down in the basement that you'll be able to hear the trains going past."

"Of course, it's your husband we'd really be sorry about," Jarrel added. He didn't look any sorrier than Catherine Haught did.

"My husband? Peter? Why?" Elisabeth was now very alarmed indeed.

"Think about it," Catherine suggested in a smug way. "A lobbyist who has Homeland Security going around to all his contacts warning them to be careful about what they say to Peter Manning? How much lobbying will he be doing after that? He'll never see the inside of another office in Washington. I doubt if he'll even find anybody willing to sign him into any Federal building long enough to take a leak."

"But this is crazy!" Elisabeth protested. "I'm a patriotic American citizen, and so is Peter. We'd never betray our country. I had no idea who I was emailing with!"

Scott half turned towards her, lifted up his well polished shoe and pushed against the side of her swivel seat until it had moved around for Elisabeth to be facing him.

"Well, that's it, Elisabeth, that's what we've got to decide on, here and now. Do I tell your boss that everything is fine and give him a memo of thanks for his department's co-operation? Or do I go back to my boss and tell him that Elisabeth Manning needs some serious checking out? Just for starters, we're going to need to speak to all the guys from your school and college background about your sexual behavior. Because, according to your emails, you seem to have some problems there. Well, if I was your husband, I'd certainly call them problems. Have you ever told him about what happened in the boatshed at that summer camp?"

Jarrel sniggered as the hot tide rose even closer to the surface of Elisabeth's face: "Nothing like that ever happened," she said. "I was just role playing, that was all. Making up a story to send to a guy I was fooling around with. Some day I'd like to be a writer and maybe I let my imagination run away a bit."

"Your imagination!" Catherine was smiling in open disbelief. "Some imagination."

Jarrel was laughing as well: "Elisabeth, you even described the type of boat you got bent over. I'm with Catherine; if your imagination is that good you should be working in Hollywood instead of Washington."

"Let's just recap on what you wrote to Abbas, Elisabeth," Scott said. "You told him that you were at a school camp in the mountains working as a counselor. While you were swimming with another counselor you saw two boys pick up your bags, wave to you, and then go into a boatshed. So you and your friend followed them into the shed to get your bags back, right?"

Elisabeth shook her head in renewed denial: "It was something I made up, that's all. It never really happened. Please don't talk about it."

"Fine, we won't talk about it. I'll just tell my boss that you've got a psychological problem you don't want to discuss," Scott replied calmly. "Personally, Elisabeth, I think you're that kind of nice girl who gets hot and bothered every time a bunch of bikers ride past. I think you have a real desire to be made to perform group sex and I also think that's something that could really turn you on to working for a terrorist cell. Being gangbanged in a back room by a bunch of unshaven tough guys waving AK-47's around would really make your day, wouldn't it, Elisabeth? Even it wouldn't be quite such a nice thing to happen to such a nice lady."

"That's not true! I don't want to do anything like that and I'm not going to talk about it."

"You don't have to argue with me, Elisabeth. If you say you don't want to talk to us, no sweat. We've already said all we came to say, so we'll walk."

"No, no, please don't go," Elisabeth begged urgently. "This would kill Peter. Please, I'll do anything you want me to do to prove this is all a mistake."

"Will you?" Scott asked mildly. He raised his shoe again, resting it on the seat between her legs.

"How about undoing my shoe then?"

Elisabeth hastily moved to obey. She didn't understand what was happening but she did know that whatever happened she had to keep Peter out of this nightmare. Her fingers were shaking so much that she'd probably have gotten a lace completely knotted, but the agent's shoe had a velcro tag that came loose with a single tug. He dropped his foot to the floor and eased it out of the shoe.

"Elisabeth."