The Internet cafe on Bethnal Green was open twenty-four hours. At half past midnight in the middle of week, he expected to have his choice of terminals, especially on such a cold and nasty night. The rain was turning to sleet, and the sidewalks were deserted, but he was unlike most of his fellow Africans in Somaal Town. January’s bite didn’t bother him, and he actually preferred the shorter days of winter. The late sunrise and early sunset were his friends, and if that meant living in a colder climate, so be it. His given name was Habib.
To his victims, he was known as the Dark.
He shook out his umbrella and entered the cafe. The fluorescent lighting assaulted his eyes and, for some reason, triggered a yawn. His quick trip to Miami and back had left him drained. As a rule, he didn’t sleep well on airplanes, no matter how exhausted he was. This time his work had been especially taxing. Everything had come off without a hitch, thanks to his 24/7 approach to preparation, coordination, and execution. After landing at Heathrow, all he could do was climb into bed and sleep for eighteen hours. He still didn’t feel rested.
The clerk behind the desk was reading a graphic novel online. She looked up and directed him to a terminal. He pulled up a chair in front of the monitor, logged on, and created a new Internet account. Using the same account twice was out of the question; it was important that his messages never be traced back to him. This account would be in the name of Doris Lader, a fifty-two-year old woman from Las Vegas who had provided her credit card number and other personal information in response to a phishing e-mail that she had thought was from Citibank.
Americans had to be the stupidest people on earth.
He quickly entered the necessary information to create the account, then typed in his screen name. It was the same one he used for all his phony accounts, the same mix of lowercase letters and capitalized initials: ruaoTD.
Are you afraid of The Dark.
He was up and almost ready to go. The only remaining step was to choose the preferred language. Sometimes he used English, sometimes he used Somali modified Latin script. It didn’t really matter this time. The message was short, and he banged it out in just a few quick keystrokes. He always created the message and proofread it before typing in the address. It was good practice to prevent a half-baked message from sailing off accidentally. He read it one last time.
“I killed your son. I wanted you to know that.”
Satisfied, he typed in the address and hit SEND. It was gone in an instant, headed to Mogadishu.
He logged off, and the clerk didn’t even look up from her LCD as he exited the cafe. A cold blast of wind hit him as soon as the door opened. His flat was just a block away, but even so, he was tempted to go back inside and wait for the weather to improve.
Which could be June.
He popped open his umbrella and headed out into the night, walking with purpose. There was one more thing to accomplish tonight. He rounded the corner, passed the street entrance to his flat, and walked down the alley to the cellar door.
The international call from the pay phone had pissed him off in a big way. It was her first offense, and a very foolish one at that. Did she think she could buy a calling card without his finding out about it? Did she think she could do anything without his knowledge? He turned the key and shook his head with amusement as he unlocked the door. There was no doubt in his mind that she would tell him who she had called, why she had called him, and what she had said. If she lied, he would not be fooled-because he already knew everything there was to know about that call. He just wanted to hear her say that she was sorry for what she had done.
Oh, so sorry.
He entered, closed the door behind him, and climbed down the steep stairs. The cellar had just one small window at street level, which had been made translucent with a streaky coat of paint on the outside. The streetlight glowed behind it, and the shadow of iron bars cast a zebra pattern across the floor.
He watched her sleeping on a mattress in the corner. Finally, she seemed to sense his presence.
“Who’s there?” she said, only half awake.
He didn’t answer. She reached for the lamp switch.
“Leave the light off,” he said, and his command halted her.
“You’re back,” she said.
It was that frightened and timid voice that had lured him into complacency. The one that had led him to believe that, after almost six trouble-free months, she could be trusted with a modicum of supervised free time. The one that had made it almost inconceivable that she would find the courage to venture out to a pay phone.
He grabbed the covers at the foot of the bed and peeled them back. She jerked away, but he grabbed her by the ankle. The monitor was still in place.
“I never really left,” he said.