RESTING NO LONGER SEEMED to be something so easy for Gregory Evans. After more than forty-eight hours without sleep, putting together the immense puzzle in his office at the FBI, he finally managed to get home in the late afternoon to rest and, when he closed his eyes, all his mind did was keep showing him pictures and more pictures, in a vicious cycle in which he seemed to find himself. He took a good painkiller to ease the headache and tried a hot bath to see if it would help the process. It was already getting dark when he managed to lie down in bed and sleep.
Dreams were not very common for him, but this time, due to fatigue or not, he was enjoying a delicious natural atmosphere. He was leaning on the edge of a huge wooden balcony, facing an immense sea of a bay, whose shore was drawn by tall palm trees and coconut trees bent by many years of winds. The twilight left the scene with reddish tones and the remaining light that still reached him fell beautifully, creating an almost surreal painting.
He seemed to have been there for hours, feeling the caresses of a cozy breeze. As soon as the sun set, he turned to enter the apparent beach hotel and could hear his cell phone ringing. He walked down the hallway until he reached his room and opened the door. All he saw was a pair of black shoes, belonging to a man wearing a suit of the same color, face to face with him. When he looked up to see who it was, he came face to face with a gun pointed between his eyes and, before he could recognize the individual, it went off.
Gregory woke up with a start, barely able to catch his breath. He realized that his cell phone was really ringing, next to him, on the headboard of the bed. When he picked up the device, he saw Martin's name on the call screen and it was still nine o'clock at night, he had barely slept.
— Hey, Greg! — Martin shouted into the phone. — Turn on the TV, quick!
— What's wrong? Why are you waking me up like this? — he mumbled sleepily.
— You can talk later, call me right away!
Greg turned on the television in front of his bed. He didn't even need to change the channel; it was usually tuned to CNN. A well-dressed woman was anchoring the news and reporting:
"...they already have information about the suspects. The families of the two young men were found in their homes and are being held for questioning. According to a police statement, a notebook found in the room of young Fadiq Al Faruj may contain information about the planning of the attack and clues that lead to the terrorist cell that recruited him, which has not yet spoken out. Attorney General Belamy Noland says he is confident about the investigation and hopes that the information on Fadiq's laptop will bring great advances to the investigation. The FBI does not rule out the possibility of there being a strong recruitment of young terrorists in Brazil. It's not new that there's been talk of a major terrorist movement being planned for the country, let's talk to the expert now..."
Greg turned off the TV. He no longer had the patience for speculation and theories about the terrorist threat, a subject that had been extremely repetitive in certain media outlets in recent times. Television had long been impregnated with the subject, in a growing and exhausting spiral. He wondered if the course taken by History demonstrated a certain prophetic power on the part of the media to predict and anticipate events, putting into vogue a flood of information in order to prepare its viewers for the facts.
For the experienced agent, the growing interest in a subject had always been visible, until an important event occurred in society regarding it. In a way, people weren't taken completely by surprise. That agenda of discussions seemed to prepare them to psychologically endure the upcoming news. It worked almost as a psychic mitigating factor against certain reactionary effects. He preferred to think that all of this was part of the social current, that it was something natural to human society, without any major conspiracies.
What caught his attention most in the news, however, was the speculation about the recruitment of young American citizens to terrorist causes. It was certainly absurd, but certainly likely.
They teach nothing but doctrines in these shitty schools... — he thought, swallowing hard his own conformism.
Greg knew the revolutionary power that fell upon young people, who were more susceptible to changes in thinking and indoctrination of all kinds; the most globalized and connected generations were less and less patriotic than the previous ones. Growing up under less familiar circumstances, in a regime that took moral and individual education out of the hands of parents and placed it under international school manuals, the youth began to see their rebellion, previously against domestic rules, now in a political and social way.
After receiving teachings from who knows where through connections to any place in the world, those innocents lost their sense of self sense of social belonging and could transform themselves into enemies of the State through simple youthful rebellion. The mere thought of an American citizen becoming a follower of ideals like those scared him, and what was worse:
It was quite possible...
He remembered that his friend was still waiting for him to call when he heard the sound of his screams on the phone:
— Did you hear, Greg? We're on the right track! You found the guy!
— Yeah... it must be... — he said syllabically, between sleep and surprise at the news.
— Go rest, man, tomorrow we'll have a lot to do.
— Are they at the Bureau?
— Who?
— The family members.
— Don't tell me you want to go there now?
— You didn't answer my question, Marty, are they there?
— Well, I heard they were at the local police station, there's still no proof that they were involved. But I believe that if something turns up, they'll be taken to the FBI jail in Washington...
— No! I want to talk to them...
— Wait! Get some sleep!
— Martin realized there was no point in talking anymore, he had already hung up.