Capitol Murder
A Novel of Suspense
Phillip Margolin
Dedication
For Jean Naggar, Jennifer Weltz, and everyone at the Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency.
It’s nice to have great agents who are also great friends.
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Part I
“May You Live in Interesting Times”
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part II
Love Hurts
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part III
Strange Interlude
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Part IV
Jihad
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Part V
Prosecutorial Misconduct
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Phillip Margolin
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
KARACHI, PAKISTAN
Nadeem Gandapur was a slight, wiry man in his early forties who had lived his whole life in the sprawling, dusty, densely populated warren of cinder-block huts, bazaars, and winding alleyways that made up one of Karachi’s largest slums. He worked construction and was blessed to have a steady income that enabled his family to live better than many of his neighbors. Nadeem believed that his good fortune was due to his devout nature, and he went frequently to the mosque that was the centerpiece of the slum.
On the evening Nadeem met the American, he did not leave the mosque until night had fallen because he and Imam Ibrahim had been debating whether Ramadan should begin when two or more Muslim men see the crescent moon or whether the start should be based on astronomical prediction. On the way home, he was still thinking about the imam’s points and did not notice the two men who were following him until they shoved him into a narrow, dimly lit alley.
Nadeem stumbled backward into a mound of garbage. The humid air was heavy in the alley, and the stench of the rotting refuse made him gag. His assailants were dressed in white short-sleeve shirts whose bottoms hung loosely outside their tan slacks. One of them grinned at Nadeem while the other showed no emotion. Both men drew large knives from sheaths hidden under their shirts. A knot formed in Nadeem’s stomach.
“Give me your money or I’ll gut you,” said the man with the sense of humor.
Nadeem could see more rubbish piled against the alley wall behind the robbers. A section of the pile appeared to move and Nadeem wondered if his fear had driven him mad.
“Quickly,” commanded the man who did not smile.
Nadeem took out his wallet, praying silently that money was all the men would take from him. As he extended his hand toward the robbers, the rubbish pile rose six feet in the air and flowed toward him. Nadeem’s eyes widened and he froze, the wallet halfway to his assailant. The smiling robber took a menacing half step closer to Nadeem and began to mouth another threat when a sturdy table leg appeared out of the rubbish pile and slashed across his elbow. The robber screamed and his knife dropped to the alley floor.
The second thief turned and slashed. Nadeem heard a grunt. The pile took a step back and the robber attacked. The table leg parried the thrust, then connected with the robber’s face. The thief’s hands leaped to his nose and the second knife fell to the ground. Blood sprayed through the robber’s fingers. The table leg connected with his shin. He dropped to the ground and a blow to the head finished him off.
The first robber was doubled over, clutching his shattered elbow. The table leg smashed into the base of his skull, and he crumpled to the alley floor.
Nadeem’s eyes adjusted to the dark, and he made out a man dressed in rags with tangled, unwashed blond shoulder-length hair, blue eyes, and a shaggy beard matted with food and refuse. It was the American. Nadeem had seen him begging outside the luxury hotels and steel-and-glass office buildings that stood only blocks away from Nadeem’s squalid slum. Nadeem knew the American lived in the worst part of the slum in a lean-to that stood close by an open privy. Most of his neighbors avoided him because they thought he was insane and violent. Nadeem had heard a rumor that he had badly beaten some men who had tried to extort money from him.
“Let’s go,” the American said in perfect Urdu. Another surprise, since the American was so silent that many thought him mute. A filthy hand gripped Nadeem’s elbow and propelled him out of the alley.
“Thank you,” Nadeem said when they were back on the street. Then he saw the blood seeping through his rescuer’s rags.
“You’re hurt,” Nadeem said.
The American looked down, then said, “Shit!” in English. He pressed his hand against the wound and stumbled. Nadeem made a quick decision.
“Come with me,” he ordered.
“I’ll be okay,” the American said. Then he gasped and his knees buckled.
“You will not be okay if you don’t get medical attention.”
Nadeem snaked his arm around the man’s back and looped one of the man’s arms across his shoulder. Together they shuffled away from the alley toward the mosque.
When Imran Afridi’s houseman escorted Rafik Nasrallah onto the patio in the rear of his mansion, Afridi was sipping mint tea and watching the waves break on Clifton Beach. Karachi was stifling this time of year, but the breeze from the Arabian Sea cooled the air in the wealthy suburb where Afridi had built his estate. The Pakistani businessman was wearing a long-sleeve silk shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. When he stood to greet Nasrallah, the loose sleeves moved with the breeze.
Afridi was five feet seven with the barrel chest and thick legs of a wrestler. His straight black hair was receding from his prominent forehead, but he had compensated for his loss by growing a thick mustache below his hawklike nose, making him look vaguely like a desert sheikh in an old Hollywood movie.
Nasrallah was two inches taller and as solidly built as his childhood friend, but his full head of thick black hair and his smooth skin made him look much younger than forty. Nasrallah and Afridi were sons of wealth and had been educated at Cambridge before returning to Pakistan to work in their families’ varied enterprises. They had also embraced radical Islam
together.
Afridi could tell from the strength of his friend’s embrace that Rafik was excited.
“We may have struck gold, Imran,” Rafik said as the two men sat on either side of a circular, glass-topped table. Rafik gave Afridi a photograph.
Rafik stopped talking while his friend studied the picture. The smile disappeared from Afridi’s lips and his countenance reflected intense concentration.
“He calls himself Stephen Reynolds, but I don’t think that’s his real name. He’s twenty-three and from Ohio, where he was studying engineering,” Rafik said. “Also, he has a background in chemistry.”
“Go on,” Afridi said when Rafik paused to make certain his friend understood the full import of what he had just said.
“A few months ago, Reynolds looked nothing like he does in this photograph. He was begging for a living, and his home was a hovel in the slum where one of Imam Ibrahim’s students lives. This student was attacked by two robbers. Reynolds saved him but he was stabbed. The student took him to the mosque and the imam summoned a doctor.
“The wound was serious, and Reynolds was suffering from malnutrition. He also had a drug habit. The imam nursed him back to health. While he was at the mosque, he and the imam became close, and Reynolds told him why he was living in a Karachi slum.
“Reynolds went to a private high school that offered Arabic, and he became fascinated with Islam. He surfed Web sites and entered chat rooms. In college he continued to study Middle Eastern languages and came in contact with Muslims sympathetic to our cause. America’s invasion of Iraq radicalized him.
“While he was in college, there was an incident with a woman. He was expelled and criminal charges were brought. The family paid a large sum of money to avoid a scandal, and the charges were dropped, but his father is ex-military, and he refused to pay off the woman unless his son enlisted in the army, which he did because his only other choice was prison. Though he deeply resented having to make this choice, he was smart enough to keep his sympathies hidden.
“Reynolds was a superior athlete. That and his proficiency in Afghan dialects led to his ending up in Special Forces.”
Nasrallah paused dramatically. “Here is the important part,” he said, stretching out the moment. “Reynolds does not exist.”
Afridi’s brow furrowed and Rafik grinned.
“His team was ambushed in Afghanistan while they were on a mission,” Rafik said. “Reynolds was the only survivor, but he did not report back to his base and was listed as missing in action. He made his way over the mountains into Pakistan and eventually to Karachi.”
Rafik leaned across the table. “He is very bitter, Imran. He rails against the United States. He feels he is a victim and he talks of revenge.”
Afridi studied the picture again. The man in it was blond-haired and blue-eyed. He had the looks and build of a stereotypical fraternity jock; the antithesis of the features Homeland Security profilers looked for. There was no place he could not go unsuspected. He was a terrorist’s dream and the CIA’s worst nightmare.
“Are you thinking about America?” Afridi asked.
“He would be perfect,” Rafik answered excitedly.
“It would be asking a lot. He grew up an American. He might talk jihad but he might not have the heart to go through with it when the time came.”
“New converts are often the most fanatic believers,” Rafik countered.
Afridi leaned back and looked at the sea. Nasrallah did not speak. Afridi was the deeper thinker of the two, while his friend was the man of action. The friends often passed the time playing chess. On the rare occasion when Rafik won, it was through a daring combination that had worked even though he had not thought it through completely. Imran usually won by grinding down his friend.
“I am nervous about letting this man in on the operation,” Afridi said. “Until now, we have taken all of the right steps. The slightest error could destroy everything we want to accomplish.”
“There’s no risk, Imran. I will have Mustapha sound him out so there won’t be any connection to us. We still have a lot of time before we begin the operation.”
Afridi thought some more. Then he nodded. “All right, have Mustapha talk to him.”
“You’re wise to be cautious, Imran, but if he is suitable . . .”
“Yes.”
“And if he is not,” Nasrallah said, shrugging, “Karachi is a very big city. He can always disappear.”
Part I
“May You Live in Interesting Times”
Three Years Later
Chapter One
As soon as Dana Cutler and Jake Teeny walked into the China Clipper, Dana took off her motorcycle helmet and shook out her shoulder-length hair. Brad Miller had been watching for them, and he waved from the booth in the back of the restaurant where he and Ginny Striker were waiting. The private detective and her photojournalist boyfriend were a striking couple. They had driven over on Jake’s Harley and they were both clad in black leather jackets and jeans. At five ten, Dana was an inch taller than Jake, but they were both lean and athletic. Jake had wavy brown hair, brown eyes, and dark skin that had been blasted by the desert winds and baked by the scorching suns of the war zones and exotic places his assignments had taken him to. Dana’s green eyes and auburn hair attracted attention from men but something hard and dangerous about her made these same men think twice before approaching her.
When the couple arrived at the booth, Brad shook hands with Jake, but he knew better than to hug Dana. Physical contact made the private detective uncomfortable, and Brad knew why. The fact that Dana was sleeping with Jake said a lot about the strength of their relationship.
Brad was five ten with a straight nose, clear blue eyes, and curly black hair, which was showing a few gray strands, the result of two straight years of heart-stopping adventures that included bringing down an American president and saving the life of a United States Supreme Court justice. Ginny was a few years older than Brad; a tall, slender blonde with large blue eyes, she’d grown up in the Midwest and spent several years as a nurse before applying to law school. The couple had met a little over two years ago when they were new associates at a big law firm in Portland, Oregon.
“How are the newlyweds?” Jake asked with a wide smile. Brad and Ginny blushed and Jake laughed. He had seen the couple a few weeks ago at their wedding. They’d had pale complexions and a case of nerves. Today they were deeply tanned and looked relaxed and happy.
“Tell us about the honeymoon,” Dana said.
Ginny grinned. “Is what we tell you going to be a headline in your sleazy rag?”
Dana occasionally did investigative reporting for Exposed, a supermarket tabloid whose bread and butter was UFO, Bigfoot, and Elvis sightings, but which had won a Pulitzer for a series that had been a major factor in Christopher Farrington’s loss in the presidential election to Maureen Gaylord.
Dana laughed. “None of what you say will find its way to Patrick Gorman’s desk. Now, where did you go? You were very mysterious about your plans.”
Just then the waiter came for their order.
“Justice Moss gave us an amazing wedding present,” Ginny said as soon as the waiter left.
“Better than the Ashanti fertility doll we gave you?” Jake asked.
Dana elbowed Jake. “Let them talk.”
“Ever since Brad saved Justice Moss’s life, we’ve had the press all over us,” Ginny said. “So she asked Tyrell Truman to let us stay at his estate in Hawaii so we wouldn’t be hounded by reporters.”
“The movie star?” Jake asked.
Brad nodded. “Justice Moss met him when she was with Martin Luther King. He wasn’t a movie star then, just a struggling actor. They’ve been close friends ever since.”
“Truman’s on location somewhere in Asia, but he had his pilot fly us to the estate in his jet,” Ginny said. “It had leather seats and wood trim. And they gave us Champagne and caviar.”
“Yeah, but compared to Truman’s
estate, the plane was nothing special,” Brad said.
“He’s not kidding,” Ginny cut in. “The place is amazing. It has its own private beach and servants, and Truman asked his personal chef to cook for us.”
“You would not believe the food,” Brad said. “It was French one night, Italian the next.”
“I’m a burger and fries girl myself,” Dana said.
“Even a peasant like you would have been impressed,” Brad assured her. “I actually asked for a cheeseburger for lunch one day and it was the best cheeseburger I’ve ever eaten.”
“With sweet potato fries and an amazing coffee milk shake,” Ginny added.
The waiter returned with a big bowl of corn-and-crabmeat soup.
“So, what are you guys up to?” Brad asked as Ginny dished out the soup.
“I’m off to Afghanistan,” Jake answered.
“For how long?” Brad asked.
Jake shrugged. “It’s open-ended. We’re going into a mountainous tribal region to interview warlords.”
“That sounds dangerous,” Ginny said.
“Danger is my middle name,” Jake joked, but Brad could tell that Dana didn’t see any humor in the assignment.
“How’s the private eye business?” Brad asked.
“Okay,” Dana answered. “So, what are you two going to do to feed yourselves?”
Brad noticed how quickly Dana had changed the subject, and he wondered if Dana’s business was in trouble. She’d gotten a lot of publicity out of her role in the Farrington and Moss affairs and Brad assumed she’d be flooded with clients. He really liked Dana and he hoped she was doing well.
“You know I quit working at my firm?” Ginny said. Jake and Dana nodded. “Well, I’m going to start at the Department of Justice in a week.”
“That should be different,” Jake said.
“I hope so. After my awful experience at the Reed, Briggs firm in Portland, I should have known better than to go to work at Rankin, Lusk, Carstairs and White, but I needed the money. Two mistakes are enough. I’m sick and tired of being a wage slave at a big corporate law firm.”
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