“Who is it? The drugs are locked in a safe! I am calling the police!”
I heard him detouring through his own office to get to my room’s other entrance, but by then I was vaulting across the windowsill and landing on the packed dirt of a dark alley. I scrambled blindly toward a side street, and the last thing I heard as I rounded the corner was a fearful shout from the open window.
“Stop! I have called the police!”
But the police, of course, had far more to do tonight than respond to a mere break-in, so there was little worry of being apprehended. What did concern me was the sudden sound of footsteps, from just around the corner. They couldn’t have been the doctor’s—his shout had been too distant—but clearly someone else was running just as fast as I was. I redoubled my effort and sprinted off into the night.
I was exhausted by the time I reached my car, and I knew there would soon be other worries to contend with. Would I be able to make it back to Jebel Amman the same way I had come? Once I reached the main highway I decided to tell the checkpoints that I had been out at Jerash, a popular tourist site to the north, and had been delayed in returning by the uproar over the bombings. I was also in violation of the curfew. But, for a change, having an American passport was likely to be a help rather than a hindrance. Playing the bumbling tourist should help get me back to my house.
I moved with urgency, and not just for my own safety. Whatever Dr. Hassan and Aliyah Rahim had been talking about, it certainly seemed worth reporting, especially given the references to explosives and to Washington. I was assuming the worst possible interpretation, of course, but I supposed that’s what a fellow like Carl Cummings would have wanted me to do.
Who knew, maybe now I might even begin to balance the scales a bit. First thing in the morning, I would report for duty at the embassy. Then, having fulfilled that obligation, I would give everyone the slip to join Mila in Massachusetts.
The sooner the better. Today’s events had made it all too clear that I was playing among people and forces well out of my league.
39
Aliyah had never been happier to see the Washington Monument, the first landmark she recognized as the plane broke through the clouds. It was 5 p.m. on Friday. The funeral was Saturday at 4 p.m. She had twenty-three hours to stop Abbas.
Luckily, the airport in Amman had reopened the day after the bombings. But her greater stroke of fortune was still a puzzle to her. Someone, or something—a stray animal, perhaps?—must have gotten into Dr. Hassan’s clinic while she was trapped with him in his office, sipping his sugary tea.
The doctor, judging from his shouts, had obviously thought it was a thief. And as soon as he rushed inside, Aliyah seized her chance and sprinted away, not stopping until she reached the doorstep of Nabil’s neighbor, who was holding her luggage. She spent a restless night on the family’s couch, haunted by the day’s worst images. Once she heard next morning that the airport would reopen, she was able to phone ahead and reserve a seat for that night on the same connection via Frankfurt.
At the airport she fretted for three hours while awaiting her flight, certain that at any moment a customs official or ticket clerk would alert the authorities or, worse, Dr. Hassan. When the wheels finally left the ground she sagged in exhaustion. Then she fell asleep and didn’t wake up until Frankfurt.
Twenty hours later, there was the Washington Monument out her window, rising like a pale periscope from a dusky November sea of browns and grays. Her momentary relief quickly gave way to nervousness as she contemplated the gauntlet of passport and customs officials. She knew better than to expect anything but intense curiosity. Her name alone ensured that.
She picked the fastest-moving passport line, where the clerk was a short, talkative blonde with an easy smile. A family of four just ahead of her breezed through in seconds, nodding and sharing a laugh. Now it was Aliyah’s turn.
The clerk flipped open her passport without a word, riffling the pages until she found the exit stamp from Amman.
“Reason for your visit?” No smile this time.
“Vacation.”
The woman looked closely at the photo and then studied Aliyah’s face, checking twice to make sure.
“You were there quite a while.”
“It was a long vacation.”
“I’ll have to ask you to step over there for a minute.”
“Excuse me?”
The woman pointed toward a small booth with gold curtains.
“Routine security check. You were chosen at random.”
“Of course.”
At the booth, an African American woman told her in a businesslike tone to remove her clothes.
“My clothes?”
“Yes, ma’am. Random check.”
Perhaps it stung all the more because this time they truly had reason to be suspicious, had they only known who she had visited, or what her Abbas was doing. But of course they didn’t know any of that, nor would they learn it merely by inspecting her naked body and then using a wand to scan her buttocks, just to make sure she hadn’t hidden something up there where they couldn’t see.
The wand whooped and screeched as the woman nudged Aliyah this way and that.
“Okay,” the woman said brusquely. “You’re clear.”
Red-faced and breathless, Aliyah dressed quickly, and then rolled her bags toward customs, where she was stopped again. Two men spent fifteen minutes unfolding every item of clothing and squirting her toothpaste from its tube.
But for all the humiliations of the strip search and the scrutiny, the low point came a few moments later, after she rode the shuttle to the main terminal and emerged onto the concourse. Following their pre-trip plans to the letter, Aliyah had e-mailed her flight details to Abbas the night before. He was supposed to be waiting to pick her up.
Instead, she saw only the usual assortment of limo drivers holding aloft signs with names, and groups of loved ones with eager, expectant faces. Some people happily cried out as they recognized arrivals. No one called for Aliyah.
She stopped, put down her bags, and scanned the faces a second time, her anxiety growing. Never before had Abbas failed to meet her at the airport when she was returning from out of town, no matter how briefly she had been away.
Maybe he was stuck in traffic. But Abbas always allowed plenty of extra time for that. She could think of only three other explanations, and all were disturbing.
One, he had been caught and arrested. She imagined police hauling him up from a hole in the ground, yet another mug shot for the papers, and this time for more than just the inside page of a tabloid on a slow news day. He would be the villain of the month, the new face of terror, residing alongside shots of would-be shoe bombers and makers of “dirty bombs.”
Two, he had come to his senses and decided to call the whole thing off, but had then been kidnapped, detained, or killed by whoever was helping him.
Or, three, and worst of all, if only because it suddenly seemed so likely, so plausible, maybe he was simply too preoccupied with his work, too busy to come. That would mean he was still down there underground, tunneling his way toward infamy beneath the streets of Washington, so obsessed with finishing the job that he couldn’t take time out to read his e-mail, much less drive out to Dulles Airport to pick up his wife. Because his wife was now a part of the past, while he had forged ahead into the murky glory of the future.
Aliyah shivered and looked out the front windows of the airport, into the bleak and heavy sky. Funeral weather. Time to get moving. She bustled toward the taxi stand. Outside, it was raw and damp, and then the taxi was too hot, the heater gasping loudly. The smothering warmth made her want to curl up and fall asleep. But even the thought of nodding off on the ride home was alarming. She couldn’t afford to lose focus for a moment.
The trip to their house in Chevy Chase seemed to last forever, and not just because of the four-mile backup on the Capital Beltway. When they pulled up out front, she saw both cars in the driveway. It was the f
irst good sign since her return. But the moment she unlocked the door she sensed the house was empty. She called for Abbas. No answer.
Strolling into the kitchen, she saw dirty dishes in the sink. Newspapers were strewn on the dining room table. Several days’ worth of mail was piled on the counter, none of it opened. There must have been a recent power outage, because the digital readouts on the oven, the coffeemaker, and the microwave were flashing. No one had reset them.
The answering machine flashed with a bright red “4.” Two messages were from her friend Nancy, who was wondering if she had returned. The third was from Annie Felton, asking if Aliyah wanted to reschedule her next appointment. The fourth, from yesterday, was their son, Faris, who asked them to call. He sounded worried. Or maybe that was just the mood she was in. The next time Faris saw his father it might be on CNN, next to some horrible logo, or accompanied by a death toll.
She turned on the television and checked the news channels. Fox was talking about the hottest-selling videos. CNN was previewing tomorrow’s college football schedule. She put down the remote and dialed the number for Abbas’s office at the hospital. His secretary answered.
“Martha? It’s Aliyah. I’ve just returned from overseas and was looking for Abbas. We must have gotten our wires crossed because he was supposed to pick me up. I thought maybe he was caught up in something there.”
“Oh.” Martha sounded flustered, even embarrassed. “I, uh, hadn’t heard you were traveling. But Abbas is still on his leave, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Oh, yes, his leave. How stupid of me. I guess I thought he might have stopped by to catch up on things, you know, and lost track of time. But you’re right. It’s probably the last place he’d be.”
“But if he does stop by—”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be home soon enough.”
“Please say hello for me.”
“Certainly.”
She was about to say good-bye when Martha spoke up again.
“Aliyah?”
“Yes?”
“Is he all right?”
“Abbas? Why do you ask?”
“Well, it’s just that this leave request came up so suddenly. And then when I didn’t hear from you, I was worried there might be trouble somewhere. Maybe with your son. I mean, after what happened to Shereen and all.”
The name struck her heart like a needle.
“Oh, no. Everything is fine. I think he just needed some time. It’s been hard for both of us.”
“Of course.”
“But he’ll sort things out. He’ll be all right.”
“I hope so.”
“Thank you, Martha.”
“Certainly.”
As Aliyah hung up, she saw that the door to his office was open, and for a moment she half hoped to find him in there, sprawled on the small couch where he sometimes napped. But not only was the room empty, it was neat as a pin, an unnerving contrast to the disarray elsewhere.
His desk was open, as if he wanted her to see what was inside. All the papers and bills that had been jumbled so chaotically before were now stacked neatly in a pile on the left. She flipped through the stubs. He had paid them all within the past few days, the work of a man who wanted to put his affairs in order, as if before a long journey, or worse. The pain in her heart grew sharper.
She remembered that Shereen’s passport had been here, too, but now it was nowhere to be found, nor was it readily apparent in any of the drawers, which she hurriedly pulled open, one after the other, until the desk was like a pair of trousers with all the pockets pulled out. A framed picture of Shereen that used to hang on an opposite wall was also missing. There was only an empty space, outlined faintly in dust.
A second neat pile of papers on the desk now caught her eye. On top was an opened envelope. The return address was for the law offices of Jack Lindner, a friend of theirs in Bethesda. Below it was a typewritten note with his signature.
“Abbas, please sign and notarize two copies and mail them back to me. Keep the third one for yourself. If there are any other changes you’d like to make, pencil them in and I’ll draw up another set.”
Attached was a single copy of a last will and testament for Abbas Rahim. He must have already signed and mailed the other two. It was dated from the day after she left for Jordan. Now she was almost nauseous. She stooped over the trash can and steadied herself just in time, swallowing hard. Then she reopened the biggest of the side drawers and began a more careful inspection. That was when she found the lease for the pizza parlor on Cordell Street, with Abbas’s signature on the last page. Evidence, she thought. My God, she should probably burn it, but what good would that do?
Paper-clipped to the top was a small brown envelope with the word “Keys” scribbled on the outside. One was still inside. Abbas must have the other one.
As she held it in her hand, her attention was diverted by the sound of the television in the kitchen. The newscaster had just said something about Senator Badgett. She raced out the door just in time to see a shot of the United Baptist Church of God, and heard the newscaster say that the president would not be able to attend because of his trip to Japan. But the vice president and all the top leaders from both houses of Congress would be there, and so would much of the Cabinet. Even a few justices from the Supreme Court were expected, and seats were in great demand. The Secret Service was already securing the location in anticipation of the year’s greatest gathering of Washington’s power elite outside of Capitol Hill.
So Skip Ellington had been right, she realized. The senator’s funeral had become an A-list event. A place to see and be seen. And perhaps also a place to die, if Abbas had his way. Famously so, in a blinding flash, a blast for the ages.
Aliyah felt a sharp pain in her right hand, and realized she was squeezing the spare key. At that moment she knew for certain where Abbas was, and where she now had to go. He was there, right on the scene, probably sitting tight in the dark so the Secret Service agents wouldn’t notice anything suspicious when they combed the nearby streets. Even if they peered through the windows, they would see nothing but an abandoned pizzeria. The location wouldn’t overly concern them anyway, since none of the windows or doors offered a sniper’s vantage point of the church. They might put someone on the roof, but not inside.
She snatched up her purse and retrieved her car keys from a basket on the kitchen counter. On her way out the door she glanced at her suitcases, still sitting where she had dropped them on the way in. She wondered almost wistfully if she would ever be back to unpack.
Almost as soon as she pulled out of the driveway, she decided it would be better to take the Metro, and she realized that Abbas must have had the same thought, which explained why both cars were here. No sense leaving your car parked near the church to attract the attention of some policeman, who might get curious enough to run the numbers on your tag. There was also the practical matter of knowing that by now she probably wouldn’t even be allowed to park in the area.
She walked to the Metro stop and caught a train. The whole trip took more than an hour, and by the time she rounded the corner onto Cordell Street it was dark and the air was a few degrees colder.
Every parking meter on the block had been hooded with signs saying, “Special Event. No Parking.” No one else seemed to be around, which was fortunate, because she spent several seconds fruitlessly trying her key on the padlock still in place at the front entrance. She put her face to the caged grate across the front window. No sign of life. It looked exactly as it had before, except that the “For Rent” sign was gone.
She remembered there was also a door in the back, facing onto an alley, so she strolled down the block away from the church in case someone was watching, and then turned the corner toward the back. The light of the streetlamps didn’t reach into the alley, and she made her way cautiously, jumpy from the stirrings of rats around a Dumpster. She glanced around nervously as she reached the door. Then she tried the key. The scrape of the
metal sounded unnaturally loud, but the lock snicked back. She had to lean against the door to open it. Then she pushed it shut behind her.
There was still no sign of Abbas. Inside was barely warmer than outside, and as she stood in the silence her breath vapored into the darkened hallway. Yet there was something else in the air, too, a scent of human occupation with its whiff of sweat and exertion, of old food wrappers. She stepped forward. The soles of her shoes slid on grit, a whispering sound that made her skin crawl.
“Abbas?”
She said it tentatively the first time, and heard the tremble in her voice. Then she spoke it louder, stronger.
“Abbas!”
There was a scrabbling noise not unlike that of the rats, only this time it turned into footsteps approaching from the basement. A faint line of light appeared beneath the doorway that led downstairs. Then her husband’s voice called out in a tone almost as timid as her initial effort.
“Aliyah? Is that you?”
“Yes. I am home. I am here to help you.”
He opened the door only enough to shine a small flashlight toward her. The beam made it impossible to see him, but she heard him sigh, in either relief or exasperation. She held her breath, wondering what he would say.
“Come down, then. It’s too risky waiting here. They’ve been by three times already, and they’ll probably check again in an hour or two.”
She assumed he meant the Secret Service or the Metro police, so she did as he asked.
He turned and shut the door behind them, and at the bottom he opened another door to a basement storage room, where the dank smell of turned earth was strong and ominous. A small camp lantern burned in a corner, and when Abbas turned now she saw his face clearly for the first time.
The last thing she wanted to do was alarm him, or somehow turn him against her, but she couldn’t help but put a hand to her mouth. It wasn’t just the dirt and the grime, which made him resemble a coal miner. It was his eyes, opened wide in manic exhaustion. A bunker mentality, she thought. Abbas against the world.
The Amateur Spy Page 40
