The Amateur Spy

by Dan Fesperman

  “I can’t really tell you. I was in Africa on 9/11, way out in the bush. Didn’t even hear the news for twelve hours, and even then it was on BBC shortwave.”

  She nodded, seeming to instantly understand all the implications of that remark.

  “That’s how it is with people like us. We forget how things are back home. The whole point of view. Then something big happens, and instead of drawing closer we get a little more out of touch.”

  “All the more reason for me to head back.”

  “I suppose so.” She stood. “I’ll get on it straightaway. Give me your passport number. They’ll need it if we’re going to make this work.”

  Later I saw her leave the house for one of the demos being staged downtown, and when she returned her face was streaked in tears. But early the next morning she knocked on my door with a smile on her face.

  “The palace came through,” she said. “But we have to hurry. We should get moving before the Mukhabarat has time to react. Do you have a flight?”

  “No. But I’m sure I can get one at the airport.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  My bags were still packed, so we left almost immediately. There was another demo scheduled in a few hours, so we took my car rather than try to flag down a taxi. Omar would have to get someone to collect it from the airport. I left my house key on the kitchen table and took a last look around the place, almost shaking now at how close I had come during my stay to losing everything I held dear. But maybe such prideful folly was the norm for professionals, too. The occupation offers too many mirages to ever know for sure when you have succeeded. A little like the aid business, I suppose. Even when you are serving thousands, there are always thousands more hidden away in places you could never reach. Maybe we were all amateurs, all across the board. Cummings, too. I shut the door for the last time and heaved a great sigh of relief.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Fiona’s efforts had procured a typewritten note on heavy cream-colored stationery with an important letterhead, a gold-embossed royal emblem, and a looping signature of someone I had never heard of. She assured me the name would be quite familiar to anyone who mattered.

  She was right. The letter worked wonders for both of us, allowing the ticketless Fiona to steer me past every point where I might have been halted—ticket counter, passport control, customs, and then the lobby for international departures, where she waited patiently at my side, making comfortable small talk until the boarding call.

  None of the flights leaving within the next few hours had decent connections to Boston, so I had settled for a route to Washington Dulles, where I would have a four-hour layover before the final leg. But now it was time to say good-bye.

  We stood, and I was about to give her a hug and a peck on the cheek, but she was already offering a handshake, again the demure Englishwoman.

  I was too keyed up to relax until the plane reached cruising altitude. Then I drank a couple of gins to settle down. It reminded me of my flight from Vienna, on my way down to the intifada, where I first met Omar. That produced a stab of nostalgia and a brief moment of shame over the end of a friendship.

  It then began to hit me just how exhausted I was. Handing the dregs of my second drink to the stewardess, I sagged against the plastic window and was soon asleep, not awakening until the wheels bounced against the runway in Paris. I spent most of the two hours before my connecting flight in a stupor, not even bothering to buy anything to read for the long journey across the Atlantic, most of which I also slept through.

  We landed at Dulles, and only after I had cleared customs and bought a cup of coffee did I begin returning to my senses. I yawned and stretched like an overindulged dog that has slept away an entire afternoon. Then, feeling expansive and more than a little hungry, I bought a few sugary pastries to go with the coffee. I placed my bags next to me and settled into a café with a burgeoning sense of freedom and well-being. It was the first time in ages I had been able to relax. A new sense of resolve began to bloom, only this time it concerned Mila instead of my work. I had phoned her wearily from Paris, and she had been thrilled I was out of Amman. With any luck we could get away for a drink or two after dinner at my parents’ house.

  It was about then that a man in a business suit sat down at the next table, which in the cramped café meant he was only a few feet to my left. He opened up Saturday’s Washington Post and, with nothing of my own to read, I stole a glance at the headlines.

  Maybe it was the reference to a funeral that caught my eye, coming so close on the heels of the bombings and the strange conversation I’d overheard at Dr. Hassan’s. Or maybe the name mentioned in the second column of text somehow registered in my subconscious and begged for more attention. Whatever the case, I zeroed in on a story at the bottom of the front page with the headline “At Powerful Senator’s Funeral, Spouse Takes Center Stage.”

  I began reading, and in only seconds the name of the late senator’s attending physician, Dr. Abbas Rahim, leaped out at me. Between that and the jolt of caffeine, I felt a flutter in my chest. Dr. Rahim was quoted briefly from an interview that had been conducted on the day of the senator’s death. He dismissed any speculation that the senator’s family had foregone further lifesaving measures for any political reasons, such as giving his successor extra time to settle into the job before the next elections.

  The story focused mostly on political machinations, but I was more intrigued by the descriptions of plans for the funeral, which was scheduled for later today. The guest list was illustrious. Even the vice president was coming, meaning the Secret Service would be on hand. With growing apprehension, I found myself again reconstructing the stray pieces of the puzzling conversation between Dr. Hassan and Aliyah Rahim—the word “explosives,” the frequent mentions of a funeral, a tunnel, and the doctor’s possible reference to the Secret Service, not to mention the many times the name of Aliyah’s husband, Abbas, had come up. The only item that still didn’t seem to fit was the pizza restaurant.

  My earlier suspicion no longer seemed so hysterical, and my cup of coffee, so satisfying a moment ago, now carried a bitter aftertaste that was almost nauseating. The man next to me turned the page, but not before I saw that the funeral was scheduled for 4 p.m. at the United Baptist Church of God, said to be in a lesser neighborhood just beyond the fringes of Capitol Hill.

  I checked my watch in a panic. It was 2:57 p.m. Then I drew a deep breath and quickly took stock. Surely if the Secret Service did its job, any threat would be detected. But the possibility of a tunnel made me wonder. Maybe I was again being alarmist, but my oldest and best instincts said that if there was ever a time to risk acting like a fool, this was it. On the other hand, given my uncertain status with at least three of the world’s security agencies, sounding the alarm might be a tricky proposition.

  Here in the airport, where practically everyone in a security uniform had a shoulder patch for the Department of Homeland Security, blurting out my suspicions would probably only guarantee a sudden commotion, with me at its center. Gates and concourses would close, and I would be spirited away for questioning. There would be skepticism, anger, outright mistrust, and I, not the church, would be the focus. Unless someone did the right thing within an hour, it might be too late.

  I decided instead to telephone the authorities in hopes that they would act quickly. But if, like Cummings, they reacted with derision, what then? Then it would be up to me to take action. Amateur or not, I was about to rejoin the game for one final play.

  41

  The phone call was a disaster.

  To begin with, my lack of a cell phone meant I wasted an agonizing four minutes getting change from the café, tracking down a pay phone, and fumbling through the directory’s blue pages until I found the main number for the FBI. I considered dialing 911, but figured the operator might not know what to make of someone blurting out a vague warning about tunnels, bombs, and a senator’s funeral. And if the Secret Service had already scanned a
nd screened the church, at this late hour they would probably ignore my call as the ravings of a lunatic unless I could name an exact location, which I couldn’t.

  The number rang three times before a machine answered:

  “Hello, you’ve reached FBI headquarters. If you are calling regarding the fraudulent e-mail from a Victor Kasimir, please contact your local Web provider. All other calls, please hold for the next available operator.”

  Two more rings. Then an actual human came on the line.

  “Duty officer, please. It’s urgent.”

  Three more rings. I’d just wasted another two minutes, and it was 3:05. I’d been trying to think of how to word my warning in a way to get their attention without making them think I was a crackpot.

  “FBI.”

  “Hello. I’m calling to report a potential, no, a probable bomb plot in progress at or near the funeral for Senator Badgett.”

  “A bomb plot in progress?” He sounded calm, routine. I would learn later that all his questions came straight from a bureau script for these things, but at the time the conversation seemed so surreal as to be ludicrous.

  “And what is your name and location, sir?”

  “Freeman Lockhart. I’m at a pay phone at Dulles Airport and I’ve just returned from Amman, Jordan. I reported my suspicions yesterday to a Mr. Carl Cummings at the American embassy, and he didn’t seem to take them seriously. But since then I’ve learned more information.”

  “When is the bomb going to explode?”

  “The funeral starts in less than an hour. Anytime after that, I guess.”

  “Where is it right now?”

  “Hell if I know for sure, but there may be some kind of tunnel.”

  “What will cause it to explode?”

  “A detonator? Look, I—”

  “Did you place the bomb?”

  “Good God, no. I’m reporting it. I’m a citizen. I know the Secret Service is there, but—”

  “Slow down, sir, I need to confirm some of your information.”

  “Slow down? The funeral’s at four.”

  “You said your name was Freeman Lockhart, correct?”

  “Yes. And the church is called the United Baptist Church of God. I think it’s near Capitol Hill, but I don’t have an address.”

  “That site is covered, sir, as you yourself indicated. But I’ll pass along your concerns to the detachment at the scene. Now please give me the name again of your embassy contact in Amman.”

  “Carl Cummings. I’m not sure that just ‘passing it along’ is going to cut it.”

  “And you’re presently at Dulles International Airport.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Please hold, sir.”

  I waited while the seconds ticked away. At 3:08 I looked around for signs of any security officers rushing my way. Undoubtedly the FBI had caller ID, and he must know exactly where I was standing. If he was phoning someone here, I’d be rounded up shortly and probably held for questioning. Meanwhile, the church would explode. I dropped the receiver and ran for the exit, looking both ways until I spotted the taxi stand. Six people were in line, but I went straight to the front.

  “Sorry,” I shouted. “Medical emergency!”

  I cut in front of a woman in a business suit, pushing away her luggage just as she had rolled it to the curb. The cabdriver looked around uncertainly.

  “Move it!”

  He obliged, but not before the woman in line gave us both an earful.

  “We’re all in a hurry, asshole!”

  It was 3:10. I was twenty-five miles from Capitol Hill, a forty-minute trip if I was lucky, an hour if I wasn’t. But maybe even now my phone call was causing agents and police to swarm to the scene. It wasn’t rush hour, but as we crossed the Beltway fifteen minutes later the traffic slowed to a crawl.

  “We’ve got to do better than this,” I told the driver. “It’s an emergency.”

  If worse came to worst, I suppose I could have him radio his dispatcher and relay a call to 911. Maybe I should have called Metro police instead. They might have cleared the church. Or maybe not. Not if it had already checked out as secure. Perhaps I should have given a specific location and time of an explosion, just to ensure that everyone was evacuated. Maybe I was too vague for my own good. I wished I had a cell phone.

  “Driver!” I said. “Tell your dispatcher to call 911. Tell him to say that there may be a bomb at the funeral of Senator Badgett.”

  The driver looked at me in the mirror like I was crazy.

  “Do it!”

  He did as I asked, but kept an eye on me in the mirror the whole time, as if I might suddenly reach across the seat and try to take the wheel. He passed along the message in an oddly desultory tone, as if humoring a drunk, and I doubted his supervisor would do anything but roll his eyes. Another nutty fare, indulged for a big tip. It was 3:42, but at least now we were in the District.

  At 3:50 we reached Capitol Hill, and I listened for sirens, alarms, or any sign that my warnings had instigated action. Then the driver got stuck in traffic, and by the time we came within sight of the church on Cordell Street it was 3:58.

  “There it is,” I said. “End of the block.”

  “Looks like the cops have cordoned off the street.”

  I threw three twenties onto the seat, scrambled out the door, and took off as fast as I could run. If I alarmed some cop enough to attract attention, all the better. That’s when I saw the sign for the pizza place, “Alighieri’s,” in faded red script above a padlocked door only fifty feet away. It was across an alley from the church. I jolted to a stop, breathing hard, while all the stray words at last clicked into their proper places, particularly Dr. Hassan’s little aside just as he and Aliyah Rahim were leaving the office.

  Abbas the doctor was down in his pizza parlor, where he had dug a tunnel and set his charges. He was probably there now, awaiting the appointed hour, maybe giving it a few extra minutes to allow for all the arrivals to take their seats. I looked around wildly, wondering how to get in, then I ducked down an alley that took me behind the buildings onto another narrow lane, slick with rotting garbage. Two policemen watched me from the upper end of the alley, near the church. I was too out of breath to shout, but at least now I had their attention. I saw the name again, “Alighieri’s,” painted shakily on a rear wall, then I nearly tripped on a cardboard box as I skidded into the door.

  “Hey, you there!”

  It was one of the policemen, running toward me, drawing his sidearm.

  “Here!” I said. “Hurry!” He was perhaps thirty yards away.

  I turned the knob and shoved for all I was worth, fearing that at any moment the pavement beneath me would shudder and heave, and the glass windows of the church would shatter in an awful roar. Bodies and limbs raining down. More people I had failed to save.

  After twenty of the longest hours of her life, Aliyah finally succeeded. Or so she hoped, with a desperation bordering on hysteria. At 3:42 p.m., after urging Abbas to make one last inspection of the wiring down in the tunnel, she watched him crawl out of sight with a small flashlight in his teeth. Then she went to work.

  She was exhausted and nauseous, her stomach grumbling constantly and her hands shaking from nervousness and lack of sleep. They had talked their way through much of the night, their conversation a bizarre mix of reminiscence and family trivia. For her part, she dwelled as much as possible on their son, Faris, as if to remind Abbas that besides having a past, they also had a future, which he might still possess if he wished.

  Abbas mentioned the mission at hand only once, and even then it was an oblique reference.

  “Do you think it will make a difference?” he had asked, his eyes almost pleading with her. She knew exactly what he meant, but she forced him to clarify it all the same, thinking that it might do him good to have to articulate exactly what he was about to do.

  “Do I think what will make a difference?”

  “This. My work here.”

&nb
sp; “The bomb?”

  He nodded. He might even have flinched. But he still wouldn’t say the word, now that the appointed moment was only a few hours away.

  “Things like this always make a difference. But maybe not the kind that you want.”

  He didn’t ask for more.

  At around 2 p.m. they went upstairs to fetch the table he had mentioned, and they wrestled it down the stairway and finally laid it clumsily in place a few feet in front of the hole. The wires snaked around it. It was such little protection as to be pathetic, and she could read the folly of the gesture in his eyes. Here was a trained surgeon, drilled for years on end to proceed only after every possible contingency to save a life had been followed to the letter, and he was relying on a flimsy wooden table to save him and his wife from certain disaster. They said nothing to each other for the next hour. Then Aliyah began making the case that he should venture inside for one last inspection.

  She had already decided what she would do when he was out of sight, and now she set about her work, fingers fumbling at one of the contacts on the back of the detonator box with its toggle switch. She worked at the screw that held one of the wires in place, the metal of the nut biting sharply into her fingertips. It finally loosened, and she twisted it off, then it slipped from her fingers with a small ping. It took a few precious seconds to find it in the dim light. She heard Abbas, still grunting his way forward, and smelled the damp earth more strongly than ever now that the tarp had been pulled back from the opening. By now there must already be people inside the church.

  She picked up a rubber band that had been wrapped on a head of celery Abbas had packed in the cooler, along with his other supplies. She placed the band around the terminal and twisted it several times to hold it in place. Then she put the loop of wire back on the contact, taking care that it touched only the rubber band and none of the metal on the terminal. She hoped it would be enough insulation to prevent a complete circuit. When she had first thought of the plan, hours ago, it had seemed foolproof. Maybe that was because she was exhausted. Now it seemed far too flimsy to trust. And once the bomb failed to detonate, what would she do when Abbas discovered the reason why? When he unscrewed the wire to make the repair, she would have to try and wrench the box away from him. She would fight him, if necessary. But now Abbas was coming back. For the moment she would have to trust in her handiwork.