Anonymous Sources

by Mary Louise Kelly

  As the hours ticked past, I grew irascible. I lay there and cursed my insomnia. Then I just lay there cursing everyone I could think of.

  Hyde, for having agreed to send me to England and for not pulling me off this damn story ten days ago. Edmund Tusk, for not giving me anything on the record. General Carspecken, ditto. Jill, for being a stupid old cow. Thom Carlyle, for dying in the first place. Nadeem, for disappearing and now apparently dying too.

  Then there was Lucien, simultaneously so alluring and so utterly unsuitable as a serious romantic prospect. When he’d called to say hi yesterday morning, he sounded odd. Quieter than usual. He had kept telling me to be careful, to move somewhere safe. But he had also taken the time to describe, in detail, everything he planned to do to me under the moonlight on a beach in Bermuda. Despite all the craziness going on, I listened and felt warmth wash through me. How often do you meet a man who can make you weak in the knees with desire, and then not ten minutes later make you fall over laughing? It was true. He was pure pleasure.

  I was still turning it all over in my mind when my new cell phone rang.

  I looked at the alarm clock: 5:51 a.m. The first fingers of dawn were just creeping across the window.

  Hmm. Since Galloni had made me promise, I hadn’t used the phone. But caller ID was displaying a UK number. Maybe it was Lucien. Who else would call so early? Curiosity got the better of me.

  “Hello?”

  “How dare you,” came the voice on the other end. She didn’t bother to identify herself. No need. “How dare you. You little tramp.”

  “Hello, Petronella.” I sat up in bed and squared my shoulders, pulled my stomach muscles tight. I imagined her doing the same thing. Two fighters circling the ring, girding for the first punch.

  When she spoke again, she spoke slowly, her plummy voice pitched low and thick with rage. “I’m back in England, you see. I rang Lucien several times yesterday. But no reply. And no one seems to have seen him. Rather strange. And then this morning I bumped into that old dolt Peter. I gather the two of you have met.”

  Peter? Oh, yes. Pete. Lucien’s friend, the one with the glazed eyes, who’d fetched us a round of beers at the pub.

  “He told me what a lovely evening you all had at the Eagle the other night,” Petronella continued menacingly. “He couldn’t quite remember your name, mind you, but he went on in excruciating detail about how Lucien was pawing at some ginger-haired American, positively drooling all over her. And how the two of them left together, and no one’s seen Lucien since. Pete seemed to find the whole incident quite hilarious. Quite the jolly tale. So I repeat: How dare you?”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I shot back. “You’re upset that Lucien and I hit it off? As if you’re some loyal girlfriend and you’ve caught him cheating on you? Do you not see a tiny trace of irony in that position?”

  “Please. Spare me the morality lecture. My relationship with Lucien—”

  “You didn’t have a relationship. You had a fling.”

  She made a sputtering noise, like a deflating tire. Then she asked, “What exactly happened between the two of you?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I rather think it is.”

  “No. It’s not. Not anymore. You just admitted yourself that he’s stopped returning your calls.”

  There was a pause.

  “Listen to you,” she said then, tauntingly. “Do you actually think you’re fit to wipe his boots? Do you have any idea who he is? Who his family is?”

  “I gather his father is a duke.”

  “ ‘I gather his father is a duke,’ ” she mimicked savagely. “You haven’t the faintest clue. He’s from one of the oldest families in Britain. His great-grandfather—oh, forget it. Do you really think he’s likely to make a go of it with you? With some American, slutty, working-class hack?”

  I couldn’t think of a comeback for that one. It stung.

  Perhaps because she was so insufferable.

  Perhaps because she was right.

  AFTER THAT THERE WAS NO point trying to sleep.

  I felt like punching a hole in the wall. Instead I dragged myself to the kitchen. Elias had left a note for me on the counter: Headed to the gym and then straight on to office. See you there? Yes. First, though, coffee. I couldn’t be bothered with the espresso thimbles. I put a proper pot on to brew while I hit the shower.

  I stood under the steamy spray for a long time, fantasizing about creative ways to torture Petronella. Then I moved on to trying to come up with a plan for the day. If I didn’t think of something before I went into the bureau, I would have to go along with whatever Hyde had dreamed up overnight. Or Jill, God forbid. I was covered in soap and turning various bad ideas over in my mind when the phone began to ring. Not my temporary cell phone. Elias’s home phone. I ignored it. Probably a telemarketer.

  I dried off, twisted my hair into a knot, and slipped on the wrap dress. The ringing stopped for a few minutes while I hunted for my earrings, then started again. I hesitated. It couldn’t be for me. Only Elias and Hyde knew I was here.

  When it rang a third time, I gave up and went to the kitchen to answer it.

  “Alexandra, is that you?” asked a deep, vaguely familiar voice.

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Lowell Carlyle. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  I stood there trying to process this. It did in fact sound like Lowell Carlyle. But why would the president’s lawyer—

  “Are you there? Please listen to me carefully. You are in danger.”

  “But—but how did you get this number?” Not perhaps the most salient point at the moment, but I was still trying to take this in.

  “What? From your editor. Hyde Rawlins. I tracked him down and told him it was urgent that I reach you. Are you somewhere safe?”

  “I’m at a friend’s. Why? What’s going on?”

  “The situation you wrote about in this morning’s paper. It is—more serious than perhaps you may have realized. I can’t really say much more. Are you by yourself? Can you drive to somewhere safe, a police station maybe? Or can I send a car over to you?”

  My stomach lurched. What did he know that I didn’t that made him want to send a driver to come collect me?

  “I don’t have a car. I can get a taxi. But, Mr. Carlyle, why? I don’t understand . . .” I could not seem to collect my thoughts to ask a coherent question.

  “Alexandra, you came up by name here this morning. It’s a fast-moving situation. We’ve pulled together a meeting for later today. I can’t get into many details. I’m not calling in an official capacity. But as a father—” He cleared his throat. “Please. Get yourself somewhere safe.” He hung up.

  My heart was racing. I glanced around. Outside the kitchen window the back garden suddenly looked dark and threatening. The lock on the kitchen door was flimsy; a child could break in. I picked up the phone again, considered calling 911. But to tell them what? That I was scared? Who knew how long it might take DC cops to get here, and if I was in as much danger as Mr. Carlyle said . . . No. I didn’t want to wait for the police or for a driver or for anyone more sinister who might be coming. I needed to get out of here. Immediately. I raced to the bedroom and found my shoes and wallet. I would sprint to M Street, hail a taxi, head to the news bureau. People would be there by now. The security guard would be at the front desk. It would be safe.

  I opened Elias’s front door and blinked in the sunlight. The early-morning dew had burned away; thick heat was already beginning to rise off the street. I had turned around to lock the door behind me when I heard a voice.

  “How do you do, Miss James. My name is Shaukat Malik. You may know me as Nadeem Siddiqui.”

  He pushed me back inside, and then the world went dark.

  46

  When I opened my eyes again, it was to see a small man staring at me. He held a gun in his hands, pointed at my chest.

  I blinked and shook my head in an attempt to dispel this awf
ul vision. Pain rolled through me. I lifted my hand to my face and felt warm blood and the raised ridge of a deep cut.

  “You shouldn’t have tried to run,” he scolded. His voice was high and singsongy. “You have been stupid, so stupid, from the beginning.”

  He was sitting on Elias’s futon. I appeared to be sprawled on the floor. Scattered images came back to me. I had tried to leave . . . . I was locking the door . . . . He had said his name. . . .

  “Nadeem Siddiqui?” I said, so weakly I wasn’t sure he could hear me. “But—I thought you were dead. Your lab said you were dead.”

  “Nadeem is dead.” He nodded. “Now I am Shaukat Malik.”

  This made no sense. Malik . . . That was the name people in Pakistan had kept repeating on the phone. My head throbbed. Would Elias come back to look for me if I didn’t show up this morning? Why hadn’t I called the police?

  “I don’t understand,” I croaked. “What do you want?”

  “To kill you.”

  I decided not to ask the obvious follow-up: So what are you waiting for?

  Instead I said, “You—you were waiting for me? Outside the door there?”

  “Yes. I didn’t have a key. But I could see you inside. Getting dressed. I knew you would come out.”

  I cringed. How long had he watched? What had he seen? I am no prude, but the idea of his seeing me naked was unbearable. Then again, so was the idea of his killing me in the next few minutes. Think. I looked desperately around the room for something to use as a weapon. The bike was gone. Elias must have taken it to work. Otherwise there were books, empty CD cases, shoes . . . Nothing.

  I studied him. He was short for a man, but muscular. He might outweigh me by thirty or forty pounds. And there was the small matter that he had a gun.

  Think. I kept squinting at him through my right eye—the left one appeared to be swelling shut—and willed the fog in my head to clear. There was no logical next question in this surreal exchange. But surely the longer I kept him talking, the better my chances of finding a way out.

  “The bananas—the shipment that arrived this week—that was you?”

  An expression of pride passed over his face. “Yes. Brilliant, isn’t it? So simple.”

  “And inside it—is it true? There was a nuclear weapon?”

  He pressed his lips together and smiled coldly. “I am the only one who can do that. Do you understand? The others—Atta, Jarrah, al-Shehhi—they were boys. They destroy. They fly their planes. But they do not have my access. My skills. You understand?”

  No, I did not. What was he talking about? My head pounded. I tried again. “But—in the banana shipment—is there—”

  “Yes!” he snorted impatiently. “Because of my work. My work, you see? Twelve years I train. I get access. I get the codes. It is because of my—my technical expertise that we will succeed. So I will not have to die. Not like them. I am too valuable. To the network. But I must disappear now.”

  “Disappear?”

  “Yes, disappear.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You know why? Because it will be my face they see. My voice, inside the White House. It is already recorded, do you know this? We will spill your blood. And then you will see.”

  I pressed my hand to my eye. He was completely mad. “I—I’m afraid I don’t understand as much as you think I do. What are you talking about? What is already recorded?”

  He leaned forward excitedly on the futon. “The video. We will send it to you—all of you journalists—when it is time. And then you will know, this was a Muslim bomb. This is for our brothers in Pakistan. And in Jeddah and Cairo and Palestine.

  “Still. It is a shame. You. Thomas Carlyle.” He shrugged and gestured with the gun as if he weren’t quite sure how it had ended up in his hand. “I am not a killer. I do not kill before. I am a man of science. . . .”

  “Of course you are.” I tried to sound soothing. I struggled to push myself up a bit higher against the wall. My head felt as if it would split open. “What happened with Thom Carlyle? Were you up in the bell tower that night?”

  He frowned. “It was not supposed to happen. He was helpful. Quite helpful. His girlfriend—you saw her?” His eyes clouded briefly with an emotion that I was startled to recognize as lust. “A very beautiful woman.”

  “You said Thom Carlyle was helpful? He was helping you?” Surely that could not be true.

  But Nadeem nodded. “He arranged a White House tour. We had to get in. To make the video. It had to be recorded there, you see? But we did not know how. And then I met Thomas. He was very nice. I told him it was my grandfather’s dream.”

  I tried to follow this. “You mean, Thom helped you get a tour of the White House? Through his dad or something?”

  “Yes.”

  “But—but then why did you kill him?”

  Nadeem glared at me. “She invited me to a party. In his rooms, did you know that? She wanted me there. But she was . . . kissing him. Dancing with him.” He looked disgusted. His voice turned shrill. “Everyone drunk, everyone smoking. And very loud.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I got a phone call. But the music”—he gestured angrily with his hands—“it was too loud. So I stepped into the back bedroom. It was my contact on the phone. He wanted to go over everything. The shipment, the tracking number. What I would say in the video. We have to do this by phone, you see. Put nothing in writing. And it was a secure line. But when I turned around . . . Thomas was there. Listening. I do not know how much he heard. But enough, I think. Enough.”

  I closed my eyes against the pain and tried to imagine how it had happened. Nadeem, squat and swarthy and serious, so out of place at a Waspy party in the John Harvard suite. Petronella, probably wearing something indecent, working the crowd, teasing the men buzzing round her. And poor Thom. Why had he wandered into the back bedroom? Had he suspected something? More likely he was just checking on a missing guest. Or maybe he kept supplies back there, maybe the bar had needed replenishing . . . But he had picked the wrong moment.

  I opened my eyes. Nadeem was pointing the gun closer now. “I am not a killer. But perhaps it will be easier the second time.”

  I looked into his black eyes. Think. And then it came to me. The lust that had clouded his eyes. He had wanted Petronella, wanted her badly. He was not immune. It was my only chance.

  “She was beautiful that night, wasn’t she? Nadeem?”

  He looked confused.

  “So beautiful. And she liked you. She told me.” As I spoke I traced my finger down my leg and lifted my dress so that it fell higher on my leg. My voice was hoarse. I felt sick. I kept going. “Did you like it when she danced? Did you watch?” I raised my skirt another inch.

  He glanced away, swallowed, looked back.

  “She told me she wanted to kiss you. To put her lips . . . her lips . . . on your . . .” I licked my own lips.

  He was breathing heavily now.

  “She told me she wanted to take your hands and put them . . . here . . .” I swept my fingertips lightly up my thigh. His eyes followed. And then I saw what I was waiting for. His hand slackened on the gun. It tilted down, just a little, away from me. Wait. I arched my back and traced a circle over the silk of my dress around my nipple.

  “Again. Do that again,” he breathed. And then he reached for me.

  I waited until his hand brushed against my leg and then I kicked, hard. Both my feet slammed into his groin. The gun skittered across the floor. I bolted up and ran.

  I only had a second. Please, God, please, God, let it be hot. When he chased me into the kitchen, I was ready. He had the gun—he raised it—but I was faster. The scalding coffee flew from the pot into his eyes. He roared in surprise and pain and rocked backward. His hands reached up to his face—my hands reached up for the gun still in his hand—I found the trigger—I pulled.

  There was a deafening noise and then silence. He lay on the floor. I could not bring myself to look at his face. Dark liquid pooled across
the tiles. I leaned over the kitchen sink and retched.

  My hands trembled as I unlaced his fingers from the gun. From his pocket I pulled a wallet and a phone. The wallet held $300, a receipt from a souvenir vendor on the National Mall, and a Virginia driver’s license in the name of Shaukat Malik.

  I had to step over him to exit the kitchen. I held my dress down tightly, protectively, around my legs as I did so. I fought the urge to be sick again.

  I did not understand what had just happened. I had just shot a man. In Elias’s kitchen.

  I dropped his phone, his wallet, and his gun into my purse. Then I opened the front door. The heat was dizzying. The sun seemed to have bleached the world white. I felt hollowed out, empty. An old urge swept over me. With my fingernails I scratched at the skin inside my elbows, repeatedly and with force. Droplets of red blood sprang out. I stared at them. I was alive. I needed to get out of here. I walked away, leaving the door wide open behind me.

  47

  No taxi would stop for me on M Street.

  When I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the shop window behind me, I realized why: I looked like a lunatic. White as a ghost, my left eye swollen shut and turning a nasty plum color, blood crusted down my cheek and ear.

  I nipped into the nearest café, where the waitress did a double take at my appearance but said nothing. In the ladies’ room, I daubed the worst of the blood off my neck. My face was more painful, but I did my best to clean it, then unwound my hair to hang down and hide the gash above my eye. I smoothed and retied my dress. There was blood on that too—whether Nadeem’s or mine, I wasn’t sure. Nothing I could do about that. With a pair of big sunglasses and lipstick I looked . . . not presentable, but better than before.

  I walked back out to the curb, held up my arm, and a taxi stopped.

  With relief I slid inside. I had already decided where to go.

  Not to the hospital, although I was sure I needed stitches.

  Not to the police, although I seemed to be making a habit of fleeing murder scenes.