"Is that all you have to say?" Musa asked in disbelief.
"What else is there?" Ali countered. "The incident is over. I only hope we do not have a repeat of it."
"That is not what I mean; I expected this would happen."
"What are you talking about?" Ali demanded impatiently.
"Their nerves are raw. They are men of action, and they have had to sit in this house for weeks, like caged animals, listening to the police radio and watching out the window, waiting for the Americans to charge down the road at any moment. There is too much time to think."
"I can do nothing about all that," Ali said angrily. "They should be able to take it, not turn into wild beasts."
"I do not know anymore," Musa said. "I have never seen you like this. You did not need to stop the fight that way—no one was really hurt. And one of our own is dead, a good soldier. Combat discipline is one thing, but this is something else. You used to care about such things."
"And you have always been soft about these things," Ali taunted. "Perhaps you have lost your stomach for what we must do?"
Musa stared at him as if he was looking at a stranger.
"Maybe I am too sentimental. But maybe you have fought too long, and all the emotion has been burned out of you."
Ali rose from the chair and walked out of the room.
For the next few days, the colonel and his Sergeant Major studiously ignored each other. The Guards knew something was wrong, and talked about it amongst themselves. After the incident in the kitchen, there were no further disagreements.
Ali had been taking short naps in the afternoons, partly to fight the boredom but also in an effort to avoid a recurring dream he had been having at night. Possessing the infantryman's ability to sleep lightly with the senses still alert, he snapped awake at the first sound of a commotion in the house. When the noise was followed by a distinctly feminine scream, he snatched the M-4 carbine from the pillow next to him and charged out the bedroom door, nearly colliding with the Guard who was rushing in to wake him.
The mob of Guards in the hallway near the front door parted to reveal two American women, one in her late twenties and the other middle-aged. Both were impeccably dressed and prosperous looking, and Karim was slapping heavy tape over their mouths to prevent any further screaming. One of the Guards pulled out a curtain sash to tie their hands.
"What is this?" Ali shouted. He looked at the women in despair. "How did they get in here?"
The Guards did not meet his gaze. "Someone left the front door unlocked," Karim said eventually, seeing that Ali's patience was wearing thin. "They must have knocked and walked in. They saw the arms in the front room," he added.
"Merciful God," Ali breathed. "Are you sure there were only these two?"
"We saw only the two," Karim said. The others nodded.
"I do not think they will be alone," Ali said. He closed his eyes, trying to think. "Sergeant Major?"
"Yes, Colonel," Musa said from the background.
"Pack everything," Ali said. "We leave tonight."
"Where will we go?" the Sergeant Major asked.
Ali was taken aback. He actually had not thought of that. "I know," he said, after a moment. "You have homes, do you not?" he asked the spies.
"Yes, of course," Mehdi replied.
"We will go to the home of whoever lives closest to Washington," Ali said.
"That would be Hafiz," Mehdi said, with a slight smile.
"No. If they have his picture, they may be waiting."
"Then mine," said Mehdi.
"We leave at once," Ali said.
"What will we do with them?" Karim asked, gesturing toward the two women. They were utterly terrified, moaning behind their gags. Seeing the weapons and hearing a foreign language spoken, they had no doubt what was happening.
From the edge of his vision, Ali could see the Sergeant Major watching him intently. "Take them down to the cellar and shoot them," Ali said.
"Commander . . ." said one of the assault team leaders.
"What is it?" Ali snapped.
"They are women," the team leader said.
"Yes?" Ali said.
"The attack is in two days. Could we not leave them bound and locked in the cellar?" The other Guards looked at him with expressions of respect and trepidation. No one else wanted to argue with Ali.
"Are you serious?" Ali asked.
"Yes, Commander," the team leader replied hesitantly.
"Are they Muslim?" Ali asked. "No."
"Then allow them to pray—and then shoot them," Ali said, looking directly at Musa.
"As you order, Commander," the team leader replied.
As the Guards rushed to load the vans, the Sergeant Major sat in an easy chair and looked at the family pictures he found in the women's purses. Ali walked by.
"Have you ever loved anyone?" Musa asked him.
Ali stopped abruptly and fixed the Sergeant Major in a cold stare that lasted for some time. "No," he said finally. "You see, all the emotion has been burned out of me."
CHAPTER 26
Based on the number of police cars, Rich Welsh guessed they didn't get much of this kind of thing in Fredericksburg. Every cop in town had to rush in for a look. But why did they always have to leave their stupid lights on? It was making him see blue spots in front of his eyes.
He had a hassle with the cops at the front door of the house until one of MacNeil's men came out and cleared him.
"You checked the place out, right?" Welsh asked him, before they got through the front hall.
"You won't believe this," the agent replied. "The local cops were looking for two women who disappeared in the area yesterday afternoon. They talked to all the neighbors this morning, and somebody remembered seeing a bunch of cars leaving here last night. So the cops get a warrant, tramp all over the house, and then give us a call. That's how we know there's no booby traps."
"Jesus," said Welsh.
"But we had a team go over the whole place, in case the cops just got lucky and missed something." He directed Welsh to the basement stairs. "There's a lot of prints, but otherwise the place is clean," he said. "Except for down here."
"And I have to be surprised?"
The agent shrugged. "MacNeil wants to fill you in himself. . . . Hey, how come he likes you all of a sudden? You two didn't exactly hit it off before."
"I guess we just grew on each other."
As Welsh went down the stairs into the basement, he could see something was different, but he couldn't figure it out in the dim light. When he got to the bottom, he was dumbfounded. The basement had been turned into a firing range. The walls and ceiling were sheathed in cork soundproofing material. Piled up against one concrete wall were trash cans filled with dirt, two high and three deep. The cans were perforated with bullet holes. Welsh took out his pocketknife and stuck it in the cork wall. It didn't hit wood, so the cork was over four inches thick.
"Look at this," MacNeil said from behind him. Welsh turned, and MacNeil was pointing to a large stainless-steel object set in the ceiling. "Restaurant fan," said MacNeil. "To get all the gunpowder smoke out. Ran the vent up to the second floor and out a window."
There was more. MacNeil led him over to the far corner. There were more trash cans and a pile of silhouette paper targets. The cans were filled with small, shiny objects. Welsh plunged his hand into one. "They even policed up their empty brass," MacNeil said. "All 5.56mm and 7.62mm NATO." He pointed to two chalk outlines on the floor. The outlines approximated human forms. Two small, dark stains marked where the heads should have been. "Two ladies out spreading the Gospel. They must have stumbled across something, because they were taken down here, each shot twice in the head with something pistol caliber, and then these creeps bolted to a new hole."
"And you're telling me that the neighbors didn't hear or see anything until they left?" Welsh shouted.
"Now, after the fact, a few people might have heard something that sounded like hammering. But that's it. T
hey might have noticed a van drive out a few times, but nobody saw a license plate or anyone who lived here. You notice we're at the end of the drive, set away from all the rest of the houses."
Welsh just shook his head. "Yeah, what could be in poorer taste than introducing yourself to the neighbors. Well, the assholes have their weapons all zeroed, and plenty of practice. Unless they're waiting for a specific date, they should be about ready to go."
"I didn't think of that," MacNeil said quickly. "But wait a minute, all the spring holidays are over. There's no major ones for a couple of months."
"What about Islamic holidays?" Welsh suggested. "Or Iranian military or political anniversaries?"
"We'll check it out," said MacNeil, writing in his notebook. "They pulled out of here in a big hurry; maybe they screwed up this time. Or left something we can use."
"Maybe we can get lucky before they move again," said Welsh. "God knows we rate it after all this."
"I'll call you when we get everything back from the lab."
"You know their being here means two things," said Welsh. "What?"
"Well, now that they're in range of D.C., our bosses will hopefully put everyone and everything on a high level of alert. ..."
"And?" said MacNeil.
"And it means now I have to go back to the office."
MacNeil chuckled and shook his head. "Good luck this time. If you'd like, I'll write you a testimonial."
"Thanks," Welsh replied. "But I doubt it would change anyone's mind about me."
CHAPTER 27
The deputy assistant secretary of defense for special operations, the number two man in the office, was a one-star admiral, a SEAL. Welsh was directed into his office the moment he arrived.
"Does this mean I'm not on the secretary's A list anymore?" was the first thing Welsh asked. He knew he could joke with the admiral.
"Rich, sit down," said Rear Adm. (Lower Half) John Booker. "I'm going to counsel your sorry ass."
"Is this personal or official, Sir?"
"Personal, goddammit. Let me tell you something son, you're on damn thin ice around here. You make one false move, you're gone—and more than a few people can't wait for that to happen. I'm not one of them—I think it would be a great loss for this office. Now, this is the bottom line: If you want to quit, quit right now and get it over with. But if you want to stay, then for the time being you're going to have to keep a low profile and do exactly what you're told. It's your choice."
Welsh was chastened. "I appreciate you talking to me like this, sir. I want to at least stay and see this thing through, so I'll be a good boy."
"Nobody expects that much from you," the admiral said with a smile. "Okay, let me fill you in on what we're going to do around here, The alert assault group from Six and a detachment of helos from the 160th are moving out to Andrews. And just in case this thing in Fredericksburg is just deception, the Delta alert squadron and another helo detachment are going out to Los Angeles. They'll respond to anything that goes down west of the Mississippi."
"That's the best news I've heard all month, Sir," said Welsh. "But with all due respect, you're a lousy poker player. The look on your face says I should be ready to take it like a man . . . again."
"Okay," said the admiral, "I'll be straight with you. You're going out to Andrews as a liaison to the JSOC command group."
"You mean to make sure the boys are getting their chow all right," Welsh said, with more than a little bitterness. "Sit and drink coffee until my bladder rots. High-priority shit like that. I know where these orders came from."
"I expect you to do your duty," said the admiral.
"I have always done my duty," Welsh said firmly. "And I've always accomplished the mission, whatever it was. I'll go."
* * *
"You know," Welsh mused later in the evening, spearing a forkful of swordfish, "if I keep having these setbacks, I'll never have to pay for another meal."
"It's wonderful you haven't let it ruin your appetite," Carol Bondurant replied.
"Nope, as a matter of fact I'll probably have to run an extra five miles a day to keep from buying new clothes."
"At least I'm picking the restaurants now."
"Carol, I'm just that kind of modern, free-thinking guy."
"How's the sauce for the fish?"
"Beautiful. Garlic and butter, and just the way I like it—not too fussy. How's the pasta?"
"Just fine. Rich, at the risk of bringing up a tender subject, have you gone out to Andrews yet?"
"Tomorrow," said Welsh. "The advance party flies in tomorrow."
"Are you going to do what the admiral told you?"
"I don't see why not," said Welsh. "But you know me; I'll try to keep my hand in."
"That's what worries me," said Carol, twirling pasta on her fork with great concentration.
"Don't, I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid. There's a big difference."
"I'll take your word for it." She put down her fork. "I'm sure that the next attack is going to happen here, though. That LA stuff is just people trying to cover their butt."
"I think you're right, as usual," said Welsh.
"I'm also coming around to your way of thinking about them being Iranian or Hezbollah. I can't see what else they could be." She paused. "What if this is some kind of long-term series of suicide attacks? You know, they have a list of targets and just keep hitting us until they're all killed."
"Your guess is as good as mine," said Welsh. "I'm afraid we're just going to have to wait and see."
"I hate that," Carol said vehemently.
"I know," Welsh said affectionately. "The rational mind. But this isn't rational or logical—it's much more elemental than that." He laughed. "Just like our office isn't rational or logical."
"Don't worry," Carol said. "The boss'll get his one day."
Welsh shook his head. "At the risk of being called a cynic again, he won't. Guys like him always do just fine. They may leave disaster in their wake, but they cover their asses, blame someone else, and glide on to the next thing. If you're well connected and know how to play the game, you'll always be taken care of."
"Well that just stinks."
"I'm used to being outnumbered by assholes," said Welsh. "That's why we non-assholes need to stick together."
"Is that a proposition?"
"Just a topic for discussion."
"Will I still have to pay for dinner?" Carol asked.
CHAPTER 28
Sergeant Major Musa Sa'ed peered cautiously through the kitchen door of Mehdi's house in Falls Church, Virginia. Ali was sitting at the breakfast table. He was alone, drinking tea and going over his plans for the thousandth time. Except for issuing a few perfunctory orders, he had hardly spoken to anyone since leaving Fredericksburg.
Taking a deep breath, Musa walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of tea from Mehdi's samovar. He held back for a moment, as if unsure how to proceed, then set the cup down and walked over to the kitchen table. He stood at rigid attention.
"Colonel?"
"Yes, Sergeant Major?" Ali replied, eyes fixed on his papers.
"I wish to apologize for what I said."
Ali looked up from his plans and examined Musa's face. "I regret that it happened. The tension has made us forget all we have been through together. Please, sit down."
Musa pulled up a chair and made a space between the diagrams for his teacup. There was an uncomfortable silence, Ali ruffling papers and Musa sipping tea.
"I must talk to you for a moment, now that we have privacy," Musa said.
"Oh?" Ali replied uneasily.
"Something is bothering you." It was a statement.
"Everything is bothering me," Ali said. "We are only attacking the White House tomorrow."
"No," Musa said. He took hold of Ali's arm. "Something is wearing away at you. It has been ever since we came to America. Perhaps you should tell me."
"Will it do any good to bring this up again?" Ali asked in exasperati
on.
"I think we should talk about it, whatever it is."
"You are being presumptuous."
"How can I be, after all we have been through together? It is not just what happened in the last place. You have not been able to sleep since we arrived here. Whatever it is, I know it must be cleared away. I ask you to do this, as your friend, for your own sake. I know you went to school here," Musa continued, "even though you will not speak of it. Does it have something to do with the Americans?"
Ali looked at him for a long while, as if weighing a decision. He put down his pen and settled back in the chair.
"Very well, old friend. Since you are so determined, I will tell you the story of my education in America. The great dream of my life was to attend university. It always seemed unattainable, but I studied nonetheless. Then I was chosen to go abroad, picked because I deserved it, not for my family's influence. I know our leaders wished for me to be a spy in the future, like those idiots in the next room, but it was worth it. Anything was worth it. I was amazed than an American university would consider me, but they were only interested in money. I was accepted by the University of Pennsylvania.
"My education began the day I arrived. From the airport to the university, people would listen to my accent and ask where I had come from. None knew where Iran was."
"And the university?"
"The university was like an island in the area of the city called West Philadelphia. It was full of white faces and unlimited promise. Leaving it, you entered another world of black, brown, and yellow faces, and little hope."
"A familiar story," said Musa.
"Yes. My English was not perfect, but it improved over time. The classes were not difficult, but the other students were beyond belief. It was through them I learned of the American character. They were as ignorant in their own way as the common people I met in the streets, but without the excuse. They would read a book, and that would determine their philosophy until a different idea became fashionable and took its place. You see, they were convinced they knew the absolute truth about everything. They made a great show of their liberalism, and when they took their degrees they would join the government and corporations that use the rest of the world for their own purposes."
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