Brothers In Arms

by Marcus Wynne

  She looked down at the printout. “You’re from Amsterdam?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve got a lot of people in from Amsterdam. Maybe you’ll know some of them. I love Amsterdam, it’s a fun city.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You’ll enjoy DC. You’ll want to check out Dupont Circle and Adams Morgan for the clubs. We take a group bus down there on the weekends. There’s some great dance clubs . . .”

  Youssef cut in and said, “I look forward to it. But now I just want to rest. I need to wash up and get some sleep.”

  The girl, her hurt look morphing into one of disdain, looked up at the clock and said, “You can get in your room now, if you want.”

  Youssef nodded and turned away from the counter, oblivious to the look the girl gave him. He was past caring what she thought of his rudeness. He took the elevator up to the floor where the private rooms were clustered, and followed the numbered doors down the curving hallway till he came to his room. As he’d requested, he was right beside the emergency exit stairwell. He could get in and out of the building without having to go through the elevators and the main lobby. The key stuck in the lock, and he had to wiggle it to get the door to open.

  It was a tiny room, like the rooms in the other hostels where he’d spent so much time in the last few months. There was a narrow bed, already made up, a small desk and chair, a closet, and a stand for a suitcase. That was it for furniture. The drapes were drawn back from the single window that looked out on the city. The white obelisk of the Washington Monument dominated the view. That helped him get oriented. Despite his intense study of the city maps in the guidebooks he’d read, there was no substitute for being on the ground. He would take time, later, to get familiar with the city. There was much to prepare for.

  He was in the heart of enemy territory now. He had to be careful. Reconnaissance and rehearsals would be kept to a minimum. The major tourist sites were well-known and well-trafficked; he’d be just another face in the crowd, there and on the Metro subway system.

  Just another face in the crowd.

  He went into the tiny bathroom adjoining his room and turned on the water in the narrow shower. After the water heated, he stripped off his clothes and then stood beneath the streaming water. He turned the water as hot as he could stand it and let the heat work its way into his bones. Despite the sleep he’d had last night and this morning, he felt old and tired. The tension of being in the enemy’s camp wore on him. Memories of Britta nagged at him. He’d left without saying good-bye, without returning to the small apartment with the big window looking out over the canal, and the bed where they had made love for hours. His last memory was of her telling him to get out and be alone. He wondered what she was doing now; whether she was crying in sadness or laughing in relief, whether she was still at the homeless shelter doling out sympathy with blankets, whether she was thinking of him and wondering what he was doing.

  He turned his face to the showerhead and let the water beat on his face. There was a heat in the corner of his eyes that didn’t come from the shower. After a while, he let his head hang down and the hot water streamed hard on his neck and shoulders. Soon the water began to cool, and he turned off the shower. The bathroom was filled with steam. He had to wipe the condensation off the mirror to shave. He was conscious of a tremor in his hand as he scraped the razor across his face, and carefully avoided looking at his eyes in the mirror. He knew what he would see there: sadness, weakness, a patent misery that came from being alone on a lonely path.

  He reminded himself that it was his path by choice. The most important thing remaining to him was accomplishing his mission. There was no room for weakness and hesitation now, even though he felt them like a cancer inside him. He was ashamed of the trembling in his hands and the burning in his eyes.

  The best thing he could do, he decided, was to rest for a while and then go out and do a run-through of his operation. That would settle his mind, keep him on track.

  He spread out his few belongings on the bed, sorted out the clothing, and hung them in the small closet. The busywork helped his mind. Sitting alone on the blankets were the black Pelican case that held the vials of weaponized agent, the three dissipation devices, and the two aerosol canisters. He dragged the chair beside the bed and sat down heavily, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. So much destruction in such small things. He had the death of thousands, perhaps millions, resting on his bed. In America’s capital, in a crowded youth hostel, here he sat, the One, the One who carried death with him, and he was afraid of what a young girl in Amsterdam would think of him were she to find out what his true purpose was.

  He shook his head in disgust, even as he reminded himself that he could check his e-mail here in the hostel. There was a roomful of computers for just that purpose. There might be an e-mail from Britta.

  Youssef replaced the Pelican case and the devices in his courier bag and slung it over the foot of his bed, then went out into the hall, locking his door behind him. He went down the stairwell, relishing the small exercise of descending stairs, and came out in a hallway near the lobby.

  A black girl in a tie-dyed dress smiled as she slipped by him.

  “Where is the computer room?” he asked her.

  “Just there,” she said, pointing down the hall. “Near the Coke machines.”

  “Thank you.”

  He went down the hall and into the computer room. Six Apple I-Macs were set up in individual cubicles on one big table. Two of the machines were taken, so he sat at the farthest one and logged onto the Internet, then called up his Hotmail account and checked his messages. There was no message from Britta, but there was a message from someone named FriendInAthens. He clicked on the message.

  “The product that was delivered to you has been recalled for a manufacturing defect. Please check our Web site for directions on return and replacement.”

  That was the entire message. The product was flawed? It was possible. He’d taken no special measures to safeguard it, as he’d been told that wasn’t necessary. The virus had been engineered as though it were to be launched in a missile, and was supposed to be easily sustained for the period of time he needed. He stared at the message. He didn’t need to check the Web site for further instructions; going to the pornographic Web site that was the operational communications channel would attract too much attention here. He’d have to do that later, with his laptop. But he’d memorized the instructions and contact procedures for replacement of the product if necessary. That, too, had been planned for. Today was Wednesday, and the designated days for communicating with his contact at the Egyptian embassy were Tuesday or Thursday. But perhaps he’d be able to do a reconnaissance today.

  He deleted the message and logged off the computer, then went back upstairs to his room. From the outside pocket of his courier bag he took out a street map of Washington, DC and studied the area around the Air and Space Museum, and then the streets around the Egyptian embassy. He traced the distance between the two sites with his forefinger, thought for a moment, then folded his map and tucked it back in his courier bag. Then he put the dispersion devices into his toilet kit, and he tucked that and the Pelican case beneath his bed, out of sight from a casual looker.

  Now he was ready to go out.

  Downstairs in the lobby, there was a crowd of hostel tenants around the front desk. They were all in their twenties, like Youssef, wearing backpacks festooned with odd bits of gear, dressed in a variety of baggy and bright-colored clothing, their bodies decorated with tattoos and piercings and dyed hair. Youssef felt quite plain in his baggy jeans and beige T-shirt. He felt as though there was a wall between him and their bright chatter with the accents of many countries; even though he walked out the door with them he was apart. A girl he recognized from the hallway outside the computer room smiled brightly at him, the smile of someone hoping to make a connection, but he didn’t smile back; he kept his eyes down and only glanced up to make sure he was headed in the
right direction. A white shuttle bus, a whirring air-conditioner mounted above its rear window dripping condensation, was parked at the curb, its door open. There was a group of bicyclists geared up on mountain bikes beside the bus. One of the bicyclists, a muscular woman with long straight black hair beneath her helmet and her eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, looked at Youssef and then away. He paid her no mind, pausing for a moment to consider. It was hot, and a long walk from the hostel to the Smithsonian. He decided to take the shuttle bus. He followed the herd of young tourists aboard the bus, then took a seat in the rear, away from everyone else, and stared out the window as the bus pulled away from the curb and made its way through the slow traffic toward the National Mall. A couple of the bicyclists paced alongside the bus; in the busy traffic they made better time than the shuttle.

  The bus’s first stop was outside the National Archives Building, where a long line of people waited patiently for entrance. Youssef stood on the corner and looked up at the granite expanse of the building with its ornate lettering beneath the cornice. The sun cast sharp-edged shadows from the building. He turned his back on the Archives and crossed the street to a tree-shaded enclosure that was labeled the National Sculpture Garden. He continued up Seventh Street, the weight of the sun heavy on his head and shoulders. The oppressive humidity brought out a thick sweat beneath his thin T-shirt. After months of temperate weather in Amsterdam, the heat and humidity was sweltering. A fat black man, his shirt hanging like a flag on him, sat on a stool beside a pushcart with bottles of water, hats, T-shirts, and postcards.

  Youssef stopped and reached into his pocket for his roll of bills. “Two bottles of water, please.”

  “Two bottles of water, yes, sir,” the black man said, galvanized into sudden movement. He reached into the tub of ice and water and plucked out two cold one-liter bottles. “Big ones? Better buy.”

  “Yes, big ones,” Youssef said. He handed the man several bills and took the bottles, placing one in his courier bag for later, and cracking open the other one and taking a long, satisfying drink from it.

  “Too hot out here to play around, no, sir,” the vendor said. “You’ll want to cover your head. You got a hat? I got hats cheap, you need one to cover your head, this heat.”

  He picked up a baseball hat with the letters FBI on the front. “Try this one.”

  Youssef shook his head no, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “All right then, how about this one?” the vendor said. He replaced the baseball cap and took out a plain straw panama-style. “Give you a good price since you already a customer. Five dollars take it away. Man needs a hat on a day like this.”

  “All right,” Youssef said. He handed a bill to the man and took the hat, placed it on his head.

  “Where you from?” the vendor asked.

  “I’m from Amsterdam.”

  “You don’t look Dutch.”

  “There are many different kinds of Dutch.”

  “I guess that be so. How do you like America?”

  Youssef settled the hat on his head and took another pull on the water bottle he had nearly emptied.

  “It is very busy,” he said. “Very crowded. And it seems very rich.”

  The black man laughed. “Oh, it’s busy all right, and crowded, too. But don’t let the look of things fool you, there ain’t a lot of rich out here. Oh, you gots some that are, but most of us are just struggling to get by.”

  Youssef nodded. He finished the bottle of water and handed the empty back to the vendor.

  “You were thirsty, weren’t you?” the vendor said. “Want to watch that, easy to get dehydrated on days like this. Don’t want our Dutch visitor to faint on the street, no we don’t. You sure you don’t want another bottle?”

  “No, thank you,” Youssef said. “Where is the Air and Space Museum?”

  “You’re looking at it,” the vendor said, pointing across the block-wide lawn at a glass-fronted building on the other side. “That over there, on this side, that’s the National Gallery of Art.”

  “Thank you,” Youssef said.

  He walked away slowly, letting himself be carried by the crowds of tourists in shorts and with cameras hung around their necks. A tour bus disgorged a horde of Japanese tourists, and the guide began her spiel, punctuated with waves of the flag she carried.

  “And this is the National Gallery of Art . . .”

  Youssef followed the crowd up the bank of stairs, then paused and sat down on the stairs. There were a few others on the stairs, sun worshipers mostly, soaking up the heat. From his vantage point he had an excellent view of the benches in front of the Air and Space Museum, though he was over a hundred yards away. He watched the steady stream of people back and forth across the Mall and from the steps of the Air and Space Museum. The uniformed security people who stood outside the Air and Space Museum seemed to pay no particular attention to the benches; instead they spoke to each other and to the occasional tourist. They rotated back into the building at fifteen-minute intervals. He could see the cameras mounted on the side of the museum, but they all seemed oriented to cover the approaches to the building and there were none that were directed outward toward the benches. No signs of surveillance, though there were some panel trucks and vans parked in the delivery zone in front of the museum.

  Everything seemed clear.

  There was a group of bicyclists riding on the gravel path that bordered the grassy expanse of the Mall; he recognized them as the group from the youth hostel. One rider split off from the others and rode over to the benches in front of the museum and stopped, resting one foot on a bench, a neighbor to Youssef’s target for tomorrow. The rider took off her helmet and shook out long black tresses, then took a bandana from the pocket of her shorts and wiped her face and neck, then took her water bottle from the bike frame and tilted it up for a long drink. Even from where he sat, Youssef could tell that she was beautiful. It made him think of Britta.

  He got up then, and brushed the seat of his pants, damp with perspiration. He walked down to the street level where a yellow taxicab let out a group of four tourists.

  “Wait!” Youssef called to the driver, who nodded to him. Youssef ducked his head and climbed into the air-conditioned comfort of the cab, slammed the door, and said, “Would you take me by the Egyptian embassy, please?”

  The driver nodded, and pulled away from the curb.

  Isabelle had watched Youssef for some time. It had been easy to follow the bus; the bicycles made better time than any car in the traffic, and the trip was a short one. The heat made it onerous, but she was an athlete and inured to hardship. While the bike–tour guide had made an attempt to keep her with the group, Isabelle had ignored him and gone ahead to where she could stop and watch the young Arab on the Mall. There had to be a reason, other than simple sight-seeing, that he chose to sit in the blazing heat on the steps of the Gallery of Art. He seemed interested in the Air and Space Museum, and had paid no attention to any of the goings-on around him. It would be hard to spot surveillance here, she thought, with the crowds and vehicles constantly coming and going. But then that would make a surveillance team work all the harder, which would make this a good spot for a clandestine meeting. He had come directly here, instead of working a route, as if he’d been going to a meeting, or wandering the way a true tourist would.

  She cursed under her breath when she saw him get into the cab. She didn’t even try to hurry to get herself back together and ride after them; the cab bolted to the busy traffic of Seventh Street and disappeared around the corner. She’d have to reacquire him at the hostel, a risky business as she didn’t want to get too close to him. The black wig she wore seemed to magnify the heat on her head. She took off her sunglasses and wiped the sweat from them on her bandana, then arched her back to relieve a kink while she looked around and studied the entrance to the Air and Space Museum. The crowds went in and out, and she wondered what attracted Youssef to this place. It was possible that s
he wouldn’t be able to determine what he was looking for through surveillance.

  She might have to take him and force the information from him.

  In the back of the panel van parked across the street from Isabelle, where two surveillance men sweated, a laptop chimed and a video frame captured from the hidden lens appeared beside another picture, one of her face from the shooting in Minneapolis. The pop-up alert said, POSITIVE MATCH.

  The cab driver worked his way through the slow traffic tangling the streets around the Egyptian embassy. Youssef had plenty of time to study the streets and the surrounding neighborhood; it was a pleasant area, with many old row homes lovingly restored, and the old Colonial mansions turned into office space or embassies. The driver slowed as he approached the embassy.

  “I just want to see it,” Youssef said. “You don’t have to stop.”

  “Where are you going?” the cab driver asked, a thin black man with a goatee, sweating even in the air-conditioning of the cab.

  “I want to go to the International Youth Hostel.”

  “Should have said that earlier.”

  “Sorry, I just wanted to see the embassy.”

  “You Egyptian?”

  “My father was.”

  “Guess that makes you, then.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  The cabbie snorted, and bulled his way back into the traffic stream. Youssef studied the walled mansion, and the two guards on duty in front. They passed a street with many shops on it, and Youssef saw a sign for an Internet café. That was useful. And there, right where he had been told it would be, was the mailbox he was to mark tomorrow.

  His reconnaissance was done. Now it was time for a meal and some sleep. Tomorrow would be a busy day.

  DOMINANCE RAIN HEADQUARTERS, FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA

  Ray Dalton turned a folding chair around and settled into it, crossing his long arms along the back of the chair. The conference room was, for once, still. The assistants and operators were busy at work elsewhere, leaving Ray and Charley alone. Charley leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, then said, “Well?”