After the Fall (31 page)

“Oh, we have a protocol for FDA visitors,” the girl said, and started to thumb through a file on her desk. “I need to interrupt their meeting.” She nodded toward the conference room with the closed door.

“Don't worry, Lisa,” Jake said leaning a bit closer to read her name tag. “This is not official business.”

The receptionist appeared flustered, and Jake gave her a quick wink. “Personal,” he said. “Let me surprise her.”

“I'm sure Dr. Abdul would like that,” Lisa said. “But not today. The head of security gave me strict orders, in person.”

He wasn't getting anywhere with Lisa.

Should he knock on the conference room door, ask for Priscilla, find out if Addie spoke to her—

No, Jake decided. Why make assumptions? Head to Addie's house. If she wasn't there, keep calling her at work. One thing for sure: he had to talk to her. Immunone's approval had changed just about everything. And to think he'd done all he could to stop it. Even killed an old man. “Fate is unpredictable,” he mumbled as he unlocked his Jeep. Just a week ago, he wanted that drug approval delayed to keep Addie here. Now, at the most perfect of moments, the FDA would approve it. He patted his faithful vehicle before climbing inside. He would miss his Jeep, but moving up to a Mercedes wouldn't be so bad.

Jake unlocked the door to Addie's apartment. Calling her name, he passed the kitchen and headed for the bedroom. Empty. All normal. Bed made. Dishes in dishwasher. So, she must be at work. He called her office. Voice message. The normal one, she'd call back as soon as possible. He called the receptionist. No, Lisa had not seen Dr. Abdul leave, and she'd been at her station ever since Jake had left Replica.

Where could Addie be? Yesterday, he'd asked her what she planned to wear at her wedding. She'd seemed depressed at the question, and he had not understood why. He'd figured she'd be missing out on some Muslim ceremonial ritual that might have triggered a surge of nostalgia. Had she gone shopping for a wedding gown? Not really a gown, he knew, but a new—maybe white—dress. Was white the custom in Iraq? He had no idea. But Addie did love to shop, so she could be gone for some time. If so, she must have submitted that request for a leave of absence. How had it been received?

Eventually, Jake made himself a ham and cheese sandwich, wondering if he'd be allowed to eat ham when he visited Iraq. Muslims didn't eat pig; that much he knew; Hindus didn't eat beef. He hadn't realized how hungry he was and he made himself a second sandwich, this time adding tomato, lettuce, and mayo. He felt better when he'd finished, and let himself
contemplate his luck, how it was all coming together, how this was his last day as a single man—rather, a widowed, single man—how tomorrow afternoon he and Addie would be man and wife. That's all he wanted in life. Nothing else mattered. Not the money, not the actions that circumstances had required of him, not the probability that they'd have to spend time in her country. He'd upgraded ‘possibility' to ‘probability,' but he'd not conceded to ‘reality.' Not yet. Surely, in the course of their American luxury honeymoon, she'd decide they'd be happier living in the United States—somewhere warm, like California or Florida. Or maybe a Caribbean island.

As he finished his second sandwich, Jake realized with a jolt that he kept his passport in his office. While Karolee was alive, he felt it was more secure out of her way, lest she go on an angry rampage and decide to deep six it. After her death, he'd never thought to retrieve it. Now, with his and Addie's new plans, he'd need it. Besides, he wanted a few other personal items from his office, accumulated over twenty-five years, that he cared enough to keep.

“One more call to Addie,” Jake said aloud. “If she's not there, I'll get my stuff at the FDA and stop by Replica again.” He sighed. “Just in time for rush-hour traffic.”

Picking up the phone to dial Addie's direct line at Replica, Jake noticed the blinking red message light. Had it been on before? Must have, or he'd have heard the phone ring. He pushed the message button and listened: “Addie? It's Laura Nelson.”

Jake almost dropped the phone. Oh yes, he knew that bitch's voice. The one that ripped him into a million little pieces just this morning. But calling Addie at home? Calling her by her nickname like they were
girlfriends?

“I enjoyed chatting with you this morning. Don't worry, I'll keep everything in confidence. But I have a question about the Jeep. Can you give me a call? I believe you have my office and home numbers. Take care.”

In confidence? The Jeep? Home phone number? Addie, what have you been up to?

Jake slammed down the phone, grabbed his keys, and headed out of Addie's apartment building. He'd check again whether she'd shown up at Replica. Either way, he'd next go to his office, pick up his belongings. Then what? Figure out Addie's connection with Nelson, and why she had mentioned a Jeep in her voice message. A sickening thought—could Addie be with Laura Nelson now? No way. Impossible.

Just drive
, Jake told himself, as rage directed at this evil woman surged. Accelerating, foot pressed too hard on the gas, he tried to stop at the light before it changed from yellow to red, but failed. Impact with the dark-green pickup truck was immediate and violent. Metal on metal, a rain of chunky, shattered glass. By the time Jake could release his seatbelt and stumble out of his car, he saw the burly driver of the truck, swiping at the oozing blood on his broad forehead and coming at him, menace in his eyes.

“Shit!” was all he could blurt out before a beefy fist slugged him in the face. In the background, screaming sirens pierced the air.

W
EDNESDAY
, M
ARCH
4

Dru never had signed on for espionage. Back in 1971 when he came to America, the United States was on much better terms with Iraq. He'd been welcomed as a business school grad student in Ann Arbor. At first he'd had assimilation problems, but as foreign students do, he soon fell into Western ways. While studying for his MBA, he began to appreciate the principles of capitalism and even democracy, always defending them when he felt he was safely with a Western crowd.

From the beginning, he'd had no illusions about his role; why the regime had supported his education and allowed his lifestyle. They needed Iraqi citizens on the ground in America to provide them with the real facts, not the propaganda they thought the press fed the world. In America, what was reported in the media was pretty much reality. Not all, but most of what appeared in the international news covered by US media was factual. That could not be said for media in Iraq or most countries in the Middle East.

Dru's career in banking had served the regime well. He'd been compliant to his country's request for inside information; he'd shared with them processes and procedures used by his employer of nineteen years, Chase Manhattan; he'd given them lists of clients, even inside trading tips. What he'd done over the years was illegal, but he'd never come under scrutiny. He dressed
like a US businessman, spoke with no accent, attended business-related social affairs, followed sports, drank alcohol, ate pork. His colleagues often remarked that he was more American than the average Joe.

He lived in the Muslim-populated—mostly Shiite—section of Dearborn, but never invited Western coworkers to his home, something that had frustrated his wife. Iraqi-born Shada was attractive, totally Westernized—following their arranged marriage—and an excellent cook who loved to show off her skills. Dru loved her dearly, and they were devoted parents to Ali and Sam. When Dru was called to a foreign country to meet with his Iraqi contacts, Shada was understanding, asked no questions, welcomed him home with affection and trust.

But for each routine, there is an exception. For Shada, that exception was Adawia Abdul. Dru had been assigned as Adawia's mentor when she came to the University of Michigan twelve years ago in 1980. That had been the year he'd been summoned to Baghdad to marry Shada, the sister of his brother's wife. Shada had not been pleased when Dru spent evenings and weekends with the beautiful, young doctoral student. Adawia still was a sore subject in the Hammadi family, even though Shada had gone to Eastern Michigan University and earned a bachelor's degree, her English now flawless, her beauty a challenge to Adawia's.

Upon return from his recent trip to Baghdad, Dru made a decision. He moved Shada and the boys to a remote area in Alberta, Canada, a place he'd identified years ago for a worst-case scenario. Shada had vigorously objected, but finally relented when he told her as graphically as possible about Qusay Hussein's and Hussein Kamel's threats. To make matters worse, Shada's trust in him had radically eroded when she'd discovered his recent renewed interaction with Adawia. Shada and Dru had not parted in a loving manner.

Right now Dru couldn't find Adawia. He needed her under his direct surveillance until she boarded the London flight en route to Baghdad via Jordan. He was quite sure he was being
followed and that did not bode well. The same car he'd seen when he stopped at the gas station, he'd seen at the curb outside Adawia's apartment building. Nervously, he checked his watch. Three o'clock. He had only forty-eight hours to get her out of Washington, DC. He'd secure her as soon as she came back to her apartment and stay overnight with her. Tie her down if he had to. If her old-man boyfriend gave him a hard time, he'd deal with him too. Dru had no doubts as to his proficiency with his Spyderco knife, a four-inch steel blade with an Emerson opening hook. His training back in Iraq hadn't been just academic.

As he paced, Dru decided to call Shada from the pay phone just outside Adawia's building. He had to talk to her, to make sure she was okay. To his dismay, the suspicious car was parked on the street about half a block away. Dru placed the call to the Canadian exchange, thinking how Shada would go ballistic if she knew he was calling from outside Adawia's residence.

“Dru, I'm so glad you called,” Shada answered.

“Is everything okay? The boys?” he asked, trying to quell the panic in his tone.

“They're okay, but I'm so worried about you. Dru, why do we have to be hiding like this? The boys miss their friends. What are you doing, Dru? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, Shada. I don't want you to worry.”

“But I don't know how to contact you. What if something happens to the boys and—”

Dru let the phone slip when he felt a heavy tap on his shoulder, and turned to face two men in dark suits.

“Mr. Badur Hammadi?” the burly one asked.

“FBI,” the trim, dark-skinned one said. “We need to talk to you.”

Had Shada heard? If so, she'd be frantic. He had to terminate the call now so the Feds didn't catch on. But…he fumbled for a name as he retrieved the phone: “Okay, Fred,” he said, “I'll take care of it tomorrow.” He hung up, faced the men and said, “My boss.” Once the words left his mouth he realized he'd screwed up. A simple matter for the Feds to track this call, and it wouldn't
be to Chase Manhattan in Detroit. They'd know he'd lied. That's how they trap innocent people. For the first time, Dru came to realize America was just as much a police state as Iraq. Freedom was nothing more than an illusion—just as his teachers had told him when he was a little kid in school.

“We'd like you to come with us,” the burly one said, as the other grabbed his right elbow in a not-so-subtle move.

“Why? What did I do?” he said, refusing to budge.

“All will be explained,” the thinner one said. “Once we get to the Pentagon.”

“Pentagon? Isn't that the army?” Dru said, needing time to think, to decide. Go or resist?

Not that there was a choice, as the agents escorted him to a dark-colored sedan. Before opening the car door, the larger of the agents told him to spread his legs and lean forward, hands against the car. The one with the dark skin felt inside his jacket pockets, finding only gloves. When he moved to his jeans pocket, he found the knife.

Dru's heart accelerated, sweat breaking out on his forehead despite the chilly air. He'd been told by a colleague at the bank that the four-inch blade was technically illegal, but the guy at the gun show where he'd bought it had said, “No problem with the carry.”

“Mr. Hammadi, we're going to take the knife,” the burly officer said, removing a clean handkerchief and handing it to his partner before continuing his search for weapons around his waist, the length of his legs. “Not an automatic release,” the officer reported to his colleague. To Jake, he said, “We'll hold on to it for now. Give it back when we're done, unless…”

Unless, circulated over and over in Dru's brain as the knife went into a plastic baggie. Then he was ushered inside the Feds' vehicle. Alone in the back seat of the car, Dru asked again, “Why are you taking me to the Pentagon?”