Brothers In Arms (42 page)

“Where would you like to go, Mr. Payne?” the driver said. He had a faint Bostonian accent.

“Let’s go down Sixty-six to downtown . . . I want to go down Constitution and then over to the Air and Space Museum.”

“Roger that. Sixty-six to downtown it is.”

Interstate 66 was busy, but not the bumper-to-bumper crawl it would be later in the day. They crossed the Potomac on the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge into the District and turned off onto Constitution
Avenue. Charley got a little thrill when he saw the Washington Monument standing bright and clear in the sun. The patriot in him was just under the skin, and he relished the sight of the monuments to his country as they drove slowly along Constitution Avenue.

“Let me out here,” he said, when they came to Seventh Street. “I want to walk a little. Meet me in front of the Air and Space Museum.”

“You’ve got a radio?” the driver said.

“Sure do. I’m on Tactical One.”

“Tactical One it is,” the driver said. He picked up his handset and keyed the microphone. “Car to Payne, Car to Payne.”

His voice was tinny in the speaker of Charley’s handheld.

“We’re five by five,” Charley said.

He watched the car idle away slowly in the traffic, then stretched his arms above his head and leaned back to ease his spine. Too much time in a chair indoors was dulling his thinking. He set out at a brisk walk down the National Mall, the grass soft beneath his booted feet. It only took a few minutes for him to cut across the grassy expanse to the park benches on the far side of Jefferson Avenue, directly across from the National Air and Space Museum. The third bench from Charley’s right was, according to Ahmed bin Faisal, the designated meeting point for the Egyptian vice-consul and the young Arab they all referred to as the One. Charley went and stood beside the bench for a moment, then sat down.

Though he couldn’t see them, he knew that there was a surveillance team nearby with cameras focused on the bench, with one crew on the roof of the Air and Space Museum, and another in a disguised panel-truck parked in front, both equipped with the latest optical equipment and the computers necessary to run a scan of a subject’s face through the database of known terrorist operators. A sizable team of shooters lurked in a small room borrowed from Smithsonian security, directly beside the main entrance to the Air and Space Museum, ready to respond at a moment’s notice should the One be spotted.

Charley stretched his legs out and ran his arms outstretched along the back of the bench. It was hot and humid, and the weight of
the sun on his shoulders, while pleasant now, would soon become a burden. He couldn’t take off his windbreaker as that would expose the Glock holstered at his hip. But now the warmth felt good, and he turned his face up to the sun and closed his eyes.

He’d spent many mornings like this in Minnesota, sitting in front of the Linden Hills Café and soaking up sun while he sipped his morning coffee. Dale preferred the courtyard at Sebastian Joe’s, but he too had dragged his chair out to the sidewalk to catch the early morning sun while he nursed the tall lattes he was partial to. He wondered how Dale was, now. Ray kept him informed; there was no change. Dale still lingered in his coma, in the twilight between consciousness and sleep. There was some brain activity, but no one, not even the top experts, could say how he was going to be when he woke, if he woke. Charley had found easy excuses to keep him from visiting Dale. He’d not wanted to see his friend in that state. A part of him chided himself for his cowardice; another part said that if he really was a friend, he’d put a bullet in Dale and finish the job. Charley, like so many active men, harbored a dread of a physical disability that would keep him bed-bound—the thought of being in a coma or paralyzed was his deepest fear. While he would, if he were in Dale’s position, wish for death, he didn’t think he had it in him to put a friend down out of mercy. He’d like to think he did, but when it came down to shooting time, he thought he would hesitate to pull that trigger.

Strange thoughts, and not useful right now. Charley stood up and looked around him, knowing that the One wasn’t there, yet hoping he would see him and take this operation to its conclusion. There was full-time surveillance here and at the Egyptian embassy, where the signal location for the clandestine meeting was, as well as on the vice-consul himself. There were plenty of trip wires, and their prey hadn’t tripped one yet.

Yet.

Charley keyed his handset and murmured into the speaker, “Car, this is Payne. I’m ready for pickup in front of the museum, on the Jefferson side.”

“Roger that,” the driver responded. “Be right there.”

Charley walked to the curb and saw the gleaming black length of the Town Car inching its way toward him. He walked to meet the car and got in.

“Let’s head back,” he said.

“Okay.”

In the slow traffic, Charley had plenty of time to study the faces of the people walking on the Mall and crowding in and out of the Smithsonian Museum buildings. So many faces from so many different places. On any given day you could hear the accents of dozens of countries and every regional accent of the United States. It truly was America’s Mall and everyone came here when they visited Washington, DC.

Sooner or later, Youssef bin Hassan would come here.

He’d come here on an operational reconnaissance, to make sure he knew which bench to go to, to make sure there was no construction or other changes that might impact on his meeting. It would be part of his training to be sure, and Charley was counting on that. They’d catch him on camera and then the immediate response team would take him. The computerized face-scanner made the job much easier. The program wasn’t foolproof, though; it could be mistaken, especially if the subject took rudimentary disguise precautions. But his facial geometry remained the same, and that would give the target away.

Charley hoped that bin Hassan would do as they expected him to do. Bin Faisal insisted that the plan called for him to start in Washington, DC and then spread out by public transportation, hitting key cities along the way. If the One stuck to his plan and his training, they had a good chance of catching him in DC, which was as well prepared to deal with the bio-terrorist threat as any city.

Charley turned and looked back at the city as they drove west to Fairfax. Everything seemed so clear in the light of day.

Youssef bin Hassan shifted his overstuffed courier bag, his only luggage, around his thin frame and said to the blond girl with her knotted dreadlocks at the front desk, “Hi. I’m Youssef Ameer, I have an Internet reservation for a single room?”

“Hi, Youssef,” the girl said. She checked the printout list on the desk before her. “I see you here. We’ve got your room.” She took a key attached to a golf-sized ball, and handed it to him, along with a flyer.

“Those will tell you about the rules and the activities we have scheduled.”

“Thank you,” he said.

She smiled brightly, one crooked tooth attracting Youssef’s attention. “Is this your first visit to the United States?”

“Yes.”

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.”