Inside Threat (21 page)

“You want to go get changed, honey?” Tara asked.

“Into what?”

“He's got a point,” Riley said, knowing that for Scott getting changed from a day at the office meant changing from a black Ozzy T-shirt to a black Dio T-shirt.

“Well, then take the cheese and make yourself useful,” Tara said, tossing Scott a bag.

“So, did you have fun storming the castle?” Riley asked, grabbing a handful of veggies to spread around the first pizza.

“Well, I didn't get shot today, so that's a plus.”

Tara punched him in the arm. “That's not funny.”

“You guys got anything going on?”

“Mostly we're just trying to figure out these attacks. They're so random. We've got the ones that have already happened, and intel is going through the roof saying there's more to come.”

“You know who it is?”

“On the surface, it's just a bunch of homegrown
hajjis
. Guys pissed off—”

Tara elbowed him and nodded toward James.

Lowering his voice, Scott said, “Guys angry at America because they're not able to make something of their lives, so they use their religion as an excuse to blow stuff up.”

“But it's weird that it's all happening at once, don't you think?” Tara said. “For a while, nothing. Now, all of a sudden it's all over the place.”

“That's what's been bugging me,” Scott said, sprinkling a final, thin layer of cheese over the first pizza. “There's got to be some unifying factor.”

“Could they be distractions designed to draw your attention away from some major thing?” Riley asked.

“Funny, that's what Khadi said.”

Riley stopped short, a pepperoni hovering over the second pizza. “Khadi? When did you talk to Khadi?”

As Scott and Tara exchanged glances, Riley heard Skeeter stop midsentence. A moment later, he softly started up again: “He stands with a stretch and a great big sigh. ‘I hope I can make it. I do want to try. . . .'”

“Scott?”

Scott laughed. “Dude, I've got the biggest mouth ever. I mean, ever! Remember that time when we were going to surprise Posada for his birthday? Remember that? I went off and—”

“Scott, when did you talk to Khadi?”

As quickly as the laughter started, it stopped. With venom in his voice, he said, “What, is there a crime in that? Are you going to start telling me who I can and can't talk to?”

“Didn't buy the laughing bit. I'm not buying the angry one either. Why can't you just tell me when you talked to her?”

Scott sighed, beaten. “Because one question will lead to another, and I don't know how much I can or should say.”

Scott was always so free with his information, so when he clammed up, Riley knew something big was going on.

“I'm not looking for you to betray any confidences. Just tell me this: is she doing okay?”

Again the glance to Tara. “She's all right. Going through a bit of a tough spell.”

“Is there . . . I mean, you'd let me know if there was something I could do to help, right?”

“Of course.”

Stillness hung over the kitchen betrayed only by the steady movement of hands over pizzas and the low verbal rumble from Skeeter's corner.

Without looking up from his work, Riley said, “Did she . . . ask . . . You know, next time you talk with her, tell her I said hey. Tell her I'd like to . . . Tell her I said hey.”

The rest of the night went great. The pizzas were great, the conversation was great, the obnoxious banter was great, the games of hearts after James went down were great. Scott was elated that Skeeter had decided to rejoin CTD, and for a while the two of them talked through logistics. Riley was thrilled that everything was working out so well for all of them. It was great . . . just great . . . absolutely, positively, flippin' great.

And at 2:47 a.m., when he looked at the clock on his nightstand, he was still thinking about just how great everyone's life was.
Everyone's except mine . . . and apparently Khadi's. But I can't help her. And she can't help me. Because we've got this thing, this massive whatever-it-is between us that keeps us apart.

So I'll just stay miserable, and she'll just stay miserable, and together we'll separately live out our miserable lives. And it'll be great. It'll be just great.

Thursday, September 15, 6:15 a.m. EDT

Washington, DC

Khadi had been thinking about her parents all morning.

What do I do about this Bryson thing? I can't let him proceed with any actions. He's got enough connections in government to push a prosecution through, or at least an investigation. Who knows? He might even get Andrews in on it—a little revenge for his own failed attempts at me.

I'm sure I could end the whole thing with one word to Scott. He and a few of the ops guys would be glad to give Bryson a late-night visit that would ensure the matter was never mentioned again. But can I really put him and the rest of the guys at risk like that?

Untouched, the corn flakes in the bowl in front of her slowly softened in the milk. A spoon, which would eventually be returned clean to the drawer, lay next to the bowl. Khadi knew she should eat, knew that today was going to be a tough one and that she'd need all the energy she could get, but still the milk warmed as the flakes wilted.

Got to get it out of your mind! You've got too much on your plate for today. Focus on happier things—happier times.

Right now, my family is having a big
suhoor
meal, gathering their strength in order to endure the struggles of the first day of the fast. Even though it's a solemn occasion, I can still picture my mom's smile and my dad's loving winks. They'll eat together; they'll pray together; then my dad and brothers will go off to the mosque. That's when the real fun at home will begin.
At the Faroughi household, most of the rest of the day would be spent laughing and playing as the family prepared the iftar feast for tonight.

While she slowly dipped a teabag in and out of a mug, reminiscences of the past danced in her mind's eye—the mayhem of flour fights that would break out among the ladies of the extended family, the laughter and the blushing of the younger girls because her mom's sharp wit had struck again, the hugs, the accidental brushes, the impromptu neck massages, the kisses, the touches . . .
You know, that's what I think I'm missing most—the touches.

She let the teabag sink to the bottom of the mug and dangled the string over the lip. The world of a single, career-driven woman was typically not one of a lot of physical contact—at least not the kind that was welcome. Of course, there
were
plenty of ways to feel touch, and plenty of men out there ready to give it.
Maybe that's what this whole relationship with Jonathan is about—I just need to be touched by someone. And he does seem to really care for me.

But that's not what I really need. I need to feel arms of love around me. Touch that's backed by more than just emotion or passion. I want to feel the touch that comes from history, experience, blood, soul—from people who know me through and through and still love me—my folks, my family, old friends . . . Riley.

She laughed softly to herself.
There you go again—pining like a schoolgirl. What's done is done, and you did it. Think of how many other women across the country are sitting right now at their tables thinking of the wondrous Riley Covington, wishing they could meet him, imagining what life would be like to be Mrs. Covington, totally unaware that in real life . . . well, in real life he's even better than they're probably imagining. How many of them would give everything to have had the chance with him that you had, and that you blew?

Taking the string from her cup, she began to wind it tightly around her left index finger, turning the tip of her finger a dark red. When it was fully wound, she used a spoon to press the excess water out of the tea bag. Satisfied that she had excised every last drop from the pouch, she held it over a paper towel she had folded into quarters and let it drop. It quickly unraveled as it fell until it hit the end of the string with a bounce and a spin. After letting it rotate for a few moments, she rested it on the paper square.

She didn't know when in her childhood she had started this little ritual. She just knew that tea didn't taste like tea if she didn't get a chance to drop that little pouch. Her mom used to gently tease her as together they'd watch the bag spin. The only difference between the ritual now and then is that this teabag was destined for the trash. Growing up, it would have gone into one of three bowls marked
first
,
second
, and
third
. Her mom insisted on not throwing away a teabag until it had its full four uses wrung out of it—a practical holdover from the spare years following their flight from Iran in the late 1970s.

Khadi smiled sadly as she thought of the watery tea that her family would probably be drinking today.
Oh, I miss them,
she thought as she took a sip from her mug, then carried it to the sink, where she poured it out.

At least I know they're thinking of me.
As she collected her uneaten cereal and dumped that down the sink too, she wondered,
What
do
they think of me? They say they're proud of me. But I still know that Dad wanted me to be a doctor. And Mom's always worried that I'm going to get myself killed.

After running the garbage disposal and placing the bowl and mug on the top rack of the dishwasher, she walked to her bedroom and pulled a rug from her closet.
But I really do think they're proud.
“And that one is our Khadija, the one who's always out saving the world,”
she'd overheard her dad saying to some people at a fund-raiser she had attended with her family.
Funny how that's stuck with me these last couple of years.

After rolling out the rug on the living room floor, she went into the bathroom. Without plugging the drain, she started the water in the tub. First one foot, then the other went under the water for a thorough scrubbing. Next, her arms and hands took the plunge.

Following a quick dry with a towel, she padded back into the living room, turned off all the lights, and knelt on her prayer rug. The sun was just coming up, and the new light of dawn began to drive the shadows from the room.

Banishing all other thoughts from her mind, she began to recite a prayer that she had prayed on this special morning ever since she was old enough to speak—a
du'a
of commitment for the first day of Ramadan:

“Allah, on this day make my fast the fast of those who fast sincerely and my standing up in prayer of those who stand up in prayer obediently. Awaken me in it. . . .”

Thursday, September 15, 6:53 a.m. EDT

Washington, DC

“. . . from the sleep of the heedless, and forgive me my sins, O God of the worlds, and forgive me, O one who forgives the sinners.”

Majid Alavi kept his forehead on the ground a moment longer before rocking back into kneeling position. To either side of him were Ubaida Saliba and Adnan Bazzi, facing him was Saifullah, and behind him knelt the twenty remaining
shahids
.

“Today is Allah's day,” Saifullah called out. “Today is our day! My faithful students, my courageous warriors, my dear children, this day let there be no fear of death, for death ushers the martyr into the presence of our God. Let there be no fear of pain, for pain only purifies us and keeps our wits sharp. Let there be no fear of guilt, for what we carry out today is a righteous sacrifice to a worthy God.

“Know this day that Allah is proud of what you do, your family is proud of what you do, all Islam is proud of what you do . . . and I am so very proud of what each of you is about to do. While I may be called the Sword of Allah, today it is you who will take his blade in your hands and fight.