Terror in D.C. (6 page)

The Syrian clasped his hands together with emotion. “Do you not understand? They would find out.
They
would know. It is not my own life for which I fear, it is the life of my daughter, Phanti, that I—”

“Who is it, damn it! The Iranians? The Iraqis—”

“I will not sentence my own daughter to be tortured!”

Hawker grabbed the man by the collar and pulled him out of the chair. “They're due to bomb again within the next three days. At least tell me where! Or would you rather be tortured by me?”

Rultan took a deep breath, his eyes focused beyond Hawker. For a long time, he said nothing. Finally, he answered, “I cannot tell you exactly when the bombings will take place. It is the truth. But there are some things that I have heard, heard not from the people planting the bombs, but from friends on the street. They may just be rumors—”

“What is it? What did you hear?”

“I have heard that it would be unwise for a person from my country to be found driving through the suburb of Wells Church on Friday—”

The gunshot came from the window behind Hawker. It was instantaneous with the sound of shattering glass. Rultan's head was catapulted backward in a blur of spray, as if he had been hit in the face with a tomato.

The impact of the slug knocked him out of his chair. Hawker tumbled over the desk after him, and came up on his knees, his own gun drawn.

The curtain of beads was still moving. A dank breeze blew through the broken window.

Hawker ran to the window and shoved the beads away. He poked his head out into the alleyway.

No one was there.

Rultan had said that he had another appointment. He had not been lying. Hawker wondered who the appointment was with.

The person he was supposed to meet was probably the murderer.

From the hall, someone was banging frantically on the door. A girl's voice called out, “Father? Are you all right, Father? Unlock this door, please!”

Hawker returned to the dead man's desk and rummaged around until he found the appointment calendar.

The writing was in Arabic.

As someone in the hall began to throw a heavy shoulder against the door, Hawker stepped through the window into the alley.

Halfway to the street he put his gun away, straightened his jacket, then stepped calmly into the flow of sidewalk traffic.

He was anxious to get to his rental car and have a look at Wells Church. Later, he could try to find someone he could trust who could read Arabic.…

seven

On Friday evening the three students waited until the dorm was almost empty.

In May, in Washington, D.C., the weekends are filled with fraternity parties and sorority parties at colleges around the city. Beer sales are brisk, and no one stays in.

They didn't have to wait long.

By 8
P.M.
the halls were empty, and the three students took the elevator to the lobby, then slipped through the door into the cellar.

They pushed aside the carefully placed box that guarded the open window. It was a tampon crate—a joke enjoyed by the American students because the box guarded the window they used to sneak in women.

This time, Mosul Aski, the leader, went first. Zanjen went last. And Karaj, who was very fat, had plenty of help from both ends when he got stuck.

They walked across the commons area to Nebraska Avenue. There they hailed a cab. They gave the driver an address. When they were sure they were not being followed, they canceled the first address and told the driver where they really wanted to go.

The driver dropped them at the corner of New Hampshire Avenue and Sixteenth Avenue—not far from the White House. The three students sat on a bench, watching the traffic go by.

Finally, a large brown truck stopped on the street in front of them. On the side of the truck was painted
DONGEL'S LAUNDRY/WE DELIVER
.

Last week they had been picked up by a pizza delivery truck. The week before that it was a U.S. Postal Service truck. All of the trucks had been stolen and repainted by believers in their cause.

Mosul looked both ways, then threw open the back doors of the laundry truck and waved his friends inside.

They rode along in silence for just under fifteen minutes.

Then the truck stopped, and Mosul knew they were at the gate of Ambassador Isfahan Shiraz's estate. Isfahan maintained higher security at his estate than did some embassies. His guards would be calling inside for clearance. It would, of course, be given. The engine revved and the truck jolted into the compound.

The truck pulled around to the back of the three-story brick house, and the three students got out.

Several of their friends were waiting for them, men who worked inside the estate and rarely ventured out.

They greeted one another warmly while they unloaded the components for the bombs, speaking in Persian, the language of their homeland.

Upstairs, the party atmosphere ended abruptly when Isfahan—Ambassador Isfahan Shiraz—entered the room. He was a thin stately man with dark, deep, cavernous eyes. He wore the native religious robes of his country, but he sat on the divan with his legs crossed like an American.

“My dear Mosul,” he began, speaking in Persian, “let me first congratulate you, Zanjen, and Karaj on the great success of your last mission.”

The other men in the room clicked their tongues loudly, which was their way of applauding.

He continued, “You have killed many of the infidels, and Allah will no doubt smile kindly upon you for your brave deeds. I think I may also say that your names are not unfamiliar to the leaders in our homeland. Here, I can only embrace you as brothers. But when you return home, you will be properly rewarded!”

Over the clicking of tongues, Mosul said, “We have had our reward, oh, Father. Every week, the American televisions cry out the names of the pigs punished by our swords. That is all the reward we seek. And let us pray that we may continue to fight so that, someday, we may spit upon the graves of every last imperialist!”

The ambassador nodded his approval. This Mosul was like few other youths of his generation. So brave, so filled with the fire of battle, and such a noble speaker. People were already predicting his greatness. Isfahan, who took great pride in his own fervor, could not disagree. Truly, Mosul Aski would one day take his seat as the spiritual and political ruler of the homeland. But for now he was still a subordinate, and Isfahan's ego could not let the boy forget that.

As Isfahan sat on the couch, he decided that an unexpected change of orders might demonstrate to the entire room that he was still in charge.

“Yes, Mosul,” he began easily, “we are all very proud of your great deeds. With each successful mission, the world is once again reminded of our holy cause.”

“And tonight we will remind the world again!” Mosul put in, smiling.

“Yes, that is so. But I have made a decision. You have become very valuable to our work. Your worth to me as a trusted aide is beyond measure. Who else knows more about the bombing procedures than you?”

“I have tried my best,” Mosul said warily, wondering what the older man was getting at.

“Without question, dear Mosul. But it is for that very reason that, tonight, I am replacing your team with another team. A new group of warriors—”

“But why, oh, Father? Have we failed in some way?”

“Have I said so? Of course you have not failed. But it is my wish that your other brothers have an opportunity to take their revenge on the American pigs. They, too, must have a chance to familiarize themselves with the procedures. Most of them rarely get the chance to even leave the confines of my estate. Let us think of them!”

Mosul's protestations were quickly smothered by the noise of the other men pleading with Isfahan for a chance to lead that night's bombing mission.

Outwardly, Mosul appeared to be pleased by Isfahan's choice. He cheered for the five men picked to go in place of his team. He offered advice and helped lead them through the procedure. He told them how to choose a home—if they did not already have one in mind. He told them the best place to plant the bombs, how to set the timers, and the best method of escaping in their vehicle, which, tonight, would be the laundry truck. He told them how they must be sure to carry nothing that could possibly be used to identify them, and how it was important to fight to the death in the event they were caught.

He let no one in the embassy see how disappointed he was, but all the way back to the dormitory he sulked. Zanjen and Karaj pretended not to notice, but they, too, felt betrayed by Isfahan. They separated wordlessly and went to their rooms.

Later, much later, Mosul got up silently from his bed, dressed, and took a loaded .38 Smith & Wesson from beneath the bureau where he kept it taped. He had purchased the weapon from a Negro on the street, and he was quite sure it was stolen.

The moon was half full, quite bright, and there was plenty of light on the night streets of Washington.

Walking with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, he came upon three potential victims, all men, all alone.

But each time, just before he drew the gun, Mosul lost his nerve. They were men—what if he only wounded them? If he did not kill them with the first shot, they might beat him or, worse, they might be carrying guns themselves.

Mosul decided it was too dangerous to attack grown men—even with a revolver.

Finally, he passed a young woman on a dark street. She was wearing a dress and a bright corsage beneath her sweater. Perhaps she was a college girl walking home after a fight with her date.

Mosul stopped. “Excuse me,” he said, exaggerating his difficulty with English, “could you please be telling me which direction it is in to go to the Lincoln Memorial?”

The girl stopped. “What?”

Mosul repeated what he had said.

The girl smiled. “Oh, you're from another country, aren't you? I can tell by your accent.” She took several steps toward him. “Yes, the Lincoln Memorial is about ten blocks from here. You turn left at the—”

She stopped talking when she saw the gun. Her voice became very small. “What … what are you doing? What do you want from me?”

Mosul did not answer.

He smiled, and the girl relaxed a little. Perhaps the young man was just joking.

He wasn't. Mosul aimed the gun and shot her once in the face. The girl moaned in agony when she hit the cement.

Then he stood over her, held the gun to her head, and pulled the trigger twice.

The girl's legs kicked violently, then she lay still.

Mosul Aski wiped the barrel of the gun on her dress, put the gun in his pocket, then walked calmly back to the dormitory.

He had been angry about being removed from the bombing team. Now he felt much better.…

eight

James Hawker was tired. The dead Syrian, Rultan, had not been very specific.

He had said the suburb of Wells Church would be a bad place for someone from the Mideast to be found on Friday.

Rultan had not been allowed to finish his sentence. He had not told Hawker
when
on Friday.

Death had cut him short.

Hawker could only assume that the terrorists would strike during darkness.

But there is a lot of darkness on both sides of a day.

After leaving the Eastern Chalice Restaurant, Hawker had stopped at his apartment, showered, changed clothes, and picked up a few select pieces of weaponry. Then he drove to Wells Church. Wells Church was just west of D.C., a suburb of Colonial houses, ivy walls, and historical markers.

Hawker stopped at the telephone company. He told the girl at the counter he had just moved into town. She gave him a telephone book, a local business directory, and a street map.

Using the map, Hawker drove around the streets of the suburb, familiarizing himself with the area.

Then he ate dinner (lamb chops, new potatoes, salad, and iced tea) at a Colonial-style restaurant where George Washington never slept.

Finally, just before sunset, Hawker leafed through the business directory and found two places where they sold telescopes. The first place didn't have one that looked quite impressive enough.

Hawker found just what he wanted at the second place, a camera/optics shop run by a Hasidic Jew named Olaf.

It would have taken a nice little bite out of the money in the envelope, so Hawker used a credit card. It was necessary. To be a good disguise the telescope had to be convincing. The one he bought was a six-inch reflector with a Newtonian optical system, a fork mount, and a clock drive. The telescope stood about four feet high, with a gray tripod and a red barrel.

Then he telephoned the only number Lester Rehfuss had given him. A woman answered.

“High Tech Diversified. Can I help you?”

Despite the greeting, Hawker knew he was not talking to an electronics firm.

He was talking to a Stage One operator at the CIA's traffic headquarters.

Hawker replied as he had been instructed. “Yes, this is Mr. James. I think you were expecting a call from me?”

“Can you hold on for a minute, Mr. James?”

The phone clicked, and Hawker knew the operator would first check with the computer to make sure he was on the phone list. Then she would test the connection for any hint of electrical resistance, making sure there was no phone tap on his line.

Finally, she returned. “Yes, Mr. James, we were expecting a call from you. Is your business going satisfactorily?”

“It's going pretty well. But I need to get a message to Mr. Lester. It's important. I want you to tell him that I had nothing to do with eliminating that problem at the restaurant this afternoon. I don't want to claim credit for something I didn't do.”

“Very commendable, Mr. James. Is there anything else?”

“Yeah. Tell him I'm not sure who did it.”

“I'll pass your message along, Mr. James.”

“Oh, and one more thing. Tell him those foreign visitors we're expecting are supposed to be in Wells Church sometime after midnight tonight, or Friday night. I'm not sure when. I'd like to meet them personally, but it's my night off and I'll be out with my new telescope. You know what an astronomy buff I am.”