The General's Briefcase, page 18
After saying farewell to her closest, and for now only, follower, she walked toward the Jamaica station, managing her suitcase and handbag. Jamaica was a major transit hub from which she could travel virtually anywhere in Queens or greater New York City. She felt a twinge of remorse at being unwilling to disclose her residence even to someone as close as Majid. What is wrong with me that I hold even trusted comrades at arm’s length? she wondered. Only with Joffrey Gobert had she felt free to be totally open. That made his loss more hurtful.
Once off the subway, she hailed a taxi and traveled to an area populated with midrise apartment buildings. She dismissed the taxi driver on a busy thoroughfare and strolled the final two blocks to her home, glancing around to confirm she’d eluded any pursuers. She favored the anonymity of apartment living in New York. Apartments provided the illusion of having neighbors, without the necessity of becoming acquainted with anyone.
Upon entering the lobby, she checked the mailbox for Mr. and Mrs. Jacques Michel. There was the usual collection of trivia. Since she was fluent in French from her days as a student at the Sorbonne in Paris, she had no difficulty posing as the wife of a Frenchman.
Her cover story to the building superintendent—whom she bribed liberally to look the other way if he had questions about her lifestyle—was that she and her spouse were often away because of their jobs. She claimed to be a flight attendant for Air France and said Jacques worked for the Renault-Nissan Alliance, which explained why they often traveled abroad.
To add credence to the notion Jacques really existed, from time to time, she hired the services of a male escort. After dinner at a nearby restaurant, she brought the man to her apartment. The sex, although enjoyable, was a fringe benefit. The real purpose was to validate her cover story in the minds of the curious, especially the building superintendent and the maid whom he hired to clean her apartment. Evidence in the bed and bathroom left no doubt she shared the quarters with a real man.
Apart from the escort, the superintendent, and the maid, no one knew she lived in the apartment building. Her hideout guaranteed total anonymity. A perfect base for conducting business with the tycoons with whom she had an appointment tomorrow afternoon.
Most of her mother’s business friends knew of other residences owned by Dorothea Hamilton Di-Longhi: a palatial condo on Fifth Avenue with a beautiful terrace view of Central Park; an estate on the Gold Coast of Northern Long Island; a villa outside Florence, Italy; and an apartment in Paris, which Dana insisted her mother buy when she was a student at the Sorbonne, and which she refused all family entreaties to sell. The wealthy liked to flaunt their properties, and Dana found the many residences relaxing and often convenient to her secret life. She also owned a condo in Fairfax City, near George Mason University, where she lived daily when working as a professor. The family home in Vienna had been sold long ago.
She regretted not suggesting to Zaha that she stay at her old apartment in the Latin Quarter near the Sorbonne. The Gendarmerie would not have found Zaha there. Habitual caution at not linking her public persona with her actions as a terrorist gave her pause. She felt a twinge of guilt, realizing her obsessive caution may have been the ultimate cause of Zaha’s death.
Upon awakening at six, Dana began preparing her mindset for the noon meeting with four business tycoons who had the power to decide her financial future. The meeting, perhaps inevitably, was at the Harvard Club in midtown Manhattan. From years of coaching by her mother, she knew such men—and they would all be men—scheduled meetings at high noon, not because they intended to combine business with lunch, but to make it convenient for the cronies to dine together afterward.
She wondered idly whether the men knew, or would care, that her master’s and PhD degrees from Harvard entitled her to membership. God knows her mother was rich enough and sufficiently well-connected, she could have arranged for Dana to join the most exclusive university club in the United States. Women had been granted full membership since 1973. She chuckled as she recalled Groucho Marx’s famous quote: “I’m resigning. I refuse to belong to any club that would have me as a member.”
Getting serious, she considered how to dress and prepare herself for the high-stakes meeting. Anxious to avoid any hint of looking provocative—these men undoubtedly had an immunity to beautiful women flaunting their attractiveness—she selected a light blue wool pant suit, complemented by an ivory blouse with pearl buttons that climbed to her neck. The blouse triggered a jolt of memory about the incident in Geneva where she had sliced her stomach to convince the Saudi delegation she was worthy of receiving their funds.
She decided on no jewelry, except for a Patek Philippe watch in Rose Gold studded with diamonds. The ensemble was understated but guaranteed to showcase she was her mother’s daughter.
After taking her customary travel precautions, she strode into the Harvard Club five minutes early. Prompt, but not overly anxious. She was escorted to a private meeting room on an upper floor. As she entered the room, three of the men rose to greet her. The fourth, a portly gentleman with a cane leaning against his wine-red leather chair, nodded formally. She eyed the ashtrays, which showed they’d been smoking cigars and cigarettes, the butts extinguished on her arrival. The pungent aroma of smoke lingered in the room.
Offered coffee or tea, she chose a cup of coffee with two sugars, emulating her mother’s preference on the off chance any of the men would recognize the choice.
There were no introductions. After a portentous silence, one of the men, whom she knew to be Wayne Durwood, Chairman and CEO of a family-owned manufacturing conglomerate, spoke. “We’re reliably informed you’re the leader of a secret political movement with the goal of reforming American society. A revolutionary of sorts. It all sounds rather romantic, bordering on fanciful. Some of us are skeptical. We’d like to know if you’re serious?”
Dana met his cold look with one of her own.
“As serious as a heart attack. Sufficiently so, I accept as followers only men or women who are willing to sacrifice their lives for the cause.”
Taken aback by the stark response, Durwood said, “We understand you’re asking for our support with a donation of five million dollars. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Although I wouldn’t hesitate to accept more if you chose to offer it.”
“The amount aside, why should we support your cause, when we know so little of the specifics?”
“You mentioned that ours is a secret movement. We don’t disclose our activities to anyone.”
“Not even for the chance to obtain a donation of millions?” Durwood said.
“Not for any reason.”
She picked up her cup and took a sip of coffee, weighing the reaction to her refusal on the faces of the four men. Astonishment was the way she interpreted the universal expression. These men rarely or never encountered anyone who would not bend to their will when an important sum of money was on the line.
“I’ll tell you this, however. What you wish for is a society and body politic that is drastically different from what exists today. We share common goals. Moreover, we are on the cusp of a truly revolutionary coup. While I can’t reveal the details, I can promise you, when it happens, our movement will make front page headlines in the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal.”
Impressed by her words and demeanor, Durwood turned to his companions. Each of the other tycoons gave a barely perceptible nod of agreement.
“Ms. Di-Longhi, you shall have our support. We will make an initial donation of ten million dollars. Contact us if you need more.”
CHAPTER 57
Majid strolled into the Starbucks at the corner of Beulah Road and Route 123 in Vienna. He knew the area because it was only four miles from the Northern Virginia house he’d shared with other cell members in the past. But the town lacked the anonymity prized by terrorists.
He was accustomed to the hustle and bustle of anywhere in the vicinity of Tysons where Muslims shopped freely in the ubiquitous stores, without having to endure second glances. None of that here. Vienna was a small town. People said “hello” to each other on the street, an act Majid found threatening. No one was anonymous.
He relaxed a bit when he glimpsed a table of Muslim teenagers, sipping concoctions that resembled soda fountain drinks more than variations on coffee. Scanning the room, he spotted the young woman he was scheduled to meet, seated alone in a far corner.
On the way to join her, he ordered a black coffee grande—whatever that meant—from the barista. Carrying his overly full coffee as cautiously as he would a Molotov cocktail, he approached the table and sat in the chair opposite the woman where he could face her and keep an eye on the front entrance.
“Reema?”
She smiled. “You must be Mr. Black.”
Her saucy smile, just a bit coquettish, reminded him of Zaha, and he struggled to suppress memories of his lost colleague. Recognition of the need to recruit replacement members of their terrorist cell, including females, was coupled with guilt they would be risking their lives, just as Zaha had given up hers in Paris. He was resigned to his morally ambiguous quest, believing it essential if they were to help Dana defeat the Great Satan.
Reema was tall—a couple of inches taller than Majid himself—and willowy, with rich black hair falling to her shoulders. Her skirt was hiked up and long, shapely legs protruded under the edge of the table.
She was striking but not quite beautiful, and she seemed older than the twenty-two years she’d told him at their first meeting in the Barnes and Noble at Tysons. There was something about the way she looked at him that day, as though she could penetrate his pose of normality and see the terrorist within. That look emboldened him to risk striking up a conversation with her and, as a result, scheduling this meeting.
“You know my name is not Black.”
“Of course not. It’s Mohammad . . . or perhaps Osama.” Her lips twitched mischievously.
Anxious to test her capacity to conceal her true feelings, he said, “How would you hide the knowledge that I’m a terrorist?”
A hint flickered in her eyes that his outrageous statement shocked her equanimity, then her face recovered a bland stare.
“Was that a test? What do I need to say or do to convince you I’m capable of being discreet when circumstances call for it?”
“Tell me about yourself.”
“My name is Reema Hussain. I’m a college student. In my senior year at George Mason University, majoring in economics. Bored stiff with spending my time studying stuff that may help me find a job, but will be useless in the future. My parents came here from Iraq, and I was born in Virginia. I’m an American citizen. My parents are naturalized citizens, and boringly upper middle class. So, we’re not subject to scrutiny by the FBI or other agencies of the federal government. I lost my virginity when I was sixteen, and I’ve been sexually active ever since. While I prefer men, I have no objection to having sex with a woman.”
He raised his eyebrows at the last revelation. Was she trying to provoke him? To seduce him?
“What are your political views?”
“I’ve been self-radicalized following news about the Islamic State. ISIS is the only hope for the future of the Middle East, perhaps of the world. But I have no intention of engaging in the ridiculous ‘lone wolf’ terrorism that’s fashionable today. It accomplishes nothing.”
Majid kept his face expressionless. His goal was to learn about her. Not to give her clues to the “correct” response.
She forced a grim smile, as though belatedly conscious of the seriousness of today’s encounter.
“When I saw you in the bookstore, somehow I knew you were involved in something more meaningful. That you arranged to meet me here is further proof. Either you’re really a terrorist, or you’re part of an FBI entrapment sting. Are you going to give me a fake bomb and direct me to blow up the Vienna metro? Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Are you always this outspoken? Being indiscreet can get you a one-way ticket to prison or to an early grave.”
“I can be as discreet as a cardinal saying mass to a church full of whores when I choose to be. Right now, I’m trying to audition as a fellow terrorist.”
Majid snorted. “What you’re trying is my patience. I want you to be serious.”
“Give me a task. My actions will prove to you what my words have not.”
“Come with me,” he said and got up to leave Starbucks. He walked Reema outside and led her to the Sequoia, opening the passenger door. “Get in.”
Without a word, she climbed into the SUV. He slammed the door and got in the driver’s side. He drove out Beulah Road to Wolf Trap Park for the Performing Arts. He stopped the car in a cordoned off area and followed a path into the woods adjoining the open-air theatre that hosted performances from world class entertainers.
Reema hurried to keep pace. When she tried to ask a question or start a conversation, he shushed her with a wave.
After they’d walked a half mile from the nearest humanity, deep into the woods, he gestured for her to sit on a large rock. He stood before her. A lonely hawk circled overhead, keeping watch.
“Terrorism is not a game. A month ago, I was part of a terrorist cell with five members and a leader. Today, the leader and I are the only survivors. You saw news reports of the suicide bombings that killed and wounded hundreds in the Washington area. Our cell was responsible. In those incidents, five suicide bombers—men and women—died.”
Reema blanched and held her hand to her mouth. Tears began to leak down her cheeks and she rubbed her eyes dry. She breathed heavily.
Both kept silent for several minutes, staring at each other.
At length, she spoke haltingly, “I’m not afraid to die. But I refuse to be a suicide bomber. Is there some other role I can play?”
“At this stage, we don’t need suicide bombers. We have much bigger targets in mind. But they call for great skill and involve considerable risk.”
“Risk of being killed?” she asked.
“That. Or of going to prison for life.”
“Would I have to do anything you command?” she said.
“I might be the one to give you directions, or they could come from our leader, whom you will meet soon. You must obey without question. You’re an extremely strong-willed woman. Are you willing to subject yourself to our discipline?”
“Gladly. I’m only rebellious when I can’t identify with a meaningful cause. I promise to devote myself to your goals. Do you believe me?”
“Inshallah.
CHAPTER 58
In the early morning hours, Jolene and Alex’s plane touched down at Andrews Air Force Base. She turned to Alex in the adjoining seat.
“I’d like to ask a favor.”
“Ask away. If it’s in my power, I’ll grant it.”
“I’m wasted. Since we lost Dana in Nuremberg, I haven’t been able to think straight. I know the hunt for the bombs is urgent, but, as things are now, I’m useless. Give me a couple of days to rest and regroup at my farm near Leesburg.”
“Makes sense. Today’s Tuesday. I’ll see you back at NCTC first thing Thursday morning. Will that work?”
“More than generous.” Jolene felt foolish as they stumbled through the formalities of the exchange. They’d just shared and survived life-threatening experiences that should foster enduring closeness. Beyond that, she’d felt many moments when the urge to embrace Alex was virtually overwhelming. Even now, as she listened to the pilot’s voice droning on about final steps in their landing, her yearning to touch and be touched returned with a surge of sexual excitement.
She was unable to fathom why these feelings were blocked by fears of once again getting involved in a relationship headed into an abyss of disappointment. Her time with George Southern in Geneva, rather than serving to rekindle strong feelings of attraction, was a reminder their romance was a thing of the past, a distant, and not altogether sad, memory of what might have been had fate not intervened with Rick Birmingham’s attempted rape and the ensuing scandal.
Nearing home, at the entrance to the farm, her first sight was Stephanie who, in response to her telephone alert, had ridden Regret to form a welcoming committee of two. The teenager waved her signature straw cowboy hat and shouted “hooray.”
Stephanie raced the Beemer back to the stable, winning the contest easily because she wasn’t constrained by having to follow the road.
Jolene leapt out of the car, embraced the teenager, and turned her attention to Regret. Caressing the thoroughbred’s forelock, she said, “You’re a beautiful filly. I’ve missed you like crazy.”
She began to cry with happiness, hugging Regret. She tossed her key fob to Stephanie and mounted her pride and joy.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” she yelled and galloped toward the trail through the woods.
Jolene spent the rest of the day getting reacquainted with Regret. Back in the stable, she rubbed down the filly and led her to her stall.
Then she took time to pay her respects to King—formally dubbed White King—the snow-white stallion in the adjoining stall. Once her favorite thoroughbred, before Regret stole her affections, she still loved King and missed spending time with both horses while away in Europe.
That night, she crawled wearily into bed. In a moment of maudlin sentiment, she pondered how much lost happiness weighed in the balance with attempts to save the world. She was embarrassed by her foolish turn of mind.
She wondered if her dad, the hardheaded intelligence guru Richard Martin, ever experienced instances of weakness and second thoughts. Her dad was often on her mind when she visited the farm. It was here he’d taught her to ride, and, more importantly, to understand horseflesh. It seemed their only moments of real closeness were associated with horses, racing, and the farm.
