Brothers In Arms (50 page)

Youssef slung the bag over his shoulder and went out of the room and downstairs in the elevator, where he nodded good morning to the other guests as he made his way to the breakfast room. There was a serving line set up with a variety of breakfast foods and an eggs-to-order station; he ordered a spinach and cheese omelet, then loaded his plate with extra potatoes and a smaller plate with some pastries. The coffee was especially good, so much so that he had three cups, enjoying the slight rush the caffeine gave him as he worked his way through his big meal. There were free copies of the
Washington Post
and
USA Today
for guests; he plucked one from the pile at the end of the breakfast counter and sat back down to his coffee, flipping to the style section. The lead article was a profile of the actress Susan Sarandon, someone Youssef knew little about. He glanced through it, then carefully folded the paper so that the style section was foremost, then slid it into the outside pocket of his courier bag where it could be easily reached.

The clock behind the serving line read seven thirty. Youssef weighed his options; he could linger here and relax till it was time to catch the Metro to his meeting, or he could go early and kill time on the street. He left his table with the dishes neatly arrayed for the bus-boy and went into the lobby and out the front door. The heat and humidity was oppressive even this early in the morning. Across the street long lines of people streamed in and out of the Metro station, and cars honked and hurried to beat the lights. He pursed his lips, then went back inside. The young girl on-duty at the front desk smiled brightly at him.

“It’s going to be a hot one today,” she said.

“Yes,” Youssef said. “I think I’ll wait a while before I go out.”

“Are you here on vacation or business?”

“A little of both.”

“It’ll be hotter later on. Supposed to be over a hundred today. Might be a good day to go to the Smithsonian—they have great air-conditioning there.”

“That’s a good idea,” Youssef said. “How long is the Metro ride there?”

“Not more than twenty, thirty minutes at the most.”

“Thank you.”

There was an assortment of magazines on the coffee table in the lobby seating area. Youssef took a handful and went to the elevator. Back in his room, he set the courier bag in a chair by the window and lay down on the bed and began to flip through the magazines. From time to time he glanced at his watch. Even though he felt rested, he set the magazines aside and closed his eyes as though to nap. It was good to rest.

Soon he would be very busy.

The black Chevy Suburban rumbled as the driver eased the big truck through the traffic in front of the National Gallery of Art, separated from the Air and Space Museum by the grassy expanse of the Mall.

“Drop us here,” Charley said. “Then park over by the Air and Space Museum, the space they saved for us.”

“Roger that, boss,” the driver said. He slowed to a stop directly in front of the sun-washed steps that led up to the entrance of the National Gallery. “Right here?”

“Fine,” Charley said. He opened the passenger door and got out, then opened the rear door for Isabelle. “I’m on the radio.”

The driver nodded as Charley shut the rear door. The Suburban drove away to circle the block and make its way over to the Air and Space Museum.

“It’s quite warm,” Isabelle said, brushing the long black locks from her wig back from her face.

Charley stood and surveyed his killing zone. Not a killing zone, a capture zone. But in his mind it was the killing zone of a massive ambush. He went up the long flight of steps in front of the National Gallery, and at the top the scene spread out before him. Overhead, his two helicopters made a wide circuit of the Mall; they attracted no special attention, as helicopter traffic was common in downtown
Washington. Across the Mall, at the Air and Space Museum, there was construction on the Seventh Street side of the building. The many trucks coming and going provided an excellent cover for his surveillance vans parked there. He looked carefully at the roof of the museum for the snipers he knew were there, but there was no sign of them, which was as it should be. Lingering on the sidewalk on this side, spread out in small groups across the lawn and on the steps of the Air and Space Museum were twenty-four men and women, all armed and equipped with covert radios. They looked like college students, tourists, office workers on a break, but they were all specialists in unarmed apprehension, ready to bag the One once he appeared. Several of them, dressed in baggy skate-rat clothes, tossed a Frisbee back and forth while others sat on the patchy lawn and watched.

Isabelle took Charley’s arm and rested her head on his shoulder, to all appearances a loving girlfriend, and said softly, “The ones playing Frisbee? They need to be more careful, some of them, their pistols are printing against their shirts as they play.”

“You’re a star, Isabelle,” Charley said. He led her to a stretch of stairs empty of tourists, and whispered into his microphone. The effect of his communication was immediate; the Frisbee players immediately slowed down, and a couple of them walked off the lawn to parked cars, and then returned.

“What of the Egyptian?” she said.

Charley looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. “We’re going to keep it simple. If he shows up, we take him. He’ll be PNG’d and deported.”

Isabelle smiled brightly up at him, as though he’d told a witty joke, and said, “You Americans. You are so sentimental. You should kill him to provide a lesson.”

Charley laughed and patted Isabelle on the hand as he led her across the street to the lawn. “Let’s walk the ground, darling. You’re starting to scare me.”

Youssef woke from a light dream with a start. He looked at the glowing red LED of the bedside clock radio and saw that it was nearly ten thirty. He’d dropped into sleep for almost three hours. Where had the time gone? And why was he so tired after such a good night’s sleep? He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, drying it with the rough towel hung beside the sink, then studied his face in the mirror.

He was afraid. There was naked fear in his face, and he’d slept to hide from it.

Youssef could acknowledge that now. As the time grew nearer for his total commitment to the mission, his doubts and fears grew. He knew that. And he knew he had to overcome that and move forward.

Movement and action were what he needed.

He brushed at the redness of his eyes, then washed his face again, slowly and thoroughly with warm water, then dried himself again. He folded the towel neatly and set it beside the sink, then went into the other room and began to gather up his odd bits of clothing. They made a pitifully small pile on his bed next to the courier bag that held the smallpox vials. He picked up the pile of clothing and set
it on the dresser; he’d return for that. The hotel would be his base for the time he needed to take in Washington.

He sat down on the bed, and felt the weight and bulge of the loaded atomizer in his pocket. He took it out, and weighed it in his hand, then carefully withdrew the loaded vial and replaced it in the Pelican case with the others. The Pelican case rested on his lap, and he hunched over it like a schoolboy over a book, studying the black plastic as though it held a secret he could not decipher. He thought of Britta, and he put the thought away; he longed for his mother, and he put the thought away; he thought of Ahmad, twisting in the hands of the Israelis, and even that couldn’t move him—the thought had become thin and pale, like a faded photograph.

What finally moved him was the sudden need to urinate. His hands trembled as he undid his fly in the bathroom, and he was ashamed of how fear had taken hold of his body. He turned away from his reflection and hurried to the bed, and slung the courier bag across his shoulder, the only weight that of the Pelican case and the newspaper and his cheap straw hat.

No more time for thinking.

He forced himself to shut the door quietly, though he felt like slamming it again and again. The
DO NOT DISTURB
sign was in place, and he left it swinging slightly as he went to the elevator and waited, his head bowed. Eventually the elevator chimed, and he got in. He had the elevator to himself as he rode it to the lobby. At the front desk, the matronly woman who had been on-duty when he first checked in looked up as he came through the lobby.

“Hello there, dear!” she called out. “Did your bags ever arrive?”

Youssef made a smile, and mumbled, “No, I’m still waiting . . .”

“Are you all right, honey?” she said. “You don’t look well.”

“I think I am just tired.”

“You want to take it easy, then. You don’t want to get sick on your holiday. Don’t try to do too much today.”

Youssef felt a sudden urge to cry. His eyes began to well, and his throat constricted. He hurried out the door, leaving the desk clerk looking after him, puzzled.

The heat and humidity struck him like a blow after the air-conditioning of the hotel. Even at a quarter to eleven, the streets were busy, though the pedestrians all seemed slowed by the weight of the sun. Youssef jogged across the street, not waiting for the light, and hurried to the down escalator that descended into the cool depths of the Bethesda Metro station. He had the sense of flying as he rode the escalator down; he wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, embarrassed by the sudden and unwelcome surge of emotions he couldn’t control.

What was wrong with him?

He felt like screaming. He felt like dashing his courier bag against the concrete walls of the station, spilling out the useless agent like urine against the wall. Why had he taken this upon himself? What was he doing? He stopped at the bottom of the escalator, ignoring the people who brushed past him impatiently. As though it had a mind of its own, his hand went to his pocket and came up with a fistful of crumpled bills. He sorted through them mechanically till he found a five-dollar bill, then inserted it into the slot of the ticket-selling machine and bought an all-day excursion card. That was good. That was something concrete, something real.

He went through the electronic gate and down to the track and waited for an inbound train. It was only a few minutes before the lights on the platform began to flash and the characteristic rush of air announced the arrival of a train. The few other passengers on the platform moved toward the doors as the train slowed to a stop. Youssef hung back, watching, then waited till everyone had gotten on board before he hurried and skipped through the door just as it began to close. The synthesized voice of a woman announced over the loudspeaker in the car, “Doors closing.” Youssef sat down in a window seat, clutching his courier bag to his chest, and watched the gray walls of the subterranean tunnels whir past as the train accelerated to the next station. It seemed like only moments, though more time had passed, when the conductor announced, “Metro Center.”

Youssef stood and let himself be carried along off the train, and then to the other platform where he caught an Orange-line train bound toward the Smithsonian stop. He stood for the short ride, and in his
confused state stared at the other passengers. Two teenage girls, both wearing T-shirts with a picture of a boy and the name
JUSTIN TIMBER-LAKE
on the front, giggled together as they looked at Youssef; a black man in an expensive business suit read the
Wall Street Journal
, a tired-looking woman in a gray pantsuit flipped through the pages of a
Cosmopolitan
magazine. They all seemed separate from Youssef, as though they rode in a car within the car, cut off by an invisible membrane that only Youssef could sense.

The train stopped at the Smithsonian station.

Youssef swayed where he stood, as though buffeted by an invisible wind. He turned to the doors and went out when they opened, then followed the other passengers up and out of the station. He took the stairs, looking down at his feet for each step, and rose slowly into the heat and the killing sun on the National Mall. Behind him was the white pillar of the Washington Monument, in front of him the long expanse of grass that led to the US Capitol Building. To his right were the Smithsonian museum administrative offices, on the far side of Jefferson Drive, and farther down the Mall, about the distance of four city blocks, were the imposing edifices of the National Gallery of Art and the National Air and Space Museum.