Capitol Conspiracy (15 page)

20

C
ONGRESSIONAL
C
EMETERY
1801 E S
TREET
, SE
C
APITOL
H
ILL

S
hohreh had not emerged from her safe room once since the brutal incident with Ahmed and his underwhelming associates. Her dedication to her cause had not weakened, but she knew that Ahmed would be seeking revenge and the General would be seeking her death. Ultimately, the only way to keep safe in a safe room was to never leave. So she remained inside, but she still worked her contacts. Through the magic of the Internet, anyone—even the General—could reach her, if he had anything to say.

As it turned out, he did. This time, he claimed, he would meet her in person, no substitutes, no intermediaries, and presumably, no attempts on her life.

She would have to be a fool to believe this. Shohreh was many things, some good, some not. But she was not now, nor had she ever been, a fool. All that had changed was that the General now understood that she could defend herself, a little secret she had managed to keep to herself while they worked together. He would still try to kill her. He just would not let anyone get close enough that she could use her Muay Thai skills against them.

What chance was left to little Shohreh, the tiny woman with no home, no connections, not even a real name?

She held out one small hope: that no matter what protection he brought with him, he would come himself, if only because she had no incentive to show herself unless he did. He knew what she wanted. Only he could provide it to her.

If he came, she would get to him. Didn’t matter how many thugs he brought along, didn’t matter what martial arts training they had, what weaponry, what black magic. If he appeared, she would get to him. She would find a way.

So when she got the e-mail inviting her to this most desolate section of Capitol Hill, using the encryption they had developed back when they all worked together, she left her safe room.

The wrought-iron sign on the door told her that the Congressional Cemetery, established in 1807, was the United States’ oldest national cemetery—but then, it was a very young country, wasn’t it? Tucked away in the darkness behind Christ Church, many congressmen and other notables were interred here—America’s Westminster Abbey. So why was it so desolate? Or was that just her imagination? Was the iconography of death that now surrounded her too foreboding?

She slipped on her night-vision goggles and slowly, one cautious step at a time, passed down the rows of virtually identical cenotaphs commemorating congressmen in office from 1807 to 1877. It was a huge expanse—thirty acres, according to the sign. Too many places to hide a trained killer. A crazed zealot. Or General Yaseen himself.

She saw a large marble tomb that looked more like a park bench which marked the final resting place of someone named John Philip Sousa—apparently a musician. She found another stone marking the grave of Matthew Brady, a photographer. How nice that these Americans would honor artists along with their political leaders—that would be unlikely back in her homeland.

A full moon was out tonight, and Shohreh was grateful, because there was no other illumination for miles around. It reminded her all too much of the bleak nights on the deserts of Afghanistan, one of many places she had gone after being forced to flee Iraq. After she left Djamila behind forever. Everything changed in Afghanistan—her status, her lifestyle, her soul. For the first time, she wore the burka, all but hiding her face. Afghan men kept their women in the burka, even after the Taliban was gone, because it obscured their peripheral vision: If a woman wanted to look at something not directly in front her, she must turn her entire head. Insecure husbands would always know if their wives’ attention had strayed. Of course, it also kept other men from seeing their wives and daughters to any appreciable degree. The burka was primarily a symbol; the Afghan men controlled their women’s lives in every possible respect. The freedoms she once had enjoyed had been sacrificed in the name of survival.

Until she met General Yaseen. At the time, she believed him to be her savior. But then, she did not yet know how he financed his operations. She only knew that he wanted her, had a place for her. He could give her a way to live. She had given him her childhood.

And then, when she was old enough, he had allowed her to join his cell. Normally, women would never be allowed to participate in terrorist cells. Among other reasons, the strict religious and tribal restrictions against the mingling of unrelated men and women made it impossible. She could thank the Americans for changing that. After 9/11, all Muslim men came under much greater scrutiny by American intelligence forces, while women were largely ignored. To survive, the General began to recruit women into his operations.

The indoctrination began immediately. The General and his minions did everything possible to eliminate any favorable impressions of America. They taught her that America and everything about it was decadent, evil. They taught her that the American way of life was an abomination, in complete opposition to Muslim teachings. Moreover, they told her to look beyond the veil of deceit that American politicians spewed. They would not be content with the removal of all the Arabic oil, although they certainly wanted that. Their ultimate goal was the complete obliteration of the Islamic nation.

She had met a man there, in the cell, the first she had ever known in that way. Abbas. Lovely, dear, honey-sweet Abbas. So strong, and yet so fragile. They were companions, and then they were more than companions. He taught her the ways of Muay Thai, the kickboxing martial art that he, ironically enough, had learned from a former member of the Massad. He taught her and they worked out together, until at last they found other ways to satisfy their frustrations.

Marriage was impossible. It was not true, as many believed, that Muslim women are forced to marry. It is a contract entered into between families, mutually agreed upon by all parties. But she had no family, nothing to attract even the poorest man. And her history—

No. It was hopeless. And he was troubled. In their brightest moments, a dark shroud, a pervasive melancholy enveloped him. He was a true member of the cause. Contrary to what many Americans believed, the Qur’an does not require sacrifice to obtain eternal life. Anyone who has led a righteous life and has been faithful to God will ascend to paradise. But the only way to be certain—to be absolutely guaranteed eternal life regardless of what you might have done previously—was to martyr yourself in a holy war.

She did not know what Abbas had done in his past that made him so sure he needed redemption of the utmost form. She could not believe it was his relationship with her, although they had transgressed against many tribal laws. But there was something burning inside him, something he needed to purge. And he did so, just as the mullahs said that he should, to the great benefit of people like the General.

The General sent Abbas to his death in a suicide run against a minor American installation. No Americans even died.

But Abbas was gone to her forever. She had lost Djamila. She had lost Abbas. She had nothing to live for.

She was ready to die.

General Yaseen took advantage of her grief, as he took advantage of everything. He was planning to relocate his operation to America, a move he had planned for years. Another strike was being planned, something potentially greater than even 9/11. He wanted her to be a part of it.

She had never had any taste for killing, and she had lost whatever fervor she had once possessed for the cause. But she needed a life. So she let him create a new identity for her. She became Shohreh, an émigré from Saudi Arabia, the nation Americans laughingly called their ally. And she let him take her to America, the land of unmitigated evil.

Problem was, when she arrived—the country did not seem that evil. The people were much like other people she had known: some good, some bad, all flawed. But not evil. Certainly the lifestyle was different from what she had known, especially in Afghanistan. The Americans had nice clothes and big cars that they drove without regard for the cost or scarcity of fuel. They ate too much. They shopped for amusement. Women revealed themselves in a manner that shocked even her. They kissed in public. But she could not see them as the Great Satan. She knew not what was in the hearts of the political leaders, but when she talked to ordinary people, she got no indication that anyone wanted the obliteration of Islam. To the contrary, what she most often heard was a desire for the conflict between America and the Middle East to be over, for the world to learn to live in peace.

It was her friends, her coworkers, the other members of her cell, who wanted to kill—the greater the number, the better. They became a part of an operation so immense, so twisted, that she found herself shocked at their brutality, at their utter lack of remorse. She had studied the Qur’an. She had read all 114
suras.
She knew that although believers were told to defend themselves and their faith, Islam was a peaceful, tolerant religion. Even in the midst of holy war, the Hadith forbade the killing of children.

It would not countenance the death of innocent children, mere bystanders. And it would certainly not approve the death of the first lady.

Shohreh withdrew from the cell, even though she was totally dependent upon the General for her livelihood. She knew the risks she took. She expected to die. But she could not go on living as she had. She found work as a receptionist, then as a telemarketer, then more housecleaning, anything so she could eat without knowing her bread came from the death of innocents.

To her surprise, the General left her alone, let her get a taste of freedom, freedom from fear and guilt and danger. She was surprised but pleased. She should have known there was a trick. He was only letting her learn to love her new life—so she would do anything to maintain it.

When at last he contacted her and asked for one final favor, one little gesture that would buy her freedom forever, of course she listened.

Thus she had traveled to Oklahoma City. She had done what he asked.

It was the final betrayal. She would not be used again. That was why—

Her head jerked, ears pricked by the tiniest alteration in the soundscape. That was something else Addas had taught her. You could learn every Muay Thai move in the world; you would still be safer if you could avoid combat altogether.

She heard it again, above her, and at least a hundred yards to the north. A clicking noise.

The General had sent a sniper. Naturally. If he had no fighters who stood a chance against her, he would send someone who did not need to get near her to kill her.

She dove forward, hands over head, just as the bullet ricocheted against the cenotaph she’d been crouching behind. She doubled over and rolled, kept moving in a serpentine pattern, until she was crouched behind another in the low row of memorials.

If he’d had a bead on her before, he must be to her north; he would have to move again before he could see her. To wait for him to do so would be suicide. They could go on all night, he adjusting his position and she trying to anticipate it and stay out of range. But eventually he would get her. She would have to—

The first bullet shattered against the facing wall of the cenotaph, spraying dirt and sandstone into her eyes. The next one came even closer, scraping the exposed edge of her thigh.

It seemed her opponent was able to move even more quickly than she had imagined. And he seemed to have some height.

She dove again, this time moving back to her first position, which she hoped would be the last move he would expect. Her body collided on hard cobblestone, and the tremendous pain in her leg reminded her that even a creasing wound from a bullet will hurt and bleed. She could steel herself, using the powers of combat concentration Abbas had taught her. But eventually the leg would weaken. The killer would catch her.

While she still could, she sprang from behind the stone tomb and ran. Navigation was difficult in the darkness, even with her glasses, but she had little choice. If he was above her, perhaps poised on a high tomb, then she must get closer and below him. It was the only place she would be safe.

As soon as she emerged, the rain of automatic bullets cut a trail behind her, bouncing off stone surfaces all around. But she knew he had not had a chance to change his position. So long as she remained to his left, it would be difficult for him to get her. He was trying to frighten her, or slow her down, to buy himself time.

The bullets stopped. She heard footsteps above her, not far in the distance.

He was atop a redbrick tomb, large enough to be a small house or garage. She had noticed it on her way into the cemetery. Greek Revival style, if she wasn’t mistaken. She ran for it, hoping to her God that the darkness would hinder the killer just as much as it did her.

Bullets rang out. She kept on running. Another bullet hit her arm, this time a much more solid hit. She kept on running. When she approached the tomb, she did not stop. She executed a quick series of
kao moi
steps and moved vertically up the side of the building, faster than gravity could restrain her. She flung herself on top of the tomb, her hands grasping for purchase.

What she found was a boot. The sniper’s boot.

“May I help you up, 355?”

“You may burn in the land of the damned,” she shot back. She struggled to pull herself all the way up, but he held her back. “Where is the General?”

“Did you really think he would come? Then you are more stupid than everyone says.”

“I told him I would not appear unless I saw him first.”

“But I found you, didn’t I? Stupid woman.” He grabbed her long black hair and yanked her onto the roof, scraping her face on the surface. She started to rise to her hands and knees, but he jabbed the barrel of his rifle against her face. “Unclean harlot. I spit on you.” And he did.

“Throw away your rifle and we will see who is weak,” she snarled.