Act of Terror

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Gaithersburg

M ujaheed Beg ran a chipped fingernail across the black-and-white striped pillow from Veronica Garcia’s rumpled bed. Egyptian cotton. She had good taste. He held it to his nose and breathed in the musky floral scent of jasmine perfume. A pile of clothes lay strewn over the bed as if she’d dumped them out of a hamper. A small wicker basket full of lipsticks and eye makeup sat on the nightstand beside the bed. Two empty suitcases lay tossed on top of one another in the corner.

Wherever she’d gone, she left in a hurry.

Beg picked up a skimpy pair of leopard-print panties from the laundry on the bed and twirled them around his finger.

“It’s now or never,” he sang in a passable Elvis impression. His eyes wandered around the bedroom. “Show me her secrets…”

He’d made a similar trip to Grace Smallwood’s apartment. It was how he’d discovered her allergy to bees.

Garcia’s ballistic vest had been tossed unceremoniously on a pile of dirty laundry. A large-frame. 40-caliber Glock and a smaller, more feminine Kahr nine-millimeter sat loaded and holstered on the top shelf of the closet. He slid the hangers over one by one, stopping at a sequined blue evening gown. It made him laugh out loud to think of this buxom woman trying to hide a pistol under the sheer gown.

“What has become of you, my dear?” he muttered, running his hands along the hanging clothes.

He found it unbelievable that the dangerous woman he’d seen coming into Nadia Arbakova’s house would leave her weapons at home… unless she’d gone somewhere she could not take them…

Veronica Garcia’s bathroom revealed less than her bedroom. She took no medications but aspirin, used tampons instead of pads, and shaved her legs in the shower. Jasmine was her preferred scent for soaps and body lotions.

The familiar smell made him ache to meet her, to spend time with her alone in this house. He went back to the bedroom and shoved the pile of clothes on the floor to lie down on the striped sheets that smelled so strongly of her.

His phone began to buzz before his head hit the pillow. It had to be Badeeb.

He sat up, cursing in Tajik.

“Yes?”

“Allah be praised. Are you well?”

“Yes.” He did not wish to waste time with the doctor on pleasantries.

“Are you nearby?” came the familiar clicky voice.

“How would I know if that is so until you tell me where you are?”

“Never mind,” Badeeb said, snapping his cigarette lighter closed. “I have a job for you. I believe it will be straight up your street, so to speak…”

Beg rubbed a hand over his hair. “I don’t know what that means.”

“You know,” Badeeb stuttered. “Something you will enjoy-up your street.”

“Right up my alley,” Beg corrected. That such a witless man could accomplish so much of such great importance was surely a mystery.

“Yes, exactly that,” the doctor continued. “This one will be quite enjoyable, for you. I need you take care of an issue with the congressman. There is a situation.” Badeeb paused to take a long drag on his cigarette. “A situation I have been, of necessity, keeping from you…”

Beg picked up Garcia’s striped pillow and held it to his nose.

“Of course.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, unwilling to leave the scent of Veronica Garcia so quickly for any reason. “I will meet you in two hours’ time.”