Capitol murder

Epilogue

Rafik Nasrallah thought about his move for three minutes. Then he took the pawn. Imran Afridi tensed as if low-voltage electricity had passed through him. He hunched over the board, concentrating on the square where the pawn had been and Rafik’s knight now stood. Rafik knew that his friend was trying to convince himself that his position was not as bad as it seemed. After five minutes, he accepted reality and his shoulders sagged. Rafik knew that Imran would play on. All the last move had given him was an edge, but with accurate play, it would be enough.

Rafik took no joy in winning, as he might have before the FedEx debacle. Three months before, when Imran believed his plan could not fail, a rare victory over the chessboard was something Rafik would savor, but he had been beating his old friend regularly since Imran had returned from America.

Imran was depressed. He could not concentrate, he had no patience. That is why he misread positions and made foolish errors of judgment. Imran had told Rafik that he was being followed. He was certain that his phone was tapped. More than once when Rafik had come to visit, Imran had asked if he had noticed a black Audi outside the wall of his estate. Rafik had not seen a black Audi or any other suspicious vehicle. What he had seen was his friend’s steady mental decline.

Imran rarely left the grounds anymore. His businesses were suffering. He no longer held the parties for which he was famous. Rafik saw no traces of women. There had always been women before, but Imran had confided to his friend that he did not trust women he did not know well, women who could be spying on him for the CIA or Pakistani intelligence.

“Well done,” Imran conceded fifteen moves after the capture of the pawn.

“I was lucky,” Rafik said. “You were distracted.”

“It’s the weather. It’s unsettling.”

The weather in Karachi had been depressing for the past four days; a warm, slashing rain had kept everyone indoors praying for clear skies and the sun to raise their spirits. But Rafik knew it was the failure of Imran’s grand scheme that was really bringing him down.

“What is really worrying you, Imran? I know it’s more than the weather.”

Imran smiled sadly. “You know me too well. And you’re right. I keep waiting for them to come for me. I cannot believe that I am safe.”

“You are Allah’s faithful servant, and he will keep you safe,” Rafik assured his friend. “I was certain you would be arrested when you told me you were going to stay in America, but Allah saw you home, and he will protect you.”

Imran thought about his last day in America. “I was getting ready to leave when Tolliver called me. He must have thought that we are complete fools. The traitor wanted me to fly him out of the country. He probably expected us to trust him with the plans for our next operation.”

“You’re certain he was working with the CIA?”

“He had a weapon. My men had to kill him before I could question him. But there can be no question, Rafik. The man was in custody because he tried to kill ninety thousand people. The CIA doesn’t open the prison doors for someone like that. I don’t care what legal error the prosecutor made. Someone in Tolliver’s position would have ‘committed suicide’ or been killed ‘resisting arrest’ before he would be set free.

“And why was he even in a jail instead of one of the CIA’s secret prisons? Why was Tolliver permitted to have a lawyer? It was a setup.”

“You’re right,” Rafik conceded. “And it’s my fault. I should never have told you to use him.”

“You did nothing wrong. He fooled everybody; you, me, the imam. If anyone is to blame, it is I. I made the final decision.” Imran sighed. “Anyway, it is over. The plan was a total failure.”

Imran looked exhausted, and Nasrallah left so his friend could turn in early. The ride through the quiet streets in the back of his chauffeured bulletproof Mercedes was conducive to thought. Rafik was relieved that he had been instrumental in foiling Imran’s insane plot. He loved Imran, but he had worried about him since Cambridge, when his friend began talking about jihad. He had not known what to do until the men approached him. Rafik had been using cocaine; he was involved with prostitutes; he was heavily in debt to the casinos of London and terrified of what his father would do if his sins were discovered. These men promised him a fresh start, and he was only too eager to escape from the pit of addiction and sin into which he had fallen. As soon as he agreed to provide the occasional tidbit of information, the debts had miraculously disappeared.

Rafik had hoped that he would never have to pay his new debt. Then Imran, inspired by 9/11, started talking about mass killings. Imran’s plans made Nasrallah’s stomach turn. He was sick of violence in the name of God. He was tired of seeing good Muslims portrayed as insane killers by the Western press because of the acts of a few deranged men. Rafik had reached out to his handlers as soon as he was certain there was more than simple talk involved.

Rafik often wondered what Imran would do if he learned that his best friend was working with British and American intelligence. Tolliver had been a godsend; the ideal fall guy. Nasrallah hoped that the failure of the FedEx plot would dampen Afridi’s desire for jihad. He did not want to betray him again. But he would if it meant saving the lives of innocent people.