Capitol murder

Chapter Six

A cold rain carrying the salty, seaweed scents of the ocean pelted Ali Bashar as he stood at the rail of the freighter.

“America!” Ali said to the stocky, stone-faced man who stood beside him. His companion turned toward Ali for a second, then turned away. His dark, cold eyes showed none of the excitement Ali felt, as if passion for anything but his mission had been leached out of the man in the camp. Ali believed himself to be as dedicated as the others, but he still retained a sense of wonder.

Ali’s dark complexion and milk-chocolate-colored eyes were common among the tribal people who grew up in the mountainous section of Pakistan where he had been born. His straight black hair was concealed beneath a knit watch cap, and he wore a heavy pea jacket as protection against weather that Manhattanites would consider uncomfortable but which chilled the blood of someone who had spent the last eight months in the desert. Ali was five feet eight and had been sick frequently when he was a child, so his constitution was frail. When he was young, he had been the butt of many jokes and the object of the cruelty that comes naturally to children. Ali was bright, was especially good with numbers, and had an excellent memory. These traits had helped him to excel in the classroom but often made his life outside of it difficult. His intelligence had finally been rewarded at the al-Qaeda camp in Somalia, but the physical part of the training had been difficult for him.

Ali’s time in the camp and his brief stay in Karachi, where he had been smuggled aboard the freighter, were his only experiences in the world outside his village. As the freighter pulled into New York Harbor, he stared wide-eyed at the Statue of Liberty and New York’s skyline. Then he looked for the empty space in the skyline where the Twin Towers had stood, and he smiled. He had been shown the destruction of the Towers several times on a television in the camp. He didn’t know why he and his three companions were being smuggled into America, but he believed that he would soon be part of something that would make the self-absorbed, godless citizens of the United States forget about September 11.

The freighter was registered in Liberia, but the captain was a Pakistani, as were many in the crew. Ali and the others had fit in, and they all had false papers and cover stories that would hold up under all but the most intense scrutiny. It was dusk when the freighter docked, and the pier was spotlighted when the crew began unloading the cargo. Ali and his companions mingled with the rest of the crew as they shifted crates containing machine parts from the ship to the dock, but they peeled off from the legitimate crew members when a nondescript taupe station wagon glided down the pier and pulled up next to a pallet piled high with wooden crates. They had been told about the station wagon just before they boarded the freighter.

Ali slid into the passenger seat next to the driver, who wore a New York Yankees jacket and baseball cap.

“I’m Steve, and I’m going to take you to a safe house near Washington, D.C.,” he said in perfect Urdu. “When we get to the gate, let me do the talking. If the guard asks you a question, I’ll tell him you don’t speak English and I’ll translate.”

The man’s looks and accent convinced Ali that the driver was an American. This surprised him. He had met Americans sympathetic to the cause at the camp, but they had been blacks who had converted to Islam or young, disaffected Arab Americans. This American had blue eyes to go with the blond hair that crept out from beneath his cap.

English was the second official language of Pakistan, and Ali was conversant in it. His stomach was in a knot when they pulled up to the gate, and he listened carefully when the driver spoke to the uniformed guards. He was expecting the guards to demand his papers and subject him to an interrogation he was not convinced he could withstand, but they let the station wagon through without any trouble. Ali wondered if a bribe had changed hands.

Steve didn’t say much after they left the dock. Ali and his companions strained to see the sights as they passed through Manhattan, but they were exhausted, and all but Ali nodded off as soon as they were on the interstate headed south.

“You are American?” Ali asked as soon as he got up the nerve to start a conversation.

Steve nodded.

“You are Muslim?”

The driver nodded again.

“Is that why you help us?”

Steve turned his head toward Ali. When he was talking to the guards, Steve had looked like the star of an American sitcom Ali had been shown in the camp to help with his training; all smiles, joking about trivial matters. Now he looked dangerous.

“The less you know about me, the better off you are, understood?” he asked in a hard, cold tone.

“Of course,” Ali answered, backing off immediately. Fear of abuse had been nurtured in Ali since early childhood, and he never did well in physical confrontations.

Ali turned away and closed his eyes, but he didn’t fall asleep immediately. To distract himself, he thought of all the possible targets in America’s capital. Which one would he destroy in the name of Allah? When he fell asleep, there was a contented smile on his lips.

I t was still dark when Ali woke up. He felt dull witted and spent a few moments rubbing sleep from his eyes. There was a sour taste in his mouth. The station wagon was driving down a dirt road in rural Maryland. Steve pulled into the driveway of a ranch-style house and woke up the sleeping men.

“This is where you’ll be staying until we’re ready to act,” he said. “The refrigerator is fully stocked, and there’s cable television. I’ll make runs with groceries around this time, once a week. If there are problems, tell me then. I’ll give you a cell phone number, but it’s only for emergencies. Remember, the Americans can listen in on your calls. You’ll ask for pizza, and I’ll say you have the wrong number. Then I’ll come right over.

“This house is pretty isolated. The nearest neighbors are a quarter mile away. You shouldn’t get visitors. If you do, tell them you’re students, and use the cover story you were given. Any questions?”

Steve showed them around the house and got them set up. There were clothes in the closets in everyone’s size and food in the kitchen.

“You’ll receive instructions soon,” Steve said before he left. “Be patient and trust in Allah. You will make history.”

Despite the sleep he had gotten during the drive, Ali was logy when they arrived at the house. His initial elation in the harbor was gone. Before he’d gotten out of the car, he was beset by doubts that depressed him. Things could go wrong. They could fail. The CIA and FBI were not fools. What if they were caught?

Steve’s last words elated Ali and erased his doubts. Allah was great, and he would see to their success. Steve closed the door behind him. Ali heard the car start. He looked through the slats in the Venetian blinds in the living room and watched the station wagon drive off. It had a Virginia license plate, and Ali memorized it when it passed beneath a streetlight. There was no reason for him to do it. He was just good with numbers and had an excellent memory, and the license plate number was filed away without much conscious thought.