Memorial Day

Fifty-Two

ATLANTA

It was the dead of night as the cab drove past a dormant Turner Field. It continued east down Atlanta Avenue for three quarters of a mile, before it turned into the parking lot of a nondescript two-story motel. The neon vacancy sign was dark, as was the manager's office. A few cars dotted the relatively small parking lot, but other than that the place looked deserted.

The cabbie turned around and looked at his fare through the smudged Plexiglas divider. "You sure you want to be dropped off here?"

Imtaz Zubair swallowed nervously and nodded. He, in fact did not want to be left here, but his handler had called and given him specific instructions.

"Yes, this is the right place," the Pakistani scientist said with more confidence than he felt.

The driver simply shrugged his shoulders and threw the car in park. Most of his fares made sense, but not this one. Picking someone up after midnight at the Ritz in Buckhead and taking him to a low-budget motel by the baseball stadium didn't make a lot of sense, but as long as the guy paid, he could care less what was going on.

The cabbie grabbed the large suitcase from the trunk and set it on the curb. When the fare had paid him he got back in his car and left.

Zubair stood nervously on the curb and watched the cab drive away. In the distance he could hear the noise from the freeway and the sound of a dog barking. The Pakistani scientist looked around anxiously and then set his computer bag on the ground. The big red Coca-Cola machine was right where it was supposed to be. Following the orders he'd received over the phone, Zubair grabbed a dollar bill from his wallet, smoothed it out, and fed it into the vending machine. He pressed one of the ten buttons and then reached in and grabbed his can of soda, along with a room key that had been left for him. Zubair looked at the number and slid it into his pocket.

He stood there for a moment, next to the soda machine, and took a few swigs while he casually looked around as if he was waiting for someone. After clearing customs in Los Angeles, Zubair had found the rest of the journey less stressful. Flying to Atlanta had still been nerve-racking, but the knowledge that he was done having to lie his way through customs made everything easier. The most difficult part after landing in Atlanta had been taking the gigantic escalators down to the underground train and then up again when he'd arrived at the main terminal. If it wasn't for the fact that he'd been swept up in a sea of people and virtually shoved onto the sadistic metal stairs he doubted he could have made it to the baggage claim area.

His recruiter had taught him only the basics of spy craft, but Zubair took them seriously. He'd stopped to use the bathroom twice in the airport, both times checking to see if any of the same faces either entered or waited outside for him. When he was confident no one had followed him, he left the airport, and as instructed by his Saudi handler, took a cab downtown to one of the major hotels where he walked through the lobby, out a side exit, and down the block to a second hotel where a room had been reserved for him and paid for in advance by a fictitious corporation.

Zubair stayed downtown and out of sight on Monday night. On Tuesday he took a cab to the airport, and then instead of getting on a flight he jumped back in another cab and was taken to the posh Ritz Carlton in Buckhead. On Tuesday evening he ventured out to the local mall where he spent most of his time marveling at the items in two electronics stores. America was a very seductive place. The breadth and availability of consumer goods was amazing. Zubair could have spent an entire week examining the electronics, but he was so disturbed by the atmosphere of the mall that he had to go back to his hotel and pray. Only through prayer could he block out all the distractions and temptations and try to regain his purified mind.

He had finally seen with his own eyes just how corrupt America was. Young girls walked about in public with barely a stitch of clothing and no male escort. They roved around the mall like packs of dogs, flirting with boys, and no one did a thing about it. Here, indeed, was proof that America was an evil place. It was a country firmly in the grip of Satan himself, and if something wasn't done, the Americans would drag the rest of the world down with them.

After praying for several hours, he'd slept well through the night. The next morning he awoke late and ordered room service. While eating he turned on CNN and was alarmed to find out that the U.S. government had intercepted four ships headed for America. Zubair spent the entire afternoon in his room glued to the news coverage of this unfolding story. He did not know the specifics of his entire operation, but he did know that the weapon was being transported to America by ship.

It was just before five in the evening when the phone in his room rang loudly. Zubair answered tentatively, and was both relieved and frightened to hear the voice of his handler. There had been a change of plans, and the man gave him specific instructions concerning them. Zubair tried only once to ask what had happened with the ships, but had been so severely admonished that he dared not ask again.

Now he found himself standing in this dark parking lot in a city he did not know, following the orders of a man who scared him to death. Zubair took another swig of soda and looked at the various rooms of the L-shaped motel. Only a couple of lights were on, otherwise it appeared everyone was sleeping. As instructed, the Pakistani scientist threw the rest of the soda in the garbage can and looked at the number on the key he held. As luck would have it, the room was on the second floor. Zubair extended the handle on his big suitcase and began dragging it up the stairs one step at a time. When he reached the balcony he stopped, slightly out of breath, and looked around to see if anyone was watching him.

Room 212 was at the end of the balcony. Zubair slid the key in and held his breath. Perhaps his handler would be waiting for him in the dark, or perhaps the game was up and it would be the police. He opened the door and turned on the light. The room was a far cry from the one he had just left at the Ritz, but it was still better than almost anything he'd find in his native Pakistan. The scientist closed and locked the door and then checked to make sure no one was hiding in the bathroom. Grateful to be alone and having been given no further instructions, he sat down on the bed, turned on the TV, and began to wait.