Capitol Conspiracy (10 page)

12

U.S. S
ENATE
, R
USSELL
B
UILDING
,
O
FFICE
S-212-D
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

C
hristina rushed into the office, her arms brimming over with files, folders, and large saddle-stitched reports. Somehow, in an act seemingly defiant of gravity, she also managed to carry a briefcase, although in the mass of paperwork obscuring the upper half of her body and most of her strawberry blond hair, the briefcase seemed to be floating along on its own powers of levitation.

As she passed by his station, Jones eyed her with his usual stoic expression. “Got anything going on, Chris? Or are you just goofing off again?”

As if in response, or perhaps in revenge, she dumped the entire mass of papers on his desk, knowing full well the effect it would have on Jones’s neat-freak temperament.

When the screaming stopped, she smiled and said succinctly, “File that, would you?”

Jones’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. If heat vision had been among his powers, Christina would have been charbroiled. “May I ask what this is?”

“Everything I’ve been able to drum up relating to the new proposed constitutional amendment. Polling data, both of the public and the Congress. Judicial and historical precedents. A formal copy of the evil amendment itself as submitted to the appropriate committees in both houses. And a lot of other crap acquired from virtually every other senator’s office.”

“Were you able to get an idea which way Congress leans on this?”

“The problem is that every other chief of staff in every other office is doing exactly the same thing.”

“Ah, but they don’t all have your gift for setting tongues a-wagging.”

“Well, I like to think I have a certain panache,” she said, lightly buffing the bob of her hair. “But they do their best. At any rate, I was able to learn what the consensus opinion is on who’s leaning where. Whether that reflects actual reality I can’t be certain.”

“So don’t keep me in suspense.”

Christina picked up one of the file folders she had dumped on Jones’s desk and flipped it open. “Everyone seems to think the House is a done deal. The Republicans have a significant majority; the president basically has them in his back pocket.”

“But he’ll need two-thirds.”

“And everyone seems to think he’ll get it, given the massive public support for the bill. Have you seen today’s polls?” Jones nodded. “They show that the voting public favor passage by a huge margin. Apparently a lot of people have always thought civil rights favored criminals more than good honest God-fearing folk. But even some who generally consider themselves civil libertarians are supporting the bill. The attack in Oklahoma City dramatically changed the way some people think.”

“It—was a rather horrific event,” Jones said. “You can see where people might feel the need for greater protection.”

“I can see that people are running scared,” Christina replied. “And when people are scared, they don’t think clearly. Somehow, we have to slow down this process. Give the reasoning public a chance for some sober second thoughts.” She did a quick scan of the office. “So where’s our dear senator Benjamin?”

Jones hedged. “Well…”

Loving, their huge barrel-chested investigator, sauntered down the hallway, grinning from ear to ear. “I think the correct answer to that question is: Deep in hiding.”

Christina couldn’t help returning the smile. “Good to see you again, Loving. How was the vacation?”

“It…had some interestin’ moments. But I came back soon as I heard about the amendment.”

“Appreciate that. So Ben is hiding from the press?”

Loving chuckled. “Actually, I think he’s mostly hiding from you.”

“Damn well he should. First the man cancels my honeymoon, then he says he thinks this fascist amendment might not be a bad idea. Ever since the attack, I’ve barely seen him. He always manages to come back to the apartment after I’m sound asleep. I don’t even remember the last time we—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Loving held out his hands. “Too much information alert.”

“Moving right along,” Jones said, nervously shuffling his papers. “You do remember that Ben is supposed to represent his home state, don’t you? He should implement the will of his people, not the, um, will of his wife.”

Christina gave him a look that could stop traffic.

“Support for this bill in Oklahoma is even higher than the national average. The word on the street—”

“Is this the word on the street?” Christina said sharply, “or the word in the library?” Jones’s wife, Paula, was a librarian for the Tulsa City/County Library system.

“I have talked to Paula, since you ask, in your rather pointed I’m-an-underdog-and-crusader-for-justice-so-I-can-be-as-rude-as-I-want way. She says she doesn’t know anyone who doesn’t support the amendment. And she travels with a pretty highbrow crowd.”

“I hear the same thing from my people,” Loving added. Christina suspected that “his people” were mostly found in honkytonks and strip bars, but still, they were giving her an interesting cross section of public opinion.

“Just because it’s popular doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” Jones replied, “but bear in mind that Ben is not only Oklahoma’s U.S. senator, he’s currently Oklahoma’s
only
U.S. senator. Doesn’t he have an obligation to vote the will of the people?”

“Absolutely not,” Christina said firmly. “He has an obligation to do what he thinks is right. Public opinion is no excuse for betraying your conscience. If the people don’t like what he does, they can vote him out next election.”

“Well, technically, they never voted him in.”

“Nonetheless, while he’s in office, his job is to do what’s best for the nation. Which is not necessarily appeasing a reactionary public opinion.”

“But what if he wants to run for reelection?” Loving asked. “Goin’ against a huge majority favorin’ the amendment could tank him.”

“Have you heard him say he’s running for reelection? Last I heard he was still dithering about, avoiding a commitment. As usual.”

“This amendment’s gonna be a big deal, Chris. If he comes out on the wrong side—it’s good-bye Washington.”

Christina grabbed her phone messages—there were more than thirty—and marched back to the main corridor. “This speculation is all well and good, but I think I’d like to talk to the senator myself. There’s a remote chance he may have made up his mind what he wants to do. I’ll—”

The phone rang, cutting her off.

“Just a minute, Chris,” Jones said, clicking the button that activated his phone earpiece. “It’s probably for you.”

He waited a moment, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. His jaw slowly dropped. “Or…maybe not.”

He continued listening. Christina and Loving moved in closer.

“Oh, right. Like he makes his own phone calls. Is this you, Morgan? Because if it is, let me tell you that this is not funny in—”

Another abrupt pause. “Really?” Jones’s shoulders sagged. His forehead creased. “Really? Well, I don’t know exactly where he is, sir, but I can find him. Yes. As soon as possible.”

Christina gave him a long look. “Who’s calling?” she whispered.

Jones cleared his throat again. “That would be the, um, President of the United States,” he said, his voice warbling. “And he wants to see Ben. Immediately.”

13

D
OVE
A
VENUE
R
OCKVILLE
, M
ARYLAND

S
hohreh’s hands trembled even as she completed her
salat,
but it was not due to her fear of God. It was due to her fear of what she had to do next.

Like every good Muslim, she recited her morning prayers, but on this particular morning, she did so with a sense of both conviction and desire that exceeded the norm. She needed God’s help. She would never be able to do this alone. But it had to be done. She had sworn an oath to God, and she had made a promise to Djamila. So she performed the usual ritual cleansing, removed her shoes, draped her head, and placed herself on her prayer rug, standing, then sitting, then bowing and prostrating herself as she performed the invocations of faith.

“La ilaha illa’Llah,”
she recited. There is no god but God. That was the
shahada,
the fundamental statement of her religion. She recited from memory the opening
sura
from the Qur’an. As always, she recited silently, moving her lips but not speaking aloud. These words were for God and no one else, and He did not need to hear the words to know they were being said. When at last she finished, she changed her clothes and left the shabby apartment to do what had to be done.

She hated this neighborhood. She had left as soon as she extracted herself from the cell and promised never to return. Rockville was actually one of the better suburbs in the D.C. area: population of only about sixty thousand, good schools, clean streets. The pride of Montgomery County, favored by many politicians, staff members, and even lobbyists—the people with the real money. But like every other town in this dramatically divided country, there was a dark underbelly, the slum neighborhood that provided housing affordable to low-income workers who made it possible for the rest of the town to live in the manner that they did. Even given her circumstances, she knew she could do better.

And she had not been gone a week when she received that fateful call, the one she should never have answered. The one that took her to Oklahoma City.

Damn Yaseen. The General, as he was so fond of being called. He knew she would not be able to say no. He had been a Shiite general, back before he was forced to leave Iraq. He knew how to lead. And he knew how to manipulate. He knew how to make sure she would not be able to refuse.

She had gone to Oklahoma City, done as he asked, and regretted it ever since. Before, she had been almost invisible. Now she lived in fear of discovery, a discovery that would not only end her own short life, but make it impossible to honor her commitment to Djamila. She knew that every law enforcement official in the country was poring over the footage that had been taken by the media in Oklahoma City. It didn’t matter that she had disguised herself, changed her name, traveled under false papers. Eventually someone would remember seeing her there. They would link her to the cell. And given the current sentiment in the country, she would be lucky if she were not lynched in the street.

Americans were so easily led. She remembered the first Oklahoma City incident, the bombing that cost so many lives. In the immediate aftermath, all the experts and commentators attributed the attack to Middle Eastern terrorists. Several of her friends were beaten mercilessly that night by rednecks for no reason other than the color of their skin. And the next day the truth was revealed. The bombing had nothing to do with Middle Eastern terrorists. It was a homegrown crazy, an antigovernment zealot just as white as the stars on the American flag.

And now, once again, most people had no idea what had really happened a little over a week ago in Oklahoma City. But she did, at least somewhat. That information alone made her a keenly sought target by both American law enforcement and the members of her former cell. One wanted to question her; the other to kill her.

Shohreh was five foot three, petite, barely a hundred pounds. What chance did she have, a woman alone against powers so great? But what chance had she ever had? What choice did she ever have?

None. None at all.

Her identity papers said she was Saudi Arabian, a deceit practiced so commonly in the aftermath of President Bush’s invasion of her homeland that it was barely worth the trouble. In truth, she was Iraqi, a Sunni Muslim. Globally, more than eighty percent of all Muslims were Sunnis. Only in Iraq were they in the minority. The division was almost as old as Islam itself, dating back to the seventh century. The Shiites believed that Muhammad had selected his son-in-law and cousin, Ali ibn Abi Talib to be his successor prophet. Shiites traditionally performed a hajj to the Blue Mosque in Mazari-Sharif where Ali was buried. Sunnis believed that Muhammad had not chosen a successor so the church leaders, the caliphates, should guide the church. The differences were trivial compared to the doctrinal distinctions that divided the hundreds of Christian denominations. But the differences had proved great enough to produce incalculable bloodshed, leading to the loss of millions of lives. Sunnis and Shiites were impossible to distinguish by appearance, but their names were often a clear indicator to the knowledgeable elite, and all Iraqis were required to carry a national identification card. Omar, Marwan, and Othman were popular Sunni given names; Ali, Abbas, and Hussein were equally popular among Shiites. So those in the minority often changed their birth names, even though to do so was considered shameful and abhorrent—but not enough so as to inspire many to reveal a name that in the wrong circle could be an instant death sentence. During the Gulf War, when Iraqi civilians were often stopped at military checkpoints or even randomly on the streets, a name or hometown suggesting affiliation with the rival sect could lead to summary execution. Identification forgery became a boom business.

Shohreh was a “Saudi Arabian” name she adopted when she came to America, although her associates knew her only as 355. She resisted both changes. What was wrong with her original name?

A good deal, as it turned out.

She heard something move behind her and froze. She hated these streets. She might as well be walking through a war zone in her home country, waiting for another American bomb dropped from thirty thousand feet to kill anonymous targets.

Someone was moving back there. She was certain of it.

A cold sweat broke out all over her body. She felt paralyzed, afraid or unable to move. She was breathing fast and shallow, making noise at just the moment she knew she most needed to remain silent. The people looking for her were trained to kill instantly, efficiently, in so many ways that there was always some means available. They could kill with a pencil, a matchstick, a spoon. They could kill with their bare hands and it would take only slightly longer. They were the deadliest people on the face of the earth.

Had they found her at last?

Her knees trembling, she turned slowly to face whatever lurked in the darkness.

A cat jumped off a trash can and scampered away.

She would’ve laughed if she hadn’t been so terrified. This was only a temporary reprieve, not a release. The General had said he would come alone, but she knew better. He would not come at all. He would send someone else; he would take no risks, not even with a tiny woman with no friends or resources. Not even with a former ally.

Shohreh had lived a privileged life, once upon a time, far from the cliché American view of life for a woman in the Middle East. In Iraq, even while Saddam Hussein ruled, Shohreh’s mother could drive a car, she could vote, she could leave home without a note from her husband, and she didn’t have to be completely covered from head to foot—unlike Saudi women. Shohreh had been well educated. She wore clothes she chose herself. She welcomed the American invasion.

And then one day she came back and found her entire affluent neighborhood was gone. Flattened by an off-target American air strike. It was the last day she saw her parents.

It was the last day she saw Djamila.

She initially lived with relatives in Tikrit, thought to be much safer than Baghdad. They died in a car bombing. She found work as a servant in Mosul, demeaning for a person of her background, but still, a way of living. But the war followed her there, too. All at once, this privileged well-educated woman was homeless, caught in the crossfire between the rapidly growing army of the insurgents and the Americans. What was she to do?

The General had the answers she sought. And she would regret that every day thereafter.

General Yaseen Daraji hated the Americans for, he claimed, philosophical and political reasons. They cared nothing about human rights for Iraqis, or freedom or self-governance. They didn’t even care about the supposed weapons of mass destruction or catching the perpetrators of 9/11. All they cared about was oil, he preached. This was a war of aggression carried out not by political ideologues, but by businessmen.

As she would later realize to her great dismay, the General was a businessman, too. In the most horrible business imaginable.

As all good Muslims knew, the greater jihad was the internal struggle to obey the teachings of Muhammad. In time, thanks to the General, she was allowed to join the lesser jihad, the holy war, the struggle against the invaders who had divided her country. She should have known better—but what choice did she have, really?

She arrived at the appointed rendezvous and, although it went against her every instinct, she turned down the alley that bisected the Dove Avenue and Second Street block and plunged in. If it had been dark before, it was black now, an absolute Stygian nothingness. The stench was tremendous. Even without vision, she knew she was plunging into a sea of mud and grime and human waste.

She could not see anything. She did not hear anything. And she knew they were there. Three of them.

She slid on her glasses and waited for them to make the first move.

“355?” one of them said, in their native tongue.

“I’m here, Ahmed.” She recognized his voice. They had been associates, companions. They had worked together on many occasions. “Where is the General?”

“He has unfortunately been detained. And please do not use my other name. You know how this is done.”

“Sorry, 111. The General said he would come alone.”

“He thought it unwise to leave the safe house. Given the current state of national security.”

“I’m sure the current state of affairs has not prevented him from conducting his business. I was not anxious to leave safety, either.” She could sense that the two men behind her were moving closer. “And yet I came.”

A long pause ensued. She waited. Even at this point, she held out hope that she would be honored by those with whom she had worked so long and done so much.

“Please follow me,” the one she called 111 instructed.

The other two silent men inched even closer. They were near enough now that she had a sense of them. They were huge men, bulky, both at least a foot taller than she. And she knew from experience how formidable Ahmed was.

“Please, 355. Follow me.”

Again the two associates stepped closer. She did not move at all.

“If you planned to take me to the General,” she said, her voice calm and even, “you would blindfold me. You have not come to escort me. You have come to kill me.”

Ahmed was silent; then he gave a quick gesture to his companions that they heard more than saw. “I told the General you would be wary.”

“But he did not really care, since he was planning to have you kill me anyway.”

Ahmed did not bother to respond. “You are a woman, vastly outnumbered. Our strength far exceeds yours. It would be better if you did not struggle.”

“Better for you, at any rate,” Shohreh said, and a moment later, she felt one of the men behind her wrap his arms around her body while the other crept toward her from the front, his arms outstretched to strangle her.

She knew she must act in seconds, or she would lose the opportunity forever. She recognized the Thai clinch; she knew how to break it and she knew how to make it work to her favor. Bracing her arms back against the man holding her, she used him as a fulcrum and flung both feet forward in a frontal teep, or foot jab. She caught the man in front of her just under the chin, knocking him backward. Before the other man could react, she rammed her elbow back with a diagonal thrust. Because he was so much taller, she caught him in the side of his rib cage, but that was enough to loosen his grip. She swung around and delivered an uppercut elbow to his eyebrow. The blow ripped open the skin and the wound bled profusely, blinding him almost instantaneously. He fell to his knees, clutching his face and crying out.

Shohreh whirled around. The other attacker had recovered and was almost upon her. She knew he, too, was trained in the Muay Thai, and given his greater strength, it would be a mistake to let him get close again. She might surprise him once, but this time he would be more careful. She would use the
kao loi;
it was the only maneuver that would give her a chance in such close quarters. While he was still several feet away, she sprang forward, leaped off one knee, but while in midair switched to the other knee and smashed the side of his head. Before he could recover, she followed with a roundhouse kick, slamming her shin into his neck. Like all trained in the Muay Thai, she knew the foot had many bones and was fragile, the knee was easily broken, but a trained and muscled shin was almost invulnerable. She delivered another blow with her other shin and he fell to the pavement, motionless.

The man behind her was still struggling to stand and see. She used a simple
kao tone
to the chin to finish him. He reeled backward, writhing in pain.

Ahmed was still out there, somewhere in the darkness. She executed a 360-degree turn, her hands raised in the traditional “wall of defense” that prepared her for any attack from any direction. Nothing came.

“Will you not fight, Ahmed?” she shouted into the black emptiness. “Or are you so weak now, you leave that only to your clumsy assistants?”