Inside Threat (14 page)

“Riley, just trust God to lead you in the situation. And remember that no matter how bizarre your behavior gets—”

“Hey, that was your fault, mister,” Riley interrupted. “You're the one who taught me that coin-from-behind-the-ear trick twenty years ago.”

“And your mom was sure to call me last night and remind me of that fact.
Mea culpa
, my boy. Anyway, just remember that no matter what, you are loved by your grandpa, your mom, and most of all, your God.”

“Thanks, Gramps. I love you too.”

Yeah, that's what grandpas are for,
Riley thought, as he parked the truck in the garage.
Putting everything back into perspective.
After slamming another dent into the drywall, he lifted his fishing pole and tackle box off a narrow workbench and headed down to the dock.

Tuesday, September 13, 2:37 a.m. EDT

Bethesda, Maryland

Majid Alavi glanced impatiently at his watch—2:37 a.m. He turned to his partner, Ubaida Saliba, who circled his hand, indicating he also was anxious to get things moving.

“Let's go,” Alavi quietly demanded of the man who was busy working the lock on the window.

“Shut up and let me work. You hired me to do a job; now let me do it,” he hissed back. “And back up. Give a man some room.”

This third man—this specialist—went by the street name Touch and was supposed to be the best at what he did. And what he did was get people safely and quietly into places where they weren't invited.

I don't care about his reputation or his skills,
Alavi thought.
He's still the weakest link in this mission.

The three men, dressed all in black, were huddled outside a rear window of an average-size, two-story, brown brick home in Bethesda, Maryland. Inside the home slept the chaplain of the United States Senate, Daniel Musman, and his wife of fifty-three years, Elsa.

A barely perceptible click sounded from the window, and Touch gently slid it to the left.

“You're sure about the alarm,” Alavi asked.

Touch looked offended by the question. “Do I tell you how to do your job? The alarm's taken care of. You think I'd be opening the window if it weren't?”

“Okay, we shouldn't be more than ten minutes,” Alavi said, ignoring the man's attitude.
There'll be plenty of time to deal with that later.
“Stay low and don't get seen.”

“Pffssh, please.” Touch cradled his hands, and Alavi put his right foot in. He hoisted himself onto the window ledge and into the house. Saliba followed seconds later.

Alavi took just a moment to catch his bearings. The air inside was warm and had an ethnic odor of cabbage and some sort of meat. A quick sweep with a red-light flashlight showed him that the way was clear to the stairs. He nodded to Saliba, and the two men crossed the room—Alavi taking the lead, Saliba behind carrying a silenced Glock 21.

Just prior to mounting the staircase, Alavi had a moment of hesitation. He took a quick look back at the window.
I just don't know how much I can trust Touch. The last thing we need is for this petty thief to slip in and steal some bauble or trinket without me knowing. That could bring the whole plan crashing down.
He considered keeping Saliba downstairs just in case Touch tried anything, but he couldn't afford to be without him if things took a wrong turn upstairs.

It's in your hands, O Allah. I will trust you to keep the animal on his leash.

Softly he ascended the steps, caressing them with his feet like he was shown during his training in Somalia. As he walked, his mind flashed to when he was a kid watching reruns of the television show
Kung Fu
. Countless afternoons, he and his friends would pretend to do the rice paper walk, gently gliding their way through the room of candles.
“When you can walk the rice paper without tearing it, Grasshopper, then your steps will not be heard.”

After reaching the top, he allowed himself one more sweep of the red light to ensure there was a clear path to the bedroom three doors down. Quietly, the two men moved past the second door where the wife was sleeping, a long-ago banished victim of her husband's snoring and apnea. When they reached the third door, Alavi turned around.

Looking Saliba in the eyes, he gave a slight nod. His partner nodded his readiness back.

Alavi turned the handle and eased the door open. The bed was large, with its four posts sticking straight up in the middle of the room. To the left of the bed was a door that led to a master bathroom; to the right was a sitting area with a floral chair and ottoman. A suit was laid across the ottoman with a shirt and tie on top; shoes with socks stuffed in them sat on the floor.

A low hum sounded through the room, and it was toward that hum that Alavi moved. When he reached its source, he looked back at Saliba to confirm he was in position. As was the plan, Saliba was standing at the foot of the bed with the gun pointed toward Musman's head.

Alavi breathed in deeply and let the air slowly exhale from his mouth. The whole plan was riding on these next couple minutes. If he blew this, not only would he dishonor himself and his family, he would disappoint Saifullah and Allah himself.
Give your servant strength. Give your servant stealth. Give your servant success.

Turning his attention back to the small, humming machine, Alavi gave it a quick examination. It was the exact model of CPAP that he had practiced on. Air was sucked in through a filter on the back of the device and then pumped out a tube that connected with a mask on the chaplain's face. The pressure of the air was such that it kept the old man's upper airway open and unobstructed, alleviating the apnea and the snoring that typically accompanied it.

Alavi slipped a small, thin screwdriver out of his pocket. Reaching around the back of the machine, he pried off the air intake cover. He pinched out a charcoal filter and set both items on the end table. After putting the screwdriver back into his pocket, he removed another item—a small silver atomizer.

As he held the cigar tube–shaped device with one gloved hand, he used the other to pull a thick cloth filter over his nose and mouth. Immediately, he felt his air severely restricted. But the temporary discomfort was more than worth the risk of the alternative.

He removed the cap, positioned the atomizer at the air intake, then closed his eyes and turned his head.
One, two, three sprays. It's done.

Quickly, he capped the tube and slid it into his pocket. The saxitoxin, also known as shellfish toxin, would take effect any second, and Alavi didn't want to be around when it did. Virtually untraceable, the poison paralyzed the nervous system, causing nearly immediate death. With the already-failing health of the aging chaplain, the hope was that there would be only a cursory postmortem investigation and that his peaceful passing in the night would be viewed by friends and family as God's blessing for his many years of faithful service.

Reaching behind the CPAP, Alavi replaced the filter and snapped on the cover. He nodded to Saliba, who began moving toward the door. Alavi started to follow him when he was stopped short by a hand around his wrist.

He turned toward Musman and saw him staring back wide-eyed. The old chaplain was trying to say something, but his lips formed only empty words. Saliva began running out the corners of the clear plastic mask, and his breathing consisted of short gasps of air. Alavi tried to pull his arm free, but the dying man's grip was like iron.

The seconds seemed like hours. Alavi wanted to escape the accusation and fear that were in Musman's eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to turn away. Finally, the lips stopped moving, the grip relaxed, and Alavi was able to break free. But as he fled toward the door, he knew he would forever have the picture of that man's dying eyes embedded in his brain.

Back at the window, Alavi was relieved to see Touch waiting outside the house. First Saliba dropped out; then he followed. Touch slid the window closed and expertly snapped the screen back in place.

Ten minutes later, the three men were turning from Old Georgetown Road onto Wisconsin Avenue. Touch, who was sitting in the front passenger seat next to Alavi, hadn't shut up since they had pulled away from the chaplain's house.

Laughing, he said, “You sure you won't tell me what you guys picked up? It's driving me crazy!”

“You were hired for a job. You did the job. You were paid well for the job. That's all you need to know,” Alavi answered angrily. In the rearview mirror he connected with Saliba.
Now,
he said with his eyes.

“Don't go getting like that with me, man,” Touch replied defensively. “You told me you were going in to lift something. But when I see you guys going in with nothing, then coming back out with nothing, it makes me wonder what—”

A bullet from Saliba's silenced pistol stopped Touch short. His head flew forward, then snapped back as the seat belt restricted his movement.

“That was none too soon,” Alavi said as he wiped some red mist from his cheek.

“If he never shut up in the car, there's no way he could have kept quiet on the street,” Saliba agreed.

Three blocks down, they turned into an alley and parked. Saliba got out of the car and opened the passenger door. He was about to pull the body out when Alavi stopped him. After a quick search, Alavi found Touch's wallet in his left front pocket.

“Give the cops a little more of a challenge identifying him,” he said.

While Saliba pulled the dead man out and dropped him to the wet asphalt, Alavi looked in his wallet. He pulled out Touch's driver's license—Wesley Kelley, it read.

Wesley, huh? No wonder you went by Touch.

He heard the door close and saw that Saliba was back in the car wiping his hands on his pants. After slipping the wallet into his pocket, he put the car in gear.
Twenty minutes to our parked car, and another thirty to the warehouse. All in all, it couldn't have gone much better. Thank you, Allah, for success. What you have begun, let these hands finish in your name.

Tuesday, September 13, 2:05 p.m. EDT

Washington, DC

“We all grieve the passing of Chaplain Daniel Musman, and we pray for his dear wife, Elsa, his children, Brian and Stephanie, and his numerous grandchildren. Chaplain Dan, as I used to call him, was a good man—a man who made an impact on this world, a man who made an impact on me. I remember when I came to Washington nearly sixteen years ago, Chap walked up that first day to this green, wet-behind-the-ears senator who, champing at the bit to begin his fight for truth and justice . . .”

Leave it to Clayson Andrews to turn a tribute to a dead Senate chaplain into an homage to himself,
Khadi Faroughi thought, standing six feet to the left of the senator. They were on the steps of the National Cathedral, its neogothic facade rising more than three hundred feet behind them. Andrews, as usual, was behind a bank of microphones. A little more than twenty reporters were listening to him and taking notes. Beyond them, a crowd of fifty-plus onlookers had gathered.

“‘Senator Andrews, my friend,' he said—even that first day he called me ‘my friend,' something this young, wide-eyed idealist needed to hear . . .” The senator's voice cracked, causing Khadi to roll her eyes behind her dark sunglasses.

Listening to his pathetic emotional prattle was almost more than she could bear, especially after what had happened just a couple of hours ago. She was still shaken and was having a hard time grasping the reality of the situation.

She and J.D. Little had been going through the usual pre–photo op preparations when Tyson Bryson had called her into his office. As the senator's right hand man, Bryson technically was her supervisor, so she obeyed.

Bryson's office was decorated in what might be called modern brownnose. There were Clayson Andrews campaign posters and memorabilia covering every wall and every shelf. The photos on his desk and bookshelf were mostly of Senator Andrews meeting some head of state with Bryson somewhere in the background, often only able to be spotted by a child skilled in the art of
Where's Waldo?