British Airways’ morning flight from London was right on time at Logan, and the line for the “ U.S. Citizens Only” windows was a lot shorter than the one for visitors and legal aliens.
Window three, sir, straight along to the left… this way, please… window 10… stand right behind the red line. The bewildered-looking foreigners moved slowly along, moving up to the glass booths, being fingerprinted, checked, by steely-eyed immigration agents.
This was the last line of defense at the American borders. This was where illegal entrants were questioned, then grilled, then sent right back where they came from if all was not in order-passports, entry forms, visas.
At the right end of the line, where American citizens go through, things were a little more relaxed. The words “Welcome home, sir” were used often. And the agents occasionally wanted to know where a traveler had been abroad. But all U.S. passports were nonetheless scanned and checked. No fingerprints.
Correctly dressed businessmen and -women seemed always to get through quickest. America runs on business. These people always receive respect. And the very smart young woman in her late twenties, dark suit with a skirt, white blouse, computer, and briefcase, stepped confidently into the booth and handed over her passport.
She actually thought her heart might stop as the agent opened it and stared at the first page. Martin, Carla, birth date 27 May 1982, birthplace Baltimore, Maryland. The two long lines of numbers at the bottom. The picture of her, staring out.
The agent flipped to the back page and scanned the barcode through his machine. He glanced at the screen and stared at Carla’s very striking face, which looked Spanish, could have been South American. Then he stamped her officially into the USA, smiled, and said, “Welcome home, ma’am.”
Thus Carla Martin slipped into the United States of America on an exquisitely forged passport, a sensational copy of a passport belonging to another person. Only the picture showed a slight variance, but Carla’s hair was swept up in the precise manner of the original owner, and in the photograph she wore the same necklace, a pendant with a red garnet stone set into a silver loop.
When she retrieved her luggage downstairs, just one suitcase, there would be another passport tucked away inside, with only three changes: birth date, birthplace, and name. This one would be in the name of Maureen Carson, born in Michigan, a year younger. This one would be used only to exit the country. The Americans, like all other nations, are disinterested in who’s leaving. Only in who’s trying to break in.
Carla walked down the steps and waited for her suitcase. Officials with dogs were working around the baggage conveyor. When she grabbed her suitcase and lifted it onto her cart, no one took any notice. She walked to the exit door, where the customs official took her form and nodded briskly.
Outside the terminal, she waited for a few moments on the sidewalk, and then a jet-black Buick pulled up alongside her. The driver stepped out and opened the rear door before loading her luggage into the trunk.
When he was back behind the wheel, Carla said quietly, “Thank you, Fausi. Am I ever glad to see you!”
“Was it nerve-racking?”
“Very. I was terrified he’d notice the variations in the picture. She looks a bit like me, but not that much.”
Fausi, a dark, swarthy intelligence officer at the Jordanian embassy in Washington, chuckled. “I knew you’d hold your nerve. And everything was on your side. All the numbers, codes, and details in that passport were absolutely correct and legal.”
“I know. But the photograph was my weak point. What if he’d noticed, accused me of being a different person? Arrested me? Traveling on a false passport.”
“He’d have refused you entry,” replied Fausi. “And they would have put you on the next plane back to London. It’s not a hanging offense. And you’re not a known criminal. It would just have been a plan that went wrong. Inconvenient, but not life-threatening.
“Besides, you carried with you a Carla Martin Social Security number, three Carla Martin credit cards, and a Carla Martin Maryland driver’s license. Everything was in your favor, photograph or no photograph. It was a slight risk, and you took it very well.”
“Thank you, Fausi. I’ll leave the rest of the journey to you.”
The Jordanian agent gunned the car out of Boston, straight down to the Massachusetts Turnpike and southwest to Hartford, Connecticut, and New York. Four hours later, they hit traffic coming to the Triboro Bridge, and it was almost 7:30 in the evening when Fausi pulled up outside the Pierre Hotel.
His passenger left him there, and, as the doorman took her suitcase, she called out, “Early start tomorrow.”
Fausi answered as he drove off down Fifth Avenue. “No problem, Shakira, right here, nine o’clock.”
One hour later, the beautiful Shakira Rashood walked elegantly into the Pierre Hotel’s dining room and joined a smoothly dressed Arab sitting at a corner table, nursing a glass of chilled white wine.
He stood up as she approached, smiled, and said, “So you are the legendary Shakira. I was told you were very beautiful, but the description did not do you justice.”
“Thank you, Ahmed,” she said. “I have heard many good things about you too.”
“I hope from your husband. He is a great hero, both to me and many other devout Muslims.”
“Yes,” she replied. “And he is very impressed with your work here on our behalf.”
“And now you must remember,” he said, “as we all do in the USA, to take extra care at all times. The Americans are a friendly, trusting people, but if the authorities here get a smell that something is wrong, they are absolutely ruthless in hunting down their enemy.”
“And that would be us, correct?”
“That would most certainly be us.”
The waiter poured Shakira a glass of the wine and took their order, grilled sole for both of them. She listened while Ahmed explained how his duties in the Jordanian embassy as a cultural attaché allowed him access to many American institutions.
His embassy, situated just along the road from the Israelis on International Avenue in Washington, was mostly trusted, although not by the CIA. And definitely not by Admiral Morgan. But, broadly, Ahmed was allowed access to any cultural affairs in the nation’s capital and in New York. It had been his job to set up Shakira in the correct place to carry out her mission.
And he had achieved that, more or less accidentally, by attending a recent cocktail party for a cancer charity at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, right on the Georgetown Canal behind the Watergate complex.
To his utter delight, he realized Admiral Morgan and his wife were in attendance, and he was swift to move into prime position for an introduction to Mrs. Morgan, who served on the committee. The Jordanians were often extremely generous in their support of these Washington charities.
It was obvious, in the first few moments, that the admiral was bored sideways by the small talk, and he swiftly left to speak to an official from the State Department.
It was a moment that effectively chopped several months off the preparation time General Rashood had allocated for the hit against Morgan. Because Arnold’s departure had left Ahmed sipping champagne (cheap, New York State, horrified Arnold) with Kathy Morgan.
“And were you originally from this part of the world?” he asked her.
“Well, a long time ago,” she smiled. “I was married before, and we lived for several years in Europe, but then I came home.”
“To Washington?”
“Well, to Virginia. My mother still lives there. Little country town called Brockhurst, way down near the Rappahannock River. It’s very pretty.”
“So you have a nice drive down to see her when the big city gets too much?”
“You’re right,” said Kathy. “I do like going down there. That’s where I was born, but there aren’t many people I still know. Mom’s on her own now, and she gets a bit lonely sometimes. And you?”
“Oh, I am from a place called Petra in the south of Jordan. My parents have a small hotel there.”
“Petra,” said Kathy. “I know about Petra. That’s where they discovered the lost city carved into the rock. Burial grounds, palaces, temples, and God knows what. Pre-Roman.”
“Well, that’s very impressive, Mrs. Morgan,” said Ahmed. “And you are right. There are still very important excavations taking place down there.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing that dramatic happening in Brockhurst when I go home,” said Kathy, laughing. “Just Emily working in her garden.”
“Emily?”
“Yes, that’s my mom. I always called her Emily. She’s Emily Gallagher.”
“Then you are of Irish descent,” replied Ahmed, with the skilled dexterity of an international diplomat. “Like my own mother.”
“Well, yes, I am-I was Kathy Gallagher. All four of my grandparents were immigrants from Kerry in southern Ireland. But your mother sounds really interesting.”
“Her family came from County Cork, but she met and married my father when he was a Jordanian diplomat in Dublin. He hated the weather, so they returned to Petra and bought a hotel.”
At this point, Kathy excused herself to assist the chairman with her gratitude speech, and she moved away unaware that she had been speaking to one of the most sinister, dangerous undercover terrorists in the entire United States.
Ahmed hated the West, and everything it stood for. He was a rabid extremist for Islam, though not in the front line of strikes against the Great Satan. He operated behind the scenes, and was probably Hezbollah’s most valuable intelligence gatherer. He also helped Hamas whenever he could. Ahmed was permitted to take no risks.
And now, sitting quietly in New York’s Pierre Hotel with Shakira Rashood, he would put his knowledge to work. “Take notes, but destroy them before you get on station,” he ordered. “Your mission is to befriend a Mrs. Emily Gallagher. She lives in a small town called Brockhurst, down where the Rappahannock River runs out into Chesapeake Bay.”
“Have you been there?”
“Yes. I drove down. It’s about 120 miles from Washington. But it’s a good road, Interstate 95 until you hit Route 17, then straight down the right bank of the river.”
“Did you see Mrs. Gallagher’s house?”
“I did. That part was easy. It’s a white stone colonial building on the edge of the town. I think she might be rather a grand lady. So please be extra careful. Those kinds of people are usually a lot cleverer than we may sometimes think.”
Shakira wrote carefully in a small leather-bound notebook. “Did you see her?” she asked.
“No. But I saw the house.”
“And the hotel you mentioned?”
“That’s in the center of town. Quite an old building, with a bar and a restaurant. And quite busy.”
“And I am either to stay there or work there?”
“Correct. But much better to work there if you can. I have an apartment for you about twenty miles north of Brockhurst in a new complex. It’s the penthouse on the twenty-first floor, and I have right here the lease agreement, which you must sign and present to the management when you get there.”
Ahmed reached into his pocket and produced the document, with a banker’s draft made out to Chesapeake Properties for $9,000, the amount of four months’ rent.
“That’s a lot of money,” said Shakira.
“It’s a very nice place,” replied Ahmed. “Private. Penthouse, balcony, two bedrooms, nicely furnished. Big living room, kitchen, two bathrooms, and a small utility room. The building has a doorman 24/7.”
“I probably won’t want to leave,” smiled Shakira.
“You probably will have to leave,” said Ahmed. “As we all do. In the end.”
They concluded their dinner with a cup of coffee at around 10:30. “I must go,” Ahmed said as he stood up from the table. “I have to get back.”
“To Washington?”
“Yes, I have a driver outside. We’ll make it in four hours. Remember, I’m supposed to be at the Whitney Museum for a reception this evening. I’ll be expected at my desk on time in the morning.”
Shakira thanked him for everything, but before he left, Ahmed placed on the table a long, thin cardboard box. “This is for you,” he said. “I hope you never need it, at least not during your stay in the USA.” And with that, he hurried toward the Fifth Avenue entrance and was gone.
Shakira picked up the box and made her way up to her seventh-floor room. Once inside, she opened it and stared at a long, slender Middle Eastern dagger, its blade very slightly curved, its handle set with red, green, and blue stones. There was also a brief note, written in Arabic. Shakira translated automatically-Do not under any circumstances leave your home without this. Strict orders from General Rashood. Ahmed.
Shakira smiled. I’ll keep it inside a wide belt, in the small of my back, like Ravi. And then, thankfully, she went to bed, exhausted by the tension experienced by all subversives at the start of a clandestine operation.
Almost all transatlantic passengers from Europe wake up at some ungodly hour on their first morning in the United States, mainly because at five o’clock in the morning on the East Coast, it’s 10 A.M. in London, and the body clock has not yet adjusted.
Shakira was awake at 5:30 and spent the next couple of hours watching television, trash on three channels, which she loved. By eight o’clock, she was having a light breakfast of orange juice, fruit, and coffee. By 9 A.M., she was outside waiting for Fausi, who was right on time.
They headed down Fifth Avenue, slowly in the morning traffic, and crawled their way west toward 10th Avenue and the Lincoln Tunnel. The traffic pouring through into the city from New Jersey was extremely heavy, but not too bad outward-bound.
The line for the tunnel was slow; but once inside, everything sped up. Fausi accelerated into New Jersey, collected his toll ticket, and headed fast down the turnpike. They were past Philadelphia in ninety minutes, past Baltimore in three hours, and around Washington heading south in four.
Just after 1 P.M., they stopped for gas and coffee; then, with a little over a hundred miles in front of them, they set off for Brockhurst, arriving there after a drive on a narrow, winding road in hot, clear weather at 4:35.
Fausi parked the car on a deserted street six hundred yards from the Estuary Hotel, and Shakira, who was dressed in light blue jeans, an inexpensive white shirt, and flat shoes, walked the short distance.
The front door of the Estuary led into a wide, rather dark interior hall, carpeted in dark red. There was a long wooden reception area, behind which was a middle-aged man, fiftyish. To the left was an obvious bar, with the same carpet, soft lighting, and bar stools. It was completely deserted. To the right was the dining room/restaurant, with a desk at its entrance. Unoccupied.
Shakira looked doubtful. No customers. They wouldn’t need any staff. Nonetheless, she walked hesitantly to the front desk and said, politely, “Good afternoon.”
The man looked up, smiled, and asked, “And what can I do for you?”
“Well,” said Shakira, “I am looking for a job, here in Brockhurst, and I wondered if you had a vacancy. I can do almost anything-maid, waitress, receptionist.”
The man nodded and stood up. He offered his hand and said, “Jim… Jim Caborn. I’m the manager here. And you?”
“I’m Carla Martin. It’s nice to meet you.” Shakira had been well versed in American niceties.
“Well, Carla,” said the manager, “I’m afraid I don’t have anything right at the moment. However, I do have a barman leaving in a week. Can you do that kind of thing?”
“Oh, yes. I worked in a bar in London for three months. Does this place get busy?”
“All the time,” replied Jim. “From about 5:30 in the evening onward. And especially on weekends in the summer.” He stared at her very beautiful face and swept-back raven hair, and wondered about her background; he asked, “Do you have an American passport?”
“Oh, yes. I’m American. I’ve just been away for a few months.”
“And what brings you here to Brockhurst?”
“I’m visiting an aunt near here in a little place called Bowler’s Wharf, and I think this is the nicest and biggest town.”
“Honey, it’s not Washington, trust me.”
Shakira smiled. “Well, I like it. And I’m fed up with big cities.”
“Listen, Carla, running a bar in a busy place like this is not easy. You understand how quick and accurate you have to be, and how you must understand the drinks, and the cocktails, and be able to make Irish coffees and all that.”
“Jim, I worked in a really busy bar in Covent Garden-that’s downtown London. But if you will employ me, I’d be happy to put in a week, at my own expense, working with the man who’s leaving. That way I’d be organized for when I was on my own.”
The offer of free help almost tipped the balance with this hotel manager. But not quite. He had one more question. “Do you need to live in the hotel?” he asked.
“Oh, no. I’ll go back to my aunt’s house. I have a small car.”
“Okay,” said Jim, who was surprised she had not mentioned money. “I’ll pay you four hundred bucks a week. I have to deduct taxes off the top, but you keep whatever tips you get. When do you want to start?”
“How about tomorrow?” she said.
“That’ll be fine. I’ll need your Social Security, a look at your passport, and references if you have any. If you don’t, give me a couple of numbers I can call.”
Shakira told him that was not a problem, and returned to the car for the documents. Fausi was asleep, as well he might have been after the long drive from New York. She retrieved the passport and SS card and reached into her bag for the correct references, all of which had been beautifully forged by the same man who did her passport in the depths of the Syrian embassy in London’s Belgrave Square.
She selected two that pertained to her skills behind a bar. She had others for her work as a housekeeper in a country hotel; others for her efforts as a maid; a couple for her prowess as a waitress; and three more for secretarial jobs, not one of which she had ever held.
The two she chose for Jim Caborn were from the Mighty Quinn Bar in London’s Neal Street, Covent Garden. It was written on letterhead and assured the reader that Miss Martin was truthful, honest, hardworking, and always punctual. The other was from the Hotel Rembrandt, in Buckingham Gate, where Miss Martin had managed the downstairs bar, and again it testified to her reliability.
It was all plenty good enough for Jim, who made careful notes on a blue file index card and gave everything back to Shakira. “See you tomorrow,” he said. “You can work the 4 P.M. ’til eleven o’clock shift. That’s when you’ll learn the most.”
Shakira thanked him. They shook hands. And Jim watched her admiringly as she walked out. He was pleased with his new recruit, and was blissfully unaware that he had just hired the most dangerous woman in the United States.
Outside, she paused to assess her surroundings. The Estuary Hotel had stone white walls with mock Tudor beams, and it stood on a corner of the main street, which ran down to an area on the banks of the Rappahannock and then swerved around to the right.
Shakira guessed that from the top floor of the hotel there would be a view right across the wide river, as indeed there was from the parking lot of the supermarket that was situated on the opposite side of the main street.
Brockhurst had been here for a long time, and developers had taken care to protect its original character. There were many newish buildings, deliberately constructed to reflect the early twentieth century. There was the usual number of real estate agents and boutique gift shops. This little town attracted visitors all through the warm months. And the only place in town to stay was the Estuary, which had twelve rooms with baths in the main building and an outside annex with a dozen more.
Shakira walked around to the back of the hotel. There was a parking area in the rear, big enough for a large delivery truck to unload supplies. The street that ran along the side of the hotel was narrow and lonely. There were two small stores, one selling hardware, the other children’s clothes.
More certain of her bearings now, she walked back to the car and woke Fausi, who was asleep again. She climbed into the backseat. “Get moving,” she said. “I’ve just been hired, but I’m not living here. I start tomorrow afternoon.”
“Beautiful,” replied Fausi. “Now I’ll take you to your new home.” He turned the car north, and they drove back up Route 17 for a couple of exits and then swung down a tree-lined road to a new apartment block, cleverly set back into surrounding woodland.
The sign at the entrance said CHESAPEAKE HEIGHTS, which was interesting since the land in this part of the Virginia peninsula, which lies between the Rappahannock and York rivers, was almost geometrically flat.
It was 6:30 now, and the light was just beginning to fade. Shakira signed her lease, paid the money, and moved into the top-floor apartment. Fausi went off to buy her some groceries, just regular stuff: bread, milk, butter, preserves, cold cuts, eggs, fruit juice, rice, a few spices, cheese, Danish pastries, apples, grapes, peaches, and coffee. He delivered them in a couple of big boxes, one at a time.
“Will you need me tonight?” he asked, conscious of his 24-hour duties as Shakira’s driver, bodyguard, and personal assistant.
“No,” she replied. “But I’d like to make a tour of the area tomorrow morning. How about 10:30?”
“No problem,” he said. “I’d better get moving.”
Fausi was staying in a small hotel twelve miles away. His own anonymity was as important as hers. Nothing should connect them. Nothing should suggest that he was some kind of a boyfriend, or even a colleague. Nothing that would ever give any law enforcement officials the slightest clue as to the identity, or whereabouts, of either of them. Even the license plate on Fausi’s car was false.
In the ensuing weeks, he planned never to come to the main entrance of the apartment block, never even speak to the doorman, never enter the Estuary Hotel, or even park within its precincts. Fausi was a ghost, just as much as Carla Martin was.
Shakira utilized the first three days of her trial run behind the bar to familiarize herself with the locals. She quickly located the home of Mrs. Emily Gallagher, and once, parked along the street in Fausi’s car, she caught a good look at the lady as she tended her roses along the post-and-rail fence of her front yard.
She also watched when Mrs. Gallagher took her dog for a walk. He was a big, rather fluffy golden retriever and usually looked as if he were taking her for a walk, rather than the other way around.
On her fourth night in the bar, a fairly quiet Monday, the regular barman took off early, and Shakira, wearing her name tag with CARLA inscribed on it, had her first real break: Mrs. Gallagher came into the hotel with a friend and entered the dining room. At 10 P.M., she and the friend walked across the hall to the bar, where Mrs. Gallagher ordered two Irish coffees, which Shakira made.
At 10:20, the friend left, and Mrs. Gallagher stayed to order one more regular coffee. There were only two other people still in the bar, and Shakira ventured to ask the elderly lady whether she had enjoyed her dinner.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I always have a grilled piece of sea bass here on Mondays. They get a fish delivery here, my dear, at noon, straight from the wharf down at Gloucester Point. It’s always delicious.”
“They didn’t offer me any,” said Shakira, laughing.
“Oh, I’m not surprised,” said Mrs. Gallagher. “Between you and me, that Caborn character is frightfully mean-spirited. He probably said you could have a cheeseburger.”
“Meatloaf,” said Shakira. And they both laughed.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” said Mrs. Gallagher.
“Yes. I just started on Friday.”
“Well, I hope you stay for a while. Most of them don’t, you know. That’s the trouble with the young. Very restless, don’t you think? No time to enjoy anything.”
Shakira moved to her right at this point, to serve a final drink to the remaining two customers, residents of the hotel, and then returned to Mrs. Gallagher, who was preparing to leave.
Before she went, she said to Shakira, “My name, by the way, is Emily Gallagher. I usually come in on Thursdays as well, so I expect I’ll see you again. Good night, my dear.”
“Good night, Mrs. Gallagher.”
“Oh please, Carla, call me Emily. Otherwise you’ll make me feel ancient.”
There seemed to be no question of anyone paying a bill, so Shakira just ignored it, and assumed, correctly, the check would be added to some kind of monthly account.
And with a friendly little wave, Emily Gallagher left her longtime local hostelry for the short 200-yard walk, straight up the well-lit main street, to her home.
Shakira smiled a smile of pure contentment.
The following morning, Fausi dropped her off in the main part of the town. She shopped in the supermarket, placed her packages in the car, and asked Fausi to meet her at one o’clock. She walked toward Mrs. Gallagher’s house, and at 11 A.M., right on time, she watched the old lady come out of the house with her dog on his leash.
Timing her walk perfectly, she arrived at the front gate twenty yards behind, and noticed how difficult it was for Emily to control the bounding big retriever. Catching up quickly, she said, “Good morning, Emily. Would you like me to help you with this ridiculous person? What’s his name?”
Emily Gallagher turned around, and laughed when she saw who it was. “Oh, it’s you, Carla. You’re right. He is ridiculous, and his name’s Charlie.”
“He’s very good-looking,” said Shakira, “and handsome people get away with a lot.”
Charlie, sensing, as dogs do, that he was in the presence of another friend, turned to Shakira and planted his front paws on her belt, his tongue lolling out, his tail wagging fiercely.
She reached for the leash and said, “Let me take him. I’ll walk with you for a while.”
Emily looked relieved. “He is a terrible handful,” she said. “But I’ve had him for seven years now, and I would miss him terribly. He is a good companion for me, now that I’m alone. I usually take him about a mile down here, to the bend in the river.
“Last week, he got loose and jumped into the river. I thought he’d end up in Chesapeake Bay. But he just swam back to the shore and soaked me, shaking water everywhere.”
Shakira shook her head. “He’s almost too big for you,” she said, firmly pulling Charlie into line.
“I know he is,” replied Emily. “And, you know, if I ever miss a day taking him for a walk, he gets so boisterous, rushing around the house, knocking things over.”
Carla smiled and said, “Well, I love dogs, and I love walking. Would you like me to take him out sometimes?”
“Oh, my dear, that would be such a huge help. But would you mind? I hate to be a nuisance.”
“No, I should like it very much. I don’t have many friends around here yet. And he is the most gorgeous dog.”
Thus Carla Martin and Emily Gallagher became firm friends. Carla walked Charlie, three or four times a week, sometimes with Emily and sometimes not. Sometimes she had a cup of tea with the old lady before starting her shift at the Estuary, and occasionally they had lunch together.
Meanwhile, at the hotel she had become extremely popular, particularly with a youngish crowd who were in the hotel bar three or four times a week, always on Thursdays and Fridays, sometimes on Saturdays, and always on Sunday nights.
Despite all her efforts to play down her obvious charms with loose sweaters, wide skirts, flat shoes, no makeup, and her hair tied back in a plain ponytail, Shakira could not avoid attracting the attention of young men.
Among the group she saw most was Rick, the local computer engineer; Bill, whose father owned the supermarket; Eric, who had inherited one of the local building firms; Herb, who ran a photographic business; and Matt Barker, who had built and owned the local garage and Toyota dealership. Matt was older, maybe thirty-four.
The best-looking was Eric, twenty-four, divorced and the local golf club champion. Rick was the most studious and well-informed; Bill was the richest; Herb was showy and overconfident, with not much money but a lot of ambition to work in New York in fashion; and by far the most consistent in his admiration for Shakira was Matt Barker, who drove a Porsche and asked her to have dinner with him every time he saw her.
Shakira used all of her guile to remain remote from them. She hinted at a serious boyfriend in London; she always closed the bar by 11:30 and left by the back door, running swiftly across the parking lot and around the corner into a dark street, where Fausi awaited her, engine running.
She never said she was leaving, and her routine was not varied. She always pulled on a pair of short leather driving gloves, which she knew suggested she had her own car, and in turn that would discourage anyone from asking if they could drive her home. And once the gloves were on, she just slipped away, leaving the security to the night porter who supervised the last nonresidents, seeing them out, and then locking up.
After a couple of weeks, she became a woman of mystery. The guys used to ask each other, “When did she go? Which way did she go? She never even said good night.”
And she never would. Shakira had no intention of being alone outside the hotel with this high-spirited but well-mannered group of young bucks, the well-heeled middle-range stratum of Brockhurst society.
On busy nights, there were often girls from the town in the bar, but they tended to be those whose education or background had not taken them to a good university and on to Washington or New York. And Matt Barker and his guys had no serious interest in dating also-rans.
They had no idea who Shakira was (she thanked God), but they definitely knew she was not an also-ran. There was a poise about her, an aloof quality, like someone with more important things on her mind. And boy, did she have important things on her mind.
And every time the group came in, one of them, sooner or later, asked her out. With Bill and Eric it was slightly frivolous; Rick and Herb seemed earnest and genuinely were looking for more permanent girlfriends. Matt Barker, however, from across the bar, was falling in love.
Shakira determinedly kept him at arm’s length, spending less time chatting to him than she did with the others, but sensing him watching her, admiring her, wanting to talk to her.
He was a big man, always well dressed, clean-shaven, with longish blond hair. At first sight, he could easily have been mistaken for a city lawyer or financier, except for his big hands, which were slightly rough from years of grappling with car engines, brakes, and chassis.
“Hi, Miss Carla,” he would say when he walked in. “Have you changed your mind about me yet?”
Shakira did not wish to offend him, and she tried to be evasive… oh, you know I can’t, Matt… I’m very involved with someone… I might even be married before the end of the year.
Matt did not buy it. He sensed she was alone, and at times, late at night after a few beers, he found her the most sexually alluring woman he had ever seen. He would stand looking at her back, watching the firm tilt of her hips as she hurried about her duties. Matt actually dreamed about her, dreamed she was naked in his arms, imagined the feel of her, longed for the moment when she agreed to go out with him, as he believed she would. One day.
But night after night, she always slipped away, vanishing into the dark, leaving Matt bereft of the only woman he believed he could ever love. The trouble was, Matt believed Carla Martin was simply playing hard to get, and that she too lay in bed at night thinking of him in a similar light. Which was about eight hundred light-years from the truth.
It was a Monday morning when Shakira finally hit pay dirt. She called at Mrs. Gallagher’s house to collect Charlie and went in for a cup of coffee. She sensed that Emily was about to ask her for a favor, and her instincts did not let her down.
“Carla, my dear,” she said, “I have been so terribly worried. My daughter has asked me to look after her dog for a month, and very foolishly I said yes. But I just don’t think I can cope, not by myself.”
“Name and make?” asked Shakira.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Name and make?” repeated Shakira, laughing. “Of the dog, I mean.”
“Oh, how foolish of me,” chuckled Emily. “He’s called Kipper. A King Charles spaniel. My son-in-law says he’s as silly as a sheep.”
“Has he been here before?”
“Oh, yes. Lots of times. He’s really quite charming, nothing like so boisterous as Charlie, nor so greedy. Of course, he’s considerably smaller.”
“Emily, I don’t think you should be let loose on the public road with two dogs in hand. Especially since one of them’s Charlie.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s true. And I was almost afraid to ask you, but do you think you could help? I’d pay you to do this.”
“Of course I will. When do we expect Kipper to make his appearance?”
“Four weeks from today. That would be Monday, July 30, the day Kathy and her husband are leaving. She’s delivering Kipper, then taking the evening flight to London.”
“So you enter this two-dog frenzy the next day?” Shakira had learned everything she knew about humor from Ravi, and he learned it at Harrow. For an Arab, she really could be quite droll.
“Well, yes,” said Emily. “By that Tuesday morning, I will probably be at my wits’ end. Could you possibly be here early that morning? Just to help me get them under control.”
“Of course,” replied Shakira. “I usually come at eleven. While you have both dogs, I’ll be here at ten, starting July 31.” She produced her little leather-bound notebook and wrote in the dates. On the previous page were the words: TARGET EMILY GALLAGHER. Brockhurst, Virginia.
Shakira sat back and sipped her coffee, glancing up just once at a framed photograph she had seen before. “Is that your daughter there, in the photograph?” she asked.
Mrs. Gallagher picked up the picture and smiled. “Yes, that’s Kathy,” she said.
“Gosh, she’s pretty,” said Shakira, looking at the wedding-day picture, which showed Arnold and Kathy standing outside the offices of the justice of the peace who had married them in Washington.
“When was this?”
“Oh, just five years ago,” said Emily.
“Then it must have been a second marriage,” smiled Shakira. “No girl can be that pretty and remain single for that long.”
“You’re correct. Kathy was married before. He was rich but a frightful, selfish man. I’m just so glad she’s found real happiness now. Her husband is not everyone’s type, but he makes her happy. And I like him very much.”
“Are they going somewhere wonderful after Kipper gets dropped off?” said Shakira.
“Well, I never really know where they are,” replied Emily. “He’s some kind of very high-powered diplomat. All Kathy said was they were flying to London, staying at the Ritz Hotel for a few days, and then going to Scotland.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad,” said Shakira.
“Indeed it doesn’t. The Ritz! It always reminds me of that English war-time song ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’-that line, There were angels dining at the Ritz.”
Shakira looked thoughtful. Mrs. Gallagher really was the most charming lady, kind, generous, and so proper. For a split second, she wondered how she could possibly be sitting here in this lovely house, subversively planning to have Emily’s son-in-law murdered.
But again she forced herself back to The Cause, to remember the terrible plight of the Palestinians. The poverty, the suffering, the lack of medical supplies, the cruel arrogance of the Israelis, and above all the hatred, the hatred of the Great Satan, and her husband’s unflinching view that the West must be driven out of the Middle East forever and that Israel must be destroyed.
Of course, Mrs. Gallagher had nothing to do with any of this. But she was part of America, that monstrous nation that had somehow crushed her own and now stood smiling with its great white teeth, basking in its inestimable wealth, sucking the underground wealth of the Arab nations dry, while her own people lived and died on the precipice of destitution.
Ravi had been definite. America must be attacked, because they will take notice of nothing else. Americans react badly to loss of life, and they really hate loss of assets and loss of money. They are not true warriors, though they have highly efficient armed services and a truly devastating arsenal of high-tech weaponry.
But they will be brought down: perhaps not defeated, but forced to retreat behind their own borders, leaving the Muslims to create a new empire stretching from the Horn of Africa to the Atlantic. That remained Ravi’s dream and the dream of the ayatollahs, and the imams, and all the holy men.
That is the will of Allah, and that is the stated opinion throughout the Koran… Death to the infidel. And right here she, Shakira, was, sitting with one of them, the matriarch of the family of the man most feared by the Middle East’s jihadists-Admiral Arnold Morgan.
Yes, she would carry out her mission. She would inform Ravi of precisely where he could locate the admiral. And although she would not wish personal harm to Emily Gallagher, neither would she forget her purpose in this life. Which was to carry out the will of Allah… Allah is great.
She glanced at her watch. It was time for prayers. Which way was Mecca? To the east, out across the river. And Shakira turned toward the window, feeling, unaccountably, the deep comradeship and belief of the Muslim world holding her within its cocoon. Allah, she knew, would forgive her for failing to pray this morning, sitting here with this infidel, so long as she was carrying out His work.
“A penny for your thoughts, Carla,” said Emily. “What about some more coffee, and one of these cookies?”
“Oh, gosh, thank you,” she replied. “I think I was daydreaming. This is such a comfortable house.”
No sooner had the word “cookie” been uttered than Charlie came thundering toward them from four rooms away.
Shakira took charge. She stood up and said, “CHARLIE. SIT DOWN.” Charlie sat. “I give you one little piece, if you behave.” Charlie wagged his tail in anticipation. “But if you jump on me, or your mistress, and spill coffee, you’re not getting anything.”
Charlie, who plainly understood English, looked inordinately sad, cocking his head to one side in that timeless stricken pose of the retriever, which suggested that he had been given nothing to eat for at least a year. Shakira’s heart melted. And she gave him a cookie. Charlie crunched it instantly, swallowed the lot, and readopted the stricken pose.
“I’d better take you out,” said Carla, who then turned to Emily and said, “It looks a little like rain. Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll just take him to the river? Back in forty-five minutes.”
As she gathered up the dog leash and clipped it on, Mrs. Gallagher looked at her quizzically. She had noticed, as educated people often will, one tiny slip in Carla’s diction; the mistake of a foreign person. She had said, “I give you one little piece, if you behave.” Not, correctly, “I will give you one little piece.” Future conditional.
It was not much, but Mrs. Gallagher could not help wondering if Carla had perhaps had one foreign parent, or had been brought up somewhere else with English as her second language. One thing she did know, however, was that “I give you one little piece” was not the diction of a proper American national.
It was, of course, in the great scheme of things, completely irrelevant. Shakira Rashood had already accomplished her mission on behalf of the fanatical warriors of Hamas. And she had completed it right here in Brockhurst, courtesy of Emily Gallagher.
The Ritz Hotel, check-in Tuesday morning July 31, until Thursday morning August 2. Admiral and Mrs. Arnold Morgan. No problem.
Outside on the street, Shakira walked briskly, all the way along to the bend in the river, where she entered the little park that Charlie loved and stared across to the far bank, easterly.
The park was deserted, and she began to whisper-
Allahu akbar…
Ash hadu an la ilaha Allah…
Ash hadu an-an Muhammadar rasulul-lah…
La ilaha ill Allah…
No one could hear. Except for Charlie. And even he did not understand that.
It was, of course, the 1,400-year-old prayer of devotion from the Koran:
God is most great.
I bear witness there is none worthy of worship but God. I bear witness that Mohammed is the Prophet of God.
There is no Deity but God.
She unclipped Charlie and stood for a few moments. Then she quoted, quietly in English, direct from the Koran, the words of Allah as stated by the Prophet: Remember me. I shall remember you! Thank me. Do not be ungrateful to me. You who believe, seek help through patience and prayer.
At this point, Charlie charged straight into the Rappahannock, and Shakira ran to the bank, shouting at him in words that may not have been entirely understood by the Prophet. But they were understood by Charlie, who charged back out again, shook himself, absurdly, all over Shakira’s jeans, and then went back into the river again.
Finally he came out, shook himself again, and allowed himself to be clipped back onto the leash and walked home. He was, however, such a wreck with river water and mud that Shakira took him to the garden hose, washed him, and left him outside to dry.
Emily came out and said, “I suppose he ran into the river again, Carla. I’m so sorry to put you to all this trouble. Are you staying for lunch?”
The familiarity between them was now complete. And Shakira felt almost sad that soon she would leave and never again see this calm, pretty American house. And she found herself wondering if she and Ravi would be happy here together. But that was impossible, and Carla politely declined lunch and said she would see Emily in the evening at the hotel.
Somewhat wistfully, she walked back to the center of town, where Fausi had the car waiting, to drive her to a lonely spot down on the estuary of the river, where she could make contact on her cell phone with the High Command of Hamas.
She had already chosen the place. A near-deserted beach down near Grey’s Point, ten miles south of Brockhurst. The land was flat. The road was hardly used, and indeed petered out into a sandy track as it neared the water. She would stand right there and make the satellite call on one of the most expensive phones of its type in the world, with the American T-Mobile service. No mistakes for the 21st-century terrorist.
Fausi dropped her off at the point where the beach road dissolved into sand. Shakira walked for a couple of hundred yards down to the water, then began punching in the numbers for the house where Hamas kept a 24-hour communications center, and where she hoped Ravi would be, to know she was safe.
The house was situated south of Tel Aviv because the Gaza phone system was so unreliable. Israel itself has always been rather shaky at telecommunications, but it was a whole lot better than Gaza.
Shakira dialed the country code-011-972-then three for the area south of Tel Aviv, then the secret number. There was no reply until an answering machine clicked in. Shakira spoke in her well-practiced operative’s voice, much the same as Ramon Salman had done from Boston to Syria almost six months before: Virginia calling-the Ritz Hotel, London, Tuesday, January 31, to Thursday, February 2. Not another word. No clues, no indications, nothing to reveal Shakira’s personal plans, nothing to identify the target. Plus the usual Hamas code for months-six forward-thus July becomes January, and August turns into February.
If there had been a wiretap on the Hamas phone south of Tel Aviv, that message would have revealed only inaccurate information. But there was no tap. And that message almost caused the roof to fall in, so incendiary were its ramifications.
Because General Rashood would now have to enter England, which was almost catastrophically difficult. Air travel was out of the question. Ravi was one of the most wanted men on earth. If he presented any passport, forged or genuine, at Heathrow’s immigration desk, the computer would probably explode.
A clandestine landing by sea was no less hazardous. The new antidrug culture had put the entire British Coast Guard on red alert. There were Royal Navy ships patrolling the English Channel like bloodhounds. Every radar dish, civilian or military, was sweeping the coastline for intrusive small aircraft.
There was only one way in, only one that carried an acceptable risk, and that meant Ravi had to move very fast. As it happened, he was in the house when Shakira called, and he wished fervently that he could speak to her. But he knew better, and he tried to shut her from his mind as he prepared for the immediate conference of the Hamas High Command and the two visiting senior members of Hezbollah. It was 9:30 in the evening.
Shakira arrived back at Chesapeake Heights at around 2 P.M. Fausi dropped her off and drove away. She greeted the doorman and made her way to her top-floor apartment. The day was hot but cloudy, with a slight but increasing breeze that might easily turn into a thunderstorm.
She made herself a sandwich of roast beef and goat’s cheese and houmus on the bread. It gave it an offbeat Middle Eastern flavor, and it made her homesick, and she wondered if she and Ravi would ever make it home together.
But most of all, she wondered where he was and what his plans were. She had, she knew, fulfilled the relatively easy part of the Hamas scheme. All she wanted was to be with him again, and to help him in his mission and protect him if she could.
She took a chair out onto her wide penthouse balcony and sat reflectively, staring out over the wide green treetops toward the river. She knew so little of this evil country. All she knew was the great highway that had brought her from Boston to Brockhurst, to this peaceful place with its wide river and warm climate.
She had met with only friendliness here. The cheerful officer in the Boston immigration booth, who had welcomed her home; the big doorman at the Pierre who had carried her bag; Freddy, the nice, helpful doorman downstairs here; agreeable, trusting Jim Caborn, her boss; and her new best friend, Emily.
So far as she could tell, America was very short of archvillains, the kind her husband always railed about. But she had never really been anywhere until she met Ravi, and he had taught her almost everything she knew.
She supposed he must be right about America. But she had not seen anything yet, firsthand, to suggest a terrible land populated by ogres like Admiral Morgan. No, she had definitely not seen any of those.
She ate her lunch thoughtfully, and drank some fruit juice. And she wondered how and when she should extricate herself from here before going to meet Ravi. She most certainly would not tell Emily she was going, which would leave the old lady in a bit of a spot when Kipper arrived. Not, however, in so bad a spot as the one in which Kipper’s master, Admiral Morgan, might shortly find himself.
Shakira would have liked to say a proper good-bye to Emily and perhaps make plans to stay in contact. But that could never happen. The truth was, if she just vanished, it would take maybe a day, or even two, before anyone even realized she had gone. If she announced her departure, a lot of people would know she was leaving before she even started. No, the only way was to vanish, and she had to organize that.
Her cell phone rang, and she rushed back into the apartment to retrieve it from her handbag and answer it. There could be only one person in all the world calling that number, but she knew he would not be there personally.
She pressed the receiving button and heard a voice recording. It intoned only a dozen words: Dublin. Ireland. The Great Mosque in Clonskeagh. 1700. July 16 to 18. The line went dead.
And Shakira clicked off the phone. The message had, she knew, been overheard by no one. And it meant she must be in Dublin by the evening of July 15. That was a week from Sunday. She must be on her way, on a flight from the USA by Friday night, July 13, at the latest.
She plugged her computer into the Internet connection and decided the best flights were Aer Lingus. She was flying first-class, and her very expensive ticket could be switched to another airline, from British Airways, which did not fly direct to Dublin.
She returned to the balcony with a new glass of fruit juice. And she sat there for a half hour, reading one of the celebrity magazines she so loved and wondering if Emily and Charlie would ever think of her.
In her mind, there were two people, two Mrs. Rashoods: the Shakira who tried to be polite and helpful, the one Emily had grown fond of; and then there was the other Shakira, the assassin’s ruthless assistant. She did not like to think of herself as one and the same.
General Rashood was invited to chair this meeting as the most senior member of the Hamas military. Once more, they were seated on cushions in the whitewashed situation room in the basement of the walled house off Omar el-Mokhtar Street.
He opened the discussion by pointing out that in the short time that had passed since he had first seen the Washington Post story on Admiral Morgan, there had been a serious uproar in the liberal media back in the USA. People were beginning to ask important questions about the presence of Arnold at the right hand of the president.
They had trotted out all the predictable platitudes: Just who does this admiral think he is? Why does a modern USA require this aged Cold Warrior? Is Arnold Morgan leading us back to gunboat diplomacy? Just how dangerous is this ex-nuclear submarine commander? President Bedford must explain to the American people… If Arnold Morgan wants this much influence, he should run for office.
The television networks seized upon the theme. Political “forums” were established specially to wreck the admiral’s reputation. And very quickly, the Arab al Jazeera television station leaped onto the bandwagon with such “documentaries” as The Terrorist-Buster in the White House-an in-depth look at President Bedford’s Hard Man.
General Rashood was as utterly disinterested in this outpouring of indignation in the USA as Admiral Morgan was himself, regarding all media journalists as a bunch of know-nothing, half-educated, hysterical charlatans. Or worse.
What concerned the general was the intelligence between the lines: that Admiral Morgan had indeed been the principal force that sent three of the top Hamas field officers to Guantánamo Bay, probably for the rest of their lives. That there was a definite chance that the suicide Boeing 737, Flight TBA 62, going for the Capitol building, had been shot down by the U.S. military on specific orders from Admiral Morgan.
In General Rashood’s opinion, the jihadists were fighting a war against one man, and losing it. Time and again. Militarily, there was only one option. And he would carry out that option himself. They now had a time, a place, and the target. All that remained was to enter England in a thoroughly clandestine way.
Colonel Hassad Abdullah interrupted to report that the Iranian Navy had one of their Russian-built Kilo-class diesel-electric submarines in the Mediterranean, patrolling somewhere off Lebanon. It had been refueled at the north end of the Suez Canal, and its task was, essentially, to stand by to help the holy warriors of Hezbollah should they require it. The Iranians, however, would be only too delighted to help General Rashood on his mission.
This was the best possible news, because without that submarine, it would be nearly impossible to land General Rashood in the operations area. Even now, time was extremely tight. Southern Ireland was the obvious landfall for anywhere in Great Britain, although the distance was somewhat daunting. From Lebanon, it was approximately 3,900 miles by sea, straight through the Med to the Strait of Gibraltar, a distance of 2,500 miles, then 1,400 more north across the Bay of Biscay to the open Atlantic and on to the coast of County Cork.
The 3,000-ton Kilo could probably make twelve knots all the way. But she would have to run at periscope depth, snorkeling throughout the journey, to keep her massive batteries charged. That would be noisy, but unavoidable, because the diesel generators, running hard, needed air.
Her greatest strength, her stealth, would thus be compromised. Because, running deep and slow, she was a deadly quiet underwater combatant, totally silent under five knots. Undetectable, with a 3,650-horsepower electronic running capacity on a brilliantly engineered single shaft. But for this mission, speed was the deciding factor, the intention being to land Ravi somewhere on the south coast of the Irish republic on the weekend of Saturday, July 14.
From there he must make his way to Dublin, and then to England, on one of the busy ferry routes, arriving at one of the less stringently patrolled terminals. But first there was a question of arming him.
And even at the ferry ports, there was no possibility that Hamas would take the risk of sending someone through with a sniper rifle. That was the way to a British prison and certain exposure. If they caught him, the Brits would probably hang Ravi for high treason against the state. He had, after all, shot two SAS men in cold blood. His own people. In a sense.
No, he must collect his weapon in England. Collect it, use it. And somehow leave without it. There was no other course of action open to him. The details would be handed over to the Syrian embassy in London, and perhaps the rifle could be handmade in time for Ravi’s arrival.
Time, once more, would probably be pressing. So the rifle would need to be constructed in London, since there would be so little time for the ace terrorist to be running around all over England to collect and test it. The arrival of Admiral and Mrs. Morgan was cast in stone. The early morning of Tuesday, July 31. The Ritz Hotel, on Piccadilly.
And such a destination, busy, public, and always secure, would undoubtedly require a great deal of time for reconnaissance. Which, as every military man knows, is always precious and sometimes priceless. It is time seldom wasted.
The Hamas general would need to be on station, in London, by July 20. Only with that timetable could he possibly have the sniper’s rifle perfectly primed, his hiding place perfectly sited, his escape route from central London perfectly organized, and his rendezvous with the submarine timed to perfection.
The general would need a car and money, lots of it, since he might have to rent, or even buy, a space somewhere along the north side of the wide thoroughfare of Piccadilly, opposite the great hotel. Real estate in that area was scarce and astronomically priced. The Syrian embassy would be called upon to assist in this commercial end of the plot.
All this was for the elimination of one man. And there were three oil-rich Middle Eastern states involved in the planning and financing: Jordan, Syria, and Iran. But the power behind the decision was Ravi Rashood, the world-class, SAS-trained sniper-marksman, the Islamic terrorist mastermind, who would trust no one else to carry it out.
The general’s overall reasoning was simple: “Every operation we undertake against the USA will stand a 100 percent better chance of success if Admiral Arnold Morgan is in his grave. And that is where I intend to put him.”
Shakira was busy for a Monday night. The local group-Herb, Bill, Rick, and Matt Barker-were into their second beers, and there were several residents who had stopped for a drink before going into the dining room. The restaurant was filling up, the kitchen was busy, and tonight’s special, sea bass, was awaiting Emily Gallagher and her friend, for whom the same table was always reserved.
The two ladies arrived at 7:15 and made their usual stop at Shakira’s bar for a glass of white wine. At the time, Matt Barker was proposing that Shakira meet him as soon as she finished and he would take her to a beautiful spot on the water for a nightcap. The Porsche was outside.
As ever, Shakira was making her excuses to the doe-eyed Matt and was inordinately grateful for the arrival of Emily, who was watching her with an amused smile. Shakira broke away from Matt and moved quickly to pour the wine for Mrs. Gallagher, who said quietly, “I sense that young garage man is making a slight nuisance of himself?”
“Oh, he’s all right,” she replied. “But he does seem to have a crush on me.”
“It’s his age, my dear,” whispered Emily. “He’s too old to be some kind of a lovesick teenager, and too young to be a suave, wealthy, middle-aged Lothario. The trouble is, to people like us, he’ll always be a garage mechanic. Not good enough for you, Carla. Stay well clear.”
Emily offered a conspiratorial smile and retreated into the crowd. A few minutes later, Shakira saw her cross the hall into the restaurant, and thought enviously about that freshly caught baked sea bass. She had been offered only a cheeseburger for her own dinner.
But she could never, of course, betray to Jim Caborn the irritating fact that, to her, money was absolutely no problem whatsoever. She could have bought the fishing trawler, if she’d felt like it. On a mission such as hers, finance was not a consideration, not for the most wealthy of the jihadists.
Matt Barker once more stepped up to the plate. “Carla,” he said, “I really want to take you out tonight. We know each other well enough by now. And anyway, I have a little gift for you.”
“Matt,” she replied, “that is very sweet of you, and I appreciate it. But I have tried to tell you, I am engaged. There is no way I can go out with you. It wouldn’t be fair to Ray.” She spoke the name without thinking, almost without realizing; it had been her husband’s name in another life.
And anyway it did not make a shred of difference to the way Matt felt about her or his overwhelming desire for her. But he tried to hide it, shrugged, and said, “Well, okay. I just wanted you to know how much I respect you, and how much it would mean to me, if you would ever go out with me.”
“Not in this life, I’m afraid,” she said jauntily. “You need to find an unattached girl. Not someone who is planning to marry someone else.”
Matt, stung by the double-edged poison of rejection and envy, ordered another beer.
The evening wore on, and although Matt Barker and his friends were drinking only some kind of light beer, they were, all of them, showing signs of becoming increasingly drunk.
At ten o’clock, Emily and her friend returned to the bar for Irish coffee. They sat at the counter while Shakira made it, and stayed on their bar stools to drink it. Matt, noticing Shakira’s obvious fondness for the old lady, called loudly for the Irish coffees to go on his tab.
Mrs. Gallagher was far too wise to argue with a rowdy group of men who’d been drinking the entire evening, and she nodded a polite sign of thank-you to the garage owner, and then hissed to Shakira, “Don’t you dare put it on his tab.”
Slightly to her surprise, Matt Barker drained his beer, paid his check, and was the first to go. “Early start tomorrow,” he said. “Washington. Again. Still, the new Porsche knocks it off pretty sharply.”
By 10:45, there were just a few residents left. Matt’s crowd had gone, and so had Emily and her friend. Shakira was tired, and she asked the night security man to take over for the last few minutes.
Then she slipped through to the small room behind the bar, put on her short jacket and her driving gloves, and headed for the back door. She ran down the steps and across to the dark side of the parking lot, and there, waiting in the shadows, was Matt Barker.
“Oh, hi, Carla,” he said, stepping toward her. “I told you I had a little present for you, and I’m here to give it to you.” And with that, he lunged for her wrists, drawing her toward him and then ramming her against the wall.
She could feel his hot, beery breath as his right hand reached down and pulled her skirt up around her waist. He pressed against her, clamping his huge hand over her mouth. She could feel him ripping down the zipper of his pants, and suddenly thrusting his hard cock right between her legs, forcing her to sit astride him, protected only by the thin silk of her panties.
“Let’s see whether little Ray can do this to you,” he grunted, tearing her shirt, groping for her breasts. “Come on, Carla, you’ve been waiting for this. And you know it.”
She leaned back almost submissively as he tried to force her underwear aside. In his eagerness, he did not notice her right hand slipping surreptitiously behind her back, toward the thin, jeweled dagger she carried, holstered in her wide leather belt-the present from Ahmed.
Matt now cast care to the winds and used both hands to tear down her panties, and, as he did so, Shakira Rashood, aka Carla Martin, shoved the lethal dagger directly between his ribs, all the way to the hilt, cleaving his heart almost in two. It instantly went into spasm and then stopped. Ravi had shown her how to achieve that.
Then she let go and twisted away, watching Matt Barker slide slowly, face forward, down the wall. He was dead before he reached the ground. Carla rearranged her underwear and skirt, refastened the only three buttons she had left on her blouse, leaned back, and delivered an almighty kick to Matt’s twisted face. “You stupid little bastard,” she breathed.
And with that, she turned onto the side street behind the Estuary Hotel, leaving the corpse, with the dagger still protruding, lying on its side on the edge of the parking lot. There was blood on the ground now, seeping slowly out into the night.
But there was none on Shakira, who had been well taught that there is almost no risk of a killer being bloodstained if the weapon is left in the body. Knives and daggers betray people, when they are pulled-messily-out. Because they bear DNA samples, not to mention fingerprints. Shakira’s dagger would betray nothing, thanks to her driving gloves.
Those had been Ravi’s idea. “You are armed at all times,” he had told her. “So you must always wear your gloves when you are alone at night. That way, you can eliminate your enemy and leave behind no clues.”
The unlit side street was deserted, and Shakira walked swiftly without breaking into a run. When she swerved onto a piece of waste ground, she could see the Buick, engine running.
Fausi looked up at her and sensed in the dark that she was slightly disheveled. He jumped out and opened the door for her.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing much,” she replied.
“Someone attacked you?”
“Afraid so. One of those local guys tried to rape me in the parking lot.”
“So I’m guessing he’s dead?”
“Correct,” said Shakira. “He was too big for me to fight, so I had no choice. Now let’s get out of here-for good.”