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He wondered briefly if he would ever see his family again. His sisters could rot in hell for all he cared, but he admitted to himself he would like to see what his mother did to his father in the months and years to come, and how long his father would survive her endless tender care.
He laughed, wondering what Elizabeth thought of him now that she knew she’d defied her parents and shared her secrets and her quite lovely body with a terrorist. And not just any terrorist, but the mastermind who’d planned to blow up St. Paul’s and her along with it. What would her father have to say now? Poor Elizabeth, there would be no more jewels to pawn for her wastrel brother, but more than that, the London Times might print the whole sordid story and ruin both her and her noble family. He would watch from afar and enjoy the media free-for-all.
His stomach growled. He realized he hadn’t eaten after that late-night sandwich from room service and a bottle of wine, his favorite, which always made him sleep like a baby. He looked down at his watch. Nearly noon. He’d eat after he met with Salila.
He started whistling an old Algerian song, as he added up all the money he’d put aside into the several accounts he knew no one would ever find, buried under a tangle of intertwined corporations. It reminded him yet again that he had more than enough to relocate to Sorrento, Italy, when all of this was done, to the villa he’d bought there four years ago. It sat right on a cliff overlooking the sea, and he would put up his feet on the exquisite railing, sip his wine, and settle his soul. Only then would the Strategist slowly return to his business. It would be more difficult with the imam in prison, but his reputation as the Strategist would be enough. Their followers would fear and respect him still. Blowing apart the FBI agent who had helped send the imam to prison, along with her family, would help convince them.
He knew she alone wasn’t responsible for his lost career as one of the greatest assassins of all time, his lost jet, his lost penthouse, but killing her was a start. He hummed, picturing the bitch blown to hell.
CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT
HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Tuesday afternoon
Savich sat in his office in the CAU, waiting for his cell to ring as the half-dozen agents outside, ready with their assault gear and their Kevlar jackets, waited for his word. The wireless carrier wouldn’t locate the phones the FBI was looking for without a warrant. So he’d thrown a Hail Mary and called his friend Clint Matthews at the District Court U.S. Marshals office. The Marshals Service owned a Cessna they flew over the District when they needed to find a fugitive by tracking his cell phone. The plane carried its own imitation cell tower they called a dirtbox, which could trick cell phones below it into giving up their unique identification codes. Matthews has bragged he could find any powered-up cell phone in the area to within three feet.
Savich’s phone rang seventeen minutes after his call, and Clint was on the line, nearly hyperventilating. “We found the phone, the one that was called here in Washington. It’s in Georgetown, Savich, not a mile from where you live, in that new condo complex, the Gilmore. We got the address on Nyland Drive Northwest, even the unit number—338. You want some of our guys with you or do you have to settle for your FBI wussies?”
Savich laughed. “I owe you, Clint. Big-time.”
“Nah, if this helps net the lowlife terrorist who tried to blow up Saint Pat’s, this’ll be a huge win for all of us.”
Savich was out of his office before he’d punched off his cell.
THE GILMORE
1188 NYLAND DRIVE NW
GEORGETOWN
Tuesday afternoon
Everyone called the three side-by-side identical buildings on Nyland Drive the new Gilmore condos, though they were, in fact, built in 2003. Each was three stories high and done in mellow red brick, with parklike, beautifully landscaped grounds to attract the upwardly mobile young professionals who had bought up most of them.
There were single residences across the street, with no space between them for parking. Their owners’ cars usually lined the street, but now in the middle of the day when nearly everyone was at work, the street was mostly empty and quiet, with very little foot traffic. Savich assigned four agents to the grounds near the building and across the street, asked them to stay out of sight or blend in, though he knew it would be difficult for them to remain unnoticed for very long. He walked up three flights of Berber-carpeted stairs with Ollie and Ruth and down a long hallway to the end unit, 338. Savich hadn’t called the manager to try to bludgeon him into giving up information about who’d rented unit 338. He’d decided it was too risky. He couldn’t spare an agent to stay with the manager to make sure he didn’t call his wife or his girlfriend, or anyone else who might surprise them by showing up. They’d know soon enough who was waiting for Samir Basara.
