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CHAPTER
48
AS DARKNESS TOOK CHRISTMAS DAY, THERE WERE ONLY FIVE FOOD PLACES open inside Union Station: Pizzeria Uno on the mezzanine level; McDonald’s and Sbarro, in the northeast and northwest corners of the station; and Great Wraps and Nothing But Doughnuts on the lower level, northwest side.
Hala bought a gyro at the Great Wraps and devoured it, thinking that this might well be her last meal. She was fine with that. Though the sandwich was mediocre at best, the spiced meat made her think of home and of Tariq barbecuing a lamb behind their house as part of the celebration for her daughter’s first birthday. It had been one of the best days of her life, and she clung to that memory as she waited for the group of Japanese tourists at the next table to get up and head to the escalator back to street level. Hala slipped in among them, carrying the Macy’s bag low enough that, she hoped, the security camera would be blocked from seeing it.
Upstairs, she plotted her way across the rear of the station, choreographing every step so the cameras would get only glimpses of her.
It was 5:47, twenty-two minutes since she’d shown her face to the cameras. She figured there was zero chance that the police had been alerted to her presence yet. That meant at least twenty-five minutes before there could be any direct response. She added ten, maybe fifteen minutes because of the snow, and decided that she’d see the first indication of law enforcement somewhere around 6:25.
Hala headed east through the station, passing the dark entrance to the MARC suburban rail lines on her left and the staircase down to Amtrak gates A through L. With the rear of the ticket counter to her right, she glanced overhead at the board giving approximate times of train arrivals and departures.
The Northeast Corridor Acela Express 2166 was leaving for New York City and Boston in fifteen minutes, approximately four hours late. The next Acela was due to leave at 6:50, also several hours late. But the Crescent, heading south to Atlanta and New Orleans, was only thirty minutes behind, scheduled to depart at 7:30.
Perfect.
Hala pushed on, weaving in and out of the crowd, doing her best to keep other people close to her as she headed to the McDonald’s, which was jammed. She slid into the crowded restaurant, skirting those waiting to order, and grabbed a small soda cup someone had left on an empty table.
She transferred the cup to her left hand, paused a moment, and then brought her right index finger to her lips, moistened it with her tongue, and reached into her coat pocket. Her finger found a clear pharmaceutical capsule that stuck to her saliva. She waited until the soda counter cleared, then angled quickly at it.
Hala moved the cup to her right hand, the capsule still stuck to her finger. She held the cup up to the Coke nozzle, pressed on the lever, and filled the cup halfway. Pleased to sense no one in line behind her, she acted as if she were waiting for the fizz to settle and moved the cup slightly left, giving her right finger access to the bottom of the nozzle.
Hala crammed the capsule up into the dripping nozzle, felt it lodge, and quickly moved her hand away. She pressed the water lever, rinsed her finger in case the enzymes in her saliva had made the capsule leak, and headed toward the customers waiting to order, not once looking back.
She stood there at the end of the line closest to the exit into the rail station, imagining the poison melting up in the nozzle, imagining someone getting a Coke, trying to decide how long it might take until some people started dying and others started screaming.
CHAPTER
49
HALA AL DOSSARI IS BACK IN DC, I THOUGHT, SITTING IN THE PASSENGER seat of a blue Jeep Grand Cherokee that had come to get me.
A doctor by training, a jihadist by choice, Hala was a member of Al Ayla, the Family, a terrorist organization seeded and rooted in the kingdom of Saudi Arabia and subsequently transplanted to the United States. At the moment, Hala occupied slot number six on the FBI’s ten most wanted list, sought in connection with the poisoning of the Washington, DC, water supply the prior summer and suspected in the murders of at least six Saudi expatriates, including her late husband, Tariq.
I understood why Mahoney had called me. We’d worked together trying to catch Al Dossari after the water incident. I’d even helped construct an extensive profile of her.
But my mind would not call up the details. As we drove through the city, I stared out the windows. I couldn’t believe how much snow there was. It looked like an avalanche had hit Washington. But wreaths still hung on doors, and Christmas trees still lit windows. Seemed like everybody in the District had given up on going outside and settled in for a sweet night. Everybody, of course, except me.
When do I start saying no, I thought, instead of just reacting to whatever crisis life sends my way? When do I begin to live Alex Cross’s life? I mean really live it. Here I was, blessed with terrific kids and a grandmother who was as healthy as a twenty-year-old and as smart as the Sphinx. And then there was the miracle of Bree. I’d found someone wonderful to love me just when I’d thought romance had left me lame at the starting gate.
When was I going to have the chance to enjoy life?
I called home, wanting at least to tell Bree that I was feeling these things.
The phone at my house rang. Then it rang some more. And some more. Then the damn thing kept ringing. In my mind, I could see and hear the scene at home where that phone was ringing.
Nana Mama would most likely say something like “If you don’t want a slap on the wrist, then I advise you not to answer the phone.”
“But Nana,” Damon would say, “what if it isn’t Dad calling? What if it’s somebody else?”
“Well, whoever it is should have called earlier,” she would reply.
“What if it’s an emergency?”
“They should call 911.”
I hung up and then pressed Redial. The ringing started in again, and I had a vision of Nana coolly saying something along the lines of “I wonder who that could be?”
