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“What is that?”
With a wide smile, he says, “According to the Americans, you are a ‘trusted traveler.’”
Rashad studies the woman sitting before him, a true beauty if she would do something with her rough complexion, trim her heavy eyebrows, and wear something more fashionable—which is why he dips back into the package once more.
He pulls out a thin white cardboard box, far enough so she can view it, and says, “I need the hand-off in Manhattan to go smoothly.”
Nadia checks out the box and says, “What is this?”
He puts the box back in. “A simple black dress, that’s all. And…” Rashad takes out a smaller paper bag and from it removes a thin black belt with a red, jewel-like fastener. “The day of your arrival, you are to wear this dress and this belt.”
“It’s rather…gaudy.”
“I know,” Rashad says. “Which is why when you arrive in Manhattan, your contact will be able to see you in the crowd. I will provide you with a cell phone with a preprogrammed number to call him, but with this bright belt there will be no chance of a missed identification. Along with your ticket are the directions to use the New York subway. It has all been arranged.”
His woman appears to consider this, then takes the bag and moves it to her side of the table.
“The contact in Manhattan…he is prepared to receive my package?”
“He is.”
Nadia looks suspicious. “Are you sure? This…material, it’s not effective if you just walk around downtown Manhattan, shaking out the bags. Or drop it off the top of the Empire State Building. You need a delivery system. A sophisticated delivery system.”
Rashad is once again impressed by the woman’s intelligence. “We have one. One that has been carefully prepared, one that will blend into the background, one that will have the right geographical penetration and get the job done.”
She asks, “Passenger aircraft? Trucks? Helicopters?”
“Close,” he says. “A transportation system, indeed.”
She thinks for a moment and says, “Trains. Subways.”
He gives her a pleased nod. He has chosen well.
“Correct.”
She glances at the bag he gave her and says, “Very well. If I may…your wrist? Did you injure it?”
Damn, this plain woman is one observant wench!
He makes a point of scratching at the bandage—pulling it free for just a moment—and says, “Ah, nothing significant. Nothing to worry about. But questions…I have just one more for you.”
“Go ahead.”
Rashad chooses his words carefully. He has gone too far and has done too much to risk it all now, but he needs to make sure this quiet, mouselike, angry woman will do her job.
“What is driving you, Nadia? What has made you do this? How—and please don’t be offended—how can I trust you to do what I have asked of you?”
His woman just stares at him, glances down at her coffee cup, and then looks back to Rashad. Her expression is a haunted one.
“My grandparents…they were from Oran, in Algeria. They came to Paris after the war. Then the Algerian War began…in 1954. My grandparents worked for the independence. In October 1961, they took part in a large demonstration, seeking peace and an end to the war.” The woman pauses, and Rashad watches her closely. He senses that he has passed her defenses and is now about to learn all.
“Do go on,” he says.
“My peaceful grandparents, my dear grandparents, they were gunned down here, in Paris. At first the police lied, as all police lie, especially from a ruling empire. Only two demonstrators were reported to have been shot. Two! It took years for the truth to come out: that more than two hundred men, women, and children had been massacred by the police, with some of their bodies tossed into the Seine.”
The fire in her eyes impresses Rashad. “Then you are not doing this as a jihad, for God?”
She nearly spits back at him. “What do I care for jihad? And I don’t believe in God. I believe in vengeance, that’s all.”
