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“Got it.”
It looks like her call home shook up Amy, so Jeremy briefly wonders if she’ll be up to the job. That’s one thing he learned the hard way, serving in the regiment and then going over to the intelligence services: a married life was well nigh impossible, because you can never focus 100 percent on the mission when you have family responsibilities at home.
After that call to her husband, talking about their daughter, looking distracted, will Amy be a help or a burden if and when things go pear-shaped?
There’s the sound behind of metal hitting metal, and Jeremy swivels his head for a moment, sees Amy is checking over her own pistol.
He turns back, wondering why he ever had any doubts.
Chapter62
IN HERroom at the Hôtel Best Western Paris CDG Airport, Nadia Khadra is examining her luggage one last time before her flight tomorrow, from De Gaulle to JFK in America. Her silver case with the weaponized anthrax is on the blue-carpeted floor, which has several stains on it. Holding the simple black dress provided by her benefactor, Nadia takes out the leather belt with the ugly red-jeweled fastener.
She steps over to the poorly cleaned bathroom and holds the dress and belt up, looking in the mirror.
Ugly indeed—but if it gets the job done, so what? There is also a cell phone programmed with the number of her contact in Manhattan, and she appreciates the steps her sponsor has taken to make sure everything works.
She hears the roar of a jet taking off from the airport nearby. This hotel isn’t luxurious, but it’s reasonably priced and full of travelers, so there’s little chance she’ll run into anyone she knows. It also has the benefit of a free—and anonymous—shuttle service that will take her to Charles de Gaulle.
Nadia goes back and tosses the dress and belt on the bed, sits on its edge and reinspects her passport, her boarding pass, everything she needs to leave early tomorrow and fly to America.
America.
Something cool is at the back of her throat, and she imagines all of the agencies out there in America—all looking for her, perhaps: Homeland Security. FBI. CIA. New York Police Department. Can she do it? Can she?
Her hands start to tremble.
Does she have the strength?
Nadia reaches across the bed to her small brown purse, opens it, and takes out her wallet. From deep in its recesses she removes two black-and-white photos. One is of herpapyandmémèreback in Oran, smiling happily at the camera. She brushes the photo with her fingers, feeling a bond with them even though they were long gone before her birth.
And then there’s the other black-and-white photo, which she had gotten after years of research, nagging, and bribes. It’s been folded and refolded many times, and stamped on the border at the bottom edge of the photo is the wordCLASSIFIÉ.
Nadia bites her lip as she looks at the photo, which shows two dead and bloated bodies being dragged out of the Seine like so much trash by French Army personnel.
Herpapyandmémère.
She puts the photos back in her wallet and smiles as she realizes her hands aren’t shaking anymore.
In the departure lounge, waiting to be called, Rashad Hussain crosses his legs and sips his tonic water with lime, and lime only. The room is comfortable and quiet, with no blaring TVs dangling from the ceiling, broadcasting CNN International or some other nonsense.
He feels relaxed, fine, and filled with the sharp pleasure of knowing that his mission is succeeding, and that he’s ready for the next step: to go to the heart of the empire he despises most and oversee its collapse.
Another sip of the sharp, biting drink. His right arm feels stiff. Like his dear Nadia from l’Institut Pasteur, he, too, is a trusted traveler, heading out under another name.
Rashad looks around at the other first-class passengers waiting here—the “one percent of the one percent,” as some rabble-rousing newspaper writers and commentators have bitterly called them. It’s not their money or influence that should be critiqued, Rashad thinks, but their utter insulation from how the rest of the world lives.
The comfortable men and women reclining here—the bounties of the world instantly available with just the wave of a finger—have no idea that their lives are based upon a system of cruelty and oppression, with New York City its center.
A woman employee in a finely tailored suit approaches him quietly and says, “Monsieur Mohammed, it’s time.”
“It certainly is,” he says, responding quickly to his fake name. Rashad puts down his drink and rises from his chair.
Chapter63
THIS LITTLEband of not-so-merry warriors is hurtling down the M4, and I’m seeing the signs for Heathrow flash by as my stomach clenches with both fear and anticipation.
“Jer!” Felicity calls out, not moving her head. “We need to let Mini-Spit out if we want better tracking.”
