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“So you believe this Saudi businessman and philanthropist, Rashad Hussain, has designs on the United States.” He slides a finger. “Rashad, here with the vice president last November.”
Another swipe of the finger.
“Rashad, here with the Secretary-General of the United Nations.”
One more swipe.
“And here, with the head of the International Red Cross.”
“I don’t trust the photos,” I say. “I trust Jeremy.”
“Oh,” he says, smirking, and then turns back to the iPad. “I trust that you do. And I also trust that Jeremy has vengeance on his mind: to kill the man who he believed killed his own father. That may be honorable and right, but it’s not the problem of the United States.”
I say, “For Christ’s sake, Ernest, you’re giving up? Just like that?”
“No, I never give up,” he says. “I look at the facts, beyond the photos I’ve just showed you. For example, this same Rashad Hussain has been a confidential field asset for us, providing information that led us to prevent three terrorist attacks on American soil.”
I say, “You moron, he’s been fooling you—sending out sacrificial goats so you won’t respond to this latest intelligence.”
He slaps the iPad shut. “Some years ago, I had the honor of serving in Iraq with one of the finest men I’ve ever known, General Malcolm Rooney. Innovative tactician and expert in logistics. He was able to achieve his military goals during the 2003 invasion with a minimum of casualties—on both sides. And when the Iraqi army collapsed in his area, General Rooney worked very hard with the local tribal leaders to achieve some sort of peace and political autonomy.”
Ernest suddenly gets up. “And it was for nothing. Nothing! This general and his troops, they were wasted, they were stuck in a quagmire, good boys and girls getting blown up by IEDs and crippled by snipers because the intelligence agencies failed them—failed us. Every one of them. No weapons of mass destruction, we weren’t greeted as liberators, and deep down those people weren’t craving a Jeffersonian democracy.”
He heads to the door. “And when I went to work for the general at the Agency, I vowed that never again—never!—would hunches, guesses, and lousy intelligence have a hand in anything I do. Just facts.”
I say, “So what now?” I strain again at the chains. “When do you haul me onto a black flight and take me back?”
A thin-lipped smile. “How about never? How doesneversound?”
“You can’t get away with that.”
“Why not?” he says. “You’ve been smoked. You don’t exist. You’ve caused me lots of heartburn and stressful days, girl, and you’ll stay here until I get tired of punishing you.”
One more step from him and I say, “Ernest? Ask you a question?”
He’s at the door. “Why not?”
“The men and women who captured me, the ones holding me here, the ones who assaulted me while putting me in this chair.” I rattle the chains for emphasis. “Are they Agency or contract?”
“Contract,” he says. “What difference does it make?”
I say, “I guess I still have some loyalty to the Agency, despite what you’ve done to me.”
“And?”
“And when the time comes, I’m going to kill each and every one of them.”
Ernest looks at me with pity. “Aren’t you the considerate one?”
I say, “I’m not that considerate, Ernest. Because when the time comes for you, I won’t care who you’re working for.”
Chapter74
TODAY ISthe day, and Nadia Khadra is surprised at how calm she feels. She has spent her first two days in America staying at a Howard Johnson’s near the JFK airport, and despite eating at a local Burger King and McDonald’s, she still feels refreshed and ready.
She’s standing on a crowded platform at the Rockaway Park–Beach 116th Street New York subway station. In her right hand is her special metal carrying case, in her left the handle of her roll-on luggage.
Nadia glances down at the black dress she is wearing, with its leather belt and gaudy red clasp. Around her are working-class members of the Americanpetite bourgeoisie,smelly and ill-dressed, and she feels out of place wearing such a formal dress. Before leaving that dingy hotel an hour ago, she had considered wearing something else—until she thought of the mentor who had changed her life, had set her on this noble path.
