The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (29 page)

Chicago October 30, 2003

J
on Pruitt called Cotsworth, who scrambled for Morgan’s file and his yellow notepad. Research had been dormant and that hadn’t set well with the FBI director. Then yesterday a deluge of new information began to arrive.

“I received a call from Cay’s alma mater,” Pruitt told the agent.

“That’s the University of Virginia, right?”

“Yes,” replied Pruitt. “Actually, three calls, the same day. One after the other.”

“Interesting…”

“To say the least,” replied Pruitt. “First, it was the president of the University Foundation, then the dean of the Graduate School of Architecture, then the president of the whole darn place.”

“What made you so popular?” Cotsworth asked.

“A letter arrived, sent from Wes’s attorney.”

The father sounded glum.

“Go on, sir.”

“Wes made a substantial donation to the school in Cay’s name. The letter said it was a birthday present for her.”

“How much?”

“It’s bequeathed in two parts,” Pruitt replied. “The first, a check for nine hundred thousand dollars.”

Cotsworth exhaled audibly. “That’s substantial. And the second part?”

“Life insurance.”

“The amount?” asked Cotsworth, knowing Morgan’s term policy had been increased eighteen months earlier.

“Four million,” Pruitt said. “My wife and I were rather awed with that.”

“I can imagine, sir,” agreed Cotsworth, his pen tapping the pad for a moment before continuing. “I will share…that similar amounts were donated to his hospital. Dr. Merrimac called me yesterday.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of money,” said Pruitt.

“Then there’s the half million donation to his mother’s nursing home,” commented Cotsworth, summing the numbers. The total amount of cash in discussion was less than the sale price of the townhouse. Adding the other assets, the FBI agent calculated that from the beginning Morgan had retained at least $400,000 in untraceable currency.

What the hell is he doing?
he doodled on his yellow pad.

Cotsworth waited before speaking again. The father became overwrought when talking for too long about his daughter.

“Mr. Pruitt…did Wes ever mention a desire to travel?”

“Cay wanted them to go to the Italian countryside. Because Wes worked a lot, he put off getting a passport, but he reassured her he’d get one.”

“He never applied,” replied Cotsworth.

The FBI agent couldn’t understand the reason Morgan would procrastinate.

“So, Mr. Pruitt, let me ask you again…When you two last spoke, can you think of anything else that he said?”

“Just how Connie and I were holding up, that’s all.”

Pruitt offered nothing more, and Cotsworth realized he probably wouldn’t. Try as he might, the agent had uncovered nothing that might offer some understanding about what Morgan might be doing. Pruitt’s own relationship with Morgan was a dead end. A black hole seemed to consume any information about Pruitt’s background. That usually meant only one thing: spycraft. That hunch implied the father could be the impetus behind the directive from Washington. If true, Cotsworth didn’t expect to ever learn any more.

“As you know,” the agent said, hoping a little goodwill might yield more insight in the future, “there was a box in the trunk.”

“We were told.”

“Our people have gone through it thoroughly, and I have the authority to now release it to you, if you’d like.”

“That would be appreciated.”

“I’ll send it right away,” said Cotsworth. “If you hear of anything—”

“I know,” answered Pruitt.

Their call ended.

Cotsworth whistled after cradling the receiver. “So you upped your life insurance, dished out a pile of cash, but kept a piece for yourself.”

The money was not enough for a thirty-six-year-old man to live on forever.

Why did Morgan make the insurance bequests? Did he think he was going to die?

He stared at the artist’s composite of Jimmy Laymonjaylo, then at the picture on the driver’s license. They were the same face.

The agent opened his door and yelled across the noisy office. “Does anybody have a road atlas?”

One waved above a distant desk. He took it, went back to his office, and closed the door. Creasing the binding open to the page of eastern Texas, he stared at the greater Houston area.

“Okay…No hotels, no gas receipts…no money trail for two years…”

Except the millions that showed up as donations in the last forty-eight hours…

“You abandon your car by hiding it in a public place…and quietly slip away.”

Cotsworth had reviewed days of airline passenger manifests.

“You didn’t fly anywhere.”

He expected as much.

“So why Houston? You must have checked it out before. Would explain some of that mileage.”

Using a drafting compass, Cotsworth drew a circle around the airport to a radius of twenty-five miles.

His index finger traced the interstates west and north from the airport.

“Hitchhike to San Antonio? Dallas?” There was a smile. “No…I think not, not with that face—locals would grind you into fertilizer.”

That meant Morgan took a different mode of transportation…somewhere.

He drew another circle at fifty miles.

“Clear Lake? No, probably not Johnson.”

He laughed at his own joke. NASA didn’t take walkins.

“How about Central America?”

If Morgan was carrying a lot of cash, that could make sense. His money would last a long time in any of those countries—and even without a passport he could still move around easily.

“Belize would be way up on
my
list…”

The compass drew an even wider circle. Cotsworth paper clipped the pages open, leaned the map against the bulletin board at the back of the desk, and stood up. He stepped away and stared at the thirty thousand square miles contained within, including Beaumont and Port Arthur.

One thing was immediately obvious. The blue color grew larger with every ring the agent had added.

“Did you get on a boat?”

From the beginning Cotsworth’s conviction hadn’t changed.

Each move was planned, he just didn’t understand why.

Lahore, Pakistan

S
abr
…

The word defined the enigma surrounding Morgan as he sat another day, inhaling dust, swatting flies, and studying the huge market’s pandemonium oozing beyond the sidewalks and into the streets.

A grotesquely painted bus rattled through the filthy shroud of late-October air. A young man emerged as it pulled away, shepherding three goats along the bricked median dividing the road. The animals stopped to munch on the remnants of green plant husks dumped from a passing pull cart.

Morgan used the satchel’s handle to clean his teeth, leaving his mouth tasting fouler than before. He tried to wash it away with a gulp from his bottle. With tea, rice, honey, and sesame seeds available in every market, the slur was quick to make. What had kept him alive during his run in the desert provided a nutritious snack anytime he needed one—but it still swallowed like glue.

Shifting slightly on the bench, he struggled with his subsiding desire to wait much longer, so he spoke the word under his breath.

Sabr…

Patience—when God wills it.

He resumed his expressionless audit of the zigzagged electrical wires cobwebbing the space above the awnings and draperies. They repeated their graceless pattern everywhere he looked. His eyes drifted back to the expansive balcony with its filigreed tiles, peeling mismatched paint, and chipped plaster before lowering his gaze to scrutinize again the numbers carved in a wooden placard on the padlocked Gothic doors. Despite their peeling varnish, Morgan remained confident the address given by Jamil was correct.

The afternoon breeze peppered his face with grit, providing a slight chill that came as a welcome relief after muggy Karachi. He draped a light wool overcoat bought the day before through the satchel’s strap and noticed the shopkeepers were shuttering their windows. The pause in retailing meant they were getting ready for prayers.

He looked at the locked doors again. Omar might not even exist.

Sabr…

An amputee sat down next to him. With a fierce stare, he held his hand out until Morgan gave the beggar a few rupees. He watched as the pathetic skeleton hobbled away before suddenly stopping in the middle of the street. The beggar leaped up and down on his sole leg, waving his crutch over his head, pointing at the opening balcony doors.

A quick snare drum roll-off directed Morgan’s eyes the same way as bagpipe reeds struck in at the next downbeat. Four pipers dressed in green and white plaid kilts marched forward in step and fanned out along the railing, letting the harmonized bass and tenor whines pour the Glen Miller melody on those below.

“The Beauty!” the beggar shouted over the noise while hopping closer into the thicket of men. “The Beauty has arrived!” he shouted again.

As the pipers parted in the middle, a diminutive figure covered in a red burka emerged.

Whoa,
Morgan was curious. Was that color permitted?

In one hand the cloaked person held a large woven basket. The other hand wafted upward to beckon the crowd with enticing waves until finally reaching deep into the basket and sowing them with flowers.

Morgan returned to the bench that evening. The few remaining pink and red petals spun up from the sidewalk in the occasional gust of air. A gold frame was hanging on the door. The handbill announcement within said simply:

Seating Begins at Seven P.M.

As the hour grew closer, men gathered, milling near the entrance. From loudspeakers the street filled with Glen Miller music played by bagpipes. The wooden doors opened. Morgan bought a ticket, elbowed in with the rest of the men, and took an aisle seat in the century-old theater. Every row filled quickly, forcing stragglers to lean against the walls. Morgan did some quick multiplication—business was good.

The house lights darkened and the male odors condensed. With another drum roll, a collective howl from the spectators swelled to the rafters as the bagpipers started to play behind the black curtain.

It opened. To loud cheers the pipers marched off to the wings, surrendering the stage to a troupe of performers who made the cabaret equivalent to any nocturnal theater Morgan had ever seen in Chicago. For two hours the audience jumped and applauded, shook raised fists, and shouted while vigorous dancers in lurid costumes gyrated to the segued racket of disco and rock.

The show’s finale came to its climax when a raven-haired beauty with large forlorn eyes appeared through a dense snowfall of white rose petals, wearing a sheer wedding gown.

A woman
? Morgan questioned.
Ah...the red burka…

She sang a mournful ballad about her martyred lover while stroking his explosive vest returned from Paradise. Batting long eyelashes, she crooned into the mic’d muzzle of an AK-47 rifle pretending fellatio that concluded with her delicate cheek pressing against the barrel and her head slumped in everlasting sorrow.

The audience went berserk.

Morgan joined the bravos as the assembly applauded for an encore. Dressed in black, the cast and crew returned to the stage, joined hands, and started singing.

“Everybody loves somebody sometime…everybody needs someone somehow…”

When the spectacle ended and the lights came up, the satiated male gathering slowly dispersed. Morgan stayed seated. In time he was alone, waiting and thinking.

It was a eunuch—
a hijra
—acting as female.

In a culture that hid women and openly deplored pornography, men could still revel in living fantasies. Revered and trusted in harems for centuries, feared for the curses the “third gender”
could conjure at a whim, hijras exploited their nature by entertaining at public events such as weddings and parades. Those more mysterious and exotic performed privately or were kept as personal attendants.

A stagehand wearing a bathrobe approached Morgan.

“Peace be with you,” he said.

“With you also,” Morgan said. “My name is Barif. I seek Omar.”

The man left as quietly as he had come.

The shimmer of a gold watch announced a tall man who came down the stairs to the side of the stage. A rakish white ponytail fell over a black silk tunic. The cuffs of his sapphire slacks broke exactly over satin-red opera slippers. When he came close, he smelled of pipe tobacco and offered his hand without concern. Morgan knew he had to be sighted in the crosshairs of a gun.

“Masa’a Alkheir,” the man said in a baritone voice. “Ana Omar.”
Good evening. I am Omar.

Morgan stood up submissively, aware every movement he made would be evaluated. Any error meant death.

“As-salaamu ‘alay-kom. Esmi Barif Ali,” Morgan said. “Ana Sadeeq Jamil. Howa Beysallem A’leik.”
Peace be with you. My name is Barif Ali, friend of Jamil. He sends his greetings.

“Ha!” Omar took his hand as if he were going to keep it. “Akhoya Qualli A’n wosollak.”
My brother apprised me of your arrival.

Morgan gave an eyes-down bow.

“Loghatak El’Arabeya Tayebah,” Omar complimented.
Your Arabic is good.

“Akhouk Modarress Mawhoub.”
Your brother is a gifted teacher.

“English?” asked Omar.

“Ezza Tehebb,” Morgan answered.
If you like.
Pleased by his performance, he was still glad to get a break.

“Tonight…” Omar said, “did you enjoy it?

He nodded.

“The bagpipes…Sheer genius, you’ll agree. The English colonialists used the cries of dying witches to scare us, but now the noise is fun. I designed the kilts myself to match our flag. The show is worthy of San Francisco, don’t you think, Barif?”

“I have never been,” said Morgan.

“Such a decadent and beautiful city.” Omar beamed. “America has many immoral impulses but displays them with such fervor, it’s difficult not to admire their deceit.” His long teeth exaggerated the dim light from the chandeliers. “My brother spoke about Houston…the women that danced naked.”

“Jamil asked for his friends. Neither of us enjoyed it.”

“My brother is priggish,” he said with amusement. “The experience was good for him. Just what he will enjoy in Paradise!”

Morgan sensed Omar’s brotherly bond of affection.

“Chaste maidens, voluptuous breasts, and lustrous eyes...” Omar’s arms swept through the air. “This place also inspires such dreams.”

He quieted and called to a stagehand to bring tea.

“Brother, where are you staying?”

Morgan mentioned a Lahore hostel.

Omar grimaced. “For prostitutes and thieves. No good will come to you there.” He took Morgan’s hand. “You stay with me.”

“Your kindness is beyond measure.” Morgan bowed again. Jamil had made good on his promise.

The tea arrived.

“Do you need to gather your possessions?”

Morgan showed him the satchel.

“Ah, yes.” Omar lifted it in admiration and nodded in approval. “Of this I was also told. I’d like to travel with one small bag. When one dismisses worldly bondage…Paradise is obtained without second thoughts.”

The men drank tea, then Omar said, “You have a coat.”

Morgan showed him. Omar’s fingers snapped, and the same stagehand appeared.

“Have Nadia come,” he commanded.

“Of course,” whispered the man, who turned and left.

The sultry balladeer who had licked the rifle barrel sashayed toward Omar. With tilted hips, Nadia stood close to him, stroking his ponytail, looking up into his eyes.

Omar said to Morgan, “Barif, you will never come here again.”

Morgan nodded with understanding.

“The ISI came several days ago. They asked about you.”

Morgan knew the police would interview the
Sagar
’s crew. Because he and Jamil had been close, they would follow a lead to Omar to determine if he knew anything about Barif Ali.

“Do not worry,” Omar continued, “I spoke the truth to them. ‘I’ve never met the man…’” He looked at Nadia. “Bring me a large burka.”

She returned carrying the black fabric.

“Barif, your coat could be recognized by the police,” he said, taking it from him and handing it to Nadia.

“Get rid of this,” he said, exchanging it for the burka, “and we will go home.”

Morgan watched the hirja fade into the darkness, as though floating away on invisible water.

“Put this burka on,” Omar instructed him.

Morgan fumbled with it “Didn’t you ever cover a woman?” he asked, laughing. “Let me do it.”

The black bag dropped over Morgan’s head. Through the rectangular opening, Omar spoke at his eyes.

“You will wear this to my home…a few minutes’ walk. Because women are forbidden here, you and Nadia will leave from a separate door in the adjacent building I own. Perhaps you remember seeing it when you sat on the bench.” Omar laughed again. “I pay spies to watch. That amputee you gave money to…one of many.”

He pointed to a hallway. “When you step to the street, wait there until I bolt the front door…then follow me.”

“I understand.”

“Remember: a woman does not strike her feet firmly on the ground to make known what is hidden. Stay at six paces behind and watch closely. Under no circumstance should you speak or look at anyone, including me—even if I talk to you.”

“I understand.”

The final lights clicked off after Morgan entered a corridor that ended at a door. He went outside and waited. After Omar locked the theater doors, he walked away. Morgan and Nadia followed in silence.