The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (30 page)

Candle flames danced and incense smoldered as they sat on soft cushions surrounding the remains of a tray of lamb. Morgan’s toes rubbed the exquisite wool rug that warmed the floor.

Omar’s wit sparkled between draws on his pipe. A quiet lingered until Morgan complimented his host again.

“Dal ghosht,” said Omar, “with ginger and garlic. The cardamom blends perfectly with the garam masala, do you think?”

It was obvious that he was much pleased to show off his sophistication to subservient guests.

“The split peas…are one of my favorites as the winter approaches. Your mother…she cooked well?”

“No. We ate humbly. Condemned to a life without a father.”

Morgan kept his storyline fixed, without adding embellishment. Omar would listen for inconsistencies, for which Morgan would give no opportunity.

Nadia brought a basket of warm bread brushed with oil. With a coarse file, she ground salt from a brick. The grains sparkled as they rained down.

“Himalayan, from the bazaar in Namka Mandi,” Omar bragged. “I have my own supplier.”

When they finished, Nadia returned with a dessert of sugared carrots, pistachios, and almonds in a warm cream stew. Omar saw Morgan covertly glance at Nadia ladling desert into bowls.

“Nadia…Handsome, isn’t she?”

Morgan nodded slightly.

“She was first runner-up in the Pan-Asian Contest for Beauty. They wanted her for Lollywood because she has an angel’s voice…as you heard,” adding proudly, “and she is also a wonderful cook.”

He murmured some pet name. Morgan saw the pale eyes shine as she poured tea. “She’s better than a wife,” Omar bragged again, “of which I have four.”

As Morgan expected, their voices were never overheard.

“When one of my wives makes me an unsatisfactory meal…I am obliged to beat her.” He laughed harshly. “Better with a guest that Nadia cook. And Pashtuns make better company…loyal and devoted.” Omar smiled. “Even my brother agrees their souls are special.”

Morgan nodded, but now he understood. Because he and Jamil spent so much time together, Arwan must have believed there was more to the relationship that he wasn’t seeing.

“Women…” Morgan contrived a sigh. “Nothing but trouble. It is a privilege for them to wipe their faces on our shoes.”

Omar nodded. “So true. Men should use them as they wish.” He looked directly at him. “Barif, did you ever intercourse an American woman?”

“Once.”

“I am envious! Was it gratifying?”

“She moaned like a cow.” Morgan swallowed hard to cover his enmity. “A mount of the devil.”

“An impressive quote!” Omar released a pleased exhale. “Abu Nuwas is one of our great poets.”

“I read as much as I can.”

Omar took a sip of tea. “Give me your passport,” he instructed.

Turning several pages, he looked at Morgan’s picture and admired the stamps from various countries.

“Quite well done. The man does good work.” He chuckled. “For a handsome price, no doubt.”

“Expensive only if one cares for things of the world,” Morgan replied.

Omar reached for the gift wrapped in linen that had been presented to him by Morgan after arriving at his home. Omar held the checkered wood grip and rolled the nickel-plated cylinder.

“A John Wayne…six-shooter?”

“As in the movies…”

“Where did you get it?”

“From a cowboy in Texas the night I met your brother.” Morgan told the story.

Omar studied the metal engraving before squinting down the barrel.

“Alas, I am afraid of guns…but am grateful for your generosity. That you have given this to me honors your friendship with my brother and respects my trust.”

Nadia headed toward Omar. “Leave us alone,” he ordered.

She returned to the kitchen.

Omar loaded three bullets and spun the cylinder before locking it in place. Stooping over Morgan, he cocked the revolver in his right hand. “I apologize for my clumsiness.” He picked up a candle. “You see…I’m left handed. Open your mouth.”

Morgan did as instructed.

Using the votive to illuminate Morgan’s mouth, Omar tapped his teeth with the muzzle, his index finger resting on the trigger. If the chamber had a bullet and Morgan flinched, the remnants of his brain would ruin anything behind him. Morgan would at least go to his grave knowing that his host would be deaf.

Omar’s scrutiny continued. In Chicago, after refusals from every dentist he asked, Morgan finally offered a large enough sum of cash and succeeded in getting his silver fillings drilled out and glass ionomer placed over the dentin and other teeth. The coating eliminated nerve sensitivity, and in time it had stained, making all his teeth look rotten.

Morgan sat still, waiting for the examination to end—one way or another.

Omar released the gun’s hammer and stood quietly, using the candle to look at Morgan’s pupils, then brought an ear close to Morgan’s nose to evaluate his breathing. It was slow and controlled.

“Forgive my concern,” Omar said, placing the candle on the table before removing the bullets from the gun. “Your trust
is
strong.”

He wiped the revolver with the linen cloth then folded it around the pistol.

Apathetic to what he had just done, Omar said, “Your teeth are bad! I have a friend here who is a fine dentist.”

The ruse worked.

“You are very kind, but I will not need them much longer, Inshallah!” replied Morgan, knowing Omar didn’t give a shit about his teeth.

Omar took the passport from the table and placed it in his tunic pocket.

“Jamil has brought you to me. I will do as my brother requests.” He touched the pocket. “You no longer need this.”

Barif Ali had become another human body living among the countless billions. Whatever time remained in his life was dwindling. All Morgan needed was enough of it.

“More tea perhaps?” Omar asked.

“No…thank you.”

“Tomorrow we pray at the Badshahi Mosque. You will be impressed. Sixty thousand people under the red sandstone minarets. But now, we rest.”

Morgan nodded as Omar spoke.

“When the time comes, we will journey. Inshallah.”

Pruitt Farm Early November 2003

T
he doorbell rang. Connie Pruitt returned to the kitchen with a package. The return address had Cotsworth’s name at the top.

“The wheels of government at work,” she said.

“This may be a first,” countered Jon. “Amazing. Cotsworth kept his promise. Maybe there’s hope for the country.”

He flicked open his pocket knife and stuck the blade under the sealing tape.

“Please be careful,” said his wife.

“Are we ready for this?” he asked.

Seeing and touching the contents would be more disheartening than just hearing about them over the phone. Reality set in. Jon paused and removed the knife. The couple silently contemplated what was inside with homage reserved for a funeral urn.

Protected by Styrofoam peanuts, each item was wrapped in white tissue paper. After all the bundles were spread on the granite countertop, Jon reached in a drawer. Removing a plastic trash bag, he pulled open its mouth.

“I think Cotsworth mentioned envelopes. We don’t want to risk missing them,” he said.

“That would be a tragedy,” replied Connie, who slowly poured the packing material into the bag.

The two envelopes joined the bundles and the CD.

The Macallan bottle had been taped shut with a note stuck to the label.

Mr. and Mrs. Pruitt,

I hope someday you find solace, perhaps these will help.

P. Cotsworth

PS: It’s illegal to mail alcohol, but I did it anyway.

“I can still see Cay’s face when she first tried this. She thought I was trying to poison her! Ha!” There came a satisfied look. “We gave that girl some seriously expensive tastes. I guess that’s what life’s about. Learn what you love and enjoy it often…because…”

The tears came.

Connie stroked his hair. “Stop, Jon,” she said. “Cay and Wes wouldn’t want it. These are gifts…presents. Please…Let’s treasure this moment for what it is.”

He kissed her gently on the forehead. “You’ve been the strong one,” he said. “That…
you
gave to Cay.”

“She got her wit from you,” said Connie, tugging his hand toward another bundle of white. “Now come on, Blue. Christmas came early. Open another.”

The two brandy snifters sparkled in the light.

“Look at that pattern,” she said. “Cay told me she spent days looking for just the right ones.” She smiled knowingly. “Remember what you told her?”

“You mean that crap about good crystal enhancing the taste of Scotch?”

“You used that line on me…and Cay was the result.” Her fingers tickled his neck. “I learned
my
lesson.”

“I suspect she tried it on Wes.”

“Mothers don’t imagine such things,” replied Connie.

“When Wes first visited,” Jon began, “he acted like a deer in headlights around us. But I knew he couldn’t keep his hands off her.” A shrewd smile delivered more mirth than his wife had seen for a long time. “I’ve kept it a secret from you. Remember that time when he surprised Cay with the bridle for Goethe? That afternoon when I went down to feed the horses, I heard what sounded like a saddle hit the tack room floor, and I thought,
That’s odd
…So I went to investigate and, um, they were in there—”

“I imagine, getting into mischief.” Connie covered her face to mimic embarrassment.

“Damn! You’d think kids their age would realize they might get caught.”

“That’s why
I
suggested they stay in the cottage,” said Connie.

“Mothers understand such things more than they let on, I’ve learned,” Jon said with an obliging nod.

“That’s right,” she replied.

For a long time they admired the photograph and the painting.

“We’ll hang both together,” said Jon.

“Yes, we will,” his wife agreed.

He opened the box from Tiffany’s and brought the diamond engagement ring close to his eyes.

“These stones set him back a little, I hazard.” Jon handed the ring to his wife. “I remember, after her first engagement, Cay told me she didn’t care about diamonds anymore…just wanted somebody who’d love her. The girl probably rankled up a storm when he bought this.”

“Cay told me they’d gone looking, but I don’t believe she knew,” said Connie, “I suspect Wes was going to…New York...to give…”

“Oh, boy…I didn’t know that,” he sighed. Pruitt hugged his wife. “I just can’t imagine…”

“Nor can I,” she said in his arms.

Still embracing, Jon picked up the CD in one hand. “I don’t think I can stand to listen to whatever’s on this…at least not today.”

As Connie’s head rested against his chest, he opened an envelope.

It contained Morgan’s social security card.

Jon Pruitt grimaced before he opened the other envelope. Together they read the note from Morgan.

He looked hard at his wife.

“We have no family left,” he said.

“We have each other…and memories. Let’s keep them happy.”

She wiped his cheek.

The father looked at every item again.

“Do you see anything more in this?” he asked.

“They were in love,” said Connie.

“That’s obvious. But I worked with spies too long not to look beyond the first blush.” Pruitt grew quiet for a moment while he thought.

“Wes took care of kids. That takes a kind heart. Probably one reason Cay loved him so much.”

His closed fists drummed weakly on the counter.

“I hope this fellow Cotsworth figures it out…”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Connie.

“Hell. Maybe my optics are too fuzzy and I’m just projecting my feelings…”

“Jon…What is it?”

“Wes wouldn’t have left these things just to be found.” His crow’s feet compressed. “He could’ve easily buried this box or just thrown it away.”

“I can’t see him doing that,” countered his wife. “His sentiment was too great.”

“It’s more than that.” Jon Pruitt could finally articulate his reckoning. “Wes is covering all contingencies. Whatever he’s doing, wherever he’s gone…he still has some small hope he’ll come back.”

Alexandria, Virginia Early November 2003

T
he twilight licked the top of the Washington Monument—the winking obelisk serene and confident. In uniform, Commander Elaine Jericho stood on her balcony with her gaze locked north of the Potomac River. She saluted and offered the silent supplication she spoke every night to the Almighty:

Please forward this to my friends…

I will remember.

Discarding the uniform on the bed, Jericho pulled on an emerald silk turtleneck and tucked it precisely into the waistband of her black wool slacks. After seating the zipper pull, she made certain the pleats hung straight and slipped on a pair of black leather flats. She wiggled her toes.

“These are so comfortable,” she said.

The clasp on the string of her grandmother’s pearls latched then Jericho removed the pins from her bun grazing her fingers through it to relax the coil. After shaking her head several times she back-brushed her hair to tease in volume and stepped over to risk a stare in the full-length mirror. With a liberated smile, she put on her waist-length coat, picked up the designer tote, and pranced out the front door.

“Evening, Ms. Jericho.”

“Good evening, Andrius,” she said as the maître d’ took her coat.

“The same quiet table, if you’d like,” he said, picking up a menu. “Anyone joining you tonight?”

She shook her head and smiled, hiding her disappointment. “No. Just me…”

“Good special tonight,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.”

Only a few blocks from her home, she frequented the place whenever she could. The eclectic cuisine stimulated lost memories of distant seaports and clearer times, while the wait staff, brotherly to a fault, provided personalized attention to the redhead, as well as counsel when they thought she looked sad.

“What does a pretty woman like you do?”
they often asked.

“I push papers,”
was always her reply.

They’d shake their heads as if to say: What a waste!

Flattering and consoling as they were, Commander Elaine Jericho preferred to be tucked away in a far corner and dine alone, getting lost in thought.

They brought her a glass of wine before Jericho looked at the menu. Never once disappointed with what was poured, she took a taste. With the glass stem held in her fingers and her elbow resting on the table, she leaned her forehead forward into her wrist and closed her eyes. The memory never left.

The Navy Annex where she had once worked was only a mile west of the Pentagon. She could still hear the compressing screams of the 757’s engines on its murderous final approach—then the concussions—then the plume.

Fire.

Sirens.

Chaos.

Death.

“What would you like for dinner, Miss Jericho?”

Her thoughts broken off, Jericho pointed to a Moroccan chicken dish flavored with harisa sauce.

“With a glass of that Tempranillo I like, please,” she requested.

Her unwound hair grazed ever so slightly across her shoulders as she took notice of an attractive man several tables away. He smiled at her and raised his glass.

Jericho felt for the tote bag hanging on the back of her chair. Concealed inside was her real world. In recent years, she was authorized to carry a handgun. The titanium hammerless .38 Special had no safety and held five hollow-point rounds. An FBI agent trained her until she could rapidly empty all the chambers into a plate-sized target at twenty feet.

You look like a great guy
, she wanted to say, but instead she shook her head in discouragement. In another life she might have been flattered, and interested—but not now. The secrets she carried made her suspect of anyone without a formal introduction. Distrust had to be paramount.

The man went back to his meal. Jericho thought about her day as she had more wine.

“This image was run through FBI, Interpol, Mossad…essentially every database,”
Fields had said.
“The software applies a Wilcoxin Ranks Test. The significance level between this picture and any others on file is 0.0005.”

“Whatever,”
said Rushworth.

Meet your new ghost
,
Jericho wanted to say.

“The hair fiber in the jeans pocket is nothing more than contaminant…Sus Scrofa,”
said Fields. When he saw their confused faces, he added a smile.
“Wild Eurasian boar.”

“A closet ham eater,”
somebody joked.

Jericho’s dinner arrived. A few bites offered a brief reprieve before her rehash of the meeting continued.

“Local FBI in Houston dispatched an agent to Puss ‘n Boots,”
said Fields.

Rushworth glared when he used the name.

“None of the dancers remembered anybody that night, until I think one girl recalled a bald black man who ponied up a galling one-dollar tip.”

Rushworth listened unamused but Jericho agreed silently the amount was scandalous.

“Then there’s the report of a security guard at the port discovering a worker who was passed out in his diesel pickup truck that night. The cowboy couldn’t remember much. With beer soaking everything in the cab, he didn’t even know how he got back to the port. He had run into these fellows earlier at the port and again at the club. He tried to describe them, but his recollection became a hodgepodge of confusion as he tried to recall what happened next.”

Fields quoted part of the transcript verbatim with the impromptu editing of the profanity.

“‘Man! When I woke up, my side hurt worse than when my mama paddled my butt. A hangover never hurt so bad. Lost my damn Colt Python that night. That gun cost me a lot of money!’”

Fields looked at the group.
“Took him a week to realize the pistol was missing…along with fifty rounds. Cowboy did say it was registered.”

Months later the ATF still hadn’t found the paperwork.

Rushworth couldn’t dignify a response.

“I know who has it,” said Jericho beneath her breath while she reached for her wine.

The absurdity would be humorous if it weren’t so serious. The whole government seemed to exist in a state of restrained confusion—except for the military when it was finally given the order to attack.

Jericho rolled the wine around her mouth, examining the lingering flavors before her thoughts returned to the meeting.

“Does anybody have an inkling who this Ali person is?”
asked Rushworth.

Fields spoke.
“All sources are quiet.”

“Even our guests at Gitmo?”

Fields shook his head demonstratively.

“We’ve spent an inordinate amount of committee time discussing this man,”
said Rushworth.
“Nothing presented so far suggests he’s a credible risk for right now, so finding out more is the job for the FBI.”
Her facial expression gave the order before the gavel hit the block.
“I’m putting this item in Old Business.”

Heads nodded.

Rushworth looked hard at Jericho.
“Commander, anything new about those cargo containers?”

“Still looking for them, Madame Chair,”
the officer said crisply.

“Let us know—only—if you get new intel,”
Rushworth said.
“While you’re at it, keep looking for Sayyaf’s cane,”
she commanded.

Jericho’s cell phone vibrated and hummed on the tablecloth. She was glad to get Rushworth’s temperament out of her brain. A headache was already on the way.

“Hey, Lainey! How are you tonight?”

On an unencrypted line, she knew any specifics would be talked around. Jericho waved over the waiter.

“The bill please,” she whispered, then said, “Good evening, Cotty.”

“Great party today, don’t you think?” he asked.

Jericho wasn’t impressed he felt that way during the meeting. Every time their eyes met, his aggravation worsened hers.

“The best ever,” she said.

Maybe it was the wine, but Jericho was too tired to play along.

“Glad you had a good time!” By the gusto in his voice, he was enjoying the exchange. “I’m going out of town again,” he said. “Are you willing to play with my friends in the sandbox?”

“Oh sure,” Jericho had to say yes,
with regret.

“I’ll have the guest list updated for the next luncheon.”

By now she’d had enough chatting. It was time to wind it up. “Say, Cotty?”

“Yeah, darlin’.”

“Do you think it’s all right if I keep the library book checked out a while longer?”

“I don’t think the school would mind for now,” he answered. “Don’t go overboard,” he laughed at the inside joke, “or neglect your other studies.”

“Okay.” Jericho said. “Good night, Grandpa.”

“Give my love to your husband and kiss the little ones for me,” he replied.

The connection ended.

In her dreams…

Wine was the lousiest sleep aid in the world. Jericho woke with a headache from a mistake she rarely made. Her misery compounded when she recalled that before even getting the admiral’s okay to dabble a bit more in her research, she had asked Glen Sorenson for help. The request probably bordered on illegal, but she needed his data-mining expertise.

“This is all I want you to do, Glen,”
she had said, withholding more details, while hoping his efforts would never be uncovered.

When Jericho arrived at the NGA, Sorenson was snoring facedown at his workstation, his glasses resting on the keyboard. Zamani saw her approach the young analyst.

“Pulled an all-nighter, Elaine,” Z said, never using her first name unless he was certain he wouldn’t be overheard. “Working the keys, smoking data for you. I offered to help, but he wanted to do it himself. Kid’s got pride.”

“Pardon me?” she asked. “He was here
all night
?”

“Began right after his shift. Wanted it done before this morning.”

“Seriously?” she asked.

“Sure enough,” he said.

Zamani was about to nudge Sorenson, but Elaine’s hand stopped him.

“Let him be. You go home.”

Jericho gave a motherly smile to the man whose wavy long brown hair looked like a tangled mop. He also needed to get a life outside of work. She found him some coffee, placed the cup near his nose, and she went to her office.

Soon there was a knock.

“Morning, Commander Jericho!” Sorenson greeted her with the steaming cup in hand. Even with the wrinkled shirt and vestiges of a beard, he acted better than she felt.

“Why didn’t you go home?” she asked.

“Was mining your data. It was fun. Great challenge! I learned a lot!”

Jericho felt even worse. Now, however, it was her stomach and not her head.

“It wasn’t an emergency,” she reiterated, knowing Glen had either missed that point or, more likely, didn’t care. She couldn’t help but admire his dedication while at the same time pray his after-hours foray would never be appreciated for what it was.