The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (32 page)

D
odging debris and animals, they wove through the dried ruts on the frontage road that clung alongside the highway. The throttle was open most of the time on the straights, until a curve strained their balance and forced Morgan to slow down. While the headlight rattled on its mounting, gravel from the washboard road pinged in the fender wells and sprayed their legs.

Nadia jabbed him in the ribs and pointed to a sign. Morgan drove them west toward Chakwal, the province capital. The road became hilly and full of switchbacks as they got closer. A mile outside, they got off the motorcycle. Morgan wiped the handlebars with his shirt and pushed it off a ledge into a deep ravine. Satisfied when he heard the metal smash on rocks, they walked to the outskirts of the town. At sunrise, they heard the muezzin in the distance.

The couple sat down in a cluster of large bushes, and Morgan used the growing sunlight to examine Nadia’s face.

He smiled.

“Not bad,” he lied when he saw the welt on her cheek from the gun and the red ring around her neck where the gold chain left its mark as it was yanked off.

In his former life, Morgan could have easily treated her injuries with common items found in every operating room. That wasn’t going to be possible today. For now, Nadia’s wounds would have to be treated by the medicines and creams he found in the first souk.

He rubbed dirt on his bloodstained pants and shirt to hide the dark red color.

“Wait here out of sight,” he said and walked to town with his satchel.

An hour later Morgan returned wearing new clothes. He handed Nadia a fresh sarong and hajib. She went deeper into the bushes to change then came out and sat down next to him. He used eyewash containing a drop of tea to reduce the redness then removed a small towel from a plastic bag and dabbed her face and neck with the diluted saltwater mixed with lemon juice. At first she grimaced, but then she looked stoically at the distant mountains. After it dried, he applied camphor paste to the wounds. A cold compress would have helped reduce the swelling, but no ice was available.

It was the festival of Ramadan, but they were so thirsty and hungry they ate bread, yogurt, and honey, and took tea. Removing his rope circulet, he pulled off his keffiyeh and let frequent smiles obscure any indication of deeper concentration. Fatigue was accumulating, but Morgan had meticulously trained to ignore it. They had to keep moving and get through Chakwal. The longer the pair lingered, risk compounded. The city recruited more soldiers to the Pakistani army than any place else in the country. When the news spread about the attack on the
Mail
,
those loyalists and the local tribes would thoroughly apprize any visitors. A petite eunuch with a purple face would draw attention.

Nadia’s presence put Morgan in danger, yet abandoning her might be worse. Besides, she might know of Omar’s intent. Morgan would keep Nadia with him.

His sweaty hair dried, and Morgan scratched his head. He put the white and black checkered keffiyeh back on and handed Nadia the necklace. She glowed with sad appreciation as she examined the broken clasp, and then she leaned over and softly kissed his cheek.

They walked several more miles until Nadia motioned to a beautiful park wrapped around a Hindu monument. A cluster of trees made pleasant shade in the pastoral respite, and there was even a delicious cool breeze. They sat down together on a bench.

Nadia unsnapped the clasp of her purse and pulled out a flip cell phone.

Seeing Morgan’s unsure expression, she said, “Dost.”
A friend.

He nodded—a real one, he hoped.

Her suffered smile told him a double cross was improbable. Pashtun culture assured protection of one’s personal guests—a code of honor instilled from birth. If the sojourner maligned that respect, however, the host’s vengeance would be guaranteed, ruthless, and served cold.

While Nadia talked, Morgan walked to the street, reached into his waistband, and discreetly dumped the Makarov and extra magazine through a sewer grate.

Houston Mid-November 2003

P
uss ‘n Boots was not a good place for unaccompanied women, especially attractive women. The noise, music, and raunchy dancing made it difficult to think, the constant interruptions made it impossible.

Zamani might have kept the gadflies away,
Jericho thought.

That terrible idea had crossed her mind briefly, but appreciating the clientele at the club, she realized even a marine with a Middle Eastern face would be hassled. Then there was Z’s wife. Jericho felt sick thinking about how a rumor of impropriety could hurt their marriage.

But Jericho knew better than to go alone. Years before, while the fleet was laying over in Cape Town, she naively accepted an invitation from some of the male officers to join them at a club for some world-renowned entertainment. Jericho ended up so disgusted she left on her own, promising never to step foot in such a place again.

Jericho remembered her former chief petty officer worked in Houston for the FBI. Thorill Carstens agreed to help her friend.

So they sat with painted smiles while the drinks and beer accumulated and the men buzzed over them, hoping for more than conversation. Her hair pulled back with an alligator clip and wearing only the rank of single female, Jericho realized too late her ill-conceived jeans and boots were the wrong uniform, made worse by a white blouse that in the smoky humidity was clinging to her chest. At least Carstens had a gun on her—somewhere.

“All too predictable,” Thorill yelled. “Guys never grow up. What is it with them?”

“There have to be men out there better than these,” Jericho yelled back.

“Don’t count on it, Elaine. They’re only in those stupid books of yours. What they really want…” Carstens pushed her index finger against Jericho’s hip. “Is what you keep in
there
, baby. Nothing more.”

Shots of tequila came next, the waitress pointing to the ingratiating provocateur under a cream Stetson. Jericho gave him an officer’s smile and turned away. When he tried to rise to come over, she shook her head.

Jericho nudged Carstens and pointed to a young woman in spiked heels and little else, slinking on all fours across the stage. She faced the audience to accept money in her garter then sat down with her legs open and shook her curly head of hair. Her fingers rubbed the G-string.

“Is that her?” Carstens asked.

Both had reviewed the roster at the front door, displaying the night’s performers.

“She’s the one they interviewed,” Jericho said.

“Good asset management,” said Carstens.

“We should all be so lucky,” shouted Jericho.

After many requests to their waitress, the floor manager finally came to the table. His ostrich boots spoke to the largesse of his position—when the price was right.

“This isn’t a raid,” shouted Carstens, presenting her badge. “All my friend wants is a few minutes with that dancer,” she said.

With a smarmy smile, he ushered Jericho backstage to a private room.

The young woman entered smoking a cigarette. Wearing a polyester robe, she sat down close to Jericho and spread her legs slightly.

“Honey,” the officer said, “I’m not here for that.”

“You ain’t here to take my baby, are you? Please don’t!”

“No,” Jericho said gently. “I’m not going to take your baby.”

“Then can I have some money?” the young woman whimpered pathetically.

Jericho put a hundred-dollar bill in her garter.

“You don’t want nothin’?” she asked, her tired eyes revealed only despondency.

“If it’s all right…” Jericho said, “I just want to show you a picture.”

She handed the woman the sketch of Ali.

“Did you ever see this man?” asked Jericho.

“Yeah…dragged a bald black guy away from me. What a skank! Gave me a dollar.”

“What color was this man’s skin?” Jericho pointed to Ali’s face.

“Shit-tan-like.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“I can’t, like, hear nothing with that fuckin’ music.”

“What else do you remember about him?”

“He looked like an asshole.”

“I’d agree with that.” Jericho tried for more. “Anything else, maybe about the other men he was with?”

“No.”

Jericho stood to leave.

“Hey, lady…” The dancer flicked the bill with a finger. “Thanks for this. You’re a really good person…like my mama. When my boss, like, hears I got a hundred from you…he’ll let me dance more in private.” She gave a broad smile, mashing the cigarette butt in an overflowing ashtray. “Help feed me and my baby…and I can, like, finish school.”

“You take care of yourself and your family, you understand?”

Jericho felt sorry for her, but there was nothing she could do to help. She didn’t even want to speculate what really might happen to the money.

When Jericho returned to the table, she gave Carstens a disappointed nod, and the women headed for the door. As they stepped outside, the manager chased after them.

“Hey!” he hollered at Jericho. “You and your girlfriend want to party together with her?”

“Wrong!” shouted Jericho. Both women vice-gripped his forearms, dragging him until his back was pinned to the wall. Passing patrons watched in amusement.

“Bad manners don’t fit those spiffy boots of yours,” Carstens said. “Now, my
girlfriend
here is going to ask you some questions. I’d advise you to be polite when answering.”

“About a year ago last summer, do you remember this man?” said Jericho, thrusting the picture in his face. “Had three others with him.”

“No! I swear to Christ, I remember everybody. Maybe I was off that night.”

“Are you certain?” Jericho brought the picture closer. “Because we can find out if that’s true.”

“I swear to God! No! I don’t remember him! I don’t want any trouble with you!”

“Dirtbag doesn’t know him, Elaine.”

“Okay. Then there’s just one more thing,” Jericho said to her friend.

Jericho’s boot heels clicked together as her lips elevated to his ears. She wanted to rip out his diamond earring. She didn’t like what the woman was doing with her life, but that was her choice. Men who extracted a living or fulfilled their fantasies from such behavior, however, she detested.

“Listen carefully,” her authoritative voice hummed. “That princess I was talking to—That’s none of your business!” Jericho squeezed harder, making his face contort. “So if she loses her job…or you start pimping her…or, God forbid, she finds an accident and leaves her child an orphan, I’m holding your greasy behind responsible. Remember my friend here…”

Jericho’s face directed his eyes to Carstens.

“I guarantee she’ll be back to check.” Jericho let her heels descend back to the ground. “Any questions, Mister?”

“N…n…no…ma’am,” he stuttered.

“Good boy,” Jericho said, releasing her grasp. Her attention shifted to Carstens. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

The women walked to the agent’s car.

“The FBI could use your sweet disposition for our failed interrogations,” Carstens smirked.

“Don’t encourage me to use bad language in my reply,” Jericho retorted.

Both women laughed.

The next morning they went to the wharf. The security guard who was on duty that night was waiting for them in the office. Jericho showed him the sketch.

“Can’t say,” he said. “Like I told those other agents last month, lot’s a people go through here, in and out by the dozens, like rats.”

He looked into Jericho’s discouraged face.

“Besides, if he came past me, think he’d show his mug to me or the camera, seeing as how you’re so interested in him now? Don’t you think he’d know that back then?”

“Man’s got a valid point there, Elaine,” said Carstens. “I reviewed the file from before. Nothing’s changed since.”

“Okay,” said Jericho to the guard. “Sorry to get you in here so early for this.”

“Ain’t a problem,” he answered. “Glad to help. If he ever passes through again, do you want us to tie him up? Or just kill him?”

They laughed as Carstens shook her head and gave him her card, but to Jericho his sentiment was refreshingly appealing.

The cowboy came in next.

Reeking of beer, he nervously admitted he couldn’t remember the man’s face.

“That Arab bastard kicked my kidney. Pissed blood for a week…the fucker.” He grimaced. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Jericho. “Anything else you remember?”

“Sum bitch spoke ‘Merican.”

“What do you mean by that?” inquired Jericho.

“Ain’t no drawl, you know? Ain’t no redneck…or Texas cracker neither.”

“I don’t understand,” Jericho said.

“Speaking Yankee, but not like ‘em high-collar shits in New York City,” the man said. “Just plain ‘Merican, like on the TV news.”

Jericho’s puzzled look remained.

“If his ass,” the Texan said, “comes around me again—”

“No,” interrupted Carstens, “you can’t shoot him. Besides…” She showed him her card then tucked it into the band of his hat. “Have to find your gun first. Right, cowboy?”

“Shit, if that ain’t true.”

“Be smart.” Carstens pointed to his hat. “Call me.”

The women left for the airport.

“Thorill,” Jericho said as the car approached the departure gates, “what does it mean, ‘speaking
American’?”

“When your bad guy speaks English, he has no accent,” responded Carstens.

“Why?”

“That cowboy you talked to had a sharp ear,” Carstens began. “TV networks don’t want their key anchors to sound like snobs or Southerners, so they hire them out of the Midwest.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Jericho.

As the car pulled alongside the curb, Carstens looked at her friend. “He’s a Midwesterner, Elaine…and probably a US citizen.”

“A homegrown beast,” Jericho stated.

Carstens popped the trunk release and both women got out of the car. With Jericho’s suitcase next to her on the ground, Thorill spoke bluntly. “Elaine, listen very carefully to what I’m going to say, because I can’t warn you enough.”

“Okay.” Jericho felt her friend’s concern spill across the small space between them and smother her.

“If this Ali turns out to be an American citizen, your infatuation with him is over, understand?”

Jericho nodded.

“You chase this guy too far and it won’t just be the end of your career, it’ll put you in jail. Federal time is no fun.”

“I assure you, Thorill, it’s crossed my mind.”

Carstens took both her hands and held them warmly.

“This weekend will be just us having stupid fun.” She gave Jericho a hug. “Protect that attractive backside of yours. If need be, destroy whatever goods you got, despite your dogged desire to the contrary. Be smart! Keep what you’ve done so far to yourself.”

Smiling, Carstens saluted. “Never given orders to an officer before. Glad we’re friends!”

The flight home to Washington provided Jericho time to think. Managing satellite imagery was predictable; playing detective without precise images was disorganized and frustrating, a canvas that needed many more brushstrokes than she first realized. Interpretation of that data—she was learning—was much more difficult.

One thing was clear: her detective days were over. What she was doing was illegal. Her duties were limited to nuclear geopolitics; snooping around well beyond that scope was a major breech of her jurisdiction. Ali was a matter for the FBI, and not her affair. She’d never know any more than she did right now.

Fatigued, she returned to her book. The worn blue leather cover revealed habitual use and masked a world of rare but pleasant diversion. She affectionately thanked her mother for instilling the habit as a teenager. Romance novels were a simple way to escape life. Whenever at sea, she brought a boxful, but there was never time to finish them.

After a few pages, she sensed a warm rush and tried to rationalize her present life with what she really wanted.