The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (38 page)

Some women carried bags on their covered heads, while others walked with braided hair and bright lipstick. Everywhere men sat in cafés drinking tea and arguing after the noon prayers. A crowd of giggling schoolgirls skipped past, their heads decorated in white hajibs. A watchful teacher strode behind, mindful of her children as they wove through the shoppers. Morgan smiled and waved at them, then resumed his evaluation of the pedestrian flow while automobiles wove the bustle together.

Morgan’s stomach churned. The market had been well chosen for terror, so he drove slowly through the surrounding streets, searching for a less busy parking space. He put up his window so no one could see in. The drying blood grew more pungent.

On an overpass above a wadi,
he found a spot on a one-way street. Hopefully, the debris would blow toward the dry creek bed, minimizing the danger at street level. Morgan prayed he could time the explosion to prevent innocent deaths. The news reports only had to mention that three bodies were discovered in the wreckage—the number needed to convince Tawfik and the other planners that Barif Ali was dead and the driver had escaped as planned.

As people passed without curiosity, Morgan studied the parked cars across the street, and then shut off the motor. Reaching down to the floor of the backseat, he turned on the receiver and took another look in the side mirror. He opened the door and walked diagonally against traffic down the street to the opposite curb to a small sedan and got in. He put the screwdriver in the ignition and turned it.

The motor started.

Ripping a pocket out of his shirt, he gloved his hand with it, turned the wheel sharply toward the street and engaged the parking brake. He shifted the car into gear, rolled down the window and got out.

He waited for an opening in the traffic, quickly glanced around, reached his hand in the car then released the brake.

The car forced itself into middle of the street, blocking everything that moved. People stopped walking to study the driverless vehicle.

Morgan looked at the scene over his shoulder while he walked away.

No one was too close to the van.

He toggled the switch and ran away from the frenzied swarm.

M
organ bought some new clothes and shoes from a street vendor. He changed in a café washroom then drank tea and watched the TV news reports.

“In synchrony throughout Pakistan today, several car bombs blew up…yet another attempt to terrorize our citizens. This explosion outside the Qissa Khawani market”—the TV showed the mangled van lying lopsided on the street—“left shoppers in shock, but miraculously there were only a few minor injuries. The three vehicle occupants are the only confirmed dead. Although the perpetrators of these horrible acts remain unknown, sources confirm that a passport found in the debris of this attack suggests one of the terrorists was a Lebanese national, possibly with ties to Hezbollah. His name is being withheld by the ISI while their investigation…”

Morgan smiled. It had been a pain-in-the-ass day until he heard that.

Either Nadia or Tawfik had placed his passport in the van. That might have helped their cause, but it sure as hell benefited his. He was dead, and truly—a phantom.

Morgan stole a motorcycle. By dusk he stood at the mouth of the road that led to the camp. Watching bats whizz around, gobbling insects, he took a swig of his pabulum from the water bottle. In the fading sunlight, he looked across the meadow at the craggy cliffs, then at the ridgeline to his side.

Sneaking back into the camp was not a task he relished, but with the events of the last twenty-four hours his confidence grew that Tawfik had information that would be helpful. Nadia’s arrival last evening and his subsequent rude sendoff that morning had thwarted his original plan but he was trained to adapt. Still, Morgan hated to come back to the zealot purgatory, but would have anyway.

He wanted his satchel.

The road, with its hidden mines and machine gun at the top end, would be an impossible approach. Rubbing his beard with a dirty hand, Morgan assessed the cliff area where Tawfik had his home. Crossing the carpeted meadow to climb the rocks would take until after sunrise. The lookout on the ridge would see him. Before that he had to get through the bushes lining the road. They were unquestionably decorated with stick mines; Morgan had seen them crated in the camp. Strung together by wire, any step could set off a chain reaction that would shred flesh for yards.

Morgan blew deeply into his cupped hands for warmth and looked to his right side at the steep, rock-studded hills rising where only mountain sheep grazed. No human visitor would come from there. The spine of the ridge was well above the lookout. He pulled the driver’s Makarov from his pocket. The six remaining bullets would provide little protection. Stealth would be his bodyguard.

He walked back down the road several hundred yards, dropped into a slight ravine, and began climbing.

The clear starlight guided his feet while the rocks hid him. Protected by the isolation, he relaxed in the constant breeze. For a time his mind drifted, and he imagined Caroline was with him, walking by his side under the stars.

Ahead in the distance at the ridgeline, a horse whinnied.

Morgan dropped to the ground and listened. Slowly he lifted his head.

With his rifle shouldered, the lookout shuffled to the top. Never even glancing Morgan’s direction, he soon returned to his chair and blanket, assuming that whatever had startled the horse was probably just a sheep.

When Morgan heard the lookout checking in, he knew he had two hours. After using Jupiter’s position to mark the time, he rolled several feet over the ridge and slowly stood up.

The man was already snoring.

Morgan estimated the number of paces to get around the lookout and began his skulk below the ridge.

He crawled over the top to look at the camp gate. The second lookout was slouching on the truck’s tailgate under the machine gun.

“Stay right there and you’ll be fine,”
Morgan pretended to warn him. Masked by his black clothing, Morgan vanished amidst the trees trunks.

There was one more group of sentries, and they would be the noisiest: he would stay far away from the goat pen.

Morgan got to the office door and licked his fingertips to lubricate the door hinges; the morning before, they had squeaked.

Using a little flashlight, he recovered his satchel and Koran, then looked at a calendar with a newly drawn circle on a Friday twenty-eight days hence. The wall map had pencil marks where two roads converged in a tribal area of Swat. There was a pinhole mark several miles away.

If correct, the site was well chosen. In that district there was no such thing as a casual tourist. The locals could quickly identify any outsider. Morgan’s death writ was simple housecleaning: the elimination of anyone not related by blood before the men in the camp made the journey.

He heard footsteps.

Morgan’s flashlight went dark while he stepped out of Tawfik’s first line of sight. The latch jiggled, and he entered, closing the door behind. He went immediately to his computer, where his hand found the mouse. When the screen lit up, his eyes saw a reflection, but it was too late.

Morgan’s blow to the stomach knocked the wind out of him and he bent over. Loosing his glasses, he tried to find air. Morgan’s fist slammed into Tawfik’s nose. Before he dropped to the floor, Morgan grabbed him to quiet his descent.

He raised Tawfik’s bleeding face and bridled the satchel’s handle into his mouth to prevent him from crying out.

Tawfik’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re dead,” came a wet grunt.

“I’m haunting you,” Morgan whispered, tightly gripping the man’s balls. Pressing his face close, he whispered, “I saw the map. The meeting…”

“Go to hell,” Tawfik uttered.

“Let’s try again.” Morgan squeezed his testicles harder then smashed his forehead into Tawfik’s bleeding nose. “Will bin Laden be there?”

“Fuck you, American,” Tawfik spluttered.

“We’re not communicating,” Morgan said in his ear, exchanging the rope handle for a rag.

Tawfik tried to punch him but missed. Morgan reached into the box of sharpened pencils and jammed one through Tawfik’s cheek. The point came out on the other side.

“You need fresh air,” Morgan whispered again, yanking the pencil. “Up! Now!”

Morgan raised the man’s arm high behind his back and forced him out the door. When Tawfik resisted, Morgan broke his arm.

He pushed Tawfik to the cliff and pulled the rag out. As Morgan held him off balance by his belt, he leaned Tawfik over the edge and said, “Will
he
be there?”

A goat bayed. Men would soon be up and moving.

“No escape, whoever the fuck you are,” Tawfik growled around the pencil. “They’ll cut you up slowly.”

Morgan pulled him back, watching his face flush with relief.

“Afraid of heights?” Morgan asked. “Cay wasn’t.”

Morgan punched his gut again. When Tawfik’s jaw dropped, Morgan crammed in a clump of fibers.

“Pig,” he said, “a souvenir from America.”

The man couldn’t spit them out.

“Only the…righteous…who submit…” Tawfik tried to say.

“You
really
believe God wants to annihilate innocent men and women?” asked Morgan.

Flashlight beams slashed the darkness. Men were moving everywhere, calling Tawfik’s name. Morgan had less than a minute to get away.

“Fuck you…”

Morgan turned him again into the void.

“Weak delivery,” Morgan said calmly, “but tell me, and I’ll spare you.”

The flashlights were coming through the forest.

“He’ll be there,” his voice rasped, still trying to spit out the hairs glued in his mouth.

“Thank you,” said Morgan. “And—for future reference, I’ve deceived you again. Here’s how.”

He released Tawfik over the edge, his scream ending with the thud.

Crouching, Morgan raced along the cliff until he dove into some bushes. He removed his shoes and put them in his satchel, hooking it over his shoulder. Footsteps approached as he sank below the rim, his toes and fingers searching for cracks.

A deep voice yelled for silence then shouted, “Tawfik?”

There was no answer.

He called to the lookout on his radio.

“Fire flares!”

Dark trails streaked up from the ridge and popped. Hissing magnesium lit the world.

“There!” someone yelled.

Before the flares burned out, several more ignited. Ivory-white lightning sprayed from the floating meteors.

“Tawfik?” they shouted together.

“A rope!” a voice yelled.

Morgan kept descending, invisible in the sputtering light. Nearly vertical, his fingers throbbed until his toes found a ledge. He paused to catch his breath.

A rope dropped near him, then pebbles splattered as it began to sway. Someone was rappelling down. Morgan could tell his boots were desperate for contact. More stones tumbled as the rope whipped against the cliff.

The night sky remained alive with flares.

Morgan saw legs, and he closed his eyes. When heavy breathing came near, Morgan reopened them. The whites glowed.

“Shabah alkhair!”—
Good Morning!
—Morgan said cheerfully, punching him in the face.

The man’s grip slipped. Before he could cry out, his face shrank and the sound of a cracking coconut ascended. Taking hold of the rope, Morgan repelled to the meadow.

Santa Fe, New Mexico February 17, 2004

C
ottrell Herndon congratulated Jericho when she told him about the week off.

“Good to go west for rest,” he said, trying to lead the next question without actually asking.

“And…No, Cotty,” she said, answering his inferred curiosity. “I’m going alone.”

For three days she let her stress dissolve as her skin was kneaded in oils and cleansed in salt rubs while the entrancing fragrance of sage calmed her mind. Each evening she ate in another distinct bistro then strolled to an obscure bar. Enjoying a glass or two of wine she let well-groomed men make conversation, and became one of the pampered women from her novels. Jericho enjoyed each fantasy, but as she lay alone in bed the last night, the weight of conscience returned. She knew the trip was a deception to everyone, especially herself, but hoped maybe someday it would be real.

Jericho drove east into the bleak Texas Panhandle. Her methodical sifting through the handful of hog breeders and litters with the correct DNA sequence finally led her to the seller of the sperm. Despite the gloom of the overcast plains, she was glad to be away from Washington and the tedious briefings and the meetings.

First she had to endure the smell of the pens while ignoring the yelps of jubilant pigs as the Demetri Kubiak pumped putrid sludge into their troughs. The proud farmer had insisted on a tour.

“They like,” he gleamed. “Leftover prison food. They like after Thanksgiving best. Stuffing, potatoes, pumpkin pie.” He saw the remaining color leave her face. “You no like this.”

No, she didn’t.

“We go to house. Wife making coffee,” he said. “Feel warm and better.”

Kubiak directed her to a dilapidated armchair, where she sat recovering, safe for a time from more banter. The coffee arrived.

“Mr. Kubiak, as I explained on the phone, I’ve learned about your hog farm because of a sire named Aingeni Black.”

“Aingeni,” he replied like a proud parent. “My best pig ever. Much money for sperm. Here to buy some?”

The vision returned of a pig humping an artificial vagina, and she paused before answering.

“As I mentioned,” her lie began, “I work for a private agency, and a man has listed being at your farm in his résumé. I know you’ve probably had a number of workers in your employment over the years…”

“Not illegal,” Kubiak interjected.

“Oh, no! I’m sure of that, sir,” replied Jericho, reaching for her briefcase. “I just thought if you saw his picture, you might remember him. I know how busy you are, and I don’t want to take up much of your time.”

Jericho handed him the composite sketch.

Kubiak’s wife sat down with them. The couple’s eyes met in a surreptitious exchange. They were quiet for a time, then the husband handed the picture back to Jericho.

“Jimmy Laymonjaylo,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” said Jericho, rubbing her dry tongue over what remained of her lipstick. “He worked around Aingeni?”

“Maybe two times only,” he said. “Work more with sheep and goats.”

“Was he a hard worker?” Jericho had to sound convincing for only a little longer.

“Yes.”

“How long did he work for you?” she asked, grateful the conversation was almost over.

“Only…” Trying to remember, he squinted at the ancient chandelier. “Two weeks?”

“Really!” Jericho said. “What a great impression he made on you for such a short time.”

“Yes,” said Kubiak.

“I must be off,” Jericho said, gathering her briefcase. “Your words are helpful.”

“Why is working on my farm with Aingeni so important?” the farmer wanted to know.

“As you said yourself, Mr. Kubiak,” Jericho began, amazed by her ability to improvise while this nervous, “Aingeni improved the quality of Hampshire hog back-fat for the breed…in general,” she added.

Kubiak smiled proudly.

“That Mr. Laymonjaylo was familiar with Aingeni underscores what we already know.” Her deodorant wasn’t working anymore. “That’s why I showed you his picture before I confirmed his name. We needed to be sure that he was who he said he was.”

Jericho stood up, hoping her overcoat was close. “So again, thank you. I must be off.”

“If you have more questions, Mees Jericho—”

“I’ll be sure to call,” she answered, while shaking his hand.

Jericho stopped for gas in Tucumcari, New Mexico. The February wind was dry and tinged with red dust as she filled the tank.

Once she had learned the name
Laymonjaylo
, she had to get away from the Scurry Farms. Despite their salt-of-the-earth personas—friendly and never suspicious—Jericho’s conscience was pushing her heart so high in her throat she felt they knew she was lying. She wasn’t sure if anything they said had been worth her invested risk. None of it made sense. Why would Ali only have pig hair in his pocket, and not from other livestock? At least she now had a name she could cross-reference.

Jericho got back in her car. It had taken an hour of driving before her trembling subsided, but with Scurry Farms now in the past, she finally relaxed again. She had a few vacation days remaining and thought about visiting a former colleague who was doing postdoctoral studies at Los Alamos. She glanced at her watch. Too late in the day to make the drive, she decided to get a hotel room in Santa Fe. When she reached for her phone, there was a missed call from an unrecognized number.

It wasn’t the NGA. Jericho’s senior aide would have left a message. Cottrell Herndon would have too, and he would never bug her short of an emergency—not after his years of ribbing about vacations. Unless the call was a misdial, the person would have to try again.

The Ford sedan merged back onto the interstate. She turned on the satellite radio and listened to jazz to pass the monotonous time during the drive back to Santa Fe.

Her cell phone rang.

The call came from the same number.

Jericho answered it.

“Hello…” she said.

“Elaine Jericho?” asked a male voice.

“Who’s calling?” she asked.

“Agent Paul Cotsworth of the FBI, Chicago office.”

“I’m driving,” she said over the music. “Hold on…”

The phone dropped to her lap. She put on the turn signal, decelerated to the shoulder, and returned the phone to her ear.

“What is your name and title again?” she asked.

“Paul Cotsworth, Special Agent, FBI, Chicago office,” he repeated.

“Why are you calling?” Jericho asked.

“Seems we have a mutual acquaintance,” said Cotsworth.

“Pardon me?” she replied. “Is this official?”

“I realize this is not a secure line, but I’d like to talk to you. I believe you might have information about a case I’m working on.”

“I’m not able to speak freely with you,” she countered.

“Sure you are,” he replied. “Let me be clear: you can…and will.”

“What makes you think that?” she asked. These types of spontaneous calls were very dangerous.

“Seems you and I both have mutual friends—Mr. Kubiak and
James Laymonjaylo
,” said Cotsworth.

Jericho caught her breath.
Did Kubiak just call the FBI?
She wanted to kick herself. She should have used a pay phone and not her cell to call him.
But why the Chicago office?

Then she remembered Thorill Carstens’s words:
He’s a Midwesterner.

“Ms. Jericho?” Cotsworth asked. “You there?”

“Yes…I’m listening,” she said.

“Do you think we could get together for an off-the-record conversation? Casual, you know, maybe in a neutral place?”

“I’m on vacation right now,” she answered.

“Near Texas,” he said with a slight chuckle. “How about lunch Friday in Chicago? Would that give you enough time to get here? I admit, February weather might be less appealing than where you are, but my accent will be easier to decipher.”

“I’m not liking this,” Jericho said.

“Captain Jericho…” said Cotsworth.

When she heard him use her title, she had no option.

“Yes, Agent Cotsworth?”

“I give you my word,” he said again. “Our lunch will be private. Shall we say Friday, twelve thirty, at the Berghoff? It’s on Adams.”

“A restaurant? Isn’t that too unsecure?”

“Naw,” he replied. “The place will be noisy as hell at lunch time.”

“Guess that works then,” answered Jericho. “How will I recognize you?”

“Don’t worry,” Cotsworth replied, “I’ll see your hair.”

The FBI agent tipped back in his chair and read the officer’s biography. A lot of the specifics were redacted, but there was enough of her career there to impress him.

It was damn fortunate that Demetri Kubiak thought to call him. Why the NGA was interested in a missing pediatric surgeon was most intriguing—particularly because an assistant director of a major government agency had visited the same pig farmer with a different drawing of Morgan.

Until that afternoon Morgan’s file contained too many nothings for Cotsworth to further investigate his disappearance. Given enough time however, the FBI agent knew every narrative filled. What he hadn’t imagined was the answers might come with the help from a Wisconsin-born naval officer who worked with spy satellites.