Terror in D.C. Read online

  “You want it?”

  “I already know how to spend it.”

  “Upon successful completion of your mission, of course.”

  “Right.”

  “Then it will be arranged.”

  “Admiral, I’m sure you have some specific embassies in mind. Have you narrowed it down at all?”

  Percival made a gesture of uncertainty. “It could be any of them—or all of them. Frankly, I don’t trust the diplomats from any of those countries. Most of them have been educated in Europe, or here, and they speak with charm and intelligence. But when you look at the very roots of the Arabic race, their history, their traditions, you see those people for what they are—desert nomads who care little for human life, and who have contributed almost nothing to world society. Were it not for their oil, they would be among the starving millions who simply cannot fend for themselves. Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, Iran—”

  “But Iran has no embassy here, does it?”

  “What? Yes … in a way. All countries, no matter what our relationship with them, keep some kind of staff here. A little over a year ago, with the help of certain American banks to whom the Iranians are heavily in debt, the Iranians were allowed to set up a sort of ‘embassy in exile.’ It is staffed by Iranians, Iranian-Americans, and a few Iranian students who work mostly as liaisons between the banks and their country. Even though it is an embassy in exile, they still enjoy diplomatic privilege. They keep offices at the World Exchange Bank, downtown. We have the offices under surveillance, and we’ve put taps on their communications lines. So far, though, we haven’t come up with a thing.”

  “Wouldn’t they be the most likely candidates for the bombings?”

  “More likely than the Syrians or the Iraqis or the Lebanese? They all hate us. Who can say?” The admiral stood abruptly and, at some unseen signal, so did Rehfuss, Hendricks, and Jacob Hayes. They were leaving, and Hawker realized they intended to leave without him. The admiral continued, “If I really did have a free-lance agent, I would tell him there are all kinds of methods for getting information not available to us. And I would tell him he might be wise in starting with the man who owns this restaurant, a Syrian who, like many expatriates here, is a soldier in exile. His name is Rultan, and he has access to a great deal of information on the underground activities of the Mideastern countries.” The admiral dropped a heavy manila envelope on the table. “Here, you may need this. These people understand two things—violence and money. Always try the money first. Now that you’re on your own, it may be the best advice I can give you.”

  six

  Hawker signaled for the waiter, a thin swarthy man with a walrus mustache and a turban.

  “Your lunch was satisfactory, sir?”

  Hawker nudged the bill tray toward him. The twenty and the five on the tray covered the bill, plus a standard tip. Hawker had another twenty hidden in his hand. He said, “The lunch was fine. Excellent, in fact. The curried goat was so good, I’d like to get the recipe. I was told a gentleman named Rultan could provide me with it.”

  “Mr. Rultan is the owner, sir. If you wish only a recipe, then perhaps the chef—”

  “I was told Mr. Rultan was the most reliable source.”

  “He is very busy right now, sir.”

  Hawker tapped the twenty on the table without taking his eyes off the man.

  The bill disappeared into the man’s pantaloons as if by magic. “Yes, quite right, sir. I’m sure Mr. Rultan would be only too happy to help you.”

  Hawker followed the waiter’s directions through the dark restaurant. A beaded curtain covered the entrance of the hall that led past the kitchen. The cook—a short, hugely fat man out of a Sidney Green-street movie—stood in the hall squinting through cigarette smoke, talking to a very pretty East Indian girl who couldn’t have been older that eighteen.

  They immediately fell silent at Hawker’s approach.

  Hawker put on his best I’m-harmless-and-happy-to-be-here smile. He asked politely, “Could one of you tell me where I can find a Mr. Rultan?”

  The girl spoke. “You have an appointment with my father?”

  “No, I’m just a customer. Love the food here, and I wanted to ask him if he … well, if he might be interested in selling the place.”

  The girl accepted the question as a compliment. She relaxed a little. “He should still be in his office. Just turn left at the end of the hall and knock on the door. But I really don’t think he wants to sell.”

  She had been talking to the chef in what was probably Arabic. She spoke English with almost no accent.

  “Can’t hurt to try, can it?” Hawker said, still grinning.

  “No … I suppose not. But I assure you that my father is quite happy with his present situation.”

  “I don’t blame him a bit. But I think I’ll introduce myself anyway.”

  Hawker felt the two watching him as he turned at the end of the hall.

  At the end of the side hall he tapped on the door.

  The response was immediate. “Phanti? Is that you, dear?”

  Hawker guessed “Phanti” was the daughter.

  “My name’s Hawker, Mr. Rultan. James Hawker. And I’d like to talk to you,” he said through the door.

  The door cracked slightly. Hawker was peering into a pair of huge, bleary brown eyes above a portion of mustache. “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to discuss a business proposition. It won’t take long.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. I have another appointment in just a few minutes.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about buying your restaurant, Mr. Rultan.”

  “But I do not want to sell my restaurant, sir.”

  “You haven’t heard my offer yet.”

  “I can only repeat that I do not wish to sell—and I certainly do not wish to speak to you. Good day.”

  Hawker had a hundred-dollar bill folded lengthways in his palm. He fished it through the door.

  The man did not react as Hawker hoped he might. “Do you think I am a servant that can be bribed?” he said, angry. “I do not want your money! You Americans think you can buy everything!”

  Hawker shrugged, turned as if to leave, then jammed his shoulder against the door. Inside there was a crash, and Hawker stepped in and locked the door behind him.

  Rultan sat on the floor, his hands cupped to his face. His long nose dribbled blood. The door had hit him and knocked him down. “You son of a bitch!” he whined. “You have no right! No right at all!”

  Hawker grabbed the man by the collar and forced him to his feet. “I just want to ask you a few questions, Rultan. Be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you. Okay?”

  He was a bird-boned man with jet-black hair, a pear-shaped face, dark doleful brown eyes. He wore a cream-colored suit jacket and slacks, and an open white shirt. “Questions? You want to ask me questions! You are a policeman?”

  Hawker said nothing.

  “But I have already told the police everything I know.”

  “But I’d like to hear it again, Rultan.”

  “Then I will call my lawyer. I do not have to subject myself to this harassment. I know my rights!” Rultan slid in behind his wooden desk, picked up the phone, and began to dial. “You have bloodied my nose, you son of a bitch! You have violated my rights! Let us see how tough you are when my lawyer arrives. We will have your badge!”

  Hawker took his hands from his pockets and calmly pushed the phone’s plunger down, cutting the Syrian off. He smiled easily. “I’m not a cop, Rultan. With me, you’ve got no rights. No right to make a phone call, no right to have a lawyer present, no right to do anything but tell me the truth.”

  “Not a policeman? But why—”

  “Let’s just say I’m real nosy. And I don’t like assholes who bomb innocent people.”

  “I know nothing about those bombings!”

  “The police decided to question you just because they had nothing better to do, huh?”

  “They have ques
tioned many people.”

  “I thought you didn’t know anything, Rultan. How did you know they’ve questioned many people? See how easy it is? I ask you a question, and you give me an answer.”

  “I will not submit to this bullying—”

  Hawker’s open hand made a hollow rim-shot sound as he backhanded the Syrian’s head sideways. “I’ll make you a deal, Rultan—don’t talk back to me and I won’t rearrange your face. Okay?”

  The Syrian wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t hit me again. Please. What do you want from me?”

  “What do you think? I want information—like who’s doing the bombing, for starters.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Hawker leaned over the desk, his nose only inches from the Syrian’s. “Then tell me who you think is doing it?”

  “Someone from the Mideast,” he said quickly. “Please do not think I am saying the obvious. There are groups in Saudi Arabia, in Africa, yes, in Israel, too, who are ruthless enough for such actions. That the terrorists say they are from the Mideast means nothing.”

  “But you think they are from there?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re involved with some kind of Syrian government in exile, aren’t you? Maybe it’s your people who are doing the bombing: Is that why you don’t want to talk?”

  The Syrian’s eyes shifted away from Hawker’s, toward the beaded curtain that covered the window on the other side of the room. “My people? Don’t be absurd.”

  “You’re just a group of peace-loving, good ole Islamics, is that right?”

  “Do not make sport of my people or my cause!” The man’s face grew dark again, his fear overwhelmed by his anger. “In my place, you would do the same thing. Yes, it is true! If you only knew the truth, you, too, would plot the overthrow of the present Syrian government. It is for my people … for my daughter that we will never cease the struggle. In my country the Kurdish and Armenian peoples are being treated as second-class citizens by the Arabic-speaking majority. And do you know why? It is because we work harder! We fare much better in business! But Arabics will not tolerate such industry. They steal our property, they usurp our lands. How can I ever hope to return my daughter to the homeland under such conditions?”

  Hawker thought of the smoky, Eastern beauty of the girl he had seen in the hall. He took a closer look at Rultan: small man in his late thirties, eyes bleary with discontent; a driven man separated from his homeland. Hawker felt a trickle of regret for the strong-arm methods he had used, but immediately shoved the regret out of his mind.

  He had to be ruthless. Innocent people were being murdered, and he had to find out who was doing it. Sometimes a little brutality could save a lot of time.

  “So if your people aren’t doing it, Rultan, who is?”

  Again the man’s eyes shifted.

  Hawker leaned closer, his hands clenched into fists. “You know a hell of a lot more than you told the cops, Rultan. You’re an affluent businessman, a respected member of the Mideastern community here. And word travels fast in a small community. These bastards are killing innocent women and children. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then what in the hell are you afraid of? Why don’t you talk! I’m not with any agency. I’m acting strictly alone. Tell me what you know, and I guarantee there’s absolutely no chance you’ll be called in for more questioning or made to testify.”

  The Syrian clasped his hands together with emotion. “Do you not understand? They would find out. They would know. It is not my own life for which I fear, it is the life of my daughter, Phanti, that I—”

  “Who is it, damn it! The Iranians? The Iraqis—”

  “I will not sentence my own daughter to be tortured!”

  Hawker grabbed the man by the collar and pulled him out of the chair. “They’re due to bomb again within the next three days. At least tell me where! Or would you rather be tortured by me?”

  Rultan took a deep breath, his eyes focused beyond Hawker. For a long time, he said nothing. Finally, he answered, “I cannot tell you exactly when the bombings will take place. It is the truth. But there are some things that I have heard, heard not from the people planting the bombs, but from friends on the street. They may just be rumors—”

  “What is it? What did you hear?”

  “I have heard that it would be unwise for a person from my country to be found driving through the suburb of Wells Church on Friday—”

  The gunshot came from the window behind Hawker. It was instantaneous with the sound of shattering glass. Rultan’s head was catapulted backward in a blur of spray, as if he had been hit in the face with a tomato.

  The impact of the slug knocked him out of his chair. Hawker tumbled over the desk after him, and came up on his knees, his own gun drawn.

  The curtain of beads was still moving. A dank breeze blew through the broken window.

  Hawker ran to the window and shoved the beads away. He poked his head out into the alleyway.

  No one was there.

  Rultan had said that he had another appointment. He had not been lying. Hawker wondered who the appointment was with.

  The person he was supposed to meet was probably the murderer.

  From the hall, someone was banging frantically on the door. A girl’s voice called out, “Father? Are you all right, Father? Unlock this door, please!”

  Hawker returned to the dead man’s desk and rummaged around until he found the appointment calendar.

  The writing was in Arabic.

  As someone in the hall began to throw a heavy shoulder against the door, Hawker stepped through the window into the alley.

  Halfway to the street he put his gun away, straightened his jacket, then stepped calmly into the flow of sidewalk traffic.

  He was anxious to get to his rental car and have a look at Wells Church. Later, he could try to find someone he could trust who could read Arabic.…

  seven

  On Friday evening the three students waited until the dorm was almost empty.

  In May, in Washington, D.C., the weekends are filled with fraternity parties and sorority parties at colleges around the city. Beer sales are brisk, and no one stays in.

  They didn’t have to wait long.

  By 8 P.M. the halls were empty, and the three students took the elevator to the lobby, then slipped through the door into the cellar.

  They pushed aside the carefully placed box that guarded the open window. It was a tampon crate—a joke enjoyed by the American students because the box guarded the window they used to sneak in women.

  This time, Mosul Aski, the leader, went first. Zanjen went last. And Karaj, who was very fat, had plenty of help from both ends when he got stuck.

  They walked across the commons area to Nebraska Avenue. There they hailed a cab. They gave the driver an address. When they were sure they were not being followed, they canceled the first address and told the driver where they really wanted to go.

  The driver dropped them at the corner of New Hampshire Avenue and Sixteenth Avenue—not far from the White House. The three students sat on a bench, watching the traffic go by.

  Finally, a large brown truck stopped on the street in front of them. On the side of the truck was painted DONGEL’S LAUNDRY/WE DELIVER.

  Last week they had been picked up by a pizza delivery truck. The week before that it was a U.S. Postal Service truck. All of the trucks had been stolen and repainted by believers in their cause.

  Mosul looked both ways, then threw open the back doors of the laundry truck and waved his friends inside.

  They rode along in silence for just under fifteen minutes.

  Then the truck stopped, and Mosul knew they were at the gate of Ambassador Isfahan Shiraz’s estate. Isfahan maintained higher security at his estate than did some embassies. His guards would be calling inside for clearance. It would, of course, be given. The engine revved and the truck jolted into the compound.

  The truc
k pulled around to the back of the three-story brick house, and the three students got out.

  Several of their friends were waiting for them, men who worked inside the estate and rarely ventured out.

  They greeted one another warmly while they unloaded the components for the bombs, speaking in Persian, the language of their homeland.

  Upstairs, the party atmosphere ended abruptly when Isfahan—Ambassador Isfahan Shiraz—entered the room. He was a thin stately man with dark, deep, cavernous eyes. He wore the native religious robes of his country, but he sat on the divan with his legs crossed like an American.

  “My dear Mosul,” he began, speaking in Persian, “let me first congratulate you, Zanjen, and Karaj on the great success of your last mission.”

  The other men in the room clicked their tongues loudly, which was their way of applauding.

  He continued, “You have killed many of the infidels, and Allah will no doubt smile kindly upon you for your brave deeds. I think I may also say that your names are not unfamiliar to the leaders in our homeland. Here, I can only embrace you as brothers. But when you return home, you will be properly rewarded!”

  Over the clicking of tongues, Mosul said, “We have had our reward, oh, Father. Every week, the American televisions cry out the names of the pigs punished by our swords. That is all the reward we seek. And let us pray that we may continue to fight so that, someday, we may spit upon the graves of every last imperialist!”

  The ambassador nodded his approval. This Mosul was like few other youths of his generation. So brave, so filled with the fire of battle, and such a noble speaker. People were already predicting his greatness. Isfahan, who took great pride in his own fervor, could not disagree. Truly, Mosul Aski would one day take his seat as the spiritual and political ruler of the homeland. But for now he was still a subordinate, and Isfahan’s ego could not let the boy forget that.