"I don't have a cell phone."
"Then tell Chris you need one. You do. And call me when you get it. I'm your go-to for dating customs in the U.S. Some guy tries to come on to you, call me first. At least until you get your sea legs, girlfriend."
"She means she's up on American social norms," said Christine.
"What about you?" Sevi asked. "What about Christine herself?"
"Tell her about Ed, Chris," Althea said.
"Yes, what about that stud?" asked Winona. "I see him watching you around the office."
Christine shook her head. Her dark eyes narrowed. "It's still about Sonny for me. That won't go away. I've tried some things, but the feelings are all wrong. I'm still in love with my husband."
"You said someone shot him," said Sevi. "On the plane coming here you told me about that. And you can't forget him."
"It's not just about forgetting. It's dealing with the feelings. I was never one who could hop into the sack with someone when I loved someone else. In fact, Sonny and I were virgins when we first got together. We were both inexperienced in that department."
"So when he died you were still inexperienced?" Sevi asked, all innocence.
Christine rolled her eyes. "That, dear girl, is my own secret. Never let it be said I discussed my sex life with three fools at lunch."
"Sisters in Law," said Althea. "Not fools."
"Speaking of which," said Winona, "Sevi, I think it would be a good idea for you to join us every week. At least until you get your bearings on America."
"I could do that?" asked Sevi. "I would like that. Very much."
"Sure you can," said the other two women. "Please feel free."
"I was going to invite you again next week," said Christine. "Now consider it done."
"I accept," Sevi said. "This is a good introduction for me."
"Then it's done, girlfriend," said Althea. "Just remember, what you hear here, leave it here."
"Okay," said Sevi, "I will leave it here."
* * *
Which didn't happen. An hour later she was meeting Hussein on Wacker Drive. There, she told him everything over their new custom of coffee and pastries.
What she had heard there at lunch, she definitely didn't leave there.
Nor would she.
"Go slow," Hussein admonished. "I need to understand everything that was said. Begin with the talk about settlement negotiations with Blackguard. Tell me word-for-word."
She did.
"Now about this Althea woman. You got the idea she was working for Blackguard? How could that be?"
The talk ranged over all the lunch topics for an hour or more. It was left at the point where Sevi would be trying to find out all she could about Althea and Blackguard.
ISIS wanted to know everything about Blackguard.
But most of all, it wanted to know about the Sisters in Law. Every detail would be relayed to Syria and pulled apart and examined. Some of it would be useful, even actionable. Other parts would be nothing.
Either way, ISIS wanted it all. By a huge stroke of luck Sevi had been placed right in the middle of it.
It couldn't have been better planned.
18
On a bright May morning, Sevi withdrew her remaining funds from the bank and prepared to go shopping. Her list comprised the ingredients for making the bomb she would plant outside a grade school.
It had been two months since she had been couriered by Christine from Turkey to the States. She was working the 4-12 shift at Randall Dynamics, a downtown Chicago software engineering startup where she was coding embedded systems to calibrate industrial thermostats and couplers. It was boring work but it paid almost fifty dollars an hour, so Sevi was satisfied with her lot. More important, the late-afternoon/night-time shift pretty much gave her her days free and she was using that time to move ahead with her plan to attack America. For her, nothing had changed.
From two a.m.--bedtime--and after, as she lay in her bed and tried to sleep, her mind was restless and sought to avoid the pain of her loss. The wedding day drone attack had left her a shell of herself--withdrawn, depressed, and socially inept.
At work her co-workers had learned to keep their distance after receiving blank stares and guarded replies when their friendly approaches had been turned aside. Her only social activity was the weekly lunch she attended with the Sisters in Law where, much to her surprise, she felt comfortable and welcome.
The Sisters In Law were kind to her and always gave her opportunities to verbalize her thoughts on the topics under discussion, whether love lives or work lives or children or exciting events or clothing or intellectual or creative interests--Sevi was allowed to have her say. Which was causing her to grow into a woman she had never imagined she could become. She was, when all was said and done, becoming wise in the ways of the world, thanks to her lunch group. Moreover, she rather liked the woman--herself--she was coming to know. The bottom line was that the lunch bunch was bringing out the best in Sevi. There were even moments of self-doubt: moments when she questioned her motives in coming to America. At those moments the notion of murdering American school children was rejected by her heart of hearts. But, thank Allah, those moments were rare.
At the end of her second month, she was still living with Christine. The lawyer had told her guest that there was no hurry for her to find her own place. She wanted the transplanted Middle Easterner to get to know her way around the city first, to get firmly ensconced in her profession and geographically centered, before she entered into a lease on an apartment or condo. After all, Chicago, like any city, had its safe areas and its high-crime areas, and had areas that were affordable on Sevi's salary and those that were out of reach on her salary. No, Christine told her guest, you're not overstaying your welcome.
And there was another development in the household, something neither woman would have predicted. Jamie, it seemed, had become fascinated with Sevi and her grasp of software engineering best practices, including writing smart algorithms and avoiding lapses in his code where hacks might be made. Systems programming was her forte and, while Jamie was writing server-side code for web projects now, the same best-practices theory and standards applied equally in both areas of the software engineering endeavor.
In short, Jamie thought the sun rose and set on Sevi. He sought her out day times before she left for work and after he arrived home from school. He showed her the projects he was developing. He showed her his FACCE facial recognition software. He explained that it was now being developed for commercial use by a startup. And he showed her his ideas for evolutions of FACCE as he remained the R&D arm of the team. "Research and development is my middle name," he told Sevi over mid-afternoon tuna sandwiches he had prepared for them both. "My company doesn't add one new feature without my okay first."
"Are you selling this FACCE software?" Sevi asked.
"We have it installed in three police departments in Cook County. So far the feedback is terrific. It seems like we have a tool that helps law enforcement in bringing criminals to justice. How much better can that be?"
She had smiled and nodded.
Yes, how much better could it be than to bring criminals to justice?
Then Christine approached Sevi and asked whether she would tutor Jamie in her academic areas of interest.
Sevi smiled. "Too late. We're already tutoring each other!"
Christine nodded and accepted the fact--again--that she had a prodigy in her son--and in Sevi too, for that matter. So the two software engineers fed off each other and their conversations became increasingly animated as they discussed this and that and upcoming developments in their world. Jamie read Wired; Sevi was writing an article for Wired, one that had been tentatively accepted for publication. Her work supervisor insisted she submit the article. So Sevi had agreed and now spent much of her off time researching and writing for publication. It was good therapy which challenged her and kept her mind from tragic musings.
All except for that time when sh
e worked on her shopping list for her bomb. There was that part of her that wouldn't blink. She was going ahead with her plan to strike America no matter what else might be going on in her life.
So in early May, she withdrew a large sum of money from Fifth Third Bank in downtown Chicago and set out on a shopping task. She had ridden the Blue Line downtown early that morning, arising after five hours of sleep to begin preparations for what she believed would be the most deadly attack against an American grade school in history. The prospect at once both increased her resolve and revolted her. Nevertheless, she plunged ahead.
Her time with ISIS had been a huge learning experience. The ingredients for her bomb were available in America and for the most part required the use of only a small degree of deceit. Her shopping list included explosive-grade ammonium nitrate fertilizer, diesel fuel, nitro-methane and the commercially manufactured explosives, Tovex and Primadet. A federal building in Oklahoma City had been totally destroyed by such a bomb. And yet the ingredients for making such a horrendous explosive remained freely available.
But first on the list came storage. She needed some way to store the chemicals she would procure. Which required she re-think the ISIS concept, because ISIS' bombshell consisted of a two-ton truck. A cube truck, usually white with small lettering indicating the truck was part of some small business from out-of-state. Sevi considered this and decided that she would downscale. She knew a large truck would draw attention, given the tenor of Homeland Security procedures; the truth was, the authorities ascribed high-profile scores to such vehicles. It was no secret they could easily be used to accommodate massive quantities of explosives, and so the cops regularly pulled them over on pretense stops and searched them. It was the American climate and Sevi knew this.
She reviewed Van and Driver. She searched for deals on Craigslist.
In the end, she decided on a two ton Ford van for sale in Kirksville, Missouri. When she arrived she found a backwater town off the beaten path where few questions would be asked. Even when a clearly Middle Eastern woman showed up wanting to buy a van that was obviously far too large for her needs.
"How can I help you?" the farmer asked. His eighty acre farm was five miles northeast of Kirksville. It was a quiet, wooded area with maybe sixty acres that could be plowed without fear of tractor overturns on steeply rolling hills.
"I'm here about the ad on Craigslist," Sevi said with her best smile.
The man eyed her closely. Foreign, his mind registered. Leaning on a cane and dressed like someone who clearly didn't live in the country. But his need to sell overcame any preliminary reservations he might have had.
"Well," he said, "it's got good rubber and only a hundred and fifty thousand miles. All put there by me."
"What do you use it for?"
"Tires, mostly. I moonlight fixing flats on the highway up from St. Louis. So I carry the most common sizes of rubber plus my jacks and stuff. It's got lots of rubber scrapes in the cargo area, I ain't gonna lie to you. But most of that will come off with elbow grease. I might even do it for you if you're not in some big damn hurry."
"I am," said Sevi. "My husband is a carpenter and needs it on his job site this week. We'll need to close the deal fast. Like today."
The farmer pushed the feed store hat back on his head.
"I see," he said. "Got cash?"
"Cash, yes. Got a title?"
"Yep. I'm asking fifteen-five."
"I'll give you thirteen cash now, this minute. But the title must be blank."
"I don't care if the title's blank. That's up to you. Fourteen will carry the day."
"Done. Fourteen thousand it is. I'll start counting while you watch."
He took her inside and she plopped down on the couch and began counting hundreds out of her shoulder bag onto the coffee table. Actually the bills were wrapped, hundreds, ten to a wrap. She fished out fourteen and aligned them vertically, side-by-side.
"You should count each pack," she told him.
"I plan to," he said, and lowered himself onto his knees on the other side of the coffee table. She watched as he counted. He was painfully slow but thorough. He placed the bills in a single stack as they each added up to one thousand dollars. Ten minutes later there was one stack and fourteen thousand dollars had been presented. In cash. The title appeared from nowhere and he turned it over and handed it to her.
"No need to have it notarized," he said. "Already on there."
"You've already had it notarized?"
"Look it over. I've already signed it and notary already did her stamp. You're good to go. That thing's like cash until someone fills in the new owner's name. But that's between you and God. I'm out of the picture on that one. Hell, I don't care if you put the devil's name on there. No skin off my nose."
"That's fair. Well," she said, standing up, "I won't take up any more of your time."
He gave her a curious look at that point.
"Why dinchoo even start her up?"
"Because I trust you. And because I know where you live. Which means my brothers and husband know where you live. But why do you ask? Is there something mechanical you haven't told me about?"
"No-no-no--I was just asking. Hell no, that van runs like a top. I'd trust my life to it."
Sevi rounded the table and folded the title carefully along its creased fold.
"You have," she said, and held out her hand. "Keys. And one favor."
"Sure."
"Drop my rental car at the airport. They're expecting you."
"I can do that. Won't even charge you for the service."
"Well, that's mighty white of you," she said, lapsing into language she'd heard in TV movies.
The farmer laughed.
"White, I guess. Everyone in this county is white."
"Well, enjoy that."
"We do. We do."
"Now, point me toward my new vehicle. I've got a long drive looking back at me."
"Where you headed to?"
"Louisiana. Gulf Coast."
"You'll have no problems with tires, either. New rubber and rims all around. I always do that at one-fifty."
"Sounds exciting."
She held out her hand. He took it and they shook, though the expression was lost on both of them as they neither cared about one another nor wished to ever again see one another. But Sevi had learned that everyone in America shakes hands on any, even the most modest, occasion, and she executed the action as expected.
She then climbed in, inserted the key, and cranked the engine.
Perfect. All the dash lit up, needles swerved into place, and the engine was all but soundless. Relieved of fourteen thousand of her dollars, she was satisfied with her purchase.
Should she have told him she planned on making the van into a bombshell?
She grimaced and shook her head at him as she floated by backing up.
At some point down the road he might read the article about the attack on the grade school. And he might realize the van described in the attack was the same one as the one he had sold. But that's probably as far as his mind would proceed with the information.
He just wouldn't want to know more.
* * *
In St. Louis she met up with Hussein and gave him the keys to the van. She flew back to Chicago while he continued to Little Rock, Arkansas. He told her he had a line on six fifty-pound bags of explosive-grade ammonium nitrate fertilizer. This was a chemical that was all but impossible to procure, especially since the tragedy in Oklahoma City.
He headed south and west out of St. Louis on Interstate 55 until he reached Memphis, where he took the bypass and caught Interstate 40 west to Little Rock. He then drove north of Sherwood and took a county road west, as instructed. It was raining and early evening when he came to a gate across the turnoff he had been directed to follow. So he dialed the number given to him by the supplier and was told to wait there at the gate.
Thirty minutes later, an old, rusted-out Chevy Scottsdale pickup pulled up to the
gate on the opposite side and turned off. Two men came out. One of them was holding a pump-action shotgun and the other was carrying a garment. Garment man inserted a key in the lock holding the chain in place and swung the gate. Shotgun man pointed the weapon at Hussein and motioned with his left hand to drive through the gate and then stop. Hussein complied.
The gate was then swung closed. But it wasn't locked.
Shotgun man came to the driver's window of the van. He indicated the glass should be lowered, which Hussein did. He felt drops of rain blow across his face and squinted into the hazy evening light--what was left of it.
"You alone in there?" Shotgun man asked.
"I am alone," said Hussein.
"Hey. Where you from?" asked Shotgun man.
"Chicago. Like I told you."
"That's bullshit!" the man cried. "You sure'n hell ain't American. What you think, Freddie? We just blow this sumbitch's head off and feed him to the river? Or what?"
Freddie pulled open the passenger's door. He slid into the seat and leaned over to look at Hussein.
"You got twenty grand like you said?" asked Freddie. Hussein smelled the man's rancid breath as he leaned too close. Something like onions and heavy grease. He drew away, which made Freddie raise a finger and shake his head. "Huh-uh. Don't you pull away from me, not if you want to leave here alive!"
Hussein placed both hands on the steering wheel. He meant to show them he was unarmed and posed no threat.
Freddie took note and nodded. "Now, we're going to just drop this feed sack over your head and then I'm gonna drive. Get your ass out!"
Hussein exited. He was roughly pushed up against the side of the van. Instantly a burlap bag was dropped over his head and shoulders. It was coarse on his face and smelled like some kind of grain or seed he didn't recognize. He realized that his knees were weak and felt his hands shaking. He forced himself to calm down. He drew a deep breath and said nothing.
"Now," said a voice, "I'ma goan ta lead you around and put you in the other side. Got it? Gimme your hand, boy."
Hellfire (Sisters In Law Book 2) Page 9