The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel

by T. Ainsworth

  “Have Nadia come,” he commanded.

  “Of course,” whispered the man, who turned and left.

  The sultry balladeer who had licked the rifle barrel sashayed toward Omar. With tilted hips, Nadia stood close to him, stroking his ponytail, looking up into his eyes.

  Omar said to Morgan, “Barif, you will never come here again.”

  Morgan nodded with understanding.

  “The ISI came several days ago. They asked about you.”

  Morgan knew the police would interview the Sagar’s crew. Because he and Jamil had been close, they would follow a lead to Omar to determine if he knew anything about Barif Ali.

  “Do not worry,” Omar continued, “I spoke the truth to them. ‘I’ve never met the man…’” He looked at Nadia. “Bring me a large burka.”

  She returned carrying the black fabric.

  “Barif, your coat could be recognized by the police,” he said, taking it from him and handing it to Nadia.

  “Get rid of this,” he said, exchanging it for the burka, “and we will go home.”

  Morgan watched the hirja fade into the darkness, as though floating away on invisible water.

  “Put this burka on,” Omar instructed him.

  Morgan fumbled with it “Didn’t you ever cover a woman?” he asked, laughing. “Let me do it.”

  The black bag dropped over Morgan’s head. Through the rectangular opening, Omar spoke at his eyes.

  “You will wear this to my home…a few minutes’ walk. Because women are forbidden here, you and Nadia will leave from a separate door in the adjacent building I own. Perhaps you remember seeing it when you sat on the bench.” Omar laughed again. “I pay spies to watch. That amputee you gave money to…one of many.”

  He pointed to a hallway. “When you step to the street, wait there until I bolt the front door…then follow me.”

  “I understand.”

  “Remember: a woman does not strike her feet firmly on the ground to make known what is hidden. Stay at six paces behind and watch closely. Under no circumstance should you speak or look at anyone, including me—even if I talk to you.”

  “I understand.”

  The final lights clicked off after Morgan entered a corridor that ended at a door. He went outside and waited. After Omar locked the theater doors, he walked away. Morgan and Nadia followed in silence.

  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.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Pruitt Farm Early November 2003

  The 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.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Alexandria, Virginia Early November 2003

  The 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 finge
rs 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.