by Mark Gilleo
“Yeah, that’s her. I’ve never seen her without a Hijab. She looks good.”
Mayank read the bio on the bottom of the screen. “Fulbright Scholar. Studied applied liquid propulsion. A second Ph.D. in Chemical Engineering. Master’s in Electrical Engineering.”
“Fuck. Nice combination,” Clark said to himself out loud, his voice trailing off. Mayank looked up as if that word had not been spoken in the hallow halls of MIT since the sixties and the peace generation.
“Let me translate for my partner here,” Lisa said calmly. “Any chance we can talk to one of her professors?”
“I can call around and ask. Class is still out of session, but there are a few professors around. Particularly in the science department. They have experiments and studies that go pretty much year-round. We have a dedicated staff and dedicated students who support that staff.”
Clark suddenly felt like he was being recruited. “Can we try to reach one of the dedicated? We need to find this Safia Hafeez.”
“Let me get my coat and we can walk over to the main chemistry building.”
Professor Mike Ching was in his office with his soft-sided leather briefcase on his shoulder and his office keys in his hand when Mayank knocked on the door.
“Professor Ching?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a minute?”
“I was on my way out the door.”
Lisa Prescott pulled out her badge and showed it to the professor. “It’s important.”
“That’s an IRS badge.”
“And I said it was important.”
“I paid my taxes.”
It was apparent that Professor Ching abided to the common misconception that the person asking the question was somehow inferior to the person being asked the question. Lisa was about to change that.
“Well, if you don’t want to be audited for the next twenty years, give us a minute of your time.”
Mayank fidgeted. Grilling a professor wasn’t on his list of semester projects.
The professor put his briefcase on his desk. “Please sit down.”
The office was decorated à la Fred Sanford meets Marie Curie. Papers and books filled every corner of the room. A mobile hung from the ceiling in the corner, protons, neutrons and electrons in some configuration that would baffle the average Joe, but was covered in MIT freshman chemistry. A 3-D periodical chart with all the elements was attached to the wall in the corner.
“What can I help you with?” Dr. Michael Ching asked in perfect English. Clark plopped his butt in an old wooden chair. He looked up at Mayank who was eavesdropping, still standing at the door.
Lisa took control of the conversation. She turned towards Mayank.
“Mayank, thanks for your help. If we could excuse ourselves for the moment, we would like to keep this conversation close to our vest, if you don’t mind the gambler’s parlance.”
“Oh, sure. I understand. Let me know if there is anything else you need.”
Clark tried to soften the blow. “Yes, there’s something you could do. Could we get any addresses she listed, as well as a list of classes, the professors, and whoever you can identify as classmates?”
“I’ll have it by the time you’re done. But I want half of any reward.”
“Deal,” Clark answered, before turning towards Professor Ching.
“What can you tell us about Safia Hafeez?”
“Safia Hafeez. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. Why are you interested in her?”
“We’re interested in her as a material witness. We think she’s been living under an assumed identity for several years. We’d like to know whatever you can tell us.”
Dr. Ching sighed and ran both hands through his hair, one on each side of his head. His eyes settled on Clark.
Clark preempted the question he saw coming. “I’m just here for identification purposes. As a material witness, if you will.”
“A material witness for a material witness,” Dr. Ching said curiously. His black hair had streaks of gray, but his face was youthful. His eyes were penetrating. He paused briefly as if considering speaking, and then moved his bag to the side of his desk and leaned back slightly in his chair.
“Safia Hafeez was a gifted student.”
“Aren’t most of the MIT students gifted?”
“Sure. But I’m speaking in relative terms. From a natural perspective, Safia Hafeez had a gift. There are all kinds of protégés in this world. Mathematical, musical, artistic. Things that cannot be explained by anything other than Godly intervention. Or, if you are atheist, we can call it dumb luck. There is nothing that can explain a seven-year-old boy who walks by a piano for the first time, sits down, and plays a perfect stanza to Beethoven’s fifth symphony. It just doesn’t happen. And when it does, everyone tries to capture the magic in a bottle, as if it is something we can keep, analyze, harness, replicate.”
“And Safia Hafeez was like this? She was a protégé?”
“She was unlike anyone I have taught at this university. She had an electrical engineering background. I got the impression she had been around engineers growing up. She had an understanding of electricity, mechanics, and chemicals that was unmatched. And it was seemingly untaught, or maybe self-taught. When I lecture, most students try to keep up. They take what I tell them, digest it, and try to apply things I teach in the classroom to experiments in the lab. Not Safia. When I lectured, she took random notes, and the rest she committed to memory. She drew her own conclusions about compounds and what would work best under circumstances of pressure, friction, heat. On the surface, it may sound very easy. When you talk about combining this knowledge to send a man to the moon, it becomes a little more complicated. Safia could talk about chemistry, biochemistry, physics, electrical engineering, as easily as you and I would talk about the weather. And that was before she got into the program.”
“What exactly did she work on?”
“Chemical engineering and propulsion systems.”
Clark shook his head slowly, unconscious he was doing it.
“What’s the problem?”
“We think Safia may have nefarious intentions against the general public,” Lisa said.
Professor Ching’s face turned pasty. “That’s not good news.”
“Why do you say that?” Clark asked.
“Because if this woman wanted to start trouble, she has the expertise to take out a thousand people with the household chemicals in the average broom closet.”
Clark and Lisa left the professor at his desk with a business card in his fingers. Dr. Ching looked out the window, staring at the heavier flakes of snow that had started according to the weatherman’s forecast. Safia Hafeez, he whispered to himself. God I hope they are wrong.
Clark and Lisa walked briskly down the hallway, as if distancing themselves from where they were would bring them closer to where they needed to be. Neither knew where that was.
Clark spoke as they hit the stairs. “Looks like we have one potentially dangerous bitch loose on the streets.”
“You know what scares me?”
“What?”
“She has a twelve-year head start,” Lisa said. “We may never catch up. We may never see her again.”
“I hope you’re right. I hope we never see her.”
Chapter 51
Most major cities have a street named International Drive or Road or Court, but there are few that live up to their billing like the one in D.C. Wedged into a horseshoe-shaped strip of pavement in northwest Washington, beyond the glamour of the major embassies, International Drive housed embassies from Israel to Bahrain to Ghana to Ethiopia. They weren’t the most distinguished embassies in the capital city’s repertoire, that title long since claimed by the G-8 member nations and their prime real estate on what was affectionately known as Embassy Row. But where Embassy Row was sprinkled with old-money residences, International Drive was an embassy monopoly. It was void of local riff-raff, even those in Bentleys.
“It’s quiet in here,” Clark said.
Mr. Khan, Counselor of Community Affairs for the Pakistan Embassy, let the silence shower the room for a moment, as if Clark had laid a new thought out for inspection. “Yes, it is rather quiet. But then again, embassies are not what you see in the movies. Most of them are quiet, serious places. We try to represent the best of our respective countries. Yelling, screaming, fighting … well, these things are not useful in situations requiring diplomatic solutions.”
“True. True. I guess the movies do give embassies a bit more flare than they really have.”
“Hollywood is not in the honesty business.”
Clark feigned a look of concern. “I’m not sure who is in the honesty business these days. In fact, I’m not sure there’s an honesty business at all.”
The counselor looked at Clark suspiciously. “So, Mr. Hayden. I understand that you have a few questions about the Fulbright scholarship.”
“Yes, sort of. I had several questions I was hoping you could answer for me. The Fulbright scholarship is just one aspect.”
“I think perhaps your own government may be in a better position to answer your question.”
“My question was more geared to Fulbright scholars from Pakistan.”
The counselor sighed. “I see, well, as you may or may not know, Fulbright scholarships are awarded to the brightest and the best of the academic world. Fulbright scholars are students who we believe will lead a generation of leaders in the area of law, medicine, academia.”
Clark noticed that Counselor Khan’s words were crisp, clean, exact … and with a hint of a British accent.
“Your English is impeccable. If I may say so without sounding condescending.”
“I was educated in Britain.”
“That would explain it,” Clark added. He was running out of things to compliment the counselor on. He had started with the picture on the wall when they entered the room, had moved to office furniture, and was now on the counselor’s language skills. The local curry shop in Shirlington was next on the list. He dug for something better. “And the Fulbright scholarship is sponsored through the U.S. Department of State…”
“Correct. In the case of Pakistan there is additional funding through the U.S. Agency for International Development and Pakistan’s Higher Education Commission.”
“How many scholarships are awarded to Pakistanis every year?”
“The number is fluid, dependent upon funding approved by the presidential approval board.”
“The U.S. President.”
“Correct. The President of the United States.”
“So Fulbright scholars are funded by the U.S. Government and the selection of the scholars is done by a President-appointed board?”
“Correct. And to answer your previous question, Pakistan had over 150 Fulbright scholars last year. One-third of those were Ph.D. students.”
Wow, only 150 potential U.S. government-funded terrorists in training, Clark thought. Beautiful.
“And what are the requirements of the Fulbright scholar? What’s the overall purpose of the program? What does the U.S. get out of it?”
“It can be argued that the main goal of the Fulbright program is to influence the future leaders of foreign nations. Once a student has lived in the U.S., and tasted the democracy of the U.S., they are far more likely to be U.S. sympathizers. They will never look at their home country in the same way as before. At the very least, they will have a more global view of the world.”
“Perhaps,” Clark said. He thought his neighbor might not be on board with that assessment.
“Another stipulation of the Fulbright program is that each scholar must promise to return to their home country for a given period of two to three years, depending on the scholarship they receive. They are not permitted to work in the U.S. until this home country requirement has been fulfilled. This is necessary to ensure that the home country receives some benefit from the program as well. Otherwise, in many instances, the brain drain would be instantaneous. Under the current guidelines, the home country gets at least two years of service from the scholar.”
“And what if they don’t go home?”
“They have to re-pay their education expenses.”
“How many choose this route?”
Counselor Khan laughed. “Not many. The average salary in Pakistan is under three thousand dollars per year. Very few could afford to pay the cost of tuition, particularly at a private U.S. school. Pakistan is still a very poor country. We have a less than a fifty percent literacy rate.”
“Interesting,” Clark responded before dropping his bomb. “I’m here on a strange request, or quest, as it has turned out. One of my neighbors is an American citizen, or possesses dual citizenship. I’m interested in a ‘Welfare and Whereabouts’ request.”
“A ‘Welfare and Whereabouts request?’”
“Yes. I have an acquaintance in the consular services world and he told me that would be the appropriate wording. My neighbor, and her family, recently returned to Pakistan to tend to family affairs. I received a phone call from them asking if I would look after their home, water their plants. The usual. Their house was recently heavily damaged by fire, and I have no way to reach them. I was wondering if the Pakistan Embassy could help in my search.”
The counselor looked thoughtfully at Clark. “If they are American citizens in Pakistan, it may be better to go through the U.S. Embassy in Islamabad.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have much to go on, in this case. There is no record of the neighbor having any residence or relatives in Pakistan. I only have a name.”
“Which is?”
Clark watched carefully for any recognition in the counselor’s face. “Her name is Ariana Amin.” If the counselor recognized the name he had missed his calling on the World Poker Tour. There was not a flinch. Not a twitch. Not a momentary flash of recognition. Clark dealt the river card. “But I believe her real name is Safia Hafeez. She was a Fulbright scholar, sponsored by the Pakistani government, and she studied at MIT.”
The counselor’s expression did not change. “I’m afraid the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
Clark sat there for moment. “Would it be possible to search your records and see if you can locate a last known address or contact for my neighbor? I would think that she would want to know that everything she owns in this country has been either charred beyond recognition or soaked in 20,000 gallons of water.”
The counselor pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled some notes. “I will see what I can do,” he said, pausing in between sentences as he wrote. “But there are no guarantees that I will be able to find anything.”
“All I can ask is that you take a look.”
“That is a fair request.”
As Clark exited the Embassy, the large black metal gate to the adjacent parking lot was slowly shutting behind an equally black Lexus sedan. The car gently pulled into the spot closest to the building’s employee entrance, just beyond a sidewalk and behind an eight-foot security fence. A guard decked out with the latest military hardware eyed Clark as he made his way from the visitor’s entrance to the main gate booth armed with two identical soldiers. Clark took in his surroundings as he mulled over the conversation he just had inside the Embassy. Maybe I was wrong, he thought. Maybe, I am just jumping to conclusions.
Clark nodded as he walked the sidewalk towards the main guard booth and the property’s exit. As he turned towards the direction of the main street, the back door on the black Lexus opened
. Clark was less than ten yards away when the precocious two-year-old exited from the back of the car, waved her lollipop, and smiled.
Clark stopped.
“Hi,” Liana said, clearly, her hand gripping her red candy-on-a-stick.
The woman exiting the back of the car panicked, exchanging concerned glances between Clark and Liana.
“Wait!” Clark yelled as the woman quickly scooped up Liana and disappeared into a pair of plain white double doors. Clark, heart racing, took one step off the designated sidewalk in the direction of the security fence and was immediately reprimanded by the guard who was now on full alert. The AK-47 was still on his shoulder, but the eyes and body language told Clark all he needed to know.
“Not one more step,” the guard said clearly, pointing down at the sidewalk, the official line of demarcation.
“But, I know that girl,” Clark blurted.
“Step back,” the guard repeated, one hand now on the grip of his holstered firearm.
Clark took a large step back. The guard put his finger to his ear, listened for directions via the wireless security device, and then looked back at Clark. “It is time for you to leave,” the guard said, unequivocally.
“But, I need to speak with Counselor Khan.”
“No sir, you do not. You are to leave the premises immediately.”
Clark drove home, hands shaking. He was scared. The kind of scared that kept therapists in business. There was only one possible explanation for seeing Liana at the Pakistan Embassy. His instincts had been correct. Counselor Khan, with his perfected poker face, was lying through his teeth. There was an undeniable connection between Ariana and the Embassy. Clark wondered how deep it went.
His stomach knotted and a wave of nausea washed over him. There was only one thing he could think of. Finding a safe location for his mother … if such as thing as a safe location existed anymore. When you consider state-sponsored terrorism, hiding places become scarce.
It took a majority of the afternoon to convince his mother it was in her best interest to go to her brother’s house in Annapolis. The conversation was like rationalizing with a toddler who was in the “why?” phase of childhood. And unfortunately for Clark, Maria Hayden was past the point where she could simply be lifted off her feet and strapped into a car seat.