by Kyle Mills
The man sitting at the table with him looked at his watch for the ninth time in the last thirty minutes and Yusef reached over to grip his wrist in what would appear to be a simple gesture of friendship. He spoke just loud enough to be heard. "Don't do that again."
Muhammad's teeth flashed dangerously before he caught himself and gave a nearly imperceptible nod. He was almost six-foot-five, with a thick black beard and eyes so filled with God and hate that they had lost sight of everything else. While discipline and obedience were hardly his strengths, he knew he was responsible for most of the attention they were getting and didn't want to do anything to jeopardize what he had convinced himself was God's will.
The men who were physically carrying out this attack weren't part of the cell that Yusef now led. Beyond consulting on the details of the plan, he'd managed to keep his people out of it -- insisting that they had a greater purpose and that they couldn't risk the possibility of exposure. Of course, Muhammad had been violently opposed to sitting this one out, but the promise of a future opportunity to kill millions of Jews in one glorious action had calmed him. For now.
The waitress appeared with the coffees and Yusef thanked her, attempting a few pleasantries that she didn't return. Not that it mattered -- his primary concern was that she depart without looking at Muhammad, who was staring at her like a lion choosing its prey.
And why not? Muhammad was an animal -- an arrogant and ignorant man to whom God was just an excuse to vent his rage. If used carefully, though, he could be an effective tool.
The young woman moved away and Yusef slid one of the fresh cups of coffee toward him, using the motion as an opportunity to glance across the street. The line leading through the theater's doors had dwindled to a few stragglers standing at the ticket window.
In some ways, he supposed that hope was beginning to glimmer. Edwin Hamdi was having a minor success in convincing the U. S. government of the painfully obvious: The root of the problem was not Osama bin Laden, or Saddam Hussein, or the Iranians. The root of the problem was ever growing hatred of America. Whether that hatred was justified or not was utterly irrelevant. In the world of politics, perception was reality.
If Americans could be convinced to concentrate on changing their image as brutal Crusaders, the terrorists would be marginalized. While it would be a slow and unsatisfying process, fraught with compromise and sacrifice, it was the only clear path to peace. Well, not entirely clear. There was still one insurmountable stumbling block: Israel.
In the early 1900s, this land had been Palestine, the home to fifty thousand Jews and over half a million Arabs. Certainly, it was understandable that the Arabs would have been alarmed at the growing immigration of foreign Jews to the land that had been their home for thirteen centuries. And it was equally understandable that these Jews would want to flee the persecution they'd suffered in Europe and return to the land of their god.
The fighting had begun quickly and continued to the present day. Only now mankind had entered a technological age where a single zealot could gain the power to kill millions in pursuit of political justice, or God's favor, or revenge.
The roughly three thousand people who died on 9/11 had prompted Afghanistan, Iraq, the Patriot Act. What if New York and its millions of inhabitants disintegrated in a tidal wave of nuclear fire? Or Washington? Or Los Angeles? In the face of that kind of destruction, would the Americans willingly give up their freedom and equality for the promise of safety? Would they let out a uniform, bloodthirsty cheer as millions of innocent Arabs died in their retaliation?
He wasn't even sure what terrorism was anymore. Was it defined by the type of weapon used? The target? The involvement of governments? Intent? In some ways he envied Muhammad's unwavering faith.
More and more, he wished he could close his eyes and wrap himself in that same moral certainty.
But he couldn't. The truth was that the argument over Israel wasn't a question of right and wrong, but of right and right. And, as such, it was a dispute that could never be resolved by conventional means.
Yusef used a subtly shaking hand to bring his coffee cup to his lips. It was completely cold. He glanced at the waitress who returned his gaze with a barely perceptible smile on her lips. Even she was a terrorist -- using the only weapon she had available to express her racist displeasure at the Arabs fouling her cafe.
A familiar sense of hopelessness washed over him -- the same one he had conveyed to the CIA's deputy director for operations a little more than a year ago. Ayatollah Bond or not, his infiltration of al-Qaeda wasn't going to change the situation in Israel.
Instead of accepting his resignation, the DDO had quietly introduced him to Edwin Hamdi, whose plans for neutralizing the Muslim terrorist threat went well beyond the peaceful measures he publicly endorsed. Hamdi didn't have ideas as much as he had solutions. And solutions were what Yusef had been looking for. Or at least that's what he'd thought at the time.
Though he'd known it was coming, the explosion across the street actually surprised him. He threw himself to the ground as the horrible sound of it attacked his ears and the heat blasted his skin. Before he could even cover his head, he felt a powerful hand grab him by the collar and drag him beneath the table that was already clanging loudly with the impacts of falling debris.
Yusef blinked hard, trying to clear his eyes of the dust billowing over him. The reverberation of the explosion faded to an eerie silence that was quickly broken by the shouts of bystanders and the screams of the wounded.
Muhammad released his collar and once again bared his teeth through the narrow slit in his beard. This time, though, it wasn't an expression of anger or indignation, but one of joy. He motioned with his head and Yusef looked in the direction he indicated.
Propped precariously against a concrete planter, only a few feet away, was a human leg still enveloped in a dark blue pant leg. Yusef stared at the leather loafer dangling from the lifeless foot, fighting back the bile rising in his throat. He wanted to look away, but to what? The charred bodies of both the dead and the living? The panicked people who a moment ago had been drinking coffee and peacefully talking about the trivialities of life? How had he ended up so far from home?
Chapter SEVEN
"There's beer in the fridge," the woman said, opening the stove and examining something inside. "I understand you're not a wine drinker."
Brandon couldn't bring himself to fully commit and paused in the doorway, taking in every detail of the small kitchen. It, too, had that generic grandma's-house feel, though the dusty smell was covered up with something else. Cooking onions maybe. He crouched, confirming that there were no thugs hiding beneath the dining table and then went for the fridge. It was empty, except for a six-pack of beer on the top shelf. His favorite brand. Why wasn't he surprised?
The woman turned toward him and smiled with what he assumed was practiced unease. Impressive. Very disarming.
"I'm not the greatest cook, so we're grilling. Steak, potato casserole, and salad. My mom says it never fails."
"The bar isn't that high. I've been in prison. Name?"
"My mom's?" she said, seemingly startled by the question.
"Yours."
"Oh. Right. Sorry. Catherine. Rare, right? The steak?"
He nodded. She was even prettier from the front than the back -- and that was saying something. Straight, elegant features with just enough softness to keep her from looking icy, flowing dark hair, and a slim, athletic figure packaged in a pair of low-rise jeans and a shirt that she was constantly tugging down in an unsuccessful effort to obscure the brown skin of her belly. She seemed to be about his age, though the complete lack of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth made the estimate difficult. Either Botox or very good genes.
"How long?" he asked.
"What?"
"Till dinner?"
She shrugged. "The grill's heating up. I haven't put the steaks on yet."
He turned and started back down the hall.
"Where are
you going?"
"To meet your friends."
"There's no one else here."
"Yeah. Right."
There was no basement, so he started in the far corner of the ground floor, following a careful pattern that included the backs of closets, beneath furniture, and behind curtains. Then up the stairs for a similarly regimented search of the bedrooms, ending with the master. Nothing. No well-armed assassins, no obvious bugs or cameras. Just a whole lot of faux antiques, doilies, and carefully framed needlepoint pieces with uplifting sentiments. In order for this to get any weirder, space aliens would have to be involved.
There was an open suitcase on the bed and he pawed through it, finding clothes suitable for every occasion, from manual labor to formal Wedding. The matching shoes were lined up neatly along the wall. In the bathroom he found a shaving kit, a set of electric clippers, and a pair of stylish wire-rimmed glasses. He took off his own glasses but hesitated before putting on the new ones, not sure he wanted to know what they might tell him. Finally he slid them on his face and, as he'd feared, they weren't the screwed-up prescription the prison optometrist had given him. They were dead on.
He looked into the mirror with his newly cleared vision and let out a long breath. "What have you gotten yourself into now, Dumb-ass?"
He hadn't cut his hair since his trial, and it now hung in his face, weighted down by dried mud he'd picked up the night before. Turning on the faucet, he splashed some cold water over his pale face and then felt around for the towel next to him. He hadn't spent much time in the sun over the past few years -- content to sit in the shade and read during exercise time.
Brandon plugged in the clippers and five minutes later, his hair was a uniform half inch. With the new glasses, it created a disguise that would fool all the blind people and about half of the mentally challenged, unless they were really paying attention. His only hope was that the media would let out a collective yawn at the inelegant escape of an obscure, nonviolent diamond thief.
"Looks good," Catherine said when he walked back into the kitchen. "Everything fit okay?"
After a gloriously lonely shower, he'd chosen a pair of jeans, a white silk shirt, and a reasonably fast-looking pair of tennis shoes that might prove useful. The stink of nervous sweat was gone and he was almost ready to accept that his time in prison was just a bad dream and he was actually a married insurance salesman living in the burbs.
"It must feel good to be out of prison," she blurted when he didn't answer her question about the clothes.
"Yeah. Nothing like a hot shower and a steak to make you forget that every cop in the country is looking for you with the idea of either shooting you or putting you away for the rest of your natural life. I'm just having an outstanding day."
Her expression took on a brief deer-in-the-headlights quality and then she beat a hasty retreat to the back deck. "I'll go put the steaks on."
When she returned, she seemed a little better composed. "I have a proposition for you."
His eyebrows rose unbidden.
She held a hand up. "Bad choice of words." "Right."
"Look, we need the help of someone with your . . . skills. Actually, we need a miracle worker. And that's your reputation."
He didn't answer, instead standing there mesmerized by her performance. This woman had undoubtedly been trained to snap his neck like a twig at the slightest provocation, yet she played the nervous innocent with such depth and conviction that even he was almost fooled. He'd worked with some talented people in the past, but no one like this. How was it that their paths hadn't crossed before?
"In return, we'll give you a new identity, enough money to live on for the rest of your life, and a little vineyard in South Africa. Paid for, of course." She pulled a photo of the vineyard off the fridge and held it out toward him as though it was proof of her complete sincerity.
He didn't look at it, instead pointing to a small jar on the counter. "And if I don't? Is there cyanide in there?"
"It's garlic salt."
"You say."
She shrugged -- an oddly appealing gesture that made her shoulders disappear briefly into her hair. "Nothing so sinister. If you say no, I just walk away and wish you luck. You can either try to get out of the country or turn yourself in and take your chances with the courts."
"That seems kind of unlikely to me."
She put on an oven mitt and used it to retrieve her casserole from the oven. "It's a pretty nice day. I figured we'd have dinner outside."
They ate in silence on a wooden deck surrounded by thick hedges and flowers. The sun was still high and its heat overpowered the fall air. Even the weather seemed to have been set up to put him at ease, to rock him gently into a sense of well-being and trust. No harm in giving in just for a little while. He was out of prison, having a pretty good dinner with a beautiful woman, and there was nothing he could currently do about it. If there was one thing his mother had pounded into him, it was that if the moment was good, for God's sake live in it.
Catherine finished her steak, eating with the careless velocity of the terminally uncomfortable, and tapped her gorgeous lips with her napkin.
"So? Are you interested?"
He almost wanted to say no just to watch that perfectly nonthreatening demeanor suddenly turn black. To see if she still seemed so disarming when she was pointing a gun at his face.
The sad thing was that it wouldn't have been all that radical a change from his past relationships with women. When you lived like he did, generally the best you could hope for was a cute sociopath. Despite the fact that Catherine was undoubtedly on the verge of killing him at any moment, she was clearly a step up from most of the women he'd dined with. No relationship was perfect, after all.
"You're staring," he said. "What?"
She seemed embarrassed. "Nothing."
"If you've got something to say, say it."
She remained silent for a few seconds apparently gathering her courage. "Okay. I was wondering why you became a criminal."
"Oh, so now we're getting personal? You're going to try to get in my head?"
"It's not like that. I --"
"Psych degree?"
She shook her head. "Political science. I'm not trying to pry or anything, but you've got to admit, you're kind of . . . interesting."
"Am I?"
She nodded. "You got a near perfect score on the math portion of your SAT and then just left the English portion blank."
"You know, that's confidential information. You could get in big trouble for looking at those records."
She smiled. Just barely, and she looked away first.
"I like math problems," he said. "The English stuff was boring."
"And yet you never did better than a D in a high school math class."
"Politics. The teachers had it in for me."
He finished the last bite of steak, reveling in the fact he could chew without worrying about breaking a tooth on a piece of bone. "My father was a con man and a gambler," he started. "Not a bad guy, though. Not really. He always wanted me to go to college and even saved the money to pay for it. I did a few classes, but it didn't suit. Dad was pretty upset. I think he just wanted a lawyer in the family so he could get a deal on fees."
"Really?" She seemed to be hanging on his every word.
"Well, maybe. He's one of the few people I could never read. Honestly, I think, deep down, maybe he felt responsible for having exposed me to it."
"Crime, you mean?"
"Yeah. It's all I knew from as early as I can remember. I was always surrounded by crooks. Scams. Whatever. I didn't see it as good or bad. It was just the world I was born into."
"That's so fascinating," Catherine said, putting her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hands. The intensity of her gaze amplified to the point that he felt like he was a rock star and she was an adoring groupie.
"Fascinating? You really think so?"
"Definitely. I mean, not the story itself, but the way you te
ll it so convincingly. None of it's true, right?"
Brandon grinned broadly. "No. I guess not."
"I'd love to hear the real story."
"You don't already know it?"
"Just the bare facts. Your father is still alive -- a retired accountant with barely a parking ticket his whole life. You traveled all over the world when you were young, apparently with your mother --"
"Do you know what happened to her?"
"No."
"Oh," he said, trying not to sound disappointed.
"So?"
"What? My story? My real story? It's complicated."
"That's okay," Catherine said. "If I'm good at anything, it's complicated."
When he looked up again, she seemed to have leaned even farther over the table. He knew he should just keep his mouth shut, but there was something about her that made him want to talk. Prison must have scrambled his brain.
"My mother's hard to describe. She was beautiful and brilliant, but mostly she had a light inside her that was so powerful that you had to experience it to understand it. Everyone who ever met her loved her." He paused for a moment. "I know that sounds like an obituary cliche, but in her case I mean it. Actually, maybe it would be more accurate to say that everyone who ever met her was in love with her. Men, women, old people, kids. If you walked down the street with her, men would give her flowers and ask her to dinner right out of the blue."
"So that's where you get it."
"Get what?"
"Your job tends to revolve around getting people to trust you."
"Oh, I suppose that's true. But I'm just a bad copy of her. There's really no comparison."
"So how did a woman like that end up married to an accountant from Sacramento?"
"I have no idea how they met, actually. He was just in the right place at the right time, I guess. Mom had . . . Well, she had lots of relationships."
"But she married your father. And as far as we can tell, they never divorced."