Inside Threat

by Jason Elam; Steve Yohn

  A low hum sounded through the room, and it was toward that hum that Alavi moved. When he reached its source, he looked back at Saliba to confirm he was in position. As was the plan, Saliba was standing at the foot of the bed with the gun pointed toward Musman’s head.

  Alavi breathed in deeply and let the air slowly exhale from his mouth. The whole plan was riding on these next couple minutes. If he blew this, not only would he dishonor himself and his family, he would disappoint Saifullah and Allah himself. Give your servant strength. Give your servant stealth. Give your servant success.

  Turning his attention back to the small, humming machine, Alavi gave it a quick examination. It was the exact model of CPAP that he had practiced on. Air was sucked in through a filter on the back of the device and then pumped out a tube that connected with a mask on the chaplain’s face. The pressure of the air was such that it kept the old man’s upper airway open and unobstructed, alleviating the apnea and the snoring that typically accompanied it.

  Alavi slipped a small, thin screwdriver out of his pocket. Reaching around the back of the machine, he pried off the air intake cover. He pinched out a charcoal filter and set both items on the end table. After putting the screwdriver back into his pocket, he removed another item—a small silver atomizer.

  As he held the cigar tube–shaped device with one gloved hand, he used the other to pull a thick cloth filter over his nose and mouth. Immediately, he felt his air severely restricted. But the temporary discomfort was more than worth the risk of the alternative.

  He removed the cap, positioned the atomizer at the air intake, then closed his eyes and turned his head. One, two, three sprays. It’s done.

  Quickly, he capped the tube and slid it into his pocket. The saxitoxin, also known as shellfish toxin, would take effect any second, and Alavi didn’t want to be around when it did. Virtually untraceable, the poison paralyzed the nervous system, causing nearly immediate death. With the already-failing health of the aging chaplain, the hope was that there would be only a cursory postmortem investigation and that his peaceful passing in the night would be viewed by friends and family as God’s blessing for his many years of faithful service.

  Reaching behind the CPAP, Alavi replaced the filter and snapped on the cover. He nodded to Saliba, who began moving toward the door. Alavi started to follow him when he was stopped short by a hand around his wrist.

  He turned toward Musman and saw him staring back wide-eyed. The old chaplain was trying to say something, but his lips formed only empty words. Saliva began running out the corners of the clear plastic mask, and his breathing consisted of short gasps of air. Alavi tried to pull his arm free, but the dying man’s grip was like iron.

  The seconds seemed like hours. Alavi wanted to escape the accusation and fear that were in Musman’s eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn away. Finally, the lips stopped moving, the grip relaxed, and Alavi was able to break free. But as he fled toward the door, he knew he would forever have the picture of that man’s dying eyes embedded in his brain.

  Back at the window, Alavi was relieved to see Touch waiting outside the house. First Saliba dropped out; then he followed. Touch slid the window closed and expertly snapped the screen back in place.

  Ten minutes later, the three men were turning from Old Georgetown Road onto Wisconsin Avenue. Touch, who was sitting in the front passenger seat next to Alavi, hadn’t shut up since they had pulled away from the chaplain’s house.

  Laughing, he said, “You sure you won’t tell me what you guys picked up? It’s driving me crazy!”

  “You were hired for a job. You did the job. You were paid well for the job. That’s all you need to know,” Alavi answered angrily. In the rearview mirror he connected with Saliba. Now, he said with his eyes.

  “Don’t go getting like that with me, man,” Touch replied defensively. “You told me you were going in to lift something. But when I see you guys going in with nothing, then coming back out with nothing, it makes me wonder what—”

  A bullet from Saliba’s silenced pistol stopped Touch short. His head flew forward, then snapped back as the seat belt restricted his movement.

  “That was none too soon,” Alavi said as he wiped some red mist from his cheek.

  “If he never shut up in the car, there’s no way he could have kept quiet on the street,” Saliba agreed.

  Three blocks down, they turned into an alley and parked. Saliba got out of the car and opened the passenger door. He was about to pull the body out when Alavi stopped him. After a quick search, Alavi found Touch’s wallet in his left front pocket.

  “Give the cops a little more of a challenge identifying him,” he said.

  While Saliba pulled the dead man out and dropped him to the wet asphalt, Alavi looked in his wallet. He pulled out Touch’s driver’s license—Wesley Kelley, it read.

  Wesley, huh? No wonder you went by Touch.

  He heard the door close and saw that Saliba was back in the car wiping his hands on his pants. After slipping the wallet into his pocket, he put the car in gear. Twenty minutes to our parked car, and another thirty to the warehouse. All in all, it couldn’t have gone much better. Thank you, Allah, for success. What you have begun, let these hands finish in your name.

  Tuesday, September 13, 2:05 p.m. EDT

  Washington, DC

  “We all grieve the passing of Chaplain Daniel Musman, and we pray for his dear wife, Elsa, his children, Brian and Stephanie, and his numerous grandchildren. Chaplain Dan, as I used to call him, was a good man—a man who made an impact on this world, a man who made an impact on me. I remember when I came to Washington nearly sixteen years ago, Chap walked up that first day to this green, wet-behind-the-ears senator who, champing at the bit to begin his fight for truth and justice . . .”

  Leave it to Clayson Andrews to turn a tribute to a dead Senate chaplain into an homage to himself, Khadi Faroughi thought, standing six feet to the left of the senator. They were on the steps of the National Cathedral, its neogothic facade rising more than three hundred feet behind them. Andrews, as usual, was behind a bank of microphones. A little more than twenty reporters were listening to him and taking notes. Beyond them, a crowd of fifty-plus onlookers had gathered.

  “‘Senator Andrews, my friend,’ he said—even that first day he called me ‘my friend,’ something this young, wide-eyed idealist needed to hear . . .” The senator’s voice cracked, causing Khadi to roll her eyes behind her dark sunglasses.

  Listening to his pathetic emotional prattle was almost more than she could bear, especially after what had happened just a couple of hours ago. She was still shaken and was having a hard time grasping the reality of the situation.

  She and J.D. Little had been going through the usual pre–photo op preparations when Tyson Bryson had called her into his office. As the senator’s right hand man, Bryson technically was her supervisor, so she obeyed.

  Bryson’s office was decorated in what might be called modern brownnose. There were Clayson Andrews campaign posters and memorabilia covering every wall and every shelf. The photos on his desk and bookshelf were mostly of Senator Andrews meeting some head of state with Bryson somewhere in the background, often only able to be spotted by a child skilled in the art of Where’s Waldo?

  Bryson sat on the corner of his desk, and he motioned for Khadi to sit in a red plush chair in front of him. Although she didn’t like being this close to him, she obliged.

  “How are you, Khadi? You look well,” he said with a smile on his face that made her skin crawl.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Tyson, but J.D. and I are trying to get things ready for the National Cathedral presser.”

  “Always business, aren’t you? Well, okay then, let’s get down to business.” Reaching behind, he lifted a 10x13 clasp envelope from his desk. “You know, Khadi, a big part of my job is to make sure that the senator is protected from those around him.”

  “Funny, I thought that was my job,” Khadi said sarcastically.


  “So it is. But who is there to protect him from his protectors?”

  Khadi stared blankly at Bryson. Where is he going with this?

  “I’ve spent some time researching your background, Khadi.”

  Khadi leaped out of her chair. “You what? What gives you the right to go digging into my life?”

  “Shh, shh, shh,” Bryson said condescendingly. “Please sit back down. I think you’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”

  What does he have? It couldn’t be anything! I’ve passed so many clearances—I’m clean as a whistle. Curiosity, however, got the best of her, and she sat.

  “There’s a good girl,” he said, almost causing her to leap up again. “Now, your background is spotless, Khadi. I must commend you for that. Always doing the right thing. Always faithful to the cause. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for everyone in your family.”

  Khadi’s spine stiffened. What does he have? Did one of my brothers do something stupid? “I’m listening,” she said quietly.

  “I’m glad, because what I have to say to you is very, very important. In this envelope, I have your parents’ application for political asylum dated back thirty-some-odd years ago. Unfortunately, as I examined it I found—how should I put it?—some discrepancies.”

  “Discrepancies?” Khadi asked, her blood growing cold. “What kind of discrepancies?”

  “Oh, a little stretch here, a little fudge there. Each one maybe not enough to raise a red flag. But put together? They scream for action to be taken.”

  “Action? What do you mean by action?”

  “Oh, nothing much. Just prosecution. Quite possibly deportation.”

  Khadi was again on her feet. Grabbing Bryson by his lapels, she said, “I swear, if you do anything to harm my parents, I will make your life a painful hell—then I’ll kill you.”

  But the normally easily cowed Bryson wasn’t visibly fazed by Khadi’s outburst—apart from a little moisture appearing on his upper lip.

  “I suggest you sit down, Khadi,” he said calmly. “Right now, I’m the only person standing between your parents and a return trip to the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

  Khadi’s head was spinning. Could he really have evidence that my parents lied on their application? Releasing Bryson’s suit jacket, she eased herself back down.

  “Let me see the envelope,” she demanded, holding out her hand.

  Dropping it back on his desk, Bryson said, “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Then how do I—”

  “You know it’s true, Khadi. Deep in your heart, you know I wouldn’t make this kind of accusation if I couldn’t back it up.”

  Which is true, Khadi thought. Although Bryson is a man of many disgusting qualities, stupidity is not one of them. “Why are you telling me this? What do you want?”

  “Ah, now we come to the crux of the matter, don’t we? How much is this information worth? What are you willing to give in order to keep your family safe and sound in their happy little life here in the Land of Opportunity? I already know you don’t have much money to give—I’ve seen all your bank records.”

  Again, Khadi stiffened. She felt violated by his deep searching into her life. Her stomach felt queasy, and the air in the room was beginning to taste stale.

  “So I thought to myself, ‘Self, if not money, then what does the lovely Khadi Faroughi have to offer me?’ It was then I realized that I had just answered my own question. A lovely young lady like you, a reasonably attractive young man like myself . . .”

  The bile in Khadi’s stomach rose into her mouth, and she swallowed it back down. He’s not really suggesting what I think he’s suggesting, is he? But the lecherous smile on Bryson’s face answered her question for her.

  “Not in a million years,” she said slowly, emphasizing each word.

  “My, my, won’t your parents be disappointed. But that’s okay; maybe it won’t be so bad. I hear the welcome-home committee for returning political refugees is very warm and hospitable,” he said with an evil smirk.

  “You’re a disgusting pig,” she spat out.

  “Maybe so, but I’m the disgusting pig who’s holding all the cards. I’ll give you a week to think about it. You can go now.”

  Gratefully, she hurried out of Bryson’s office, went right into the bathroom, and threw up.

  She still felt the same queasiness now as she listened to the senator.

  “‘Senator Andrews, my friend, you make sure you do what it is that the good Lord called you here to do. But remember, Washington is a tough town. So while you’re here doing what you were called to do, make sure you don’t let this city change who you are.’”

  Looking up toward heaven, a single tear rolling down his cheek, Andrews choked out, “I didn’t let it change me, Chaplain Dan. Now, you can see clearly from your side of eternity that I’m still that same wide-eyed idealist. Thank you, Chap! Thank you!”

  Andrews held a thumbs-up toward the sky long enough for the photographers to snap the shot before he turned back to the crowd. After dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief and taking a deep breath, he continued. “The reason I called this press conference in this particular location is that I have been given the somber honor by Elsa Musman and family to announce a memorial service for Chaplain Daniel Musman on Thursday, September 15, at 10 a.m. This service will be held in a venue befitting such a great man—” Andrews swept his arm back—“the majestic National Cathedral.”

  As Khadi’s eyes panned the crowd, her mind began racing. Thursday? Why Thursday? Isn’t that a little fast? Surely they can’t expect to get everything together in just two days?

  Khadi’s real concern, however, had nothing to do with the practicality of the preparations in so short a window of time. What she saw was the door slamming closed on her long weekend off.

  Tomorrow evening, Ramadan would begin. This holiest of months on the Muslim calendar was a time for followers around the world to fast and pray and dig deeper into their faith. It was a time of commitment and sacrifice. It was also a time for families and celebration.

  Late tomorrow night after her shift ended, she was planning to drive to her parents’ spacious home in Arlington, Virginia. Her brothers and their families would already be there, most likely bedded down for the night. The next morning before dawn, they would get up, have a light breakfast, and go outside to watch the sun rise, bringing with it the beginning of Ramadan.

  The day would be spent fasting from food and drink. It was natural for everyone to get a little bit crabby while the body adjusted to the deprivation, and that’s why it was so helpful to have family around. The men would spend the time talking, praying, and going to the mosque. The women would fill their day with taking care of the kids and preparing for the evening’s feast.

  Finally, the family would all gather outside to watch the sun drop down below the horizon. When the last of the rays disappeared, they would let out a cheer, because now it was time for the iftar to begin.

  Iftar was the celebration of breaking the day’s fast. Typically throughout the month, it was done with just a normal meal. However, this first day was special. From everyone together eating their ceremonial first fig to when they all leaned back in their chairs full to bursting with their mother’s amazing cooking, it was a night of joy and laughter and love.

  It had been years since Khadi had been able to join her family for this tradition. She was so excited to see her parents. And the incredible women her brothers married were more like true sisters to her than in-laws.

  Family, Khadi thought as she watched a man reach into his camera bag. That’s what I need right now. When she saw that what he pulled out of his camera bag was in fact a camera, she let her gaze move on. I need to be around people who love me with no questions asked, with no expectations. I need to be touched, hugged. I need to hear someone tell me how special I am. And now more than ever, I need to see my parents. I need to ask them about their application for asylum. I need to hear from their lips
what the truth is. I absolutely have to see them!

  But she knew that the possibility of this actually happening had just decreased dramatically. Anytime the senator went to a public event, it was all hands on deck. It didn’t matter if you were scheduled for a kidney transplant; you’d just have to say, “Sorry, Doc” and wait until the next organ came up for grabs.

  Andrews was wrapping up, so Khadi casually moved closer to him. J.D. Little did the same to flank his other side. Glancing over their exit route, Khadi saw Tyson Bryson watching her with a smug smirk on his face. He knows exactly what this is going to cost me, and he’s getting a kick out of it.

  The senator gave a final thanks to the assembled masses, then pointed one last time to the skies while a beatific smile spread across his upturned face. After the clacking of the camera shutters died down, he turned and moved toward the street where his car awaited him.

  Bryson met them halfway down. “That was beautiful, Clayson. Heartfelt. I could really sense your love for that wonderful man.”

  Andrews snorted. “The old windbag gave the longest prayers of anyone I’ve ever heard. I swear, if I stepped out of the chamber at his ‘Dear Lord,’ I could be back up from the commissary carrying a toasted bagel with cream cheese and a coffee long before he hit ‘amen.’ Maybe now they can get someone in there who knows the meaning of the words brief introductory prayer.”

  “You’re right, you’re right,” Bryson agreed as he slid into the back of the limo behind Clayson. “What a gasbag!”

  Khadi stepped in next, followed by Little.

  The car pulled out, and she turned her attention toward the side windows. Bryson began going over the senator’s schedule with him, but Andrews wasn’t looking at his chief of staff. His eyes were locked on her.

  Khadi tried to ignore his gaze, but she kept finding herself looking at him out of the corner of her eyes, trusting her dark sunglasses to hide the fact that he was getting under her skin.