Capitol murder

by Philip Margolin

  Dana reached through the door and opened it. When she walked inside, she found herself in a large living room that looked as though it had been searched. She turned in a slow circle, looking through the debris that littered the expensive Persian rug for DVDs that might star Jack Carson. There was a home theater in the room next to the living room. A bookcase next to the television had been filled with movies that were now scattered across the floor, their cases open with many of the disks beside them. Dana sighed and started going through them anyway, hoping that whoever had come before her had missed something. Twenty minutes later, she decided that the disk wasn’t mixed in with the movie collection.

  A search of the downstairs did not turn up more DVDs, and Dana headed upstairs to find the bedroom, the most likely place to find porn. She was afraid to turn on any lights, so she’d brought a heavy police flashlight that could double as a weapon.

  The bedroom was dominated by a king-size bed covered by black satin sheets. The first thing that looked interesting was a large flat-screen television that was attached to the wall opposite the bed. Under the TV was a DVD player. Dana turned in place looking for the DVDs and found a cabinet near the bed. She did a knee bend. The cabinet door was open. She played the flashlight beam across the area and around the interior. It was empty. Dana stood up. If the DVD of Carson’s sessions with Dorothy Crispin had been in this cabinet, it was gone now. But who had it? She’d searched enough places when she was with D.C. Vice and Narcotics to know that the police would have no compunctions about trashing the home of a low-level dealer. Members of the upper classes were usually treated more diplomatically. She couldn’t discount a police search, but someone else may have gone through the house looking for the incriminating DVD.

  As Dana descended the stairs, she noticed a small oil painting in an ornate gold frame. She didn’t know much about art, but she recognized the work as Impressionist. She checked the signature. It was a Cezanne. She looked at the living room walls and picked out a Warhol. A thought occurred to Dana. If these paintings were the real thing, they were very valuable. A woman who owned a ritzy villa was also going to own expensive jewelry. Factor in the woman’s ties to criminal activity, and you didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that she would have a top-of-the-line alarm system.

  Dana walked to the front door. The keypad for the alarm was attached to the wall next to the door, but it hadn’t gone off. A green light shone above the numbers on the pad. Koshani would have set the alarm when she flew to D.C. The police would have been able to get the alarm code if they searched at the behest of the D.C. police, but they would have reset the alarm when they left unless the alarm wasn’t on when they arrived. The only conclusion Dana could draw was that the person who had searched the house had the alarm code and the code for the front gate.

  How had that person learned the code? The answer that Dana came up with made her queasy. She remembered the torture she’d endured during her kidnapping. If the meth cooks who’d held her had asked for the code to her alarm, she would have given it to them to stop the pain. Jessica Koshani had been tortured methodically. She would have given up her alarm code without much resistance.

  Dana left the house empty-handed and drove back to her hotel to pack for her flight to D.C. During the drive, she mulled over what she knew. A few things bothered her, and one of the most troubling questions involved the identity of the person who had taken the DVDs. Did it make sense that Little had them? With every cop in the country looking for him, would he have risked capture to travel to D.C. to get an alarm code from Jessica Koshani? Dana had a hard time believing that Clarence Little was jumping back and forth across the country when he had so much to lose if he was captured. So if Little didn’t break into Koshani’s house, who did?

  Part IV

  Jihad

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Very few people know the exact moment of their death. When Ali Bashar woke up Sunday morning, he knew precisely when he would give up the life of the body for a new life in paradise with Allah. Ali and the other members of his cell had spent the week before their martyrdom in seclusion and prayer. They had immersed themselves in spiritual contemplation free of the corrupting influence of television and music. Ali welcomed the silence as he purified himself for his holy mission.

  The Sunday Night Football game paired the undefeated Washington Redskins with the New York Giants, their undefeated division rivals. It was being telecast nationally and was also being beamed to American troops in the Middle East. During the first quarter, when the game clock at FedEx Field clicked down from 7:01 to 7:00, Ali and the other members of his cell would detonate their trays in four widely spaced areas of the stadium. The stands would be packed and the devastation would be monumental. Ali’s only regret was that his body would be atomized by the explosion before he could see the massive destruction wrought moments later by the remote-controlled detonation of the four explosive-laden ambulances that would be strategically placed at several points below the stadium.

  As soon as he was awake, Ali showered and dressed in clean clothes. Then he prayed and reflected on what he was about to accomplish and how joyful he would be when he met Allah. He had heard that some martyrs ingested drugs or alcohol to steel themselves, but he was repulsed by the idea of meeting Allah while drugged or intoxicated. Far from fearing death, Ali had never been happier. He could only imagine the terror he would create. The Americans cursed terrorists as if being one was a bad thing, but the Koran commanded a good Muslim to bring terror to the enemy. “Against them make ready your strength to the utmost of your power, including steeds of war, to strike terror into (the hearts of) the enemies, of Allah and your enemies…” With his last breath, Ali would bring horror and devastation to the enemies of Islam that would be remembered for a thousand years.

  At three o’clock, Steve’s van arrived. The other members of the cell joined Ali outside. There was a refreshing chill in the air and the sun was shining. Ali took a deep breath and smiled. God had made his last day a good day.

  Steve opened the rear door of the van and they piled in. There was total silence during the trip to FedEx Field. When Steve dropped everyone off in the employee parking lot, there was no pep talk. None was needed.

  Steve had picked up the members of the cell early so they would be the first to arrive at the stadium. Ali willed himself to be calm as he approached the vendors’ room. Jose welcomed Ali with a smile, and Ali smiled back. Ali’s tray had been brought to the room the day before by Mr. Cooper, and Ali had no trouble finding it because it had a notch in the lid. By arriving first, he had made sure that no one else would take it. Other hawkers came in. He knew a few, but he did not initiate any conversations. When someone spoke to Ali, he was calm and sounded normal when he responded. Then Ann O’Hearn arrived, and his calm deserted him.

  Before Ann’s arrival, the events of the day had the quality of a vivid dream, and Ali felt he was watching someone who looked like him go through the steps that would lead to his death and the death of thousands. The moment he saw Ann, Ali had a vision of her golden hair in flames, her eyes wide with horror, and her mouth filled with screams of pain. The barrier his mind had erected between his deed and reality was stripped away. Ali felt light-headed and his stomach rolled.

  “Hi, Ali,” Ann said with a wide, welcoming smile.

  “Hi, Ann,” he said. It took all of his will to force his smile. “How was your week?”

  Ann rattled on about her classes and a movie she’d seen with a friend, but little of what she said registered. Then, mercifully, Ann was distracted by something one of the other vendors said, and he was able to escape.

  G ame time approached and Ali stocked his tray. As he waited to go into the stands, the tension grew, and his cool demeanor began to evaporate. Then it was time to leave. In order to reach his post, Ali had to go in front of Jose’s concession stand. As he passed by Ann, he stopped. She didn’t have any customers at the moment. He knew he should pass her by and sa
y nothing. He knew he should not compromise the mission. But some part of him cared enough for her to make him lean in and say, “I need to speak to you.”

  Ann glanced quickly at Jose. He was occupied with a customer. She leaned toward Ali.

  “Go home,” he whispered.

  “What?” Ann answered, unsure she had heard Ali correctly.

  “Say you are sick. Go home.”

  Ann laughed. “I can’t go home, Ali. That’s crazy. We’re mobbed. And why should I? I’m not sick.”

  Ali didn’t know what to say. There was no way he could explain. Then he was seized by guilt. He was endangering a plan that had taken years to develop. Worse, he was betraying Allah by showing compassion for an infidel, a woman. What was he thinking?

  Ali shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’m being foolish.”

  Ali turned his back on Ann and left the concession stand. Behind him, Ann shook her head in confusion. Then she returned to the counter. Ali hefted the tray and walked into the stands.

  A li stood on a set of concrete steps surrounded by a sea of screaming fans. The Giants had scored first, but the Redskins were marching toward the Giants’ end zone. Every few seconds, the stands erupted with cheers or moans, and the huge clock on the scoreboard ticked down.

  8:01, 8:00, 7:59.

  The sky had grown dark, and lights illuminated the field. Ali looked up and felt a breeze caress his face. He smiled as he imagined the sky opening and Allah reaching down for him from paradise, arms spread wide in a welcoming embrace. In less than a minute, he would be enfolded in that embrace, and the infidels’ cries of joy would turn to screams of fear and horror as shrapnel from the exploding tray ripped through them just before the stands crumbled and they fell into a pit of fire.

  7:45, 7:44.

  The Redskins broke the huddle. The quarterback dropped back. A Giants linebacker broke through and hurtled toward him. Just before he was hit, the quarterback hurled a desperation pass. The receiver was covered by two defenders. They all jumped for the ball, and the Redskin snagged it out of the air before crashing to the ground. The fans went wild. Ali slid aside the slim panels that hid the red buttons. All eyes were on the field, and no one noticed.

  “Allah,” Ali prayed, “purify my soul so I am fit to see you, and bless my mission with high casualties among the Americans.”

  7:30, 7:29.

  Ali placed his fingers on the buttons and repeated his prayer. As he did, he noticed movement at the bottom of the stairs. Two large men were walking toward him. One was wearing a Redskins jersey, and the other wore a jacket emblazoned with the Redskins logo. They looked like typical fans, but they were not acting like typical fans. At the most exciting moment in the game, their eyes were not on the players. They were staring at him.

  7:15, 7:14.

  Ali made a half turn and saw a man and a woman walking down the steps. Their eyes were also on him. He glanced at the scoreboard.

  7:10, 7:09.

  One of the men below him had a gun and shouted, “FBI!”

  Ali closed his eyes, shouted “ Allahu akbar ”-God is great-and pressed the buttons.

  Nothing happened. “FBI! Don’t move!” Ali’s eyes snapped open, and he pressed the buttons again. The man and woman above him were shouting “FBI!” Ali tried the buttons separately, then together again. Then he was grabbed from behind. He turned, yanked his body away from his attacker, and his feet slipped out from under him. Everything happened in slow motion. The people in the rows at his side were standing and pressing away from him. The tray was flying through the air. Then his head connected with the edge of a concrete step and he slid downhill backward like a boy on a sled, dazed. Ali’s head cracked against a second step, and he found himself upside down staring at the scoreboard. It read 6:52.

  Someone rolled him on his stomach. He felt handcuffs snap around his wrists as his mind filled with confusion. There had been no explosions. Death had not been visited on the infidels. Then a black hood was thrown over his head and he couldn’t see.

  What had gone wrong? he wondered as he was lifted by several hands and hustled up the steps. Why was he alive? Why was he not with Allah? Why were the infidels alive?

  His captors were running with him now. He heard the occasional shout of “FBI!” and guessed that he was on the concourse and being carried past gawking fans. Then he heard a door open. The agents stopped identifying themselves, and he was carried down a flight of stairs. The only thing he heard for a few minutes was heavy breathing. Then the agents stopped and he was laid on the ground. He wanted to speak, but he sensed that he was better off saying nothing. Moments later, the choice was made for him. Someone rolled up his sleeve, and Ali felt a needle slip into a vein. Moments after that, everything went dark.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Keith Evans’s team had followed Ali Bashar from the concession into the stands and had kept him under surveillance until they got the signal to move. The takedown had gone off without a hitch and had ended in a staging area under the stadium, a stretch of asphalt shaded by the overhanging stands and blocked off by a high chain-link fence. While Maggie Sparks and another agent hustled Bashar into the back of a black van, Keith leaned over, rested his hands on his knees, and took deep breaths. Maggie slammed the van’s door shut, and it drove out through a break in the fence behind three other black vans, each with its own prisoner. Then she walked over to her partner and flashed a tolerant smile.

  “Someone needs to spend more time in the gym.” She took hold of his elbow and he straightened up, embarrassed. “Come on, old man.”

  Keith was too winded to make a witty retort. Maggie laid a calming hand on Keith’s back, and he suddenly felt better and followed her to a group of agents who were listening to Harold Johnson, a tall, balding, middle-aged black man with a rugby player’s physique.

  “Good work, people,” Johnson said. “We got the lot without any casualties. Now we do the boring stuff. The Redskins are going to set us up in offices and suites around the complex as soon as the game ends. Their security people will round up the prisoners’ coworkers so we can talk to them. None of these people are considered suspects at the present time, so go easy. They’re going to be shaken up when they learn that someone they worked alongside was planning to kill them and everyone else in the stadium.”

  M aggie and Keith got comfortable in the skybox the Redskins had made available for them. It had a buffet, a bar, and rows of seats that looked out at the field through a huge floor-to-ceiling picture window. The Redskins had won on a last-second field goal, and the jubilant fans who occupied the suite had left a mess when they celebrated. The janitors had cleaned up the debris, and the buffet had been restocked for the agents. Keith was washing down a sandwich of cold cuts with a Coke, and Maggie was eating a salad and drinking a bottle of Evian water when the door to the luxury suite opened and a security guard stuck his head in.

  “I’ve got eight people from the hot dog concession out here,” he said. “How do you want to handle this?”

  “Is the person in charge of the concession here?” Keith said.

  “Yeah, that’s Jose Gutierrez.”

  “Okay, let’s start with him.”

  Moments later, the guard ushered in a heavyset man in his forties with long black hair and a dark pockmarked face. The man’s eyes ricocheted around the room, and he was obviously nervous.

  “My name is Keith Evans, Mr. Gutierrez, and this is my partner, Maggie Sparks. We’re with the FBI, and we want to thank you for taking the time to talk to us.”

  Keith gestured toward the food. “Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat?”

  Gutierrez shook his head. “No, thanks, but you can tell me what’s going on here.”

  “Ali Bashar works at your stand, right?” Keith asked.

  “Yeah, where is he?”

  “Mr. Bashar is under arrest. He and several other men were planning to set off suicide bombs in the stands. Fortunately, w
e were able to thwart their plot.”

  “You’re shitting me? Ali was going to blow the place up?”

  Keith nodded.

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Why don’t you sit with us and we’ll talk about it.”

  Gutierrez took the seat Keith indicated.

  “What can you tell us about Mr. Bashar?” Keith asked.

  Gutierrez started to say something. Then he stopped and thought for a moment before shaking his head.

  “Now that I think about it, not much. He was a good worker, always on time. He never complained. That’s about it.”

  “Did he ever talk about his personal life? You know, what he did when he wasn’t working at the games?”

  “Not that I remember.” Gutierrez shrugged. “He wasn’t around much. He sold hot dogs and drinks in the stands, so that’s where he was on game day, and we’ve only had a few home games. He told me he was a student once, but we never talked about personal stuff.”

  “Did he say where he was studying?”

  Gutierrez’s brow furrowed. “No, just that he was a student.”

  “Do you have a copy of Ali’s job application?” Keith asked.

  “No. Mr. Cooper does the hiring. I just got a call saying Ali was going to show up for an exhibition game and to give him a job hawking. Mr. Cooper owns the concession. He owns a couple. You should talk to him. I can give you his business address and phone number.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Is Ali crazy?” Gutierrez asked.

  “He’s a jihadist, an Islamic radical like the people who brought down the Twin Towers.”

  “Holy Mother.” Gutierrez shook his head. “He never said anything like that. I mean I thought he was a Muslim with that name, but he never talked crazy shit.”