by Marcus Wynne
Isabelle took Charley’s arm and rested her head on his shoulder, to all appearances a loving girlfriend, and said softly, “The ones playing Frisbee? They need to be more careful, some of them, their pistols are printing against their shirts as they play.”
“You’re a star, Isabelle,” Charley said. He led her to a stretch of stairs empty of tourists, and whispered into his microphone. The effect of his communication was immediate; the Frisbee players immediately slowed down, and a couple of them walked off the lawn to parked cars, and then returned.
“What of the Egyptian?” she said.
Charley looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. “We’re going to keep it simple. If he shows up, we take him. He’ll be PNG’d and deported.”
Isabelle smiled brightly up at him, as though he’d told a witty joke, and said, “You Americans. You are so sentimental. You should kill him to provide a lesson.”
Charley laughed and patted Isabelle on the hand as he led her across the street to the lawn. “Let’s walk the ground, darling. You’re starting to scare me.”
RESIDENCE INN, BETHESDA, MARYLAND/NATIONAL MALL, WASHINGTON, DC
Youssef woke from a light dream with a start. He looked at the glowing red LED of the bedside clock radio and saw that it was nearly ten thirty. He’d dropped into sleep for almost three hours. Where had the time gone? And why was he so tired after such a good night’s sleep? He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, drying it with the rough towel hung beside the sink, then studied his face in the mirror.
He was afraid. There was naked fear in his face, and he’d slept to hide from it.
Youssef could acknowledge that now. As the time grew nearer for his total commitment to the mission, his doubts and fears grew. He knew that. And he knew he had to overcome that and move forward.
Movement and action were what he needed.
He brushed at the redness of his eyes, then washed his face again, slowly and thoroughly with warm water, then dried himself again. He folded the towel neatly and set it beside the sink, then went into the other room and began to gather up his odd bits of clothing. They made a pitifully small pile on his bed next to the courier bag that held the smallpox vials. He picked up the pile of clothing and set it on the dresser; he’d return for that. The hotel would be his base for the time he needed to take in Washington.
He sat down on the bed, and felt the weight and bulge of the loaded atomizer in his pocket. He took it out, and weighed it in his hand, then carefully withdrew the loaded vial and replaced it in the Pelican case with the others. The Pelican case rested on his lap, and he hunched over it like a schoolboy over a book, studying the black plastic as though it held a secret he could not decipher. He thought of Britta, and he put the thought away; he longed for his mother, and he put the thought away; he thought of Ahmad, twisting in the hands of the Israelis, and even that couldn’t move him—the thought had become thin and pale, like a faded photograph.
What finally moved him was the sudden need to urinate. His hands trembled as he undid his fly in the bathroom, and he was ashamed of how fear had taken hold of his body. He turned away from his reflection and hurried to the bed, and slung the courier bag across his shoulder, the only weight that of the Pelican case and the newspaper and his cheap straw hat.
No more time for thinking.
He forced himself to shut the door quietly, though he felt like slamming it again and again. The DO NOT DISTURB sign was in place, and he left it swinging slightly as he went to the elevator and waited, his head bowed. Eventually the elevator chimed, and he got in. He had the elevator to himself as he rode it to the lobby. At the front desk, the matronly woman who had been on-duty when he first checked in looked up as he came through the lobby.
“Hello there, dear!” she called out. “Did your bags ever arrive?”
Youssef made a smile, and mumbled, “No, I’m still waiting . . .”
“Are you all right, honey?” she said. “You don’t look well.”
“I think I am just tired.”
“You want to take it easy, then. You don’t want to get sick on your holiday. Don’t try to do too much today.”
Youssef felt a sudden urge to cry. His eyes began to well, and his throat constricted. He hurried out the door, leaving the desk clerk looking after him, puzzled.
The heat and humidity struck him like a blow after the air-conditioning of the hotel. Even at a quarter to eleven, the streets were busy, though the pedestrians all seemed slowed by the weight of the sun. Youssef jogged across the street, not waiting for the light, and hurried to the down escalator that descended into the cool depths of the Bethesda Metro station. He had the sense of flying as he rode the escalator down; he wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, embarrassed by the sudden and unwelcome surge of emotions he couldn’t control.
What was wrong with him?
He felt like screaming. He felt like dashing his courier bag against the concrete walls of the station, spilling out the useless agent like urine against the wall. Why had he taken this upon himself? What was he doing? He stopped at the bottom of the escalator, ignoring the people who brushed past him impatiently. As though it had a mind of its own, his hand went to his pocket and came up with a fistful of crumpled bills. He sorted through them mechanically till he found a five-dollar bill, then inserted it into the slot of the ticket-selling machine and bought an all-day excursion card. That was good. That was something concrete, something real.
He went through the electronic gate and down to the track and waited for an inbound train. It was only a few minutes before the lights on the platform began to flash and the characteristic rush of air announced the arrival of a train. The few other passengers on the platform moved toward the doors as the train slowed to a stop. Youssef hung back, watching, then waited till everyone had gotten on board before he hurried and skipped through the door just as it began to close. The synthesized voice of a woman announced over the loudspeaker in the car, “Doors closing.” Youssef sat down in a window seat, clutching his courier bag to his chest, and watched the gray walls of the subterranean tunnels whir past as the train accelerated to the next station. It seemed like only moments, though more time had passed, when the conductor announced, “Metro Center.”
Youssef stood and let himself be carried along off the train, and then to the other platform where he caught an Orange-line train bound toward the Smithsonian stop. He stood for the short ride, and in his confused state stared at the other passengers. Two teenage girls, both wearing T-shirts with a picture of a boy and the name JUSTIN TIMBER-LAKE on the front, giggled together as they looked at Youssef; a black man in an expensive business suit read the Wall Street Journal, a tired-looking woman in a gray pantsuit flipped through the pages of a Cosmopolitan magazine. They all seemed separate from Youssef, as though they rode in a car within the car, cut off by an invisible membrane that only Youssef could sense.
The train stopped at the Smithsonian station.
Youssef swayed where he stood, as though buffeted by an invisible wind. He turned to the doors and went out when they opened, then followed the other passengers up and out of the station. He took the stairs, looking down at his feet for each step, and rose slowly into the heat and the killing sun on the National Mall. Behind him was the white pillar of the Washington Monument, in front of him the long expanse of grass that led to the US Capitol Building. To his right were the Smithsonian museum administrative offices, on the far side of Jefferson Drive, and farther down the Mall, about the distance of four city blocks, were the imposing edifices of the National Gallery of Art and the National Air and Space Museum.
He walked north and slightly east, toward the multi-storied and sprawling Museum of National History, across the Mall. Despite the heat and the sun beating down, there were people out playing a pickup game of soccer, bicycling, walking, and jogging. There was one group of joggers, military men by the look of them, who ran in a loose formation past Youssef and continued on al
ong Madison Drive toward the Capitol. He came to Madison Drive and continued to the right, staying on the grass, looking down at his feet, carrying his burden as though he were weighted down with a massive pack. The sun beat down on him mercilessly, and he remembered his hat in his bag. He stopped and fished out the straw hat and placed it on his head. He squinted against the glare as he did so. Across the street in front of the Museum of Natural History were several cart vendors. Youssef crossed the street and stopped at the first one with sunglasses. He plucked a pair at random, not caring how they looked, and put them on, then fished out his wad of bills and extended it at the Asian man tending the cart. The vendor looked surprised, then took a five and a one and said, “You want your change?”
“No,” Youssef said.
“You have a nice day.”
The cheap glasses cut the glare and, more important to Youssef, hid his eyes. He felt as though everyone who walked by him could read his gaze, see through his eyes to his soul, see all the secrets he held bottled up inside. He thought of returning to the hotel, climbing into the bed and pulling the covers over himself until the world came to knock on his door.
But he still kept walking toward his rendezvous.
At the corner of Madison and Ninth Street, he crossed back over to the lawn of the Mall. Despite the heat, there were many people out: federal employees on their lunch break, tourists and students and a smattering of the homeless. Youssef slowed as he passed a tree, where on a blanket spread in the thin shade a young man and woman were entwined in each other, deep in a kiss. He looked at them avidly; for a moment he imagined the girl looked like Britta. But no, this girl, while blond, was thin and brown, while Britta was as pale as milk under moonlight.
He came to the crossing at Madison and Seventh Street, and waited for the light to change. A tourist family waited there, an overweight father burdened with a day-pack and a camera bag, and a mother holding the hands of the eager children straining to go ahead.
“These lights take a long time to change,” the father said, looking at Youssef, who ignored him. The father looked at his wife and shrugged. The light changed and Youssef crossed the street, looking straight ahead, as though he were marching to a tune only he could hear. He lengthened his stride and left the tourist family behind him, the children’s voices fading in his ear. There would be no children for him, and a wave of sadness welled up in him again.
It was time to put that away, too.
The National Gallery of Art loomed on his left; to his right, across the expanse of lawn, was the gleaming, glassy structure of the Air and Space Museum. People streamed in and out of both buildings, but for now he walked slowly across the street, toward the steps of the National Gallery, already thronged with tourists disgorged from the waiting tour buses. He made no pretense of countersurveillance; it was as though part of him knew he was invisible in the crowd—or just didn’t care anymore. He thought back to what the surveillance lecturer in the Sudanese camp had taught them. You were to look for the people who paid too much attention to what was going on around them; most people paid little attention to anything other than what was right in front of them. Out here, with so many people lingering and people-watching, it was impossible for him to pick anyone as standing out.
He slipped between two big tour buses, their engines idling, the air conditioners going full bore, and stepped onto the sidewalk. The first bus had let out a load of Japanese tourists, all of them huddled in one great mass, each one waving a camera, and following like obedient ducks after the tiny tour leader, who held onto a stick above her head—a yellow pennant with the words YOSHITUNO TOURS. Youssef went along with them, and followed them up the stairs to the entrance doors of the National Gallery. There he stopped, and let the Japanese tour group flow past him through the open doors. Then he turned and looked out across the Mall at the bench where he was to meet his Egyptian contact.
The bench was empty. The benches on either side, separated by a good distance, were occupied. There was a group of young people playing Frisbee near the bench, and a scattering of people under the trees that provided the only shade. Below him, on the steps of the National Gallery, were dozens of tourists sweating in the sun. A couple of dedicated sun worshippers were laid out full-length along the bottom steps.
Youssef stepped forward, out of the shaded doorway, into the bitter light of the sun.
Targets, all of them.
He hefted his courier bag and felt the weight of the Pelican case within, then glanced at his wristwatch. Eleven forty-five.
He was ready.
NATIONAL MALL, WASHINGTON, DC
Charley Payne and Isabelle Andouille sat side by side on the hot cement steps on the Mall side of the Air and Space Museum. They looked like a long-married couple, at ease with the silence between them, sweating in the beating sun. Charley held his long-lensed camera loose in his hands, and Isabelle had her hands folded in her lap, pressing the denim fabric of her dress together for modesty’s sake.
Isabelle looked around, her eyes hidden by round oversized sunglasses, and said, “Is he here yet?”
Charley tilted his head, listening carefully to the occasional message that came through the tiny earpiece he wore, then shook his head no.
“I think he is here,” Isabelle said. “I feel him.”
Charley regarded her for a moment, then lowered his head and whispered into the microphone concealed in his vest. “All stations, stand by. Check again.”
The earpiece buzzed with acknowledgments.
“Shall we walk?” Isabelle said.
“No,” Charley said. “No need. We’ve got the best seats in the house right here.”
“As you wish. I would have them check the steps of the National Gallery again. He stood off there before to survey the area.”
Charley’s earpiece crackled. “Zero, this is Big-Gun-Actual.”
Big-Gun-Actual was the sniper team leader atop the National Air and Space Museum, hidden behind the raised wall on the roof, with a powerful spotting scope to augment the telescopic sight on his .308 rifle. Charley whispered into his microphone, “Big-Gun, Zero, go ahead.”
“We have a possible subject on the top steps of the National Gallery, just before the entry doors, dark-skinned male wearing a straw hat, white T-shirt, blue jeans, and carrying a black shoulder bag.”
Charley’s face grew taut. As his face changed, Isabelle responded by looking more intently across the killing zone.
“Roger, Big-Gun,” Charley said. “Break, Eye-One and Two, do you have a make?”
The surveillance vans, one of them with a boom camera mounted beneath an elevated cherry picker, were running the computer face-matching program on any and all suspect faces in the vicinity of the bench. They were silent for a long moment, and then Charley’s earpiece filled with their response.
“Zero, this is Eye-One. We have a make, say again, we have a make. Suspect is positively identified as the same individual we spotted yesterday.”
“All stations stand by,” Charley said. “Subject has been identified.”
Isabelle stood and brushed at her dress, then plucked at the sweat-darkened fabric. “It’s time,” she said.
Like a dangerous animal drowsing in the sun, the apprehension teams stirred.
Youssef bin Hassan, the specially chosen operative of the Al-Bashir network, the One, stood in the shade cast by the ornamental stonework outside the doors of the National Gallery of Art and let his random thoughts rise. What if he were to miss this meeting? What if he were to forego the meeting completely? Would they even look for him? How would they find him? They couldn’t. That was the whole point of Sad Holiday. The One was unstoppable because he couldn’t be found. What if he just disappeared, made his way back to Amsterdam, found a job, and lived with Britta? Let all this death go?
He wondered why he couldn’t let these thoughts go.
The only thing that emptied his mind was action. He looked at his wristwatch. Almost noon. Time to move. He adjuste
d his courier bag, then dipped into the outside pocket and took out the Washington Post opened to the style section, and held it in his left hand. Then he began his slow descent of the stairs, and a sense of déjà vu swept over him. He remembered the nightmare he’d had in Britta’s bed, of his descent from a great height onto streets filled with the dead and dying, and he looked at the tourists and innocents that surrounded him and knew that they could all be dead in weeks. The words of the clerics and the instructors in the camps, and those of his controllers in Al-Bashir seemed so far away now. This family, the suntanned children laughing and grabbing at their parents’ legs, what did they do to deserve to die? What did this couple lying together in the sun, enjoying their love, what did they do to deserve the horrible death that would soon come to them?
He would be the instrument of their death.
He would spread a horrible and lingering death to innocents, doing exactly what the Americans had done but on a larger scale than anything they had accomplished with their planes and their bombs. And then he allowed himself to acknowledge what he had known for some time: what he was doing was wrong, horribly wrong. He hesitated, stumbling on the bottom steps as the broken rhythm of his thoughts distracted him. What he needed to do was to concentrate on one thing at a time. To stay focused. First he needed to cross the lawn and go to the bench. Then he needed to make contact. Then he needed to exchange the product. Then he could make up his mind.