Chapter Eighteen
Andie rode the Green Line into Washington for a status meeting with the supervisory agent in charge of her undercover operation. Her Metro stop was U-Street/Cardozo, near Howard University, and she took the escalator up to the Thirteenth Street exit. A cold front was pushing through that afternoon, and the temperature had dropped almost ten degrees since lunchtime. January was not her favorite time of year to visit the capital, and this latest trip north had confirmed that her Seattle roots had dissolved and that she was officially a thin-blooded Floridian.
Andie cinched up her coat and started toward the Hotel LaDroit. Her undercover role was a round-the-clock commitment, and meetings at FBI offices were out of the question. Andie wondered what Jack would have said about her meeting an ex-marine like Harley Abrams at a cheap hotel. Before she could even laugh at the thought, however, Harley stopped her on the sidewalk. He’d just walked out of Ben’s Chili Bowl-A WASHINGTON LANDMARK, the sign above the window said, famous for its place in civil rights history and its “Chili Smokes” hot dogs.
“Whoa, I don’t need to eat for a week,” said Harley. “Let’s talk while I walk this off.”
Andie was almost shivering. “Aren’t we meeting indoors?”
“This way,” he said. “Ten minutes, tops.”
“Let’s make it five,” said Andie. She set a brisk pace to the corner, where Harley led her up a side street.
“This wasn’t on my original agenda,” he said, “but I got another call this morning from Justice about your fiance. To put it mildly, there are serious concerns about the direction his defense strategy is taking.”
They stopped at a traffic light. There was a dentist’s office on the corner, and it occurred to Andie that between the worsening weather and the continuing assault on Jack-this was not the first conversation with her supervisor about Jamal Wakefield-today’s status meeting was turning out to be about as pleasant as a root canal.
“How do they know what Jack’s defense strategy is?” she asked.
“Well, the lawyers at Justice are making certain assumptions.”
“They can assume all they want,” said Andie. “It’s like I told you before: If Jack wants to defend Jamal Wakefield, that’s his decision.”
The light turned green. Andie buried her hands in her coat pockets, and Harley matched her stride across the street.
“Don’t get defensive,” he said. “I’m sharing this with you only because I thought you should know. That’s all.”
Andie paused to consider the source. Harley was one of the good guys, and it was pointless to kill the messenger. “Okay, sorry. I appreciate the heads-up.”
Harley stopped midway down the block. Andie was eager to find warmth inside a comfortable lobby, but there wasn’t a hotel in sight. In fact, the neighborhood had turned questionable.
“Don’t tell me you got us lost,” said Andie.
They were standing in front of a hardware store, but Harley’s gaze had drifted toward a small shop across the street. The plate-glass windows were blacked over, but the sign on the door-CAPITAL PLEASURES, it read- featured a tall blonde in tight black leather with strategically placed nickel studs.
“Harley, this seems inappropriate.”
“That’s why I’m going to let one of our female agents handle this. Cherie Donner from the Washington field office is sort of an expert in this field. She’ll be here any minute, take you inside, and show you around. Then the two of you will meet in private. She can explain everything.”
“Explain what?”
“Let me put it this way,” he said. “Your undercover role is entering a new phase.”
Andie let it sink in. She’d played a prostitute on her first undercover assignment in Seattle, but this was her first venture into the world of leather and chains.
“Are you asking me to play some kind of dominatrix?”
“I would have volunteered myself, but does anybody really want to see me in a getup like that?”
Andie shook off the thought in a hurry. “Definitely not, but I-”
“Relax,” he said. “I was just kidding about wearing the stuff. It’s more of an education into a lifestyle and certain male fetishes that Agent Donner will introduce you to.”
She took another quick look across the street, wondering what Jack would say about her visit to Capital Pleasures.
Honey, do you like the riding crop with the rhinestones, or without?
“You’re okay with this, right?” he asked.
“Sure, I’m fine. There’s just one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t expect me to whip my husband into dropping his case,” she said as she thumped him on the chest.
Chapter Nineteen
On Monday evening Jack got his first taste of Somali cuisine. It was at Cafe Nema-in Washington, D.C.
Proving that Jamal had been held at a secret detention center in Prague was step two of the alibi defense. Step one was proving that a facility had ever existed in the Czech Republic in the first place-an even bigger hurdle. The defense team needed a heavy hitter, and it was Neil who had arranged for them to meet with Stan Haber, a corporate litigator who believed that everyone deserved a lawyer. That belief wasn’t incompatible with profit: Over the years, Haber and his powerful Washington firm had logged thousands of billable hours trying to convince juries that Big Tobacco didn’t know cigarettes were addictive. Lately, he’d spent his time defending Gitmo detainees free of charge.
“Who ordered the sambousa with basmati rice pilaf?” the waitress asked.
Flaky fried triangles of dough filled with curried vegetables weren’t exactly exotic, but Cafe Nema was more about the experience. At the basement level, a few steps below U Street, the dimly lit room was ripe for conversation, a cozy mix of foreign ex-pats and hip U-Streeters. Battered brick walls displayed a collage of brightly colored oil paintings, and a large Somali flag hung on a section painted fire-engine red. Photos of Miles Davis and Duke Ellington hung above the worn wooden bar, where counter and stools bore the nicks, scratches, and other badges of use. Older men spoke French and Arabic, savoring plates of kibeh (a torpedo-shaped pastry filled with beef and onions). Students from nearby Howard University gathered at tables to kibitz or send text messages from their cell phones. Jazz music set the mood without interfering with the buzz of voices.
“Sambousa is mine,” said Jack.
The waitress served the platters and quickly brought another round of beers. Neil steered the conversation back toward business.
“Stan has been on top of black detention sites ever since the Washington Post broke the story in 2005.”
Jack already knew all that, but Neil’s brief segue was all the encouragement Haber needed to remind them that he had been among the first volunteers to visit Guantanamo, and that he’d played a key role in securing the game-changing decision of the Supreme Court that detainees must be treated in accordance with the Geneva Conventions.
“Obviously, we’d love to have someone like you on board,” said Jack. “But here’s my concern. Our job is to get Jamal acquitted on charges of first degree murder. Nothing more. I don’t want to turn his case into a foreign- policy battle where my client is collateral damage in a war against the CIA.”
“Then you’re dreaming,” said Haber. “The CIA doesn’t care why you want the information. You want to prove that secret detention sites existed in Eastern Europe-something the United States and every Eastern European country has denied for years. Even the Red Cross had to push for five years to get access to the detainees, and they still didn’t get information about all the black sites.”
