After watching their demonstration video, Amir smiled and embraced the men.
“Well done, my brothers, well done.”
Now, as Amir worked in his bunker, he glanced at his printout of the newsletter that had been posted online many months ago by the boastful priest who could not refrain from sharing advance news of a papal visit to Montana.
“It is with great joy that we can confirm the Holy Father will visit Cold Butte.”
Amir almost smiled.
The Montana project was emerging as his jewel, as the time for execution was nearly upon them. The op eration would be carried out by the widow of Baghdad.
“The Tigress.”
Her determination was profound.
A few gentle keystrokes and she appeared before him on his laptop’s screen in video recordings.
Samara.
Amir studied her ferocity as she swore her ven geance during her interview. Then he clicked to her training in the mountains along the Afghan border with Pakistan. Then he saw her in the United States.
Preparing.
Her instructions were to assimilate into American society and to get a job in her profession in the target zone. That is all she was to know until further instructions.
Other agents in local religious and professional as sociations played roles in helping her succeed at every step of the way, sponsoring her, acting as references, ex ercising influence when needed.
All of it so subtle as to be invisible.
The security cell was headed by a young group. Its agents had been outstanding, protecting the operation at every step, eliminating vulnerabilities.
“All is well,” one reported in an encrypted dispatch. “Our brothers are watching over our sister.”
Amir nodded.
Then he clicked on to other video recordings. One was a family vacationing in the wilderness. Amir watched the camera take him along a river cutting through a magnificent mountain range.
A scream rises above the river’s rush.
The video cut to a city street and news box display ing headlines about a tragic accident and the deaths of an American family. Then a cut to the surveillance images of a woman who appeared to be working in a large American bookstore.
Amir nodded, then touched one of the laptops on his table.
One not in use.
It belonged to Ray Tarver.
Amir watched another video recording.
It showed a boy eating a hamburger at a picnic table.
Logan Conlin.
He looks into the camera, refusing to smile for the person behind it.
Amir was pleased. Yes, all was well.
Soon the course of history would be forever changed. Amir sent an e-mail to Samara.
Grandmother sends her love. Her gift has arrived. Cousin will call with details…
Book Three
30
Blue Rose Creek, California
Maggie pushed the green button and the dispenser spit out a parking ticket.
The barrier arm lifted and she parked at Mercy General Memorial Hospital. This was where Madame Fatima’s friend had told her to come for information on Logan.
As Maggie walked to the hospital doors, she looked at the clouds swirling overhead, recalling that a storm warning had been issued.
She’d forgotten her umbrella.
She didn’t care.
In the wake of all she’d been through these past few days, getting wet was not a concern. She wasn’t sleeping. She wasn’t eating. Bit by bit she seemed to be slipping from reality into a dream that took her from disappoint ment to disappointment along an ever-darkening road.
But she was not defeated.
One goal, one crystalline purpose, kept her going. She would never give up searching for her son and her husband.
194 Rick Mofina
As Maggie approached reception, the woman at the desk eyed her coldly.
“I’m here to visit Fatima Soleil.”
“Spell it, please.”
Maggie did and the woman’s keyboard clicked.
“Your name?”
“Maggie Conlin.”
“Family or friend?”
“Friend. I was called here by her friend Helga Kimmel.”
The keyboard clicked and the woman found Maggie’s name listed.
“I’m going to need a photo ID.”
“Is my driver’s license okay?”
The woman nodded then traded Maggie’s license for a visitor’s badge and her signature on the visitor’s log attached to a clipboard.
“She’s on the ninth floor. When you get off the elevator, go right, to the nurses’ station.”
“Thank you. Can you tell me her condition?”
“Ask the nurses on the ninth floor.”
As the elevator ascended, Maggie tried to keep her hope in check.
In her heart she believed Fatima had detected some thing during her session. Maggie had, too. She swore she could feel Logan nearby. Now, she tried not to guess at the information Fatima had for her.
Did it matter?
Maggie would pursue any possibility.
The chime sounded for the ninth floor.
The air was heavy with antiseptic smells. Down the hall a short, thickset woman in faded jeans and an over size flowered shirt was talking to a nurse. It was Helga.
“Excuse us, Nancy,” Helga said to the nurse. “I need to talk with Maggie.”
“Hi,” Maggie said.
“Come this way, there’s a lounge around the corner.”
The bright-colored walls could not mask the gloom that resided here in the brownish-gray vinyl couches and the outdated copies of long-forgotten magazines.
Helga sat down, rubbed her bloodshot eyes and exhaled.
“They do not expect Madame to live through the night.”
“Oh, my God.” Maggie touched Helga’s knee. “I’m so sorry.”
