to be up to speed on every issue in his portfolio so he could advise Senator Carson on whether to support, oppose, or try to modify a piece of legislation. Sharp had warned Brad that the worst thing that could happen to him was to field a call from his boss about an article he had not read. In addition to reading the papers, Brad learned about each subject by talking to the staffs of NGOs, lobbyists, concerned citizens, representatives of labor and business, and anyone else who had a view on an issue.
Senators’ offices were located in three buildings: Russell, the oldest; Dirksen, the second oldest; and Hart, the new kid on the block. The party in power had first choice of offices and the senators chose in order of seniority. After an election, life in the Senate was like a game of musical chairs. When a party out of power gained a majority, the losing party’s senators had to move if the winners wanted their offices.
Senator Carson’s office was in Dirksen. Hart was the building closest to Brad’s apartment, and he usually used its staff entrance so he could get inside as fast as possible. D.C. was freezing in winter and hot and humid in summer. A corridor in Hart led to the Dirksen building and was one of many corridors and underground tunnels that connected the office buildings to each other and the Capitol.
Brad had convinced himself that there was no reason to worry about Clarence Little, but two days after reading about the reversal of Little’s convictions, Brad’s self-confidence evaporated. Brad rarely received personal mail at his Senate office, so he was surprised to find the plain white envelope with no return address sitting on his blotter when he got back from lunch. Then he recognized the handwriting on the envelope. It was identical to the writing on the envelope he had received on the evening of the presidential election. Brad’s mouth was dry, and he felt slightly nauseated as he opened the envelope and read the letter it contained. Dear Brad, I hope this letter finds you in good health and enjoying your exciting new job. There is plenty of excitement here on death row, too. My convictions have been reversed. I will soon have new trials, which I hope will end in “Not Guilty” verdicts and freedom. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could visit you and your lovely bride in our nation’s capital? And, speaking of Ginny, how is the love of your life? I hope things are still piping hot between you two. Your Friend, Clarence
Who had smuggled this letter and the letter Clarence had sent him on the night Maureen Gaylord was elected president out of the penitentiary? Was it a guard Little had bribed or his attorney? Brad decided that it wasn’t worth his time to find out.
Should he write Little and tell him to stop writing? No, that would just encourage the psychopath. Brad hadn’t answered Clarence’s first letter, and he decided that he wouldn’t answer this one.
Brad thought about the new trials. After mentally reviewing everything he knew about the cases, he concluded that the chance of Little winning his freedom was small. The best that could happen if he got a top-flight attorney was a life sentence. When Brad calmed down, he started to crumple up the letter to use in a game of wastepaper basketball, but he stopped and put it in the lower drawer of his desk instead.
Chapter Six
A cold rain carrying the salty, seaweed scents of the ocean pelted Ali Bashar as he stood at the rail of the freighter.
“America!” Ali said to the stocky, stone-faced man who stood beside him. His companion turned toward Ali for a second, then turned away. His dark, cold eyes showed none of the excitement Ali felt, as if passion for anything but his mission had been leached out of the man in the camp. Ali believed himself to be as dedicated as the others, but he still retained a sense of wonder.
Ali’s dark complexion and milk-chocolate-colored eyes were common among the tribal people who grew up in the mountainous section of Pakistan where he had been born. His straight black hair was concealed beneath a knit watch cap, and he wore a heavy pea jacket as protection against weather that Manhattanites would consider uncomfortable but which chilled the blood of someone who had spent the last eight months in the desert. Ali was five feet eight and had been sick frequently when he was a child, so his constitution was frail. When he was young, he had been the butt of many jokes and the object of the cruelty that comes naturally to children. Ali was bright, was especially good with numbers, and had an excellent memory. These traits had helped him to excel in the classroom but often made his life outside of it difficult. His intelligence had finally been rewarded at the al-Qaeda camp in Somalia, but the physical part of the training had been difficult for him.
Ali’s time in the camp and his brief stay in Karachi, where he had been smuggled aboard the freighter, were his only experiences in the world outside his village. As the freighter pulled into New York Harbor, he stared wide- eyed at the Statue of Liberty and New York’s skyline. Then he looked for the empty space in the skyline where the Twin Towers had stood, and he smiled. He had been shown the destruction of the Towers several times on a television in the camp. He didn’t know why he and his three companions were being smuggled into America, but he believed that he would soon be part of something that would make the self-absorbed, godless citizens of the United States forget about September 11.
The freighter was registered in Liberia, but the captain was a Pakistani, as were many in the crew. Ali and the others had fit in, and they all had false papers and cover stories that would hold up under all but the most intense scrutiny. It was dusk when the freighter docked, and the pier was spotlighted when the crew began unloading the cargo. Ali and his companions mingled with the rest of the crew as they shifted crates containing machine parts from the ship to the dock, but they peeled off from the legitimate crew members when a nondescript taupe station wagon glided down the pier and pulled up next to a pallet piled high with wooden crates. They had been told about the station wagon just before they boarded the freighter.
Ali slid into the passenger seat next to the driver, who wore a New York Yankees jacket and baseball cap.
“I’m Steve, and I’m going to take you to a safe house near Washington, D.C.,” he said in perfect Urdu. “When we get to the gate, let me do the talking. If the guard asks you a question, I’ll tell him you don’t speak English and I’ll translate.”
The man’s looks and accent convinced Ali that the driver was an American. This surprised him. He had met Americans sympathetic to the cause at the camp, but they had been blacks who had converted to Islam or young, disaffected Arab Americans. This American had blue eyes to go with the blond hair that crept out from beneath his cap.
English was the second official language of Pakistan, and Ali was conversant in it. His stomach was in a knot when they pulled up to the gate, and he listened carefully when the driver spoke to the uniformed guards. He was expecting the guards to demand his papers and subject him to an interrogation he was not convinced he could withstand, but they let the station wagon through without any trouble. Ali wondered if a bribe had changed hands.
Steve didn’t say much after they left the dock. Ali and his companions strained to see the sights as they passed through Manhattan, but they were exhausted, and all but Ali nodded off as soon as they were on the interstate headed south.
“You are American?” Ali asked as soon as he got up the nerve to start a conversation.
Steve nodded.
“You are Muslim?”
The driver nodded again.
“Is that why you help us?”
Steve turned his head toward Ali. When he was talking to the guards, Steve had looked like the star of an American sitcom Ali had been shown in the camp to help with his training; all smiles, joking about trivial matters. Now he looked dangerous.
“The less you know about me, the better off you are, understood?” he asked in a hard, cold tone.
“Of course,” Ali answered, backing off immediately. Fear of abuse had been nurtured in Ali since early childhood, and he never did well in physical confrontations.
Ali turned away and closed his eyes, but he didn’t fall asleep immediately. To distract himself, he thought of all the possible targets in America’s capital. Which one would he destroy in the name of Allah? When he fell asleep, there was a contented smile on his lips.
I t was still dark when Ali woke up. He felt dull witted and spent a few moments rubbing sleep from his eyes. There was a sour taste in his mouth. The station wagon was driving down a dirt road in rural Maryland. Steve pulled
