Jones hedged. “Well…”
Loving, their huge barrel-chested investigator, sauntered down the hallway, grinning from ear to ear. “I think the correct answer to that question is: Deep in hiding.”
Christina couldn’t help returning the smile. “Good to see you again, Loving. How was the vacation?”
“It…had some interestin’ moments. But I came back soon as I heard about the amendment.”
“Appreciate that. So Ben is hiding from the press?”
Loving chuckled. “Actually, I think he’s mostly hiding from you.”
“Damn well he should. First the man cancels my honeymoon, then he says he thinks this fascist amendment might not be a bad idea. Ever since the attack, I’ve barely seen him. He always manages to come back to the apartment after I’m sound asleep. I don’t even remember the last time we-”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Loving held out his hands. “Too much information alert.”
“Moving right along,” Jones said, nervously shuffling his papers. “You do remember that Ben is supposed to represent his home state, don’t you? He should implement the will of his people, not the, um, will of his wife.”
Christina gave him a look that could stop traffic.
“Support for this bill in Oklahoma is even higher than the national average. The word on the street-”
“Is this the word on the street?” Christina said sharply, “or the word in the library?” Jones’s wife, Paula, was a librarian for the Tulsa City/County Library system.
“I have talked to Paula, since you ask, in your rather pointed I’m-an-underdog-and-crusader-for-justice-so-I- can-be-as-rude-as-I-want way. She says she doesn’t know anyone who doesn’t support the amendment. And she travels with a pretty highbrow crowd.”
“I hear the same thing from my people,” Loving added. Christina suspected that “his people” were mostly found in honkytonks and strip bars, but still, they were giving her an interesting cross section of public opinion.
“Just because it’s popular doesn’t make it right.”
“No,” Jones replied, “but bear in mind that Ben is not only Oklahoma’s U.S. senator, he’s currently Oklahoma’s only U.S. senator. Doesn’t he have an obligation to vote the will of the people?”
“Absolutely not,” Christina said firmly. “He has an obligation to do what he thinks is right. Public opinion is no excuse for betraying your conscience. If the people don’t like what he does, they can vote him out next election.”
“Well, technically, they never voted him in.”
“Nonetheless, while he’s in office, his job is to do what’s best for the nation. Which is not necessarily appeasing a reactionary public opinion.”
“But what if he wants to run for reelection?” Loving asked. “Goin’ against a huge majority favorin’ the amendment could tank him.”
“Have you heard him say he’s running for reelection? Last I heard he was still dithering about, avoiding a commitment. As usual.”
“This amendment’s gonna be a big deal, Chris. If he comes out on the wrong side-it’s good-bye Washington.”
Christina grabbed her phone messages-there were more than thirty-and marched back to the main corridor. “This speculation is all well and good, but I think I’d like to talk to the senator myself. There’s a remote chance he may have made up his mind what he wants to do. I’ll-”
The phone rang, cutting her off.
“Just a minute, Chris,” Jones said, clicking the button that activated his phone earpiece. “It’s probably for you.”
He waited a moment, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. His jaw slowly dropped. “Or…maybe not.”
He continued listening. Christina and Loving moved in closer.
“Oh, right. Like he makes his own phone calls. Is this you, Morgan? Because if it is, let me tell you that this is not funny in-”
Another abrupt pause. “Really?” Jones’s shoulders sagged. His forehead creased. “Really? Well, I don’t know exactly where he is, sir, but I can find him. Yes. As soon as possible.”
Christina gave him a long look. “Who’s calling?” she whispered.
Jones cleared his throat again. “That would be the, um, President of the United States,” he said, his voice warbling. “And he wants to see Ben. Immediately.”
13
Shohreh’s hands trembled even as she completed her salat, but it was not due to her fear of God. It was due to her fear of what she had to do next.
Like every good Muslim, she recited her morning prayers, but on this particular morning, she did so with a sense of both conviction and desire that exceeded the norm. She needed God’s help. She would never be able to do this alone. But it had to be done. She had sworn an oath to God, and she had made a promise to Djamila. So she performed the usual ritual cleansing, removed her shoes, draped her head, and placed herself on her prayer rug, standing, then sitting, then bowing and prostrating herself as she performed the invocations of faith.
“La ilaha illa’Llah,” she recited. There is no god but God. That was the shahada, the fundamental statement of her religion. She recited from memory the opening sura from the Qur’an. As always, she recited silently, moving her lips but not speaking aloud. These words were for God and no one else, and He did not need to hear the words to know they were being said. When at last she finished, she changed her clothes and left the shabby apartment to do what had to be done.
She hated this neighborhood. She had left as soon as she extracted herself from the cell and promised never to return. Rockville was actually one of the better suburbs in the D.C. area: population of only about sixty thousand, good schools, clean streets. The pride of Montgomery County, favored by many politicians, staff members, and even lobbyists-the people with the real money. But like every other town in this dramatically divided country, there was a dark underbelly, the slum neighborhood that provided housing affordable to low-income workers who made it possible for the rest of the town to live in the manner that they did. Even given her circumstances, she knew she could do better.
And she had not been gone a week when she received that fateful call, the one she should never have answered. The one that took her to Oklahoma City.
Damn Yaseen. The General, as he was so fond of being called. He knew she would not be able to say no. He had been a Shiite general, back before he was forced to leave Iraq. He knew how to lead. And he knew how to manipulate. He knew how to make sure she would not be able to refuse.
She had gone to Oklahoma City, done as he asked, and regretted it ever since. Before, she had been almost invisible. Now she lived in fear of discovery, a discovery that would not only end her own short life, but make it impossible to honor her commitment to Djamila. She knew that every law enforcement official in the country was poring over the footage that had been taken by the media in Oklahoma City. It didn’t matter that she had disguised herself, changed her name, traveled under false papers. Eventually someone would remember seeing her there. They would link her to the cell. And given the current sentiment in the country, she would be lucky if she were not lynched in the street.
Americans were so easily led. She remembered the first Oklahoma City incident, the bombing that cost so many lives. In the immediate aftermath, all the experts and commentators attributed the attack to Middle Eastern terrorists. Several of her friends were beaten mercilessly that night by rednecks for no reason other than the color of their skin. And the next day the truth was revealed. The bombing had nothing to do with Middle Eastern terrorists. It was a homegrown crazy, an antigovernment zealot just as white as the stars on the American flag.
