in front of her just under the chin, knocking him backward. Before the other man could react, she rammed her elbow back with a diagonal thrust. Because he was so much taller, she caught him in the side of his rib cage, but that was enough to loosen his grip. She swung around and delivered an uppercut elbow to his eyebrow. The blow ripped open the skin and the wound bled profusely, blinding him almost instantaneously. He fell to his knees, clutching his face and crying out.
Shohreh whirled around. The other attacker had recovered and was almost upon her. She knew he, too, was trained in the Muay Thai, and given his greater strength, it would be a mistake to let him get close again. She might surprise him once, but this time he would be more careful. She would use the kao loi; it was the only maneuver that would give her a chance in such close quarters. While he was still several feet away, she sprang forward, leaped off one knee, but while in midair switched to the other knee and smashed the side of his head. Before he could recover, she followed with a roundhouse kick, slamming her shin into his neck. Like all trained in the Muay Thai, she knew the foot had many bones and was fragile, the knee was easily broken, but a trained and muscled shin was almost invulnerable. She delivered another blow with her other shin and he fell to the pavement, motionless.
The man behind her was still struggling to stand and see. She used a simple kao tone to the chin to finish him. He reeled backward, writhing in pain.
Ahmed was still out there, somewhere in the darkness. She executed a 360-degree turn, her hands raised in the traditional “wall of defense” that prepared her for any attack from any direction. Nothing came.
“Will you not fight, Ahmed?” she shouted into the black emptiness. “Or are you so weak now, you leave that only to your clumsy assistants?”
He was, at first, understandably reluctant to speak. Then, finally: “Night-vision goggles?”
“It seemed a prudent precaution.”
“It would appear that since your retirement from our cause, 355, you have acquired some new skills.”
“Or perhaps I had them all along, and you and your masters were too ignorant to realize it.”
“You have lost none of your skill for self-preservation.”
“It would be foolish to do so, while men such as you still walk the face of the earth.”
“You cannot win, Shohreh.”
“I do not wish to win anything. Tell the General I want him to abandon his filthy enterprise. For Djamila’s sake. Tell him that unless he gives me what I want, I will expose him.”
“That would be very foolish of you.”
“But I will do it, just the same. Tell him.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Shohreh saw two figures at the end of the alley. Police? No, they were younger. But they were watching, apparently not so frightened as entertained. That was life here on Dove Avenue. Only a thin line separated entertainment from near death. But then, that had been the case for her for so long, for as long as she could remember.
She could not afford to remain there any longer. “This is not over, Ahmed. Tell your master to give me what I want. Or I will come and take it from him!”
She ran down the other end of the alley, staying clear of Ahmed’s approximate position, disappearing into the darkness.
Her fears had been justified. The General had not come. Perhaps she had accomplished nothing. But she had to try. She owed Djamila that much. And this debt would be paid. No matter what they tried to do to her. No matter what the consequences-and she knew they would be great, if she were linked to the horror of Oklahoma City. But that did not matter.
She would have her satisfaction. They would pay in blood. Just as Djamila had done for them.
14
Ben had been to the White House before, sort of. He’d attended the announcement of the nomination of Supreme Court Justice Roush in the Rose Garden. He’d been through a receiving line in the eastern and oldest section of the building. So he knew, for instance, what a hassle it was to get there, even when you were being personally transported by a chauffeured limo driven by a member of the Secret Service. Ever since the 1995 bombing of the Murrah building in Oklahoma City, the Secret Service had closed off Pennsylvania Avenue from the eastern perimeter of Lafayette Park to 15th Street-the entire passage in front of the White House and then some. Now the sidewalk between the White House and the Treasury building, where the public used to line up for White House tours, was also closed. After 9/11, tours had been sharply curtailed. Now they were available only on a limited basis for groups that had made arrangements through their congressional representatives, and even then all participants had to submit to background checks. Various civic groups had opposed the street closings, but given the current security climate, Ben thought it highly unlikely any of those challenges would ever succeed. The security of the president came first-now more than ever.
Ben had never been inside the Oval Office. He knew many senators with far more years of experience than he had also never been inside this most famous of workplaces. He could barely believe he was going himself as the designated agents led him down the corridors of the West Wing.
A Secret Service agent, who had never seen the necessity of identifying himself, knocked on the east door.
“Enter.”
Ben did. Standing in the northeast corner of the room, leaning against an antique grandfather clock, was the President of the United States.
Ben tried to suppress the nervous tingle that surged through his body, including the knees that were becoming increasingly wobbly. He had met the president before, of course, but not since April 19. Not since the first lady was killed. And not in the Oval Office-this was an entirely different kind of meeting.
He tried to pull himself together and act in a manner somewhat appropriate for a U.S. senator. He shuddered, trying to think how to break the ice. He wasn’t sure what to say.
As they clasped hands, Ben managed, “Mr. President…I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“And I for yours, son. I know Major Morelli is still listed in critical condition. Is there any news from the doctors?”
Ben shook his head. “I call in several times a day, but they never have anything new for me. He suffered extensive internal injuries from the explosion. He’s healing, but the damage was profound. And he still hasn’t come out of the coma, so even if he does recover, he might suffer-” Ben stopped himself. “But what am I talking about? My loss can’t begin to compare with-”
“Every loss is felt profoundly by the persons who loved them,” President Blake said, his eyes focused firmly on Ben, making him feel as if he were the only person in the room, the only person in the universe. “All hearts are equally capable of grieving. I’m sure, in your own way, you feel your loss just as much as I feel the loss of my wife.”
“The whole nation feels the loss of your wife, sir,” Ben replied. “I only met her once, but I thought she was an extraordinary person. Very kind.”
“Thank you, son.” He ran his fingers through his silver locks. “Thank you very much. I appreciate your kind words.”
He turned slowly, breaking the eye contact lock. “Ben, have you met Tracy Sobel?”
An attractive woman in her fifties approached Ben with a direct and efficient manner. “Haven’t had the pleasure.” They shook hands. Her hands were cold.
“She’s my chief of staff,” the president explained, although Ben of course already knew that. “Keeps me in line,” he added, winking, as if they had just shared a private joke, even though everyone in the room had heard it. “And I also want you to meet the new director of Homeland Security. Carl Lehman.”
Ben nodded toward the large black man sitting on one of the sofas in front of the fireplace. Even seated, Ben
