Sefer Halovic let the door close behind him. The sound of it slamming shut was his signal to relax however minutely.
The first phase of his mission was over. He’d made it. He was safely in America.
Out of habit, the lean, cold-eyed Bosnian scanned the motel room. It would have looked commonplace, even drab, to any American, but it seemed luxurious to him. Two single beds half filled the room, which also held a chair, table, and television on a battered stand. The covers on the beds were a faded lime green. They almost matched the stained, gold-colored carpet. He could see several spots where the wallpaper, a speckled, ugly yellow-brown, was peeling away from the walls. He peered through an open door and saw a small bathroom, with a shower and a dripping sink.
Halovic nodded, satisfied by what he saw. Compared to the Masegarh barracks, this was palatial. More important, it was anonymous. He’d paid in cash and he’d been careful to avoid eye contact with the bored clerk. They’d barely exchanged a dozen words during the transaction hardly a serious test for his English skills.
Throwing his bag on one of the beds, he collapsed onto the other. He’d been traveling for more than three days, following a long, circuitous route specifically designed to confuse anyone trying to retrace his path later.
First he’d flown from Tehran to Rome using false papers that identified him as Hans Grunsald, a German salesman. From there he’d taken the train to Paris and then a flight to Montreal.
Crossing from Canada had been the mission planners’ masterstroke, Halovic realised. The U.S.-Canadian border was notoriously porous. Passport and customs checks there were infrequent at worst, nonexistent at best. He’d been lucky. The bus he’d hopped in Montreal had taken him all the way to New York without incident. From New York, he’d taken a train south to the vast, renovated bulk of Washington, D.C.‘s Union Station. A taxi had brought him to this motel, one he’d picked at random out of a telephone book.
Halovic closed his eyes, trying hard to get some sleep. It was two in the afternoon, and the short nap he’d caught on the train had been no more than dozing, the uneasy rest of a soldier in enemy territory. He’d spent most of his time watching the scenery slide by while keeping a wary eye out for suspicious officials or police.
Images from the journey rolled through his restless mind. America was huge, bigger than he had imagined. A three-hour train ride would have taken him halfway across the former Yugoslavia. Here, it covered only a small fraction of one coastline.
He was also unaccustomed to a country at peace. He’d bought a newspaper and several magazines at Penn Station. To his amusement and disgust, Americans seemed wrapped up in trivialities. While the world exploded around them, they argued about scandals and fashions and the latest movies. His lip curled in contempt. If this country was a giant among nations, it was a distracted, childish giant.
These people did not know what real war was. To them, it was nothing more than a video game or a sporting event. Their brief news reports of the continued fighting in Bosnia seemed utterly abstract and dispassionate. His jaw tightened. Because the Serb murderers posed no threat to America and because their victims were Muslim, the American people were content to do nothing. They would let his homeland boil in its own blood because it was too distant for them to care.
Well, Halovic thought grimly as he slid into an uneasy, nightmare-filled sleep, I will show them what war is like. I will make them bleed.
The frantic chirping of his watch alarm roused him. He opened his eyes, rolled over onto his side, and turned it off in one smooth, graceful motion. It was six o’clock in the evening. It was time to move. Time to make his most recent incarnation disappear.
Halovic levered himself off the bed. He was still weary, but he could run on willpower and adrenaline for a while longer. He showered and changed into casual clothes jeans and an open-necked shirt. He also shaved off the light blond beard and mustache that had hidden most of his face as Grunwald. Smooth-cheeked now, he shredded his old passport, plane, bus, and train tickets and flushed them down the toilet.
Back in the room, he opened his hard-sided travel bag and cut away the inner lining with a pocketknife to retrieve another set of identity papers, including a Virginia driver’s license with his picture and the name of Frank Daniels. Bulging envelopes taped next to the forged documents held cash, a lot of it. More than thirty thousand American dollars all in twenties, fifties, and hundreds.
Halovic regarded the money with cool calculation. Although he’d entered the United States unarmed, the cash in his possession was as much a weapon as any rifle. He planned to make sure that it was used wisely and not wasted just like ammunition.
The hot, humid summer air hit him as he stepped outside carrying his travel bag. He left nothing behind in his room except the key, which the cleaning staff would find in the morning.
Halovic spotted a pay phone next to a fast-food restaurant across the street. After crossing at the light, he discarded the pair of wire-frame eyeglasses he’d worn as Grunwald in a nearby trash bin. He noted the street names in passing.
At the pay phone, he dialed a number he’d memorised in Tehran. It rang once before being answered.
“This is Arlington Transport.”
“You have a pickup at Arlington Boulevard and Courthouse Road,” Halovic replied. “Near the hamburger restaurant.”
“Do you have the fare ready?” the voice asked.
“I’m from out of town. Can you take a check?”
“Yes.” There was a pause. “It will be about ten minutes. Expect a green sedan.”
“I will be waiting.” Halovic hung up. He moved further down the road and pretended to be waiting for a bus. Vehicles flowed past in a steady stream as the evening rush hour built to a climax. Though nobody paid the slightest attention to him, the ten minutes seemed to pass very slowly.
A large green car a Buick drove by the phone booth, circled back, and turned into the fast-food restaurant’s parking lot. Fighting his instinctive caution, he stood up with his bag in hand and strode up to the waiting vehicle.
The driver’s window slid down noiselessly as he approached. A face turned in his direction, but the man’s hands were hidden. Halovic knew that the Buick’s driver had a weapon ready. He approved of that. He had no use for overconfident fools.
“I’m looking for Arlington,” he said flatly. “I’m meeting a friend there.”
“This is Arlington,” the driver replied. Halovic noted that the man’s English was heavily accented, but understandable. His face was half hidden in the shadows, and his hands were still not visible. “Your friend must be elsewhere. Perhaps he is in Alexandria?”
H~lovic~ghed. Sign. He spoke distinctly, careful to keep — fits hands in plain view. “Then I need a lift. I can pay you well.” Countersign.
“Get in.”
Halovic quickly walked around the front of the car and slid into the passenger side. He glanced once at the man beside him. “Drive.”
Obeying the single terse order, the driver immediately put the Buick in gear and backed out. As he signaled to turn onto the street, he said, “Fasten your seat belt, please. The local traffic regulations require it.”
Halovic complied, fumbling with the unfamiliar fittings.
Then he turned toward his associate. Khalil Yassine was a short, dark-complected man in his late twenties. Until General Amir Taleh had plucked him out of a terrorist camp he’d slated for destruction and brought him to Masegarh for further training, Yassine had been a guerrilla fighter in a radical offshoot of the PLO.
The Palestinian spoke in a respectful tone. “There is a residential area ahead on the left. We can lose any possible trailers in there.”
“Excellent. My name now is Daniels. So then, who exactly are you?” Halovic asked him, just as he might prompt a child to recite its catechism.
“I am George Baroody, a naturalised American citizen. I was born in Lebanon and emigrated ten years ago to escape the civil war there. I am a car mechanic, but I’ve been laid off and am looking for another job.”
Halovic arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Lebanese? Don’t the authorities keep a close eye on people from your country?”
Yassine shook his head. “They cannot. There are thousands and tens of thousands of immigrants in this region some are legal, many are not. From all parts of the world. So I stay away from politics. I don’t cause trouble. I stick to my own affairs.” He shrugged. “In effect, I am invisible.”
