It was time for file number three. This one came from an acronym, DOS FAN which I didn't recognize. The document discussed the investigation and arrest of several of Bin Laden's operators worldwide.
The hot plate was red. I saw a smoke alarm on the ceiling, and stood on the sink unit to pull out the batteries. Then I touched one of the papers I'd read to the plate. Once it was in flames I placed it in the sink, put a few more on top and carried on reading.
The first few pages detailed those responsible for the World Trade Center bombing: Mohammed Salameh, a Palestinian, and his roommate in a Jersey City apartment, Ramzi Ahmed, an Iraqi who'd fought in Afghanistan and arrived at Kennedy International Airport on a flight from Pakistan in September 1992. After the bombing, he spent most of the next three years until his eventual arrest at a guest house called the House of Martyrs in Peshawar, Pakistan, which was owned by Bin Laden.
On that same flight in 1992 had been Ahmad Ajaj, a Palestinian fresh from Afghanistan, whose suitcase was full of bomb-making manuals. Ajaj was convicted in the Trade Center bombing, as was Mahmud Abouhalima, who raised money for the rebels. Arrested in Egypt, he told his captors that the bombing was planned in Afghanistan by veterans of the jihad.
Meeting at a New York mosque, Ramzi Ahmed recruited Mohammed Salameh, Nidal Ayyad and Mahmoud Abouhalima. They helped him buy and mix explosive chemicals in cheap apartments and a rented storage space in Jersey City. Abdul RahmanYasin, an Iraqi, was also recruited.
From time to time, I fed the fire in the sink. Halfway down the third page I found out what DOS FAN stood for: Department of State Foreign Affairs Network, Mid East policy group.
The report went on to detail individuals from one particular cell that was under scrutiny, and their names tallied with those Sarah had given me. I finished the last four pages and burned them, too. I felt as if I'd been speed-reading Tolstoy's War and Peace.
I turned the tap on and pressed the button for the waste-disposal unit.
There was the wailing of metal as it took the black ash. I got a grip on myself and decided it didn't change a thing. All I cared about was Josh's kids.
Another thing Sarah had been right about: there was no one to turn to.
Josh couldn't be trusted not to approach one of his superiors. Even if his kids didn't go to the ceremony, the others would still be at risk, and he'd want to do something about it.
I watched the last bit of ash swirl down the hole, and turned off the tap and waste disposal. Only five minutes left to the RV I was going to be late, but it wasn't as if she had anywhere else to go.
Fuck it, I'd have to get her into the White House without Josh knowing what we were up to. I didn't know quite how I was going to do it. Once again, I felt more bonehead than Bond.
I walked into the bookshop after clearing the area. The coffee shop was to the rear, and I spotted Sarah at one of the tables, nursing a tall latte. She was dressed much smarter than when I'd last seen her. The baseball cap was gone, and in its place was a gray trouser suit and designer loafers that must have sent her credit card into meltdown. Her facial appearance had been totally changed by a pair of black, rectangular, thick-rimmed glasses.
As I approached she smiled and gave me the hello-sonicetosee-you RV-drill look. I looked surprised and delighted--not that I had to fake it-and she stood up for the lovey-lovey kiss on the cheeks.
'How are you?
It's so good to see you.' She voiced her pleasure for the benefit of the people around us.
We sat down and I put my nylon bag beside her new leather one and matching briefcase. She noticed my raised eyebrow and said, 'Well, I should be looking the part. I am a lawyer, remember?' I smiled, and she gazed at me for several seconds before taking a studied sip of her coffee.
Then she gave me the smallest of smiles.
'Well?'
What could I do but nod.
'Yep, let's get on with it. But we do it the way I need it to be done,
OK?'
She nodded back, her smile slowly widening into a victory grin.
'I was right, wasn't I?'
We left the bookshop and walked along the main street. I told her everything, from what Lynn and Elizabeth had said to the attack on the house. I just left the T104 out of the story, and kept the return to the U.K.
in its place. She never asked. I also told her about Kelly, the events that made me her guardian and where Josh stood in all of this. It would undoubtedly come into any conversation once we met up.
'We met when we did, OK? The dates and everything will work. You used to work for us as a secretary.' She nodded. I said, 'We didn't see each other because it was all too complicated. Then we met up again. How long ago was the Syria job?'
'Late 'ninety-five about three and a half years ago.'
'OK, we met again four weeks ago, in London, in a pub in Cambridge Street, and we sort of got back together, saw each other, nothing big time.
And this is our first trip together. We've come here because you've never been before and I like Washington, so we thought, Fuck it, let's do it.'
She cut in, 'But I told the kid I'm a lawyer and I'm working.'
I didn't like her calling Kelly that, but she was right about the story.
'OK, you're in the States to meet a client, in New York, and I wanted to show you D.C. The rest you can busk.'
'Fine. There's only one problem, Nick.'
'What's that?'
'What's your name? Who are you?'
'I'm Nick Stone.'
She laughed.
'You mean that's your real name?'
'Yeah, of course.'
And then it dawned on me, after all the years that we'd known each other, I didn't know her name, either. I'd only ever known her as Greenwood.
'I've shown you mine, you show me yours.'
She was suddenly a bit sheepish.
'Sarah JarvisCockley.'
It was my turn to laugh. I'd never known anyone with such a fucked-up name.
'Jarvis-Cockley?' It was pure Monty Python.
'It's a Yorkshire name,' she said.
'My father was born in York.'
Stopping at a call booth, I tried Josh's number. It would be pointless traveling there if he hadn't got home yet. He was in, and sounded excited about seeing us both.
We got a cab, crossed back over the river and followed the Jefferson Davis Highway southwest, away from D.C.' toward the Pentagon. We didn't talk.
There was nothing left to talk about; she'd told me what the two players looked like while we waited for a cab. It was hardly worth the wait. Neither appeared to have any special features that were likely to make them stick out. From the sound of things, we'd be looking for Bill Gates and Al Gore, only with darker skin.
We were both too tired to say any more. It was easier for us to leave each other with our own thoughts, and mine centered on how the fuck I was going to do this. She put her arm in mine and squeezed my hand. She knew what I was thinking. I had a feeling she usually did, and somehow that felt good.
We approached Arlington National Cemetery: I could see aircraft emerging above the trees on the opposite side of the road, as they took off from the National Airport by the river. At least the sun was trying to come out, even if it was in patches through the cloud.
I gazed at the row upon row of white tombstones standing in immaculate lines on the impossibly green grass to our right. Heroism in the face of idiocy was an everyday job for me, but it was difficult not to be affected by the sheer scale of death in this place.
