I still know. Mom’s on her own now, and she gets a bit lonely sometimes. And you?”
“Oh, I am from a place called Petra in the south of Jordan. My parents have a small hotel there.”
“Petra,” said Kathy. “I know about Petra. That’s where they discovered the lost city carved into the rock. Burial grounds, palaces, temples, and God knows what. Pre-Roman.”
“Well, that’s very impressive, Mrs. Morgan,” said Ahmed. “And you are right. There are still very important excavations taking place down there.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing that dramatic happening in Brockhurst when I go home,” said Kathy, laughing. “Just Emily working in her garden.”
“Emily?”
“Yes, that’s my mom. I always called her Emily. She’s Emily Gallagher.”
“Then you are of Irish descent,” replied Ahmed, with the skilled dexterity of an international diplomat. “Like my own mother.”
“Well, yes, I am — I was Kathy Gallagher. All four of my grandparents were immigrants from Kerry in southern Ireland. But your mother sounds really interesting.”
“Her family came from County Cork, but she met and married my father when he was a Jordanian diplomat in Dublin. He hated the weather, so they returned to Petra and bought a hotel.”
At this point, Kathy excused herself to assist the chairman with her gratitude speech, and she moved away unaware that she had been speaking to one of the most sinister, dangerous undercover terrorists in the entire United States.
Ahmed hated the West, and everything it stood for. He was a rabid extremist for Islam, though not in the front line of strikes against the Great Satan. He operated behind the scenes, and was probably Hezbollah’s most valuable intelligence gatherer. He also helped Hamas whenever he could. Ahmed was permitted to take no risks.
And now, sitting quietly in New York’s Pierre Hotel with Shakira Rashood, he would put his knowledge to work. “Take notes, but destroy them before you get on station,” he ordered. “Your mission is to befriend a Mrs. Emily Gallagher. She lives in a small town called Brockhurst, down where the Rappahannock River runs out into Chesapeake Bay.”
“Have you been there?”
“Yes. I drove down. It’s about 120 miles from Washington. But it’s a good road, Interstate 95 until you hit Route 17, then straight down the right bank of the river.”
“Did you see Mrs. Gallagher’s house?”
“I did. That part was easy. It’s a white stone colonial building on the edge of the town. I think she might be rather a grand lady. So please be extra careful. Those kinds of people are usually a lot cleverer than we may sometimes think.”
Shakira wrote carefully in a small leather-bound notebook. “Did you see her?” she asked.
“No. But I saw the house.”
“And the hotel you mentioned?”
“That’s in the center of town. Quite an old building, with a bar and a restaurant. And quite busy.”
“And I am either to stay there or work there?”
“Correct. But much better to work there if you can. I have an apartment for you about twenty miles north of Brockhurst in a new complex. It’s the penthouse on the twenty-first floor, and I have right here the lease agreement, which you must sign and present to the management when you get there.”
Ahmed reached into his pocket and produced the document, with a banker’s draft made out to Chesapeake Properties for $9,000, the amount of four months’ rent.
“That’s a lot of money,” said Shakira.
“It’s a very nice place,” replied Ahmed. “Private. Penthouse, balcony, two bedrooms, nicely furnished. Big living room, kitchen, two bathrooms, and a small utility room. The building has a doorman 24/7.”
“I probably won’t want to leave,” smiled Shakira.
“You probably will
They concluded their dinner with a cup of coffee at around 10:30. “I must go,” Ahmed said as he stood up from the table. “I have to get back.”
“To Washington?”
“Yes, I have a driver outside. We’ll make it in four hours. Remember, I’m supposed to be at the Whitney Museum for a reception this evening. I’ll be expected at my desk on time in the morning.”
Shakira thanked him for everything, but before he left, Ahmed placed on the table a long, thin cardboard box. “This is for you,” he said. “I hope you never need it, at least not during your stay in the USA.” And with that, he hurried toward the Fifth Avenue entrance and was gone.
Shakira picked up the box and made her way up to her seventh-floor room. Once inside, she opened it and stared at a long, slender Middle Eastern dagger, its blade very slightly curved, its handle set with red, green, and blue stones. There was also a brief note, written in Arabic. Shakira translated automatically—
Shakira smiled.
Almost all transatlantic passengers from Europe wake up at some ungodly hour on their first morning in the United States, mainly because at five o’clock in the morning on the East Coast, it’s 10 A.M. in London, and the body clock has not yet adjusted.
Shakira was awake at 5:30 and spent the next couple of hours watching television, trash on three channels, which she loved. By eight o’clock, she was having a light breakfast of orange juice, fruit, and coffee. By 9 A.M., she was outside waiting for Fausi, who was right on time.
They headed down Fifth Avenue, slowly in the morning traffic, and crawled their way west toward 10th Avenue and the Lincoln Tunnel. The traffic pouring through into the city from New Jersey was extremely heavy, but not too bad outward-bound.
The line for the tunnel was slow; but once inside, everything sped up. Fausi accelerated into New Jersey, collected his toll ticket, and headed fast down the turnpike. They were past Philadelphia in ninety minutes, past Baltimore in three hours, and around Washington heading south in four.
Just after 1 P.M., they stopped for gas and coffee; then, with a little over a hundred miles in front of them, they set off for Brockhurst, arriving there after a drive on a narrow, winding road in hot, clear weather at 4:35.
Fausi parked the car on a deserted street six hundred yards from the Estuary Hotel, and Shakira, who was dressed in light blue jeans, an inexpensive white shirt, and flat shoes, walked the short distance.
The front door of the Estuary led into a wide, rather dark interior hall, carpeted in dark red. There was a long wooden reception area, behind which was a middle-aged man, fiftyish. To the left was an obvious bar, with the same carpet, soft lighting, and bar stools. It was completely deserted. To the right was the dining room/restaurant, with a desk at its entrance. Unoccupied.
Shakira looked doubtful. No customers. They wouldn’t need any staff. Nonetheless, she walked hesitantly to the front desk and said, politely, “Good afternoon.”
The man looked up, smiled, and asked, “And what can I do for you?”
“Well,” said Shakira, “I am looking for a job, here in Brockhurst, and I wondered if you had a vacancy. I can do almost anything — maid, waitress, receptionist.”
The man nodded and stood up. He offered his hand and said, “Jim. Jim Caborn. I’m the manager here. And you?”
“I’m Carla Martin. It’s nice to meet you.” Shakira had been well versed in American niceties.
“Well, Carla,” said the manager, “I’m afraid I don’t have anything right at the moment. However, I do have a barman leaving in a week. Can you do that kind of thing?”
“Oh, yes. I worked in a bar in London for three months. Does this place get busy?”
“All the time,” replied Jim. “From about 5:30 in the evening onward. And especially on weekends in the summer.” He stared at her very beautiful face and swept-back raven hair, and wondered about her background; he asked, “Do you have an American passport?”
