flight from Europe to Egypt that he’d pocketed and then forgotten. It was barely a shot’s worth.
Damn good thing he’d caught it in midair. Try it a hundred times and he’d never do it again.
“Get him some food,” Nuri told one of the guards. “Don’t talk to him at all. I’m going to go for a walk and clear my head. I’ll be back.”
Chapter 10
It was not easy to find a pay phone. And when Amara finally did find one and dialed the number, he went straight to voice mail.
Flustered, he hung up. He had no idea what to do or where to go. He’d never even been in Washington, D.C., before.
He had a cell phone but was sternly warned to use it only once, and that was to call and say he had arrived at his final destination. Using it for any other purpose was beyond question. He was sure to be punished for doing so; he guessed the punishment would be death.
Amara walked around the train station, trying to decide what to do. He would have to find a place to stay. That part was relatively easy, even though he had limited funds. The question would be what to do next.
The bookstore had a stand with small magazines listing inexpensive hotels. He studied it, then found the taxi stand. But as he queued up for the line, he saw from the magazine ad that he could get there from the Metro. That would be cheaper.
Back inside, he passed the phone booth and decided to try calling his contact one last time.
A male voice answered on the second ring.
“Yes?”
“This is Amara from the old country,” he said. “I’ve come looking for my cousin.”
There was no answer. Fearing a trap or perhaps a simple mistake with the number, Amara was just about to slap the phone down when the man said, “Go to the Air and Space Museum. Wait outside.”
“What train do I take?” asked Amara. But the man had already hung up.
Amara found his way to the Metro and bought a fare card. He could feel the others staring at him as he wheeled his suitcase down to the tracks. But there were other travelers with cases as well.
Someone bumped into him from behind. Amara jerked back.
“I’m sorry,” said a white girl, about nineteen or twenty. She had a stud below her lip. She put her hand up to reassure him. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I, uh…” Amara’s throat was suddenly very dry. He searched his brain for something to say in English. “I… wonder which way.”
“What way?” She gave him a bemused smile.
“I have to meet someone in front of the Air and Space Museum. Is hard to get to? From here?”
The girl led him back over to a map of the subway system, explaining how he would have to go. She smelled like flowers, Amara thought. American girls always did.
Some forty minutes later, Amara paced in front of the museum, trying to look inconspicuous.
He froze as he saw a police car pass by.
It’s all been a trap, he thought. An elaborate hoax to get me to America. They’ll throw me in Guantanamo and torture me there for life.
“Cousin,” said a deep voice as a hand clapped him on the shoulder from behind.
Amara, startled, spun around. A short, light-skinned man with an extremely scraggly beard stood behind him. It was difficult to correlate the voice with the man — he was diminutive, barely the size of a thirteen-year-old boy.
“How is my uncle and aunt?” asked the man. His English had a Pakistani accent.
“I’m good — they’re good,” said Amara, trying to pull himself back together.
The little man rolled his eyes.
“Come on,” he said under his breath. “Crap.”
He took Amara’s rolling suitcase and began leading him down the block.
“Call me Ken,” said the man after they had gone several blocks. “I will call you Al.”
“Al,” said Amara.
“Nothing else. You have a cell phone.”
“No,” said Amara.
“Good. Anyone give you anything in New York?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Ken continued walking. They had left the Mall area and were now on a residential street.
“This is my car,” said Ken, pointing with a key fob to a battered Impala and opening the trunk. “Get in.”
Amara did as he was told. Ken didn’t speak again for nearly a half hour. By then they were pulling down the back alley of a row of dilapidated town houses.
“Wait while I undo the fence,” said Ken, throwing the car into park. He got out, undid three locks with different keys, then unwrapped the chain that held the fence together. Amara glanced up. There was barbed wire at the top of the fence line.
Car parked and gate relocked, Ken led Amara down a short flight of concrete steps to a steel door. Two more keys. They entered a tiny hallway. Once again Ken had to unlock a door guarded by several locks, one of them a combination. They stepped into a dark basement.
“This way,” said Ken after relocking and bolting the door behind them.
“You have cat eyes,” said Amara, trying to follow in the pitch-black.
“Don’t trip,” said Ken.
Amara managed to follow him across the darkened room to a set of stairs leading up. If there was a light, Ken didn’t bother using it, leading him up to the first floor of the house, where once more they went through the ritual of locks.
“The bathroom’s in the back,” said Ken, leading him into the apartment. “Go through the kitchen, take a right. You can put your things in the bedroom on the left. Don’t touch anything.”
Amara took his things into the room, then went to the bathroom, keeping the laptop bag with him. The room was small and narrow, and smelled of ammonia. The overhead light was extremely bright, and the porcelain, though old, glistened. The taps worked separately; it took a bit of juggling to get his hands washed at a comfortable temperature.
Ken was waiting for him in the kitchen. He had a metal pot on the stove for coffee.
“So you’re the help they sent,” said Ken skeptically. “What’s your specialty?”
“I don’t have a specialty.”
Ken frowned. “What did they tell you?”
“Nothing. I brought a program that will help you.”
“In the bag? Let’s see it?”
Amara removed the computer from the backpack and turned it on. Ken turned his attention to the old- fashioned coffee percolator he’d put on the stove. Brown water blipped up into a tiny glass dome at the top. He adjusted the flame, bending down so close to it that Amara thought he would burn his nose if not his entire face. The pot vibrated on the stove, the liquid percolating inside.
“The people who sent you are ignorant,” said Ken. He practically spat. “They’re all idiots. They’re not much better than the ones we’re fighting against. In some ways, they’re worse. Do you even pray?”
The question caught Amara by surprise.
“I pray,” he said.
Ken pulled the percolator off the stove and poured a bit of coffee into a white mug sitting on the sink counter. Satisfied after examining it, he filled the cup, got another from the washboard, and filled that. He returned
