“But surely you’ve heard of me.”
It was obvious the young Egyptian did not know how to answer the question, so he proceeded with caution. “I received a message instructing me to come to this location for a meeting. I was not told who would be here or why he wanted to see me.”
“Were you followed?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
The young Egyptian vigorously nodded his head.
“And the moving company?” asked Saladin. “I trust there are no problems?”
There was a brief pause. “Moving company?”
Saladin gave him a reassuring smile. It was surprisingly charming, the smile of a professional.
“Your caution is admirable, Qassam. But I can assure you it’s not necessary.”
The Egyptian was silent.
“Do you know who I am?” Saladin asked again.
“Yes, I believe I do.”
“Then answer my question.”
“There are no problems at the moving company. Everything is in place.”
Again, Saladin smiled. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
He debriefed the young Egyptian with the patience of a skilled professional. Saladin’s professionalism, however, was twofold. He was an intelligence officer turned master terrorist. He had honed his skills in the badlands of Anbar Province, where he had plotted countless car bombings and suicide attacks, all while sleeping in a different bed every night and evading the drones and the F-16s. Now he was about to lay siege to the American capital from the comfort of the Four Seasons Hotel. The irony, he thought, was exquisite. Saladin was prepared for this moment like no other terrorist in history. He was America’s creation. He was America’s nightmare.
No detail of the operation was too small to evade Saladin’s scrutiny—the primary targets, the backup targets, the weapons, the vehicle-borne bombs, the suicide vests. The young Egyptian answered each question fully and without hesitation. Jalal Nasser and Abu Ahmed al-Tikriti had been wise to choose him; he had a brain like a computer hard drive. The individual operatives knew portions of the plot, but Qassam el-Banna knew almost everything. If he happened to fall into the hands of the FBI while driving back to Arlington, it would be a disaster. For that reason alone, he would not be leaving the isolated cottage outside Hume alive.
“Have all the operatives been told their targets?” asked Saladin.
“Everyone but the Palestinian doctor.”
“When does she arrive?”
“Her flight is scheduled to land at four thirty, but it’s running a few minutes ahead of schedule.”
“You checked?”
He nodded. He was good, thought Saladin, as good as Mohamed Atta. Too bad he would never achieve the same fame. Mohamed Atta was spoken of with reverence in jihadi circles, but only a handful of people in the movement would ever know the name Qassam el-Banna.
“I’m afraid,” said Saladin, “there’s been a slight change in the plan.”
“Regarding?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“I want you to leave the country tonight and make your way to the caliphate.”
“But if I make a reservation at the last minute, the Americans—”
“Will suspect nothing,” Saladin said firmly. “It’s too dangerous for you to stay here, Brother Qassam. You know too much.”
The Egyptian made no reply.
“You’ve cleaned out your computers?” asked Saladin.
“Yes, of course.”
“And your wife knows nothing of your work?”
“Nothing.”
“Will she join you?”
“I doubt it.”
“A shame,” said Saladin. “But I can assure you there’s no shortage of beautiful young women in the caliphate.”
“So I’ve heard.”
The young Egyptian was smiling for the first time. When Saladin lifted the embroidered pillow, exposing the silenced Glock, the smile evaporated.
“Don’t worry, my brother,” said Saladin. “It was just a precaution in case the FBI came through the door instead of you.” He held out his hand. “Help me up. I’ll see you out.”
Gun in one hand, walking stick in the other, Saladin followed Qassam el-Banna outside to his car.
“If for some reason you are arrested on the way to the airport . . .”
“I won’t tell them a thing,” said the young Egyptian bravely, “even if they waterboard me.”
“Haven’t you heard, Brother Qassam? The Americans don’t do that sort of thing anymore.”
Qassam el-Banna climbed behind the wheel of his car, closed the door, and started the engine. Saladin rapped lightly on the window with the grip of his cane. The window slid down. The young Egyptian looked up inquisitively.
“There’s just one more thing,” said Saladin.
“Yes?”
Saladin pointed the silenced Glock through the open window and fired four shots in rapid succession. Then he reached into the interior, careful not to stain his jacket in blood, and eased the car into drive. A moment later it disappeared into the black pond. Saladin waited until the bubbling had stopped and the surface of the pond was once again as smooth as glass. Then he climbed into his own car and headed back to Washington.
53
LIBERTY CROSSING, VIRGINIA
UNLIKE SALADIN, GABRIEL PASSED a quiet if restless morning at the N Street safe house, watching a tiny mouthwash-green airplane creeping slowly across the screen of his Samsung mobile. Finally, at half past two in the afternoon, he climbed into the back of a black Suburban and was driven across Chain Bridge to the wealthy Virginia enclave of McLean. On Route 123 he saw a sign for the George Bush Center for Intelligence. The driver blew past the entrance without slowing.
“You missed your turn,” said Gabriel.