Safia smiled. With her blond hair and snug-fitting dress, she looked very French. Natalie imagined the woman Safia might have become were it not for radical Islam and ISIS.
A waitress came and took their drink orders. They both asked for tea. Natalie was annoyed by the interruption. Safia, it seemed, was in a talkative mood.
“How did you manage to get back to France?”
“How do you think?”
“On a borrowed passport?”
Safia nodded.
“Who did it belong to?”
“A new girl. She was the right height and weight, and her face was close enough.”
“How did you travel?”
“By bus and train mostly. Once I was back in the EU, no one even looked at my passport.”
“How long were you in France?”
“About ten days.”
“Paris?”
“Only at the end.”
“And before Paris?”
“I was hidden by a cell in Vaulx-en-Velin.”
“Did you use the same passport to come here?”
She nodded.
“No problems?”
“None at all. The American customs agents were quite nice to me, actually.”
“Were you wearing that dress?”
The tea arrived before Safia could answer. Natalie opened her menu for the first time.
“What’s the name on the passport?”
“Why do you ask?”
“What happens if we’re detained? What if they ask me your name and I can’t tell them?”
Safia appeared to give the questions serious thought. “It’s Asma,” she said finally. “Asma Doumaz.”
“Where’s Asma from?”
Safia pulled her lips down and said, “Clichy-sous-Bois.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“What are you going to have to eat?”
“An omelet.”
“Do you think they can make a proper omelet?”
“We’ll find out.”
“Are you going to have anything to start?”
“I was thinking about the soup.”
“It sounds terrible. Have a salad instead.”
“They look enormous.”
“I’ll share it with you. But don’t get any of those horrible dressings. Just ask for oil and vinegar.”
The waitress reappeared, Natalie did the ordering.
“You speak English very well,” said Safia resentfully.
“My parents both speak English, and I studied it at school.”
“I didn’t learn anything at my school.” Safia glanced at the television over the bar. It was tuned to CNN. “What are they talking about?”
“The threat of an ISIS attack during the French president’s visit.”
Safia was silent.
“Have you been given your target?” asked Natalie quietly.
“Yes.”
“Is it a suicide operation?”
Safia, her eyes on the television screen, nodded slowly.
“What about me?”
“You’ll be given yours soon.”
“By whom?”
Safia gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Do you know what it is?”
“No.”
Natalie looked at the television.
“What are they saying now?” asked Safia.
“The same thing.”
“They always say the same thing.”
Natalie slid off her barstool.
“Where are you going?”
Natalie nodded toward the passageway leading to the restrooms.
“You went before we left the hotel.”
“It’s the tea.”
“Don’t be long.”
Natalie placed her handbag over her shoulder, her left, and wove her way slowly across the bar, through the maze of high-top tables. The women’s lounge was unoccupied. She entered one of the stalls, locked the door, and began counting slowly to herself. When she reached forty-five, she heard the restroom door open and close, followed by the hiss of water rushing into a basin and the blast of a hand dryer. To this symphony of bathroom sounds Natalie added the thunderous flush of an industrial toilet. Stepping from the stall, she saw a woman standing before the mirror applying makeup to her face. The woman was in her early thirties. She wore tight stretch jeans and a sleeveless pullover that did not flatter her powerful physique. She had the broad shoulders and muscular arms of an Olympic skier. Her skin was dry and porous. It was the skin of a woman who had lived in the desert or at altitude.
Natalie went to the second sink and opened the tap. When she looked up into the mirror, the woman was staring at her in the glass.
“How are you, Leila?”
“Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am.”
“Unless you’re one of them. Then it matters a great deal to me.”
The woman applied powder to the rough skin of her face. “I’m Megan,” she said to her reflection. “Megan from the FBI. And you’re wasting valuable time.”
“Do you know who that woman is?”
Nodding, the woman put away the powder and went to work on her lips. “How did she get into the country?”
“On a false passport.”
“Where did she come in?”
Natalie answered.
“Kennedy or Newark?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did she get down to Washington?”
“The train.”
“What’s the name on the passport?”
“Asma Doumaz.”
“Have you been given a target?”
“No. But she’s been given hers. It’s a suicide operation.”
“Do you know her target?”
“No.”
“Have you met any other members of the attack cells?”
“No.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“She took it from me. Don’t try to send me any messages.”
“Get out of here.”
Natalie switched off the tap and went out. Warily, Safia watched her approach the table. Then her eyes moved to the athletic-looking woman with open-air skin who reclaimed her seat at the bar.
“Did that woman try to talk to you?”
“What woman?”
Safia nodded toward the bar.
“Her?” Natalie shook her head. “She was on the phone the whole time.”
“Really?” Safia expertly dressed the salad with the oil and the vinegar. “Bon appétit.”
56
KEY BRIDGE MARRIOTT, ARLINGTON
THE ROOM WAS A SINGLE, the bed scarcely large enough for two. Safia slept rather well for a woman who knew she would soon be dead, though once during the night she sat bolt upright and engaged in a somniloquous explanation about how to properly wear a suicide vest. Natalie listened carefully to Safia’s mumbled words, searching for clues about her target, but soon Safia was asleep again. Eventually, sometime after three in the morning, Natalie slept, too. She woke to find Safia clinging marsupial-like to her back. Outside, the weather was gray and wet, and the overnight change of pressure had left Natalie with a throbbing headache. She swallowed two tablets of pain reliever and drifted into a pleasant half-sleep until the scream of a jetliner woke her a second time. It seemed to pass within a few feet of their window. Then it banked low over the Potomac and disappeared into the clouds before reaching the end of the runway at Reagan National Airport.
Natalie rolled over and saw Safia sitting up in bed, staring at her mobile phone.
“How did you sleep?” Safia asked, her eyes still on the screen.
“Well. You?”
“Not bad.” Safia switched off the phone. “Get dressed. We have work to do.”