“Don't worry. I've got it resized properly. How could I have known they used a different thickness on some of these segments?”
“You should have known — you did the research.” Leka looked up at the tunnel ceiling. “And make sure it is pointed right. It has to get through the top immediately for it to work.”
“No problem, cousin,” Kreshnik replied. “We fix this one, then we place the charges on the ceiling. The two devices are set off by the same signal. The fire that comes down the pipe will have no place to go but straight up.”
Leka nodded. “As long Farrah switches the valves in time.”
“Let's give him the benefit of the doubt,” Kreshnik said with an exasperated tone.
“I'm trying, but I don't like him.”
Kreshnik glanced up at his cousin. “Why?”
“He's not one of us.”
“What do you mean, not one of us?” Kreshnik grimaced as he struggled with the bolts on the pipe segment. “He's Albanian, just like we are. His parents are Kosovar, just like ours.”
“No.” Leka shook his head. “He is British. They are friends to the Americans.”
“His parents were killed by the Americans, blown to pieces on a Kosovo mountainside. He is not their friend.”
“Every time he opens his mouth, I hear the sound of an Englishman.” Leka spat a sticky glob on the opposite wall. “He is too polite, too courteous to these infidel bastards and their fat whores. Even in Albanian, he will not curse them.”
Kreshnik let out a sigh. “You are too hard on him. He has been in the Jihad long enough that he should have gained your trust by now.”
“If he would only curse those filthy English and their way of life. Or even curse the Americans. Hell,” Leka gestured with his hands. “If he would simply stop smiling at them or opening doors for their women, I would feel better about him.”
“He is doing his part. He did not grow up like we did, but he is doing his part.” Kreshnik signaled to his cousin to help him lift the four-foot steel segment. “We have to finish this one. The other six are done already. And the special valves are done. Then we come back tomorrow night and install the devices on the ceiling,” he pointed to the ceiling light fixture directly above the pipe segment, “and we are done.”
They hefted the thick piece of pipe, veins bulging beneath the skin of their temples at the effort. They inched it to the side and carefully set it on the floor.
“A field of blood will be his proof for me,” Leka said. “I want him to see the infidels die, screaming like babies, and then I will watch his reaction. That is when I will know he is really one of us. And perhaps we can kill that crazy man, too.”
“Kharzai?” said Kreshnik as they lifted a large, curved electronic device shaped to fit precisely between the two layers of pipeline, placing it into the space previously filled by the insulation they removed the night before. “I like him.”
“How can you like that lunatic? I swear he is schizophrenic. He is one person now, a different tomorrow, and a third after that. And then he is back to the first and doesn't even seem to notice the difference.”
“But all his personalities are focused on the same goal,” Kreshnik replied, “and at least Kharzai has cursed the infidel.”
“Yeah, that is true. He has cursed the infidel, and the infidel's fat ugly wife, and his skinny lover, and his spoiled children, and his dog, and his potted plants. He never stops cursing the Americans and English alike.”
“See, since he is Farrah's friend, he makes up for what the Englishman is lacking, right?” Kreshnik smiled up at his cousin. Leka shook his head and turned toward the work.
Chapter 16
Hilde’s Blackberry played a soft jazzy song. She pulled it from her purse, pressed the answer button with her thumb, and held the red cell phone to her ear.
“Hey, girlfriend!”
Tonia's voice was extremely loud, in spite of the fact that Hilde kept the volume of her cellphone relatively low. Hilde quickly stretched her arm to get the phone away from her ear before it could cause permanent hearing damage as Tonia’s voice came over the tiny speaker with enough forcefor everyone within twenty feet to hear her.
“I see you tried to call me, but I missed it. You ready for that double date? I got a real man now.”
“Tonia? No time to be social. Where are you?”
“Huh?”
“Where are you? I’m not the only one trying to get hold of you — the SAC is too.”
“I’m at a little café downtown, by the hotel. What’s going on?”
“Can’t talk here. We need to see you face-to-face. Bring Warner and Tomer with you if you can.”
“How did you know I’m with Tony?”
“The SAC told us. Where are you? We’ll come there.”
“Snow City Café. Right beside the hotel.”
“I remember seeing it. Give us twenty minutes.”
Hilde hung up. She was at a computer terminal in an empty office near Caufield's, looking up data related to Farrah and Kharzai. While she did that, Lonnie tried to identify the other two men she had seen at the accident from a list of photos that were tagged as related to either Farrah or Kharzai. After Tonia's call, Hilde rubbed her eyes, tired from the digital strain, and turned to Lonnie on the other side of the two-desk office space.
“Well, you heard that exchange,” Hilde said. “You ready for some lunch?”
“Yeah, definitely,” Lonnie said. “Starved, and I need a brain break after all these pictures. They're all starting to blend together. Farrah's not so bad, but Kharzai seems to be on intimate terms with almost every major terrorist in the past fifteen years.”
The two women logged off the computers and stepped out of the office. They walked toward the the single elevator door just before the stairwell and Lonnie pushed the button.
Continuing the conversation from the office, Hilde said, “When I first heard about Kharzai back in Ohio, I did some research on him. While there aren’t too many files that detail actual facts, he’s probably the most effective undercover agent the CIA has in the war on terror.”
“He certainly gets around,” Lonnie said. “Some of the people listed as 'connected' to him are faces I see on CNN or FoxNews every night.”
“That's why we were so shocked to see him here,” Hilde said. “Kharzai Ghiassi is no small-potatoes spy. He is a major wheel in the war machinery, and not someone you want to lose track of.”
They got out of the elevator and Lonnie excused herself to go into to the ladies’ room. Hilde waited in the downstairs lobby as an office assistant went to retrieve a government vehicle Caufield had agreed to loan her. The car, a newer model burgundy Ford Taurus with Alaska plates, pulled up to the entrance as Lonnie came out of the ladies’ room.
“Perfect timing,” Hilde said.
“Yeah,” Lonnie replied as she quick-waddled toward the doors. “I’m good at that. But the further this pregnancy goes, that skill is being tested to the limits. The baby seems to have taken most of the space previously reserved for my bladder.”
They climbed into the vehicle and drove to the Snow City Café, a quaint street-level yuppie-style eatery at the western edge of downtown. Although only a short distance from the bluff that looked out into Cook Inlet and its surrounding mountain ranges, the café had a feel more reminiscent of a New York deli, as its view consisted entirely of the tall buildings that ringed about it. The menu satisfied both vegetarian and carnivore, and the décor was youthful and trendy, a college diner layout with a long counter behind which jutted a soda dispenser and several beer taps labeled with the names of local micro-brews like Monk’s Mistress, Prince William White Ale, and Smoked Bear Piss Porter. Marcus, a lager and ale connoisseur, would have loved the beer selection, but also would have said the restaurant had a distinct tree hugger feel to it. The tattooed and pierced staff was friendly as they hustled between the remaining customers who lingered after the lunch rush. It was drawing near the end of their day, four p.m. Snow City was a breakfast and lunch establishment that only opened for dinner during special events such as poetry readings or jazz concerts, both of which happened fairly frequently as evidenced by a collection of posters on the bulletin board at the front entrance and plastered beneath the cash register.