Chapter 12
Southeast Washington, D.C.
Amara sat in the kitchen while Ken worked over the laptop, studying the program for hours, punching keys and mumbling to himself. He put his face right next to the screen as he worked, his nose nearly touching it. Amara wondered if he would be sucked inside if he hit the wrong key.
“I see,” said Ken finally.
He rose and picked up the laptop. Unplugging it but keeping it on and open, he walked back toward the stairs. Amara followed him down into the darkness.
Ken flipped a light switch at the bottom of the stairs. The basement flooded with light so strong Amara’s eyes stung. He shaded them as he trailed Ken over toward an ancient, round oil burner. There was a door just beyond it, secured with a padlock and a chain. Ken undid the locks, then pulled open the door and stepped into a primitive wine cellar. Shelves lined the left wall; two large wooden barrels sat on pedestals just beyond them. Dust and spiderwebs were everywhere.
A sheet of heavy, clear plastic hung from the ceiling just past the second barrel. Ken pulled at the sheet, revealing a seam. Amara followed him through, passing into a twenty-by-thirty-foot work space lined with gleaming new toolboxes, a large workbench, and commercial steel shelving. There were a number of high- and low-tech tools—a pair of computers, an oscilloscope, a metal drill press. In the middle of the floor sat a small UAV, engines fore and aft on the fuselage, wings detached from its body and standing upright against the bare cinder-block wall.
Ken knelt down and opened the laptop, staring at the screen before pushing it to one side. He rose and went to the workbench.
“I need solder,” he said, rummaging through a set of trays.
These were the first words Ken had spoken to him in hours, and they filled Amara with an almost giddy enthusiasm.
“So the program will help you,” said Amara.
“Can I trust you to buy solder? Do you know what it is?”
“Of course,” said Amara.
“It’s too late to get it now,” said Ken, his voice scolding, as if it were Amara’s idea in the first place. “Get us something to eat. Buy a pizza and bring it here. There’s a store on the corner.”
“Pizza?”
“You know what pizza is, don’t you?”
“I know what pizza is.”
“Go. Lock the front door behind you. Ring the bell twice, wait, then once and twice more. If you don’t follow that pattern, I won’t let you in.”
Despite his jet lag and the way he had been treated, Amara felt a burst of energy after he locked the front door and trotted down the steps. He walked with a brisk, almost jogging pace for about half the block, pushed along by a sense of mission—not the pizza, but of doing something useful.
Amara did not, in his heart, hate America or Americans. On the contrary, he liked much about the country where he had studied. And he had found that most Americans he came in contact with were helpful and even on occasion kind.
The fact that he’d been sent on a mission that would hurt Americans did not, somehow, connect with that feeling. It existed in an entirely different realm. He didn’t have to rationalize that Americans were fighting against what the Brotherhood stood for; he simply saw his mission separate from his experiences with and feelings for real Americans. He was like a professional sports player who could play ferociously against another team, and yet at the end of it think nothing of shaking and even hugging his opponents.
The heat in the pizza parlor was overwhelming. It was moist and pungent, an oregano-scented sauna.
“Hey,” said the man behind the counter. He was a white man with a child’s face and a belly two sizes too large for the rest of his body. “Help ya?”
“Pizza. To go.”
“Cheese?”
It had been quite a while since Amara had eaten pizza. But the safest answer was yes.
“Yes,” he told the man.
“Large or small?”
“Large,” said Amara, guessing.
“What da ya want wid that?” said the man, punching a cash register. “Soda?”
“Uh, yes.”
The man pointed to a trio of coolers at the side. There were a variety of sodas and other drinks; the last was filled with beers.
He took a water for Ken—he couldn’t imagine he would drink anything else—then, giving in to temptation, pulled open the beer cooler and took a Coors.
“Gotta drink the beer here,” said the man behind the counter.
Amara didn’t understand.
“I can only sell it to serve,” said the man. “OK? So if you want it . . .”
He shrugged, as if his meaning was obvious.
“OK,” said Amara. “I’ll drink here.”
Just as well—Ken might take the ban on alcohol far more seriously than he did.
“Thirteen fifty,” said the man, ringing up the bill. “Pizza’ll be done twelve minutes.”
Amara fished into his pocket and pulled out two twenties. He handed one to the man, took his change, then sat down with his beer.
It tasted like water with algae in it. But he drank it anyway. He didn’t realize he was gulping until he was more than halfway through.
Two teenage girls came in, texting on their cell phones as they walked to the counter. Amara remembered that he hadn’t called to say he had arrived.
He got up, leaving the drink, and went outside.
His finger paused over the quick-dial combination.
Two rings, then he went directly to voice mail.
“I am here. It is very hopeful,” he said in Arabic.
After he hung up, he turned quickly to make sure he hadn’t been overheard. Using Arabic had been a mistake—he should have made the call in English.
It was nothing to worry about now. Amara went back inside to wait for his pizza and finish his beer.
Chapter 13
Ethiopia
Nuri watched the sky, waiting as the shadow descended. By the time he could make out the parachute, the SEAL harnessed into it was only a few feet from the ground. The sailor walked into his landing, then began gathering his chute. He had it squared away by the time Nuri arrived.
“Hey, Navy,” said Nuri.
“You’re Jupiter?” answered the SEAL.
“Yeah.” Nuri thought the code word was funny, and gave a little self-deprecating laugh.
The man retrieved a small ballistics case from his kit. “Here you go.”
“Thanks. The command post is that large building up there on the left,” said Nuri. “Someone’ll find you food and arrange for a pickup.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Nuri started away.
“Tell me, if you don’t mind—what exactly is it that I just brought you? They rushed me special here from Italy and flew me on my jetliner. I never seen such a fuss.”
“Bottle of vodka,” said Nuri.
The Russian was just finishing his dinner when Nuri entered the tent. A small card table had been placed in the middle. The guards had removed his hand restraints, but were watching him carefully from the side.
“You can wait outside,” Nuri told them. He put down the case and pulled out the empty chair.
“How was dinner?” he asked Kimko in English.
“All right.”
“You prefer English or Russian?”
“Your Russian is horrible.”
“Ready to talk?”
“I have said everything necessary to say.”
“I think you have a lot to say.”
Kimko smiled and shook his head. “Nuri, you are young yet. You do not know how this game is played.”
“No?”
Kimko laughed. “You waste your time. You are Mr. Nice Guy. Before, when you threaten me with the gun—that was more effective. Then you feed me. Mistake. You should make me wait. Hunger pains do much.”