WASHINGTON, D.C. • HANOVER COUNTY, VIRGINIA
The apartment was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a desir-able place to live. The space was cramped and sparsely furnished. Tattered white curtains hung over the grimy windows. The counter, when cleared of half-eaten takeout, which was not often, was irreparably stained. The place stank of stale cigarettes and sweat, a smell that had been with her for the past six months. She guessed that most of it drifted up from the rooms below, and the rest emanated from her minder. Now, seated in a worn leather recliner, she could hear him as he moved around in the adjoining room.
Fatima Darabi leaned back in the seat, her dark brown eyes in-tensely focused on the flickering television in front of her. A cell phone rested on the end table next to her, as did a 9mm Makarov pistol. Both the phone and the gun were never more than a few feet away from her body. Her left hand was propped up beneath her chin.
She watched . . .
It was amazing to Darabi that they would repeatedly show the atrocity on national television. She was even more surprised by the fact that the government allowed it. The collapse of the Kennedy-Warren was by no means a pleasant thing to see, even for someone who hated America as much as she did. Nevertheless, she knew that the footage had come at considerable expense to the networks, and had long ago learned that everything in this country was defined by its monetary value.
It was at times like this that she relished her role. Here she was, in the heart of the nation, with intricate knowledge of the man who had squeezed the trigger at the Kennedy-Warren, and yet the Americans knew nothing of her existence. To have such a privilege . . . !
The rage that drove her did not begin as her own, but it had been bred in her from the start. When the U.S. Navy cruiser Vincennes shot down Iran Air Flight 655 over the Atlantic in July 1988, the admi-rals in the Pentagon had called it an accident, pleaded their innocence even as U.S. munitions continued to pour into Baghdad. Her brother had been on that flight, returning to American University in Dubai after two weeks at home.
In the years preceding her brother’s death, her parents had been peaceful people, warm and caring. They had the capacity to hate, though, and when they discovered the same quality in their daughter, they nurtured it as carefully as they nurtured her body and her mind . . .
Fatima was pleased by her current assignment. She had been briefed on few specific points, but she was astute, and knew that the money she had dispersed through more than fifty foreign accounts was going to someone important. The name itself could tell her nothing, as it was obviously not his own. The man’s voice told her little more; it was not difficult to detect the French lilt on the other end of the line, but she suspected the accent was affected for her benefit.
She was not trained in such matters, but it did not matter. It would not pay to delve too deeply. She had received her instructions from the minister himself, a fact that she was quietly proud of. She would not live forever in this hole. Soon, she would be brought back to Tehran to assume her rightful place at Mazaheri’s side.
But for now, she was waiting for the next call. When it came, it would be a few clipped sentences, most likely a murmured request for additional funds. The man wasted no time in conversation. It was a character trait that Darabi appreciated.
She stirred in her seat. The cell phone was ringing . . .
The day wore on like it was never going to end, but the long hours in the office were not the source of her mood. They only compounded the problem.
Nicole Milbery pulled her eyes away from the telephone and tried to concentrate on the seller’s agreement she was filling out on her computer. She was trying to understand why he hadn’t called. She thought that the two hours they had spent in the barn had been incredible, definitely worthy of a follow-up performance, but it was becoming apparent that her most recent client didn’t feel the same way.
She felt cheated and humiliated, emotions made worse by the fact that she still wanted him, wanted him to call, wanted again what they had experienced only a few short days ago.
It was not her way to be patient, to let things fall into place. If he doesn’t call by tomorrow, she decided with finality, he’s going to regret it. No one treats me like this.
She realized she was staring at the phone again. She tried hard to ignore the little pinpricks behind her eyes and went back to angrily punching at the keyboard that rested on her desk.
Frank Watters watched with thinly veiled interest as the sole customer moved through the rows of household appliances and electronic gadgets. The man who moved without pause past heavy refrigerators and elaborate stereo systems did not fit in amongst his regulars. At the same time, he wore clothes unmarked by the dirt of a building site, unstained by the remnants of a hurried lunch eaten from the tailgate of a truck.
Watters, the elderly owner, was pleased by his own observations, and did not hesitate in making them; there was very little else to do on a quiet Thursday afternoon.
Located just south of Ashland in Hanover County, Watters’s Electrical Supply was a haven for housewives and electricians from three counties in any direction. His business was not hurting for customers, but the store was busy in the early morning hours alone, when his regulars came in to purchase what would be needed for the day’s work.
The sole customer had been in the store for almost twenty minutes, absently fiddling with the big-screen televisions, when he finally brought his list to Watters. As the paper was pushed over the counter, the old man noted with a small twinge of satisfaction that his earlier observations had been correct. The tanned knuckles were missing the scrapes and scars that were particular to an electrician or an independent contractor. The fingers were long and slim, but still retained some appearance of masculinity, as did the man’s broad shoulders. Watters, with his insatiable curiosity, thought the hands more appropriate to a writer, or a pianist, perhaps . . .
The customer knew what he wanted, though, and any lingering doubts that Watters might have had concerning the man’s expertise were soon dispersed. The order was not unusual, and so the old man was easily able to fill it from his stock: Number 18 AWG copper wire on a 50-foot roll, a single-pole toggle switch with two exposed terminals, wire cutters of good quality, several screwdrivers of various sizes, and electrical tape.
Watters gratefully accepted cash for this small purchase. He had no way of knowing that his only customer of the afternoon would later visit two other supply stores to complete his requirements, nor could he know for what purpose these materials were intended. Any suspicions he might have had were dampened by the man’s polite manner and the easy smile that was offered as the customer pushed open the door and stepped outside.
In the true heart of the state, far from the bustling cities of Richmond and Norfolk, beyond the comfortable rurality of the Blue Ridge Parkway and the scenic views offered by winding ribbons of road, lies the heavily forested land of rolling hills that remains largely untouched by the time and wallets of transient tourists.
At night, the air is pierced only by the gentle songs of birds and crickets, or the rushing wind as it follows the jet stream and pushes northeast through the uppermost branches of leafless trees.
For November, Virginia is experiencing a certain anomaly. The state has earned a dubious honor by surpassing the prior record for most days with measurable precipitation in any month of the year. It has rained for eighteen days and nineteen nights, and Will Vanderveen, as he sits hard at work in the steeped shelter of the barn behind his modest home, is beginning to understand how Noah must have felt.
When he thinks of the ark lifting in the great flood, he is buoyed as well, but not by the prospect of salvation.