MSNBC has learned exclusively today that the president, who is at this hour in Alexandria Virginia, at Arco Systems, is considering asking Congress for 58 billion dollars in additional funding to …”
Falad almost fell off his chair. He looked once again at the corner of the screen that held the little geometric design with the word ‘LIVE’ in it. He ran as fast as his regulation boots would carry him across the marble.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
General Nandeserra was taking a bath when he forced his way in. Falad had no qualms about this breach of the man’s privacy, because the General himself ordered Falad to find him immediately as soon as the U.S. President’s whereabouts were known, no matter what time of day.
Falad used an apologetic tone anyway. “General, we have a location on the American President outside the White House and in range of Samovar.” The general immediately stood and stepped out of the bath, Falad looked around and handed him a towel.
He went straight to his computer and opened a Word document of the Arabic translation of Chesapeake. He typed in the word “execute” in Arabic and the computer jumped to the 32nd word on page 217. He wrote down 217,32. He then entered Alexandria. That was a lucky break, because that proper name was in the book. 495, 56. He searched for the letters V (0,4,107) and A (0,1,34). Then he found the letters A, R, C, and O. Falad picked up a regular, non-secure phone and called AT&T international information. In his best American accent he responded to the automated audio prompts, “What city and state?”
“Alexandria, Virginia.”
“What listing?”
“Arco Systems.”
A young woman operator cut into the line and said, “Hold for your number…”
“Excuse me, but I am also looking for the address,” Falad stated in a tone and manner consistent with some businessman from Norfolk.
“I have Arco Systems and Design, 1401 Juno Boulevard in Alexandria. Hold for your number.” A computerized voice then spewed out the 10-digit number to his already hung up phone.
One of the General’s aides entered with the map, which Falad had instructed him to fetch as he rushed in. The aide was already studying it and called out the address’ coordinates in Alexandria. The General wrote them down in a coded way that had been designed to indicate the end of the message. He picked up the phone and dialed a number he alone knew and had memorized.
It was mid-afternoon in Quebec, Canada when Muhammad Al Kazir’s cell phone rang. Like the Samovar team, he was paid a handsome wage while all manner of his life was subjugated to one and only one purpose: watch, wait, and answer the phone when it rang. He had been waiting for five months, since he had entered Canada on a student visa.
“Yes, General,” Muhammad said, knowing the General would be the only caller ever on this phone. The General started reading off the numbers as Muhammad wrote them down, then repeated them. He knew not what the numbers were, or what they meant, or even to whom he was about to call and relay them to. When they checked the numbers, he simply said, “Fargo Bank. Allah Be Praised,” and hung up. He waited five seconds then dialed the number, which he too had never written down, only memorized.
At the “safe house” in Washington D.C., four of the five members of the Samovar team were off in their own respective areas of the large six-room apartment. One was out getting toilet paper and other necessities. Samovar happened to be looking at the phone when it rang. He caught it on the first ring. “Yes?”
After he had double-checked the numbers, he opened the James Michener tome and started with page 217, the 32nd word. It took all of three minutes as the long-anticipated message was finally unfolded before him in Arabic. He looked up the address on a map identical to that of the General’s. He knew how to get there for he had spent months driving around, studying Washington D.C. and exploring its surrounding areas, only to find technology, which he could download to his smart phone, had all but rendered that exercise a mere curiosity.
With his bedroom door closed behind him, he opened his closet. There, hanging in meticulous military order, with color-coded tags, two inches apart so as not to wrinkle, were 27 uniforms, all custom tailored to his size. A tag on each one identified the municipality it had been crafted for. That information had been a gift from a Moslem student who got a job working the night shift at the biggest dry-cleaning company in the Washington D.C. area. As they came in for cleaning, he painstakingly photographed and measured each uniform. Those pictures and measurements were sent back to the General’s staff, where women, plying needles, replicated the uniforms from dyed bolts and other garment industry staples. The badges were crafted by metal workers in the desert of his country. Each uniform was shipped to him via international Fed-Ex, as innocently as any three-pound large box.
Getting the right holsters and guns was a little more problematic, but, here again, one of his team members, posing as a tourist, took telephoto pictures of actual officers on duty. He then simply went to various police supply stores and bought the leatherwear. The guns were as easy to get by attending one of the hundreds of gun shows the Americans loved to convene. Complying with the “waiting period” rules, which were purposely made impotent by the pressure of the gun lobbies in the U.S., was not an issue for a foreign national with nothing but time on his hands with which to build his arsenal.
He chose the uniform with the tag “Alexandria,” and pulled the leather that was similarly marked from a series of drawers. He found the appropriately tagged gun in the footlocker that held all the guns and ammunition. He also took out a Walther PPK and screwed on a silencer. As he adjusted the tie he had learned to make like a good soldier, he gave himself one more full inspection in the mirror. Stepping out of his bedroom, he found one of his men sitting on the couch watching a satellite feed of Al-Jazeera. An anti-American protest was being covered. The sounds of the shouting and guns being fired in the air, which normally accompanied these planned “spontaneous” uprisings, provided a background noise that would help with the next step. He approached him, silently raising the Walther, and pulled the trigger. There was a small popping sound, which was lost in the cacophony emanating from the TV; the top of his head rippled as the bullet went straight through, his blood then pouring out. Before the body had time to slump over, he walked into the kitchen as team member two was just turning with a cup of tea. “I made you a cup…”
The cup shattered washing his shirt in tea, and then blood as two more bullets slammed into his body. He fell back with a crash. That brought the third member of the team out from his room. He was shocked to see his comrade slumped over on the couch, the cushions soaked red with blood. His eyes slowly rose up and he flinched upon seeing Samovar pointing the gun at him. It all became clear to him at that instant. He held up his hand in the gesture that means “wait” and got down on his knees as he started praying. The man closed his eyes as Samovar put the gun to his forehead and fired. Samovar then heard a key turning in the lock of the main entrance. As the young man entered, Samovar fired three times. The grocery bag dimpled with each shot as the door was splattered with exit wound blood. Without so much as a sigh, Samovar wiped down the gun, and strategically placed it on the floor next to the first victim, for the authorities to find. He opened a drawer and took out a kilo of cocaine. He ripped one side of it and dropped it on the table to appear as if it had haphazardly fallen.