He went back to the closet and lit the sleeves of six of the uniforms; he dropped one onto the carpet that ran throughout the apartment, the flame instantly catching the nap. He watched for a brief second as the doorway to the room was consumed with the spreading fire. Retrieving the phone, he left closing, but not locking, the door. There was nothing in the house, on the dead men, or in their aliases that would connect them to the General or his country.
Samovar went down to the garage and collected the Ford Taurus he had rented weekly from Hertz for the last six months. He placed the cell phone under the rear tire of the car, which was parked facing outward in the spot. Inside he entered Arco’s street address into the GPS app on his smart phone. He put the Ford into reverse and released his foot from the brake momentarily; the car inched back slightly. Through the open window he could hear the cell phone crunch. He then slipped it into drive and punched the accelerator hard. The rear wheels spun and screeched as the cell phone was catapulted out from under the tire, smashing into the concrete wall of the garage into a million pieces.
Samovar drove in accordance with all traffic laws and resisted the urge to speed. Following the female computerized voice of the app through the series of “right turn ahead” and “exit ahead” prompts, directed him, with Global Positioning accuracy, to his appointment with history.
The Barclay’s Bank in Quebec was Mohammed’s last stop in Canada before he would return home. Having served his country, and now retrieving his $50,000 bonus for making that one phone call for the General, he entered the bank and proceeded directly to the safe deposit boxes. The key had been sent to him five months prior. He hadn’t known which bank it belonged to until the General disclosed this tidbit at the end of the phone call. As he returned to his car with an attaché case full of 500 one hundred-dollar bills, he had visions of living like a wealthy man at home, with the ability to pray openly, and re-grow his beard, and maybe marry and have sons. He didn’t notice the man following him in the underground parking lot. He too had received a call from the General today.
The man had been sent a photograph of Muhammad Al Kazir five months ago. He had been waiting since then for his message to execute. He didn’t know who this man he followed was, or why the General wanted him silenced. He didn’t know if the man who he just “drew a bead” on was a Moslem or an infidel. All he knew was that his $50,000 assassin’s fee was in the man’s briefcase. That would be enough for him to disappear down in the islands until this murder had “cooled off” and long since been relegated to the open case file as a robbery-homicide.
In less than 30 minutes of his phone call, the General’s word to the mullahs, that there would be “no loose ends,” was carried out. Five people, potential loose ends, had been eliminated and at least two more would die in the next hour or so.
In the Virginia countryside, the modern offices of Arco Systems and Design stood out like an off-white slab of halvah. Samovar wished he could taste the sweet dessert cake one more time before meeting Allah, but he was sure sweeter and tastier delights awaited him in the next life.
He pulled up to the guardhouse at the main gate and addressed the officer, “I’m here to help out with the security detail. I’m Johnson, how are you?” He extended his hand as he affected the perfect mid-Atlantic accent which he studied and had mastered two years earlier. Samovar’s eyes fixed on the man standing 20 feet ahead in the unmistakable regalia of a Secret Service agent, long brown rain coat, sunglasses and a curly wire coming from his ear.
The guard, recognizing the uniform and badge, accepted him as what he appeared to be. The fact that the president’s visit had been kept secret actually made the guard more easily accept the last-minute appearance of this cop. No one at the company had been informed of the intended arrival until the Secret Service showed up at 8 a.m. making sure no one could call out, even to tell their wives, that Mitchell was expected. It only made sense that some cops were caught off guard and had to scramble to work. “Well Johnson, the Secret Service is all over the inside; your guys are out on the walkway.” He checked his clipboard. “There’s Captain Yates up there.”
“He’s a good boss. Thanks. I’ll report to him. Where can I park?”
“Right over there in the visitor’s spot.”
Samovar offered a short salute and drove towards to the designated spot. The agent in the raincoat held up his hand. Samovar pulled up to the man. “I’m supposed to report to Captain Yates up ahead.”
The agent said nothing but scanned every detail of the man, the uniform, and the interior of the car. Avoiding his gaze, Samovar saw in the rear view mirror that the guard at the gate was waving him through. The agent glanced up at the guard, and didn’t pay him any attention. The agent didn’t really care if this Johnson cop was the guard’s brother-in-law.
“I.D.” was all the agent had to say.
Samovar’s hand grazed the butt of his service weapon on the way to his shirt pocket. Readily placed there, as it was in every uniform, was the appropriate photo I.D. A driver’s license was tucked into every wallet in each pair of uniform pants back at the apartment. Family photos, two hundred in assorted bills, credit and Social Security cards were also duplicated in every billfold. This precaution was taken in the event a cop, during a routine traffic stop, happened to catch a glimpse of its contents.
After checking the photo on the Alexandria Police Department I.D. against the face before him, the agent handed the card back. “How come you’re late?”
“Had a court appearance, and a judge who wanted to give the jerk-off I arrested every possible chance to walk, based on me being a fuck-up! Shot the whole morning to shit!” Samovar, a.k.a. Johnson, gave him a look that said, ‘You know what I mean?’
The agent waved him by without saying a word.
He prayed to Allah that the agent hadn’t seen the crime movie in which Robert Duvall and that “black actor” played policemen and from which he borrowed, verbatim, the line of dialog concerning the judge. As he got out of the car, he adjusted his holster and put on his cap, briefly hesitating to inspect his reflection in the side view mirror. This act was purely for the sake of the guard and president’s security man, who, still watching, would surely read it as the actions of a man about to meet his boss and …maybe the president.
The test had gone well. One hour and twenty minutes, after the beam was turned on from the satellite that had been launched from a Department of Defense shuttle mission three years earlier, the sprouts were dead. The 10 test dummies, as Hiccock thought of the technicians who built and believed in this thing, were seemingly fine and no worse for the wear.
The president was impressed. “Professor Di Concini, you have made a substantial scientific development here. On behalf of America, I thank you for all your efforts.” He then shook the hands of a few of the research team members before he, Hiccock and a few other military men exited the demonstration area.
As they walked through the building, the president queried Hiccock, “So you think we shouldn’t put this weapon system on-line?”
“No sir; I didn’t say that. I would just suggest ensuring some safeguards against its abuse.”