Gabriel Allon: The Black Widow Part 37

"What two bags in the trunk?" asked Gabriel.

Carter was silent.

"Where are the bags from?"

Carter shouted the question to the Operations Floor. The answer appeared on the screen a few seconds later.

The bags were from L.L.Bean.

"s.h.i.t," said Gabriel and Carter in unison.

Natalie and Safia had never gone to L.L.Bean.

57.

THE WHITE HOUSE.

MUCH LATER, THE MEETING BETWEEN the American and French leaders would be recalled as the most interrupted ever. Three times, the American president was summoned to the Situation Room. Twice, he went alone, leaving the French president and his closest aides behind in the Oval Office. The third time, the French president went, too. After all, the two women in Room 822 of the Key Bridge Marriott both held French pa.s.sports, though both doc.u.ments were fraudulent. Eventually, the two leaders managed to spend an hour together without disruption before repairing to the East Room for a joint news conference. The American president was grim-faced throughout, and his answers were uncharacteristically rambling and unfocused. One reporter said the president appeared annoyed with his French colleague. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

The French president departed the White House at three p.m. and returned to Blair House. At that same moment, the Department of Homeland Security issued a vaguely worded warning of a possible terrorist attack on U.S. soil, perhaps in metropolitan Washington. When the bulletin failed to attract sufficient attention-only one cable news outlet bothered to report it-the DHS secretary hastily called a press conference to repeat the warning for the cameras. His tense demeanor made it clear that this was no cover-your-backside statement. The threat was real.

"Will there be any changes to the president's schedule?" asked a reporter.

"Not at this time," replied the secretary cryptically.

The secretary then listed several steps the federal government had taken to prevent or disrupt a potential attack, though he made no mention of the situation unfolding across the Potomac River, where, at 12:18 p.m., two women-subjects one and two, as they were known-had returned to their hotel room after a brief shopping excursion to Tysons Corner Center. Subject one had hung a Macy's bag in the closet while subject two had placed two suspect parcels-L.L.Bean shopping bags-on the floor near the window. Three times, the microphones heard subject one asking about the contents of the bags. Three times, subject two refused to answer.

The entire national security apparatus of the United States was desperately asking the same question. How the bags had found their way into the trunk of the Impala, however, had been established rather quickly with the help of Tysons Corner's ma.s.sive array of security cameras. The delivery had occurred at 11:37 a.m., on the second level of Lot B. A hatted, coated man of indeterminate age and ethnicity had entered the parking garage on foot, an L.L.Bean bag in each hand, and had placed them in the Impala's trunk, which he opened after gaining access to the car's interior through an unlocked door. He then left the garage, once again on foot, and made his way to Route 7, where traffic cameras saw him climbing into a Nissan Altima with Delaware plates. It had been rented Friday afternoon at the Hertz outlet at Union Station. Hertz records identified the customer as a Frenchwoman named Asma Doumaz. The name was unfamiliar to the FBI.

All of which said nothing about the actual contents of the bags, though the highly professional method of delivery suggested the worst. At least one senior FBI official, not to mention a top political aide to the president, recommended an immediate raid on the room. But calmer heads, including the president's, had prevailed. The cameras and the microphones would alert the FBI the instant the two subjects were preparing to go operational. In the meantime, the surveillance devices had the potential to supply invaluable intelligence, such as the targets and ident.i.ties of other members of the attack cells. As a precaution, FBI SWAT and hostage rescue teams had quietly moved into position around the hotel. For now, the Marriott's management knew nothing.

The signal from the cameras and microphones inside Room 822 flowed through the NCTC to the White House and beyond. The primary camera was concealed inside the entertainment console; it peered out at its subjects like a telescreen keeping watch over Winston Smith in his flat at the Victory Mansions. Subject two was lying seminude on the bed, smoking in violation of hotel rules and the laws of ISIS. Subject one, a devout nonsmoker, had requested permission to leave the room to get some fresh air, but subject two had denied it. It was, she said, haram to leave.

"Says who?" asked subject one.

"Says Saladin."

The mention of the mastermind's name raised hopes at the NCTC and the White House that critical intelligence would soon flow from the mouth of subject two. Instead, she lit a fresh cigarette and with the remote switched on the television. The secretary of homeland security was at the podium.

"What's he saying?"

"He says there's going to be an attack."

"How does he know?"

"He won't say."

Subject two, still smoking, checked her phone-a phone that the FBI and NSA had been unable to penetrate. Then she squinted at the television. The secretary of homeland security had concluded his news conference. A panel of terrorism experts was a.n.a.lyzing what had just transpired.

"What are they saying?"

"The same thing," said subject one. "There's going to be an attack."

"Do they know about us?"

"They would have arrested us if they knew."

Subject two didn't appear convinced. She checked her phone, checked it again fifteen seconds later, and checked it again ten seconds after that. Clearly, she was expecting an imminent communication from the network. It came at 4:47 p.m.

"Alhamdulillah," whispered subject two.

"What is it?"

Subject two crushed out her cigarette and switched off the television. On the Operations Floor of the National Counterterrorism Center, several dozen a.n.a.lysts and officers watched and waited. Also present was the leader of an elite French counterterrorism organization, the chief of the Jordanian GID, and the future chief of Israel's secret intelligence service. Only the Israeli could not watch what unfolded next. He sat in his a.s.signed seat at the kidney-shaped desk, elbows resting on the pale blond wood, hands over his eyes, and listened.

"In the name of G.o.d, the most gracious, the most merciful . . ."

Natalie was making her suicide video.

58.

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA.

IT WAS AN UNUSUALLY QUIET day for Dominion Movers of Alexandria, Virginia-just one small job, a single woman who was trading her rented wreck on Capitol Hill for a cramped cottage in North Arlington, a steal at $700,000. The job had required only one truck and two employees. One of the men was a Jordanian national, the other was from Tunisia. Both were members of ISIS and had fought and trained in Syria. The woman, who worked as an aide to a prominent Republican senator, knew none of this, of course. She served the men coffee and cookies and on completion of the job tipped them well.

The two men left North Arlington at five thirty and started back to the company's headquarters on Eisenhower Avenue in Alexandria. Owing to the heavy rush-hour traffic, they did not arrive until six fifteen, a few minutes later than they hoped. They parked the truck, a 2011 Freightliner model, outside the warehouse and entered the business office through a gla.s.s doorway. Fatimah, the young woman who answered the company's phones, was absent and her desk was bare. She had flown to Frankfurt the previous evening and was now in Istanbul. By morning, she would be in the caliphate.

Another doorway led to the warehouse floor. There were two additional Freightliners, both painted with the Dominion logo, and three white Honda Pilots. Inside the Hondas was an a.r.s.enal of AR-15 a.s.sault rifles and .45-caliber Glock pistols, along with a backpack bomb and a suicide vest. Each Freightliner had been fitted with a thousand-pound ammonium nitrate/fuel oil bomb. The devices were exact replicas of the ma.s.sive bomb that had devastated London's Canary Wharf in February 1996. It was no coincidence. The man who built the Canary Wharf bomb, a former Irish Republican Army terrorist named Eamon Quinn, had sold his design to ISIS for $2 million.

The other members of the attack cell were already present. Two wore ordinary Western clothing, but the others, eleven in all, wore black tactical suits and white athletic shoes, a sartorial homage to Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. For operational reasons, the Tunisian and the Jordanian remained in their blue Dominion coveralls. They had one last delivery to make.

At seven o'clock all fifteen men prayed together one last time. The other members of the attack cell departed shortly thereafter, leaving only the Tunisian and the Jordanian behind. At half past the hour, they climbed into the cabs of the Freightliners. The Tunisian had been selected to drive the lead truck. In many respects, it was the more important a.s.signment, for if he failed, the second truck could not reach its target. He had named the truck Buraq, the heavenly steed that had carried the Prophet Muhammad from Mecca to Jerusalem during the Night Journey. The Tunisian would take a similar journey tonight, a journey that would end, inshallah, in paradise.

It began, however, on an unsightly industrial section of Eisenhower Avenue. He followed it to the connector and followed the connector to the Beltway. The traffic was heavy but moving just below the speed limit. The Tunisian eased into the right travel lane and then glanced into his side-view mirror. The second Freightliner was about a quarter mile behind, exactly where it was supposed to be. The Tunisian stared straight ahead and began to pray.

"In the name of Allah, the most gracious, the most merciful . . ."

Saladin observed the obligatory evening prayer as well, though with far less fervor than the men in the warehouse, for he had no intention of achieving martyrdom this night. Afterward, he dressed in a dark gray suit, a white shirt, and a solid navy-blue tie. His suitcase was packed. He wheeled it into the corridor and, using his cane for support, limped to the elevator. Downstairs, he collected a printed receipt at the front desk before going outside to the motor court. The car was waiting. He instructed the valet to place his suitcase in the trunk and then climbed behind the wheel.

Directly across the street from the Four Seasons, outside the entrance of a CVS drugstore, was a rented Buick Regal. Eli Lavon sat in the front pa.s.senger seat, Mikhail Abramov behind the wheel. They had pa.s.sed that long day watching the front of the hotel, sometimes from the comfort of the car, sometimes from the pavement or a cafe, and, briefly, from inside the hotel itself. Of their target, the alleged Saudi national Omar al-Farouk, they had caught not a glimpse. A call to the hotel operator had confirmed, however, that Mr. al-Farouk, whoever he was, was indeed a guest of the establishment. He had instructed the switchboard to hold his calls. A walk past his door had revealed a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from his latch.

Mikhail, a man of action rather than observation, was drumming his fingers anxiously on the center console, but Lavon, a battle-scarred veteran of many such vigils, sat with the stillness of a stone Buddha. His brown eyes were fixed on the exit of the hotel, where a black BMW sedan was waiting to turn into M Street.

"There's our boy," he said.

"You sure that's him?"

"Positive."

The BMW rounded a traffic island of small trees and shrubs and sped off down M Street.

"That's definitely him," agreed Mikhail.

"I've been doing this a long time."

"Where do you think he's going?"

"Maybe you should follow him and find out."

Saladin turned right onto Wisconsin Avenue and then made a quick left into Prospect Street. On the north side was Cafe Milano, one of Georgetown's most popular restaurants. Directly opposite was one of Washington's costliest parking lots. Saladin left the car with an attendant and entered the restaurant. The matre d' and two hostesses stood behind a pulpit-like counter in the foyer.

"Al-Farouk," said Saladin. "I have a reservation for two."

One of the hostesses checked the computer. "Eight o'clock?"

"Yes," he said, his eyes averted.

"You're early."

"I hope that's not a problem."

"Not at all. Is the rest of your party here?"

"Not yet."

"I can seat you now, or if you prefer you can wait at the bar."

"I prefer to sit."

The hostess led Saladin to a coveted table near the front of the restaurant, a few paces from the bar.

"I'm dining with a young lady. She should be arriving in a few minutes."

The hostess smiled and withdrew. Saladin sat down and surveyed the interior of the restaurant. Its patrons were moneyed, comfortable, and powerful. He was surprised to find he recognized a few, including the man seated at the next table. He was a columnist for the New York Times who had supported-no, thought Saladin, that was too weak a word-campaigned for the American invasion of Iraq. Saladin smiled. Qa.s.sam el-Banna had chosen well. It was a shame he would not see the results of his hard work.

A waiter appeared and offered Saladin a c.o.c.ktail. With practiced confidence, he ordered a vodka martini, specifying the brand of alcohol he preferred. It arrived a few minutes later and with great ceremony was poured from its silver shaker. It stood untouched before him, beads of condensation clouding the gla.s.s. At the bar a trio of half-naked women were screaming with laughter, and at the next table the columnist was holding forth on the subject of Syria. Apparently, he did not think the band of murderous thugs known as ISIS posed much of a threat to the United States. Saladin smiled and checked his watch.

There were no parking s.p.a.ces to be had on Prospect Street, so Mikhail made a U-turn at the end of the block and parked illegally opposite a sandwich shop that catered to students from Georgetown University. Cafe Milano was more than a hundred yards away, a smudge in the distance.

"This won't do," said Eli Lavon, pointing out the obvious. "One of us has to go in there and keep an eye on him."

"You go. I'll stay with the car."

"It's not really my kind of place," replied Lavon.

Mikhail climbed out and started back toward Cafe Milano on foot. It was not the only restaurant on the street. Besides the sandwich shop, there was a Thai restaurant and an upscale bistro. Mikhail walked past them and descended the two steps to Cafe Milano's entrance. The matre d' smiled at Mikhail as though he were expected.

"I'm meeting a friend at the bar."

The matre d' pointed the way. Only one stool was available, a few paces from where a well-dressed man, Arab in appearance, sat alone. There was a second place setting opposite, which meant that in all likelihood the well-dressed man would not be dining alone. Mikhail settled onto the empty stool. It was far too close to the target, though it had the advantage of an un.o.bstructed view of the entrance. He ordered a gla.s.s of wine and dug his phone from his pocket.

Mikhail's message landed on Gabriel's phone thirty seconds later. He now had a choice to make: keep the information to himself or confess to Adrian Carter that he had deceived him. Given the circ.u.mstances, he chose the latter. Carter took the news surprisingly well.

"You're wasting your time," he said. "And mine."

"Then you won't mind if we stick around a little longer and see who he's having dinner with."

"Don't bother. We have more important things to worry about than a rich Saudi having dinner with the beautiful people at Cafe Milano."

"Like what?"

"Like that."

Carter nodded toward the video screen, where subject number two, otherwise known as Safia Bourihane, was placing the L.L.Bean bags upon the bed. From one, she carefully removed a black nylon vest fitted with wires and explosives and held it to her torso. Then, smiling, she examined her appearance in the mirror while the entire counterterrorism apparatus of the United States looked on in horror.

"Game over," said Gabriel. "Get my girl out of there."

59.