Greenbelt, Maryland
After almost two decades of chasing spies and terrorists, Latham had learned plenty of lessons, but one topped the list: Regardless of how well-trained, dedicated, or disciplined a bad guy may be, he will make a mistake. It may be a harmless mistake, or it may be something that puts him away. The most common error—especially among terrorists—was the tendency to assume a safe house was just that: a sanctuary where you can let down your guard. Standing in the Taub home staring across the meadow, he knew this is exactly what had happened here.
In the past twenty-four hours, the Arabs had made half a dozen phone calls. All but two turned out to be benign. These were the two that led Latham’s team to a stylish condo in Glen Echo, which, according to the real estate office, had been rented by a Ricardo Pamono at approximately the same time Henry Awad rented the Greenbelt house.
A team had been watching the condo since the previous morning, but so far, the occupant had neither shown himself nor made any phone calls.
Randal walked into the living room. “Anything?”
Latham shook his head. “The condo?”
“Quiet. Whoever this guy is, he’s a homebody.”
Glen Echo
Just past sunset, the cameraman in the stakeout van watched a Diamond Cab pull to a stop down the street and a woman get out. She was in her early fifties, stylishly dressed, wearing a headscarf and Jackie O. sunglasses.
“Talk about conspicuously inconspicuous,” he said. “Looks like our boy might get a visitor.”
“You get the car number?”
“No, the angle’s wrong. Okay, yep, she’s going up the walkway.”
“I’ll call Charlie, see if we can get some help from the cab company.”
As a pair of hastily recruited DCPD officers were recording license tags from the 200-plus cars in the parking lot from which Diamond had picked up the woman, Judith Smith and Fayyad had just finished making love. She lay with her head on his chest, her hand tracing circles on his belly.
“You’re angry,” she whispered. “I should have called.”
Yes, I’m angry, Fayyad thought. The further he kept her from this, the better chance she had of staying alive. Even that was not certain, however. What was Vorsalov planning? When would he move?
“No, Judith, I am not angry. How could I be anything but pleased to see you?”
“You mean that?”
“Of course.” God help me, I do. “We must be careful, though. How are things at home?”
“Better than normal. He’s a lamb when he’s not feeling well.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s been home since yesterday. From what I heard, he nearly fainted during a meeting. He hadn’t eaten anything that day and hadn’t been sleeping well, so—”
Fayyad’s heart lurched. “Is he all right?”
“He’s fine. The doctor said it was just stress, bad diet, that sort of thing.”
Her words were so indifferent, as though she were describing an ailing houseplant. Her bond to the senator was quickly unraveling. The professional in Fayyad was pleased; inside, he was unnerved. “So he’s not ill?” he asked.
“No. Since when do you care so much about Herb?”
“I don’t, but like it or not, he’s a part of your life. If it affects you, I care.”
She kissed him playfully. “My hero.”
Fayyad glanced at his watch. “Darling, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
“Where?”
“I have a meeting with a professor at school. I’ll call you a cab.”
Five minutes after the cab left, the condo’s front door opened. In the FBI van, the cameraman was already recording “Ah, at last, he appears.”
“What’s he doing?” said his partner.
“Heading to the garage. Door’s up. …”
“Shit.”
“Car’s coming out. License, four hundred twenty-one-romeo-zulu-november. Looks like a brown Toyota Camry … nope, make it an Avalon. How’re we doing at the lot?”
“The cops got called away; they only got about half the plates. Charlie’s trying to break somebody free to tail her. Gonna be close, though.”
“Well, our boy’s moving. Get Charlie on the horn.”
Latham had known it would happen sooner or later. Too few agents, too much territory. Something had to give. “Stay on him,” he ordered. “We’ll have to give up the woman. Janet and Chuck are heading to the lot. I’ll divert them your way. Stay on this channel, let them know where you’re headed. As soon as they’re in position, head back to the condo.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Did you get a look at him and the woman?”
“Not really. We’ve got some good film, though.”
“Transmit it over here, will you?”
While one agent drove and the other transmitted the camera’s digital images, Fayyad led them north on River Road, then south on 495. Ten minutes later, Fayyad veered off the highway onto Leesburg Pike. “We’re heading into Falls Church,” the driver called. “South on the pike.”
“I copy,” Latham said. “Stay with him. Janet’s ten minutes away.”
Latham was surprised. If in fact this was Fayyad, he was showing much more caution than were the other Arabs.
“Take a look, Charlie. Randal was standing over the technician’s shoulder. One by one, the thumbnail photos appeared on the computer screen.
Latham walked over. “Can you enlarge ’em?”
“You bet. Which one?”
“The woman … number six.” The tech did so.
“Something, Charlie?” asked Randal.
“No.” Latham shook his head. “No, I guess not. How about the man?”
The tech called up the thumbnails.
“How about that one, where he’s walking by the porch light,” said Latham. The tech punched a series of keys, and the image expanded. “Tighten on the face.”
The image contracted on the face, then swam into focus. Latham stared at it.
“It’s him. It’s Fayyad.”
After turning onto the Leesburg, Fayyad made a U-turn and backtracked to Lee Highway. There the surveillance van passed him off to Janet Paschel. At the Key Bridge, Fayyad turned off and pulled under the awning of the Marriott.
Janet drove down a block, parked, and picked up the radio.
Vorsalov gestured Fayyad to a chair beside the balcony doors and poured them both a cup of coffee.
As before, Fayyad was struck by the Russian’s presence. Though of medium height and build, Vorsalov was solidly built. And his eyes … Like staring at a corpse, he thought. He imagined those eyes on Judith and shuddered.
“You were not followed?” Vorsalov asked him.
“No. If I had been, they would be crashing through the door.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Vorsalov shrugged. “You don’t approve of my involvement, do you? You don’t like my methods.”
“Whether I approve or not is irrelevant. I simply think it’s unnecessary.”
Vorsalov shrugged. “Believe it or not, I agree. I’ve read your reports. You’ve made amazing progress in a short time. This woman—Judith, is it?—is in love with you?”
“Yes.”
“Too bad it may go to waste.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Her husband was the wrong target for this operation. He’s not in a position—”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m simply doing my job.”
“And now you want to know what I have planned.”
“Yes.”
“We have no choice but to take her.”
Fayyad felt his heart thud, but he kept his face impassive. “The wife?”
“No. Her disappearance would cause too much commotion. The mistress. She’s a nobody. She won’t be missed until we’re done.”
“I see,” said Fayyad. “And when we have her? Then what?”
“Whatever is necessary.”
“I don’t think Smith can take the strain,” Fayyad said. He told Vorsalov about Smith’s fainting at the CIA meeting. “He is near the breaking point.”
“As long as he’s under our control, such a break could be useful.”
“I’m not so sure. I’ve come to understand him. He’s—”
“It’s already been decided.”
“I think it’s a mistake.”
“As you said earlier, whether you approve or not is irrelevant. However, I assumed you would feel this way, so I have arranged confirmation from your superiors.”
“I don’t understand.”
Vorsalov handed him a slip of paper. “Memorize it, then burn it. Tonight at eleven you will receive the call.”
“At home? That’s not—”
“Follow the script. Nothing can be gleaned from it. The call will be short. Tomorrow morning, call me at this number.” Vorsalov recited a number and had Fayyad repeat it twice. “I’ll explain the rest then.”
Janet Paschel watched Fayyad tip the valet, get in his car, and drive off. Latham, who had joined them a few minutes before, said, “Let him go. Radio Glen Echo and tell them he’s coming back.”
Janet relayed the orders, then got out, walked across the street, and entered the lobby. She returned in ten minutes. “I had the night manager check the log for the night Vorsalov would have checked in,” she said. “None of the names rang a bell.”
“Damn.”
“But,” Janet said, smiling. “The night he would have arrived there was only one bellman on duty.”
“Fancy place like this, I’ll bet nobody carries their own bags. Can we talk to him?”
“If you don’t mind driving to Fairmont Heights.”
The bellman, a young black college student, opened his front door and peeked out. “FBI? What for?”
“We just need your help.”
“Uh-huh. What for?”
“Listen—it’s Parnell, right? Parnell, you’re not in trouble, okay?”
He considered this, then shrugged. “What’s up?”
Latham handed him a photo of Vorsalov. “You were on duty at the Key Bridge day before yesterday. You remember seeing this man?”
Parnell studied the photo. His face lit up. “Shit, yeah, I remember.”
“You’re sure?”
“Uh-huh. Pasty-faced guy, some kind of accent, too. Bad tipper. Room four-twelve.”