August 23
Faud Asma slipped out the back entrance of the embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and hugged the shadows. The light-gray sedan was parked out front of the embassy when he’d last checked, two figures inside.
Asma’s route was well planned, down to the smallest detail. Still, that didn’t ensure success. A thousand things could go wrong, any one of which could get him exposed or killed. One was the same as the other as far as he was concerned.
He chose tonight to make his move because the prince was hosting a large gathering of children from local mosques and Asma’s absence would likely go unnoticed.
He picked his way along a footpath that ran next to the embassy’s white marble building until he came to New Hampshire Avenue. He headed northwest on New Hampshire, and when it intersected Virginia Avenue, he turned west, his destination the Watergate apartments, only a five-minute walk away.
He knew where many, but not all, of the surveillance cameras were hidden along his route and instinctively gave an extra tug to the bill of his cap and dropped his eyes to the ground when he passed them. There were dozens of cameras—mostly operated by the United States, but by other countries, too—Russia, Israel, China, Pakistan, Germany.
He circled the Watergate complex, saw lights on in Thomas Polk’s apartment, even thought he caught a glimpse of Polk staring out his window. Asma quickly glanced over his shoulder. He had been followed, as he anticipated. He then made his way back down Virginia Avenue.
At Twenty-Third Street, he turned north and walked to the Foggy Bottom Metro station, stepped onto the escalator, and rode it down three-quarters of the way before hurtling the divide and joining a crowd riding the escalator back up to the exit. “Forgot something,” he said sheepishly as he bounded forward. The heavyset woman who had been following Asma didn’t attempt to jump the divide. Instead, she spun around and started slowly clawing her way back up the down escalator.
At the top, Asma raced out of the station and quickly made his way to the adjacent George Washington University Hospital. He ducked into a men’s restroom on the first floor next to the understaffed information desk, entered the third stall, stood on the toilet, lifted a ceiling panel, and brought out a small bag.
He removed a shirt, light jacket, and hat that read “GW Emergency Response” and stuffed the shirt and hat he was wearing in the bag, replaced it overhead, and closed the panel.
He departed the restroom and walked down the corridor to the emergency room and exited the hospital and climbed into a waiting ambulance.
“Tail?” the driver asked.
“Yeah.”
“Where from?”
“The embassy. A woman on foot, her partner nearby in a car.”
“They see you case Polk’s place?”
“Yeah. Made sure of it.”
“Good. Shake ’em?”
“Yeah, the Metro, on the escalator.”
“Okay, you ready?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Just checking.”
“Let’s do this,” Asma said.