Valerie Court yawned as the catchy email jingle from her computer roused her from a brief catnap. She studied the device, half of her cursing the lousy thing for keeping her busy, the other half somewhat interested in the message.
Later, she decided.
Life had become quite a blur since the South Carolinian found herself the unexpected winner of a hotly contested senatorial race. Privately, in her more honest moments, she often toasted the media for gifting her the win. Once the news source Politico tarred her opponent with corruption charges, voters wasted little time siding with Court and her idealistic ways. Alas, the dreamy honeymoon of political success soon gave way to the blunt reality of government service. Constant logjams had morphed the Senate into a Republican versus Democrat battleground, suit-clad Bloods and Crips fighting over turf while tweeting out every sin of the opposite party. Indeed, tomorrow’s negativity from the press would pinball between either the gaping party divisions in Congress or a general trashing of the government.
Presently, with the Senate deep into its summer session, she had plenty to keep her occupied. Hearings, meetings, committees, functions—the only time she had for herself were these little pockets during the evening at her Georgetown condominium. Thank goodness for aides. Without them, the work would never get done.
She exhaled. “It never ends.”
Reluctantly, she eyed her Inbox. The email came from Bishr Abdul, a close acquaintance who passed along info on topics ranging from Middle East unrest, the worldwide impact of fossil fuels, and of course OPEC itself. A brief glimpse at the message showed some type of Near East language. Curious. Maybe he used a different computer. Or, more likely, he simply made a mistake. Whatever the case, she didn’t have the energy to deal with it. Probably details about his speech, she reasoned. No need to mess with it now. She forwarded the message to her executive assistant. Then she dispatched a reply to Abdul, thanking him for the information.
At the Monaco, a series of sharp dings violated the stately hush blanketing Abdul’s suite. His attacker whirled toward the noise, fully aware of those beeps.
A text message.
The noise led him to the bathroom, where Abdul’s body lay folded in the shower. Frisking Abdul, he extracted a smartphone from his left pant pocket. Intuition told the assailant he shouldn’t ignore this text.
Bishr, thks for email about ur speech. Call u tomr. Lots to discuss. Hope everything went well!!
Valerie
The attacker grew puzzled. What email?
Scrolling through the “sent” list, his eyes lit up at the message. Equally critical was the recipient, Senator Valerie Court.
“Crafty devil,” he muttered to Abdul’s corpse.
As an espionage specialist, Nasim Iyad wore a lot of hats to survive in his line of work. Maverick? Check. The exception to the rule? Absolutely. A stooge? Eh, not so much. By personality, he was an introvert; by community and environment, he was a survivor. The result was a determined skeptic who tended to assume the worst rather than extend the benefit of the doubt. To hear him explain why, pretty hard to make lemonade when the lemons life handed you were rotten.
Stripping off a pair of rubber gloves, Iyad performed one more cursory check before departing Abdul’s suite. Looked pretty clean. Long ago, Iyad honed his exit routine down to an art: sweep the area with a solvent, eradicate any DNA traces, bag all waste, depart. Thanks to a call to the front desk, he placed the area off-limits to housekeeping or anyone else for the remainder of his stay. For a final touch, he hung a “Do Not Disturb” tag on the door handle.
Folding the waste bag into Abdul’s briefcase, Iyad donned a black motorcycle helmet before leaving. Grabbing the briefcase, laptop, smartphone, and hotel keycard, he took the stairs to the lobby. There, he headed for a parking lot two blocks away on North Charles Street. Once at the lot, he dispatched a brief text.
Level three, the reply said. Silver BMW motorcycle. Key underneath front tire.
Iyad found the cycle without much trouble. Cranking the engine, he exited the garage and headed for the Baltimore harbor on East Pratt Street. Confiscating the keycard, he hurled the remainder of Abdul’s personal items far into the Chesapeake Bay.
Nothing disgusted Kristen Visser more than artificial humility.
“Oh please.”
She scoffed at her ex boyfriend. “Give me a break, Ray. I wasted a year on you—a whole year—then you dump me for someone else. Now you want to patch things up? Because you’ve changed?”
A whimpering plea shrilled on the other line.
“No big deal? Really, Ray? Really?”
His voice became insistent. The word “sorry” sounded.
“Save it. We’re done.”
He begged for a second chance.
Another chance? She laughed. With you?
“Forget it.”
Terminating the call, she let loose an indignant “Ooohhhh.”
Men!
If any descriptions captured the essence of Kristen F. Visser, brassy or cheeky probably came the closest. A spirited fireplug, she seemed intent on living up to the origins of her middle name, Fallyn, which meant “in charge.” Dynamic, and proud of it, she lived her life with the accelerator pressed to the floor. No, she didn’t apologize for it either. She called it the best way to get ahead. Colleagues, snidely, called it the early stages of burnout.
Then again, when you worked as an executive assistant for the renowned Valerie Court, the threat of burnout never strayed far. By her own admittance, Visser lived a harried life. Blame for that fell mostly on Senator Court and the insane amount of work she threw at Visser, day after day, week after week, year after year. It was 10:20 P.M. and Visser still hadn’t done anything with the research files on Court’s latest tax bill. She groaned. It would take days, maybe weeks to categorize all the details. Yeesh.
Fetching a can of Diet Coke from the fridge, she was about to dig into one of the folders when her smartphone serenaded her. Another email. From Court. Terrific.
Kristen, this came from B. Abdul. Summarize for tomr, plz. Call Brookings if u need help.
Visser duly opened Abdul’s message. Her only response was utter bewilderment.
Huh?
She did not recognize the language in the first two lines, though a hunch told her it was Arabic. Below the unknown characters sat a series of numbers, none of which seemed to have any correlation. Two lines of six numbers apiece? Followed by another phrase in the same foreign language? That could mean anything.
She sighed. Exactly how could she figure this out?
Brookings, I guess.
The think tank wouldn’t enjoy a late night phone call. Visser threw up her hands. Too bad. Considering all the funding Senator Court lobbed at Brookings, when it came to favors, what Valerie wanted, Valerie got.
No sooner had Iyad parked his cycle on Warren Avenue next to Federal Hill than his phone buzzed. By habit, he checked the time.
Ten-fifty…right on schedule.
Adjacent to Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, Federal Hill remained a beloved local jewel that, among other things, helped commemorate the gilded, varied history of old-time Baltimore. Dating all the way back to the 1600s, the hill received its name via inauspicious circumstances, mainly a model sailing vessel named the Federalist that drunken revelers wheeled around town, partied with on the hill, and then sailed at night, all part of a rowdy celebration commemorating Maryland’s ratification of the Constitution. Because of the spectacular vistas afforded by the area, the hill’s military value was obvious, first as an unused battery against the British during the War of 1812 and then in 1861 by marauding Massachusetts troops determined to fight off Confederate rebels dotting the town. Through it all, the site also served as a mine, thanks to a hearty vein of iron ore traversing its grounds. Now a park, the hill offered Baltimoreans an idyllic, bucolic setting, perfect for romance, family fun, fitness, and views of the city, nearly unbeatable at night.
Strolling to the park grounds, Iyad grabbed an open bench facing the Harbor. Entering a case sensitive password on his phone, he logged onto his personal website, a useful tool designed to facilitate any kind of data transmission—in this case, a chat. An impenetrable security architecture system protected the website from hackers.
First things first. Iyad summarized his encounter with Abdul. All things considered, everything went pretty well.
The other party, the Samaritan, seemed satisfied. You erased his file?
Yes. Still have office, home computers.
Any problems?
Iyad described Abdul snookering him with his email to Senator Court. Nah, not that big of a deal. Court didn’t seem to have any idea ofits meaning, nor did she appear in any hurry to find out.
Next step…when?
An hour. Once I get to DC.
The sooner, the better now.
Iyad agreed. He inquired about the first installment. Had it been deposited?
Yes. 1 million.
Ready the flight in 4 hours. Need ID, cash, and car rental papers.
They’ll be on the plane when you arrive.
Terminating the chat, Iyad eased back on the bench, still trying to quell the tension roiling his insides. Part of Federal Hill’s allure was its tranquility, a place to withdraw from life’s never-ending hassles. Fitting for Iyad, a man all too versed with unease and nervosa. Deliberately, slowly, he absorbed the nighttime vista, his mind setting adrift.
Like a strong undertow, he could feel the seascape drawing him back to sunnier times…sausages popping and crackling in a skillet…pots of pasta bubbling over a stove…the warm, salt-filled air invigorating his senses…
Venice. The restaurant. Where his life changed. When he started anew.
When I met Gabriela.
A loud argument snapped him out of his daydream to a thirtyish couple on a nearby bench, fussing over a foldout map. Tourists probably. He noticed a group of coeds posing for selfies next to a preserved cannon, then debating which pictures to post on Facebook.
Normal scenes all, and yet to Iyad, biting ammunition fueling the pangs of guilt eating at him. For he knew the solemn vow he once made to his beloved, and he knew how far he had fallen by breaking it. An ugly barrier isolated him from his wife, erected by a secret he could not share.
I told her I wouldn’t…I told her I was done.
At least he could say he had no choice.
Right?