Murder at the Opera (12 page)

“You meet her?”

“Nope, Professor. She’s staying in a hotel. Melincamp bunks at the deceased’s apartment.”

Berry grunted, tilted back in his chair, and ran his fingers over the short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair on his temple. Willie often called him “Professor,” not because of any wisdom or advanced degrees he possessed. It was the way he dressed—chinos, button-down shirts, always blue (he owned a dozen of them), nondescript ties, and tan, thick-soled desert boots. To Willie, men who dressed that way were usually seen on college campuses.

“Bring the Warren kid in,” the professor-cum-cop said. “We’ll talk to him again, see if his story changes.”

“Let’s go,” Willie told Sylvia, getting up with difficulty. “Buy you a chili dawg on the way.”

Berry raised his eyebrows and didn’t try to stifle his smile. “Bet you haven’t had an offer as good as that in a long time, Sylvia.”

“You’re right—fortunately. Come on, Willie, you can have your chili dog and I’ll provide the Pepto.”

“I love this lady,” Willie announced loudly as they left Berry’s office. “Love her!”

THIRTEEN

“B
ased upon an elevated level of intercepted terrorist ‘chatter,’ the alert level in Washington, D.C., has been raised from yellow-one to orange-two.”

That terse announcement was delivered at five o’clock that afternoon by the Department of Homeland Security Secretary, Wilbur Murtaugh. The newest cabinet member declined to elaborate, and left the podium without taking reporters’ questions, leaving them, and by extension the American public, to speculate on how, where, and when they might die.

It had been a day of press conferences around Washington, each producing a news story of greater consequence than the mere murder of a promising opera singer. The president had spoken that morning in the Rose Garden about progress, or lack of it, in Iraq and Korea, contradicting military leaders who painted a less rosy picture than the Commander in Chief. The Treasury Secretary delivered a glass-half-full analysis of the economy to Congressional leaders, despite numbers that indicated considerably less in the glass. The leader of the air traffic controllers’ union predicted a bleak future for airline safety unless more controllers were hired. And then there was Secretary Murtaugh’s announcement that some vague, unstated threat to national security had changed the color of the threat meter.

Wearing his customary turquoise bolo tie and pointy, tooled cowboy boots—he’d recently served a lackluster one term as governor of Oklahoma—he made his announcement in the Homeland Security department’s temporary headquarters at the Nebraska Avenue Complex. The complex, consisting of thirty-two buildings on thirty-eight acres, was the permanent home to the Naval Security Station. Heavily guarded, it was surrounded by residential neighborhoods.

The Department of Homeland Security’s decision to become tenants of the complex did not thrill its neighbors. A citizen’s committee had been formed to protest the traffic congestion and parking violations that had developed since late 2002 when DHS began moving in personnel and material. The complex’s community relations staff did what it could to soothe neighbors without resorting to what it considered the ham-handed truth, that a few traffic jams was an economical price to pay for protecting the neighbors and the nation against terrorist annihilation.

It hadn’t been easy finding appropriate space to house the Department of Homeland Security’s headquarters and many of its almost two hundred thousand employees. The situation was one of few that could not be attributed to the current president. The major problem could be traced back…well, to George Washington’s administration. The first president had signed into law a statute requiring that all government “offices” be located within the District of Columbia, unless exempted by legislative act. The CIA, Department of Defense, and Nuclear Regulatory Commission had received such dispensation and had located their agencies outside the District. But DHS, despite its lofty mission to protect the homeland, had not as yet, and so it was limited to finding space within D.C., settling on the Nebraska Avenue Complex, at least for the time being.

The secretary’s one-sided press conference had resulted from a frantic series of meetings held since early morning in secured conference rooms throughout headquarters.

The genesis of those meetings had occurred three days earlier in an alley off King Feisal Street, in Amman, Jordan, where Ghaleb Rihnai played a spirited game of tric trac, the Arab name for backgammon, with a dour young Iraqi who’d moved to the Jordanian capital soon after the Americans invaded his home country. The table on which the game board rested was an overturned crate. Rihnai sipped from a lethal cup of strong black coffee. His opponent looked up from the board only occasionally to inhale from his narghile. Whenever he exhaled, the smoke from the water pipe created a haze over the board, like morning fog on a river. It was four in the afternoon, two months to the day since the Jordanian, Rihnai, and the young Iraqi had first met, or to be more accurate, two months since Rihnai had made an effort to befriend the Iraqi.

“You’re winning,” the Iraqi said, not attempting to conceal his displeasure.

“Yes, I see that I am, but the game is not over. Roll the dice and pray for good fortune, my friend.”

The Iraqi’s prayers were answered. Twenty minutes later he emerged victorious.

The Iraqi carefully returned the board, dice, and small disks to the bag in which he kept them, and the two men left the area, where others continued their games. They walked slowly and seemingly without purpose, stopping at an occasional stall to look at goods and foods being sold, or to chat with familiar shop owners. They eventually climbed the hill leading to ancient Amman, where the Jebel Qala’at, the Citadel, an ancient fortress rebuilt by the Romans during the reign of Marcus Aurelius, provided glorious views of the surrounding valleys and of Raghdan, the Royal Palace. They sat without speaking beneath a gnarled olive tree alongside a stream known as Seil Amman, a tributary of the Zerqa River.

“You saw your brother in Baghdad?” Rihnai asked, breaking the silence. His friend had returned from the beleaguered Iraqi city only days earlier.

“Yes, I saw him.”

“He is well?”

“He has been arrested twice by the Americans.”

“Bastards. He is free now?”

“Yes, for the moment.”

“His arrests have not changed the plans, I pray.”

“The plans go forward. In fact…”

“Yes?”

“They are ready.”

Rihnai turned to face the Iraqi, whose youthful, almost angelic olive face and black eyes beneath a wet mop of jet-black hair defined sadness. At the same time, there was fire behind the eyes, simmering coals waiting to burst into flame.

“That is good news, indeed,” Rihnai said. “Tell me, what part can I play?”

“You have already been of great help, Ghaleb,” the Iraqi said, “but you will be called upon to play an even greater role in the days ahead. You have many friends in America.”

“There are some I consider friends,” Rihnai said. “My Arab friends. The Americans I know from studying at their university are not friends. They are the enemy and always will be. My friends are here, in Jordan and Iraq. You are my friend.”

“And I am grateful for that. The money you have given me is so important.”

“No, no,” Rihnai said, wagging his index finger, “I gave you nothing. You worked and earned it.”

The Iraqi’s lips parted in a semblance of a smile. “The American goods you arrange to have shipped here are much in demand. I don’t ask how you avoid the government and its red tape, but you obviously have your ways.”

“My years with the infidels were not wasted. My degree is in business, the American way of doing business, cheat and lie, make your fortunes on the backs of the workers, and abandon them when it is time.” Rihnai laughed. “I was a good student, huh?”

“Very good, Ghaleb. Very, very good.”

Rihnai looked out over the stream that ran fast and deep from recent rains. He said as though addressing the water, “You say the plan is ready to be put into action. When?”

“I do not know for certain, but soon. That is what my brother has told me.”

Still without looking at his friend, Rihnai said, “It will shake the Americans to their core.”

“It is time. Too much time has passed since the towers came down. It is time to strike again.”

“Yes. The time is here.”

They returned to Rihnai’s apartment, where the Iraqi fell asleep on the couch while Rihnai answered e-mail messages on his laptop. At eight, they went to one of Amman’s most expensive restaurants and feasted on
mensef,
roast lamb stuffed with rice and spiced with cinnamon, pine nuts, and almonds;
makheedh,
beaten yogurt combined with the fat of mutton;
salata bi tahini
dressed with sesame oil paste; and finished their celebratory meal with many cups of
qahwa,
bitter, thin coffee flavored with cardamom seed, and rich, sticky pastries. Sated, they returned to Rihnai’s apartment, where he broke out bottles of red wine that had been included in one of his illegal shipments from the United States. Drunk and happy, they hugged, and the Iraqi eventually stumbled down the stairs and into the cool, damp night.

Rihnai placed a call as soon as the Iraqi was gone. He was on the phone for only a few seconds. He played a DVD containing episodes of
The Sopranos
on his laptop, constantly checking his watch as he did. Two hours later, he shut off the computer and carried his bicycle down the stairs. After ensuring that his Iraqi friend hadn’t decided to linger in a restaurant across the street, or hadn’t fallen asleep on the sidewalk, he mounted the bike and pedaled fast down the King’s Highway, until reaching a small village twelve miles to the east. He pulled behind a one-story gray stone cottage. A yellow light inside slithered through a crack in the drapes covering the windows. Rihnai went to the rear door and knocked—three times, a pause, then two sets of two raps each.

“Rihnai?” a male voice asked from behind the heavy, rough-hewn door.

“Yes.”

A dead bolt was activated and the door opened slowly and noisily. Facing Rihnai was a large man wearing tan cargo shorts with multiple pockets, sandals, and a T-shirt without markings. He had a round, ruddy face. His hair was blond, bordering on orange. His moustache was gray and in need of trimming. Rihnai knew him only as M.T.

Rihnai stepped inside and the door was closed behind him, the bolt slid into the locked position. The room was small and square, with little furniture. A table and two rail-back chairs stood in the middle. The only light was a faux Tiffany lamp hanging over the table. A digital tape recorder the size of a pack of cigarettes was in the center of the table; a tiny microphone with cables leading to the recorder sat in front of each chair.

“Sit down,” M.T. said, indicating one of the seats. “Wine? Whiskey?”

“Whiskey. Scotch if you have it.”

“I always have Scotch,” M.T. said, his British accent now evident. He poured from a bottle into two tumblers, placed the glasses and bottle on the table, and took the second seat. “So, you finally have something of value, Ghaleb,” he said, his elbows resting on the tabletop, his hands folded beneath his chin.

“Yes,” Rihnai responded, tasting his drink. He pulled a package of four Hoyo de Monterrey cigars from his pocket and offered one to the Brit.