He didn’t want to think about that. Or about Hotchkiss, or the crew, or any of the hundreds of other things that occupied his mind when he was vertical. God! Couldn’t he just sleep! He rolled impatiently and socked the pillow. Tried to breathe slowly and think of some pleasant scene. Some pleasant scene …
He hadn’t been able to spend much time with Nan when she was little. But now and then he’d read his daughter to sleep. Then lain with her head on his chest, her breathing deep and regular. And gradually his own slowed, and his thoughts began a slow spin into the freewheeling illogical vividness that preceded dream.
He was almost there when he remembered: Today was his admiral’s mast.
His eyes popped open again as his brain surged back to battle speed. COMDESRON 50, Palzkill, the admiral, 1400. Why couldn’t they at least make it early, why did it have to ruin his whole day? Would they actually relieve him? It was possible. CO’s lost their ships every day. Well, not every day, but it happened. Christ, he couldn’t worry about that. In fact, it might not be so bad, getting relieved. No, he didn’t believe that. Christ,
0430. He lay totally awake, staring into the darkness with eyes wide open.
It looked to Aisha like all the others, a three-story building on a street lined with darkened shop fronts, the steel knitting of antitheft gratings. With the noiselessness of shadows, silhouettes disappeared one after the other into a door. The translator said in a whisper they were headed for the third floor. That was where the Qari bin Jun’ad said the cell met, where they slept. The first floor was a shoemaker’s.
The Americans stood next to one of the shops, trying to stay inconspicuous, or as inconspicuous as you could get in black gear. Aisha caught the twitch of a curtain above her, barely visible dark eyes taking in the activity below. Then a shade came down.
A thunder crack and flash shattered the darkness. The third-floor windows illuminated again to another flash-bang grenade. The embassy guy started forward, but the translator got him in time. “Not yet, sir,” he said, pressing him back. Diehl had his big revolver out, holding it down along his leg.
High above, a window slid up. A black-suited figure she only recognized as Major Yousif when he spoke called down, sounding not pleased, and in English: “The area’s clear. Observers may come up.”
The apartment was bare, as if no one had lived there for a long time. It was small, low ceilings spotted with age.
And maybe they’d learned something at the house in Muharraq, or maybe someone smarter was in charge, because they weren’t tearing the place up. The entry squad was filing out, submachine guns pointed at the ceiling. Evidence technicians in coveralls and rubber gloves were taking their places: opening the doors, closet and bathroom, starting to take apart the air conditioner.
She stood looking around, trying to let her senses work, if possible something beneath her senses, trying to kick-start any intuition she might possess. She could still smell them. Maybe from the old mattresses on the floor that showed where bodies had pressed them not long before. Maybe from the stale grease and sesame smell of cooking. She went into the bathroom. They didn’t clean up after themselves, that was plain. Pubic hairs clumped in the bathtub drain. Yellow spots by the bowl. Sticky twists of food wrappers. But then, being a terrorist didn’t indicate a high level of concern for others. And as traditional Muslim men, they’d be used to having someone, almost always a woman, to clean up after them.
One of the techs came in, glanced at her, saw the pubes, and began gathering them up, putting them into a plastic envelope. She thought he really ought to be using paper, for better evidence preservation, but he didn’t work for her.
“They weren’t coming back here,” she said.
“So where are they?” Garfield said, behind her.
She shrugged. “That’s a good question. Left the country, I hope.”
“For where?”
She didn’t know, so she didn’t answer. She went back into the main room, to find it deserted. Then into the bedroom, and stopped, looking around.
Scraps of green-insulated wire, gray plastic wrap, hand tools, empty duct tape rolls littered a folding table. The techs were working their way through the wastebasket. On the floor: flyers and magazines. She picked one up. It was titled, in Arabic,
She went slowly around the room, stepping around the techs, not touching anything. Phone. Copy machine. Fax machine. With a pencil, she lifted the flap of the copy machine. Sloppy people forgot things. Left originals in copiers, for example.
