“AT FIVE HUNDRED and fifty-five feet, the Washington monument towers majestically over the National Mall. Completed in December of 1884, it was formally dedicated on …”
Hala tried to tune out the tremendously irritating, prerecorded propaganda and other drivel as their tour bus rolled down Independence Avenue. It sounded like the tires of the bus were sticking to the littered street. Everything seemed dirty. What a disgusting city! And yet everywhere you looked, there was another hulking monument to American arrogance and
power.
It was ironic, really. She hadn’t learned to truly hate this country until she’d come here for her education. Four years at Penn, and what had it taught her? Only that the United States was just about the biggest failed experiment in human history.
“As we cross the bridge toward Arlington, you can look back and see the Tidal Basin and the Jefferson Memorial …”
She looked down instead at the Tourmobile brochure on her lap. It had been slipped under their hotel room door with a few instructions. When the tour bus reached Arlington National Cemetery, they were to get off. And guess what? Here they were.
Tariq stood in the aisle, shifting from foot to foot. He looked odd, but oddly handsome this morning, with a Baltimore Ravens cap shading his freshly clean-shaven face. Hala’s own hair was now in a blunt cut around the nape of her neck and dyed as close to auburn as she’d been able to get it. She was still pretty, though, and she did like that about herself. Absolutely no ball cap for her.
“Please watch your step, and enjoy your visit to Arlington National Cemetery!”
They milled off the bus with the other tourists, onto a plaza in front of the white stucco and limestone Visitors Center. Hala looked around, unsure about what to expect next. Almost right away, a familiar face emerged from out of the crowd. It was the hippie girl from the museum. She was carrying the same brightly colored woven bag. Probably so that Hala would recognize her right away.
There was no dance this time, no slow approach. As soon as they’d seen each other, the girl came over and stood next to them, as if they were all waiting for the same bus.
“Hey, could I borrow your map for a sec?” she asked.
“Of course. No bother.”
This girl was good, actually. Very natural and fearless. Hala watched closely and still barely saw the disk as it came out of her bag.
What would it be this time? A high-rise in the heart of Washington? A government building? Another utility? More important eliminations? Kidnapping?
“Thanksalot,” said the girl.
“No problem. Have a nice day.”
The whole exchange was as quick as it was seamless. If anything, there was just the hint of a knowing smile on the girl’s face before she turned away. The mission was gaining momentum. The excitement was palpable between them, though only for a moment of shared expectations.
“Come on,” Hala said. Another red, white, and blue Tourmobile was pulling into the plaza. She took Tariq’s hand and started walking in the opposite direction.
“Where are we going?” he said. “The tour buses are over there.”
“To find a cab. If I have to get back on that bus for one more minute, I’m going to kill someone right here.”
MY CAR WAS quickly becoming my office these days, and there was no way around it. I was shuttling between some ongoing casework I wasn’t ready to drop and the Coyle interviews that the Bureau kept sending my way in a steady trickle. Most days, I worked with Sampson, but now and then I was on my own. The Dragon Slayer.
I kept myself updated on the fly, usually with a phone pressed against my ear — since my Bluetooth was on the fritz and who had time to go to Best Buy these days?
“So what’s the lab saying? They must have something?” I asked. I had my old buddy Jerry Winthrop on the line. He’d been my inside source on the water scare. The rest I got like everybody else — from CNN and the Internet. So far two people had died and the city was close to a panic state. Sampson was off checking other water sources today.
“Looks like the second district line was tainted with high-grade potassium cyanide,” he said.
“Isn’t that —”
“Yeah, it is. Same thing that killed the two suicides out at Dulles. What a coincidence.”
“And no one’s taken responsibility?” I asked.
“Beats the shizz out of me,” Jerry said. “FBI’s not exactly knocking down our door with useful information.”
That was typical. The “open” line of communication between MPD and the Bureau tended to be a one-way street. Jerry told me the official story to the press was that we’d had a chemical overspill and that the problem had been contained. Of course, that depended on what we meant by “problem.”
After I got off the phone, I stopped at a 7-Eleven for some much-needed caffeine. Inside, there was a hastily scrawled no coffee sign taped to one of the pots. I grabbed a Coke instead — and couldn’t help noticing the empty coolers where all the bottled water had sold out.