To the Death

It was a moment that effectively chopped several months off the preparation time General Rashood had allocated for the hit against Morgan. Because Arnold’s departure had left Ahmed sipping champagne (cheap, New York State, horrified Arnold) with Kathy Morgan.

“And were you originally from this part of the world?” he asked her.

“Well, a long time ago,” she smiled. “I was married before, and we lived for several years in Europe, but then I came home.”

“To Washington?”

“Well, to Virginia. My mother still lives there. Little country town called Brockhurst, way down near the Rappahannock River. It’s very pretty.”

“So you have a nice drive down to see her when the big city gets too much?”

“You’re right,” said Kathy. “I do like going down there. That’s where I was born, but there aren’t many people I still know. Mom’s on her own now, and she gets a bit lonely sometimes. And you?”

“Oh, I am from a place called Petra in the south of Jordan. My parents have a small hotel there.”

“Petra,” said Kathy. “I know about Petra. That’s where they discovered the lost city carved into the rock. Burial grounds, palaces, temples, and God knows what. Pre-Roman.”

“Well, that’s very impressive, Mrs. Morgan,” said Ahmed. “And you are right. There are still very important excavations taking place down there.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing that dramatic happening in Brockhurst when I go home,” said Kathy, laughing. “Just Emily working in her garden.”

“Emily?”

“Yes, that’s my mom. I always called her Emily. She’s Emily Gallagher.”

“Then you are of Irish descent,” replied Ahmed, with the skilled dexterity of an international diplomat. “Like my own mother.”

“Well, yes, I am — I was Kathy Gallagher. All four of my grandparents were immigrants from Kerry in southern Ireland. But your mother sounds really interesting.”

“Her family came from County Cork, but she met and married my father when he was a Jordanian diplomat in Dublin. He hated the weather, so they returned to Petra and bought a hotel.”

At this point, Kathy excused herself to assist the chairman with her gratitude speech, and she moved away unaware that she had been speaking to one of the most sinister, dangerous undercover terrorists in the entire United States.

Ahmed hated the West, and everything it stood for. He was a rabid extremist for Islam, though not in the front line of strikes against the Great Satan. He operated behind the scenes, and was probably Hezbollah’s most valuable intelligence gatherer. He also helped Hamas whenever he could. Ahmed was permitted to take no risks.

And now, sitting quietly in New York’s Pierre Hotel with Shakira Rashood, he would put his knowledge to work. “Take notes, but destroy them before you get on station,” he ordered. “Your mission is to befriend a Mrs. Emily Gallagher. She lives in a small town called Brockhurst, down where the Rappahannock River runs out into Chesapeake Bay.”

“Have you been there?”

“Yes. I drove down. It’s about 120 miles from Washington. But it’s a good road, Interstate 95 until you hit Route 17, then straight down the right bank of the river.”

“Did you see Mrs. Gallagher’s house?”

“I did. That part was easy. It’s a white stone colonial building on the edge of the town. I think she might be rather a grand lady. So please be extra careful. Those kinds of people are usually a lot cleverer than we may sometimes think.”

Shakira wrote carefully in a small leather-bound notebook. “Did you see her?” she asked.

“No. But I saw the house.”

“And the hotel you mentioned?”

“That’s in the center of town. Quite an old building, with a bar and a restaurant. And quite busy.”

“And I am either to stay there or work there?”

“Correct. But much better to work there if you can. I have an apartment for you about twenty miles north of Brockhurst in a new complex. It’s the penthouse on the twenty-first floor, and I have right here the lease agreement, which you must sign and present to the management when you get there.”

Ahmed reached into his pocket and produced the document, with a banker’s draft made out to Chesapeake Properties for $9,000, the amount of four months’ rent.

“That’s a lot of money,” said Shakira.

“It’s a very nice place,” replied Ahmed. “Private. Penthouse, balcony, two bedrooms, nicely furnished. Big living room, kitchen, two bathrooms, and a small utility room. The building has a doorman 24/7.”

“I probably won’t want to leave,” smiled Shakira.

“You probably will have to leave,” said Ahmed. “As we all do. In the end.”

They concluded their dinner with a cup of coffee at around 10:30. “I must go,” Ahmed said as he stood up from the table. “I have to get back.”

“To Washington?”

“Yes, I have a driver outside. We’ll make it in four hours. Remember, I’m supposed to be at the Whitney Museum for a reception this evening. I’ll be expected at my desk on time in the morning.”