Terror in D.C. by Randy Wayne White Read Free Book Online Page B

car and have a look at Wells Church. Later, he could try to find someone he could trust who could read Arabic.…

seven
    On Friday evening the three students waited until the dorm was almost empty.
    In May, in Washington, D.C., the weekends are filled with fraternity parties and sorority parties at colleges around the city. Beer sales are brisk, and no one stays in.
    They didn’t have to wait long.
    By 8 P.M. the halls were empty, and the three students took the elevator to the lobby, then slipped through the door into the cellar.
    They pushed aside the carefully placed box that guarded the open window. It was a tampon crate—a joke enjoyed by the American students because the box guarded the window they used to sneak in women.
    This time, Mosul Aski, the leader, went first. Zanjen went last. And Karaj, who was very fat, had plenty of help from both ends when he got stuck.
    They walked across the commons area to Nebraska Avenue. There they hailed a cab. They gave the driver an address. When they were sure they were not being followed, they canceled the first address and told the driver where they really wanted to go.
    The driver dropped them at the corner of New Hampshire Avenue and Sixteenth Avenue—not far from the White House. The three students sat on a bench, watching the traffic go by.
    Finally, a large brown truck stopped on the street in front of them. On the side of the truck was painted DONGEL’S LAUNDRY/WE DELIVER .
    Last week they had been picked up by a pizza delivery truck. The week before that it was a U.S. Postal Service truck. All of the trucks had been stolen and repainted by believers in their cause.
    Mosul looked both ways, then threw open the back doors of the laundry truck and waved his friends inside.
    They rode along in silence for just under fifteen minutes.
    Then the truck stopped, and Mosul knew they were at the gate of Ambassador Isfahan Shiraz’s estate. Isfahan maintained higher security at his estate than did some embassies. His guards would be calling inside for clearance. It would, of course, be given. The engine revved and the truck jolted into the compound.
    The truck pulled around to the back of the three-story brick house, and the three students got out.
    Several of their friends were waiting for them, men who worked inside the estate and rarely ventured out.
    They greeted one another warmly while they unloaded the components for the bombs, speaking in Persian, the language of their homeland.
    Upstairs, the party atmosphere ended abruptly when Isfahan—Ambassador Isfahan Shiraz—entered the room. He was a thin stately man with dark, deep, cavernous eyes. He wore the native religious robes of his country, but he sat on the divan with his legs crossed like an American.
    â€œMy dear Mosul,” he began, speaking in Persian, “let me first congratulate you, Zanjen, and Karaj on the great success of your last mission.”
    The other men in the room clicked their tongues loudly, which was their way of applauding.
    He continued, “You have killed many of the infidels, and Allah will no doubt smile kindly upon you for your brave deeds. I think I may also say that your names are not unfamiliar to the leaders in our homeland. Here, I can only embrace you as brothers. But when you return home, you will be properly rewarded!”
    Over the clicking of tongues, Mosul said, “We have had our reward, oh, Father. Every week, the American televisions cry out the names of the pigs punished by our swords. That is all the reward we seek. And let us pray that we may continue to fight so that, someday, we may spit upon the graves of every last imperialist!”
    The ambassador nodded his approval. This Mosul was like few other youths of his generation. So brave, so filled with the fire of battle, and such a noble speaker. People were already predicting his greatness. Isfahan, who took great pride in his own fervor, could not disagree. Truly, Mosul Aski would