workroom and sat down at her computer.
Last week in Los Angeles, during the Immi Gotham concert at the opening of The Arrington, a new hotel, a nuclear bomb came within three seconds of detonating. I was there. I saw it happen.
She wrote rapidly for an hour, editing as she went, then she saved the document, printed it, copied it to a thumb drive, put the hard copy and the drive into her safe and locked it, then deleted the original from her computer.
Then, unburdened, she called in the liquor order, stuck her wallet in a pocket in her jeans, and went grocery shopping.
Jasmine was awakened by the cell phone on her bedside table. She was disoriented for a moment, then she reached for it. It could be only one person. “Hello?”
“I think you should do some light grocery shopping this morning,” he said.
“What?”
“After all, you’ve been away, your fridge must be empty.”
“I need to sleep,” she said.
“Sleep then. Do your shopping early this afternoon; take a walk, get some air. The park is nice this time of year.”
“All right.”
“Tell me what things you will buy.”
She was hungover, but she tried to think. “Milk, bread, sliced beef for sandwiches, mayonnaise, eggs. And scotch.”
“Famous Grouse all right?”
“Fine.”
“Later.” He hung up.
Jasmine rolled over and slept for another two hours, then she struggled out of bed and got into a hot shower, letting the water drum against the back of her neck to make the hangover go away. She toweled off, dried her shoulder-length hair with a large hairdryer, then she looked for breakfast. Cereal, but no milk. She had it with water, then checked the kitchen clock: nearly one o’clock.
She got into a modest printed dress and flat walking shoes, then found a suitable scarf and covered her hair. She checked the mirror: without makeup she could pass for any one of fifty Muslim women on the street. She had chosen the neighborhood for that.
She let herself out of her building and walked two blocks to the Spar grocery, towing her shopping basket on wheels. She bought the things she needed, paid cash, then walked another block to her neighborhood’s park. It was a well-shaded green space where mothers, many of them in Muslim dress, watched their children play and chatted among themselves.
Jasmine chose an out-of-the-way bench, parked her cart at the center, and sat at one end. She was still tired from her journey, and she hadn’t had all the sleep she needed. She resented being hauled out of bed on her first day back.
She could see a man walking slowly toward her, towing a shopping cart much like her own, dressed in a baggy suit and wearing a little embroidered cap, signifying his devoutness. He came slowly on, then parked his cart next to hers and sat down at the other end of the bench, took a newspaper from his coat pocket, and began to read it.
“How was your trip?” he asked, barely moving his lips.
“Rough,” she said. “Two long days on a mule. I don’t recommend it as a means of travel.”
He chuckled. “I expect you have a sore ass, then.”
“Don’t ask.”
“You recall our conversation of a while back when you mentioned three targets?”
“Yes.”
“We think the third one would be appropriate at this time.”
“Well, that’s an escalation, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and it’s hard to escalate past a foreign minister.”
“Somehow, that one is more satisfying,” she said. “It might even make a difference, if we’re lucky.”
“We rely on planning, not luck,” he said, reprovingly.
“Of course.”
“What will you need from us, besides matériel?”
“A black taxi,” she said. “I was uncomfortable driving the car last time, and a taxi is the most anonymous of all vehicles.”
“It will be done.”
“What about the driver?” she asked.
He was quiet for a moment. “We must keep our numbers small. That is the way to remain safe.”
“I agree,” she said. “I’ll need the package delivered. It
Last week in Los Angeles, during the Immi Gotham concert at the opening of The Arrington, a new hotel, a nuclear bomb came within three seconds of detonating. I was there. I saw it happen.
She wrote rapidly for an hour, editing as she went, then she saved the document, printed it, copied it to a thumb drive, put the hard copy and the drive into her safe and locked it, then deleted the original from her computer.
Then, unburdened, she called in the liquor order, stuck her wallet in a pocket in her jeans, and went grocery shopping.
Jasmine was awakened by the cell phone on her bedside table. She was disoriented for a moment, then she reached for it. It could be only one person. “Hello?”
“I think you should do some light grocery shopping this morning,” he said.
“What?”
“After all, you’ve been away, your fridge must be empty.”
“I need to sleep,” she said.
“Sleep then. Do your shopping early this afternoon; take a walk, get some air. The park is nice this time of year.”
“All right.”
“Tell me what things you will buy.”
She was hungover, but she tried to think. “Milk, bread, sliced beef for sandwiches, mayonnaise, eggs. And scotch.”
“Famous Grouse all right?”
“Fine.”
“Later.” He hung up.
Jasmine rolled over and slept for another two hours, then she struggled out of bed and got into a hot shower, letting the water drum against the back of her neck to make the hangover go away. She toweled off, dried her shoulder-length hair with a large hairdryer, then she looked for breakfast. Cereal, but no milk. She had it with water, then checked the kitchen clock: nearly one o’clock.
She got into a modest printed dress and flat walking shoes, then found a suitable scarf and covered her hair. She checked the mirror: without makeup she could pass for any one of fifty Muslim women on the street. She had chosen the neighborhood for that.
She let herself out of her building and walked two blocks to the Spar grocery, towing her shopping basket on wheels. She bought the things she needed, paid cash, then walked another block to her neighborhood’s park. It was a well-shaded green space where mothers, many of them in Muslim dress, watched their children play and chatted among themselves.
Jasmine chose an out-of-the-way bench, parked her cart at the center, and sat at one end. She was still tired from her journey, and she hadn’t had all the sleep she needed. She resented being hauled out of bed on her first day back.
She could see a man walking slowly toward her, towing a shopping cart much like her own, dressed in a baggy suit and wearing a little embroidered cap, signifying his devoutness. He came slowly on, then parked his cart next to hers and sat down at the other end of the bench, took a newspaper from his coat pocket, and began to read it.
“How was your trip?” he asked, barely moving his lips.
“Rough,” she said. “Two long days on a mule. I don’t recommend it as a means of travel.”
He chuckled. “I expect you have a sore ass, then.”
“Don’t ask.”
“You recall our conversation of a while back when you mentioned three targets?”
“Yes.”
“We think the third one would be appropriate at this time.”
“Well, that’s an escalation, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and it’s hard to escalate past a foreign minister.”
“Somehow, that one is more satisfying,” she said. “It might even make a difference, if we’re lucky.”
“We rely on planning, not luck,” he said, reprovingly.
“Of course.”
“What will you need from us, besides matériel?”
“A black taxi,” she said. “I was uncomfortable driving the car last time, and a taxi is the most anonymous of all vehicles.”
“It will be done.”
“What about the driver?” she asked.
He was quiet for a moment. “We must keep our numbers small. That is the way to remain safe.”
“I agree,” she said. “I’ll need the package delivered. It
Similar Books
