muscular arms of an Olympic skier. Her skin was dry and porous. It was the skin of a woman who had lived in the desert or at altitude.
Natalie went to the second sink and opened the tap. When she looked up into the mirror, the woman was staring at her in the glass.
“How are you, Leila?”
“Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am.”
“Unless you’re one of them. Then it matters a great deal to me.”
The woman applied powder to the rough skin of her face. “I’m Megan,” she said to her reflection. “Megan from the FBI. And you’re wasting valuable time.”
“Do you know who that woman is?”
Nodding, the woman put away the powder and went to work on her lips. “How did she get into the country?”
“On a false passport.”
“Where did she come in?”
Natalie answered.
“Kennedy or Newark?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did she get down to Washington?”
“The train.”
“What’s the name on the passport?”
“Asma Doumaz.”
“Have you been given a target?”
“No. But she’s been given hers. It’s a suicide operation.”
“Do you know her target?”
“No.”
“Have you met any other members of the attack cells?”
“No.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“She took it from me. Don’t try to send me any messages.”
“Get out of here.”
Natalie switched off the tap and went out. Warily, Safia watched her approach the table. Then her eyes moved to the athletic-looking woman with open-air skin who reclaimed her seat at the bar.
“Did that woman try to talk to you?”
“What woman?”
Safia nodded toward the bar.
“Her?” Natalie shook her head. “She was on the phone the whole time.”
“Really?” Safia expertly dressed the salad with the oil and the vinegar. “Bon appétit.”
56
KEY BRIDGE MARRIOTT, ARLINGTON
THE ROOM WAS A SINGLE, the bed scarcely large enough for two. Safia slept rather well for a woman who knew she would soon be dead, though once during the night she sat bolt upright and engaged in a somniloquous explanation about how to properly wear a suicide vest. Natalie listened carefully to Safia’s mumbled words, searching for clues about her target, but soon Safia was asleep again. Eventually, sometime after three in the morning, Natalie slept, too. She woke to find Safia clinging marsupial-like to her back. Outside, the weather was gray and wet, and the overnight change of pressure had left Natalie with a throbbing headache. She swallowed two tablets of pain reliever and drifted into a pleasant half-sleep until the scream of a jetliner woke her a second time. It seemed to pass within a few feet of their window. Then it banked low over the Potomac and disappeared into the clouds before reaching the end of the runway at Reagan National Airport.
Natalie rolled over and saw Safia sitting up in bed, staring at her mobile phone.
“How did you sleep?” Safia asked, her eyes still on the screen.
“Well. You?”
“Not bad.” Safia switched off the phone. “Get dressed. We have work to do.”
After showering and dressing, they headed downstairs to the lobby to partake of the complimentary breakfast. Safia had no appetite. Neither for that matter did Natalie. She drank three cups of coffee for the sake of her headache and forced down a container of Greek yogurt. The restaurant was full of tourists and two clean-cut men who looked as though they were in town for business. One of the men couldn’t keep his eyes off Safia. The other was watching the news on the overhead television. A network icon in the bottom-right corner of the screen read LIVE. The American and French presidents were seated before the fireplace in the Oval Office. The American president was speaking. The French president didn’t look happy.
“What’s he saying?” asked Safia.
“Something about working with our friends and allies in the Middle East to defeat ISIS.”
“Is he serious?”
“Our president doesn’t seem to think so.”
Safia’s eyes met the eyes of her not-so-secret admirer on the other side of the restaurant. She looked quickly away.
“Why does that man keep looking at me?”
“He finds you attractive.”
“Are you sure that’s all it is?”
Natalie nodded.
“It’s annoying.”
“I know.”
“I wish I could put on my hijab.”
“It wouldn’t help.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’d still be beautiful.” Natalie scraped the last of the yogurt from the bottom of the plastic container. “You really should eat something.”
“Why?”
Natalie had no answer. “Where are we going this morning?” she asked.
“Shopping.”
“What do we need?”
“Clothes.”
“I have clothes.”
“Nice clothes.”
Safia glanced at the television screen, where the White House press secretary was herding the reporters from the Oval Office. Then she stood without another word and walked out of the restaurant. Natalie followed a few paces behind, her handbag over her right shoulder.