phone. “Should I call security?”
“No. They’ll stick out.”
“Aren’t they supposed to?” Donna asked.
One of the things Julie insisted on was that her guests not be inconvenienced with security checks. Between herself and Donna, they knew almost every one of the 250 people who were attending. To search them would have been insulting. Still, this merited watching.
“Wait until everyone is inside and chatting,” Julie said.
The women resumed welcoming new arrivals.
Glancing at his watch, the man with the briefcase finally came over. His blue wristband meant he’d paid over two thousand dollars to attend the dinner. Donna put out her hand as he approached.
“Good evening,” she said. “I’m Donna Palmer, your cohost, and this is Ms. Julie Harper.”
He bowed in a slightly courtly fashion but said nothing.
“The name tags are in alphabetical order,” Donna went on. “If you’d like, you can check your briefcase at the counter behind the table.”
“Thank you,” he said as he scanned the table for the plastic tag.
Julie couldn’t place the accent. It sounded Israeli, and he had what looked like a deep Mediterranean tan. As he reached for the tag, she noted that his name was Michael Lohani. It meant nothing. She exchanged looks with Donna, who shrugged. The name wasn’t familiar to her, either. It was then that Julie saw the way he held his briefcase against his side, his fingers tightly clenched around its handle, his shoulder dropped low, as though it were quite heavy.
He moved ahead with a weak smile. Julie turned casually to watch. He didn’t check his briefcase but went right to the ushers at the door.
“Okay, something’s not right,” Julie said to Donna. “Call security.”
Zuhair Khan Afridi paused in the tiled, narrow court outside the Hilton’s Eutaw Street entrance, his hand closing around the marble deep inside his trouser pocket, rolling the smooth glass ball between his fingertips. Silently, without moving his mouth, bowing only slightly, reverently at the knees, he repeated the affirmations he’d learned at the camp where his mind and body were healed and he received his instruction as a mujahid . The words had helped to dispel the painful recollections of his treatment by the American CIA: the blindfolded trips by plane, helicopter, and van; the interrogations and repeated water tortures; the rats in his tiny cell.
He had waited out these final hours at an afternoon baseball game, reviewing the plan in his head as he gathered himself for his task. Zuhair had paid no attention to the game until shortly before he left Camden Yards, when people suddenly began exiting the ballpark.
Had someone identified him and given an alert? Was the stadium being evacuated? That was when he realized the visiting Boston Red Sox had a large 10–0 lead in the eighth inning, and that people were leaving.
Zuhair wore an Orioles baseball cap and jersey outside his baggy chinos, aware he would be inconspicuous enough disguised as one of the many who had come to cheer the home team. He departed with the others, confident that his somber mood would be perceived as nothing more than the disappointment of a fan.
As the time approached, he vacated his seat in the right-field stands, exited the park through Gate A, and went to room 306 at the hotel. Zuhair closed the door behind him and briefly looked out at the busy piers, then glanced over at the wall-length furniture unit to his right. A combination dresser and desk, it had drawers at his end, a plasma television in the center, and an office chair pushed underneath it near the window.
Zuhair went directly to the dresser and produced the yellow marble from his pants pocket. Opening the bottom drawer, he found a plastic grocery bag with a bulky object folded inside. He removed the bag and dropped the marble into the drawer before shutting it, leaving it as confirmation that he, and no one else, had removed the bag and its contents.
Not
“No. They’ll stick out.”
“Aren’t they supposed to?” Donna asked.
One of the things Julie insisted on was that her guests not be inconvenienced with security checks. Between herself and Donna, they knew almost every one of the 250 people who were attending. To search them would have been insulting. Still, this merited watching.
“Wait until everyone is inside and chatting,” Julie said.
The women resumed welcoming new arrivals.
Glancing at his watch, the man with the briefcase finally came over. His blue wristband meant he’d paid over two thousand dollars to attend the dinner. Donna put out her hand as he approached.
“Good evening,” she said. “I’m Donna Palmer, your cohost, and this is Ms. Julie Harper.”
He bowed in a slightly courtly fashion but said nothing.
“The name tags are in alphabetical order,” Donna went on. “If you’d like, you can check your briefcase at the counter behind the table.”
“Thank you,” he said as he scanned the table for the plastic tag.
Julie couldn’t place the accent. It sounded Israeli, and he had what looked like a deep Mediterranean tan. As he reached for the tag, she noted that his name was Michael Lohani. It meant nothing. She exchanged looks with Donna, who shrugged. The name wasn’t familiar to her, either. It was then that Julie saw the way he held his briefcase against his side, his fingers tightly clenched around its handle, his shoulder dropped low, as though it were quite heavy.
He moved ahead with a weak smile. Julie turned casually to watch. He didn’t check his briefcase but went right to the ushers at the door.
“Okay, something’s not right,” Julie said to Donna. “Call security.”
Zuhair Khan Afridi paused in the tiled, narrow court outside the Hilton’s Eutaw Street entrance, his hand closing around the marble deep inside his trouser pocket, rolling the smooth glass ball between his fingertips. Silently, without moving his mouth, bowing only slightly, reverently at the knees, he repeated the affirmations he’d learned at the camp where his mind and body were healed and he received his instruction as a mujahid . The words had helped to dispel the painful recollections of his treatment by the American CIA: the blindfolded trips by plane, helicopter, and van; the interrogations and repeated water tortures; the rats in his tiny cell.
He had waited out these final hours at an afternoon baseball game, reviewing the plan in his head as he gathered himself for his task. Zuhair had paid no attention to the game until shortly before he left Camden Yards, when people suddenly began exiting the ballpark.
Had someone identified him and given an alert? Was the stadium being evacuated? That was when he realized the visiting Boston Red Sox had a large 10–0 lead in the eighth inning, and that people were leaving.
Zuhair wore an Orioles baseball cap and jersey outside his baggy chinos, aware he would be inconspicuous enough disguised as one of the many who had come to cheer the home team. He departed with the others, confident that his somber mood would be perceived as nothing more than the disappointment of a fan.
As the time approached, he vacated his seat in the right-field stands, exited the park through Gate A, and went to room 306 at the hotel. Zuhair closed the door behind him and briefly looked out at the busy piers, then glanced over at the wall-length furniture unit to his right. A combination dresser and desk, it had drawers at his end, a plasma television in the center, and an office chair pushed underneath it near the window.
Zuhair went directly to the dresser and produced the yellow marble from his pants pocket. Opening the bottom drawer, he found a plastic grocery bag with a bulky object folded inside. He removed the bag and dropped the marble into the drawer before shutting it, leaving it as confirmation that he, and no one else, had removed the bag and its contents.
Not
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