Julian refused to believe the game had changed in the warehouse, but it was Hashim, here, now, who ripped a hole in his armor, and it slammed him into the reality that nothing was the same, no matter how much he denied it.

33

33

Monday, September 21

The airport doors opened and passengers exited the Dulles terminal. Nazir looked liked an American teenager. A couple of days’ growth of beard, a gray Patagonia vest. He blended into the melting pot of the twenty-first century as he moved through the crowd carrying a backpack.

He’d never been to America. And now he was in the center of its government. This was the enemy. But as he stared at the crush of people, they didn’t look that much different than he. And all the stories of the infidels who lived here seemed just that. Stories to instill rage and righteousness. But he had none of that standing amid the humanity around him.

People who stared at their phones like the youth he knew. Some distracted. Some lost. Some who smiled and hugged those for whom they’d been waiting. Families. Children. Lovers. Loners. They didn’t look much like enemies. Perhaps this was part of the transformation that occurred after he survived the blast. But he wasn’t sent to see through the rage and righteousness. He was here to hold them in his fist.

Nazir knew the cells were on high alert since Hashim had disappeared, and through their international pipeline were able to track him to Turkish Flight 1269. What they didn’t know was why Hashim had come to Washington, if that was indeed his final destination. This was Nazir’s job.

Nazir had faced much confusion since the desert occurrence. And after, when Hashim had brought him to his grandmother’s home, there was sadness in the cleric’s eyes. A sadness that said to Nazir, this is the last time we may be together. It was those sorrowful eyes Nazir couldn’t shake from his mind.

He spotted a man he recognized from a photo given to him in Mosul. This was his connection.

The man brought him to a waiting car.

34

34

3511 Massachusetts Avenue was the address of Church Dry Cleaners. It looked like a full-fledged dry cleaning operation, complete with the sharp, high-inducing chemical smell of Picrin, and the whirr of row upon row of plastic covered clothes that swayed overhead like an amusement park ride. It was a front for an ISIS cell.

Nazir watched Imam Sayyid Sarif appear through the rows of hanging clothes.

Sarif took Nazir in his massive arms and gave him a warm welcome. He spoke English and encouraged Nazir to do the same. Nazir told him that his vocabulary was limited, but that Hashim had taught him well, so he could get by in most cases.

“Very good,” Sarif replied. “The better we assimilate the more impact we have.”