The Black Widow

Safia stared dully at her mobile phone, drugged by the opiate of fear, and then rose unsteadily to her feet — so unsteadily, in fact, that Natalie was afraid she might inadvertently press her detonator trying to maintain her balance.

“How do I look?” she asked.

Like a woman who knows she has only minutes to live, thought Natalie.

“You look beautiful, Safia. You always look beautiful.”

With that, Safia moved to the doorway and opened it without hesitation, but Natalie was searching for something amid the twisted sheets and blankets of the bed. She had hoped to hear the sound of a large-caliber weapon dispatching Safia on her journey to paradise. Instead, she heard Safia’s voice. The fear had evaporated. She sounded faintly annoyed.

“What are you waiting for?” she demanded. “It’s time.”

60 THE WHITE HOUSE

THE STATE DINNER WAS SCHEDULED to begin at eight o’clock that evening. The French president and his wife arrived punctually at the North Portico, having made the crossing from Blair House in record time, under the tightest security anyone had ever seen. They hurried inside, as if trying to escape a sudden deluge, and found the president and the first lady, both formally attired, waiting in the Entrance Hall. The president’s smile was dazzling, but his handshake was damp and full of tension.

“We have a problem,” he said sotto voce as the cameras flashed.

“Problem?”

“I’ll explain in a minute.”

The photo opportunity was much shorter than usual, fifteen seconds exactly. Then the president led the party to the Cross Hall. The first lady and her French counterpart turned to the left, toward the East Room. The two leaders headed to the right, toward the West Wing. Downstairs in the Situation Room it was standing room only — principals in their assigned seats, deputies and aides lining the walls. On one of the display screens, two women, one blond, the other dark-haired, were walking along a hotel corridor. The president quickly brought the French leader up to date. A few minutes earlier, Safia Bourihane had produced a pair of suicide vests. A hasty evacuation of the hotel had been rejected as too time-consuming and too risky. A direct assault on the room had been ruled out as well.

“So what are we left with?” asked the French president.

“Undercover SWAT and hostage rescue teams are standing by outside the front of the hotel and in the lobby. If they’re afforded an opportunity to kill Safia Bourihane with no collateral loss of innocent life, they will request permission to take the shot.”

“Who gives the approval?”

“Me and me alone.” The president looked at his French counterpart soberly. “I don’t need your permission to do this, but I’d like your approval.”

“You have it, Mr. President.” The French leader watched as the two women entered the elevators. “But may I offer one small piece of advice?”

“Of course.”

“Tell your snipers not to miss.”

By the time the Tunisian reached the exit for Route 123, the second Freightliner was directly behind him, exactly where it was supposed to be. He checked the clock. It was five minutes past eight. They were a minute ahead of schedule, better than the alternative but not ideal. The clock was Saladin’s trademark. He believed that in terror, as in life, timing was everything.

Six times the Tunisian had performed dry runs, and six times the traffic signal at Lewinsville Road had temporarily halted his advance, as it did now. When the light changed to green he meandered up the suburban lane at a leisurely pace, followed by the second Freightliner. Directly ahead was the intersection of Tysons McLean Drive. Again, the Tunisian checked the clock. They were back on schedule. He turned to the left and the overloaded truck labored up the slope of the gentle hill.

This was the portion of the approach the Tunisian had never driven, though he and the Jordanian had practiced it on a sophisticated computer simulator. The road bent gradually to the left, then, at the top of a hill, sharply to the right, where it led to an elaborate security checkpoint. By now, the highly trained and heavily armed guards were already aware of his presence. The Americans had been attacked by vehicle-borne bombs before — at the Marine barracks in Beirut in 1983 and Khobar Towers in Saudi Arabia in 1996—and they were no doubt prepared for just such an attack on this critical facility, the nerve center of their counterterrorism apparatus. But unfortunately for the Americans, Saladin had prepared, too. The engine blocks of the trucks were encased in pig iron, the windshields and tires were bulletproof. Short of a direct hit by an antitank missile, the trucks were unstoppable.

The Tunisian waited until he had made the first slight left turn before slamming the accelerator to the floor. On the right a line of neon-orange pylons funneled inbound traffic into one lane. The Tunisian made no effort to avoid them, thus signaling to the Americans that his intentions were far from innocent.