Colin put away the phone and looked around. Another thing about those bags, was anyone even scanning the oversize monstrosities? He’d seen guards in the center’s Pratt Street lobby, but he was pretty sure they didn’t have metal detectors at the door. Also, he hadn’t noticed any security checks whatsoever over at the skyway entrance from the Hilton Hotel.
You can check on all that later, write it up as a sidebar, he thought as he eyed a bag of chips someone had left behind on another table. Scooting over and grabbing it, he felt slightly redeemed, as if the universe had regained a little bit of balance.
Tearing open the bag and snacking down happily, Colin left the food area, his eyes actively searching for the woman so he could return the nudge and even the scales a little more.
From the start, Julie Harper had realized that agreeing to cochair the planning committee and deliver the keynote speech for tonight’s advanced nursing conference was a recipe for trouble. No one had forced her to micromanage the entire agenda. As her husband, Jon, had sweetly reminded her before they left the house, “Most of this is none of your goddamn business.”
She didn’t disagree. But in a town where image was everything and spies and saboteurs were everywhere, where a social disaster was also a political disaster, hands-on was the only way to be. Jon knew that, too. After three decades of marriage-most of that spent in Washington-he had come to rely on his wife to have his back like this.
What was it that the former first lady had told her? “You have to host to be seen. You have to host well to matter.”
The Baltimore Convention Center contracted out to a professional catering service that set the course list and handled the food preparation for all its banquets. Even if you paid their fee and chose not to use the food, no one else got in the door. She was assured they knew their business and wouldn’t need her input, but that would make this conference no different from every other conference.
That was not “hosting well.”
So she fretted, even as H hour approached. Was the coquilles Saint-Jacques really the best choice for a seafood entree? They had assured her it would be, but she’d insisted they use only a high-quality imported Gruyere in the recipe. She’d paid for the upgrade out of pocket. Or rather, her husband did. He hated to see her upset because of something that money could fix. And what about their wine pairing? Did they have a white varietal, something textured and flowery like Esprit de Beaucastel Blanc? As for the poultry offering, Julie had requested-and paid for-a substitution for the caterer’s chicken Kiev. She wanted a lighter alternative. Lemon chicken, for example, was a reliable crowd pleaser. And what about the vegetarians or, God help her, the vegans? Asparagus with plum tomato casserole was the expensive solution.
Even now, as she greeted guests in the lobby outside the ballroom, standing near a table covered with name tags, Julie was mentally reviewing the seating chart, wondering if it was wise to segregate the Tea Party affiliates from the Democrats. It was a coin toss as to which was worse, a perceived snub or a political catfight.
“… introduce you to Dr. Jose Colon.”
Julie started slightly and glanced at Donna Palmer, the director of pediatric nursing at Sloan-Kettering in New York and nominally her assistant coordinator for the event. Beside her, a young man stood in the hall, his hand extended.
“Good Lord!” Julie exclaimed. “Am I really looking at Helen Colon’s little boy?”
“You are.” He smiled. “Mom has spoken often of you over the years, Ms. Harper.”
“What a dear she is! I haven’t seen her since our Mayo Clinic days.” Julie was suddenly choked up-pressure waiting for an emotional trigger like this. “How is your mother?”
“Very well,” he said. “Mom does in-homes for an insurance company. She told me I have to take pictures of us together, but you’re busy. I’ll find you later?”
“Please do,” she replied. She almost called him back to take the photo now- Carpe diem, she thought-but he had moved on.
Donna ushered over a man and a young girl. She turned to them and smiled. “Mr. Reed Bishop and his daughter Laura,” Donna said.
Julie took their hands, one in each of her own. Her eyes were beginning to glisten. The whole thing was more emotional than she had expected.
“Your wife’s trust fund,” she said to Bishop, “your mother”-she smiled at Laura-“has been a lifesaver for our organization.”
“Caregiving was her passion,” Bishop said. “I couldn’t think of a better way to honor her.”
“Thank you,” Julie said. She looked at the slender girl with strawberry blond hair. “Are you going to be a nurse?” she asked.
Laura Bishop nodded. “I’m getting my dad to stop smoking.”
Reed Bishop smiled awkwardly under Julie’s playful scowl. The words secondhand smoke all but floated above her head.
“That’s a very noble goal,” Julie said. “I’m sure your dad means to help.”
“Every bloody inch of the way,” he said.
Another round of thank-yous and the Bishops moved on. Julie looked past Donna at the next arrival. As she was shaking the hand of Connecticut senator Victoria Bundonis, she noticed a man standing just inside the door. He looked to be in his late twenties. He was wearing a navy blue sports jacket and dark trousers and carried an expensive-looking hard-shell briefcase. What caught her eye was his posture-slack and loose limbed, his eyes lowered. As she watched, he was visibly swaying on his feet.
As the senator moved on, Julie took Donna by her elbow and pointed from her waist. “Do you know him?”
Donna glanced briefly at the man. “No. It appears as if he spent too much time dodging the afternoon heat in the hotel’s cocktail lounge.”
“I don’t know. Looks to me like he’s dancing to his iPod. See the earbud?”
“I do now.” Donna was reaching for her cell 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.