Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [40]
“Don’t tell me you got us lost,” said Andie.
They were standing in front of a hardware store, but Harley’s gaze had drifted toward a small shop across the street. The plate-glass windows were blacked over, but the sign on the door—CAPITAL PLEASURES, it read—featured a tall blonde in tight black leather with strategically placed nickel studs.
“Harley, this seems inappropriate.”
“That’s why I’m going to let one of our female agents handle this. Cherie Donner from the Washington field office is sort of an expert in this field. She’ll be here any minute, take you inside, and show you around. Then the two of you will meet in private. She can explain everything.”
“Explain what?”
“Let me put it this way,” he said. “Your undercover role is entering a new phase.”
Andie let it sink in. She’d played a prostitute on her first undercover assignment in Seattle, but this was her first venture into the world of leather and chains.
“Are you asking me to play some kind of dominatrix?”
“I would have volunteered myself, but does anybody really want to see me in a getup like that?”
Andie shook off the thought in a hurry. “Definitely not, but I—”
“Relax,” he said. “I was just kidding about wearing the stuff. It’s more of an education into a lifestyle and certain male fetishes that Agent Donner will introduce you to.”
She took another quick look across the street, wondering what Jack would say about her visit to Capital Pleasures.
Honey, do you like the riding crop with the rhinestones, or without?
“You’re okay with this, right?” he asked.
“Sure, I’m fine. There’s just one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t expect me to whip my husband into dropping his case,” she said as she thumped him on the chest.
Chapter Nineteen
On Monday evening Jack got his first taste of Somali cuisine. It was at Cafe Nema—in Washington, D.C.
Proving that Jamal had been held at a secret detention center in Prague was step two of the alibi defense. Step one was proving that a facility had ever existed in the Czech Republic in the first place—an even bigger hurdle. The defense team needed a heavy hitter, and it was Neil who had arranged for them to meet with Stan Haber, a corporate litigator who believed that everyone deserved a lawyer. That belief wasn’t incompatible with profit: Over the years, Haber and his powerful Washington firm had logged thousands of billable hours trying to convince juries that Big Tobacco didn’t know cigarettes were addictive. Lately, he’d spent his time defending Gitmo detainees free of charge.
“Who ordered the sambousa with basmati rice pilaf?” the waitress asked.
Flaky fried triangles of dough filled with curried vegetables weren’t exactly exotic, but Cafe Nema was more about the experience. At the basement level, a few steps below U Street, the dimly lit room was ripe for conversation, a cozy mix of foreign ex-pats and hip U-Streeters. Battered brick walls displayed a collage of brightly colored oil paintings, and a large Somali flag hung on a section painted fire-engine red. Photos of Miles Davis and Duke Ellington hung above the worn wooden bar, where counter and stools bore the nicks, scratches, and other badges of use. Older men spoke French and Arabic, savoring plates of kibeh (a torpedo-shaped pastry filled with beef and onions). Students from nearby Howard University gathered at tables to kibitz or send text messages from their cell phones. Jazz music set the mood without interfering with the buzz of voices.
“Sambousa is mine,” said Jack.
The waitress served the platters and quickly brought another round of beers. Neil steered the conversation back toward business.
“Stan has been on top of black detention sites ever since the Washington Post broke the story in 2005.”
Jack already knew all that, but Neil’s brief segue was all the encouragement Haber needed to remind them that he had been among the first volunteers to visit Guantánamo, and that he’d played a key role in securing the game-changing decision of the Supreme Court that detainees must be treated in accordance with the Geneva Conventions.
“Obviously, we