Murder at the Opera by Margaret Truman Page A

legislative act. The CIA, Department of Defense, and Nuclear Regulatory Commission had received such dispensation and had located their agencies outside the District. But DHS, despite its lofty mission to protect the homeland, had not as yet, and so it was limited to finding space within D.C., settling on the Nebraska Avenue Complex, at least for the time being.
    The secretary’s one-sided press conference had resulted from a frantic series of meetings held since early morning in secured conference rooms throughout headquarters.
     

     
    The genesis of those meetings had occurred three days earlier in an alley off King Feisal Street, in Amman, Jordan, where Ghaleb Rihnai played a spirited game of tric trac, the Arab name for backgammon, with a dour young Iraqi who’d moved to the Jordanian capital soon after the Americans invaded his home country. The table on which the game board rested was an overturned crate. Rihnai sipped from a lethal cup of strong black coffee. His opponent looked up from the board only occasionally to inhale from his narghile. Whenever he exhaled, the smoke from the water pipe created a haze over the board, like morning fog on a river. It was four in the afternoon, two months to the day since the Jordanian, Rihnai, and the young Iraqi had first met, or to be more accurate, two months since Rihnai had made an effort to befriend the Iraqi.
    “You’re winning,” the Iraqi said, not attempting to conceal his displeasure.
    “Yes, I see that I am, but the game is not over. Roll the dice and pray for good fortune, my friend.”
    The Iraqi’s prayers were answered. Twenty minutes later he emerged victorious.
    The Iraqi carefully returned the board, dice, and small disks to the bag in which he kept them, and the two men left the area, where others continued their games. They walked slowly and seemingly without purpose, stopping at an occasional stall to look at goods and foods being sold, or to chat with familiar shop owners. They eventually climbed the hill leading to ancient Amman, where the Jebel Qala’at, the Citadel, an ancient fortress rebuilt by the Romans during the reign of Marcus Aurelius, provided glorious views of the surrounding valleys and of Raghdan, the Royal Palace. They sat without speaking beneath a gnarled olive tree alongside a stream known as Seil Amman, a tributary of the Zerqa River.
    “You saw your brother in Baghdad?” Rihnai asked, breaking the silence. His friend had returned from the beleaguered Iraqi city only days earlier.
    “Yes, I saw him.”
    “He is well?”
    “He has been arrested twice by the Americans.”
    “Bastards. He is free now?”
    “Yes, for the moment.”
    “His arrests have not changed the plans, I pray.”
    “The plans go forward. In fact…”
    “Yes?”
    “They are ready.”
    Rihnai turned to face the Iraqi, whose youthful, almost angelic olive face and black eyes beneath a wet mop of jet-black hair defined sadness. At the same time, there was fire behind the eyes, simmering coals waiting to burst into flame.
    “That is good news, indeed,” Rihnai said. “Tell me, what part can I play?”
    “You have already been of great help, Ghaleb,” the Iraqi said, “but you will be called upon to play an even greater role in the days ahead. You have many friends in America.”
    “There are some I consider friends,” Rihnai said. “My Arab friends. The Americans I know from studying at their university are not friends. They are the enemy and always will be. My friends are here, in Jordan and Iraq. You are my friend.”
    “And I am grateful for that. The money you have given me is so important.”
    “No, no,” Rihnai said, wagging his index finger, “I gave you nothing. You worked and earned it.”
    The Iraqi’s lips parted in a semblance of a smile. “The American goods you arrange to have shipped here are much in demand. I don’t ask how you avoid the government and its red tape, but you obviously have your ways.”
    “My years with the