Stone - 25 - Collateral Damage

toweled off, dried her shoulder-length hair with a large hairdryer, then she looked for breakfast. Cereal, but no milk. She had it with water, then checked the kitchen clock: nearly one o’clock.
    She got into a modest printed dress and flat walking shoes, then found a suitable scarf and covered her hair. She checked the mirror: without makeup she could pass for any one of fifty Muslim women on the street. She had chosen the neighborhood for that.
    She let herself out of her building and walked two blocks to the Spar grocery, towing her shopping basket on wheels. She bought the things she needed, paid cash, then walked another block to her neighborhood’s park. It was a well-shaded green space where mothers, many of them in Muslim dress, watched their children play and chatted among themselves.
    Jasmine chose an out-of-the-way bench, parked her cart at the center, and sat at one end. She was still tired from her journey, and she hadn’t had all the sleep she needed. She resented being hauled out of bed on her first day back.
    She could see a man walking slowly toward her, towing a shopping cart much like her own, dressed in a baggy suit and wearing a little embroidered cap, signifying his devoutness. He came slowly on, then parked his cart next to hers and sat down at the other end of the bench, took a newspaper from his coat pocket, and began to read it.
    “How was your trip?” he asked, barely moving his lips.
    “Rough,” she said. “Two long days on a mule. I don’t recommend it as a means of travel.”
    He chuckled. “I expect you have a sore ass, then.”
    “Don’t ask.”
    “You recall our conversation of a while back when you mentioned three targets?”
    “Yes.”
    “We think the third one would be appropriate at this time.”
    “Well, that’s an escalation, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, and it’s hard to escalate past a foreign minister.”
    “Somehow, that one is more satisfying,” she said. “It might even make a difference, if we’re lucky.”
    “We rely on planning, not luck,” he said, reprovingly.
    “Of course.”
    “What will you need from us, besides matériel?”
    “A black taxi,” she said. “I was uncomfortable driving the car last time, and a taxi is the most anonymous of all vehicles.”
    “It will be done.”
    “What about the driver?” she asked.
    He was quiet for a moment. “We must keep our numbers small. That is the way to remain safe.”
    “I agree,” she said. “I’ll need the package delivered. It must look good—a uniformed man in a liveried van, something like a DSL van.”
    “It will be done.”
    “I want another, larger device in the van. I’ll need separate cell numbers for each.”
    “Interesting,” he said.
    “We can maximize results with collateral damage.”
    “I agree. When?”
    “Five days. The parcel will be ready for collection at noon on the day and should be delivered at one P.M. Traffic will be good at the lunch hour.”
    “I have the list of cell phone numbers you gave me. Are they still good?”
    “Yes.”
    “Dispose of the one you answered this morning and go to the second number. I’ll call a day ahead of time to be sure everything is still on.” He took a page from a notebook and slid it across the bench toward her. “This is a list of my cell numbers. The first and second may be used for the first and second devices. Call me only if absolutely necessary. Good luck.” He rose, reached across his cart and took the handle of hers, then he walked back in the direction from which he had come.
    Jasmine sat long enough to check the area for anyone following him or watching her. Finally, satisfied that she was unnoticed, she took the handle of the other shopping cart and towed it toward home. She noted that the grocery items she had ordered were the top layer in the cart. What was underneath was heavier.
    She walked back to her flat, taking a circuitous route, checking reflections in shop windows and, occasionally, stopping to look at displays. It took her forty minutes to reach home.
    She pulled the cart up the steps carefully, one at a time. When she was halfway up, the front door opened and a woman she didn’t know stepped outside.
    “That looks heavy,” the woman said. “Let me help.”
    “That’s all right,” Jasmine said. “I’ve got it.”
    “Let me get the door for you, then.” The woman held it open and watched as she muscled the cart inside. She was English, mid-thirties, mousy hair, a plain coat, sensible