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Gulf of Aden through the Red Sea to the Mediterranean. Then a particularly uncomfortable cargo ship tossed him mercilessly for too many days across a stormy Atlantic. He ventured out only at night in seasick desperation from his sequestered, claustrophobic cabin.
    At last the vessel entered the Gulf of Mexico, depositing him at a port where others removed him from the ship in a cargo box they conveyed to a warehouse. More facilitators moved him in a series of clunker vehicles across scorching Mexican wasteland. They delivered him to a coyote who prodded him through a rancid, decaying, rat-filled tunnel beneath the U.S. border into Texas.
    Once he was delivered inside the Texas line, others picked him up and drove him to a seedy motel where he showered away the travel stench in a cleansing lasting until the shower’s cascading hot water ran cold. He winced at again donning the filthy clothes, but with only days to his destination, he had forced himself. Their critical importance to his larger objective meant under no circumstances could he leave these clothes behind. The safest way not to lose them was to wear them.
    A variety of trucks and cars drove him for days on end through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, the Carolinas and into Virginia. Every step along the way pointed him toward a certain house in a certain town where he would carry out his destructive mission, and, praise be to Allah, he would reach that destination before this day ended.
    When the panel truck in which he rode the last stretch stopped for fuel, he shaved away his beard stubble at the gas station’s restroom sink, washed his hair and cleaned his face, neck and armpits with damp paper towels. Later, hidden from view in the back of the panel truck, he changed into clean clothes after carefully placing his worn travel garments in his suitcase.
    To prevent this driver from knowing his final destination, the truck dropped him in front of the McLean Safeway store, where he phoned his host to pick him up.
    10
    Thursday, 4:02 PM
    Jennifer returned from lunch to find Jason at home. “How’s Tony doing?”
    “Rough afternoon. Telling his kids was hard. I overheard their reactions to their mother’s death on the speaker phone. Heart-breaking, Jen! Then we called funeral homes and picked one. He wants a small funeral, family only, but you have to jump through most of the same hoops as if it were public. The funeral director’s a pro, with lists of what needs to happen.”
    “Like?”
    “Like writing her obituary and deciding which newspapers should print it, asking someone to give a eulogy at the service, picking a casket and selecting a cemetery or columbarium. Then planning the church service, musician and a reception for mourners there afterward. They’ll make a slide show—with today’s technology, it’ll be a Powerpoint—of Kirsten’s life with any photos he gathers. I’ll help him when he and the kids work on that tomorrow. This afternoon at 3:30 we meet his pastor to make church arrangements. What a grim education, Jen. This convinces me we should work out a lot of this in advance so our kids—or whichever one of us is left—won’t need to wade through it while confused and grieving.”
    “Okay, it’s on our to-do list. By the way, what’s a columbarium?”
    “A place to store a deceased person’s ashes. Tony’s having Kirsten cremated.” At his wife’s stricken expression, he added, “What’s wrong?”
    His words stunned her. “But that’s impossible. She and I talked about this just a few weeks ago. Neither of us wanted cremation. How could he not know that about his own wife? You know exactly what I want.”
    “True, because we talked about this when my parents died, but maybe they didn’t.”
    Kirsten’s voice echoed in Jennifer’s ears: “Burial is definitely my choice. I shudder at the idea of cremation. If you have a preference, Jen, tell Jason now so he’ll know what you want. Tony knows exactly how I