Black_Tide (19 page)

They followed him down a hallway more Vatican than central Texas, with ornate statues, biblical paintings in gilded frames, and a plush carpet in royal purple. He turned left, past a dozen rooms—doors closed—into an office fit for a banana republic dictator, complete with a giant painting of the office's occupant above the oversized mahogany desk.

Whispers slithered through Matt's mind, insidious and seductive, flayed skin and eyes crushed to jelly and bones cracked to suck the sweet marrow within. He sat in a giant, cushioned chair and accepted a glass of ice water—with coaster—from a smiling redhead in all white, with perfect teeth and four-inch heels. Sakura declined both the chair and the water, without speaking, and stood just behind the door.

"Mister Rowley, thank you for coming. We seem to have some common ground on this matter that your colleague Janet and I spoke about."

"Commonality, anyway." Matt tossed the folder across the desk. "Of at least twelve people involved in an assault on my town, and the kidnapping of my wife and son, four are confirmed members of Humans for Humanity, two are convicted felons and confirmed members of Humans for Humanity, and six, well, we have no idea who they are and neither does anyone else. Add in the three that attacked the Mayo clinic, you've got two terrorist cells comprising a membership half confirmed to be members of your cult."

Kellett's lips pressed together at the word "cult," and his ears flushed red. "Mister Rowley, I invited you here in a common spirit—"

"Bullshit. After years of agitating violence to your minions, they've finally gotten brave enough to carry it out. You're exposed and don't want your neck on the chopping block. I couldn't be happier at the thought of you hanging from a rope—this is Texas after all—so why don't you cut the crap and tell us what you can about these people so I don't have to drag you in for questioning?"

Face red, Kellett flipped through the folder, separating out three pictures, none of whom had been in the room with Matt's wife, all of whom Janet had tagged as H4H members. "You have to understand that this is an enormous organization, comprising thousands of chapters worldwide. I can hardly be expected to know everybody . . . ."

"But," Matt said, pointing at the papers.

"But, these three men were sanctioned and expelled for fomenting violence against the augmented. You must understand that we do not and never have condoned violence—"

Sakura snorted.

"—and in fact actively counseled those who wished to attempt such. Not only would it have been foolhardy, it would have been unchristian. We are not a violent church, nor a violent people, and while Christ flipped tables and chased people with a whip, he did not direct his physical ire into harming people, and nor will we."

Matt leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. "Am I people?"

"Of course." He didn't miss a beat. "We've never hated the augmented, only their augmentations. Which leads to the question of how you maintained yours, when the Almighty stripped all others of theirs."

"No, it doesn't."

Kellett furrowed his brow. "Pardon?"

"It doesn't lead to the question. I don't owe you an explanation and didn't come here to give you one. We came a thousand miles and so far you've told us things a secretary could have confirmed on the phone. So either you cut to the chase, or we're leaving."

He squirmed in his seat. "I need complete assurance that you are not recording this conversation, and that you will not report any of this to the authorities or the press."

Matt held up his hands. "Frisk us."

"Thank you." Kellett pushed a button on his phone.

Sakura rolled her eyes to Matt, and Matt made no attempt to hide his contemptuous snort.

The whispers babbled of the opening door and blood falling like rain from Matt's fist as he obliterated the guard's head.

Instead, Matt stood, placed his pistol on the desk, and turned, hands at his side. The door opened and the bouncer from outside entered. Matt kept his hands raised and suffered a thorough pat-down. He picked up and holstered his weapon before Sakura removed hers. She raised her arms and glared at Matt through the frisk, and while he left no area unaccounted for, for his part the big man remained professional throughout. With a nod to Kellett, the guard left.

Re-seated, Matt raised an eyebrow. "You're on."

"The reason we ejected these men is because they had hired another man, a Mister Peter Salomon, to fire-bomb Jade houses throughout the southern United States. Despite the drug's terrible hold, they sought to punish those poor souls who had fallen to its seduction. We have our differences, Mister Rowley, but I am and always have been a man of peace. We neither supported nor condoned these actions, and cast out these pariahs the moment their actions became known.

"But these are not men of means. They would not have had the wherewithal to hire personal assistants, much less finance a party of anarchy-minded hooligans. No, someone, an ally, backed their scheme and with rather a lot of money for men such as that. It seems likely that whoever hired Mister Salomon before has done so again. Find him, and find their backer."

Sakura looked up from her phone. "Lots of Peter Salomons. We need more."

"He's a bald man, perhaps fifty or so, a little over six feet tall. He runs an import/export business out of New York, a couple miles from LaGuardia."

"This is a front?" Sakura asked.

"It appears to be legitimate, though I confess I haven't investigated it beyond cursory PI work. Our interests extended as far as removing these men from our flock, nothing more."

Matt clucked his tongue. "It didn't occur to you to, say, alert the authorities?"

Kellett frowned. "The authorities did not take a strong view toward our cause, Mr. Rowley. Our ministries have suffered years of harassment by the IRS and the FBI, and both local and state law enforcement showed more interest in investigating us than helping. They saw your organization as a necessary evil and not the abomination it was."

Matt spoke over Sakura's low growl. "Is there anything else you can tell us?"

"I'm afraid not. Remember, this conversation did not happen. Nobody saw you here, and no cameras have recorded your presence. I cannot be seen assisting you, even if it serves a common and very important interest."

Matt stood. "If that's all, we'll find our own way out."

Kellett watched them as they stalked down the hallway, and when they turned the corner they found the bouncer standing at the end of the hall, arms crossed. He held the door for them and watched them until they got in the car and drove off.

Matt called Janet and gave her the information. Twenty minutes later they had tax records and blueprints for Salomon Imports, a wholesaler and pawn shop with more warehouse than retail space. Salomon kept his nose clean, at least as far as the IRS knew, and did a brisk business in firearms, jewelry, and personal electronics.

Matt noted with some interest that Salomon had no experience with the armed forces, nor with prison. Mediocre scores in high school, a community college degree in accounting, and twelve years doing the books for an upscale restaurant before transitioning into the pawn and import business didn't look like the résumé of a professional mercenary.

"Do you see what I see?"

Sakura nodded. "Something here doesn't add up."

"How about dinner? I'm thinking pasta. In Manhattan."

*   *   *

New York City shimmered in the evening fog as the Apache touched down atop the MetLife building. Rotors cut through the moisture in a thousand continuous whirlwinds, catching the lights from below and throwing them into a refracted cacophony. The stink hit the moment Matt stepped out of the helicopter, and as it lifted off, the beat of the rotors yielded to the beat of the city—honking horns and the wind-like whoosh of constant traffic.

"Welcome to the Big Apple," Matt said.

"I've been here before." Sakura walked down the steps to where a man in a cheap suit waited, walkie-talkie in one hand, the roof access door held open with the other.

Matt gave a nod to the doorman and followed Sakura to the elevator. They rode down sixty stories, exited the lobby into the crush of late weekday traffic, and walked right into Grand Central Station.

The underground platform smelled of stale urine and body odor, far too hot despite the cool evening, and they suffered through two train arrivals and departures before they managed to catch the third, the press of bodies writhing with impatience every time the doors opened anew. With standing room only, the jerky M train whisked them downtown to 23
rd
street.

They bounded up the stairs into the cool, comparative darkness, and headed on foot toward Gramercy Park.

Gadadi's defied the stereotypical red checkered tablecloth, with huge windows tinted gold under the orange streetlights revealing a spacious interior more at home in a mansion than a pasta place. Oak tables polished to a mirror shine scattered throughout the dining room under an enormous chandelier, half electric, half candles, just enough light to illuminate without dispersing too many shadows. The bar, a solid slab of lacquered redwood at least eighteen feet long dominated one wall, backed by mirrored shelves holding all manner of liquor. Matt opened the door to a mouthwatering aroma of seafood, garlic, and fresh-baked bread.

The maître d's smile collapsed as he turned to greet them, hands clasping and unclasping in front of his black suit as they approached the podium just inside the door. The short, skinny man's eyes scanned from scuffed sneakers to jeans up to their T-shirts and back down, flicking from detail to detail with a brutal efficiency that Matt expected from professional bodyguards. "I'm sorry, but the gentleman will require a jacket and . . . different . . . trousers. The lady . . . I . . . I don't know where to start."

Matt tried not to smile at the Brooklyn tough-guy accent peeking through the upscale put-down. He opened his mouth but Sakura cut him off.

"He's not a gentleman." Sakura put her hand on the podium and leaned in, her tone cold. "And I'm not a lady."

The five men at the bar, all in suits, turned around on their stools, and the bartender's hands dropped beneath the counter, all traces of joviality gone in an instant.

Matt smiled. "I'm not looking for trouble. I was hoping to talk to Mr. Gadadi and maybe get a bite to eat."

A man at the bar pushed through the back door into the kitchen, but the suit in front of Matt didn't budge. Instead, he made a show of twirling his finger and then pointing out the front door. "If you two aren't looking for trouble, maybe you wants to not look for it someplace else."

"We came a long way." He put his elbows on the podium and leaned in too close. "And that clam sauce smells delicious." Then he waited, aware of but not looking at the other men, whose conversation had stalled in favor of watching the altercation.

The maître d' neither flinched nor blinked, despite Matt looking down at him from eight inches up. The whispers slithered through and around the man's voice as he spoke. "Buddy, you're a thousand miles out of your league, here, so why don't you take your little chink girlfriend and find another place to eat, huh?"

Matt put his hand on Sakura's arm before she could punch the little rat in the face. "Blossom, we're not here to hurt these people."

The men at the bar stood and spread out. Matt assessed their stances and dismissed them as dangerous thugs without any real training, but almost definitely armed with small-caliber pistols.

Sakura jerked free and put her fists on her hips. "Maybe not at first." Her fist snapped forward and stopped a hair's breadth from the little man's nose. She held it there just long enough for him to see it, then returned it to her hip.

He stumbled back, mouth wide. She glowered, but deflated enough for Matt to feel comfortable taking his attention off her.

"I'd advise against racial slurs until we get to know each other better. If you want to keep your head attached or whatever."

The maître d' looked from Sakura's flushed, angry face to Matt's, pointedly avoiding the armed men at the bar. "Who did you say you were again?"

"Homeland Security, Special Threats Bureau. We came a long way to ask Mr. Gadadi a couple of questions about a guy who used to work for him. So if you wouldn't mind . . . ?"

"I've never heard of the Special Threats Bureau."

Matt shrugged. "You're a maître d'. I can't imagine why you would have. Mr. Gadadi, please."

"What kind of questions?"

Matt had to admire the little pipsqueak's composure, even if he wanted to pop his tiny head off. "The kind of questions that Mr. Gadadi might answer. Are you Mr. Gadadi?"

"You got a warrant?"

"I didn't figure I needed one. Because if I, you know, needed one or something, I've got enough probable cause with all the heat in here to get one wired to your FAX while we wait."

Muttering in Japanese, Sakura cut around them and headed for the kitchen door. The four men at the bar moved to intercept, hands going into their jackets. The bartender lifted a shotgun to his shoulder and racked the slide. No shell came out, which meant he'd kept the chamber empty so he could rack it for effect.

Matt hollered to draw their attention and raised his hands. "Hey! I don't want to hurt anybody. I'm just here to talk. Sakura, stand down." He wondered how often she forgot that while an incredible martial artist with stunning reflexes, she possessed a shadow of her former abilities. Standing in the middle of a kill box, arms at her sides but not relaxed, she wouldn't take down more than two of them before they shot her to death.

Still, he couldn't help but admire her courage.

Sakura relaxed, stepped to the side, and sat, hands folded between her knees. The suit nearest the kitchen door waved Matt to him. Bloodthirsty whispers warned him before he stepped forward, so, hands still in the air, he smiled at the little man at the podium.

"You try to club me with that blackjack it'll be the last thing you ever do. You saw how fast she is. I'm so much faster. I've got no beef with anybody here."