Fear City (25 page)

“Exactly what I am thinking. Be out front in twenty minutes and I'll pick you up. We'll go have a look for ourselves.”

Trapped in a car with Ernst Drexler—not the way Nasser wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon, but unquestionably something was wrong. They needed to look into this themselves.

 

14

Their driver guided Drexler's Mercedes on a slow course along the blocks of Kennedy Boulevard north and then south of the Al-Salam Mosque while Nasser and Drexler stared out their respective windows in the rear. The photos Klari
ć
had taken lay between them on the seat.

“Nothing on this side,” Nasser said as they entered Journal Square and the mosque's building receded from sight.

Drexler pounded a fist on his thigh. “Same here.” He leaned forward. “Turn around and make another pass.”

As the driver began the circuit of a block to get back on Kennedy going the opposite direction, Nasser watched Drexler stare at the photo of the younger watcher, the one Reggie had called Lonnie.

“What is it?”

Drexler shook his head. “I've seen him before, I just don't know when or where. He could be living in my building for all I know.”

Nasser laughed. “Not a pleasant thought.”

“No. Especially considering the fate of the last two men I sent after him. Remember?”

Nasser nodded. “Indeed I do.”

A major embarrassment for Drexler. A couple of years go he'd sent two of his East European operatives to intercept this Lonnie while he drove a truck full of contraband cigarettes up from North Carolina. Both had wound up dead. The police report had said their car appeared to have rolled after being sideswiped. One operative had been thrown free of the car, the other had died of a broken neck behind the wheel.

Accident? So it had seemed. But both men dead—and one while seatbelted in the driver's seat. That seemed odd. Especially since the coroner had not been able to come up with a satisfactory answer as to how the driver had managed to break his neck.

Whatever the cause, the mysterious Lonnie had never been heard from again until yesterday morning.

“I hope we will not experience a repeat of that.”

“Do you really think that is possible?”

Drexler gave him a sidelong look. “Anything is possible.” He gestured toward the window. “We're about to make another pass. Watch carefully.”

Nasser scanned the cars but saw no sign of Reggie or Klari
ć
, including the van they were using. No sign of their prey either.

He eyed the building that housed the mosque on its third floor. He knew Reggie and Klari
ć
weren't in there. Were the jihadists? Praying for guidance? Or were they somewhere else in Jersey City, mixing death? Tomorrow began Ramadan. Was bomb mixing permitted in the holy month? He doubted the Qur'an addressed that. He'd been forced to study it as a boy but he'd long forgotten anything it contained.

Islam meant
submit,
and he had—but to the Order.

“Verdammt!”
Drexler muttered. “Klari
ć
is gone, Reggie is gone, the old man and the young one are gone. Where? And why hasn't anyone called?”

Nasser considered those rhetorical questions so he did not answer directly.

“It could be worse.”

“Really?”

“We could have passed their empty, bullet-riddled van. It's not here so obviously they've driven it somewhere.”

Drexler's upper lip curled into a snarl. “You don't even know if they arrived here.”

Nasser had to admit he hadn't thought of that. “No, I do not.”

“And if they
did
drive off from here, it could have been into a trap.”

“I do not see Klari
ć
as the type to easily walk into a trap.”

“No, you are correct there,” Drexler said. “He is experienced and well blooded. But the facts are: no Klari
ć
, no Reggie, no van, no call. I have a bad feeling about this.”

So did Nasser.

“Perhaps we should call Roman and—”

“No!” Drexler all but jumped at him. “He is occupied with something else. He told us that. He will not want to be troubled with this.”

Nasser wondered if Roman Trejador was mourning the loss of his favorite courtesan. That must have been a tough decision to make. And all for naught. The girl had known nothing.

Such a waste.

But Nasser wondered at Drexler's quick negative response. Almost too quick. Almost too negative. Nasser thought he understood: Drexler had been embarrassed before by the loss of two operatives. He no doubt wanted to give Klari
ć
and Reggie time to resurface.

But would they?

After all this time without contact, Nasser had a feeling deep in his gut that he'd seen the last of both of them.

And maybe that was not such a terrible thing. Anything that lowered Ernst Drexler's standing in the eyes of the High Council could only be good for Nasser al-Thani.

What was that German word?
Schadenfreude
? Yes …

Schadenfreude.

 

15

“SAS?” Abe said. “For days you don't call, you don't write, now suddenly you're here wanting to know about Brits?”

Jack had arrived at the Isher Sports Shop just as Abe was closing up. With the front door locked, they'd convened at the rear counter.

“I ran into a couple of them today—”

“SAS? And you're still in one piece? That's good.”

“They're that tough?”

“The SAS stands for Special Air Service. Started out as a paratrooper unit in World War Two, now they're the Brit equivalent of US Delta Force and SEALs and the like. Their wrong side you don't want to see. How does one run into SAS men in the city? Who does that? Only you.”

“They're attached to the UK mission to the UN.”

“Well, that makes everything perfectly clear.” He made a gimme-gimme motion with his hands. “Tell.”

“Long story.”

“Time I've got.”

Jack laid it all out for him, from the second Westchester trip to parting ways with Burkes and company this afternoon—Burkes and Rob taking Reggie to some safe house in Jersey, Gerald carting Klari
ć
's body upstate for hand lopping and burning while Jack drove here.

“So that's why I haven't seen you,” Abe said. “You've been busy like a bee. But the little girl and her brother … you left them there?”

Jack closed his eyes. It still hurt.

“What choice did I have? I called nine-one-one from the first phone I found. Think about it: a double homicide and both the perps carted off. That garage was no place to be when the cops arrived.”

“I'm sorry for you, Jack. First that girl Cristin, now these two. Such
tsuris
in your life these days.”

“I feel like a Jonah. Who's next?”

A brief silence, then Abe said, “Maybe it isn't such a terrible thing, your not coming around so often like you used to.”

Jack stared at him, then burst out laughing. Either that or burst into tears.

“I hate you, man, I really do,” he said when he was able.

“Me? Who lives only to serve?” He rubbed his stippled jaw. “But back to these SAS men … they wear uniforms?”

“No. Civvies.”

“Probably special projects team.”

“Meaning?”

“Antiterrorist wing. And this Burkes fellow … if he mentioned the Brighton hotel bombing, he's probably SIS.”

“Like Gerald and Rob? I don't think so.”

“You're not listening. I said S-
I-
S. M-I-Six.”

Jack hated sounding ignorant again, but … “Okay, either way, you've got me. What's that?”

“Secret Intelligence Service. Or Military Intelligence, Section Six. The British CIA.”

“You're just a font of wisdom.”

He shrugged. “Know thine customer.”

“Wait … you don't mean…?”

Another shrug. “Sometimes they need a weapon that's not government issue.”

“And they come to you?”

“You can think of somebody better?”

Jack had to admit he could not.

 

16

Jack found a message on his answering machine. Though Dane didn't identify himself, Jack recognized the voice immediately.

“Jack … I did a little bird-dogging today and came across something big … much too big for the two of us to handle. I'm going to disappear for a day or two, then I'll be returning with help. Hang on to the pickup but stay away from Jersey City till I get back. I don't want you upsetting the apple cart.”

Jack replayed the message just to be sure he'd heard right. Yeah, he had.

… big … much too big for the two of us to handle …

What the hell did that mean?

Staying away from Jersey City was easy enough because he had other plans for tomorrow. He was to drive over to Turtle Bay and rendezvous with Burkes's van near al-Thani's apartment building. From there they'd follow him until they had an opportunity to nab him.

Once that was accomplished, they'd take him to the same safe house where they were keeping Reggie.

N. al-Thani had ordered the torture murder of Cristin Ott. Jack could not wait to get his hands on him.

 

TUESDAY

 

1

Since this was the first day of Ramadan, Hadya had intended to awaken early to make sure she had a substantial
suhoor
to prepare her for the day's fast. But she'd slept through the alarm. This was one of her roommate's days to work the ovens at the bakery, so Jala was long gone. Hadya worked the counter today so she wasn't expected until shortly before the Ramallah bakery opened its doors.

So now she had time only to wolf down slices of peanut-buttered toast in the last minutes before sunrise. Certainly no shortage of bread in the apartment with both her and Jala working for her uncle Ferran. The bakery's day-old bread that didn't sell went home with his employees. He would have sold two-day-old bread if he could, but since he used no preservatives, by then it was good only for toast.

Ramadan … after sunrise, no food or water allowed until sunset. No smoking either—no sacrifice there since she'd never been even tempted. And no sex. She smiled sourly. No problem there either. In the two years since her arrival she'd met a few young men—Muslim and non-Muslim—who'd shown an interest, but none had struck sparks with her. And she wanted—
needed
sparks. At least here in America she could wait for those sparks. If she'd stayed in Jordan with her family, her parents would have been trying to arrange a marriage for her.

She was so thankful she'd taken the big step of leaving for America. First off, she had a job here. In Jordan jobs were virtually impossible to find due to the crush of refugees. And second, she'd escaped all that family pressure to get married and have children. Children were a blessing from Allah, true, but Jordan did not need more children now, especially children of Palestinian refugees. Here the marriage decision was left entirely to her.

But she cared not about marriage now. She cared about what her brother was plotting.

That was why yesterday had been so frustrating. She had off one day a week—Monday—and had planned to devote it all to tracking Kadir up and down Mallory Avenue to find out what he and his sinister companions were up to. Whatever they were planning could not be good for America and therefore not good for her.

But the freezing rain had hampered her. She'd posted herself on the street where she'd last seen him but the weather had driven her inside before she sighted him.

Today was clear and dry, but very cold. She bundled up and headed out just as the sun was rising. She strode along Virginia Avenue at a brisk pace, stopping at Mallory. She saw no sign of him or the battered car that ferried him about. As she continued down Virginia she nearly stumbled with surprise as she saw the familiar green car whiz past from behind on its way toward Kennedy.

Her fists knotted in frustration. All those hours spent cold and wet and shivering yesterday when she had all the time in the world to follow—and she'd seen nothing. Now, on her way to work, she sees it. And yes, Kadir occupied his usual place in the passenger seat.

Why these repeated trips? What were they doing and where? She would find it if it was the last thing she did.

 

2

Nasser yawned as he exited the Lincoln Tunnel and turned south toward Jersey City. He had slept poorly. He kept expecting the phone to ring and hear Klari
ć
's voice on the other end, telling him they had Lonnie tied up in the loft and offering a reasonable explanation for their lack of communication.

But no call came. And in the hour before dawn he made a call of his own to Kadir and arranged to meet with him in front of the mosque.

He used his own car—a discreet Volvo sedan—this morning. He wanted to try to resolve this problem on his own, to be able to report back to Drexler and ultimately to Trejador that the two missing men were accounted for and everything was under control. That would be the ideal outcome. If he failed to turn up anything new, better not to let on that he had even tried.

As he had done yesterday with Drexler, he cruised the blocks north and south of the mosque looking for the two watchers. And just like yesterday, he found no sign of them.

He parked in front of the mosque and waited for the green Chevy Nova. Instead, a Ford Econoline van with
HERTZ
emblazoned on its sides pulled up beside him. The passenger window rolled down to reveal Kadir's face.

Nasser lowered his own window. “We must speak,” he said in Arabic.

Kadir frowned. “We could have spoken on the phone. We have much work to do if we are to be ready by Friday.”