Fear City (30 page)

If Bertel were here, Jack knew what he'd be saying:
And now it begins.

Maybe … maybe …

Jack put down the magazine as La Chirurgienne sauntered into the waiting room, pulling off a pair of bloody surgical gloves as she entered. Her dog trotted behind, chewing on something.

“No results yet, I am afraid.”

Burkes looked perplexed. “Really? Why not?”

“He has learned blocking techniques I have never encountered before. Fear not, I can get around them. It is simply going to take a little longer.”

“How much longer?”

“Not much. Right now I am to have lunch. I suggest you do too. The Tower Diner on Queens Boulevard is very close and very good.”

Burkes's voice dropped to a grumble. “I thought we'd have our answers by now. We don't want people further up the line to take off for parts unknown.”

“I understand. Not much longer now. Go. Eat. You will have your answers. I have never failed.” As they turned to go, she said, “
Un moment, s'il vous plaît
. I found this under his skin.”

She fished a small gelatin capsule from a pocket and handed it to Burkes.

“Under his skin? What is it?”

“Be careful. I believe it is a hydrogen cyanide solution.”

Jack leaned in for a better look. “Really?”

“I noticed a small lump on the inner surface of his left upper arm and cut it out.”

“A suicide pill?” Jack said.

She gave him a tolerant smile. “Not to be swallowed. Merely ruptured under the skin. The poison leaks into the bloodstream and inhibits cytochrome c-oxidase.”

“I knew that,” Rob said with a grin.

Dr. Moreau gave him an icy stare. “It prevents cells from using oxygen. Therefore the heart and central nervous system, which use the most oxygen, are the first to die. When inhaled as a gas, or directly entered into the bloodstream—as this capsule would do—death is almost immediate.”

“Bloody hell,” Burkes muttered. “Who
is
this guy?”

Dr. Moreau looked like she had more to say, but instead she turned and walked away.

Burkes pocketed the capsule, then turned to Jack and Rob. “Well? Hungry?”

Rob put on a French accent, obviously trying to sound like Dr. Moreau but coming out more like Inspector Clouseau. “Ah theenk zee Tow
aire
Dine-
aire
on Queens Boule
vaird
sounds gewd.”

Jack laughed. “Fine with me.” He could always eat.

As they trooped out to the van, Jack thought about Kadir's sister—he'd never got her name—and how he'd promised to follow her brother today. The way things had gone this morning, that was going to be an unkept promise.

Whatever her name, she was on her own today.

 

7

Since Ramadan left her unable to eat lunch on her lunch break, Hadya walked up Kennedy and passed the mosque going north and south. She saw no sign of the pickup truck. The young man or the old man might be using a different car, but she saw no one like them in any of the parked vehicles.

Had they given up on the mosque or was the young one following Kadir as he had promised?

She hurried the two miles to Mallory Avenue. Along the way she traded her hijab for a blue-and-red plaid scarf. She felt she'd draw less attention that way, especially when she leaned forward like an old woman. From a distance, in her long, baggy cloth coat, she could easily be taken for someone in her sixties.

She positioned herself at the Virginia Avenue intersection. Maybe the green car—the young man had called it a Chevy Nova—would pass. She watched for it up and down Mallory and almost missed it to her south as it pulled out of Claremont Avenue onto Mallory and came her way. She hurried after it but didn't have to go far because it soon turned into a storage facility called the Space Station.

Taking a chance, Hadya hurried back to Claremont and walked along until she reached West Side Avenue. She found a shadowed corner at the base of the rail terminal that shielded her from the cold wind, and waited. She didn't have much time to spare, but she had a feeling they wouldn't be long at the storage place.

Sure enough, no more than twenty minutes later the Chevy reappeared, heading her way on Claremont. It then made a right onto West Side Avenue and roared south. She didn't bother chasing it. She was going to be late returning to work as it was.

What she needed was a map. Maybe her uncle Ferran had one at the bakery.

 

8

After spending an hour or better alone and facedown in the rack, Nasser heard La Chirurgienne and her dog return.

“Here you go, Charlot. Have some more.”

And then he was rotating again. He ended faceup, squinting into the surgical lamp again.

“So,” she said. “You have presented me with a challenge. This does not cause anger or resentment in me. More like admiration, if you will. Because I am one who loves the challenge. I will confess that sometimes these interrogations get boring, at least for me. Mine rarely last more than twenty minutes. I spent most of the morning on you with no result. That, monsieur, is a challenge. You have energized me. I am feeling very much alive today.”

Nasser wasn't sure he liked the sound of this. No, he was quite sure he didn't like it. He noticed her hanging a bag of clear fluid from a pole beside the frame. He liked that even less.

“Like anyone else, I am left-brained and right-brained. The left side of my brain is my nociresearcher side, all science. My right brain sees the infliction of pain as an art form—how to maximize pain while minimizing tissue damage. To that end I have been developing certain neurotropic infusions.”

She punched the end of a length of clear plastic tubing into a receptacle in the base of the bag.

“I doubt you understand the neurophysiology of your blocking technique. It is probably something you were simply taught to do through intense coaching.”

She was right about that. He had no idea how the Entungfer technique worked.

“I shall explain what we scientists know: Certain lobes of your brain—the frontal and temporal lobes, plus an area call the amygdala—connect via a circuit to the brain stem that moderates the pain perception. The circuit, however, is bidirectional. That means it can be manipulated not only to reduce pain—as you are doing—but it can be reversed to enhance it.”

He felt a faraway prick in his arm. He couldn't move his head to look, yet he was pretty sure she was starting an intravenous infusion. But of what?

Again, she seemed to read his mind.

“Merely a saline drip, in case you are wondering.”

She fussed at the counter to his right, then returned to view holding a syringe filled with amber fluid.

“This is my own concoction. If it works, it will block your blocking technique and allow you to perceive the full brunt of the pain I am inflicting. If it does not, I have others I can try. You, dear man, are a perfect test subject.”

She jabbed the syringe's needle into an injection port in the tubing, then emptied the barrel into the flow. Nasser watched with dread as the amber fluid crept toward his arm. Unable to watch it any longer, he closed his eyes and waited.

Slowly he became aware of a growing agony in his right arm.

“I do believe you are feeling something, monsieur. The exposed portion of your brachial plexus must be quite painful. Excruciating, really. Even without stimulation.”

He clenched his teeth against the pain and worked his Entungfer techniques harder to block it, but they no longer seemed effective.

“You have broken out in a sweat. Let us test this further by applying a little current to the plexus.”

He heard a faint buzz and it felt as if someone had ripped off his arm.

Nasser al-Thani screamed into his gag.

And behind that sound, muffled in the room but clear and loud in his ears, he heard La Chirurgienne say, “I do believe it is time to turn on the tape recorder.”

 

9

La Chirurgienne returned to the waiting room a little after three holding a sheet of paper.

“Here are your questions, with his answers.”

Jack shot to his feet. At last! “Who did it?”

Her penciled eyebrows lifted. “
Pardon?
”

“Who ordered her killed?”

She consulted the sheet. “Someone named Roman Trejador.”

“He's on the list!” Jack said. “One of her regulars. Why?”

She frowned. “That is a bit confusing. This Roman Trejador was concerned that she had overheard a plan to blow up the United Nations.”

Burkes was on his feet now. “Are y'daft? Blowing up the UN?”

“These are not my words, monsieur.”

“Well, then, is
he
daft? Have you done something to the minger's brain?”

She lost a smidgen of her icy reserve. “Well, I did have to try an experimental infusion to break through his defenses. It worked, but he is somewhat confused … tends to ramble in his speech.”

“Wait-wait-wait!” Jack was trying to wrap his brain around this. “This Trejador guy thought Cristin knew about a bomb plot and so he had her tortured and killed?”

Dr. Moreau nodded. “According to your captive, Trejador—who is his superior in this plot—had hired this young woman for the evening and had her in his suite while they were laying their plans.”

“Why on God's earth do they want to blow up the UN?”

“I didn't ask that. I mean, you didn't have it on your list and really”—she shrugged—“doesn't everybody want to blow up the UN?”

“Bloody hell not!”

“Anyway, it is not them actually doing it. They are funding a group of fundamentalist Muslims who want to blow up Prime Minister Rabin—”

“Rabin?” Burkes said. “As in Israel?”

“I do not know of another Prime Minister Rabin. Do you?”

“All right. When is this supposed to happen?”

“During his visit on Friday.”

“Friday? Which Friday?”

She shrugged. “The day after tomorrow, apparently. Isn't this exciting?”

“It's bollocks is what it is! If Rabin was visiting, I'll bloody hell know about it!”

Another shrug, accompanied this time by pursed lips. “I am but relating to you what he told me.”

“It's still bollocks!”

“Hold on,” Jack said. “I was talking to the sister of a crazy Moham”—he'd almost let a little Bertel slip through there—“Muslim who thinks he's up to something big—something serious.”

“But blowing up the
UN
?”

“Why not?” Jack turned to Dr. Moreau. “Did he mention a Senator D'Amato?”

She consulted her notes. “
Oui
. He will be there with Prime Minister Rabin.”

“There you go,” Jack said. “Two guys on the top of any jihadist hit list—probably even ahead of Bush. And they'll both be in one spot right here in the city. How can the crazies resist?”

“But I'd have
heard
,” Burkes said, reddening.

“Maybe it's a secret trip.”

“We have excellent relations with Mossad. Even with a secret trip, they might not have offered details, but they'd have asked us to be on extra alert for anything regarding Israeli interests. Did al-Thani say why he's coming?”

“To meet with the Secretary General.”

Burkes grunted. “Boutros-Ghali? Well, he's another who's no favorite of the radicals, now, is he?”

Jack said, “Sounds like a big bomb in the right place would give them a triple play.”

“This is all damn bloody strange,” Burkes said. “I'm going to have to do some asking around.”

“Oh, jeez,” Jack said, remembering his answering machine.

“Now what?”

“That Bertel fellow I told you about—the one you say you don't know.”

“I still say I don't. But what about him?”

“I've been helping him watch a mosque—the one where we tracked al-Thani yesterday. He left me a message Monday night about coming across something big—too big for us to handle. He said he was going to disappear for a day or two, then return with help.”

“Help from where?”

“He didn't say. But that ‘something big' could be a bomb. He may have found proof.”

“This is too crazy.” Burkes turned to Dr. Moreau. “We need to speak to him straight off.”

“I'm afraid he's temporarily … incapacitated.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“The ordeal of the interrogation, the infusion … he will be unconscious for a while. But I taped it all. You can listen for yourself.”

“Let's do that,” Burkes said. “Let's bloody well do that. And while we're listening, good doctor, I have a candidate for your
IV
procedure.”

“You mean someone other than Monsieur al-Thani?”

“Yes. Al-Thani will get his soon enough. I'm calling my man at our safe house. He'll bring your new candidate.”

Jack wasn't following the rest, but knew that “candidate” had to be Reggie.

“
Bon
,” she said. “But you do understand this will require an extra fee.”

Burkes stepped closer and jabbed a finger at her. “No, it won't. This is less than satisfactory. You've messed up the brain of a subject we brought to you. That wasn't part of the job description. You will make up for that deficiency by performing
IV
on a second captive—
gratis
.”

She blinked in surprise, obviously unused to people getting in her face like Burkes. But she didn't look terribly put off by the idea.

“And there will be no mention of…”

“Al-Thani becoming ‘incapacitated' under your guidance? No.”

“Very well.” She smiled and walked away. “I shall await his arrival.”