Blue shook his head. “I’d be real surprised—especially after the way things turned out.”
“That,” Black added, “and the fact that the guy who took point on the arrangements back then is now with Allah. Last time, everything led back to an Afghan refugee center in Brooklyn, and this looks like it’s following the same pattern.”
“The Al-Kifah, or something like that?”
“Yeah. Exactly. But how the hell do you know about it?”
“Guy I know thinks it’s full of Muslim crazies.”
“He’s right. The same crazies who tried to strike gold on the kiddie trade last time.”
Jack sensed an alarm go off somewhere in the base of his brain.
“Hey, guys, do either of you get the feeling this could be—?”
“—a trap?” Black said. He laughed. “Ya think?”
“Yeah,” Blue said, “don’t look suspicious at all, do it.”
“So why are we even discussing it?”
“On the off chance that it might not be bogus. Or it might be a trap involving real kids. They might be thinking that if we try to break up the sale like last time, they’ll be ready and jump all over us. That way they end up with us and a shipment of kids. If we don’t show up, they sell the kids as planned and make off with their dough.”
“Win-win,” Black said. “For them.”
Blue said, “That’s why we called you. We need an extra set of eyes to keep tabs on all the players. You game?”
The totality of the situation began to dawn on him. A year ago he had still been in school, trying to deal with his mother’s death and the revenge he’d taken on her killer. He’d finally dropped out of his old life to start a new one that made more sense. Since then he’d wound up killing a second man and crippling a third.
This morning he’d got up and showered. Normally he’d have wandered down to 23rd Street and grabbed an Egg McMuffin and coffee—even though McDonald’s coffee sucked—but his newly developed aversion to machetes forced him to choose another route. So he’d trained uptown, grabbed a coffee and a cheese Danish at a deli, and waited outside the Isher Sports Shop, which wouldn’t open until noon.
And now here he was on an easygoing drive with two of the stoniest stone killers the world had never heard of. And they were asking him for help to set up more killings.
Just another Sunday morning in the big city, right?
Did this new life make any more sense than the old one?
He wasn’t sure. But he didn’t have a third alternative to choose from at the moment.
“What’s it going to involve?”
Black said, “We keep an eye on certain Usenet newsgroups and—”
“Usenet?”
“Computer stuff. I think I told you about that. It’s how the pervs stay in touch these days.”
Jack shook his head. “High-tech pedophiles. What’s wrong with this picture?”
“Yeah. A lot of one-handed typing going on. But just ’cause they’re pervs doesn’t mean they’re stupid. The Internet’s much safer than the U.S. mail. We’ve wormed our way into a local BBS slime hole where they trade pictures and info. The location of the auction will pop up there in code.”
“You know the code?”
Blue’s expression was bleak. “We convinced someone to tell us.”
Jack decided not to ask for details.
Black leaned forward, thrusting his head between the two front bucket seats. “Even though we can find out when the auction’s going to happen through the perv boards, we won’t be able to know when and where the pickup and delivery will take place—at least not directly. As far as the when goes, we can assume the deal will go down right before the auction, most likely the same night. The middlemen won’t want to keep the kids any longer than they have to.”
“Yeah,” Blue said. “The longer they have them, the greater the chance of getting caught with them.”
The cheese Danish curdled in Jack’s stomach as he remembered the way one of the traffickers last year had referred to a couple of the girls dying en route.
“And don’t forget ‘spoilage,’” he said.
No one spoke for a moment. The Mikulskis knew what it meant.
“Anyway,” Blue said, “when we get an idea of when the auction’s going down, that’s when we step up watch on that refugee center.”
It all sounded so loose and disorganized. Jack found himself uncomfortable with it.
“How are we going to know who to watch for? I figured you two for the types who’d have more of a plan going in.”
“Last time,” Black said, “we learned where the auction was going down and traced the Hamptons rental back to this guy Tachus Diab, who spent a lot of time at the refugee center and the mosque connected to it. So we watched him. And when he rented a big limo, we followed. When he led us to a bunch of ragheads and a rental truck big enough to hold a coupla dozen kids, we knew the deal was going down.”
Blue said, “It’s not like they were unarmed last time. They’d come prepared, ready for a possible double-cross from their supplier. But they hadn’t been prepared for us. They had no idea what hit them.”
Black said, “Trap or not, this time they will be prepared. And they’re playing cagey. They’re keeping the location under wraps, no doubt till the last minute. But we do know it’s an Arab deal. So, until we learn more, all we’ve got is that refugee center.”
“Which sort of changed hands, recently,” Blue said. “Somebody made hamburger out of the former head honcho there, and now the blind Santa Claus is calling the shots.”
The blind Santa Claus … that had to be the sheikh guy Bertel had been talking about.
“How does that affect us?”
Black ran his fingers back through his unruly blond hair. “It doesn’t. Apparently they need money all the time, and if running children as sex slaves adds to their coffers, they’re all for it.”
“Money for what?”
“Blow up American embassies overseas, I guess.”
Blue smiled as they passed through the shadows of the Trade Towers. “In that case, I mean, if you look at it like that, I guess you could say it’s your patriotic duty to lend us a hand.”
Jack looked past Blue at Lower Manhattan flowing by to their left. “Could they be planning on blowing up something here?”
“Only a matter of time,” Black said, his expression grim. “Only a matter of time.”
Jack leaned back. He thought about the Muslim crazies out at the Calverton range who’d run him off the road. Bertel had said they were involved with the Al-Kifah center. Would those sons of bitches also be involved in the slave trade? Good chance. He owed them a little hurt.
“I’m in,” he said. “When do you need me?”
“You got a phone?”
Jack did now. His Jeff Cusic identity had been good enough to convince NYNEX to let him have a phone line. He recited the number and Black wrote it down.
“Got an answering machine?”
“I do.” Though he didn’t know why. Only Cristin ever called him, and only rarely.
He handed Jack a slip of paper. “That’s our mobile phone number. Don’t use it unless it’s an emergency.”
“You mean if I want a beer or two and don’t feel like drinking alone—”
Blue laughed as he steered them around Battery Park at the lower tip of Manhattan, and headed back uptown. “Don’t even think about it.”
“You carrying?” Black said.
Jack nodded.
“That same Ruger you had last year?”
“Picked up a Glock 19 yesterday.”
“Know how to use it?”
“I will by this afternoon.”
“We might want you to carry more firepower.”
“Like those machine pistols you used on Staten Island?”
Black smiled. “Our darling HK MP5s. Yeah, there’s no arguing with them.”
Jack shook his head. “Too wild for me. I’ll be better with som
ething I’m more used to, and comfortable with.”
Blue sighed. “He’s probably right.” He glanced at Jack. “But have extra magazines—lots of them.”
As they tooled up the FDR, the brothers floated possible scenarios. One thing was certain: The Arabs would choose a deserted area.
“Think they’ll try the Jersey Pine Barrens?” Jack said. A long-shot wish—he’d grown up on the edge of the Barrens and would feel right at home there. “That’s about as remote and deserted as can be.”
Blue shook his head. “There’s a bunch of Arabs living in north Jersey, but only a few in Jersey City are players. The real players live in Brooklyn. They won’t do Staten Island again—trap or not, that’s way too obvious. I’m betting down by one of the Long Island beaches—they’re deserted this time of year—or maybe the Pine Barrens out by Manorville.”
Black said, “Manorville’s kind of far out—unless the auction’s in the Hamptons again. If it’s closer in, I’d go for someplace like Gilgo Beach or some other godforsaken stretch of sand.”
Jack thought back to his stay on the Outer Banks when the girls had been shipped in on a trawler.
“What if they bring them in by sea?”
“Really risky with all the Coast Guard around here—we’re talking the major port in the Northeast. That last shipment came in on the Outer Banks where surveillance is stretched thin. No, I think they’ll be wheeling into the city from the south, probably by the route you took.”
Jack considered the manpower necessary to monitor every rental truck heading north toward New York City. Mind-boggling.
They turned off the FDR on East 79th Street, zipped crosstown to the park and straight through it. The Mark VII stopped in front of Abe’s shop, exactly where it had picked him up.
As Jack got out, Black eased out behind him from the back and took over the passenger seat.
“You’re in?”
Jack nodded. He would have felt a lot more comfortable with a more definite plan, but helping out would even up a few debts, positive and negative. Yeah, he could be another set of eyes for them. And if it came down to doing more than that to keep a bunch of kids from being sold as sex slaves, he’d go the distance if necessary.
“Call me when you need me.”
He slapped the car roof. They tooted as they drove off. Jack watched them go, wondering what he’d just got himself into.
2
“I love the bay window,” Cristin said, looking out on the street below.
After splitting with the Mikulskis, he’d driven the Corvair out to the Calverton range to break in his Glock—and decided he loved it. Lightweight, smooth action, and accurate as all hell. Best of all, he hadn’t seen any of those Arabs out there. Might have done something stupid if he had.
Then he drove back to town, picked up Cristin, and took her along on his ongoing apartment hunt.
“Oh, yes,” Margaret the agent said. “You can do wonderful window treatments here.”
Margaret was showing them a third-story apartment in a brownstone in the West Eighties, just walking distance from The Spot. Jack had discreetly nixed anything on 82nd Street—the location of the 20th Precinct—and this was the third place they’d seen today. She’d been playing to Cristin on the assumption that she would be the lady of the house and therefore have a big say in the decision. In truth, Jack had brought her along because she seemed to have a good eye for this sort of thing. But mostly because he liked being with her.
He came up behind her in the angular bay window, slipped his arms around her waist, and rested his chin on her shoulder as he checked out the street below. He liked the trees sprouting from their fenced-off squares of earth in the sidewalks, liked the look of the other brownstones across the street.
“I kinda dig this place,” he whispered.
“If you had a place like this,” she whispered back, “I’d even come and visit.” She smiled. “Or visit and come.”
Cristin, Cristin, Cristin.
Well, she’d seen his current place in the Flower District from outside and had declined a look inside. Not that he’d pushed. He was kind of ashamed of it. Spruced up it might qualify as a dump. But he’d had to conserve every penny when he’d first come to the city and that place had been cheap as hell.
Another thing he liked about this apartment was the alley that ran alongside it, allowing for windows in the two bedrooms. So what if they faced a blank brick wall? At least they had some sort of natural light coming in, and he could open them for extra air.
Plus, Rico and his crazy fellow Dominicans had pegged him as a Flower District dweller. The Upper West Side was a world away from there.
He tightened his grip around her. “Think you’d ever like the window enough to come and stay?”
She turned and stared at him with wide eyes. “Did you just ask me to move in with you?”
“Not without a lot of thought and much trepidation.”
Not true. The words had popped out of his mouth on their own, but were no less sincere because of that.
She continued to stare. “Are we talking a relationship? Attachment? Strings?”
Uh-oh. The S word.
“I’m just saying—”
“The rule was—is—that we’re friends and that’s all. We’re friends who fuck each other’s brains out, but we’re still just friends. Right?”
“Right. But—”
“No buts, Jack. The whole idea is that either of us can walk away from the sex part and the two of us will still remain friends. Right?”
“Right.” He bit back another but.
“You’re not falling in love or anything like that, are you?”
Well, maybe a little, he thought.
He wasn’t sure. Did he want to be with her every moment of the day and sleep by her side every night? No. He needed his space just as she needed hers.
Did he spend every waking moment thinking about her? No. He had a life. Well, sort of.
But he cared about her, thought about her, missed her often when they were apart, wished he could call her and share certain things when they popped into his head. When did all that cross the line into love?
He shook his head and said, “No. But I’m heavy into like.”
She smiled. “That’s quite mutual. I don’t think I’ve lasted this long with any one guy before. But please don’t tell me you’re starting to feel possessive, because that’s, like, poiiiiison.”
He imagined her with another guy and didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. Was that what she’d consider possessive? He decided to turn the tables on her.
“Let’s try something. Close your eyes.”
She did.
“Now,” he said, “imagine me with another woman.”
“Doing what? Walking down the street or fucking?”
“Not walking down the street. Picture that and tell me how you feel.”
“What’s she look like?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Just tell me: more like Roseanne Barr or more like Claudia Schiffer?”
No contest.
“Claudia Schiffer, of course. How does that make you feel?”
Her smile broadened. “It makes me feel like making it a threesome!”
Jack had to laugh. “You’re impossible!”
She opened her eyes. “You think I’m kidding?”
Cristin, Cristin, Cristin. She’d told him about a couple of her lesbian affairs, one with his ex-girlfriend from high school, of all people.
“Anybody else, maybe. But not you.”
“Well, if you’d said Pamela Anderson…” She waggled her hand. “Eh. A little too obvious for my taste. But Claudia Schiffer is hot. How’d you manage to hook up with her?”
“I didn’t say I—”
From somewhere behind them, Margaret cleared her throat. He’d forgotten all about her.
“Any questions about the apartment?” she said, looking a little bit flustered.
“
I like it,” Jack said. “But I’ve got to tell you, I don’t have much of a credit record.”
“Are we talking bad credit?” she said.
“I guess we’re talking none at all.”
Margaret said, “I’ll talk to the owners. Usually that can be resolved with a higher security deposit.”
“Talk to them.”
Something about this place …
3
Kadir noticed Hadya take off her headphones out of the corner of his eye. He put down his Qur’an. Uncle Ferran closed the bakery early on Sunday and the two of them had spent a quiet afternoon and evening.
“Well, what do you think?”
This was the third of Sheikh Omar’s tapes she had listened to and he was anxious to hear how he had inspired her.
She frowned. “He is so angry.”
“Of course he is angry. Look how the Western world treats Islam, how it supports Israel against our homeland. How could he not be angry? What righteous Muslim would not share that anger?”
“Perhaps anger was not the right word. He is so full of…” She hesitated and looked away.
“What?”
“You will be angry.”
“No, I won’t.” What could she be thinking? “I promise.”
“Your Sheikh Omar is full of hate.”
“Hate for America, of course. Look at what the Great Satan has done just this past week: slaughtered Muslim soldiers in Kuwait and Iraq. Plus they supply the arms that allow Israel to keep its boot on the necks of our people.”
“But he hates Muslims too. He hated Sadat, he hates Mubarak, he hates Saddam Hussein, he hates the Saudi princes—”
“Because they allow American soldiers to tread the holy ground that is home to Mecca.”
Her eyes took on a pleading look. “But hate is not our way, Kadir. Allah has said through the Prophet—”
Kadir shot to his feet. “Do not dare tell me what the Prophet says! I know! I have studied at the feet of Sheikh Omar!”
“The Prophet does not teach us to hate,” she said defiantly.
“But he teaches jihad! And that is what Sheikh Omar teaches. One world, one faith—Islam!”
She rose and faced him. “What has happened to you, Kadir? You were not like this when you left.”