Legacies

  And he resented the fat one's tone. Yes, Nazer was his superior, but only in his position in Iswid Nahr. In every other way, Kemel exceeded him. In brains, in courage, in lineage. His grandfather was a bedouin from the desert Nejd region, who fought side by side with Abdel Aziz al-Saud in the wars to unite the country now called Saudi Arabia. And Kemel had been with Iswid Nahr for almost twenty years. He was well-known and respected in Riyadh. His duties had brought him into contact with members of the royal family many times. Yes, America was Nazer's domain, but he had no right to treat Kemel as if he were a mere hireling, recruited like Baker. Who was this overstuffed toad to speak to him so?

  "It happens because I am forced to work with fools," he said, venting only a small portion of the heat he felt. "This mercenary you assigned to me is like a mad scorpion, stinging everything he nears."

  Nazer blinked at Kemel's reply, then shrugged. "We had to move quickly. We had a record of this man Baker offering his demolition services for hire to the government during the Gulf War. We contacted him. And he has proved most useful so far."

  "But we don't need him anymore. We should be rid of him and simply hire a commercial security company to watch over the property."

  "Get rid of Baker?" Nazer said, shaking his head. "No, I'm afraid that even if we had the time to make other arrangements, we are, in a sense, married to this man. And as you well know, time is in short supply. This has dragged on far too long already."

  Kemel knew… knew all too well. He wanted this matter settled, not simply because the fate of his homeland and the entire Arab world depended on it, but because he was not cut out for this sort of… intrigue.

  Yes, the blood of bedouin warriors ran in his veins, but he was a businessman, a negotiator, a—what was the American term? A lobbyist. When he succeeded in his mission, he expected to be well rewarded, enormously rewarded, and would spend the rest of his days in wealth and leisure, adding a second and perhaps a third wife, both in their teens, of course, to his hareem.

  And yet he would give up the chance at that dream life in a heartbeat if someone showed up and offered to remove the burden of this terrible responsibility from his shoulders. He would give it up gladly, and then flee this devil country back to his home and his sons in Riyadh.

  But that was a fantasy. No one was waiting to take over. Only a few in Iswid Nahr knew of Ronald Clayton's secret, and Kemel was one of them. To reveal it even to one more person was unthinkable.

  And so he had to remain here, taking orders from Khalid Nazer, consorting with the likes of Sam Baker, and doing whatever was necessary to succeed.

  "Baker is dangerous. This is a delicate matter—"

  "Perhaps it is less delicate than you think," Nazer said. "Perhaps witnessing the sudden, violent death of her lawyer will finally convince the Clayton woman that selling the house is the wiser—and safer—course."

  "Perhaps," Kemel said slowly. "But I would not count on it. She has not acted rationally since this began. I see no reason why we should expect her to start now."

  Nazer sighed. "This is what happens when women are let out of the hareem and permitted to act as equals. The Prophet said it best: 'Men have authority over women because Allah has made one superior to the other.'"

  Not to be outdone, Kemel could not resist adding, "He also said, 'Do not give to the feebleminded the property with which Allah has entrusted you.'"

  They stood in silence a moment, then Nazer said, "Is it still working?"

  Kemel nodded, hiding his annoyance. "Yes, of course. I would call you immediately if it stopped."

  "I know you would, but I wish to see it."

  Kemel could not blame the man. He saw it every day and was still awestruck by the wonder of it.

  "Come."

  And he led Nazer to the rear of the apartment.

  9

  Yoshio Takita heard the voices fade from the living room pickup, so he switched to the one in the second bedroom. If Kemel Muhallal and Khalid Nazer followed their usual routine, that was where they'd be headed. He put down the stick of Little Caesar's Crazy Bread, wiped his fingers on a kitchen towel, and raised his binoculars. He focused on the lighted window.

  Sure enough, through the slightly open slits of the other apartment's Venetian blinds, he saw the two bearded Arabs enter the room and go directly to the lamp. And as usual, they stood over it, staring down at something.

  But at what?

  Yoshio had been recording every conversation and every phone call in and out of that apartment, and he still didn't have a clue as to what they found so fascinating in that room.

  Whatever it was, it must need light, because Kemel Muhallal left it burning day and night. Yoshio figured they had to be growing something—a fungus, a plant, an algae—something that needed light.

  Again—what?

  Yoshio hadn't been aware of anything special going on in the second bedroom when he'd planted the bugs. They must have brought it in after.

  He might have to return for a second look, but only if absolutely necessary. So far, the Arabs had no inkling they were being watched. Or listened to. Yoshio knew only a smattering of Arabic, so he sent the tapes downtown to an office in the financial district leased by Kaze Group. There they were translated and then transcribed; one set of the encrypted text files was immediately expressed to Tokyo; another was returned to him on disk the following day. Yoshio pored over each transcript but could not find a clue in anything that was said.

  The two Arabs were saying nothing now.

  Speak! he urged, wishing he were telepathic. Say something about what you are staring at!

  But they did not heed him. Yoshio watched them hover around the lamp in silence, seemingly in awe.

  And then the fat one left, leaving Muhallal alone. Muhallal retired soon after, turning off all the lights but one. He left the lamp in the second bedroom lit, just as he had every other night.

  Why?

  Yoshio doubted the Arab was afraid of the dark…

  TUESDAY

  1

  Alicia jumped at the sound of the chime.

  After the robbery on Friday, the return of the toys over the weekend, and the molestation incident yesterday, she needed a day off. She'd made her rounds this morning, discharging a two-year-old girl who'd bounced back from a Pneumocystis pneumonia, and hoped to be doing the same with Hector soon. His fever was down, and his latest chest X ray showed partial resolution of his pneumonia. He was on his way.

  She would stay in contact with the Center via Raymond throughout the day, and could rush in on a moment's notice if something arose that Collins couldn't handle, but she simply couldn't bring herself to go in today.

  She wondered at the ferocity of her reaction yesterday. She'd been out of control—totally out of control—and that frightened her. And worse, the incident had left her physically and emotionally drained.

  She needed some time alone, with no phone, no crises. Just her, in her apartment, tending to her plants and trees. They needed her too. She'd been neglecting them lately. Small wonder with the little time she was able to spend here.

  She loved her top-floor apartment. Originally it had been designed as an artist's loft, with half a dozen skylights offering light from both north and south, so it perfectly suited the needs of her plants. And its West Village location on Charles Street—a street with trees—was convenient to the Center.

  As the bell sounded again, she looked up from the pear sapling she'd been about to cut. Someone in the foyer downstairs, ringing the button to her apartment. She'd figured the first one to be an accident, but this sounded like someone here to see her.

  Who on earth… ?

  She hardly ever had company. Couldn't remember the last time someone had been here.

  Alicia rose and stepped over to the door and studied the intercom panel on the wall to the right. How did this thing work again…? Two buttons—one labeled speaker, the other labeled buzzer. She pressed the one under speaker.

  "Yes?"


  "Miss Clayton?" said a male voice. "This is Will Matthews, the police detective from yesterday. Can I speak to you for a few minutes?"

  Detective Matthews, she thought with a start. What does he want?

  He was the one who'd taken her statement. Youngish, about her age, maybe a little older, he'd been kind and sympathetic yesterday, waiting patiently while she got over the shakes and adrenaline letdown that followed the incident.

  But why was he here? And why now?

  Irrationally, she feared he might have learned of her plans to burn down the house. She couldn't see how, but maybe they'd traced her movements, connected her to Jack or to the people she'd asked about contacting an arsonist. If—

  "Miss Clayton?" he said. "Are you there?"

  "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'm here. You just took me by surprise, is all. I didn't expect you. What's this about?"

  "Can we speak upstairs… in your place?"

  "Of course," she said. "Sorry."

  She pressed the buzzer button and held it for a few seconds, then stood back and began to pace.

  Be calm, she told herself. It's just about that creep yesterday. Has to be. This detective couldn't possibly know anything else.

  She glanced down at her legs and gasped when she realized she was wearing only panties from the waist down.

  She rushed into the bedroom and grabbed the bottom half of her sweatsuit. She caught sight of herself in the mirror over the dresser.

  You're a mess, she thought. Look at that hair.

  She grabbed a brush and tried to straighten out the sleep tangles. Not that she wanted to impress New York City Police Detective Third Grade William Matthews with her looks—far from it—but she at least wanted to look presentable.

  Another glance in the mirror, then a shrug—What are you going to do? You can only work with what you've got.

  She went back to the apartment door and opened it. She could hear the detective's footsteps on the stairs as he worked his way up. Finally his head appeared above the landing. His face was red, and his overcoat was draped over his shoulder. He stopped and stared at her.

  "How many times a day do you do this?" he said, puffing.

  "At least four."

  He climbed the final steps and shuffled toward her.

  "You must be in great shape."

  Alicia smiled. "My personal stair master."

  Living in a fourth-floor walk-up had its drawbacks—moving in had been utterly exhausting, and it was a pain when she had packages, but she wouldn't trade the studio area and its skylights for anything.

  The detective stopped at her threshold. "May I?"

  "Of course," she said, stepping back.

  As he passed, Alicia saw how his blond hair was receding above the temples on both sides. She hadn't noticed that yesterday. Probably because he kept it cut so short. Even so, he still had a boyish look, especially when he smiled. Tall, good build, clear skin with ruddy cheeks and bright blue eyes. Most women probably found him irresistible.

  Not Alicia.

  "What can I do for you, Detective?" she said as she closed the door and turned to face him. "Something wrong?"

  Look casual, she told herself. Caaaasual… relaaaaxed.

  "Yes, and no." He looked around, as if searching for a place to put his coat. Alicia said nothing. Don't ask him in. She didn't want him getting too comfortable.

  "About yesterday?"

  "Right. Floyd Stevens, the man you charged with molesting that child, he's making threatening noises."

  "From jail?"

  "Oh, he's not in jail. His lawyer got bail set, and he was home in time for dinner."

  Damn! She'd hoped he'd have to spend at least one night in a cell with other lowlifes like himself. She'd heard jailbirds tended to get a little rough with child molesters.

  "Great," she said. "So he's out on the street where he can make threats and hunt other little kids. What a system."

  "Actually, he's not making threats—his lawyer is."

  Alicia stiffened. "About what? About finding his pervo client with his hand down a little girl's pants? Fondling a four-year-old's genitals?"

  "Well, of course, he says his client did no such thing, that you were completely mistaken and physically assaulted poor Mr. Stevens without the slightest provocation."

  "Just what you'd expect a lawyer to say."

  "Yeah, but…"

  "Yeah, but what?" Alicia swallowed. Her tongue felt like crepe paper. "You're not buying that, are you?"

  "No. But I gotta tell you, Kanessa Jackson is no help. That little girl is a ball of confusion."

  "Well, what do you expect? She's only four, and she was scared out of her mind."

  "And she's… not exactly…"

  He seemed to be having trouble settling on the next word, so Alicia helped him out.

  "'With it'? Is that what you want to say?"

  "I wanted to say retarded, but I'm told no one uses that anymore."

  "You were told right. 'Mentally challenged', is currently in vogue, but Kanessa's challenges go far beyond mental. She's not only HIV positive, she was also a crack baby. She got zero prenatal care. Before she was born she lived inside a woman named Anita Jackson who was stoned out of her mind most of the time; and when Anita wasn't high, she was having sex any which way you can imagine to get the cash for her next vial of rock. Finally, after seven months of abuse, her uterus spit Kanessa out into the world in an alley. We're not sure when—either during or shortly after she was born—Kanessa's brain didn't get quite all the oxygen it needed, leaving her in a state of bemused confusion most of the time."

  She watched Matthews squeeze his eyes shut.

  "Christ," he muttered. "Talk about child abuse."

  Damn if he didn't seem genuinely moved. Alicia appreciated that.

  "Physical and emotional," Alicia said. She could feel her anger rising; it sprang to life every time she thought about Kanessa's mother. "Anita Jackson hasn't bothered to stop by and see her once. She's had eight children. God knows where half of them are."

  "Eight," Matthews said. "Christ."

  "And she's pregnant again."

  "Aw, no."

  "Yep. You know, if you'd asked me about mandatory sterilization when I was a student, or even a resident, I probably would have taken your head off. But now… now…"

  She let the thought trail off. She didn't like to go where it led. She'd followed it once into a realm of fantasies where the Anita Jacksons of the city were kidnapped, anesthetized, had their tubes tied, then returned to the streets, leaving them free to do whatever they wanted to themselves, but unable to harm any more unborn children.

  "Yeah, well," he sighed. "Then, I guess you know Kanessa's not going to be able to back you up. It's going to come down to your word against Floyd Stevens's."

  "Fine."

  He stared at her, and it made Alicia uncomfortable. Almost as if he was studying her.

  "You're a tough one."

  "Where those kids are concerned? You betcha."

  "Well, you'd better be. Stevens's lawyer—a guy named Barry Fineman, who you'll be hearing from soon, I'm sure—was mouthing off after the bail hearing. I heard him telling his client how he's going to demand criminal charges of assault and battery against you, then bring a civil suit for pain and suffering from the injuries you inflicted. He was also talking about going to the hospital board and having you removed from your position because—and these are his words—'her violent and unstable personality is a danger to everyone around her.'"

  Alicia felt her gut tighten as she sagged back against the door. "Oh, great."

  Just what she needed—more legal expenses. And a threat to her job as well. This was scary. What was happening to her life?

  "But he said he'd offer to drop everything if you withdraw your child molestation charges against Stevens."

  Alicia stiffened as anger shot through her spine. "Never. I want this creep on record as a pedophile so he'll never be allowed near kids again." br />
  Matthews's smile was tight and grim, but his approving nod bolstered her.

  "Good for you. But I hope you know you've got a bumpy road ahead of you on this."

  Alicia knew. And she wondered if she'd make it to the end.

  "Can I ask you something?" she said. "What's your interest in this?"

  "Oh, a couple of things," he said, and she noticed that his cheeks reddened as he answered. "I worked Vice for a while, and these kiddie hawks were always the toughest to nail. They tend to have money and can afford good lawyers, their victims make poor witnesses, and they seem to be upright citizens, which makes it—"

  "I know all that," Alicia said quickly, swallowing back the queasy feeling in her gut. "But why this particular case?"

  His cheeks reddened further. "Because I like the work you're doing with those kids at the Center." A smile, almost embarrassed. "And I like the way you took after Stevens. That took guts."

  Not guts, Alicia thought. I was more nutsy than gutsy.

  "And finally," he continued, "I wanted to give you a heads-up on what to expect from Stevens's lawyer. So you'd be ready for him."

  "Thanks," she said. "I appreciate that." And she meant it.

  "And I want to let you know that you're not alone in this. The system chews up the wrong people sometimes. Even when you're right, the Barry Finemans of the world can use the courts to punish you instead of their clients. But you've got an ally. I'm going to do a little research on Floyd Stevens and see what I can come up with."

  "Will that help?"

  He shrugged. "You never know. Sometimes—"

  The phone rang. Probably the Center.

  "Excuse me," she said, and stepped past Matthews into the main room. But it wasn't Raymond's voice she heard when she lifted the handset.

  "Alicia? Jack. We've got to talk."

  Jack! She glanced guiltily at the detective cooling his heels in the foyer. She couldn't exactly discuss arson now.

  She lowered her voice. "Um, I can't talk right now."

  "Well, I wouldn't want to discuss this on the phone anyway."