She hesitated, then seemed to notice the bag in her hand. She held it up and showed him the label.
“I work here.”
He shrugged. “Okay. I’ll do what I can. That’s all I can promise.”
She smiled for the first time. A nice smile. “Thank you.”
Without another word she got out and walked off. Jack watched her for a moment, then retrieved the keys and started up the truck. He considered calling in again, then thought, screw it. He’d head back to the Mahwah house and they’d have to deal with him.
7
Tommy piloted his Z through the Stuy. He cruised around Marcy Park, looking for a likely suspect.
He’d got to thinking about the moulies who busted up the cars he covered. And he’d kept on thinking about them. Why would they do that? It hadn’t been just Tommy’s lots, but like nine out of ten was his. That didn’t sit right.
So he’d had a little talk with himself: Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that somebody put them up to it. Who gained from that?
Tony the Cannon Campisi.
Okay. So if Tony wants Tommy out of the detailing business, he dings up all the cars Tommy covers. But he’s too sick to do that himself. And if someone else is gonna do it, it’s gotta be on the down-low. Gotta be a trusted guy in his crew who don’t have no love for Tommy Totaro. Who would that be?
Vinny Donuts.
But fat Vinny ain’t about to go running around car lots with a ball-peen hammer. He’s gonna find someone to do it for him. Someone with no connection to family business. Someone who can talk about it all they want but nobody that matters will hear. Who would that be?
Moulie kids.
But what does Vinny know about moulies? Well, there was that deal a couple months ago where he off-loaded a truck full of Air Jordans to the Raysor brothers. The Raysors use kids to take orders and deliver product. If the price is right, they might be favorably disposed to letting Vinny take a bunch of their runners for a joyride.
Like this skinny kid with the cockeyed cap under the hoodie and the saggy pants and the shades up ahead, lounging on the corner right here.
Tommy slowed, then stopped, but left the car in drive. He lowered the passenger window as the kid sidled up. Smooth cheeks and good teeth—couldn’t have been more than fourteen, maybe younger.
“What up?”
“Thirsty.”
“For what?”
“Coca-Cola.”
“Yeah? What you like? Powder, cake, rock? You look like powder to me.”
“You got a good eye. How much will an ounce hurt?”
“Three C’s.”
“Whoa!”
Tommy was used to wholesale prices from his friends in the family. Was that what the suckers were paying on the street?
“Primo product, man. Gotta pay for quality, know’m sayin’?”
Okay, here was where it was gonna get dicey.
“For that price it better be fuckin-ay pure as new snow.”
He pulled three Franklins from his pocket. As he extended them across the passenger seat, his free hand found the window button. When the kid reached in for the cash, Tommy dropped the bills, grabbed his wrist, and hit the button. The window slid up, trapping his arm.
Tommy let the kid thrash and scream and fill the air with motherfuckers. When he paused for breath, Tommy said, “Where were you last Tuesday night?”
More rage and screams about it being none of his fucking business.
Tommy repeated the question with the same result.
“Okay.”
He took his foot off the brake and the car started to roll. Now the kid’s rage turned to fear.
“Hey, what you doin’, muthafucka?”
“You’re a runner, right? Let’s see how fast you can run.”
After being dragged for a block, where the fear turned to agony, the kid told him that his boss had rented him out to some fat greaseball type who took him and his buddies around in a big black Crown Vic to a bunch of car lots where they dinged everything in sight.
Tommy roared away, leaving him lying in the street.
Vinny … Vinny and Tony—and maybe Aldo too—had fucked up his business.
Time for payback. Big-time payback.
8
Bertel hung up the phone and wandered to his hotel window. The Tyson’s Corner Marriott didn’t offer much in the way of a view, but he could appreciate the last orange rays of the setting sun lighting the tops of the downtown office buildings.
He’d placed his calls and made his contacts. Tomorrow he’d return to HQ with the City Chemical bill of lading in hand. They’d have their usual skepticism on display, but the bill would force them into action. They couldn’t ignore the list. They’d know the end product of proper mixing of those ingredients, and the damage that more than half a ton of said end product could do. They’d have to place the storage facility under watch, track the conspirators to their bomb factory, and shut them down.
And then they’d have to admit that Dane Bertel had been right all along.
Perhaps if he’d been more politic. But that simply wasn’t his nature. Still, his decades as a field agent in the Middle East should have lent him some credibility.
Once the shah had been kicked out of Iran, Dane had warned that the U.S. embassy in Teheran would be next on the revolutionaries’ list. Sure enough, he witnessed the so-called “student riot” back in 1979 and, because of his preparedness, managed to ferry a few Americans to safety before they could be taken hostage. After that he saw Mohammedan fundamentalism spread like wildfire through the region, and he knew that wasn’t going to be good for the U.S.
The only bright spot had been the commie takeover in Afghanistan and the civil war it started. The Russians moved in and became the focal point for all the Mohammedan crazies. It could have stayed that way. If Carter and Reagan and that damn Congressman Wilson had kept their meddling hands off, the crazies would be calling Russia “the Great Satan” instead of “the Lesser Satan.”
Dane had warned that once the Lesser Satan withdrew from Afghanistan—and it had been clear in the mid-eighties, with the Company supplying Stinger missiles to the Mujahedeen, that their occupation was unsustainable—the hatred would refocus on the Great Satan. But his warnings fell on deaf ears.
Well, they’d have to listen now.
He turned away from the window and reached for the blazer he’d brought along. Never a bad idea to look professional. He’d go down to Shula’s for a rare steak and a bottle of decent red wine, then early to bed. He intended to be ready for battle first thing in the morning.
9
Jack had expected resistance to his arrival at the Mahwah house but Gerald admitted him without comment.
“Where’s Burkes?” Jack said.
Gerald nodded toward the cellar door. “Downstairs.”
Again no resistance as he started for the cellar.
In the long, windowless room below he found Burkes and Rob standing near a bloodied, hooded figure slumped in a chair bolted to the floor. Al-Thani’s hands were manacled behind him and he was either asleep or unconscious.
Burkes looked surprised to see Jack. “I thought you were going to call in first.”
“I got tired of calling in and getting the same message.” He gestured toward al-Thani. “Success?”
He shook his head. “No. Nothing.”
With rage exploding, Jack started toward the chair. “Give me five minutes—”
Rob pulled him back. “He’s been schooled in resistance.”
“Really? You can do that?”
Burkes nodded. “Aye. Usually employed by intelligence agencies.”
“You think he’s—?”
“I don’t know what the fuck he is ’cause he’s not talking.”
“At least not to us,” Rob added. “And we’re running out of time.”
That puzzled Jack. “Are we on a schedule?”
Burkes said, “In a way, yes. The clock started running when we nabbed the C
roat and Reggie. Once they don’t report in, people up the line get concerned. When someone higher up the food chain like al-Thani here falls off the radar, they start getting nervous. Might even start thinking about packing for a vacation.”
“Which means we have to call in a pro,” Gerald said.
Jack frowned at him. “I thought you guys were the pros.”
Burkes shook his head again. “Not like the one we’re calling in.”
Gerald’s expression was grim. “Nobody’s like that one.”
“Someone at the mission?”
“No. An independent contractor.”
How do you build up a client base as a freelance torturer? he wondered. Not like the Inquisition was still on.
“She’s going to be expensive,” Gerald said.
Burkes sighed. “I know. I think I can finagle her fee through the mission’s security slush fund.”
Wait—
“She? Her?”
“Yeah. Goes by the name of La Chirurgienne.”
Over Burke’s shoulder Jack saw al-Thani’s hooded head snap up.
10
“I know you didn’t want to be bothered,” Ernst Drexler said when Trejador answered the phone.
“This had better be important.”
“You said not unless it was too important to wait, and this fits that criteria.”
“Whatever it is can wait until you answer one question: Danaë … was that you?”
Ernst had been expecting the question. The only surprise was that it had taken this long.
“Of course. It was something that needed to be done and so I did it.”
“Without consulting me?”
Ernst had no fear of Trejador here. He knew he’d be on firm ground if the matter ever came before the High Council.
“I considered your judgment in that area severely compromised, so I acted independently.”
“Where do you get off appraising my judgment?”
“Would you have gone along with what needed to be done?”
“I always do what needs to be done. Just as I would have in this case. But you were led by a false premise that preemptive action was required when, in fact, nothing needed to be done.”
“There was no other course after you allowed a fourth party to become privy to plans that had to remain exclusive to us three.”
“She wasn’t privy to anything.”
“You could not know that. And neither could I. So I took action. As a result, we have no worries on that score. We can be certain that all knowledge of the matter is limited to the three of us.”
“You had no right.”
“I had every right. More than a right. I had a duty to settle the matter in the best interests of the Order.”
“You will regret this, Ernst.”
“Listen to yourself, Roman. Your emotional reaction only confirms your compromised judgment on the matter. I had no emotions either way to cloud my decision.”
“Never a worry about emotions from you.”
“Exactly. Which is just the way it should be for an effective actuator. And as for regretting anything, I doubt that. I believe I would have more regretted not doing it. If you’re hinting at bringing this to the Council, I welcome it.”
Ernst could have added, You know how they feel about your whores, but felt it gratuitous. Trejador was well aware of the High Council’s long-standing disapproval. Let him fill in the blanks.
When Trejador didn’t reply, Ernst went on. “Can we move on to the reason for my call—something that really matters? Lonnie has reappeared.”
A pause, then, “Lonnie? That kid who drove those girls who were hijacked? Why this obsession with him? You lost two men trying to track him down before.”
Ernst’s next words were going to be very difficult to say, but he had no choice.
“We may have lost two more. Possibly three—the third being Nasser al-Thani.”
A pause, then, “You have my attention.”
He told of Lonnie being recognized in the photos of two men watching the jihadists’ mosque, how Reggie and Klarić had been sent to interrogate him, and had not returned.
“And now tonight comes word that Nasser’s car has been found abandoned on a Jersey City street with a smashed window. And no sign of Nasser himself.”
“It would seem this Lonnie is connected to a larger entity than you thought.”
“I have always suspected he was connected to the hijackers.”
“Again you’ve made a potentially disruptive move without consulting me.”
“You said you were not to be contacted. Here we have a man who has already caused us untold trouble observed ostensibly spying on the Jersey City mosque. So we had to ask ourselves: What if the object of his surveillance was not the mosque itself but our jihadists?”
“But the first two men you sent after him back in ninety came back dead. Didn’t it occur to you to try a different approach this time? And Reggie of all people. Really.”
His tone dripped scorn. He was trying to reverse the tables by calling Ernst’s judgment into question now. Ernst would not allow it.
“Reggie identified him from the photo. He knew Lonnie. His presence was necessary.”
“The fact that you haven’t heard from them in two days tells me they’ll turn up like the first two. This Lonnie is proving to be quite an interesting young man. Everyone sent after him ends up dead.”
Was that a trace of admiration in Trejador’s voice?
“We don’t know that yet. I—”
“Reggie is no loss, but how did Nasser get involved? He’s the one that concerns me.”
“And I as well. Nasser gave them the assignment and—”
“Ah! If Reggie is a captive, I’m sure he told Lonnie and whoever is with him everything they wanted to know. The first question would have been: Who sent you? Which put them on the trail of Nasser. That is the same question they will be putting to Nasser. Sounds to me as if you’ll be next on their list.”
He sensed a savage glee in Trejador’s tone.
“Nasser will not break. He has been taught the Entungfer technique.”
“Let’s hope for your sake he learned it well.”
All actuators and those aspiring to the post learned an ancient technique of walling off the pain centers of the brain, making them immune to torture. Al-Thani would say nothing.
“Any suggestions?”
“A little late to be asking me for advice, don’t you think?”
“Let us not be petty when the interests of the Order are involved.”
“No pettiness, Ernst. Had I been consulted, I would have advised an entirely different approach. But since I wasn’t, and since yours has gone seriously off course, I believe I’ll leave it to you to straighten it out.”
He hung up.
As Ernst replaced his own phone in its cradle, he idly wondered if now might not be a good time for a trip back home to Austria.
WEDNESDAY
1
Forest Hills … funny how events always seemed to run in circles.
Jack remembered these streets well. He’d cut a lot of lawns, weeded a lot of gardens, planted a lot of shrubs out here when he was working for Giovanni Pastorelli and Two Paisanos Landscaping. Rico had been in that crew as well. Rico wasn’t dead twenty-four hours yet and here was Jack driving Burkes’s van through the streets where they’d both worked. Burkes sat in back with al-Thani. Gerald had stayed in Mahwah to babysit the failing Reggie, so Jack had inherited the driving chores.
“This is it,” Rob announced from the passenger seat.
Jack pulled to the curb before a two-story brick colonial that looked pretty much like every other house on the block. A little sign out front read:
DR. ADÈLE MOREAU
APPOINTMENT ONLY
Dr. Moreau? Really?
Had to be a joke. Didn’t it?
Burkes exited by the side of the van and walked up to the front door. A tall, thin woman with odd-colored hair a
nswered his knock; she carried a little dog in her arms. She pointed to the garage, then closed the door.
Could she be the torturer known as La Chirurgienne?
The white garage door began to rise and Burkes motioned Jack to back into the driveway. By the time Jack had done so, Burkes was waiting with a wheelchair he’d found inside. They loaded al-Thani—dressed in an oversized hoodie to hide his gag and manacles—into the chair and Rob wheeled him into the garage. Inside they rolled him up a short ramp into the house.
The woman was waiting. Jack put her in her forties. She had a brittle look—painfully thin arms, a tight face, and big orange hair done up like Jackie Onassis but looking brittle as well, like it would crumble into splinters if squeezed. She still held her dog—a Yorkie—and it yipped at them.
“Hush, Charlot,” she said with a pronounced French accent. “This way, gentlemen.” Her this sounded like zis.
They all followed her down the hall to a brightly lit, windowless, white-tiled room. A bizarre steel contraption, all gleaming chrome plate and leather straps, occupied the center of the space. In a corner he noticed a wicker basket with a plaid cushion. A doggie bed?
“Welcome to my workshop. First thing, you must remove that awful shirt from our guest.”
Rob pulled off the hoodie, revealing al-Thani’s battered face and bloodied thobe.
“You have been crude with him,” she said in a disapproving tone. “You know I do not like to receive damaged goods.”
Burkes gave her a little bow. “We didn’t realize at the time that your skills would be necessary. Your fee has been deposited.”
“Yes, I know. I checked with my bank.” She fluttered a hand at al-Thani. “Well, strap him in and we shall get started.”
Jack had no idea which way was up or down with that contraption, so he stood back and watched. Al-Thani’s struggles were weak. Jack looked for the rage he’d felt toward the man since Reggie had fingered him, but it seemed to have dissipated overnight. Nasser al-Thani was now a pathetic creature who was about to undergo, by all accounts from Burkes and his SAS men, the tortures of the damned.