Fear City

  “That phone message I mentioned!”

  “Right. I think we have to take this bomb story seriously.”

  “This Arab who killed him—do you think he was sent because whoever’s behind this bomb found out Bertel was on to him?”

  Burkes shrugged. “Could be. The timing makes it bloody damn suspicious, doesn’t it? The killer could have shot the others as cover. The CIA investigators and no doubt FBI investigators as well won’t know till they catch this bastard and question him.”

  “Yeah. They’ll know, but we’ll probably never know.”

  “Not necessarily. Al-Thani says he and Trejador have been funding the UN bomb. I’m going to add a few new questions to the list I’ll want this Trejador cunt to answer—like all about the bomb and if he had any connection to Dane Bertel’s death.”

  Jack was remembering Bertel’s rambling suspicions about another player in the jihadist drama, another agenda at work, a hidden string puller. It had sounded paranoid as all hell then, but now that he’d been murdered in cold blood, not so much.

  “Good. And after that, ask him who he and al-Thani work for.”

  Burkes frowned. “What do you mean? Like al-Qaeda or Islamic Jihad or the Muslim Brotherhood?”

  “Maybe. Maybe something else. Maybe a player no one’s heard of yet.”

  “Sounds a little far-fetched. No harm in asking, though. But I’m not going to wait till then to spread the word that we’ve got a credible bomb threat against the UN.”

  “Fine. But if this Rabin guy isn’t arriving till Friday, we can pretty much rest assured they won’t be setting off any bombs before then. That leaves us all tomorrow to work on Trejador. Nothing’s going to get in the way of that, right?”

  Burkes’s expression turned even grimmer. “You can count on that, laddie.”

  “But let’s do it early. I have plans for later.”

  “What could be more important?”

  “Cristin’s funeral.”

  17

  Aimal Kasi sat on the edge of the bed in his Days Inn room, munching a Big Mac as he watched his room’s TV. The CNN newscaster told of the manhunt for the crazed Arab killer who had murdered two CIA employees and wounded three others.

  He stopped chewing. That made five. Aimal knew he had shot six. Why were they saying only five?

  He experienced a shock when they showed pictures of the two dead men and neither was the first man he’d shot. Aimal had not the slightest doubt he’d killed him—the bullets had caved in his face and blown off the back of his head. The inside of the car had been splattered with blood and brain. He could not have survived.

  Why were they hiding it?

  And then the newscaster gave a description of the killer’s car and the license plate number—both wrong!

  Weeping, he fell on his knees and gave thanks to Allah for shielding him, for blessing the blow he had struck for jihad.

  18

  Roman Trejador stood transfixed before the lead story on the eleven o’clock news.

  “… a man described by a police officer as ‘horrendously mutilated’ was found seated at a Queens bus stop a short while ago. The policeman, Sergeant Thomas Carruthers, would not elaborate, deferring details to the doctors who will be treating the man at Forest Hills Hospital where he was taken. He did say that ‘the details are not for broadcast TV.’

  “Unlike the mutilated so-called Ditmars Dahlia who was found last week, this victim is still alive. Witnesses report that—also unlike the Ditmars Dahlia—he still has both his hands, although his fingerprints appear to have been burned off. Another witness—and we don’t know how reliable this is—said that his eyes had been removed. He is described as a Caucasian male in his forties. If anyone has any information—”

  Roman hit the mute button on the remote.

  … a Caucasian male in his forties …

  That could fit either Klarić or Reggie. No mention of build or hair color. If red hair had been mentioned, or a strange, seven-pointed scar, he would have known.

  The talk of mutilations disturbed him, especially the eyes. He knew that a female interrogator known as La Chirurgienne did something like that with a package of mutilations that left her victim alive but completely cut off from the world. If the news story had mentioned removal of the tongue and severing the spinal cord as well, he’d be sure. Still, Klarić and Reggie had mutilated Danaë, then disappeared, and now … was this payback?

  He shook his head. Klarić and Reggie had been sent after Lonnie—not his real name, Roman was well aware—and Lonnie had no connection to Danaë.

  Even if he had, Roman couldn’t see anyone going to that sort of trouble, let alone the expense of hiring La Chirurgienne, because of a dead call girl, even one as charming and talented as Danaë.

  He wouldn’t be surprised over the next day or two if questioning revealed that this blinded man was some hapless, low-level drug runner who had been caught trying to double-cross his boss and mutilated as a warning to others.

  Mutilated … He remembered the soul-numbing jolt of learning the identity of the Ditmars Dahlia. Like most other New Yorkers, he’d been simultaneously shocked, repulsed, and fascinated when the first stories appeared in the papers. Signs of torture, face mutilated by acid, hands cut off … some unfortunate young woman had encountered a psychopath, either by being snatched off the street or risking a dangerous liaison. Whoever her killer was, he’d had his sick way with her, then tried to keep her from being identified.

  Roman had never dreamed she was Danaë.

  When he’d heard on the radio that she had been identified as Cristin Ott, he still didn’t connect her to the young woman who had so often been his sensuous, skilled, and enthusiastic bedmate. How could he? He knew her only as Danaë.

  But that night, as he’d sipped his first martini, the evening news had shown the photo from her student ID at FIT. He’d stared with gaping jaw as the glass slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor. The girl on the screen, Cristin Ott, the Ditmars Dahlia, was both not quite Danaë and yet every bit Danaë.

  He’d called the day before to engage her for that very night, but had been told she was not available. He hadn’t given it a second thought. He’d never dreamed …

  The instant he’d seen her picture and realized that Danaë and the Ditmars Dahlia were the same, he’d known who had killed her. Or rather, he hadn’t known then that Klarić and Reggie had done the deed itself, but he’d known who had given the order.

  After he’d finished vomiting, he’d sobbed like a child. He’d not been unaware that over the nearly two and a half years of their relationship—a business relationship in that money changed hands at every encounter, and yet not without a certain mutual affection—he’d become attached to this delightful woman for hire who was young enough to be his daughter. But just how deeply attached he had never imagined until he realized he would never see her again, and the horror of how her life had ended.

  Early on he had tested her, leaving diamond cuff links or wads of cash around to tempt her—or so he thought. Nothing had ever gone missing. That didn’t necessarily prove that she had no larceny in her heart, but it did prove she was smart and not impulsive.

  In fact, she began turning the tables on him. One time he’d left his fifteen-thousand-dollar Rolex near the suite’s front door where she could easily pocket it on her way out. After she’d left, he’d gone to check and, to his dismay, found it missing. Disappointed and—he admitted it—a little hurt, he had gone to pour himself the last of the wine they’d been drinking in bed and found a note under the bottle.

  I put your watch on your dresser.

  Don’t leave it in the foyer.

  Someone might steal it.

  He’d laughed almost to tears. She’d seen right through him all along.

  Later she’d explained it in both personal and business terms. First off, she wasn’t the stealing type. She’d been raised with a strong sense of mine and not-mine. Second, between her percen
tage of Celebrations’ high fee and the generous tip Roman always gave her, she was extremely well paid for her time with him. When she measured the short-term gain of giving in to the temptation of grabbing what he’d left lying around against the long-term loss resulting from his never calling her again, the short-term gain came up, well, short.

  So, on the night he’d seen her picture on the news, after he’d regained control over his emotions, he gave serious consideration to going over to Ernst Drexler’s apartment and beating him to death with his father’s silver-headed, rhino hide–sheathed cane.

  Fortunately good sense won out and he canceled that idea. But he knew that if he and Drexler wound up in the same room during the next few days, he would do exactly that. He’d had to avoid the man at all cost. Therefore he put out the word that he was going to be away on the Order’s business and unavailable for meetings, even for phone calls. No communication except in the case of a dire emergency.

  Then the phone call last night … a dire emergency indeed. A potential catastrophe.

  Yet despite that, Roman had wanted to reach through the phone and throttle Drexler. Somehow—and he still wasn’t sure how—he’d managed to stay outwardly calm and conduct a rational conversation.

  The passing of Reggie—Roman had to assume he and Klarić were dead or so severely damaged by torture as to be as good as dead—was no loss. Klarić was another matter. He’d saved Roman’s life once. What bothered him most was the resurfacing of Lonnie. Not the resurfacing itself, but the fact that he was watching the mosque frequented by the Order’s pet jihadists. Why? Lonnie was a nonentity, a mule, a kid driving smuggled cigarettes who’d got caught up in a situation he had no control over. What interest could he have in that mosque?

  Obviously there was more to him than met the eye, because people who tried to apprehend him wound up dead.

  And now Nasser al-Thani missing. Nasser had sent Klarić and Reggie after Lonnie. Was Lonnie working his way back up the line? If so, he’d next come after the one who had given Nasser his marching orders: Ernst Drexler. If Lonnie could break al-Thani. That would not be easy. In fact, Roman was confident it lay beyond Lonnie’s abilities. Reggie? No problem. Nasser? He’d die first.

  So, unfortunately, Ernst Drexler was safe for the moment.

  As for Roman, he wasn’t worried. Should Lonnie ever confront him, he had a trump card to play.

  THURSDAY

  1

  “Dane Bertel is dead?” Abe said.

  Jack had laid the news on him as Abe was unwrapping one of the sausage egg McMuffins he’d brought along.

  It had already been a busy morning. Before dawn, he and Rob and Gerald left al-Thani, now a permanent rag doll after the IV treatment, sitting on a bench in Madison Square Park, wearing big dark glasses and looking up at the Flatiron Building. He wondered how long it would take for someone to realize something was a little off with this guy. All they had to do was remove the sunglasses and see the empty eye sockets to know something was very off.

  He’d gone home from there to shower and change, then stopped by Abe’s to tell him about Dane. After all, Abe had put them together so that Jack could learn to shoot the first pistol he’d sold him.

  Abe rested both hands on the counter and leaned over his untouched breakfast, shaking his head.

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “Cold-blooded murder as he sat in his car.”

  Jack gave him the details about his being an unnamed victim of the still-unknown Arab killer.

  “A murder happens on the CIA’s doorstep and they can’t find the killer? This is how conspiracy theories are born.”

  That jolted Jack. “You’re saying he was set up?”

  “I’m saying nothing already. But you’re telling me this shmuck killed an ex-CIA man in front of a line of cars filled with CIA personnel and nobody can find him. How is that possible? I don’t have an answer, but people I know would say they haven’t found him because they don’t want to find him.”

  Jack had to smile. “I can almost hear Bertel saying that himself.”

  Abe finally took a great-white bite of his McMuffin. Jack had known it would not go untouched for long. He doubted any news, no matter how tragic, could kill Abe’s appetite.

  After swallowing, Abe shook his head. “A mensch we’ve lost.”

  “Did you know he was ex-CIA?”

  Abe’s head shot up. “He was? News to me. Ex-military, I thought. Korea, maybe.”

  Jack bit into his own McMuffin. He loved these things.

  “How well did you know him?”

  A shrug. “Heart-to-hearts we never had. But in some men you can detect the mensch without many words. A man may hide a lot of himself, but the mensch always manages to peek through.”

  Jack glanced at his watch. He still had a little time. “I’ve got to head over to the Lexington Hotel soon.”

  “Is that why the jacket?”

  He was wearing the blue blazer and khaki slacks he’d bought at Brooks Brothers two years ago.

  “Yeah. Gotta look like I fit in.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m off to meet up with a guy who’s anything but a mensch.”

  “Oh?”

  “Name’s Roman Trejador. He ordered Cristin’s torture-murder.”

  Another circle closing: Jack had bought the outfit for his first date with Cristin. It seemed right to wear it now.

  Abe’s eyebrows rose. “You’re not doing anything reckless, I hope.”

  “Those two SAS guys I mentioned are going to help spirit him away for a date with a woman known as La Chirurgienne.”

  The eyebrows rose higher. “I’ve heard of her. And from what I’ve heard, I would not like to be on the receiving end of her talents. But if he’s the one who gave the order, why do you need La Chirurgienne?”

  “To make sure the chain of command ends with him. And also to check out a bomb plot.”

  As Abe attacked his second McMuffin, Jack gave him a quick rundown of what they’d learned from al-Thani.

  Abe shook his head as he stared at him. “In town not three years and already you’ve run into smuggling, mass murder, Dominican gangs, human trafficking, torture, and international terrorism. How does this happen?”

  Jack began unwrapping his second McMuffin. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “After all this tummel, how are you going to go back to being Repairman Jack?”

  “I was never Repairman Jack. That’s your thing.”

  “No, it’s your thing.” He pulled a sheet of paper from under the counter and pushed it across. “Here: for the personals pages.”

  Jack stared, dumbfounded.

  When all else fails …

  When nothing else works …

  REPAIRMAN JACK

  Abe said, “I can see you’re speechless with wonder and admiration. I was quite taken myself when I realized what I’d created. Like poetry it reads.”

  Jack burst out laughing. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I should be kidding about your career? Your future? This is what you need to bring people with troubles to your door—or at least to your table in that bar. Just add whatever phone number you want and you’re all set.”

  “How about I add yours?”

  “What do I know from fixing problems? I have your number. I’ll—”

  “Don’t even think about it, Abe.”

  Abe took the sheet and began folding it. “This will be my gift to you.”

  Jack couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. “Abe…”

  “For a year I’ll run it. Let’s see … the Village Voice, the Daily News, the Post, Newsday, New York magazine…”

  “If I didn’t have to run…” He began rewrapping his untasted second McMuffin. “I’d—”

  “Run? You’re going to take that and run? You shouldn’t run and eat. Bad for your digestion.”

  Jack had to smile. “Always thinking of me.”

  “I look out for people. It’s an affliction. The city over I’m
known as ‘Caring Abe,’ a man who lives only for others.”

  Jack pushed the McMuffin across the counter.

  “Okay, watch this for me. If I’m not back in two minutes, eat it.”

  “Eat it? But this will be my third. I should consume three of these sausage-egg-cheese concoctions?”

  “I’m sure you can handle it,” Jack said as he headed for the door.

  Abe loosed an exploited sigh. “Only because I care. Only because I live for others.”

  2

  Aimal Kasi shifted nervously from foot to foot as he waited on line to board the Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt. He kept expecting a platoon of airport security guards to arrive and carry him off, but no one took any notice of him. Life at Baltimore-Washington International Airport was business as usual. Just another work day.

  He showed his boarding pass and was passed through without a second glance. As he hurried down the ramp, he again gave praise to Allah for shielding him. At Frankfurt he would transfer to a Pakistan Airlines flight to Quetta, his home town.

  Aimal would return with a message for his Muslim brothers: America was ripe for jihad. Americans were vulnerable. With Allah watching over you, you could kill them and walk away with no one stopping you.

  Allāhu Akbar!

  3

  With the plaid wool scarf around her head, her shapeless coat, and sunglasses, Hadya knew she cut an eccentric figure in the dawn light. Thinking she’d need her energy, today’s suhoor had been more substantial than usual, augmenting the aging bread with two eggs she had hard-boiled and peeled last night. Sunrise had come at 6:37 this morning so she had eaten early and bused here to the corner of Pamrapo Avenue and Kennedy Boulevard.

  She expected Kadir and his friend with the Chevy Nova to appear soon because Ramadan would force them to rise early to eat. And sure enough, shortly before seven o’clock she saw the Chevy approaching. She turned away as it neared and watched from the corner of her eye as it turned onto Pamrapo. Halfway down the block it turned into a drive.