McGuiness said, “You’re right. To assassinate you would cause immense disruption not only here at home, but all over the world, because we would react.”
Maitland was shaking his head. “Therein lies the difficulty, Maureen, positively identifying the person or country behind the contract; the president would not retaliate unless he had absolute proof.”
Actually, Callan wasn’t sure what the president would do even with reasonable proof Iran were behind the hit and they denied it to his face.
Maitland continued: “Iran does sound like the most likely, their mullahs, their military, they are so fanatical, many of them don’t care what happens to their own country, their own people, so long as we—the West—are destroyed in the process.”
She nodded, told them about her conversation with Ari from the Mossad. “To remind you, there’s possibly someone else in Damari’s sights, and that means we need an alert to the other governments involved in the talks, just in case.”
Temp said, “I’m more inclined to think it’s somebody right here in the U.S., someone high up.”
“Yes, I agree.”
“Regardless of motive, regardless of whether it’s Iran behind this contract or their Hezbollah enforcers, we will not let Damari kill you, Callan, we will not let it happen.”
McGuiness said, “We will step up your security, immediately. Ma’am, I suggest you move into your West Wing office instead of the EEOB, and we can arrange for more agents to—”
Callan shook her head. “Maureen, all of you, I appreciate your concern, but you all know as well as I do that moving, or changing my schedule, wouldn’t stop Damari. He’s a master assassin, and with his skills and contacts, he could find out whatever he wanted to know.” She shook her head at the irony of it. “If he wants me, he’ll kill me.
“We must also try to find out who else he’s after. Ari was concerned. So I put my trust in all of you, that your people hunt him down before he pulls the trigger. Now you’ve got him on your radar.”
She looked at each face. Would all the battles, all the turf wars, the endless pettiness—would they take a back burner with her life on the line?
Who knew? Perhaps they would. None of them said a word.
“That is all,” she said. “Of course, you’ll want to keep this to yourselves or those you involve, specifically to prevent Damari from succeeding. And, people, don’t let COE bomb anything else, or it will be all our heads.” She pressed the small button on her phone. Quinn Costello came quietly into the room. She stood aside as all of them filed out, and Callan heard them arguing about who should take the lead on finding Damari.
Quinn watched Callan sink into her chair, put her head down on the desk. “Hmm, how did it go?”
Callan banged her forehead three times against the ancient wood.
“That good? Well, this might cheer you up. Hmm, at least it will cheer up the president.”
Callan raised her head, looked up at her chief of staff’s big smile.
“Ari called. He talked the government into returning to the table in Geneva.”
Callan said, “Will wonders never cease? Looks like he’s trying to save my job.”
“And he sent this.” She handed over a slim blue file folder. “Now, who is Zahir Damari? And why don’t we like him?”
Callan sighed. “Quinn, come here and sit down. I have something to tell you.”
• • •
In the hallway, Temp watched McGuiness and Maitland walk ahead, McGuiness still trying to tell Maitland what he should do, Maitland looking straight ahead, probably so he wouldn’t slug her. Then, as if Maitland sensed him watching, he turned around. McGuiness waved them both off and kept walking.
Maitland said, “Anything I can do for you, Mr. Trafford?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing. Anything I can do?”
“Other than handing over everything you have on Damari? We need to do a full assessment on the Bayway bombing. Who’s your best bomb guy? Or girl?”
Because Trafford was experienced at never showing anything, he gave Maitland a warm smile and said, “We’ve got some of each variety. I have a few stateside. Or do you want a whole team?”
“I want whoever you have available immediately. And I want my guys to meet with yours.”
“Sure. Of course. We’ve got lots of possibles in our database, lots of bomb info from COE’s overseas work. Anything the CIA can do to help.”
Now, why don’t I believe you, you little prick? But Maitland nodded. “I’ll also inform my team about Damari’s confirmed contract on the vice president. Both of our groups should dig, see if we can find out exactly who’s behind it.” He gave Trafford a final nod, a handshake. “I’ll be in touch.”
Oh, yes, I’m sure you will. Trafford walked out of the EEOB to his waiting car. McGuiness had said more or less the same thing. Yeah, like that would happen even if there was a snowstorm in Hell.
Neither of them had any clue that he would get to the finish line first. He was already on the final lap.
34
BISHOP TO E6
Chelsea
Mike’s cell rang. Since she was driving, Nicholas put it on speaker. “Go ahead, Louisa. You find anything?”
Louisa sounded tired. “There’s nothing here helpful to us. Obviously someone was thorough when they set the fire. The second floor collapsed into the first, taking all the evidence with it. Everything’s soggy. It’ll take a week to go through it all. I did call the ME—Janovich got the body from the building. Said he was pretty crispy, but he could tell us the guy had been shot in the chest. Nothing else as yet. I’ll tell you, Mike, they did some job on this building.”
“Maybe we need to add firebugs into the profile.”
“That’s a good idea, Mike. Arsonists have as distinct a signature as serial killers.”
Nicholas said, “Louisa, please send the chemical makeup of the accelerant into our Uniform Crime Reporting database. Though arson is wildly underreported in the UCR, perhaps we’ll find a hit.”
“I can do that. I’ll also take a look in ViCAP, see if there are any arson fires near where our confirmed explosions have happened. Hey, I’m willing to try anything that will help us track down these murderers.”
Nicholas said, “Louisa, another thought. Why not a second search with the parameters extended to violent crime in the week leading up to each explosion—homicides, especially. Who knows what sort of patterns may emerge.”
“Okay, can do. I’ll tell you guys, talk about finding a soggy needle hiding in a wet haystack, we’re going to have to get out the metal detectors to find any bullet casing in this mess. But I’ll do a rush analysis on the accelerant. Since we already know it’s petrol, and we’re at an auto shop, chances are it was taken from this location, but one never knows. I can probably have something for you within the hour.”
“The moment you do, Louisa.” He hung up, turned to Mike. “Now, as soon as we find the owner of the Suburban, hopefully we’ll find the redheaded woman.”
“Vida Antonio’s sketches of the group staying at the body shop should come in soon,” Mike said, as she swerved around a taxi. “But you know, Nicholas, there’s something off here. I mean, a Middle Eastern recruit to COE?”
“It does fly in the face of everything COE stands for. Who could this man be?”
Mike hated it, but she gave in and stopped for a red light. She looked over at him, opened her mouth to say something, and what she saw made her blood freeze. She cleared her throat.
“Nicholas, you know how very elegant you looked when you came to work this morning?”
“Why are you speaking in the past tense?”
“Your beautiful suit coat has a bullet hole in it. Nigel is going to shoot you, if I don’t shoot you first for getting yourself hurt. Again.”
He cocked his head at he
r. She slapped the car into park and grabbed his arm, running her hands from his shoulder to elbow. “You lamebrain, look at this.”
In the upper sleeve of his jacket, there was a small tear in the fine wool. He cursed, lots of animal body parts that made Mike laugh. The light turned green, but Mike ignored it. “You really don’t feel anything?”
He shook his head. “I’m fine. Mike, we have lots of pissed-off drivers behind us. Best hit the gas.” He looked back at the dozen cars, drivers waving their fists, horns honking.
Mike gunned the Crown Vic. Looked to see him shrugging out of his coat.
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“What?”
“No blood on my shirt. No rips. Nothing.” He grinned. “Nigel will let me live another day. Maybe.”
He watched her execute a daring move around two taxis, leaving them screaming in her wake. No need for her to speed, but he realized she was pissed.
Nicholas laid his hand on her thigh, felt the sleek play of muscles beneath his fingers, and quickly lifted his hand. “Really, I’m fine. I had no idea our wounded-knee guy even got close to me. You were the one I was worried about.”
Mike looked straight ahead, missed a parked car by an inch. Then she looked at the impossibly handsome face next to her, saw worry—for her, not himself—and threw back her head and laughed. “Yet again, you saved my neck. Thank you, Nicholas. Sorry about your beautiful coat. You want a character witness for Nigel?”
He met her eyes, took his pinkie and put it through the hole, wiggled his finger. “Once Nigel gets a load of this I could have a dozen character witnesses, but I fear it wouldn’t help. As Nigel pointed out last night, however, Barneys will rejoice.”
Nicholas’s mobile rang, and he pulled it from his pocket, put it on speaker. “Gray, what’s happening?”
“The guy you shot in the knee? The NYPD found the brown Honda. It was abandoned at the base of the Williamsburg Bridge. Either they got into another car or they’re on foot. Either way, we lost them. I’ve sent a team to process the car. Perhaps we’ll have some luck lifting fingerprints. Or blood, that’d be good.”
“I will only confirm that I shot the guy in the knee if you promise not to rat me out to Zachery. This isn’t a good time for a hearing and losing my weapon.”
“Yeah, yeah, I promise. You’re a dweeb. As far as I know, you don’t even know how to fire a weapon.”
“Thanks, Gray. Ah, the knee shot? That was only because he was aiming at Mike.”
“I was going to say nice shooting, Tex, but since he got away, forget it.”
Mike said, “Tex? He’s supposed to be James Bond, Gray, not the Lone Ranger.”
Gray laughed, told some agents around him what Mike had said, and there was more laughter.
“All right, you hyena,” Nicholas said, “when you calm down, let me tell you I’m calling Savich to have him plug in MAX.”
Gray gave one last hiccup. “Good idea. Can’t hurt.”
35
BISHOP TAKES B6
Baltimore, Maryland
Zahir Damari loved nothing more than raising his face into a strong stream of hot water in a shower. Since he was staying at a nice hotel, it was piping hot and he knew it wouldn’t run out, like it sometimes did in Jordan, even in his exquisite villa. He washed himself slowly, luxuriating in the loofah gliding over his skin. Everything was back on track.
Once dressed, he applied several layers of makeup and prosthetics using the photo on his current fake passport as a guide. He was always careful, always precise. After a few finishing touches to his hair, he studied the results in the mirror, nodded at his reflection. He looked good; he was ready. If the man he was meeting described him, it wouldn’t matter, since he would be describing another man entirely. Zahir smiled at himself in the mirror. Actually, if the idiot did describe him to anyone at all, even his lovely wife, he wouldn’t live an hour longer.
Before Zahir left for Silver Corner, he called Matthew, to make sure his part of the plan was locked in, and Matthew was ready to pull the trigger. He smiled again as he punched in Matthew’s number—Matthew didn’t realize it, but he was Zahir’s minion, as gullible as only an ideologue could be. There were so many exactly like him on both sides, driven by hate, no real thought to the future or what could be made of the future.
He pictured the beautiful blast at Bayway, the flames that licked into the sky, and the feel of the ground shaking beneath his feet. The power of such a tiny part of that gold coin was amazing.
Matthew didn’t pick up until the fourth ring, and that worried Zahir. He realized immediately something was wrong. Matthew sounded exhausted and depressed, very unlike himself.
“It is Darius. Tell me what is happening?”
“Was it you who set me up? You who betrayed me, set them against me?”
Now, this was interesting, at least for a moment. “Come, Matthew, what are you talking about?”
And it all came spilling out, his killing of both Ian and Vanessa because of their betrayal, and how he’d burned the building down around them. “But maybe it was you, Darius, who betrayed me. Was Vanessa right?”
“What do you think?” You idiot.
“All right, all right, so it was the only thing I could do. I killed them, both of them. Ian tried to protect her, can you believe that?”
“Maybe he was in love with her, too.”
“No, no.”
Zahir listened to him ramble about a small phone hidden in a bar of soap, heard the growing hysteria in his voice. This wouldn’t do. He very much needed Matthew, in case something got cocked up. It shouldn’t, but you never knew, and that was the thrill of his business, the uncertainty, the wild card, like Vanessa. Sounded to him like she was an undercover agent. He didn’t think she’d ever gotten a photo of him to send to her handler. He was always too careful.
“Did you learn anything from Vanessa before you killed her?”
“She kept saying it wasn’t her, it was Ian, it was you. The phone messages were all deleted. Even Andy couldn’t find anything.”
“Very well. She is dead, no longer a threat to us. However, now we have to move quickly—whoever Vanessa was working with, or for, knows all about us.” Except me, of course. He heard Matthew’s deep, hoarse breathing. “Get hold of yourself. You did what you had to do. Now you must do your job, you must keep moving forward. All will be well.”
“But does it really matter anymore, Darius? Blowing up Bayway, I realize you believed this would help our cause, but now, like you said, because of Vanessa, the Feds know who I am and will be hunting me. And all those deaths, I swore never to be like them, like those terrorists who killed my family.”
What a twisted-up fool Matthew was. Who cared about the deaths at Bayway? Hadn’t he just murdered both Ian and Vanessa? Zahir would never understand this genius, who seemed now like a whining, hysterical child.
Patience, patience. Pull him back in.
“Matthew, where are you? What are you doing? We need to speak more about this.”
Then suddenly Matthew turned on a dime, something that always amazed Zahir. The steel was back. “I’ll do my job, Darius. You do yours,” and Matthew hung up.
Zahir stared at his cell phone, not wanting to believe that Matthew had actually hung up on him.
He realized he wasn’t surprised that Vanessa had been some sort of undercover agent. But it was Ian—he’d protected her? Was he an agent as well? No, impossible. Ian was a true believer and loved Matthew like a brother. Yet he’d tried to protect her. Well, in the end, who cared? It didn’t matter, they were both dead, it was over. Except Matthew was right, the FBI would be after him, guns blazing.
His only worry was that Matthew’s brain would twist him up again and he wouldn’t follow through on the assignment he and Darius had worked out. That, or he’d be caught first.
&n
bsp; Either way, Zahir had fail-safes. He always had fail-safes.
As soon as he had the blueprints, he’d be ready to move out. In fact, he was rather looking forward to finally having his moment in the sun. His wits, his abilities, pitted against theirs. He would be tested, and he relished it.
• • •
When room service knocked with his breakfast, he shouted for them to leave the tray. When he knew he was alone again, he shrugged into a hotel robe and sat down to enjoy the big continental breakfast. He knew he needed the carbs for sustained energy, since after this he’d be surviving off granola, jerky, and water. He’d be off, into the woods, on his own to take care of the business himself.
36
BISHOP TAKES C4 CHECK
Silver Corner Diner
Baltimore Inner Harbor
When Zahir parked his rental at the Inner Harbor, he paused a moment to look at the water, covered in a light mist, vapor rising as the morning heated. He breathed in deeply, regretted it. The air smelled of algae and waste.
He walked the half-block to Silver Corner, a mom-and-pop diner he’d eaten at once three years before. It now sported a cheerful new blue-and-white-striped awning.
Unfortunately, the inside still needed a serious face-lift. He stepped inside and inhaled bacon grease and mildew.
He eased onto a brown cracked vinyl seat in one of the six booths. He ordered black coffee—that surely couldn’t poison him—from a middle-aged waitress with a towering beehive of brassy red hair. Over her left oversized breast her nametag read, fittingly, Red. That made him smile.
“Getcha anything else, hon?”
What planet was she from?
“No, the coffee will be fine.” He turned to look out the window and saw his contact on the street outside, wearing, of all things, a tan trench coat and a slouchy hat pulled down over his forehead. Well, hello, Mr. Subtle. You’re pretending to be the spy who came in from the cold?
The End Game Page 14
