Against the Law

by Against the Law (epub)

  Rebbe smiled like a grandpa and patted Joe’s knee. “Then we understand each other perfectly.”

  When Joe got back upstairs, the others were waiting.

  “We checked,” Liam said. “And if you really want to see Richards, he will be hosting an event at his office tomorrow.”

  “What kind of event?”

  “You know, a big 9/11 thing, full of important patriots.”

  “Can you get me in?” he asked Juno.

  “Of course. But Joe, there will be a hundred witnesses.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m just going to have a quiet word with the man. And what about the tracker on the Russian’s Benz, is it still active?”

  Juno shrugged. “Yeah but it’s at a repair shop, no doubt getting the shit scrubbed off it.”

  Joe turned to Cash. “Keep on it, will you? I want you to see if he takes you to Anton.” He glanced over at Yelena. “Looks like we are going to have to pay him a visit too.”

  “Americans claim they remember 9/11 but they remember nothing of the terror they cause. This year we will remind them. I am bringing a gift to Ground Zero. The mountains of dead and the smoking wreckage I leave will be the true memorial.”

  Immediately after reading Zahir’s message, Donna ended the meeting in her office and went to her boss, Tom’s. She was told he was busy but when she explained she had just received a serious threat, she was called in anyway, where she found him in an important, classified meeting . . . with her ex-husband.

  “Shut the door,” Tom said, as she froze on the threshold. She shut it and stepped in. “Donna, you know Agent Powell here of course.”

  “Mike,” she said, managing a polite smile. “When did you get back into the country?”

  “Just now,” he said. “I wanted to brief Tom on 9/11-related intel we gathered overseas.”

  “And when he mentioned Zahir, I figured we better bring you into the conversation,” Tom said.

  “You’ve been investigating Zahir?” Donna asked him, sitting down now.

  “We pick up chatter, though it sounds like you might know more than us at this point,” Mike said.

  “You say there’s a new threat?” Tom asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Donna opened her folder. “This message came in addressed to me.” She read the whole thing out, facing Tom, but when she glanced over at Mike, his eyes were wide and his mouth hung slightly ajar. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “What?” He sat up and regained his composure. “Of course. I mean . . . it’s an alarming development.”

  “Yes, it’s bad news,” Tom said, leaning back in his chair. “But we get a lot of threats. What makes this one credible?”

  “It’s from Zahir,” Donna said. “We have reason to believe he is here, sir. Or his agents are.”

  Again, Mike seemed to jerk in his chair, like someone had yanked his chain. Then he turned back into the condescending, whining Mike she knew so well. “Are you sure of this Donna? I mean, where’s your evidence? As far as we know, Zahir operates overseas.”

  “Then I guess there’s a lot you don’t know,” she answered calmly. “What a surprise.”

  Tom stood. “That’s exactly why I brought you in, Donna, since you and your team have been working this. Now look . . .” He pointed at both of them. “I know there’s some personal feeling here, some anger and past resentment . . .”

  Mike and Donna both looked at the floor in embarrassment as Tom went on: “But it’s time to put that behind us. To drain the bad blood and bury the hatchet. And that’s why I’m asking. Do you, Agent Zamora, think you can work with this man . . . even though he’s CIA?”

  “Sir?” Donna cleared her throat. “I mean, yes, of course, sir.”

  Tom waved a hand. “I know, it’s tough on me too. But there’s a bigger picture here. Don’t you agree Agent Powell?”

  “Ah, yes, sir,” Mike said, sitting up straight. “I agree completely.”

  “There’s one thing we all want: this Zahir’s balls on a hook. Let’s keep our eye on those balls. What difference does it make who does the actual chopping and who holds him down? And who wears them on a necklace?”

  “Absolutely sir,” Donna said. “That’s why I came to work this morning.”

  “Exactly. Good. Excellent. So in that spirit, why don’t you update us now on where your investigation is at present.”

  “Well . . .” Donna hesitated. She glanced at Mike, who was listening attentively. She still didn’t trust him for shit, whatever the boss said. “Actually sir, I was just about to meet with my team when this threat came through. Perhaps I should prepare a report and submit it to you later . . .”

  “Just give us the gist, Donna.” Tom sat down and leaned back, ready to hear a tale. “Do you have a lead in this case or not?”

  “Yes, sir, we do.” Donna sighed. “We have reason to suspect that a corporation, or some of its employees, is involved, possibly cooperating with Zahir in the heroin smuggling or else being used by them.”

  “What corporation?”

  Now Donna glanced sideways at Mike, while still addressing Tom. “It’s called Wildwater, sir. They have an office here in Manhattan.”

  “Wildwater,” Tom repeated. “Never heard of it. Ring any bells Powell?”

  Mike shrugged. “Nope. But I will check it out and get back to you.”

  “Okay, then,” Tom said and leaned over to shake his hand, signaling the meeting was done. “Back to work.”

  “I will keep you posted, sir,” Donna said.

  “Right,” Tom said. “Do that. After tomorrow.”

  “Sir?”

  “In case you forgot to look at the calendar today, or the paper, or the goddamn internet, it’s September 10th. Tomorrow you will be on the ground with everyone else, working security.”

  “But you just said yourself we’ve got to hunt this Zahir down and chop his nuts off. Don’t you think . . .”

  “I think the place to be sniffing around for those nuts tomorrow will be down among the sweaty crowds of tourists at Ground Zero, Zamora. And that’s where you’ll be.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As they walked into the hall, Mike touched Donna’s arm, but she instinctively drew back.

  “Sorry if that was weird,” he said. “I had no idea you were working the case . . .”

  “It’s fine,” Donna said. “But when were you going to tell your daughter you’re back? Or were you?”

  Mike looked genuinely stricken, and she felt a twinge of regret. “I was, I just . . . you know what it’s like in the field for me. Just please, tell her Daddy will see her soon. I promise.”

  “Okay,” Donna said. “I will.” And for the first time that day, she believed him.

  Mike Powell was trying to think. As soon as he heard that message, purportedly from Zahir, he knew he had to get ahold of Richards and Toomey. What the hell were they thinking? Any hope he had of burying the FBI investigation and stonewalling Donna went out the window when they issued a domestic threat, in New York, the day before 9/11. Unless it wasn’t them. Was it possible someone else was now posing as Zahir? And how to get in touch, now that he knew they might be under surveillance? He couldn’t walk into the building. He couldn’t use his cell. Even going to his own office and calling from a secure line suddenly made him paranoid. So he did it the old fashioned way: after much searching, he found an actual working payphone near the men’s room in a hotel, called Richards, and told him to call the payphone from a safe line. But Richards was no help at all: Toomey had left early that morning to pickup the latest delivery, and somewhere along the way, he had shaken off the Russians and never returned. They knew nothing about the Zahir message or who had sent it. Richards started going on about Donna, and how much of a threat did she pose, and could Powell still handle it? Powell lied and said yes; to his own surprise, he found himself worried about her now, about what it might mean if Richards decided to “handle” it another way. He was also worried by the edge of panic he now heard in Richa
rds’s voice. The shadow they had created had come to life.

  34

  AFTER WORK THAT NIGHT, Donna met Blaze at the bar as promised, though she hadn’t promised to be a fun date, brooding in the beer Blaze bought her about work and the sudden return of her ex-husband.

  “What a shit show,” Donna muttered. “The most epic shit show in a long-running hit series.”

  Blaze shrugged. “You got to learn to let it go. Shit goes sideways sometimes. So be it.”

  “Yeah but the thing of it is, this was my first time really running with the ball, you know? My idea to begin with, my lead to Jersey, practically my team. Then it all blew up in my face.”

  Blaze shrugged again. “Not really. I mean, yeah, it kind of did, but you learned something, right? Wildwater. That’s the next step. You keep going. And sooner or later you catch up. Like on a manhunt.” While she talked her eyes wandered. A pale young woman with long red hair was alone at the bar, sipping a mixed drink and sneaking looks at their table.

  “Or a womanhunt,” Donna said.

  “What?” Blaze asked, returning her own gaze to Donna.

  “Nothing. Anyway, you’re right. Got to persevere.”

  “Exactly.”

  “As long as we survive tomorrow’s foreign invasion. And I mean tourists, not terrorists.” Donna talked on, though now Blaze was back to smiling at the redhead. “Am I boring you?”

  “A little,” Blaze said, with a grin, then laughed. “No, sorry, of course not. Just tired.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Donna said, and stood. “I’m going to go home and practice smiling for tomorrow. I’ll let you stay here and . . . rest.” She laughed and bent over to kiss Blaze on the cheek. “Thanks for the beer, buddy,” she added and went.

  “See you, special agent,” Blaze called after her, then returned her gaze to the redhead. She stood and sauntered over, like marshals in saloons have been doing for over a century.

  “Good evening,” she said to the redhead. “Sorry if this is too forward, but my friend left, and there’s an empty seat at my table, and I thought you might be tired of standing.”

  The redhead beamed. “How thoughtful,” she said in an English accent, which was an added attraction for Blaze. “Not too forward at all. I’d love to join you.”

  “Great,” Blaze smiled back and held out a hand. “My name’s Blaze.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Blaze,” she said, placing her soft, childish hand in Blaze’s, the black nail polish chipped. “My name is Victoria. But my friends call me Vick.”

  “So . . . I have a confession to make. Don’t be mad.”

  “Um . . . okay.” Donna had just walked into the house and found her mom there waiting, with her laptop in her lap. She put her bag down and stowed away her gun, then kissed her on the cheek. “Do I need to read you your rights?”

  “No, but you have to promise not to be mad and not to just say I’m crazy.”

  “How can I?”

  “Promise.”

  “Okay I’ll do my best.”

  “Honey . . .” She opened the laptop. “I made you a profile.”

  “A what?”

  “A profile.”

  “Like for a serial killer?”

  “For dating!” She showed her the screen, which showed a dating website profile, complete with a photo of Donna.

  “Oh, my God, you’re crazy.”

  “I’m sorry but I had too.”

  “What do you mean had to? Of course you didn’t have to.”

  “I felt so sad. Seeing you still so young and beautiful and so lonely. So I made a nice profile for you, and yes, most of the messages are from serial killers . . .”

  “Great. I will forward them to the bureau.”

  “But tonight one came that I think you will really like. Mija, he’s perfect! Just your type.”

  “My type? I don’t even have a type.”

  “Look, he’s a veteran. Special Forces. Got a whole bunch of medals. Purple heart. Now he does consulting. He’s handsome. Strong jaw. Blue eyes. He’s in town for 9/11.”

  Reluctantly, Donna glanced down at the profile her mom clicked on. She was right, he was handsome. And his service was impressive.

  “He walks with a cane,” Yolanda added. “Bad leg from a gunshot. But I think that’s kind of sexy, you know, wounded warrior. Manly. I mean as long as what’s between his legs wasn’t shot off.”

  “Mom, please. You’re going to give me nightmares.”

  “Anyway, I didn’t want to lose him,” Yolanda rattled on. “So I wrote back for you!”

  “What? How could you? Jesus.”

  “And he wants to meet tomorrow! At the ceremony.”

  “Well I hope you two have a nice time,” Donna said. “Because I will be busy working.”

  “Mija, please, you have to answer him at least. He’s a war hero. You can’t ghost him.”

  “Ghost? How do you even know about all this?” Donna sighed as she looked through the email exchange. He was literate at least, with correct spelling and punctuation. And polite. And patriotic. A squared-away soldier boy. And she had to admit, to herself if never to her mother, he was her type. “God, I’m so sorry I ever taught you to use the internet.”

  She wrote back to him, just apologizing for her Mom’s meddling and explaining that she’d actually be working tomorrow.

  I understand completely, he answered. My niece talked me into making my profile. Well, I will be down at Ground Zero anyway, paying my respects—I’ve lost a lot of friends since 9/11 and I’ve never seen the memorial. But it’s hard to get around on this leg. Maybe you’ll have time for a drink after?

  Donna smiled. He was a good guy at least. Her mom had decent instincts, after all, and she meant well. I can’t promise about the drink, but why don’t you call me in the morning when you get downtown? I think the least I can do is arrange VIP access. She sent her work number. Ask for Agent Zamora. Donna.

  Really? He wrote back. That would be outstanding. My full name is Rick Toomey. And thank you!

  Thank you, Rick. For your service.

  Blaze didn’t realize her badge was gone till she woke up. She had a few drinks with that English chick (or British? She got them mixed up), then they started making out, then dancing, then dancing and making out, and then, just as she was about to suggest taking the party elsewhere, the damn girl went to the bathroom and vanished. Gone, just like that, a fugitive in the night. Cold feet, Blaze figured, and a wicked case of blue balls for her. Probably a pillow princess anyway, a soft pale redhead like that, with that stuck-up accent. But by then a couple of Blaze’s pals had turned up and they bought her tequila shots to commiserate. By the time she made it back out to Jersey City, the room was spinning and she barely got her shoes off before hitting the bed.

  The way Blaze figured it, there were a lot of places her badge could be: on her own floor somewhere, under the couch or table, on the floor of her friend’s car from when they drove her home, or on the floor of the bar, which she’d call as soon as they opened. And if she did think about the redhead, Vick (cute name), holding her close when they danced, grinding against her, she didn’t think about how her nimble hand might have slid into her pocket. And as she washed her Advil down with Diet Coke followed by black coffee, she definitely didn’t feel lucky to be alive. But she was.

  Vicky felt a bit sad leaving the bar. It would have been fun to go home with that tough, sexy marshal and play with her some more, in private. But, business before pleasure: she couldn’t kill everyone cute she met, unfortunately. A dead federal agent, the night before 9/11, would kick up a lot more fuss than a drunk one who got her ID stolen. So Vicky, who still had a hard time finding her way around New York the second she left the Manhattan grid, got in a cab on Bleecker Street and took it all the way out to Brighton Beach. She suspected the cabbie took the scenic route, but who cared, it wasn’t her money. She was on expense. She just relaxed and enjoyed the ride out to the address that Nikolai had gotten from his Russian conn
ections. It looked nothing like the real Brighton of course. But it was a bit cooler than downtown had been. And she did smell the ocean on the breeze.

  The old man was suspicious at first—some girl he’d never seen before, and English too—but when she dropped Anton’s name he could hardly refuse. So he let her in, offered her tea, which she accepted, took her picture, and then left her sipping on the couch while he altered the federal marshal’s ID she gave him. He didn’t ask any questions. He couldn’t, since he barely spoke English and her Russian was rudimentary.

  When he emerged with the finished product, she praised his work and then, reaching into her bag for the money, tasered him instead. He woke up chained to his balcony, dangling over the side, with the sound of the ocean in his ears and wind twisting all around him. Fear crashed in like the waves. His legs kicked helplessly like he was drowning.

  “It’s lovely out here,” Vicky told him. She was smoking one of his Russian cigarettes. “Though you can feel autumn in the air, can’t you? Makes me a bit sad. A poetic feeling really.”

  “Help . . .” he managed to croak in English. “Help. I give you money.”

  “Not money.” She leaned closer. “Information.”

  He nodded. She leaned even closer, blowing smoke into his face. “Yelena Noylaskya. Where is she?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know.”

  She took another drag and coughed. “Bit harsh this,” she commented, and ground it out on his hand. He howled and yanked away, losing his grip on the railing and putting his full weight on the cuffs, which cut into his wrists. He grabbed the bar again.

  “I’ll stick to my own if you don’t mind,” Vicky said now and lit another, English cigarette. “Yelena?” she asked, holding it over him. “What name is she living under?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t understand English. Sorry.”

  She burned him again. He screamed again but held on. Then she asked him again in Russian. This time he looked her right in the eye and whispered something back that she couldn’t translate but didn’t need a dictionary to understand. It was a curse.