by Mike Lawson
Unfortunately, one of the things Reza said to Broderick was that 9/11 had occurred in part because of people like Broderick, people who made absolutely no attempt to understand the struggles of Muslims throughout the world. And maybe, Reza had said, it would take another 9/11 before Broderick and his kind would wake up.
Using less technical jargon than they normally did, the FBI concluded that Reza Zarif had just plain snapped. In the last seven years, he had dug himself into a deep financial pit because he had neglected his law practice, and he was perpetually resentful because the government’s lawyers usually kicked his ass in court. He’d lost weight, his hair had turned prematurely gray, and, always an emotional man, he’d become downright volatile, flying into rages on the slightest provocation. To help make the FBI’s point, The New York Times showed a still picture of Reza berating Broderick on Meet the Press, his eyes bugging out, his face twisted with fury, looking in general like an escapee from a mental institution. He just snapped, the FBI spokesman said.
So who should DeMarco believe: Hassan Zarif, a man who claimed his brother was not only sane but patriotic, or a legion of qualified FBI agents who had gathered a mountain of evidence and had guys with doctorates in psychology backing up their claims?
DeMarco decided that the answer to that question would have to wait until tomorrow.
He ordered a second martini.
7
As the cab cruised down Main Street at precisely thirty miles per hour, Jeremy Potter took in the neat shops, the old-fashioned lampposts, the courthouse that had been the background for a Rockwell cover on The Saturday Evening Post – and he immediately begin to relax. The last two months had been very hectic. He was so glad to be home.
For two months, he’d worked like an absolute slave. He’d spent hours on the Internet and had taken trips to Washington, New York, Philadelphia, and Trenton to observe people who often lived in minority neighborhoods and where, being a small white man of fifty-three, he’d felt quite vulnerable. And then there’d been the meetings with the two government people. Those meetings hadn’t taken long, but they’d been extremely stressful, by far the riskiest part of his assignment. But now it was finally over and he’d been successful, and Mr Lincoln had been very pleased.
He didn’t know why Mr Lincoln had asked him to do what he did, but that wasn’t at all unusual. He would be given a task – typically research, sometimes surveillance, frequently duties as a courier – but he would rarely know how his role fit into Mr Lincoln’s grand design. Come to think of it, it seemed as if this time he knew much more than he normally did. He was certainly able to see a pattern in his research, and the government men – well, in order to bribe them, although bribe may not be the correct term, he had to be very specific regarding Mr Lincoln’s expectations.
Yes, he could definitely see the outline of Mr Lincoln’s plan. He couldn’t see every detail – not how it would be executed, or why or when or by whom – but he could see enough that it made him feel uncomfortable.
In most respects, Mr Lincoln was an ideal employer. He paid well, he was invariably pleasant in conversation, and his directions were always perfectly clear. But he had always suspected that knowing too much of Mr Lincoln’s plans could be dangerous – terminally dangerous – and right now he had this little mental itch, this tickling sensation at the back of his brain, that said maybe, just maybe … ?
Oh, quit being such a nervous Nelly, he told himself. He’d worked for Mr Lincoln for years. He was a trusted employee. A valued employee. And he’d been paid. He patted his chest and felt the reassuring lump of cash in the envelope in the inside pocket of his blazer. Mr Lincoln certainly wouldn’t have paid him if his plan was to harm him. That would be illogical, and Mr Lincoln was never illogical.
The cab stopped at his address. He tipped the driver exactly fifteen percent and stood for a moment on the sidewalk admiring his home. He privately thought of it as a cottage – loved his small patch of lawn, the ivy crawling up the chimney, the daisies that grew near the door – and he didn’t care one whit that his white picket fence was considered by some a cliché.
He unlocked his front door, dropped his suitcase in the foyer, and silenced the alarm. It was so, so good to be home. His only disappointment was that Mabel wasn’t there. But he’d pick her up from the kennel later, and then he and his cat would spend the next week reading, relaxing, and cooking – and thinking about how they’d spend the money in the envelope. Maybe they’d take a trip to Martha’s Vineyard; they hadn’t been there in years.
He walked into the living room. The first thing he thought when he saw the woman sitting on the loveseat holding a silenced automatic in her hand was not How did she get in without setting off the alarm? No, his mind leaped right past that question.
His first thought – and his last thought – was that the person Mr Lincoln had sent to kill him was very beautiful.
8
DeMarco figured the best way to get in to see the secretary of Homeland Security was to get up at 4:45 A.M. and be waiting outside the man’s office at 5:30.
DeMarco was not a willing early riser. Regardless of what time he went to bed the night before, he found that if he woke up any time before 7 A.M. his head felt as if it were stuffed with barley. His brain didn’t work; his fingers couldn’t button his shirt; he couldn’t find his wallet or watch or keys or anything else that he needed. And his stomach just recoiled at the thought of food.
But rise he did. He knew that General Andrew Banks, secretary of Homeland Security, arrived at work early, usually before 6 A.M., and once at work the man’s calendar would be completely full. DeMarco also knew he would never get an appointment to see Banks unless Mahoney made the appointment for him, and Mahoney had made it clear that he didn’t want to be connected with this assignment.
So DeMarco drove to Banks’s office and convinced the security guards that he was a messenger from Congress. He showed them his congressional ID, looked humble and messenger-like, and held up a manila envelope on which he’d written in Magic Marker: GENERAL BANKS, EYES ONLY. He had underlined eyes only. The guards made him walk through the metal detectors, copied down the information on his ID, and then allowed him to stand outside Banks’s office door.
At five-forty-five, DeMarco saw Banks striding down the hall like a man who could hardly wait to get to work and start kicking ass. He had a gray crew cut, a prominent nose, and wore wire-rimmed glasses over a pair of hostile gray eyes. He was tall and, though in his sixties, his stomach was still hard and flat. DeMarco suspected the maniac rose every morning at daybreak and performed those same masochistic exercises that he had once done as a midshipman at Annapolis. His first words of cheery greeting to DeMarco were, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Banks wasn’t particularly fond of DeMarco, although DeMarco wasn’t sure why. It may have been because Banks was an ex-marine, a retired three-star general, and considered that DeMarco would never have met the marines’ few-good-men standard. Or it could have been because DeMarco had once done some work for Banks. The case had been a complicated one involving an assassination attempt on the president in which the Secret Service had been involved, and it had concluded with Banks, Mahoney, and DeMarco knowing a secret they should not have kept from the public but which they did. This, DeMarco figured, gave him a certain amount of leverage over the general, which was why he had decided to talk to him instead of to the FBI. He knew the FBI wouldn’t tell him anything unless Mahoney made them, but because the Zarif incident was terrorist-related, he figured Homeland Security would know almost as much as the Bureau.
‘I need a favor,’ DeMarco said, answering Banks’s question.
‘What kinda favor?’ Banks said, his eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. But then he would have been suspicious if DeMarco had asked him the date.
‘I need to talk to one of your guys about the Reza Zarif thing.’
‘Why?’ Banks asked.
‘I can’t tell you.’
&n
bsp; ‘Are you out of your goddamn mind?’ Banks said. ‘Do you have any idea how much heat I’m under because of everything that’s happened lately?’
‘I think so,’ DeMarco said.
‘But you still think I’ll let you waltz in here and start poking around without telling me why?’
‘General, I swear I’m not going to do anything to cause you a problem,’ DeMarco said. ‘I just want—’
‘Forget it,’ Banks said, and started to unlock his office door. So much for prior association.
DeMarco had to say something to get Banks to help him, and he was pretty sure Banks wouldn’t talk to the press because he hated reporters. At least DeMarco hoped he still hated them.
‘Okay, look,’ DeMarco said. ‘Mahoney grew up with Reza Zarif’s father, and he’s known Reza since he was born. He just wants to know a little more about what happened, something so maybe he can understand why the guy did what he did, but he doesn’t want to ask the Bureau because they blab too much.’
Banks stopped turning the key in the lock and DeMarco watched as he mulled things over. He knew Banks didn’t particularly like Mahoney either, but he also knew that Mahoney had been helpful to Banks and his department in the past.
‘And I swear, General,’ DeMarco said, ‘if I learn anything that reflects poorly on Homeland Security, I’ll tell you and no one else.’
‘Shit,’ Banks said. ‘These days everything reflects poorly on Homeland Security: FEMA fuckin’ up recovery after those tornadoes in Kansas. Those two kids tryin’ to blow up the tunnel in Baltimore. That one-legged al-Qaeda bozo gettin’ into the country and then gettin’ away. I mean, Jesus – it’s like there’s no end to it. All I can say is I’m glad I’ve already got a pension from the corps, because it’s damn unlikely I’m gonna be in this job much longer.’ Banks felt sorry for himself a couple of seconds more and then said, ‘Okay. The guy you wanna talk to is Jerry Hansen. He’s my liaison guy with the Bureau for this kinda stuff. He’s not in this early – none of these goddamn people ever are – but I’ll leave a message on his voice mail telling him you’ll be dropping by.’
‘Thank you,’ DeMarco said.
‘Yeah, right. You fuck me over on this, DeMarco, and I’ll run you down with my car.’
The Homeland Security official that DeMarco was supposed to meet wouldn’t be in his office until 8 A.M. So since he had time to kill, he found a place to have breakfast and read the morning paper, and, as he usually did, he turned to the sports page first. The gloomy headlines on the front page could always wait.
The Redskins had lost five games, two games in their division. DeMarco couldn’t understand it. The team had three receivers that were faster than cheetahs, a quarterback with an arm like a rocket launcher, a decent offensive line, and a running back who could knock over tanks – and they couldn’t score. The Post’s sportswriters had already started doing playoff math scenarios. If the Redskins won all their remaining games, and if teams A, B, and C won the next five games, and if Teams D, E, and F lost the next five games, the Skins could get a wild-card spot. Yes, it was mathematically possible that Washington would make the playoffs – just like a hole-in-one and a basket from the half-court line are mathematically possible.
Sports news consumed and digested, he turned to the front page but gave up after a few minutes, unable to focus. He couldn’t stop thinking about his ex-wife and the conversation they’d had yesterday morning.
Marie DeMarco had been his first love. He’d met her when he was sixteen and she was fourteen. She’d been the first girl he’d kissed, the first woman he’d made love to. They’d dated throughout high school, broke up briefly when DeMarco went off to college, then connected again and married after he had completed law school.
He had wanted kids. She hadn’t.
Marie was, without a doubt, the sexiest woman he had ever known. She was pretty, of course, and an absolute knockout when she dressed up. She had big expressive eyes, large wonderful breasts, a trim little butt, and good legs – but it wasn’t just her looks that made her so desirable. Some women just ooze sex appeal. Take the young Elizabeth Taylor or Sharon Stone: There are dozens of Hollywood starlets just as beautiful as either woman, but nowhere near as sexy. Why? God only knew. Or maybe God had nothing to do with it.
Sex appeal aside, Marie DeMarco was hugely flawed: vain, selfish, shallow – and unfaithful. DeMarco suspected, after the fact, that his cousin wasn’t the only man she’d slept with while they were married, but it was the affair with Danny that had hurt the most. Danny had been his best friend when they were kids, and Marie’s infidelity had shredded his ego and pierced his heart and almost destroyed him financially – and yet here the damn woman was asking for his help. She was unbelievable.
She’d told DeMarco what had happened. Danny and a leg-breaker named Vince Merlino who worked for Tony Benedetto had been assigned to collect an overdue debt from a gambling junkie – and Vince had killed the junkie. Danny had been seen fleeing the scene by a witness and was now residing in a cell on Riker’s Island. The police knew Danny hadn’t killed the gambler; they knew it, but they wouldn’t admit it. Danny was primarily a fence, a man who was very good at moving stolen goods, more like a charming retail salesman than a thug. The cops knew he didn’t carry a gun, and he didn’t have any violence on his sheet. But Danny refused to give up his partner, so the cops had no choice: Danny was going to swing for the gambler’s murder.
‘So why the hell doesn’t he just tell them this Vince guy did it?’ DeMarco had asked his ex.
‘Because he’d be a rat,’ Marie had said.
‘He is a rat,’ DeMarco said.
‘And because Vince is Mr Benedetto’s nephew.’
Oh, man, that wasn’t good.
‘So what in the hell do you want from me, Marie?’ he had asked her. ‘If you’re expecting me to pay for his lawyer or put up his bail, you’re out of your mind.’
‘I don’t expect you to pay for anything. They won’t give him bail and Mr Benedetto’s springing for the lawyer.’
‘So then what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is Mr Benedetto expects him to do the time, that’s what the damn problem is. The lawyer will get him the best deal he can, but if Danny gives up anybody, Vince or anyone else in Tony’s crew, Tony will have him killed.’ She had started crying. ‘They’re gonna put him away for fifteen years, Joe, maybe longer.’
‘But what do you want me to do, Marie?’
‘I want you to get Mr Mahoney to get him a pardon.’
DeMarco had laughed out loud. He hadn’t been able to stop himself. ‘Marie’ – he almost added you fuckin’ moron – ‘first of all, the speaker of the House can’t give pardons to convicted criminals in the State of New York. And second, there’s no way in hell he’s going to ask the president to give Danny one.’
‘But—’
‘Marie, I hate you and I hate Danny, but even if I didn’t, you gotta believe me when I tell you there’s no way he’s gonna get a pardon, not from anyone, and there’s nothing I can do to make such a thing happen.’
When he hung up, she was crying, and for some damn reason he felt bad. To hell with her, he said to himself – a phrase he’d used many times since she’d left him.
At 8:30 A.M., burping a bit from his corned beef hash and eggs – calories and cholesterol be damned – DeMarco strolled back into Homeland Security and five minutes later was sitting in Jerry Hansen’s office.
Hansen looked so much like Andy Banks physically – short gray hair, trim and in good condition, wire-rimmed glasses – that DeMarco figured he was probably an ex-marine, just like his boss. Maybe a retired colonel, DeMarco thought, Banks’s trusted right-hand guy when they had served together in the corps.
DeMarco decided to see if his instincts were on the mark. ‘Were you in the marines with General Banks, Mr Hansen?’ DeMarco asked.
‘Call me Jerry, and hell, no,’ Hansen said. ‘I was never in the service and never wanted to b
e. When they formed up Homeland Security they pulled all these government departments together. I was a supervisor over in ICE, that’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement, but in this job I got now I just keep track of things. This terrorist shit, you’ve got the FBI involved, local cops, and sometimes CIA, NSA, and DIA. And internal to Homeland Security, you got ICE, TSA, Coast Guard, and maybe Secret Service. You need a damn spreadsheet – I can show you one – just to keep track of who’s who and who’s doing what. So that’s my job. I try to make sure I know what all the players are doing and keep the general informed. And man, what a hard-ass he is.’
‘Got it,’ DeMarco said.
‘So,’ Hansen said. ‘The general left me a message saying you worked for Congress and I’m supposed to fill you in on Reza Zarif.’
The ‘worked for Congress’ part was good, DeMarco thought. That made it sound like whatever he was doing had been officially sanctioned.
‘So what do you wanna know?’ Hansen said. ‘Most everything’s been reported in the papers, and for the most part the news guys got it right.’
‘One thing I’m curious about is this link to al-Qaeda the Bureau says they found.’
‘Well, that’s classified,’ Hansen said.
‘Come on, Hansen. I’ve got a security clearance and I’m from Congress. And your boss told you to talk to me.’
Hansen screwed up his face as he debated giving up national secrets to a complete stranger, but he finally relented.
‘They found a letter in Zarif’s house that came from a mosque in Atlanta. The letter was thanking Zarif for a donation he sent them.’
