“I want two hundred fifty thousand pounds, cash,” the Dark said. “Small bills. Or I kill Paulo.”
“When?” asked Chuck.
“Tomorrow morning. Early.”
“That’s very short notice.”
“You’re a rich man. Make it happen.”
Jack wanted to speak, but he held his tongue and, instead, fired off an e-mail to Chuck.
“How do we make the exchange?” asked Chuck.
“I’ll call you tomorrow at half past five with instructions.”
“Five thirty A.M. London time?”
“Yes.”
“You must be joking.”
“I’m joking only if your idea of a punch line is a bullet in your friend Paulo’s head.”
Chuck paused, and Jack hoped he was reading his e-mail. “One thing,” said Chuck. “I want to talk to Vince. I need to know he’s alive.”
Jack could breathe again; his e-mail had gone through.
“Blow me,” said the Dark. “Get the money and you get to talk to Paulo. And by the way: Shada, if you’re listening, I know you copied some files from my computer.”
Shada stiffened, and Jack squeezed her hand for reassurance—and to make sure she said nothing.
“That makes me very angry,” the Dark said, “but I’m a reasonable man. I want you, personally, to deliver the money tomorrow. If you do, we’ll call it even. If you don’t . . .”
The line went silent. The Dark was gone.
Jack tried to get Shada to look at him, but she was staring at the floor, numb. “Listen to me,” said Jack. “If that’s the game he wants to play—insisting that Shada deliver the ransom—we need to revisit the idea of just calling the police.”
“No,” said Shada. “He’ll kill Vince.”
“It’s not an option,” said Chuck. “I could run this guy through every conceivable database, and I guarantee you he’d show up on every terrorist watch list in the world. You know what that means for hostage negotiation.”
Shada looked even more worried. “What does it mean?”
Until now, Jack hadn’t thought it all the way through, but he quickly caught Chuck’s drift.
“The United States has repeatedly stated that as a matter of official government policy it does not negotiate with terrorists,” said Jack. “Even though we’re not on U.S. soil, Vince is an American law enforcement officer. Scotland Yard will likely respect U.S. policy.”
Shada’s eyes widened. “If we don’t negotiate, Vince is a dead man.”
Chuck said, “Do you disagree with that analysis, Jack?”
Jack processed it. “I can’t disagree.”
“So what’s it going to be, Shada? Can you deliver?”
She was staring at the computer screen even though it was blank.
“Shada,” Chuck repeated, “what’s it gonna be?”
Chapter Sixty-six
Vince was alone in the hotel room. His ribs ached. The side of his face felt swollen. The Dark certainly knew how to deliver a punch. But Vince was proud of himself.
If the Dark knew Jack Swyteck was in London, he hadn’t heard it from Vince.
Vince had spent his time alone counting steps, trying to diagram the floor plan in his head. More precisely, he was counting the sound of the Dark’s footsteps each time he crossed the room. Eight steps, twelve o’clock, from the door to the chair Vince was tied to. Six steps, one o’clock, from Vince to a table or a counter where the Dark had popped open a beer or a soda after beating the daylights out of him.
Three steps, nine o’clock, from Vince to the chair on which the Dark had tossed the Brainport after Vince had told him to stick it up his ass.
You weren’t the only one injured in that explosion.
Those words kept swirling around in his head, and he wondered what the Dark had meant by that. Vince’s memory of the explosion in the Mays garage was fuzzy—pushing through the door, the gunshot, the deafening percussion, the flash of light . . . and then nothing until he awoke in the hospital. Rescuers were already in the driveway and acted fast enough to save his life, but not his sight. Firefighters arrived too late to keep the house from burning to the ground. He was lucky to be alive, was the way he tried to look at it—which meant that the Dark, too, was lucky.
You weren’t the only one. . .
Vince could only speculate, and his thoughts ran the gamut on the possible injury to the Dark. Third-degree burns to his skin? Ringing in his ears? Vince wanted the satisfaction of knowing that the Dark had gotten the worst of it, that the man who had murdered McKenna had paid a price. Short of death, what could be worse than blindness? Millions of things, Vince told himself.
But at that moment, he couldn’t think of one.
The door opened, and Vince heard someone enter. It closed quickly, and the chain lock rattled. Then Vince heard footsteps . . . one, two, three . . . and the sound of a heavy sack or backpack dropping onto the luggage rack. A zipper opening—too long for a backpack, maybe a suitcase. Finally, there was the unmistakable sound of a magazine loading into a firearm. The Dark had been out gathering supplies.
“Amazing how much crap you can accumulate in self-storage,” the Dark said smugly.
It was a safe bet that there was more than one handgun in that suitcase. It had sounded like an arsenal, the thud with which it had landed on the luggage rack.
“I have to use the bathroom,” said Vince.
“Go in your pants.”
“You won’t like the smell in the room.”
The argument was a convincing one, even if Vince didn’t really have to go.
“Fine,” said the Dark, starting toward him.
Vince was immediately counting footsteps again. One, two, three . . .
The Dark put a gun to Vince’s head before untying him. “Don’t try anything stupid.”
Six steps, at eleven o’clock, from Vince to the suitcase filled with weapons.
“No problem,” said Vince, the floor plan etched in his brain. “Nothing stupid.”
Andie was still in the main lobby and waiting for an elevator, surrounded by polished granite, glass, and chrome. Her cell chimed. The number was familiar, but it was a dummy—merely a trigger for her to call in to her supervisory agent. Less than five minutes had passed since her last conversation with Harley. The quick callback was cause for concern.
She glanced across the lobby, and on the other side of the plate-glass window the snow was falling even harder. She would never have called her contact from the Black Ice offices on the twelfth floor, but the building lobby was essentially public space. She dialed, gave her contact name, and listened.
“Bad news from Scotland Yard,” said Harley. “They lost track of Hassan.”
“We’ve been tailing him for two months, and they lost him in two days?”
“He attended a prayer session at the East End Mosque. They watched him go in, but they didn’t see him come out.”
“How can that be?”
“In the Yard’s defense, twenty thousand people come and go from that mosque every week. They lost him for about eight hours.”
“So they’ve reconnected?”
“Only because he’s in the Royal London Hospital. Someone found him unconscious in a public park or athletic field in the East End and called for an ambulance. Paramedics picked him up and brought him to emergency.”
“How did he get hurt?”
“Hassan isn’t talking. I don’t know if he’s in a coma, but he still has not regained consciousness. The only report I have is that he took a bad blow to the head.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“No confirmation yet. But it’s possible that an order issued out of Black Ice.”
She knew what he was saying: Hassan had gotten too close to the truth about his nephew’s detention, and one of Littleton’s special-ops guys was on the job. But that didn’t mean the FBI’s read of the situation was correct. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“I just
want you to be aware and know that I have a team on alert if you need to be extricated.”
“Is Jack in any danger?”
Harley paused, as if reluctant to say what he had to say. “Andie, I understand your concern about the way your assignment intersects with Jack. I told you I would be on your side when the time comes to make an issue out of it. Now is not the time.”
“I’m not saying I’m going to make an issue out of it.”
“You can’t call him. Not at this juncture.”
A janitor rolled a trash can past her. She waited for him to pass, which gave her a moment to think about her response. But she still didn’t know what to tell her supervisor.
“Andie, you can’t jump in and out of role as you please. I promised you that this operation was on the verge of wrapping up, and you agreed to come back and finish what you’d started—no more leaves of absence. That’s the assignment, and that means you can’t call Jack.”
She considered it further.
“Andie, did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, I heard you,” she said, acknowledging only that.
Jack and Shada rode down the elevator in silence. Step one was to get their hands on the cash, and Jack had to defer to Chuck on that part of the plan. For the next couple of hours, at least, Jack had no choice but to follow Chuck’s instructions.
The elevator doors opened to an empty lobby. A black taxi was waiting in the motor court on the other side of the revolving door. Before heading out, Jack took the opportunity to pull Shada aside and make one last plea.
“You don’t have to do this,” he told her.
“We can’t call the police. You and Chuck are in agreement on that. I’m the one Habib wants.”
“The delivery is always negotiable, especially when all we’re talking about is the person who makes the drop. Chuck can manufacture an excuse for you.”
“Then who is going to do it?”
Jack paused, not quite believing what he was about to say. “I will.”
“You? Why should you do it?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because you don’t owe Vince anything.”
That wasn’t exactly true, but the fact that Vince had once stood up to a crazed hostage taker and negotiated for Theo’s release wasn’t the driving force here. “This isn’t about who owes what to whom,” said Jack.
Her eyes welled. “You couldn’t be more wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you understand? I owe everybody. I betrayed my husband. The lover I took turned out to be the man who murdered our daughter. Vince lost his sight trying to save McKenna from him. It’s time for me to step up and do something about it.”
Jack couldn’t argue with her feelings.
“I’ll make the delivery,” she said. “That’s final.”
Jack followed her through the revolving door, and they climbed into the back of the cab. Shada announced the address.
“Bengali Town?” the driver said. “Nothing much open up that way at two A.M.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Shada. “Hurry, please.”
Chapter Sixty-seven
The cell rang just as the Dark finished untying the ropes. He pressed the gun to Paulo’s forehead and checked the incoming number. It was Littleton calling from his encrypted line at Black Ice. The Dark took it, but only briefly.
“I’m not alone,” he said. “Call me back in ten minutes.”
He tucked his cell away and started retying the knots.
“What are you doing?” asked Paulo. “I have to use the bathroom.”
“You’re just going to have to wait.”
He pulled the rope snug and placed duct tape over Paulo’s mouth. “Just a precaution,” said the Dark. “Like I told you: Yell, scream, kick, and stomp all you want. We’re the only ones in this building.”
He tucked his pistol into his belt and locked the door on his way out. There was an emergency stairwell at the end of the hall, and the LED on his key chain provided sufficient light to find it. The lock on the fire door at street level was busted—probably the work of vagrants—making it easy to come and go. He stepped into the cold night and checked things out. Traffic was nonexistent, and the wet pavement glistened in the fuzzy glow of streetlights. Hanging out in front of the abandoned hotel could draw the attention of the police, so he walked to the corner and waited for Littleton’s call.
The neighborhood was in late-night lockdown, storefronts hidden behind roll-down security shutters or accordion-style metal doors. A stray cat scurried past him on the sidewalk and disappeared into a burned-out shell of a condemned building. Windows in the flats above the shops were dark, save for one. Standing on the corner, he could see right inside. A television threw more than enough light to reveal all to the outside world, and it was surprising how many residents lacked the sense to pull the bedroom shade. Not long ago that the White Chapel rapist had walked these streets. People had short memories. Most people. Not the Dark, especially not when it came to rape—the rape of his youngest sister.
Stop it, the Dark told himself, angry for having allowed his thoughts to turn to his own ugly past. He checked his watch. Four more minutes until Littleton would call back—an eternity when there was nothing to do but dodge his own memories. In his mind’s eye, he could see the tears on her face, the terror in Samira’s eyes.
Her clothes were torn, and when she finally stopped sobbing, he could hear the fear in her voice. She didn’t want to talk, but as he dragged the truth out of her, Habib could almost smell the other men—men she did not know by name, but from her description, the Dark knew it was al-Shabaab. Probably even men he had worked beside in Mogadishu. Habib took his sister to Abukar—Jamal Wakefield’s father—for justice.
“Do you have four male witnesses?” asked Abukar.
“Samira was raped,” said Habib. “The only witnesses are the men who did this to her.”
“Have these men confessed?”
“The punishment is death,” Habib said. “Why on earth would they confess?”
Abukar waved his hand, dismissing them. “Then there is no rape to be punished.”
“What?”
“The law is clear,” said Abukar. “The rapist must confess, or there must be four male witnesses.”
Samira spoke up. “The Koran requires four witnesses to prove that a woman has committed adultery, not to prove that she was raped. You are twisting things for your own purposes.”
“Quiet!”
“You’re twisting it the way Westerners do when they want to defile Islam!” she shouted, her voice shaking.
“Stop, woman!”
“I was raped!”
“Enough with your false accusations!” said Abukar. “You have brought shame on your family.”
“Shame?” said Habib. “Look at her!”
“I’ve seen how she looks at men,” said Abukar, “the way she tempts them. Her thoughts are impure. The shame is on Samira and her family!”
The Dark’s cell rang, jarring him from his memories. It took a moment to shake off the anger—the stinging memory of how, brainwashed by a cunning and convincing older woman chosen by Abukar, Samira had walked into a crowded market in Mogadishu and “cleansed herself” of her shame.
“Go ahead,” the Dark said into his cell phone.
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation,” said Littleton. “We need a plan to recover those files that were taken.”
“That’s impossible. Even if I get the originals back, there is no way to account for every possible copy that could exist. It’s the technological version of trying to put the genie back in the bottle.”
“Damn you, Habib! How could you have been so stupid? You should have destroyed those files!”
Littleton was shouting a string of obscenities, as if that would change the fact that the videos were out there. It only made the Dark angrier. He was a young man who had believed in a cause when, years ago, he’d spent countles
s hours online for al-Shabaab, studying the state-of-the art encryption methods of pedophiles, trying to duplicate their methods for terrorism. It wasn’t Habib’s fault that, after viewing thousands of explicit videos, sex with underage girls didn’t just seem normal. It became a turn-on. It remained his obsession.
“I don’t understand it, Habib! What in the hell were you thinking?”
What could the Dark tell him? That the cloud had a silver lining? That if Project Round Up hadn’t led Chuck Mays to the black site torture videos that the Dark was trading on the P2P networks, the Dark might never have discovered that Jamal Wakefield was actually Abukar’s son? That this bit of good fortune was the only reason the Dark even bothered to prostrate himself in daily prayers anymore? That it had been worth all the pain and aggravation to show Abukar that he couldn’t even protect his son by harboring him on the run and turning him into Khaled al-Jawar?
It would have been perfect, in fact, had it not been for Vince Paulo and the explosion.
“No more!” he shouted into the phone.
“No more what?” asked Littleton.
“I made myself clear in the last call,” the Dark said. “I warned you that the files were out there. I didn’t need your permission to play my ace in the hole, but I asked for it anyway, which put you on notice that dead cops might be involved. Now it’s every man for himself.”
“So your ace in the hole is what—your exit strategy?”
“Yes. And I suggest you get one. Because in less than eight hours I’m playing my hand, and my ace in the hole will be a dead man.”
He ended the call, tucked away his phone, and started back to the old hotel.
Chapter Sixty-eight
Their taxi stopped in front of a tiny East End establishment with a big sign that read BANGLATOWN CURRY SHOP. Jack counted at least twenty restaurants up and down the narrow street that looked almost exactly like it. Not one was open for business.
“I told you everything would be closed,” the driver said. “If you’re hungry, I know a little place not far from here.”
“This will be fine,” Shada said.
Afraid of the Dark Page 30
