by Irene Hannon
First, given the insulation he’d built between himself and all of his contacts, his identity should be secure.
Second, the authorities didn’t know he’d discovered they were on to him. That bought him some time to think about next steps.
Third, the detective and his cohorts had no idea he had a connection that gave him access to bits and pieces of inside information about their investigation.
Fourth, they were unaware of his capability to tap into private communication, as he had today.
His lips twisted into the semblance of a smile.
The cops weren’t the only ones adept at placing bugs.
However . . . none of those advantages changed the fact that he was going to have to cut his losses here, leave behind the comfortable cover he’d created, and start over somewhere else.
He kicked at the leg of the chair as he passed and spat out another curse.
The whole thing sucked. His setup here was sweet.
But his real work had to be the priority, no matter the sacrifices involved.
So he’d retrieve the items, lay low here for a while, then disappear . . . and begin again somewhere else.
First, though, he needed to tie up a few loose ends.
Like Bishara.
He crossed to the window and stared into the darkness.
There wasn’t much chance the cops had linked the curator to the scam. Why would they? He’d had no contact with the man since the new shipment arrived, and Bishara had no clue about the connection between the candles and the artifacts.
The man did have customer and PO box information from past transactions—but unless some of the cells that had set up the boxes were as sloppy as Darrak had been, they were safe too.
Even if one or two of them were exposed, however, the network—such as it was—was known to him alone. All cells operated in isolation. If one was discovered, it wouldn’t hurt the overall mission.
He propped a shoulder against the wall and folded his arms, watching the taillights of a lone car disappear down the street.
His key advantage was that no one . . . no one . . . in the US network knew him as anything other than Amir. Only one person, far away in Syria, was aware of his true identity—and that man would never, ever betray him.
Still, Bishara was no longer of use, and without continued proof his son was alive, he might be desperate enough to risk criminal charges and approach the authorities himself for help.
It would be better if he was gone.
Another item to add to this week’s to-do list—but one that could be handled with a simple phone call.
Which brought him to Kristin Dane.
Narrowing his eyes, he closed the blinds with a sharp snap, cutting off his view of the quiet suburban neighborhood.
If she and that detective were getting tight, she could know some useful details about the investigation. Picking her brain might help him avoid future mistakes.
Trouble was, he’d have to reveal his identity to do that.
And then she’d have to die.
That would be unpleasant.
But she was the enemy.
All Americans were the enemy.
The words that had launched him on this mission replayed in his mind.
Never forget your purpose. Do not let the American ways pollute your mind. Stay true to the cause. Put it first, above all else.
His jaw hardened.
Kristin Dane was nothing.
If, after weighing the pros and cons of revealing himself to her, he decided it was worth the risk for whatever information she might be able to offer, he wouldn’t hesitate to use her.
And kill her when he was finished.
23
At the sudden ring of her landline, Kristin jolted awake.
Rolling toward her nightstand, she peered at the LED display on the clock and tried to convince her eyes to focus.
Was it . . . twelve thirty?!
Heart stumbling, she snatched up the receiver and squinted at caller ID.
Uh-oh.
It was her dad.
God, please don’t let this be bad news!
“Dad?” She shoved off the covers and bolted upright, pulse pounding. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry to scare you. I know it’s late, but I had to call.” An upbeat lilt spiked his pitch. “Someone wants to say hello.” A fumbling noise sounded, and then her mother spoke. “Krishtin?”
She clenched the phone.
Her mother was talking?
“Yes. Yes, I’m here, Mom.” She choked out the words.
“I jush wanted . . . to tell you . . . I’m getting awake . . . and I hope you’ll . . . come back again.”
“I will, Mom. As soon as I can.” She blinked to clear her vision. “It’s wonderful to hear your voice.”
“I . . . heard yours . . . when you were . . . here. I love you . . . too.”
Her throat tightened, and a tear slipped past her lower lash.
Apparently the emotional bedside comment she’d almost walked away without offering hadn’t been wasted.
After more fumbling noises, her dad came back on the line. “I’m sorry again to wake you, but I thought you’d want to know about this right away.”
“I’m glad you called. This is amazing news.” Her mom’s language might be stumbling . . . halting . . . slurred—but she was coherent.
That was huge.
“The doctors are thrilled. She started mumbling a few words last night, and was up to short sentences within hours. They said progress should be steady going forward. We’re discussing therapy tomorrow. I’ll call and give you an update after our meeting.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Everything okay there? You finished with your part in that case?”
“Yes—as of yesterday.”
“Maybe you can come back out in a week or so.”
“I’ll make arrangements tomorrow.”
“Sounds good. I’ll let you get back to sleep. At least you won’t have to worry as much about your mom in the days ahead.”
That was true.
But as for sleep . . . not happening in the immediate future. She’d been too wired after Luke’s impromptu visit to drop off until an hour ago, and now she was wired again.
Might as well put all this adrenaline to productive use and work on the July rehearsal schedule for Alice in Wonderland until she was tired enough to fall back to sleep.
After all, Alexa would be at the shop the next two afternoons, leaving her free to slip home for a nap if she needed to. Her clerk was more than capable of handling customers on a normal day.
And there was no reason to think the days ahead would be anything but normal.
Amir slowed his car . . . angled into a spot at a twenty-four-hour Waffle House . . . and pulled out the prepaid international burner cell he’d kept in reserve for an emergency.
Tonight qualified.
And this was going to be a difficult call.
The smell of frying bacon wafted across the parking lot despite the late hour, roiling his already queasy stomach.
How was he going to tell the man he admired more than life itself that their carefully constructed plan was in ruins?
But putting off distasteful tasks didn’t make them any easier, as that very man had taught him years ago.
Filling his lungs with the humid night air, he tapped in the number.
“MarHaba.”
“Al’abb, it is Amir.”
“There is a problem?”
It was a logical question in a relationship where phone calls were reserved for critical communication—and his father had never been one to waste words on politeness.
“Yes.” He explained the situation, keeping his briefing as concise as possible.
Several beats of silence ticked by after he finished . . . and though thousands of miles separated them, the chill that came over the line sent a shiver through him despite the June heat.
�
��This is most unfortunate.”
“I’m sorry. Darrak was not a reliable courier, and one loose link can break a chain.”
“Do not offer excuses!” The rebuke snapped like a whip.
Amir flinched and remained silent. That had been a stupid lapse. Offering justifications or defenses was a sign of weakness.
Another lesson he’d learned from his father.
“I assume this loose link has been dealt with.” The curt comment allowed no room for denial.
“Yes.”
More silence.
Amir scrubbed the cold beads of sweat off his forehead.
“Very well.” The anger in his father’s voice had been replaced with his usual tone of businesslike practicality. “We will take care of the issues at our end—but the interruption in funding will present difficulties to those loyal to our cause. I will expect you to come up with another creative way to subsidize our cells.”
“I will work toward that end.”
“It appears you are well-insulated from detection—but if your identity is discovered and our plans thwarted, you understand what is expected.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
But he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Much as he supported the cause, he would rather live for it than die for it at this stage of his life.
“You do not sound decisive.” Again, disapproval crackled over the line.
He straightened his shoulders and spoke with more conviction. “I will do what needs to be done.”
And he would—if left with no other options.
“Good. You have made me proud all your life. I would also be proud of you should it be necessary for your life to end. Praise to Allah. Death to America.”
Amir repeated the phrases . . . and the line went dead.
Squeezing the cell, he swallowed. Hard.
If all went smoothly in the next two days, he could lay low after that while he dreamed up a new plan.
But if it didn’t, he needed to be prepared for a more drastic—and final—end to the current scheme.
Meaning he had some high-priority contingency work to do.
Fast.
He scanned the parking lot. It was deserted, so he removed the battery from the phone, slipped out of the car, dumped the cell in a trash container, and drove away.
One call down, one to go.
The next conversation would be much easier.
After driving fifteen minutes to a small municipal park, Amir pulled out another burner phone.
Calling Syria at seven thirty in the morning local time was one thing; placing a call to a US number at this hour of the night was another.
But waiting could delay the arrangements.
He wanted this set up tonight—and finished by Friday morning.
Five rings in, a gruff voice answered.
“It’s Amir.”
“Do you know how late it is?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t disturb you unless it was important.”
“It better be.”
“I have a job for you that needs to be carried out fast.”
“How fast?”
“Friday morning.”
“I assume it pays well.”
“The same rate as the previous job—and there will be no body to dispose of.”
“Tell me what needs to be done.”
Amir gave him the details.
“There is much more risk with this arrangement.”
“At that hour of the morning, it’s quiet there. You should have no trouble.”
“Should is not a guarantee. The amount of money you’ve offered is too small for the risk.”
Exactly what Amir had expected him to say.
“I’ll add 25 percent.”
“Fifty.”
Amir hesitated—not because the price was too high, but to discourage the man from pushing for even more.
“Fine.”
“Then we have a deal. You have a photograph of this man?”
“Google him. You’ll find his picture on the internet.”
“You’re certain he’ll be at the location you provided?”
“I’ve studied his habits. It’s on his agenda every Friday. Don’t leave without finishing the job.”
“I never do. I need half the money in my account in advance, like our previous deal.”
“Look for it tomorrow. The rest will be there Friday by noon.”
Amir ended the call without a good-bye, tossed the phone in a trash receptacle after removing the battery . . . and exhaled.
Everything was in motion.
If Allah smiled on him, by Saturday this would all be over and he could relax.
As for whether to tap into Kristin’s knowledge about the case . . . that remained an option. It would be helpful to know what had triggered law enforcement’s suspicions.
He could wait and see how everything played out over the next couple of days before making that decision, though.
But if she ended up as collateral damage . . . so be it.
“Luke! Hang on.”
At the summons, Luke turned to find Colin jogging toward him down the sidewalk in front of County headquarters, Rick a few paces behind.
“What’s up?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you. I didn’t know you were back from the other gig. Is that case over?”
Luke sized up Rick, who’d stopped a few feet back. “No. We’re in a waiting mode.”
“For what?”
“The next move on the other side.”
“Gee, thanks for that enlightening insight.” Colin fisted his hands on his hips. “We can’t get anything out of Kristin, either. She’s as closemouthed as you are.”
“We can’t say much.” In his peripheral vision, he saw Rick fold his arms.
If he didn’t know better, he’d be worried that Kristin’s friends were about to exert some serious pressure to convince him to talk.
The physical kind.
“Look, we just want to make sure she’s not in any . . .” Colin yanked his phone off his belt, glared at the screen, and spoke over his shoulder as he walked a few yards away. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Luke checked on Rick.
He hadn’t said more than a few words in their previous encounters, but his steely gaze and wide-legged stance would intimidate a lesser man.
“Kristin’s lucky to have two such staunch defenders.” He kept his inflection casual. Alienating friends of the woman he was falling in love with would be stupid.
“We care about her.”
“I know.”
“And we’re not crazy about her being anywhere close to anything related to terrorism.”
“Colin made that clear. But her role in this is over. There shouldn’t be any danger at this point.”
“Terrorists aren’t predictable.”
Luke considered him. The man’s authoritative tone suggested his statement was more than a generic comment.
“Is that your military background speaking?”
A few seconds passed, silent except for a honking horn and a screech of tires.
“What did Kristin tell you about that?”
“Only that you were in the service. I’m guessing you might have done a tour or two in the Middle East.”
“That would be a safe bet.”
“What branch were you in?”
He hesitated a moment before answering. “Army. Night Stalkers.”
Luke blinked.
Rick had been a helicopter pilot with the Army’s elite aviation regiment?
The one that flew into hostile territory to insert and extract special ops soldiers—among other hazardous missions?
“That credential would put you in the terrorist-expert category.”
“I don’t claim to be an expert—but I have had some up-close-and-personal experience with extremists. I guarantee they don’t operate under any set of rules you or I would recognize. That’s why we’r
e still worried about Kristin.”
So was he . . . especially after hearing Rick’s take.
“I’m in touch with her every day. I’ll warn her to be extra cautious until this wraps up.”
“We already did that. She blew us off. But you might get better results. She seems . . . taken . . . with you.”
“The feeling is mutual.” No sense playing games with these guys. They’d find out his intentions as soon as he and Kristin began dating.
“That’s what we figured.”
“You have a problem with that?”
“No. Colin says you’re a straight shooter, and he has decent judgment—most of the time.” A spark of amusement flickered in his eyes.
“Where were we?” Colin rejoined them and slid his phone back into its holster.
Luke hitched up one side of his mouth. “You were about to strong-arm me for information on the case.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. We know you can’t share details, but we’re concerned about Kristin.”
“We covered that topic while you were gone.” Rick checked his watch. “You ready for lunch? I’ve got a long to-do list for this afternoon.”
“Yeah.” Colin glanced at him. “You want to join us? We’re going to Panera.”
Luke’s own phone started to vibrate, and he pulled it out.
Nick.
“I’ll have to pass.” He hefted the cell. “This may be an update on the case we were discussing.”
“Your FBI buddy?”
“Yes.”
“Like I’ve told you . . . if you need any help that doesn’t require security credentials, let me know. I can clear it with Sarge.”
“Will do. See you around.” He put the phone to his ear.
“Count on it.” Rick shot him a quick grin and nudged Colin toward the intersection.
“What’s up, Nick?” He continued toward the entrance of the headquarters building.
“The packages have been picked up. You want to join the surveillance team?”
“Yes.” He switched direction and jogged toward the parking lot. “Where are you?”
“Heading west on I-64. Our subject has left the rec center and is in the Manchester/I-270 area.”
“You want me to meet you out there? I’m in Clayton.”
“Negative. I’ll swing by and pick you up in front of the main door at County. ETA is about five minutes.”
The instant the line went dead, Luke pressed Sarge’s number.
