“I’ll do it of course.”
“Thank you.”
When Mason left, Fuchs went back to the window and stood there for several minutes looking down at the river. A couple, their arms entwined, was walking on the promenade. Thick clouds now obliterated the stars and the moon, but New York at night created so much light that the celestial torches were not needed, indeed they were rarely noticed even on cloudless nights. Turning away, the Dutch cop found his cell phone on his desk, flipped it open and pushed a speed dial number.
“Hello,” he said. “It’s me.”
“Hello,” Sylvana Dalessio said.
“How are you?”
“Fine. Bene.”
“And our young man?”
“He needs a shower.”
“What does Johannes say?”
“We can start if you wish.”
“And the boys?”
“They are fine.”
“You must start tonight. We are ordered to shut down on Wednesday.”
“Wednesday? Why?”
“It makes sense. Farah and Najjar are supposed to be dead. It was to follow them that we were sent here. Why continue? Why waste resources?”
“Does LeClair know? About Farah?”
“No.”
“The die is cast.”
“Yes.”
“Did you talk to Mason?”
“He just left.”
“What will happen?”
“He will tell his contact that Farah is alive and talking. The Syrians will of course want to kill him before we give him to the NYPD.”
“Are we really transferring him?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked them yet.”
“What will happen?”
“I have asked our colleague at the NYPD for help. Detective Goode. His counterterrorism people will follow Mason. We must hope that Mason leads us to his contact so that we can be pro-active.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Fuchs paused before answering, thinking of his conversation with Sylvana of two days ago, in which they concocted the story of her sick nephew in California. Of the danger she was in.
“They won’t find you,” he said. “I am in the open. They will come to me.”
Silence. They were both in danger. It was the business they were in.
“Bene. And what does Detective Goode want in return?”
“The killers of Loh and Davila, and of Yasmine Hayek.”
“And you agreed?”
“No, but when they take custody of Farah, I will give them what I have.”
“Good. As to Mason, I would like the honor. I will gut him like a fish.”
“Fine, but first things first. Our young assassin.”
“Of course,” said Sylvana. “I will let him shower, and then I will talk to him. He likes me, as I am the good cop so far.”
“You know what to do when you’re done?”
“Yes, of course. Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
Chapter 21
Manhattan,
Monday, March 2, 2009,
7:00PM
Nick Loh buried and Bob Davila killed on the same day, Jade thought, walking home after work on Monday through mid-town Manhattan’s slushy streets, carrying the steaks and salad things for the dinner she would make later for her and Matt. Antonio in Florida, talking on the phone yesterday about his dad, not the ten points he scored the night before. Her past on her mind, her secret, praying about it at Mass yesterday and again this morning. One small thing had brightened her day. A new client had walked in at lunch time, while she was eating yogurt at her desk. The five thousand dollar cash retainer he had given her felt like an infusion of hope, she didn’t know why.
As she was turning onto her block, she noticed a man in a dark overcoat crossing Eighth Avenue. He was wearing a woolen cap, pulled down low, but she could see that his face was deeply pockmarked, like her new client, who also had two fingers missing on his left hand. This man was wearing gloves and was quickly lost in the crowd of streaming pedestrians when he reached the opposite corner. Was that him, Charles Hall, who had said he thought he was about to be arrested for stealing from his business partner and wanted to retain her in advance? Maybe, maybe not, but it didn’t matter; she had other things on her mind.
“So you didn’t tell him about the surveillance log.”
“No,” Matt answered.
“I don’t blame you,” Jade said. “But he’s not incompetent. That can’t be it. He must know something we don’t, otherwise he’d be pressing hard for a dismissal, instead of talking about an appeal.”
“Or have another agenda altogether.”
“That’s a scary thought.”
Jade put down her coffee cup and looked over at Matt, who was sitting across from her at the table in the dining alcove of her apartment. After Charles Hall left her office, Jade had called Matt and invited him for dinner. She wore a suit to work, with stockings and high heels, but at home had quickly changed into jeans, a faded Regis sweatshirt, and a beat-up pair of sneakers. Her hair, frizzy again in the damp weather, she had pulled into a ponytail. They had sipped drinks and made small talk as she broiled the steaks in her small kitchen. Over coffee she had asked Matt about his meeting with Stryker.
“The log is the key, but of course it’s stolen,” Matt said. “And it implicates us and Davila.”
“And the UN has diplomatic immunity.”
“Right.”
“What about Jack and Clarke?” Jade asked.
“I spoke to Jack this afternoon,” Matt replied. “He’s calling me later tonight. We’ll meet someplace.”
“Did you tell him about the log?”
“No, I’ll give him a copy when I see him.”
“Did you tell him I want to come?”
“No. Are you sure you want to?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Bobby was killed because of the stuff he gave me.”
“That’s another thing,” Matt replied.
“What?”
“That points a finger at the UN team. Did they kill Bobby? Could that be?”
“Anything’s possible,” Jade replied, “but that would be hard to believe. Hold on.” She rose and went over to a desk she had set up in a corner of her small living room, returning quickly with a yellow legal pad. “I made some notes,” she said, when she was seated again. “So we don’t miss anything when we talk to Jack and Clarke.”
“O.K.,” Matt said. “Let’s hear it.”
“One,” Jade said, looking at her notes and then at Matt. “We have Adnan and Ali, Michael’s supposed friends.”
Matt nodded.
“They killed Yasmine Hayek,” Jade said.
“Yes,” said Matt.
“And planted the murder weapon in Michael’s room.”
“And probably got Michael to fire it or at least handle it.”
“Yes. Two,” Jade continued, “we have the UN. They’re looking into the assassination of Rafik Hariri. They think the Syrian government was involved. They have a team in New York who’ve been following Adnan and Ali. We have their surveillance log. The UN team knows they were in Yasmine’s building at the time of her murder.”
“Correct.”
“They do not inform the NYPD of this fact.”
“Correct. They don’t want Adnan and Ali arrested.”
“Three, Loh and Davila join the UN team. While staking out Adnan and Ali, Loh is killed. As are, presumably, Adnan and Ali—although we don’t know this for sure—and a fourth man. Except for Loh, no identities are released by the local police.”
“Yes.”
“Three nights later,” Jade continued, “Davila is killed in a car bomb.”
<
br /> “Yes.”
“It was Davila who stole the surveillance log and gave it to me.”
“Yes.”
“Four, the doorman at Yasmine’s building, who said he saw only Michael go in—an obvious lie—is killed.”
Matt nodded again.
“Five, the surveillance system at Yasmine’s building appears to have been tampered with in a very sophisticated way. The security company leaves for parts unknown.”
“Anything else?”
“I think that’s it,” Jade replied.
“There’s one more thing,” Matt said.
“What?”
“Adnan and Ali worked for Basil al-Hassan, Michael’s stepfather. Basil got them the job house sitting in Locust Valley.”
“And it was the lawyer hired by Basil who cancelled the gun residue test,” Jade said, “and who refuses to challenge Healy on the Diaz murder.”
Before Matt could respond, a phone rang somewhere in the apartment. Jade went to answer it.
“Who was it? Antonio?” Matt asked when Jade returned and was settled back in her chair.
“No. I spoke to him yesterday. It was Angelo, ex-husband number one. I asked him to do a search on Westside Properties.”
“And?”
“He needs more time.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“He’s with the State Police. He’s in a fraud squad.”
“Are you guys friends?” Matt asked.
“I haven’t spoken to him in nine years,” Jade replied.
“What about us?” Matt said.
“Us?”
“Are we friends?”
Jade got to her feet, picked up her dinner plate and Matt’s and brought them into the kitchen. She had not been prepared for Matt’s last question. But she should have been. Its answer was why she had invited him to dinner, why she had scrubbed off her makeup and dressed down the way she had. Why she had avoided eye contact. She returned with a bottle of Cognac and two snifters, pouring out two inches for each of them.
“I have something to tell you,” she said, lifting her glass, “but I need a drink first.”
“Something to tell me?”
“Yes.” Look straight at him, Jade, she said to herself. And she did.
“About us being friends?”
“I appreciate you sleeping on your couch the other night.”
Matt said nothing. It was obvious he didn’t know where this was going. She did though, or thought she did.
“I wanted you to come into the bedroom, but it’s better that you didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because of what I have to tell you.”
Again Matt said nothing.
“It’s about Antonio’s father. And me.”
“The producer?”
“Yes, Gerry DiNardo.”
“What about him?”
“He made porn movies,” Jade said. “I was in two.”
“Jade…”
“Do you still want to be my friend?”
Now Matt knew why Jade had been so stand-offish. Why she had tried to make herself look unattractive. Why he had felt guilty staring at her unbelievable rear end as she bent over to take the steaks out of the broiler; at the shape of her high and heavy and voluptuous breasts as she brought the plates to the table. No sweatshirt, no matter how loose fitting, could hide those breasts, with their promise of heaven on Earth. And no man on Earth could have looked at them, at her, and not felt his blood stirring.
“Is that why you go to Mass every day?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Jade…”
“You might if you were a fool like me.”
“Being a fool is not a sin.”
“Matt…”
“Did you think I’d think less of you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been watching you tonight.”
“Watching me?”
“I’ve lost my son. No, that’s wrong. I’ve lost the idea of having a son, the idea that I’ve clung to all these years. Suddenly I’m empty. Alone.”
Jade did not reply. Their drinks sat on the table along with the rest of the dinner dishes. The apartment, and the city all around them, receded into deep shadow, a darkened, muted background to the pivotal moment of their lives.
“Remember when we met in Union Square Park?” Matt said.
“Yes, of course.”
“I watched you walk toward me, and I thought, I’m so fucking alone. And then I couldn’t call you, I don’t know why. I was too proud, I guess. You had broken up with me. And you didn’t call me.”
“Now you know why.”
“The porn films? Jade, that’s nothing. You were a girl with a dream, who was taken advantage of.”
“I haven’t enjoyed sex since. I’ve held back. I’m a mess.”
Jade was crying now. Matt pulled his chair close to hers and took her face in his hands. “Yes, I want to be your friend,” he said. “And your lover, too. If you’ll have me.”
Then they were kissing, gently at first and then hungrily, as if they hadn’t had love to eat in years, which was in fact the case. Jade had stopped crying, but her tears were all over Matt’s face. She backed away suddenly, pulled off her sweatshirt and used it to wipe them away. Then she reached around and unhooked her bra, and her breasts, large, light amber in color, with perfect brown nipples and light-brown aereoli, were there before him, and he entered heaven.
Chapter 22
Stone Ridge,
Monday, March 2, 2009,
7:00PM
Sylvana Dalessio was born and raised in Rome. She had read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series of children’s books as a girl and thought that as a result she was familiar with American farming and farmhouses. But the ancient stone and timber house where she was helping keep Adnan Farah prisoner surprised her when she first saw it looming up out of a foggy night, and kept surprising her thereafter. On the kitchen wall, above an ancient claw-footed stove, hung ten cast iron frying pans with the years 1960 through 1969 painted on them in white. Today, she had finally gotten around to asking Johannes, Erhard Fuchs’ brother, what they signified, and he had told her that his grandmother, Clara Fuchs, had won the local frying pan throwing competition ten years in a row. No targets, he had said, just how far you could throw it.
And then there was the room, cold and bleak, where Clara and her husband Albert had committed suicide together in 1995 by drinking beer laced with cyanide, just after calling the local funeral director to tell him to come and pick up the bodies. It was Heineken, Johannes had said, with a little bit more pride than Sylvana thought was warranted. A fading print of Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring was still on the wall over the bed with a crucifix next to it. No, this wasn’t Little House on the Prairie.
Yesterday, she had taken the one-mile walk to the Catamount Motel on Route 12—ten rooms facing a large, graceful pond, surrounded on three sides by an apple orchard—that Albert and Clara had built, and then operated for forty years before shuttering it in the early nineties and retiring to the farmhouse. Starkly utilitarian and clean in the old Dutch way, the large sign out front that said APPLES FREE BEWARE OF MOUNTAIN LION had apparently kept vandals away. Peeking through the curtained windows, she could see that each room still contained its original bed, night table and dresser. On the walls were cheaply framed calendar photographs of tulip fields, windmills, and boaters on canals.
Fuchs family property for close to two centuries, the house and the motel had been rented for a few years after Albert and Clara died and then fell empty until the fall, when Johannes came over to “assess, patch and sell.” This was the Fuchs brothers’ story in any event. When Erhard and Sylvana showed up five days a
go with Adnan Farah, his wiry black hair thick with coagulated blood, barely conscious, Johannes, who did not seem surprised, or even concerned, meticulously cleaned the bomb maker’s scalp wound and chained him to the bed in his grandparents’ old bedroom. He then made a call to Holland, and the next day his sons Wilem and Josef, strapping young men both, arrived.
Since then Farah had been kept quiet by daily injections of morphine—except for yesterday and today. He was being watched at the moment by Josef, the dark son with the big hands and brooding eyes. Preparing to debrief him for the first time, Sylvana stood at the deep chipped-enamel kitchen sink. She had just washed her hands and was waiting for the water in the teakettle to boil. The scene through the mullioned window above the sink was stark and pure in its near total whiteness. Snow was starting to fall heavily—again—and soon the stone walls that criss-crossed the property, now partially exposed, would be obliterated and the gnarled branches of the trees that grew on each side of the long rutted dirt drive would be bending under their heavy white load. One of these icy branches had cracked during the night, causing Sylvana to wake instantly and reach for her Ingrham.
The radio on a nearby counter top had been filled with news these past five days of the so-called torture inflicted by the Americans on terrorists captured after 9/11. Before she reported to Beirut in 2006, Sylvana had spent a week at Langley—as had everyone who worked at Monteverde—undergoing these same interrogation techniques. The news reports made it seem like the Americans were sadists, “torturing” their prisoners for pleasure. The waterboarding had terrified her, but she now knew that it would not kill her. Still, she had a simple plan to kill herself with cyanide if the Syrians ever took her.
Thank God, she had lived until today—this night—when she would confront the man who had built and detonated the bomb that had killed her father and mother, riding in the car behind Rafik Hariri that day in Beirut in 2005. The severed head of their driver had been propelled like a small rocket into her father’s face killing him instantly. Her mother, her body filled with nails, had lingered three days before dying.
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