Manhattan,
Friday, March 6, 2009,
4PM
“You have three very dangerous adversaries,” Basil al-Hassan said. “Haq, Crow, and Mustafa.”
Hassan’s spacious and beautifully appointed apartment, with its high ceilings and tall windows, had been as quiet as a church, as if Debra’s death had left a pall that still lingered. This inner room, Hassan’s sanctum, was even quieter. It’s the place where he grieves, Matt thought. He had been drumming his fingers on the polished wooden arm of his chair, but he stopped abruptly, the sound too loud in the hushed room. Basil, outwardly calm, his face unreadable, sat across from him at his large, impeccable mahogany desk.
“You need to put your cards on the table, Basil,” Matt said. “You offered to help, remember?” Basil may have been grieving, but Matt had no time to waste on sentiment or to soften his words. The point needed to be gotten to as quickly as possible.
“Debra said you were hot tempered.”
“That’s in the past.”
“Are you sure? Because the game you are about to enter is quite dangerous. Emotion has no place in it. It gets you killed.”
“What game?” Matt was not at all sure about his ability to control his temper. There was a fire in him that all his life had been impervious to his attempts to put it out. It was raging now, at the thought of Jade being gang raped and killed. The best he could do was control his outward demeanor, a skill he had learned the hard way as a boy. Hassan was rich and Middle-Eastern, and therefore likely to have resources, cultural and financial, well beyond Matt’s. More than that though, there was something about the Syrian’s demeanor when they were talking at the funeral luncheon that rang true, that spoke of a man who was willing to be an ally, but who, for reasons Matt could not plumb, needed one as well. It was this last, a hunch, really, a desperate one, that had driven him to accept Basil’s offer, and to reveal to him the facts as he knew them that had laid down the bloody trail to his door.
“What about the New York police?” Basil asked, ignoring Matt’s question. “Surely they want Farah. He killed Yasmine Hayek in Manhattan.”
“They’ve been told by the U.S. government to stay out of the case. Fuchs offered them Farah and they turned him down, on orders from the Justice Department.”
“What about your two detective friends? Are they disobeying orders?”
“Yes, they’ll help me if I ask them.”
“If you ask them?”
“They don’t know about Jade.”
“You haven’t told them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m going to kill Crow and Mustafa. I don’t want them to lose their careers.” Matt did not have to mask his feelings as he said this. On this issue his blood was cold as well as hot. He had had enough of the Indian and the Servant. He would find a way.
“What about your career?”
“My career is to rescue Jade and free my son of the murder charge against him.”
“What else did Adnan confess to?” Hassan asked.
“He and Ali assassinated Rafik Hariri.”
“Hariri? On Haq’s orders?”
“Yes.”
“And he will testify in The Hague?”
“Yes, but for some reason my government doesn’t want him to.”
“How did you manage this?”
“I didn’t, Fuchs did.”
“I don’t doubt that Crow blew up the house in Stone Ridge,” Hassan said, “or that he killed Fuchs. As to whether he and Haq and Mustafa are working in concert, if demons can be said to work together at anything, I cannot say.”
“You said something about a dangerous game. I don’t have a lot of time. Can you help me or not?”
“Haq is an Iranian high up in the Syrian Secret police, the Mukhabarat,” Basil said. “He was sent here to kill Adnan and Ali, and to keep an eye on me.”
“How do you know this?”
“It is a guess, but an educated one.”
“What about Yasmine Hayek? Was Haq behind that?”
“This I do not know. I did not know until now that Mustafa has his own agenda.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“I was a hero in Syria until recently. A war hero and an oil hero. I have many friends, many contacts. Haq has more powerful friends, in Syria and in Iran. The balance has shifted in his favor. My friends can no longer protect me. I believe Haq wants me dead.”
“Why?”
“I represent sanity. Syria has gone insane.”
“That’s it? You’re sane, he’s not?”
“No, there’s more. I am one of the people in Syria who are hoping for a revolution. More than hoping, preparing.”
“How?”
“When the riots start in Damascus and Dera and Hama, I want to be ready to help.”
“How?”
“With arms—handguns, automatic rifles, missile launchers, RPGs.”
Matt remained silent, taking this in. “So the oil was a cover?” he said, finally.
“No,” Hassan replied. “I discovered Syria’s only successful oil field. The Assads let me get rich. But the field is drying up, and Iran has grown very powerful over the past ten years or so. They give orders, Syria obeys.”
“I see. How’s it going? The arms business, I mean.”
“Not well, except for Libya. In Syria and Iran I will need your government’s help.”
“It looks like they’re on Syria’s side right now.”
“Yes. We shall see.”
“What about Debra?” Matt asked. “Was she a beard?”
“A beard?”
“To give you easy access to the U.S.?”
“No. I loved her. It took a long time, but I finally loved someone again.”
“But it didn’t hurt to have an American wife.”
“No, the Assads loved that.”
“Sorry. I felt I had to ask about Debra, for my son’s sake.”
“My cards are now, as you requested, on the table,” Basil said. “With this information you can easily have me killed.”
“Or get myself killed.”
“Yes.”
“How can you help me?”
“If you can bring Mustafa to me, I can get him to let your woman go.”
“That’s a tall order. How do I reach him?”
“Perhaps Mr. Stryker can help you. I have made inquiries. He is on the Mukhabarat’s payroll. This may give you leverage.”
“What about Crow?” Matt asked.
“You wish to kill him too.”
“Yes.”
“I cannot help you with Crow.”
“Okay, just asking.”
“He may still be important to your government. I may need their help soon.”
“What kind of help?” Matt asked.
“I may need asylum, or rather what you call witness protection. It may be the only way I can escape Haq’s reach.”
“Let’s kill him too,” said Matt.
Hassan smiled, and Matt smiled back, but he wasn’t kidding.
“I’ve thought of that,” Basil said. “It would not be easy. But first things first. Bring me Mustafa. I guarantee he will cooperate.”
“Before I go,” Matt said. “I assume you’ve swept this place clean. If not, we’re dead men.”
“I have,” Basil replied. “People were in this afternoon.”
“What did they find?”
“High-tech mini-cameras, two in every room.”
“Did you talk about your arms business here?”
“No, never, not even in this country.”
Chapter 44
Manhattan,
F
riday, March 6, 2009,
8PM
“Put your hand on the cutting board, Everett,” Jack McCann said. He was standing to the right of the seated, white-haired lawyer. In his right hand McCann held the meat cleaver that he had found, along with the two-inch thick cutting board, in Basil al-Hassan’s uber-designed and exceptionally well-stocked kitchen.
“What?”
“This is crude and old-fashioned,” McCann said, “but I’ve never seen it fail with an amateur like you.”
“You’re insane.”
Jack looked at Clarke Goode, who was standing to the left of Stryker at the large and solidly built oak utility table in Hassan’s kitchen, and nodded. Goode, whose hand was bigger than the meat cleaver, took hold of the lawyer’s right wrist and pressed it to the cutting board.
“Spread your fingers,” Goode said. “Unless you want to lose them all at once.”
Matt DeMarco, standing next to McCann, leaned in as Stryker complied. He looked at his watch. He had no doubt that Mustafa’s deadline was real. At one PM tomorrow, Jade would be dead. And sometime tomorrow morning Crow would be calling, wanting to see Farah. They had to be working together, Mustafa and Crow. He was glad he had changed his mind about involving Jack and Clarke. They had “arrested” Stryker outside his office building an hour ago. Another kidnapping. But how else to sit him down and open him up? If this turned out badly, they’d all be going to prison.
“Stryker,” Matt said. “Listen to me. Syria’s been on the United States’ terrorist-state list longer than any other country. You’ve been fronting for them, setting up phony corporations, misstating the true stockholders, buying property, all illegal, all as an unregistered agent of an enemy country. Only the people in this room know this at the moment. If you don’t help us, you’re going to jail. If you do, you can walk out of here. I don’t care how you make your money.”
“Where’s Hassan?” Stryker said. “Why am I here?”
“He left the country,” Clarke answered. “He was working undercover for the NYPD.”
“One more time,” Jack McCann said, raising the heavy, professional-grade cleaver, its five-inch wide blade gleaming, “can you reach Mustafa al-Rahim?”
“Fuck him,” Clarke Goode said. “Take the pinky.”
“Yes,” Stryker said before Clarke had finished his sentence. Sweat was beading on his forehead, and soaking through the collar and armpits of his thirty-count, custom made Egyptian cotton dress shirt. There was even sweat in his eyes, which were darting back and forth from McCann to Matt.
“Good,” McCann said. “Let me ask you a few questions first.”
“Can I wipe my face?” Stryker asked.
“Sure.” McCann reached into his back pocket, pulled out a white handkerchief and handed it to the lawyer, who took it with his free hand and wiped the sweat from his eyes and brow.
“Let me,” Matt said. He could see that Stryker had given up. His Ivy League education and country club existence had prepared him to betray his country for a few million dollars, but not for this. Not for Clarke Goode’s big black hand flattening his wrist to a scarred cutting board with a meat cleaver hovering over his manicured fingers.
“Has he come to your office?” Matt asked Stryker.
“No, never,” the lawyer answered.
“How many deals have you done with him?”
“Four, the Excelsior, the two places in Queens, and the house in Locust Valley.”
“What’s the other place in Queens?”
“An old factory and warehouse on 137th Street.”
“The one behind Lucky’s?”
“I believe so.”
“Why are you visiting his son?”
“To make sure he’s not being mistreated. To show the prison authorities he has some clout.”
“And the money for the property purchases was all wired to your trust account?”
“Yes.”
“If we trace it,” Goode said, “where do think it will lead us?”
“I don’t know,” Stryker said, his eyes shifting from Matt to Goode. “Mustafa told me he was working for a wealthy oil man. I thought it was Hassan.”
“Have you met Mustafa?” Matt asked.
“Yes, twice.”
“Where?”
“In Battery Park, near my office.”
“Where in Battery Park?”
“At the War Memorial.”
“The concrete slabs?”
“Yes. By the eagle.”
“Did he come alone?”
“Yes.”
“What were those meetings about?”
“Both times it was to pass letters from his son that I smuggled out of the prison.”
“Good, tell him you have another one,” said Clarke.
“No,” Matt said. “Tell him he has to sign papers for Wael’s release, that he’s getting out tomorrow. Tell him he has to agree to take custody of Wael.”
“Here’s your phone,” Jack said. They had thoroughly searched Stryker both in their car and when they arrived at the Park Avenue apartment. “Call him. Tell him to meet you there at ten.”
“What if he says no?”
“He won’t,” Matt said.
“What if he does?”
“He won’t,” Matt said. “Trust me.”
“Put that thing down,” Stryker said, looking at the meat cleaver.
“No,” said McCann. “If you fuck around then the whole hand comes off.”
“Don’t miss,” Goode said, edging his hand a bit north of Stryker’s wrist, but continuing to apply the same pressure, if not more.
With his free hand, the white-haired—and now white-faced—lawyer took the phone from Jack McCann and began dialing.
Chapter 45
Queens,
Friday, March 6, 2009,
9PM
“It’s locked,” said Michael. He had just returned from the men’s room at Lucky’s, where he had taken a moment to try the door at the end of the back hall that led down to the basement, the door that he and Adnan and Ali used to use when they took the tunnel from the building across the alley.
“Let’s go,” Antonio replied.
“No, we’ve only been here ten minutes.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
“We have to. They know me. It won’t look good.”
“How long?”
“One more beer. Drink up.”
“If you say so.”
Michael nodded to Rex and pointed to the glasses in front of him and Antonio. Rex, smiling, began pouring two fresh beers from one of the taps arranged in the middle of the long bar. When he brought them over, Michael said, “Is Mustafa coming in? I have to talk to him.”
“He’s gone,” the bartender answered. “Visiting his sick brother in Syria.”
“When will he be back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you reach him?”
“I can try to get a message to him.”
“Tell him I want to take the deal, but I want to speak to him first. He’ll know what I’m talking about. Ask him to call me.”
“Of course.”
“What about Moe and Curley? Have they been around?”
“Moe and Curly?”
“The two guys who are always here. One has a funny beard, like the ace of spades. I think they work for Mustafa.”
“What about them?”
“I’m just asking. Maybe they can reach Mustafa for me. I really need to talk to him.”
“They’re gone too,” said Rex. He wasn’t smiling now, but Michael didn’t care. The whole Lucky’s crew had betrayed him, starting with Adnan and Ali. Had made a fool of him, had framed him for murder.
“OK
, thanks,” Michael said. “I appreciate your help. I’ll wait to hear from Mustafa.”
“Why are we driving around Queens?” Antonio asked.
“I want to make sure we’re not being followed.”
Antonio remained silent. His mom kidnapped. Fuck. Could that really be?
“Keep checking your mirror,” Michael said. “I’ll pull over by that lot up there.”
The vacant lot was surrounded by a chain link fence trampled down in two or three places, where locals had entered to strip an abandoned construction site of all moveable objects. Just a cinder block foundation, framed by rubble and strewn junk, including a muddy mattress and a twisted tricycle with no wheels. It was on a corner, meaning it had good views of cars coming from two sides.
“I should call the cops,” Antonio said.
“My dad said not to.”
“Why not?”
“I told you. They’ll kill her.”
“There’s no one following us.”
“OK,” said Michael. He had been watching the traffic as far down both blocks as he could see. No one had stopped when they had, no one had circled the block. “One thing,” he said.
“What?”
“We could get killed.”
“You told me.”
“I’m telling you again.”
When they talked on the phone when he was in Florida, his mom had sounded funny to Antonio. A little different. After being the only man in her life for the last five years, since she divorced asshole number two, he could tell when something was different, when something was on her mind. Caught up in his own life, he had never asked her what that particular thing might be. A man? A case she was working on? Money? It was in her again last night. He should have asked her. “Tell me the plan,” he said.
“We probably have to go in through a window. The tunnel has a light, but we won’t turn it on.”
“What kind of a tunnel? Can I stand in it?”
“It’s a hallway, really. Yes you can stand. You might have to duck a little. How tall are you?”
“Six-five.”
“The door to the basement opens behind an old wooden coal stall. We can check the room out and not be seen.”
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