Afraid of the Dark js-9

by James Grippando

  “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 countless 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.

  Jack paid the fare, and when the cab left, they were the lone signs of life on the block. It wasn’t hard to imagine the street clogged with cars and delivery trucks, the sidewalks jammed with people from all walks of life from around the world. In a matter of hours, tourists and regulars alike would stop to decipher exotic menus posted in the windows, and by the end of the day, the guy at the pushcart on Brick Lane would hear customers order the jellied eels in at least twenty different languages. From two A.M. to four A.M., however, was a dead zone, when the eerie pall of urban quiet fell.

  “I guess this is why they call New York the city that never sleeps,” he said.

  “Don’t kid yourself,” said Shada as they passed a wall covered with BLM gang graffiti. “This is Brick Lane Massive territory.”

  Jack followed her around the corner to the back of the curry shop. Many of the windows along the alley had been bricked over, and burglar bars and metal shutters covered those that remained. Jack recognized more BLM graffiti tags on the walls, but most of them had been spray-painted over by “White Flatz” and “Bow E3,” suggesting a turf war. It made Jack want to walk faster. Chuck had called ahead to say they were coming, and the light burning over the rear entrance indicated that someone was indeed expecting them. Rather than knock, Shada made a quick call on her cell. Someone on the inside started working the locks, and from the sound of it, Jack had visited jails with less security. Finally, the door opened.

  “Come in, please,” the man said.

  Jack followed Shada inside, and the man introduced himself as he closed the door and refastened the locks. His name was Sanu Reza from Dhaka. Chuck had already told them about Reza’s earlier meeting with Vince.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about Mr. Paulo,” he said.

  “I’m sorry you sold him a gun,” said Jack.

  “I do as Mr. Mays requests. That makes tonight your lucky night.”

  Jack could only wonder.

  Reza led them down a dark hall past the kitchen, and the lingering smell of curry made Jack hungry. They stopped at the solid metal door at the end of the hall. A separate alarm system protected whatever was beyond that door, and Reza entered the pass code. There was another set of locks to unfasten, too. Finally, he pushed open the door and switched on the light. Bags of rice were stacked from floor to ceiling. Boxes of spices lined another wall. Reza directed them inside and locked the door.

  “An awful lot of precautions to protect rice and spices,” said Jack.

  Reza smiled. “Old family recipe.”

  A PC hummed on the desk in the corner. Reza took the chair in front of the glowing LCD and logged on. “You there?” he asked.

  The computer screen flickered and Chuck’s image appeared. “Welcome to Banglatown,” he said. “First things first: Reza, show them the money.”

  Reza popped a switchblade and cut open one of the bags. Rice spilled to the floor, but not much. Reza reached inside and, by the handful, pulled out twenty-five bundles of fifty-pound-sterling notes. J
ack didn’t ask where it had come from, but with the East End’s history of organized crime and gang graffiti all over the neighborhood, he didn’t really want to know. Reza stacked the bundles of cash into four neat piles on the table.

  “Two hundred fifty thousand pounds,” he said.

  It wasn’t nearly as bulky as Jack had expected; he could have stuffed it in his coat pockets and walked out.

  “What will I carry it in?” asked Shada.

  “How about a big bowl of yogurt and cold cucumbers?” said Jack. It was how patrons of Bengali restaurants put out the fire in their mouths.

  “Good one, Yank.” Reza pulled a backpack from a shelf and handed it to Shada. “In my neighborhood, this will draw much less attention than a briefcase.”

  Jack picked up one of the stacks and examined it. “Is this real or counterfeit?”

  “Absolutely real,” said Reza. “The only qualification is that in one of the stacks I will insert a bogus bill that contains a miniature GPS tracking system. Chuck will be able to follow the money after Shada delivers it.”

  “Doesn’t GPS require a battery?” asked Jack.

  “It’s all in the same bill. I’m talking miniature. The battery will only last twenty-four hours and is set to beep out the coordinates every fifteen seconds. It sleeps between signals.”

  “Which bill gets the GPS system?” asked Shada.

  “That’s not important,” said Chuck.

  “I’d like to know,” said Shada.

  “I’m not telling you,” said Chuck, his tone taking on an edge.

  “What do you mean you’re not going to tell me?”

  “It’s better that you don’t know,” said Chuck.

  “Better for whom?”

  “It’s for your own safety.”

  “That’s bullshit, Chuck, and you know it. Tell me which one has the damn chip in it.”

  “Shada, back off,” said Chuck.

  Jack could see the anger in her eyes, and even though Shada had expressed remorse for what she had done, it was also clear that she was approaching her limit with Chuck. Jack jumped in before they could tell each other to shove it.