On cue, the person filming her lecture turned the camera on the audience. Some heads were nodding; others were bobbing as if pondering the question. Everyone was fully engaged. Sadira Yavari had the room, as they say. They were hanging on her every—
“Wait! Hold it,” I said.
Julian paused the video. “What is it?”
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “Third row, second from the right. Do you know him?”
“No, but you obviously do,” said Julian. “Who is he?”
“I’m not exactly sure, but I’ve met him. He’s even been inside my apartment.”
“And you don’t know his name?”
“No,” I said. “But I know what his name definitely isn’t. Benjamin Al-Kazaz.”
CHAPTER 34
ELIZABETH’S SUNGLASSES were pulling double duty as she opened the door to the Starbucks around the corner from Dylan and Tracy’s apartment. In addition to shielding her from the press in the wake of the Evan Pritchard video, the dark-tinted lenses were concealing the Samsonite-sized bags under her eyes on the heels of less than four hours of sleep.
She was exhausted. She was also running late. Pritchard had scheduled an early briefing with all agents assigned to the Times Square bombings. It started in twenty minutes. Her Uber was due out in front of the Starbucks within moments.
“I’ll take a large coffee, please.”
“We don’t have large,” said the girl with the purple-dyed hair behind the counter. “Did you mean a venti?”
Elizabeth could count on two fingers how many times she’d ever set foot in a Starbucks. She always preferred her coffee from diners. So did her wallet. But there was no time this morning. “Sure, I’ll take a venti—whatever your largest size is,” she said.
“Well, our largest size is actually a trenta. It means thirty in Italian. As in, ounces. Venti means—”
“Yeah, venti means twenty. As in, ounces. I get it,” said Elizabeth.
“So which one do you want, a venti or a trenta? If you haven’t noticed, there’s a line behind you.”
Oh, really? Do you know what fottiti means in Italian? I assure you it’s not forty …
A minute later, venti coffee in hand, Elizabeth reached for a carafe of nonfat milk at the end of the counter.
“It sure looks like a large to me,” said a man with a thick Middle Eastern accent. He grabbed a Splenda, tearing it open.
“I know,” said Elizabeth. She figured he’d been right behind her in line. “Forgive me for not speaking Starbucks, right?”
The man laughed. “That’s funny,” he said. “I was told you were funny.”
Elizabeth immediately put down the carafe and turned toward the man. His sunglasses were as dark as hers. Maybe even darker. He was also impeccably dressed in a gray suit and blue tie with a matching pocket square that had just the right amount of puff to it.
“Do I know you?” she asked. Translation: How the hell do you know me?
“Here,” he said, handing her the open yellow packet. “That’s how you like it, right? Light with one Splenda?”
If this guy was trying to creep her out, he’d succeeded. Quickly, Elizabeth looked around. Was he alone? It seemed that way.
More importantly, was he a threat?
Through her sunglasses, Elizabeth focused on his hands. For the moment, both were where she could see them. The split second that changed, she’d be reaching for her Glock.
He knew it, too.
“I assure you there’s nothing to fear from me, Agent Needham,” he said. “I’m here to help you.”
“Good,” she said. “You can start by telling me who you are.”
“I’m a friend of a friend.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“Actually, I don’t,” he said. “That’s not how this works.”
“How what works?” asked Elizabeth.
“Take the Splenda, Agent Needham.”
“Why?”
“So I can reach into my suit pocket,” he said. “Slowly, of course.”
Elizabeth thought for a second. If he wanted to kill me, he would’ve done it already …
She took the Splenda.
The man reached into his pocket—slowly, as promised—and removed an envelope, handing it to her.
“You’ll be asked by people where you got this information,” he said. “You can tell them anything, except that you got it from me.”
Elizabeth glanced at the plain white envelope. “I don’t even know who you are,” she said.
He nodded, satisfied. “Exactly.” He then pivoted on his heel, heading straight for the door.
Poof, he was gone.
CHAPTER 35
ELIZABETH GAVE another quick look around, her eyes darting, making sure the guy didn’t have a wingman. If he did, the disguise was excellent. The entire Starbucks held either people rushing in and out on their way to work or wannabe screenplay writers getting an early jump on hogging all the tables.
Ping!
Never mind. Her Uber was out front.
In the back of an old Ford Taurus in desperate need of an air freshener, she opened the envelope. Inside was a photo—old-school, three-by-five glossy—of a young man wearing a taqiyah, the traditional Muslim cap. Even more traditional was its color: white.
On the back of the photo, written in pen, was presumably his first name. Gorgin. There was also an address up in Pelham in Westchester County, about a half hour’s drive from Manhattan.
Finally there was this, her instructions: Ask him what he knows about the Mudir.
Elizabeth knew the word. Mudir was Arabic. It meant a local governor or someone who holds sway over a group of people. She didn’t recognize the young man in the photo, though.
Of course, that was the whole point. This guy, “Gorgin,” was supposed to be a lead. Supposed to be.
According to whom, though? And why the mysterious middleman back in Starbucks? Was she really supposed to trust this stranger with a Middle Eastern accent?
There were too many questions, with even more to come once she followed protocol and brought Pritchard up to speed. After his briefing, she’d show him the photo. If he didn’t know the young man in the taqiyah named Gorgin, there was probably a computer somewhere in-house that did.
But before that could happen, Pritchard would want to know something else. She could practically hear his booming voice, prodding her. Why you, Needham? How come you were the one he approached? Huh?
“Here we are,” said her Uber driver.
Elizabeth didn’t hear him. She was still listening to Pritchard in her head. “Excuse me?”
“This is your stop, right?” asked the driver. “Where you wanted to go?”
Elizabeth stared out the window at the granite facade of the JTTF building. Pritchard’s briefing would start in a couple of minutes. She’d have to hustle if she wanted to make it up to the conference room in time. She reached for the door handle.
Seriously, why you? What makes you so special, Needham?
Elizabeth’s hand suddenly froze. “Change of plans,” she told the driver.
Twenty blocks south and a $5.60 surcharge later, Elizabeth was at City Hall standing face-to-face with Beau Livingston, the mayor’s chief of staff, who had his back up against the door to his boss’s office. He was literally blocking her way.
“You can’t just show up unannounced, Elizabeth,” he said. Livingston’s arms were folded, his feet spread. The only way she was getting past him was through him.
No problem.
“If you don’t move, I’m going to kick you in the balls, Beau,” she said.
Livingston didn’t need his Phi Beta Kappa Harvard education to know she was serious. As for Mayor Deacon’s secretary, she might as well have had a bucket of popcorn in her lap while tilting back some Jujubes. She was watching from behind her desk, transfixed.
Of all things, though, Livingston started to laugh.
“What’s
so funny?” asked Elizabeth.
“The mayor bet me five bucks that you’d figure it out by lunch.” He glanced at his watch. “Nicely done. It’s barely even breakfast.”
He turned and opened the door to Deacon’s office. As he did, Elizabeth could hear Pritchard’s voice in her head one last time.
What makes you so special, Needham?
CHAPTER 36
“WELL, IF it isn’t my favorite agent,” said Mayor Edward “Edso” Deacon, looking up at Elizabeth from the sprawl of morning papers on his desk. He managed to punch the word agent enough to underscore that she was no longer just a detective, thanks to him. He waved her in. “To what do I owe the surprise?”
“Nice try,” she said. “You know you could’ve just called if you wanted to see me.”
Deacon cocked his head. “Really? Because I distinctly recall our last conversation, when you were so adamant about not being my eyes and ears over at the Task Force.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“The opposite. I’m the one doing you a favor,” said Deacon.
“Do you mean this?” she asked, removing the photo from her inside blazer pocket.
The mayor squinted. He was nearsighted, albeit not politically. “I don’t know. Is that what he gave you?”
Elizabeth stared, incredulous. “You don’t even know?”
“No, and I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
Deacon pointed at the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Needham.”
“I’d prefer to stand.”
“Duly noted. Now sit the fuck down.”
Elizabeth sat down. Edso Deacon was still the mayor of the largest city in the country, after all. He giveth and could taketh away. Namely, Elizabeth’s job.
Meanwhile, Livingston was about to make his usual walk to the couch by the window, where he always sat during his boss’s meetings.
“Actually, Beau,” said Deacon, “give us a couple of minutes alone, will you?”
Livingston tried his best to hide his surprise, but his smile was as fake as a street-corner Rolex. “Of course,” he said, and out he went.
“Was that for my benefit or yours?” asked Elizabeth once he was gone.
“More yours,” said the mayor. “Call it a goodwill gesture, proof that you earned your promotion and that every conversation with me doesn’t need a buffer.”
Elizabeth appreciated the sentiment but still hadn’t forgotten how she’d ended up in his office. “Why the cloak-and-dagger?” she asked. “Better yet, why not pass along any info you have directly to the FBI?”
“Because it’s not my info.”
“Whose is it?” But no sooner had she asked than she realized the answer. “You can’t tell me. You can’t tell anyone.”
Deacon nodded. “Now you’ve got it.”
Yes, she did. The mayor had an intel source he could never reveal—not only to protect the source but to protect himself. Suffice it to say, whoever the guy was who’d approached her at Starbucks, he wasn’t a Boy Scout.
Still, “How do I know this is for real?” she asked, holding up the photo.
“The short answer is you don’t,” said Deacon. “That’s why you’ll check it out on your own first. Something tells me, though, it’s legit.”
Elizabeth stood. “I won’t be able to update you directly,” she said. “You realize that, right?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Deacon leaned back in his chair, stretching his long frame. “You know, there’s a perverse irony to all this. When it comes to street crime and the murder rate, it’s always the mayor’s fault. But, God forbid, a terrorist attack? Not only is it not my fault, I become the great unifier.”
“That’s not perverse. It’s just human nature,” said Elizabeth.
“Believe me,” said Deacon. “There’s no difference.”
CHAPTER 37
A HALF hour out of Manhattan, Elizabeth pulled up slowly to the address in Pelham she’d been given for the young man named Gorgin. She was driving a Honda Pilot from the JTTF lot. Honda Pilots don’t say gun-toting special agent. They say soccer mom.
There were two possibilities when no one answered her knocking on the door. Either no one was home or someone was choosing not to answer. Before she could settle on the latter, she had to wait out the former. Parking a few houses down the street with an eye on Gorgin’s driveway, Elizabeth settled in.
As towns go, Pelham and the word ritzy were never going to be used in the same sentence unless that sentence happened to be that Pelham was far from ritzy. Compared to Jersey City, however, it was a major step up. Gorgin’s house, a small, vinyl-sided colonial, might as well have been a mansion compared to the shit shack she had descended upon with Pritchard and company. A good sign, thought Elizabeth.
Better still was the black BMW that pulled into the driveway less than an hour later. In terms of wait time, she’d hit the stakeout jackpot. Even from fifty yards away, there was no doubt that the guy who got out from behind the wheel and headed into the house was Gorgin. He was alone.
Not for long. Elizabeth sprinted as soon as the front door closed behind him. He barely had time to put down his car keys before she was knocking again.
“Who is it?” he asked from behind the door. There was no peephole.
“My name is Agent Needham from the JTTF,” said Elizabeth, standing off to the side with her back to the vinyl siding. “I’m looking for Gorgin.”
She had one hand alongside her holster. With the other she reached for her badge, the ink on her new ID barely dry.
She fully expected Gorgin to ask what the JTTF was. But, nope, he was apparently familiar with the Joint Terrorism Task Force. That may or may not have been a good sign.
He opened the door.
Elizabeth remained off to the side, waiting for him to poke his head out to look for her. Instead he came all the way out, stepping onto the small landing at the top of the steps. She could see both his hands as he turned to her. They were empty.
“Are you Gorgin?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s me,” he said.
Elizabeth flashed her badge even though he didn’t ask to see it. “Do you have a couple of minutes? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure,” he answered. He didn’t hesitate. He also didn’t move. It was as if he were blocking the door.
“Can we talk inside your house?” she asked.
“Actually, do you mind if we do this outside?”
That was definitely not a good sign, thought Elizabeth. As red flags go, it was the equivalent of a Chinese military parade. What didn’t he want her to see?
“As a matter of fact, I do mind,” she said. “We need to talk inside.”
CHAPTER 38
THIS TIME, Gorgin hesitated.
Elizabeth could practically see the wheels churning in his head. He glanced back over his shoulder into his house not once but twice. Finally he broke into a smile. Or was that a grimace?
“Okay, come on in,” he said.
Elizabeth followed him inside. She was still watching his hands. Always watch the hands. But now there was everything else, an entire house he seemingly didn’t want her to see.
What are you hiding, Gorgin? Who are you? Tell me why I’m here …
He looked to be in his late twenties. He was clean-shaven. The English was near perfect, but there was a lingering hint of a Middle Eastern accent. He probably came to the States as a teenager. Best guess, from Turkey. Backup guess, Jordan.
The prayer mat facing east in the corner of the living room took any of the guesswork out of religion. Gorgin was a practicing Muslim. But he was also very Westernized. If the BMW didn’t give it away, the skinny jeans, zip-up hoodie, and gelled-back hair did.
“Do you own this house?” asked Elizabeth. She assumed he didn’t.
“No, this is a rental,” he said. “I wish I could afford it, though. One day.”
“What do you do for a living?”
Gorgin was still walking; Elizabeth was still following. He stopped suddenly, turning back to her at the entrance to the kitchen.
“I’ll answer all of your questions, Agent Needham, but first I have one for you,” he said. “Would you like some tea?”
Tea? “No, thank you,” said Elizabeth.
“Are you sure? I was just about to make some.”
“No, really, that’s—”
“It’s excellent tea. Very special. My uncle sends me boxes of it from overseas. You really should try some.”
There was no change in the tone of his voice. No punching of any particular word. The inflection was normal. That’s because the conversation wasn’t about what Elizabeth could hear. As Gorgin was talking he was also nodding. He was signaling her. Say yes to the tea, Agent Needham. Trust me.
“In that case,” said Elizabeth, “I’d love some tea.”
Gorgin turned and went to the stove, grabbing a kettle from one of the burners. As he filled it with water from the sink, Elizabeth took a seat at a small table in the corner.
“Sales,” said Gorgin.
“Excuse me?”
He returned the kettle to the stove, turning on the burner. “I sell commercial-grade cutlery to restaurants. That’s my job.”
Great. The guy handles knives for a living.
Gorgin opened a cabinet, removing two teacups. From another cabinet he removed a box of tea bags. Elizabeth eyed the label. It was Lipton.
Lipton? That’s the special tea your uncle sends you?
Of course it wasn’t. He’d obviously made that up on the fly. It was the only thing Elizabeth was sure about. Everything else was still unclear, including her next move. Should she start asking her questions or just make small talk and wait?
Wait for what, though? Gorgin wasn’t giving any more signals. All he was doing was making tea. At least she could still see his—
No sooner had he pulled out a couple of tea bags than he shifted his body, his back suddenly facing Elizabeth. She couldn’t see his hands anymore, but his arms were definitely moving. He was doing something.
Killer Instinct Page 9
