Dark City

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Okay. Here it comes.”

  He had a length of monofilament fishing line tied to the mic. He wrapped the other end around the tip of a thick, heavy-duty flathead screwdriver and, using the awl as a guide, pushed it through the hole.

  “Got it?”

  “Yeah,” Julio said.

  Jack withdrew the screwdriver, leaving the fishing line trailing through the hole.

  “Okay, unwrap the string and pull the mic through—but slowly and gently.”

  As Julio took up the slack from the other side, Jack guided the mic to the hole and pushed it through until he heard from Julio.

  “Got it.”

  He pushed it a little farther, then hurried around to the rear seat. He adjusted the position of the mic in the cushion folds by the receptacle. Damn, that looked good. As good as invisible. Now to make sure it still worked.

  He hustled back to the trunk and turned on the transmitter. Then he used the duct tape he’d brought along to fix it high and out of sight under the rear window deck. He tucked the wire into the edges of the trunk space to hide it.

  “Okay,” he told Julio. “Start talking—you know, normal conversation tones.”

  Jack hopped out of the trunk and began walking away. As he moved he turned on the receiver and put its earpiece in his ear. Julio’s voice came through loud and clear. Half a block away he could still understand what he was saying.

  He hurried back to the car.

  “It’s working. Let’s get out of here.”

  He took one last look in the trunk and saw no sign that anything had been tampered with. He sat in the rear seat and looked around. No sign of the mic.

  My work here is done, he thought.

  Now it became a simple matter of waiting and watching.

  2

  Stakeout duty.

  Reggie shifted from one butt-buggering spot on the old Volvo’s passenger seat to another. This was cop stuff. Or private-dick stuff. He wasn’t either but he’d been stuck doing it for days.

  Once again he found himself paired with Kris Szeto, Eastern Eurotrash from Romania or Yugoslavia or Bulgaria or one of those places. Wherever he came from, he had a thick accent of some sort and was heavy into black leather. His hair was as dark as his jacket, but shinier. Like vinyl. Reggie wondered if he dyed it. Maybe he rubbed some of that dye on his jaw, because he always looked like he needed a shave, even when he didn’t have any stubble.

  At least he wasn’t a raghead. This watch duty was that Arab al-Thani’s idea; and Szeto’s boss, Drexler of the white suit, was going along with it. When Drexler said, “Jump,” Szeto said, “Which cliff?” Drexler had told Reggie to tag along. Reggie didn’t have to obey. Unlike Szeto, he wasn’t part of their mysterious organization, which wasn’t something you joined like the Elks or the Moose Lodge—you had to be asked. And nobody was asking Reggie.

  But even though he wasn’t a member, he owed Drexler and his gang. He flexed his knees … yeah, he owed them that. After that son of a bitch Lonnie—not his real name, Reggie was sure—busted his kneecaps, Drexler arranged for an orthopedist to fix them. And the guy did a good job. They hurt most of the time, especially in this goddamn cold weather, but at least he could stand and walk on them.

  Drexler kept him around, housing him in some big old building on the Lower East Side like some sort of pet, but Reggie didn’t mind. He didn’t have nothing else going at the moment. He figured he could pretty much count on some ongoing support because he was the only one alive who knew what Lonnie looked like. And, thanks to a little fiction Reggie had concocted, Drexler believed Lonnie was in on the ambush that had cost his organization three million simoleons.

  Lonnie … Reggie was pretty sure he didn’t know shit about the hijackers, because he’d been just as scared and shocked as Reggie when the shooting started. He wouldn’t even have been there if Reggie hadn’t dragooned him into driving the second truck. But Drexler didn’t need to know any of that.

  Through the weeks and months, Reggie had become interested in the Order. Its public face was some sort of social/business/political networking group, but Reggie had gathered that it went a hell of a lot deeper than that. First off, no one knew how old it was—or those who did weren’t talking. Reggie had gone so far as to visit the New York Public Library to look it up and had got nowhere. When he’d complained at the desk that they had almost no information on the Order, he’d been referred to the “restricted” section.

  The old guy in charge of the restricted stacks said a few exposés of the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order had been published over the years but the books tended to disappear from the shelves. The most recent, Septimus Secrets by an obscure scholar named Max Soltys, came out twenty years ago from a small press. It claimed that the Order stretched back to prehistory and throughout the ages had included many of history’s movers and shakers as members. Soltys died in a boating accident shortly after publication; the small press was bought out and soon went out of business. Copies of the book were no longer for sale anywhere. The last copy was stolen years ago from these restricted stacks.

  Coincidence? Conspiracy? Reggie had no way of finding out. But he did know he wanted in.

  So when Drexler told him to ride shotgun with Szeto while he watched for a certain Egyptian—some guy named Shalabi or Wasabi or Kemosabe or whatever—no way Reggie was going to say no. Trouble was, the raghead lived in someplace called Sea Gate on the ass end of Coney Island. A gated community, no less. And they were all sorts of serious about the gated bit. Szeto had tried to get in—“Just to look around, is so beautiful”—and the guard kicked his butt back outside the gate. They went looking for another way in but the entire end of the island was fenced off—the fence even ran down the beach, almost to the water. Sure, you could walk around the fence, but who wanted to do that? And you’d only get kicked out by the Sea Gate PD. Yeah, the dinky little place had its own police force.

  That was the bad part about Sea Gate. The good part was how it was surrounded on three sides by water. So if you wanted to drive anywhere, you pretty much had to come down Neptune Avenue. Which was where they’d been sitting, just east of West 37th Street, spending their twelve-hour shifts drinking coffee, eating sandwiches, and starting up the car every so often so they wouldn’t freeze their asses off.

  “So,” Reggie said after a sip of his third cup of bitter coffee, “let me ask you about this ‘Order’ of yours.”

  Szeto wasn’t much of a talker. They’d tried listening to music but Szeto couldn’t stand the stuff on the radio, and the tape he’d played for Reggie had sounded like heavy machinery with bad gears. Reggie had lasted half a song before threatening to throw it out the window. They’d settled on silence but it was getting to Reggie.

  Szeto stiffened at the question. “Order? What is Order?”

  “The Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order.”

  He did a slow turn toward Reggie. “How you know about this?”

  “Your boss, Drexler. He’s got me staying in this old place downtown and it’s got this big seal inside, and under it is ‘Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order.’ I never heard of it before.”

  He neglected to mention trying to delve into the group’s history.

  “Is group that helps members make, you know, connections. Business, government, that sort of thing.”

  “Yeah? What business are you interested in?”

  “Me? I am security.”

  “Really? Why does a fraternity need security?”

  “Are rules.”

  “And you make sure people follow the rules?”

  Szeto nodded. “Someone must. Rules are necessary. But if no one enforce rules, what good are rules?”

  Well, he had a point. But Reggie realized he had learned exactly zilch from the guy. He was about to press him when he spotted a black Mercedes sedan come through the Sea Gate gate and roll their way along Neptune. They’d been told to watch for just that kind of car.

  “Hey, ain’t that him?”


  He grabbed the clipboard from between them and found the license plate number. Yep. It matched.

  “Is him,” Szeto said.

  Without needing to be told, he was already turning the ignition key. The guy driving the Mercedes matched the description of Mustafa Shalabi. Well, as best Reggie could tell. They all looked alike to him.

  Drexler and al-Thani wanted to be notified immediately if he was headed for the airport. Reggie had practically memorized the New York City map while killing time waiting for Shalabi to show, and now, as they followed, he realized Shalabi was cruising past the connection to the Belt Parkway that would have taken him to JFK. Looked like he had a local destination.

  Shalabi stayed on Neptune Avenue all the way east through Coney Island and into Brighton Beach where half the signs were in Russian. He parked on the street; Reggie and Szeto stopped half a block past him and watched as he entered a door under a sign that read Odessa Travel Agency.

  “Okay. This is interesting.”

  Al-Thani and Drexler had said they didn’t want Shalabi leaving the country, at least not until they had a chance to talk to him. Reggie hadn’t a clue what they wanted from the raghead, and didn’t really care. But if he was hitting a travel agency, that could mean he’d soon be hitting an airport.

  Twenty minutes later he was back out the door and heading for his car. They followed it back to the Sea Gate entrance.

  “We must call,” Szeto said.

  “First let’s find out when he’s leaving.”

  “How to do that?”

  “We ask at the travel agency.”

  “What if they do not tell?”

  Reggie smacked a fist into a palm. “I’m sure we can persuade them.”

  Szeto grinned. “Is good plan. I like you, Reggie.”

  Wish I could say the same about you, Reggie thought.

  They drove back. At first the woman at Odessa Travel refused to give them any information. That lasted about twenty seconds—right up until Reggie walked behind the counter and gave her shoulder a painful squeeze.

  “When and where—now!”

  She winced and said, “Tomorrow! Lufthansa to Frankfurt!”

  Reggie looked at Szeto. “Where’s Frankfurt?”

  Szeto gave him a you-must-be-kidding look. “Germany.”

  The woman said, “From there he goes to Kabul.”

  Where the fuck was Kabul? He looked at Szeto again.

  “Afghanistan,” he said.

  “Don’t gimme that pissant look. You come from over there. If I said ‘Topeka,’ you wouldn’t have a fucking idea where—”

  “Kansas.”

  Shit.

  “Well, give yourself a fucking geography merit badge.” Reggie released the woman’s shoulder and grabbed the handset off the desk phone. “You don’t mind if I make a call, do you, sweetie? Don’t worry. It’s local.” She shook her head. “Good.”

  He pulled the number from a pocket and punched it in. He recognized al-Thani’s voice on the other end.

  “He’s getting ready to move. Heading to Frankfurt tomorrow, then to Kabul.” Reggie made it sound as if he knew exactly where those places were.

  “Good work. Keep watch in case he moves early. We will contact you.”

  “How?”

  They didn’t have a car phone.

  “We will join you after dark.”

  And then he hung up.

  After dark? Shit. He’d been hoping to get a break from this bird-dog detail. Looked like the whole rest of the day was going to be more of the same.

  He looked at the travel agent, then scanned her desk. He saw a photo of a little boy and a girl at a park tacked to a corkboard. He popped it off and showed it to her.

  “Your kids?”

  She swallowed and nodded.

  “Cute,” he said, folding it. “You want them to stay that way, you won’t tell anybody we were here.”

  Another swallow, another nod.

  He shoved the photo into his pocket and walked out. People with kids were so easy.

  The big question now: What did Drexler and al-Thani have planned for this Shalabi after dark?

  3

  Neil waited until midmorning to place the call. Didn’t want to make it too early because a lot of these old broads slept late. Didn’t want to wait until noon because a lot of them went out to lunch.

  “Allo?” Definitely an old lady’s voice.

  “Is this Mrs. Michelina Filardo?”

  “Yes. Who’s a-calling?” she said with a prominent Italian accent. “If you gonna ask me for money, you can a-just go to hell. I—”

  Feisty old bag.

  “No-no. Nothing like that, Mrs. Filardo. My name is Nathan Munden and I’m with the New York State Banking Department.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t! You think I’m a-born yesterday? Next you be wanting my a-Social Security number!”

  “Please, Mrs. Filardo. I already know your Social Security number. And this isn’t a scam. There’s nothing wrong with your account. We simply need your help with a problem at your bank branch. Can I come over and speak to you about it?”

  “I’m a-no sure…”

  “I’ve got a badge and an official identification card, if that will make you more comfortable.”

  He’d found it best not to mention right off that his card identified him as a member of the Banking Department’s fraud investigation unit. At least not over the phone. The word “fraud” tended to get old folks worked up, and he could better finesse her in person.

  “Badge? You gonna arrest me?”

  He forced a laugh. “No-no-no! None of this involves you and you don’t have to be involved if you don’t want to, but I’m hoping you’ll be a good citizen and help us catch a thief.”

  “Someone a-steal from me?”

  “No.” Didn’t the old girl listen? “As I told you, this does not involve your account. I repeat: This does not involve your account. I can explain everything better in person. May I come over?”

  “Now?”

  “Before lunch or after lunch, whichever is more convenient.”

  He didn’t want to give her too long. The longer the lag, the greater the chance she’d blab to someone.

  “You come now. I’m a-wanna hear this.”

  She bit! He pumped a fist. Now he had to move in close and set the hook. Once that was done, all he had to do was reel her in.

  “Excellent. I can be there in half an hour.”

  “This better not be a-bullshit. I can smell a-bullshit a mile away.”

  “None of that stuff, I assure you, Mrs. Filardo. This is the real deal. See you soon.”

  Christ! he thought as he hung up. This old broad was a bitch on wheels. No surprise she wouldn’t front her grandson’s business, harebrained or not. Still, she was going to let him through the door. That was the biggest hurdle. Once he sat her down and exposed her to the full intensity of the magical Zalesky charm, she’d be putty in his hands.

  4

  Jack sat in his usual spot by the window of the used bookstore/coffee shop and pretended to read while keeping an eye on Zalesky’s place across the street. He’d decided to extend the rental on the Chrysler New Yorker—the only functioning wheels he had at the moment—and had left it parked down the street.

  Around quarter to eleven, a guy stepped out of the doorway next to the Italian bakery: Zalesky, wearing a fedora and dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and a red-and-blue-striped tie.

  Right away Jack was up and moving. This was not going-to-the-sports-bar attire. This was the same outfit he’d worn when Jack and Julio had tailed him to a meeting with another of his marks.

  Jack followed him just far enough to make sure he was heading for his car, then doubled back to the Chrysler. He started rolling toward the Bruckner. If Zalesky was heading for the Filardo place, Jack didn’t need to follow. He knew the address. If he had another destination in mind, it didn’t concern Jack.

  Jack let Zalesky pass him on the Bruckner
and then trailed him south to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. As they crawled along, he crept to within one car length of Zalesky’s Dodge. On the off chance the hijo de puta was talking to himself, he turned on his receiver. Instead of Zalesky, he heard a scratchy voice talking about the Knicks. Zalesky was listening to WFAN.

  Okay, the good news was the hidden microphone was working beautifully. The bad news was the radio was activating the transmitter, and that would shorten the battery life. Well, Zalesky didn’t seem to use the car much. Jack could only keep his fingers crossed.

  The slow traffic left plenty of time to take in the ugliness of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center to his right across the East River, dominating and ruining the skyline of Manhattan’s lower end; on the left they passed Brooklyn Heights, Cobble Hill, and then finally Carroll Gardens where Zalesky made his exit.

  No question: He’d made contact with Michelina Filardo.

  Yes!

  5

  Neil stepped out of his car and glanced up and down the tree-lined street. Probably nice and shady when the leaves were out. He turned his attention to the house—a neat three-story brownstone with wrought-iron railings. Living in a place like this wouldn’t be hard to take. Not hard at all.

  He glanced down as he took the ten steps up to the front door. Looked like it had a basement apartment, or a least room for one. According to the printout Melinda had given him, Michelina Filardo was sixty-one years old. The grandson had said she lived alone. He had a feeling he was going to have to bring his A game with this broad. She knew enough not to fund her grandson’s half-ass scheme about fiber optics or whatever bullshit he’d been spouting back at the Event. Would she swallow Neil’s line?

  Of course she would.

  A little lady looking older than sixty-one opened the inner door. Her grandson hadn’t been kidding: Michelina Filardo was old-country Italian, right down to the widow’s black and graying hair pulled back into a bun.