Escape (11 page)

The only two questions she'd answered no to were about whether there'd ever been a time when she was more interested in sex than usual... no,
never
... or if there'd been a time when she was much more social or outgoing than usual. "For example, you telephoned ... um ... friends in the middle of the ... night?" Nickles explained.

"I don't really have those sorts of friends," Jessica responded. The thought made her sad.

"Then you would mark 'No' on the MDQ."

When Jessica finished the questionnaire, Nickles studied the results before putting the clipboard back down on the coffee table and peered over the top of her pink glasses. "I believe ... um, ah, yes ... that my diagnosis is ... um hmph ... that you're bipolar," the psychiatrist said, "or what used to ... ah, yes ... to be referred to as 'manic-depressive,' which ... um ... is characterized by mood ... ah ... swings from abnormally high energy, the 'manic' stage, to debilitating depression, which in extreme ... ah, yes, um ... cases can be dangerous to others."

The psychiatrist turned to Lewis. "I will ... ah ... of course, write this up officially, but in essence the complete ... ah, um, yes ... diagnosis is Bipolar One with psychotic episodes—exacerbated by severe postpartum psychosis—with a ... ummmm ... schizophrenic personality disorder." Nickles removed her glasses and leaned across the table toward Jessica. "Let me ask you something, my dear," she said. "When you were ... ummm, yes ... sending your children to God, didn't it feel as if someone else was using your body?"

"Well, yes. It did sort of feel like God was moving me."

Nickles sat back. "There, you see," she said to Lewis, "classic schizophrenia ... ah, ummm, hmmm.... I believe that you have a ... hmmm ... insanity defense."

Lewis smiled like she'd just won the lottery. She patted Jessica on the knee again. "Don't worry, honey. When this unpleasantness is over, we'll find you a nice clinic where you can get well."

Nickles nodded. "Yes, there are some very nice institutions in upstate New York, as well as Vermont. Your parents are ... ummmm, aaaah... quite wealthy I hear, and I'm quite certain that I can arrange my ... hmmmm ... schedule so that I can work with you on a ... ah, yes, hmmm ... consultation basis."

Jessica looked from one smiling woman to the other. She began to hope, but then a voice spoke, only it wasn't God's.
Murderer,
it said. You
killed your three babies and deserve to be punished.
"Maybe I should plead guilty and get this over with," she blurted.

The other women scowled. "I don't want you to say anything like that ever again, especially where anyone else can hear you—not to your family, not to your best friend," Lewis said, her mouth now tight with anger. "It wasn't your fault, Jessica. You are suffering from a mental illness, which is why you said what you said and did what you did. But no more, do you understand me?"

Jessica looked again from lawyer to psychiatrist. She wanted to believe. "Well, God did tell me to do it," she said.

At the sound of the second knock, Karp answered, "Yeah, come in." The door opened and a lean-faced man with a pewter-colored crewcut poked his head into the room. "Coast clear?"

"No one here but us chickens. Have a seat, Espey." Karp walked around to his desk chair so that the new arrival could sit next to Guma.

As he had with Guma, Karp studied his friend for a moment. Tall and tan, S. P. "Espey" Jaxon moved with the fluid grace of a bullfighter. Even sitting down in the chair, he seemed poised to move his lean, muscular body in an instant.

Karp had known Jaxon for about as long as he'd known Marlene, V. T., and Guma, which placed the federal agent among his oldest friends. He'd been another of that generation of prosecutors who got started under Garrahy, but he'd grown tired of dealing with criminals by using law books and training in the art of trial practice. He opted for the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. He'd spent a lot of time in various posts, but his latest assignment with the bureau had been post 9/11 as special agent in charge of the New York office, specializing in anti-terrorism intelligence. Then, almost a year ago now, he'd suddenly quit the bureau and opted for a lucrative position with a private firm providing security for VIP clients.

Karp was one of a handful of people who knew that Jaxon's resignation was a ruse to allow him to operate under the radar to ferret out suspected double-agents and provocateurs within federal law-enforcement and intelligence agencies. That past spring, he'd become interested in a shadowy domestic group called the Sons of Man, who were apparently well-insinuated within the country's political, financial, legal, and military systems. How well, no one knew for sure, but apparently they weren't above using Islamic extremists to accomplish their own ends, which weren't completely clear either, except that they involved power and wealth.

There was no hard evidence proving it, but if there'd been any doubt that such a group existed outside of the imaginations of conspiracy buffs, it had disappeared when Jon Ellis, an assistant director of special operations for Homeland Security, was exposed as working for an independent organization bent on bringing the United States, and eventually the world, under a single all-powerful government. Trying to prevent his unmasking, Ellis had tried to kill Karp, but had fallen into a trap instead, and ended up killing himself to protect his secrets.

Jaxon's role in Ellis's capture and demise, as well as the suspected existence of the Sons of Man, had been kept quiet. Still, he was in a dangerous position. Ellis had the resources of his agency, as well as the people he really worked for. It could be assumed that whoever replaced him would also have access to these resources. Meanwhile, Jaxon was operating "unofficially," and if he ran into trouble, he and his team were on their own; he was persona non grata with the other agencies, including his own—a sellout who couldn't be trusted.

Karp was okay with the Mission:
Impossible
stuff as far as his friend was concerned. Jaxon was a big boy and knew what he was doing. What Karp didn't like was that Espey had recruited his own daughter, Lucy, onto his team. A savant with languages, having mastered more than sixty-plus, she was more Madam Librarian than Mata Hari. But following the murder of a friend who'd helped her and Espey uncover the existence, if not the identities, of the Sons of Man, she'd signed on full time. She seemed to have her mother's DNA for wanting vengeance.

When Karp appealed to his friend, as a father might, to dissuade Lucy, Jaxon explained that he needed people he could trust who were "off the grid"—that is, who had no prior history with federal and local law-enforcement agencies. For the same reason, he'd also recruited Lucy's boyfriend, Ned Blanchet, a ranch hand she'd met in New Mexico, as well as John Jojola, the police chief of the Taos Indian Pueblo, which was independent of other agencies, and one of Marlene's longtime associates, a Vietnamese teacher-turned-Viet-Cong-guerrilla-turned-gangster named Tran Vinh Do. Along with a few handpicked FBI agents, these four made up the team Jaxon created to "try to save the world."

Karp tried to reason with his daughter to convince her that she wasn't cut out for espionage. But he'd had no luck there, either; in response, she'd started spouting French philosophers at him.

'"Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do,'"
she'd answered when he asked why she felt that this was her responsibility.

"I
appreciate the Voltaire,"
he said,
"but there's plenty of good you can do without putting your life on the line."

"Sorry, Dad, but I think we can't afford to sit on the sidelines in this one. This is one of those times in history—like stopping the Nazis—when good people need to stand up against evil or it will be too late when the bad guys come for the rest of us. And in some way, these Islamic extremists are maybe more dangerous than the Nazis; they actually believe that God wants them to commit mass murder. And the Sons of Man are worse still because I think they're
using
these terrorists to put themselves in power. "

"Or as Voltaire also wrote, 'Anyone who has the power to make you believe absurdities has the power to make you commit injustices.
As
long
as
people believe in absurdities they will continue to commit atrocities.' Yes, I know the drill,"
Karp said.
"And
I
know they have to be stopped, or we're all in trouble. But that doesn't mean I have to like my daughter being on the front lines, especially as you've already experienced more than your fair share of danger."

"But that's just it,"
Lucy said, stepping forward to give him a hug.
"I've been trying to tell you for years that it's no accident that this family, including but not
limited to
me, has been in the epicenter of this storm—at least as far as New York City is concerned. I know you aren't into all the mysticism and apocalyptic signs, but I think it's for a reason that is a lot bigger than just our family's attraction to hot water.
" Lucy had always been headstrong, especially when she believed that she was on the moral high ground. The debate had ended as he'd known in his heart that it would; he had to accept that she was committed.

But so was Muhammad Jamal Khalifa,
Karp thought. He filled Jaxon in on what Guma had told him regarding the bombing. "So what do you think?" No longer officially a federal agent, Jaxon had no direct access to the investigation, nor was he invited to the briefing. There were people on the inside of the investigation who could be trusted, but they reported what they knew to the mysterious entity Jaxon worked for, who in turn passed it on to the agent. It was a cumbersome method and lacked detail.

"What do I think?" Jaxon repeated the question. "Well, I think that was nice work by Mr. Guma and company here. My people didn't have the name change to Jamal Khalifa or his connection to the mosque, either; this misdemeanor assault conviction isn't on the National Crime Computer, although I couldn't tell you why not. Anyway, if this checks out with Jamal Khalifa it presents me with a whole new can of worms."

"What's that?" Guma asked.

"I've got a 'client' coming in from Saudi Arabia," Jaxon explained. "Some playboy prince with more money than the combined Gross National Product of South America. Somebody in the State Department put in a request that I babysit this guy, and my 'employer' thought it was a good idea for our own reasons. There's been a lot of Internet chatter about some character known only as 'The Sheik,' and something big going down here in Gotham."

"Where else? Manhattan must look like a bull's-eye from the sky," Karp said dryly, then asked, "So you think the bombing was maybe a trial run, or a threat? These extremists don't like the Saudi royal family, and somebody with that kind of money and connections might make a good target. Maybe The Sheik is going to assassinate your guy."

"We thought of that, but then why tip their hand with this bombing?" Jaxon countered. "Unless, like you say, it was meant as just a threat in order to keep the prince from showing up at all."

"But why?"

"I have a couple of theories. Both are connected to the prince's itinerary. First, the main reason he's coming is that he's the president of one of the world's largest hedge funds—without getting technical, that boils down to being in control of billions of dollars' worth of stock. So he's going to be wined and dined by all the big banks and brokerage houses competing for the right to take care of that money for him when he wants to buy or sell. And a lot of that money belongs to his extended family, along with their wealthiest friends. Maybe, The Sheik and his terrorist pals think that killing this guy and disrupting their business will destabilize the royal family."

"Works for me," Karp noted again, taking up his pad and pencil. "And the second reason for his trip?"

"Well, as you said, the Saudi royals aren't particularly popular with the poor people in their own country, which is why that assassination theory works. So the royals are constantly doing a high-wire act balancing their financial interests with keeping their own version of the Religious Right placated. The Wahabi sect is the most anti-West and anti-American brand of conservative Islam there is, and it's native to Saudi Arabia. In fact, the Saudi government, and their rich friends, support these Wahabi imams and their madrasah religious schools teaching jihad to keep them from inciting the masses, while out of the other corner of their mouths, they're talking about all their efforts in the 'War on Terrorism.' But the Saudi royals are one misstatement from inciting those imams, who could unleash an Islamic revolution on the Arabian Peninsula that will make the 1979 Iranian revolution look tame. The Saudi royals and friends stave it off by paying the imams to keep the Saudi public in check, while these same imams incite terrorism in other countries. Sort of like feeding the man-eating crocodile you keep in your bathtub, knowing someday that you're going to be what's for dinner."

"What's this have to do with the prince?" Guma asked.

"Well, the second publicized reason for his trip is that he plans to present a large check to fund the construction of a new madrasah on the grounds of a certain mosque in Harlem."

Karp leaned back in his chair and whistled. "Let me guess, the lucky mosque sits at 126th and Madison?"

"You got it," the agent nodded. "The Al-Aqsa mosque."

Flipping to a blank sheet on his legal pad, Karp said, "So let's do the math: If Jamal Khalifa is connected to this mosque; and if some person or persons also connected to the mosque want to assassinate this prince; then why does Khalifa blow himself up in a synagogue and bring all this attention to his comrades?"

Jaxon shrugged. "Dissension in the ranks? Some splintering? Maybe it's a warning that if the Saudi royals don't do something, perhaps an agreement with Al Qaeda, then the prince is going to get it here?"

"Or," Guma pointed out, "maybe the locals were making a demonstration of their abilities and commitment to their friends overseas."

The three men were silent for a minute, then Karp tossed his pencil onto the pad. "We're not seeing something here."

"I agree," Jaxon said. "But thanks to Guma, I've got a little bit of a heads-up. I think I'll be paying a visit to the mosque—routine security for the prince's visit. Oh, and I agree that we should keep this to ourselves for now. I'm like you, something doesn't quite smell right with this investigation, or maybe it's just the usual floundering around that troubles me."

"No problem," Karp replied. "I never have liked it when you snotty G-men come to my town and take over my cases."

Jaxon held up his hands. "You don't have to tell this cowboy who the sheriff is around these here parts."

"So is that it for this morning?" Guma asked.

Karp opened the middle drawer of his desk. "Nope. I was going to get to this when Jaxon knocked on the door. It has to do with your sleuthing regarding the cab driver."

"About what?"

"About Khalifa paying with food stamps." Karp tossed the crumpled food-stamp certificate that he'd found on the street outside the police perimeter. "I picked this up off the street outside the synagogue. I didn't give it much thought. I was going to give it to one of the street people, but maybe you guys can use it."

Jaxon picked up the certificate and spread it out. "There are registration numbers on these things," he said. "Maybe they keep track of who they give these to."

With their meeting over, the three men shook hands. Jaxon went back out the side door for the private elevator while Karp and Guma walked out into the receptionist area.

"Good morning, Mrs. Milquetost," Guma said pleasantly, pronouncing her name correctly. "Forgive my abruptness this morning. I'm afraid my mind was elsewhere."

Darla Milquetost looked like she might fall off her chair. She gave an appreciative glance toward Karp and sniffed. "That's quite all right, Mr. Guma. I'm just trying to treat everyone equally ... no special favors." Guma gave a little bow. "And I would
never
ask for any ...
special favors
... from you, Darla."

A confused look passed over Mrs. Milquetost's face. She'd have to tell her new boyfriend, Bill, about this—he was interested in everything about her job, and so good at counseling her to not let Mr. Ray Guma get to her.

Karp used the moment to hustle Guma out of the office. They walked down the hall to the large staff meeting room where every Monday morning, in the tradition of his mentor Garrahy, Karp met with his bureau chiefs and a select few other assistant district attorneys. It was a chance for up-and-comers among the ADAs to present their cases and have older hands attempt to rip them to shreds to find any hole a defense attorney might exploit and get it plugged before trial. Rigorous preparation was a hallmark of a prosecutor trained by Garrahy—or now by Karp.

When Karp entered, the attorneys quieted; those who were standing quickly found seats. Some of the rookie ADAs hovered over the case files on the table in front of them like college students doing last-minute cramming before a final exam. Careers had been made, and lost, based on how a young prosecutor fared in these staff meetings.

As everybody else found their seats, Karp quickly noted that a lot of eyes were flicking back and forth between him and V. T. Newbury, who sat alone about halfway down the table with no one on either side of him. V. T. twirled a fountain pen—one of his blueblood eccentricities—in his fingers as he stared straight ahead.

Just as cancer seemed to have reduced Ray Guma to a shell, the assault seemed to have affected Newbury's physical presence. He wasn't a big man, but he'd been a rowing champion at Yale, and he'd previously never lacked for self-confidence.

"All right, everybody, let's get this party started," proclaimed a high-pitched male voice to Karp's right. "Take your seats—and that includes you, Guma.... Thank you very much for showing me your middle finger, Ray, but I've seen it before."

Gilbert Murrow narrowed his eyes to show the unrepentant Guma that he was serious. He adjusted his round, wire-rimmed glasses on his nose, tugged at the edges of his ubiquitous bow tie, and cleared his throat. He was ready.