Fear City (17 page)

“Interesting. What if he was trying to get to you through her?”

The question sent a jolt of alarm and dismay through Jack, but he immediately dismissed it.

“If he was torturing her about me, why would she scratch
DAMATO
into her skin?”

Burkes shrugged. “As I said, just grasping at straws.” He snapped his fingers. “Wait-wait-wait. Senator D'Amato is very unpopular with a certain breed of Arab.”

“The jihadist kind?” Bertel's Mohammedans came to mind. “Because that's the kind Reggie's been connected to.”

“Could they have been torturing Cristin to find something on D'Amato?”

“As good a theory as any. Know any you can ask?”

“Good luck that. But I'll see what I can scrounge up from my saner Mideast counterparts.”

“Why would they want to help?”

“Many see the jihadists as a threat to the regime they serve. We tend to cooperate on security matters because what threatens one mission can easily threaten others.”

“You might want to see if they know anything about a big-time U.S. hater named Sheikh Omar in a Jersey City mosque.”

“Got that?” Burkes said toward the front.

“Got it,” said Gerald.

“Also, I know this guy who's got a hard-on for Omar and his crazy Mohammedans, as he calls them.”

“Really? What's his name?”

“I doubt you'd know him.”

“You never know what I'll know, laddie.”

Jack pondered that a bit. Paranoid Bertel probably wouldn't want his name mentioned, but what was the harm? How would this Scot have ever heard of him?

“Name's Dane Bertel.”

Jack saw Gerald, the passenger, take a quick look back, then face forward again. That was it. Nothing dramatic. Just a quick glance at his boss. Why? To make eye contact? To see how the boss was going to react?

As for the boss, Burkes was stroking his jaw again.

“Dane Bertel … no, you're right. Never heard of him. How old is he?”

He
had
heard of him. How the hell…?

“You know him.”

Burkes smiled. “Dane Bertel? I think I'd remember a name like that.” He leaned toward the front. “Take the lad back to his car.” He looked at Jack. “We'll trade contact info on the way. Let's keep each other up to speed on this. Be nice to find this bawbag before the coppers. See if he can take what he dished out.”

Fine, Jack thought, but you're lying about Bertel.

Why the hell was he lying? Why didn't he want to admit he knew him?

Burkes tossed him his wallet. “There you go, Jeff.”

If Jack was going to be dealing with this guy, he didn't want to keep answering to the wrong name.

“People call me Jack.”

“Jack for Jeff. That's an odd one.”

“Lots of odd stuff around.”

“No argument there.”

Burkes returned his “wee Glock” along with its magazine. When they dropped him off in front of Rebecca's house, Jack noticed smoke streaming from her chimney.

 

SUNDAY

 

1

“Thank you for meeting me,” Nasser said in Arabic to the men in the backseat as the car got rolling.

Sunday morning traffic was virtually nonexistent in Jersey City at this hour. He'd arrived promptly at eight to find the three of them waiting.

Kadir had brought Yousef along, but even better, the redheaded Mahmoud had joined them. One more to put pressure on Yousef to change his target. The three of them carried a pungent, acrid odor.

Kadir spoke first with a wary glance at the driver. Nasser was glad about their caution in front of strangers. He'd already assured them on previous occasions that Klari
ć
spoke no Arabic.

“I await your ‘startling information.'”

“Through my contacts in the UN—”

“I knew it!” Yousef said. “I knew it as soon as Kadir told me. You're wasting your breath. We will not change the target!”

“Hear him out,” Mahmoud said.

Yousef folded his arms across his chest and glared at Nasser.

“Speak,” Kadir said.

“Very well. Through my contacts in the UN I have learned that Israeli Prime Minister Rabin is flying to New York at the end of the week for a secret meeting with UN Secretary Boutros-Ghali.”

The news evoked the anticipated response: wide-eyed shock. Even Yousef's jaw dropped a little.

“Are you sure?” Mahmoud said. “Are you absolutely
sure
?”

Nasser nodded. “I have confirmation from a second source, one outside the UN.”

“Who?” Yousef said.

“Someone who works in Senator Alfonse D'Amato's New York office.”

“That swine!” Yousef said, baring his teeth. “Why should he know?”

“For a very good reason. As you know, he's a great friend to Israel—went there during the war to mock Saddam's Scud missiles. He is going to be at the meeting.”

The car fell silent—so silent it might have been a coffin on wheels.

Finally Kadir spoke in a hushed tone. “All three of them? In the same room?”

“When?” Yousef said.

“The meeting is set for Friday morning at eleven
A.M.
”

The horse-faced man's eyes narrowed. “This seems too good to be true. And very convenient for the man who prefers to see the UN harmed rather than the Trade Towers.”

Nasser had expected this and gave an elaborate shrug. “As Kadir and Mahmoud can tell you, I have always been a friend to jihad. I always will be.”

“I have friends at home who can confirm whether or not the Zionist has left the country.”

“I hope you won't mention anything about this meeting over an international phone line.”

Yousef sneered. “I am not an idiot. I will simply be curious about his whereabouts on Friday.”

“I am sure you will find that he is scheduled for an appearance or two in Israel that day, but wait and see: They will be canceled at the last minute due to ‘pressing matters of state.' In reality he will be arriving at JFK on an El Al flight early Friday morning and leaving again on Friday afternoon.”

An Israeli member of the Order had already phoned an anonymous tip to Shin Bet that someone might make an attempt on Rabin's life during the first Friday of Ramadan. Security would clamp down tight and disinformation about the PM's schedule for that day would be rampant. Anyone asking about Rabin's whereabouts would find themselves the object of intense scrutiny, perhaps even interrogation, which would only bolster Nasser's story.

“Rabin, Boutros-Ghali, D'Amato,” Mahmoud said. It sounded like a litany.

“Yes,” Nasser said. “Think about it: When will the three of them be together in the same room again? And only a few miles from where we sit?”

How could they resist? And they mustn't resist. Yousef had to give in and change course because the Trade Towers were not to be touched. Nasser was sure he could be even more convincing if he knew the reason for their preservation, but he still did not rate that level of confidence.

All eyes were on Yousef now.

“My uncle Khalid—” he began.

“Fuck your uncle!” Mahmoud said. “He sits in faraway comfort while we poison our lungs and burn our skin. He doesn't even send us money. He no longer has a say in what we do.”

Yousef's mad little eyes bored into Nasser's. “But if he is lying…”

Kadir said, “He has never lied to us before. And even if he
is
wrong, even if Rabin changes his plans and is not there, we will have blown up the UN for the cause of jihad. If Rabin
is
there, then all the world will reel in shock and will tremble before Allah. We cannot lose!”

Nasser saw Yousef wavering before the potent argument and decided to sweeten the pot.

“Here is something else to consider: To assure maximum destruction, you will need two bombs.”

“Two?” Kadir said. “But we have enough only for one.”

“I will contribute whatever you need for the second bomb.”

“Why two?” Mahmoud said.

“Unlike the Trade Center, you will not be able to get inside the UN Plaza unless you have diplomatic plates. You will only be able to get close to it—curbside at best—unless you are willing to be a martyr and run the gates.”

“I would do that for Allah,” Yousef said.

Let's hope you do, Nasser thought.

“So would I,” Kadir added, his eyes alight with religious zeal.

“Even so, only one truck would be able to get through the front gate. But the rear is vulnerable.”

“Of course!” Mahmoud said with a sudden grin. “The FDR! The southbound lanes run right under the UN!”

Nasser had fully expected the cabdriver to know that.

“Exactly. The explosions wouldn't have to be perfectly timed. In fact, staggering them might even be better. Detonation within a minute of each other will be perfect. No sooner will the survivors realize that they're under attack than they'll be rocked by another massive blast. Imagine the terror, the panic as they wonder when the
third
will go off.”

“But there won't be a third,” Kadir said.

Nasser grinned. “You and I will know that, but they won't.”

At the sight of three nodding heads in the rear, Nasser pulled a thick envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket and held it up: bait, a worm wriggling on a hook.

“This envelope is empty now, because I did not know what you would decide. But I am willing to fill it with ten thousand dollars to further the cause of maximum terror. Enough for a second bomb and a second truck to level the UN.”

Kadir slapped his thighs. “That is what we must do.”

“But—” Yousef began.

Kadir's voice rose. “Rabin! Boutros-Ghali! The Jew-loving senator! They are known the world over as enemies of Islam and jihad. We cannot pass them up for buildings full of faceless workers!”

“Our names will be carved in the Halls of Heaven,” Mahmoud said.

Kadir turned to Nasser. “When can we have the money?”

“Can you build the second bomb in time?”

“We will work day and night!”

“Then I can have it for you first thing tomorrow morning. Same time, same place?”

“Yes. We will be there.”

Nasser tapped Klari
ć
on the shoulder and spoke in English. “Back to the mosque.”

His work here was done. All that was left was to deliver the money.

 

2

Jack spotted Bertel and his goofy fake beard in an old Plymouth on Kennedy Boulevard. No empty parking spaces in sight—lots of folks sleeping late, he guessed—so he turned a corner and hunted down a side street. He was driving Bertel's pickup. The old guy had forbidden him from bringing the Corvair, saying it was too eye-catching. Jack couldn't argue. Ralph was proving impractical. He needed to be less impulsive with his purchases in the future, at least with something like a car.

He found a spot and walked back up to Kennedy. He knocked on the passenger window of the Plymouth and Bertel unlocked the door for him.

“That's one crummy beard,” Jack said as he eased into the seat.

Bertel kept his eyes straight ahead as he spoke. “It gets the job done.”

“Any excitement?”

“Nothing. Just got here a few minutes ago. Could've used you last Wednesday, though.”

“Yeah?”

“I was here in time to see our dear jihadists get back from a ride in a long black Mercedes.”

“They suddenly inherit a fortune?”

“Wasn't their car. Some white guy driving it. But the Mohammedan in charge was someone I'd seen before.”

“Who?”

“Don't know his name. I call him the mystery Mohammedan. But remember a couple years ago—two years almost to the day, in fact—when we were trailing Kadir and your friend Reggie in that truck?”

Why did he always have to precede “Reggie” with “your friend”? Jack wasn't going to correct him this time.

“Yeah.”

“Well, if you remember, after we parted ways, I continued following that truck. Guess who Kadir and your friend Reggie met up with at the end of the road.”

“Your mystery Mohammedan.”

“Bingo—along with Mahmoud the Red.”

Jack's memory was starting to make connections. “Where exactly was this end of the road?”

“I believe it's called Sore Thumb Beach.”

“Isn't that where a truck filled with a dozen or so Muslims blew up that night?”

His eyes stayed fixed through the windshield. “I believe you're right.”

“And you just happened to be there.”

Finally he looked at Jack. “No need for that suspicious tone. A mere correlation, and correlation is not the same as cause and effect. You have to remember, these jihadists play with explosives. They were there to ambush your friends. No telling what sort of ordnance they brought along. Some of that stuff can be temperamental—downright cranky at times.”

Jack had long suspected that Bertel was behind that explosion. Now to hear him admit he was there … well, that was enough to convince Jack that, at least in this case, correlation coincided with cause.

“But let us return to the matter at hand,” Bertel said. “The mystery Mohammedan from the beach met again with the jihadists and—”

Another correlation struck like a blow.

“Holy crap! Did you say Wednesday?”

“Early morning.”

“You didn't happen to see Reggie with them, did you?”

Bertel shook his head. “Nope. Nowhere in sight. Why?”

The mystery Arab seen with Reggie two years ago meets with jihadists the day before Cristin is abducted and tortured with Reggie's weapon of choice. Connection?

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. For a second there you looked like someone had just kicked you in the balls.”