Gods and Fathers (11 page)

Debra al-Hassan, the former Debra DeMarco of Manhattan and Pound Ridge, and before that Debra Rusillo of Arthur Avenue, the Bronx, had not always been a prisoner in her own palatial homes. In the beginning of her marriage she was free and even courageous, courageous enough to have Mustafa watched by a private detective agency. But what she learned, that his only deviation, if you could even call it that, from duty, was an occasional trip to an upstate prison, could not compare to a car-bomb killing of a New York detective. Not that he wasn’t capable of it, or wasn’t devious, an enemy inside her own house, but an overt killing? Of an NYPD cop? Why? In her room since Sunday morning, when she read about Detective Davila’s death in the Times, she had been feeling groggy and depressed for three days, unable to focus, not hungry, sleeping too much. Could she walk, could she drive? She did not know.
Fresh air
, she thought, putting on a robe and slippers.

Outside her room, on a hand-carved Louis Quatorze tray trolley she had purchased in Paris, was her breakfast—juice and coffee—and a beaten-silver pill case containing her anti-depressant medication. She would take it later. The apartment had balconies and terraces on three sides, the widest facing the East River, where she used to like to look, on clear days, down to the harbor and the Verrazano Narrows Bridge shimmering at the horizon. Cutting through the kitchen, she noticed her reflection in one of the glass cabinets and stopped. Old, she thought, puffy, tired, haggard, dazed.
Fuck.
Before turning away, she noticed a prescription vial on the bottom shelf—had been staring at it, actually, while looking at her face. She had never even seen the bottle, content to let Basil control her medication schedule, and Mustafa the doling out of her daily pills.

Curious, she opened the cabinet door and spun the vial until she could read it. “Debra al-Hassan-1 per day.” Yes, these were the blue tablets she had been swallowing, but Mustafa had been giving her two each morning and two again at night, along with her sleeping pills, telling her it was on Basil’s orders. Shaking her head, she shut the glass door.
Had
he said that? She could not remember.

On the terrace, she was shocked at how cold and clear and bright the day was. She pulled her robe tight against the chill. Below, the city was in full stride. Basil had arrived home last night and had briefly stopped in her room. He had said he would be home all day today. She would tell him. But should she? Mustafa was a devoted servant, and perhaps more. Perhaps it was better to wait. If she could clear her head, she could spy on Mustafa, as she had done on Saturday, perhaps learn something…

Behind her she heard a curtain rustle, and turned to look. Mustafa was standing in the open doorway, his arms folded against his chest, staring at her.

“Mustafa,” Debra said. “What? What is it? You frightened me.”

“It is cold, madam. You need to take your pills.”

“How long were you standing there?”

Mustafa remained silent. She leaned against the railing behind her. The drop down was thirty stories.

“I will bring you your pills, madam,” he said finally. “And an overcoat.”

Erhard Fuchs stood at the long and high window of his office on the twentieth floor of the United Nations Headquarters, looking at the lights of the city reflecting on the black surface of the East River. The UN’s promenade along the river, lit by a row of gracefully curved lanterns on stainless steel poles, was empty, as it was on most nights, especially in winter. To his left the Queensboro Bridge stretched over the south end of Roosevelt Island as it reached for the river’s far side before inserting itself there like a probe into the heart of the tumultuous and very un-Manhattan-like outer boroughs. To his right he could see the lights of the three other East River bridges, the traffic on them never-ending. The beauty and the vulnerability of these bridges, the majestic Brooklyn Bridge in particular, never ceased to amaze him, and to make his heart ache.

After twenty-five years in his home country’s military intelligence and counterterrorism services, he was among the relatively few people on the planet who knew of the thousands of acts of terrorism, successful and unsuccessful, perpetrated every year for the past thirty years around the world, the vast majority by Muslims bent on violent
jihad
. And this did not include the Middle East, where the numbers and the success rate were much higher, staggeringly higher, and where the ratio of Muslim-to-non-Muslim perpetrators was 100-to-zero.
And
where ninety-nine percent of the victims were also Muslim. Irony, he had long ago learned, not being in the Koran, was not in Islam’s lexicon.

Behind Fuchs, a door opened and closed. He waited a few seconds, then turned and saw Alec Mason, the newest member of his team, an Englishman with a murky relationship to MI6, Britain’s covert intelligence service, taking his coat off and draping it over one of the conference table’s high-backed, cushioned chairs.

“Where is everyone?” Mason asked, still standing, facing Fuchs.

“Have a seat,” the Dutchman said.

“Sure.” Mason, extremely thin, in his forties, his three-days’ growth of beard an affectation—of what exactly Fuchs was not sure, hip youth perhaps—sat. “Where is everybody?” he said. “Am I early?”

“No, you’re on time,” Fuchs replied. “I’ve been meeting with people one by one.”

“Why?”

“We are to disband on Wednesday. I am giving people the option of leaving early, taking a couple of days leave.”

“Yes, I understand,” Mason said, nodding slightly. The reasons for disbanding—the death of Farah and al-Najjar—would be obvious to him, Fuchs knew.

“I need your help with one last item,” Fuchs said.

Mason, in his choice of clothes—jeans, a black suede sport coat and expensive loafers tonight—as well as his scruffy face and long hair, also affected a studied casualness, as if to say he had other things to do besides bring down the Syrian government for the killing of Rafik Hariri. “What is it?” he said. “I’ll do my best.”

“Our young bomb maker, Farah, is alive.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“It’s true.”

“Where is he?”

“In a safe house.”

“How did you pull this off?”

Fuchs studied Mason’s face before answering. No tells, as was the case last Wednesday night when he took the long way to the Piping Rock Road house, giving the so-called home invaders time to kill both men inside, or so he believed until now.

“We thought he was dead from his wounds. He woke up on the way to the hospital.”

“Where is the safe house?”

“If I told you and you were tortured, we would lose Farah.”

“Tortured?”

“Yes. There is a mole on the team.”

“A mole? Working for whom?”

“I don’t know, but not a friend. The Syrians probably.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

“I would like you to close the Glen Cove command post, gather up our equipment and paperwork. Bring everything here tomorrow morning. I am meeting here with two NYPD detectives.”

“NYPD? Why?”

“I am transferring Farah to them.”

“Is this related to the two dead detectives?”

“Yes, they want to know who gave Farah his orders as much as we do. And the Hayek murder occurred here in Manhattan.”

“Has Farah talked?”

“Not yet, but he will.”

“You have NYPD’s cooperation?”

“Yes, they will charge Adnan here with killing Yasmine Hayek. They will interrogate him themselves, and then protect him until he can be transferred to The Hague, to testify.”

“Why are you doing this, involving an outside agency?”

“Because no one will try to kill Farah while he is in the custody of the New York police. The Syrians will be checkmated.”

“Why me? Anyone could do this.”

“I would have asked Sylvana, but she’s in Los Angeles, as you know. Her nephew is very sick. The others all seemed anxious to leave. They have not been home in four months. You just came on board.”

“And the others, do they know?”

“No. The less that know, the better. I mistrust everyone. The NYPD will bring Farah to The Hague. You will accompany them as Monteverde’s representative.”

“I’ll do it of course.”

“Thank you.”

When Mason left, Fuchs went back to the window and stood there for several minutes looking down at the river. A couple, their arms entwined, was walking on the promenade. Thick clouds now obliterated the stars and the moon, but New York at night created so much light that the celestial torches were not needed, indeed they were rarely noticed even on cloudless nights. Turning away, the Dutch cop found his cell phone on his desk, flipped it open and pushed a speed dial number.

“Hello,” he said. “It’s me.”

“Hello,” Sylvana Dalessio said.

“How are you?”

“Fine.
Bene
.”

“And our young man?”

“He needs a shower.”

“What does Johannes say?”

“We can start if you wish.”

“And the boys?”

“They are fine.”

“You must start tonight. We are ordered to shut down on Wednesday.”

“Wednesday? Why?”

“It makes sense. Farah and Najjar are supposed to be dead. It was to follow them that we were sent here. Why continue? Why waste resources?”

“Does LeClair know? About Farah?”

“No.”

“The die is cast.”

“Yes.”

“Did you talk to Mason?”

“He just left.”

“What will happen?”

“He will tell his contact that Farah is alive and talking. The Syrians will of course want to kill him before we give him to the NYPD.”

“Are we really transferring him?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked them yet.”

“What will happen?”

“I have asked our colleague at the NYPD for help. Detective Goode. His counterterrorism people will follow Mason. We must hope that Mason leads us to his contact so that we can be pro-active.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Fuchs paused before answering, thinking of his conversation with Sylvana of two days ago, in which they concocted the story of her sick nephew in California. Of the danger she was in.

“They won’t find you,” he said. “I am in the open. They will come to me.”

Silence. They were both in danger. It was the business they were in.

“
Bene
. And what does Detective Goode want in return?”

“The killers of Loh and Davila, and of Yasmine Hayek.”

“And you agreed?”

“No, but when they take custody of Farah, I will give them what I have.”

“Good. As to Mason, I would like the honor. I will gut him like a fish.”

“Fine, but first things first. Our young assassin.”

“Of course,” said Sylvana. “I will let him shower, and then I will talk to him. He likes me, as I am the good cop so far.”

“You know what to do when you’re done?”

“Yes, of course.
Ciao
.”

“
Ciao.
”

Nick Loh buried and Bob Davila killed on the same day, Jade thought, walking home after work on Monday through mid-town Manhattan’s slushy streets, carrying the steaks and salad things for the dinner she would make later for her and Matt. Antonio in Florida, talking on the phone yesterday about his dad, not the ten points he scored the night before. Her past on her mind, her secret, praying about it at Mass yesterday and again this morning. One small thing had brightened her day. A new client had walked in at lunch time, while she was eating yogurt at her desk. The five thousand dollar cash retainer he had given her felt like an infusion of hope, she didn’t know why.

As she was turning onto her block, she noticed a man in a dark overcoat crossing Eighth Avenue. He was wearing a woolen cap, pulled down low, but she could see that his face was deeply pockmarked, like her new client, who also had two fingers missing on his left hand. This man was wearing gloves and was quickly lost in the crowd of streaming pedestrians when he reached the opposite corner. Was that him, Charles Hall, who had said he thought he was about to be arrested for stealing from his business partner and wanted to retain her in advance? Maybe, maybe not, but it didn’t matter; she had other things on her mind.

“So you didn’t tell him about the surveillance log.”

“No,” Matt answered.

“I don’t blame you,” Jade said. “But he’s not incompetent. That can’t be it. He must know something we don’t, otherwise he’d be pressing hard for a dismissal, instead of talking about an appeal.”

“Or have another agenda altogether.”

“That’s a scary thought.”

Jade put down her coffee cup and looked over at Matt, who was sitting across from her at the table in the dining alcove of her apartment. After Charles Hall left her office, Jade had called Matt and invited him for dinner. She wore a suit to work, with stockings and high heels, but at home had quickly changed into jeans, a faded Regis sweatshirt, and a beat-up pair of sneakers. Her hair, frizzy again in the damp weather, she had pulled into a ponytail. They had sipped drinks and made small talk as she broiled the steaks in her small kitchen. Over coffee she had asked Matt about his meeting with Stryker.

“The log is the key, but of course it’s stolen,” Matt said. “And it implicates us and Davila.”

“And the UN has diplomatic immunity.”

“Right.”

“What about Jack and Clarke?” Jade asked.

“I spoke to Jack this afternoon,” Matt replied. “He’s calling me later tonight. We’ll meet someplace.”

“Did you tell him about the log?”

“No, I’ll give him a copy when I see him.”

“Did you tell him I want to come?”

“No. Are you sure you want to?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Bobby was killed because of the stuff he gave me.”

“That’s another thing,” Matt replied.

“What?”

“That points a finger at the UN team. Did they kill Bobby? Could that be?”

“Anything’s possible,” Jade replied, “but that would be hard to believe. Hold on.” She rose and went over to a desk she had set up in a corner of her small living room, returning quickly with a yellow legal pad. “I made some notes,” she said, when she was seated again. “So we don’t miss anything when we talk to Jack and Clarke.”

“O.K.,” Matt said. “Let’s hear it.”

“
One
,” Jade said, looking at her notes and then at Matt. “We have Adnan and Ali, Michael’s supposed friends.”

Matt nodded.

“They killed Yasmine Hayek,” Jade said.

“Yes,” said Matt.

“And planted the murder weapon in Michael’s room.”

“And probably got Michael to fire it or at least handle it.”

“Yes.
Two
,” Jade continued, “we have the UN. They’re looking into the assassination of Rafik Hariri. They think the Syrian government was involved. They have a team in New York who’ve been following Adnan and Ali. We have their surveillance log. The UN team knows they were in Yasmine’s building at the time of her murder.”

“Correct.”

“They do not inform the NYPD of this fact.”

“Correct. They don’t want Adnan and Ali arrested.”

“
Three
, Loh and Davila join the UN team. While staking out Adnan and Ali, Loh is killed. As are, presumably, Adnan and Ali—although we don’t know this for sure—and a fourth man. Except for Loh, no identities are released by the local police.”

“Yes.”

“Three nights later,” Jade continued, “Davila is killed in a car bomb.”

“Yes.”

“It was Davila who stole the surveillance log and gave it to me.”

“Yes.”

“
Four
, the doorman at Yasmine’s building, who said he saw only Michael go in—an obvious lie—is killed.”

Matt nodded again.

“
Five,
the surveillance system at Yasmine’s building appears to have been tampered with in a very sophisticated way. The security company leaves for parts unknown.”

“Anything else?”

“I think that’s it,” Jade replied.

“There’s one more thing,” Matt said.

“What?”

“Adnan and Ali worked for Basil al-Hassan, Michael’s stepfather. Basil got them the job house sitting in Locust Valley.”

“And it was the lawyer hired by Basil who cancelled the gun residue test,” Jade said, “and who refuses to challenge Healy on the Diaz murder.”

Before Matt could respond, a phone rang somewhere in the apartment. Jade went to answer it.

“Who was it? Antonio?” Matt asked when Jade returned and was settled back in her chair.

“No. I spoke to him yesterday. It was Angelo, ex-husband number one. I asked him to do a search on Westside Properties.”

“And?”

“He needs more time.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“He’s with the State Police. He’s in a fraud squad.”

“Are you guys friends?” Matt asked.

“I haven’t spoken to him in nine years,” Jade replied.

“What about us?” Matt said.

“Us?”

“Are we friends?”

Jade got to her feet, picked up her dinner plate and Matt’s and brought them into the kitchen. She had not been prepared for Matt’s last question. But she should have been. Its answer was why she had invited him to dinner, why she had scrubbed off her makeup and dressed down the way she had. Why she had avoided eye contact. She returned with a bottle of Cognac and two snifters, pouring out two inches for each of them.

“I have something to tell you,” she said, lifting her glass, “but I need a drink first.”

“Something to tell me?”

“Yes.”
Look straight at him, Jade, she said to herself.
And she did.

“About us being friends?”

“I appreciate you sleeping on your couch the other night.”

Matt said nothing. It was obvious he didn’t know where this was going. She did though, or thought she did.

“I wanted you to come into the bedroom, but it’s better that you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because of what I have to tell you.”

Again Matt said nothing.

“It’s about Antonio’s father. And me.”

“The producer?”

“Yes, Gerry DiNardo.”

“What about him?”

“He made porn movies,” Jade said. “I was in two.”

“Jade…”

“Do you still want to be my friend?”

Now Matt knew why Jade had been so stand-offish. Why she had tried to make herself look unattractive. Why he had felt guilty staring at her unbelievable rear end as she bent over to take the steaks out of the broiler; at the shape of her high and heavy and voluptuous breasts as she brought the plates to the table. No sweatshirt, no matter how loose fitting, could hide those breasts, with their promise of heaven on Earth. And no man on Earth could have looked at them, at her, and not felt his blood stirring.

“Is that why you go to Mass every day?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Jade…”

“You might if you were a fool like me.”

“Being a fool is not a sin.”

“Matt…”

“Did you think I’d think less of you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been watching you tonight.”

“Watching me?”

“I’ve lost my son. No, that’s wrong. I’ve lost the idea of having a son, the idea that I’ve clung to all these years. Suddenly I’m empty. Alone.”

Jade did not reply. Their drinks sat on the table along with the rest of the dinner dishes. The apartment, and the city all around them, receded into deep shadow, a darkened, muted background to the pivotal moment of their lives.

“Remember when we met in Union Square Park?” Matt said.

“Yes, of course.”

“I watched you walk toward me, and I thought,
I’m so fucking alone
. And then I couldn’t call you, I don’t know why. I was too proud, I guess. You had broken up with me. And you didn’t call
me
.”

“Now you know why.”

“The porn films? Jade, that’s nothing. You were a girl with a dream, who was taken advantage of.”

“I haven’t enjoyed sex since. I’ve held back. I’m a mess.”

Jade was crying now. Matt pulled his chair close to hers and took her face in his hands. “Yes, I want to be your friend,” he said. “And your lover, too. If you’ll have me.”

Then they were kissing, gently at first and then hungrily, as if they hadn’t had love to eat in years, which was in fact the case. Jade had stopped crying, but her tears were all over Matt’s face. She backed away suddenly, pulled off her sweatshirt and used it to wipe them away. Then she reached around and unhooked her bra, and her breasts, large, light amber in color, with perfect brown nipples and light-brown aereoli, were there before him, and he entered heaven.