Gold of Kings (23 page)

“Harry, I really must speak with Ms. Syrrell directly. I have several urgent questions.”

“I'll pass it on.”

There was a pause, like the world needed to take a very difficult breath. Hakim said, “Emma, perhaps you should tell him what you have just learned.”

“I've had a call from a contact with the Palm Beach police. Richard Ellis was shot and killed last night. They're putting it down to a robbery gone bad.”

“You know that's not true.”

“We passed on what we suspect. But without evidence that ties these events together in a fashion the prosecutor can follow, we're just shouting into the wind.”

Harry grimaced over the loss of a man he wished he had come to know better. One more connection to his late best friend gone for good. Leaving him to carry the news to Storm.

Hakim gave them a moment for shared remorse, then asked, “Is there anything else you need?”

“Absolutely,” Harry replied. “A gun and a way out of town.”

E
MMA SAT ON HER HOTEL
room's narrow balcony. Actually, two of the chair's legs were inside the French doors, so she had room to put her feet on the railing and stretch her legs out fully. Her room faced south. Somewhere out there, the Riviera beckoned. All she could see was a postage-stamp garden, a miniature pool, the hotel parking lot, and red-tiled roofs marching down the hillside. Emma had napped and showered and eaten a meal with Hakim. Hakim had suggested they sit at one of the sidewalk tables so they could enjoy the air. The food had been nice. Then Hakim received two phone calls. Now the meal sat in Emma's stomach like a lump of French concrete.

A copy of the
International Herald Tribune
lay by her feet open but unread. Emma had bought it at a newsstand down the road, something to fill the wait. But her eyes skipped over the words, searching for a headline that existed only in her brain.

The house across the street had louvered shutters painted red to match the barrel-tile roof. A parrot sat on a swing inside a gilded cage and squawked words in French. The smell of green peppers frying in olive oil drifted in the still air. There was a knock on her door. Emma rose from her chair, shut the balcony doors, and crossed the room.

Hakim stood in the hallway. “We are ready.”

She followed him into the room next to hers. The bed had been
pushed to one side, making room for three chairs pulled around the desk. “This is Remy. He is half French and half Californian.”

The slender young man had spiked dark hair and nervous hands. He did not look up from the array of electronic equipment. The laptop's screen showed a pair of audio readouts. He picked up a headset connected to the computer and spoke into the mike. “Test, test, one, two.” The volume level jerked the readout into the red zone. Remy tapped a couple of keys, repeated the test, and said, “Okay, we're good to go.”

Two chairs were drawn up beside Remy's. Emma said, “I think better on my feet.”

“Sorry, the headset cord won't reach.”

Emma needed to focus exclusively on the man at the other end of the line. She picked up the chair closest to the open French doors and turned it to face the sunset. When she'd seated herself she realized the smell of frying peppers had followed her.

Hakim slipped into the third chair. He handed Emma her cell phone, which was now connected to the techie's equipment. “Your phone has rung twice since we turned it back on. Jack Dauer both times.”

Emma did not reply. There was nothing to say. Hakim had received word that Dauer had issued a formal complaint to Treasury, seeking her dismissal. He also intended to bring her up on criminal charges for willfully obstructing a federal case and aiding the flight of two suspects.

Then Hakim had a call from his contacts in Paris, relaying news about the man Mehmet Ozman had gone to visit, the day his family had died. News that had widened the hole blown by the message about Dauer. A double-barreled barrage to her universe.

Hakim handed her the headset. “All we need is enough to suggest obstruction.”

Emma said, “I still can't believe Dauer has gone this far.”

Hakim leaned in closer, ensuring she actually heard what he was saying. “We are not after implicating anyone. We just want to free you from the threat of being withdrawn from the case. A couple of minutes, nothing more. When we have enough, I'll signal you. Then mention the Parisian's name so that we can officially register his response.”

“Where's the file?”

Hakim handed it over. “Remy?”

“Green across the board.”

She dialed Jack Dauer's number from memory. The voice mail kicked in instantly, suggesting Dauer was on another call. An impersonal voice repeated Dauer's number and nothing else. Emma said, “This is Emma Webb returning your call. I can be reached for the next twenty minutes or so.”

She clicked off. Emma set the phone on top of the file's cover. She made two fists, mashed down on her thighs, and worked at breathing.

Hakim said, “This man Leon reminds me of something from our past. Most Syrians are Sunni Muslim, the majority sect in Islam. My father was Shia. The divisions between Sunni and Shia are very deep, very old, and very bitter. The Wahabists, you have heard of them, yes? They are the ultraconservative Sunni sect that spawned Osama bin Laden. Wahabist clerics have recently declared Shias to be demonic. The Shias have their own extremists. A thousand years ago, a break-off sect called Ismailis…” Hakim caught her look. “What is it?”

“You shift from now to ten centuries back like it's just around the corner.”

“To the Arab mind, it is closer than that. It is
now
. Here. In this room. Alive today. As I was saying, the Ismailis were the minority of a minority and remain so today. They ruled a cluster of mountain fiefdoms in Iran, eastern Iraq, India, and Nepal. Marco Polo visited there. These Ismaili fiefdoms exported professional killers. They were sold as slaves to wealthy pashas and rulers about the Islamic world. Palaces were traded for these men, lifetime treaties, trading routes, entire fiefdoms. Several became generals and sovereigns. One even ruled Egypt for a time. They called themselves
aishishin
, men without law. From their name comes the word
assassin.
”

Emma's phone rang, but she made no move to pick it up. “You're saying this deal is bigger than what's happening to me in the here and now.”

Hakim nodded once. “Answer the phone.”

 

EMMA OPENED HER PHONE AND
waited. Remy whispered, “Rolling.”

“This is Emma Webb.”

Jack Dauer snarled, “Just exactly where do you get off? You think a
couple of letters signed by people with no connection to this case are going to save you?”

“I have been seconded to Interpol, sir.”

“Wrong, Webb. You have disregarded a direct order from your superior. In case you haven't heard, I'm bringing you up on criminal charges. Something you've basically been begging me to do from the start of this investigation.” He gave her a minute to respond. When he got nothing but silence, the phone's temperature hiked another notch. “Where are you, Webb?”

“France. We have tracked down several new leads—”

“Don't give me that. Where are the suspects I sent you to arrest?”

“Storm Syrrell and Harry Bennett are no longer suspects.”

“That is not for you to determine.
I
am running this show.
I
decide who is under suspicion. And I did
not
authorize you to travel to
France
!”

Dauer's words worked on Emma's internal control like a steel rasp, filing off the lid she normally kept clamped shut. She felt the rage and the memories well up, hidden images shooting through her brain, brilliant as grenade blasts. She saw the moment her father had suggested she had some deep-seated mental problem for wanting to become a federal agent. Then she flashed to the first time her mother had called her job an obsession. She remembered the night of her rehearsal dinner, when her fiancé sprung the news that he loved her but hated her cop's attitude, like they were two completely different things and he could use the ultimatum of breaking off their wedding to force her to abandon her dreams.

Her control snapped with an audible bang.

Emma said, “I'm curious about one thing, Jack. I've handed you some major evidence and you've blocked me at every turn. So I'm asking. Just exactly whose side are you on?”

Hakim motioned to her. Enough.

“Clamp down on that attitude, Webb. You're already in over your head.”

“Everybody puts you down as just an extreme version of the fibbie attitude, going for the glory, stealing all the credit. But now I'm wondering if there's more.”

“You have
no
right addressing your superior—”

Emma turned toward the wall so as to block out Hakim's urgent signals. “Just so you know, Jack, I'm recording this conversation and I'm talking to you in front of witnesses. What I need to know is, have you been put in place to make sure we never get too far? Did Washington appoint you because they knew you'd obstruct any
real
investigation? Was your job to railroad the inquiry, deliver the verdict, hand over a couple of minor scapegoats, and hide any facts that could make trouble for your superiors?”

“Wait…you're recording?”

“Why does that bother you, Jack? Suddenly grown a conscience? Maybe you'd like to retract some of your garbage and play like we're on the same team?” She swatted Hakim's hand away from her shoulder. “Here's something for you to start with. A name, Jack. Yves Boucaud. Ring any alarm bells?”

“Consider your career officially terminated. I am personally issuing a warrant for your arrest. Aiding and—”

“You were never after the truth, were you, Jack. You were
chosen
to make sure we never linked that name to your case. You were brought in to
hide
the agency's involvement with this man. Well, Jack, here's some news for you. I'm going straight to the attorney general of the United States. And I'm going to inform him that Agent Jack Dauer's obstruction of this investigation has resulted in the murder of six people in four countries. Remember that name, Jack. Yves Boucaud. Because my guess is, this is going to turn into the FBI's very own Iran-Contra affair.”

She snapped the phone shut and slammed it down on the folder. Panted her way out of the rage. She never got angry. Never lost control. When her heaving chest stilled somewhat, she turned in her chair and met Hakim's gaze full-on. “You got a problem?”

“No,” he said quietly. “No problem.”

“Good. There's more where that came from.” She turned to face the techie. “I want you to get ready to play that conversation back over my phone. No, don't look at Hakim. I'm talking here. You've got thirty seconds.”

She faced the wall and dialed a number from memory. Waited through two rings and about five dozen rapid breaths.

“MacFarland.”

“Tip, it's Emma.”

“Oh, man. You okay, lady?”

She almost lost it. She had no shield against MacFarland's unexpected concern except cold rage. “Don't ask stupid questions. Are you recording?”

A pause, then, “I am now.”

“I want you to pay very careful attention, Tip. I am going to play back a conversation. And then I am going to tell you what we have learned. And I am taping our conversation, so there is a clear record of your hearing everything I've got to say. You are going to listen very carefully, and then you are going to your superiors. You're going to do this, Tip, because if you let me down I am going to go first to an attorney in the private sector. I'm going to wrap this up in a neat little file, and I'm going to make two copies, and I'm going to deliver one to the attorney general and the other to the
Washington Post
. Do you follow?”

He spoke with the slow motion of grinding gears. “I hear you.”

Emma said to the techie, “Okay, roll.”

When the recording of the conversation with Dauer was done, Emma gave the rest to Tip fast and cold—the prison break, the unnamed attacker with the false Romanian documents, the French attorney, the murder of Mehmet Ozman's family, the nephew put in place. “The day his wife and daughter were murdered, Mehmet Ozman was traveling to Paris to see one Yves Boucaud. We tracked that name through the Paris authorities. Yves Boucaud is an international financier. He has no record. But get this, Tip. When Interpol ran his name through their own system, they found a link to the Justice Department.”

“Don't tell me.”

“The FBI has a top-secret seal on his file. Which suggests they are being intentionally blind to an international conspiracy to murder, extort, and subvert the course of justice.”

It was Tip's turn to huff through a couple of very hard breaths. “When I told you to go find yourself a major prize, I didn't mean you needed to bring down the US government.”

“You've got twenty-four hours. Then I go public.”

“No, Emma. Calm down. That's not enough time.”

“You're not the one who's got a wrecking ball aimed at her career. Not to mention a warrant. A
warrant
, Tip. For my
arrest
.”

“I'll take care of that. But I need more time. Where can I reach you?”

She gave him her two cell-phone numbers. Hakim slipped something into her hand holding the file. She did not realize her vision had blurred until she could not read the numbers on the card. She swiped at her face. “You need to be in touch with my superior here at Interpol. Hakim Sundera. I may be off the map for a while. You want more time, I have to trust you to get Dauer off my tail.”

“I told you I'd take care of it. Give me two weeks.”

“Five days, Tip. Five. Then you can hear all about this on CNN.” She slapped the phone shut. Stripped off the headset. Forced herself to her feet. Said to the two men watching her, “That's how we do it in the good old US of A.”