Reckless Endangerment (41 page)

“And how is the business going?”

“Pretty well, considering we’ve been at it a little over a day. One team is going over every piece of paper Chouza Khalid touched since he’s been in the country, the overseas calls from his office, hitting all the phone booths, even, in the neighborhood. Another team’s going through little Arabia like the wrath of God. Every restaurant, every coffee shop. This place, the Palm, was the big hangout. We got the owner in, the waiters, their relatives. Another team’s going after the politicals, anybody ever said anything nice about the Palestinians. The FBI and some folks from the INS are pulling entry visas, checking out the green-card people, the students.”

“Observing all legal safeguards, I assume.”

“Oh, my, yes,” said Fulton, grinning. “You take a drive down Constitution Avenue today, you might hear a wailing sound coming from the National Archives, the Constitution getting pinched. Let me tell you, son, the Force is cranky, very cranky. Some Arab illegals decided to take off from a sweep last night, they tripped and hurt their faces something fierce. Oh, we also pulled Walid and his dad in for another exchange of views.”

“Anything there?”

“Yeah, something. He was in contact with Khalid. Was going to be trained as a freedom fighter. The most we can figure he did was lend the bakery truck for moving stuff around. When we vacuumed it, we came up with a couple of scraps of packing material and a lot of bread crumbs. We sent the packing material down to Quantico for analysis.”

“What’s your take on them?”

“The father knows from nothing. The kid is obsessed with politics and his sister. He admitted going to Khalid for help in getting his sister back. He was surprised as hell when we told him that his pals already had her. Anyway, a patsy. Not a player. We’ve got their phone and mail covered but … we don’t expect much.”

“Speaking of the girl…”

Fulton shook his head. “No luck there. Not a trace. My feeling is, she’s gone. Plastic bags. Our thought was they told the kid they’d get his sister back for him if he’d let them borrow his truck. They paid off and then they whacked her.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble to go through for something they could buy from U-Haul for a couple of hundred.”

“Yeah, right, but these people play by their own rules. And they’re good, man, too fucking good. They make Colombian dope kings look like impulse purse snatchers. Their whole operation is all celled out. Nothing leads back to a location or any of the main characters. Wherever they’re living, they’re paying cash. We’ve got another team going around to realtors in Brooklyn, checking for big cash transactions. They don’t use phones. However they’ve got their vehicles registered, there’s nothing traceable back to any name we’ve got. And so on.”

“How about the Jew side?”

“Oh, Kirby’s still being delicate about searching the Ostropolers. The paddies are not pleased with this, nor are my racial brothers. A lot of them figure the Hasids have been getting a free ride for a long time, and you know, plenty of them thought Hitler had a point a long time before this all went down. We might see a situation there in Williamsburg, something don’t break pretty soon.” His face brightened. “Oh, yeah—the big news! Yitzhak Schneider came through. A credit to your race.”

“Yitzhak … ?”

“Runs a clothing store on Lee, Hasidic garments and so on. On the re-canvass, we sent a team of nice Jewish cop-type boys through, yarmulkes on. Yitzhak says that on the day of, a thin dark kid walks into his place and buys the complete rig, pays cash, and walks out. Guy thought he was a Yemeni Jew rediscovering the true faith.”

“Same guy who took the Chrysler and shot the muggers?”

“Absolutely. We’re dealing with Lon Chaney Junior here.”

“So, one of the Arabs,” observed Karp with some satisfaction. “That should annoy the Nation of Islam.”

“Well, not so fast, son. He could’ve been an Arab, in which case we have to ask why was he in a fight with a bunch of other Arabs? He could’ve also been one of the rabbi’s troopers, or from some Israeli operation.”

This gave Karp pause. He had himself been involved in an Israeli covert operation some years ago, unofficial to be sure, but … He made an eye-rolling, hand-spreading gesture, of the type New Yorkers make when, once again, the metropolis has thrown up a number beyond all comprehension. He spotted the D.A.’s Lincoln oozing through the drive and, bidding Fulton good-bye and good luck, went to pick up his ride.

Rashid ibn-Ali al-Halim al-Qayuayn was the ruler of a small emirate on the Persian Gulf, the proverbial patch of sand with few citizens and a great deal of oil, and so when his eldest son was neatly lifted off a street in London, he was prepared and able to pay a great deal to get him back. When the call came, he was therefore surprised that the kidnappers did not want any money.

A few miles from the police funeral, at Kennedy International Airport, at around the time that taps was blowing, a stretched white Cadillac limo with smoked windows enters the freight area. The driver shows the proper identification, and the limo is allowed onto the apron. There it waits. Some minutes later a large twin-engine Gulfstream jet lands and taxis over to the customs building. A customs agent and an INS agent board the plane, which they have been told to expect. The passengers receive VIP treatment; the emir Rashid is a friend of America and of American automobiles. Their passports are, of course, all in order: they identify the emir himself and six of his entourage, all in their traditional robes. The customs man and the INS smile. They do not quite bow, because Americans don’t do that, but isn’t this, they think, so much nicer than rousting Nigerians who have swallowed condoms full of heroin? They leave, wishing the emir a pleasant stay.

The white limo pulls up to the plane. It departs. The plane refuels and parks. The crew leaves. No one notices that no one else has actually left the plane. The white limo, containing a uniformed driver and seven Arabs in white robes, with headdresses and ceremonial daggers, drives out of the airport, the chauffeur showing the proper papers, naturally, and back to the city, to 35 East Seventy-sixth Street, where its passengers check into the Hotel Carlyle. The Carlyle has been cabled to expect the party, and has reserved the entire eighteenth floor for the emir.

Chouza Khalid felt like a fool in the white robes, which he, a native of a Palestinian refugee camp, had never before worn, but he liked the suite and had to admit that Ibn-Salemeh had been clever. Hiding in plain sight, he called it. Every policeman in the city was looking for evil Arabs, and so the best disguise was this—as Arab as you could get. No one ever studied the face of a man in a robe and headdress. He made himself a drink from the bar, Chivas and water, drank it, washed out the glass, ate a breath mint, and went through the connecting door to Ibn-Salemeh’s suite.

Ibn-Salemeh, in a somewhat more luxurious costume, in which he seemed far more comfortable than Khalid, was watching television with the sound off. There was a contented, almost a benign expression on his gaunt face, like that of a dairy farmer watching a line of plump Jerseys trooping into the barn to be milked. The TV showed an official funeral in progress.

“Sit down,” said the terrorist. “This is worth watching. Do you ever wonder why the Americans show civil disorder over and over on the television? You would think the government would suppress it, but no. They seem to delight in it, even though showing it must surely spread the disorder.”

The television showed a group of police trying to arrest a young man, an Arab, while fending off a crowd of outraged neighbors and friends. The camera shook. A long shot down a street. More police in riot gear deploying. A shot of police pushing back a mob of angry protesters. A shot of an Arab youth holding a cloth to his bloody head, being hustled roughly into a police vehicle. The anchor back now, a look of professional gravity on his craggy face. His lips moved. The screen changed to show a man in a black suit and a hat, haranguing a crowd of similarly dressed people in a broad plaza backed by the trees of a park.

“This is our ally,” said Ibn-Salemeh.

“A Jew?”

“Yes, he is telling everyone who will listen to him that every Arab in the city is a terrorist or a harborer of terrorists or a potential terrorist, which we also wish people to believe, especially the Arabs. I only wish we had more time in this city to amuse ourselves with this man. However, after Sunday we will leave behind a fertile field from which I hope will grow a permanent organization, in fact as well as in this fool’s imagination.” He turned away from the set, which had gone over to selling a car. “That is for the future, God willing. Now, as to the present, what is the situation with the Daoud boy?”

“He was questioned, with the father, then released. One of our runners reached him. He is angry because the police told him that we have his sister.”

“Good, let him be angry. Send a message back. Say it is a test of his discipline. Family is important, but not so important as the cause, and so on and so on. You know the words. He will, let us say, be with his sister on Sunday. Say that Ibn-Salemeh himself promises this. God willing.”

Ibn-Salemeh seemed to recall something and smiled at Khalid. “The girl is well? Safe?”

“Yes. It would be wise to check on her, however. She has proven to be resourceful at escape.”

“No, the risk is too great. Brooklyn will be swarming with police, Williamsburg, and Atlantic Avenue and Crown Heights especially. You have a good arrangement. She will keep until Sunday.”

Posie looked at her image in Marlene’s full-length cheval glass and goggled.

“Holy shit!” was her thought, expressed in a high-pitched, child’s voice.

“You look like a million bucks, kid,” said Marlene, the apprentice whore monger.

“Jesus, I should—you spent a million bucks.” She turned and twisted, looking over her shoulder in the instinctive manner of women who wish to see the impossible—how they look walking away. She was wearing a dark mid-calf-length russet-colored dress in thin wool. It buttoned all the way up the front, had a scoop neck and thin straps. Over this she wore a shoulder-padded black jacket in shiny, slinky black oiled cotton. Little black close-toed sandals on the feet, over lacy white anklets. The final accessory was a checked cotton Arab scarf, loosely tied around her neck. Freshness not unavailable, and sympathy with the oppressed Third World was the effect Marlene had sought, and she thought she had achieved it. It was pathetic, really—no one had ever bought clothes for the girl before, not since she had, at thirteen, grown a Body and started attracting the attention of her boozy step-dad. After that there had been the street and odd rags. She’d had her hair done too, a razor cut that gave her the shaggy lioness look currently popular among TV action heroines.

The purchases were, however, the easy part. The requisite girl talk would be a good deal harder.

“Posie, dear,” said Marlene. “We need to talk.”

They sat on the bed and talked. Marlene told Posie that she was to attract the target, that she was to engage him in conversation, that she was to enter into a friendly relationship with him, of the type that might allow the sharing of confidences, that she was to find out whether Walid knew anything about what had happened to his sister, and finally, that she was not under any circumstances to engage in a sexual relationship with Walid Daoud.

Posie’s jaw, never quite firm, gaped wider still. “How come, Marlene? I mean, you know, if I like him and all.”

“Two reasons, kid. One is, I can’t send you out to engage in sex as part of an investigation that may end up in court. It’s illegal and I could lose my license. Two, the thing is, with this particular guy, you have to play it cool. He’s not from our culture; he might not react the way you think he will. It could get dangerous.”

“Oh, yeah, for sure, I know what you mean,” said Posie, now on more familiar ground. “I balled this guy once from Canada? He was like French? I never could tell what he was going to do. He had an old, like a Nash or some car they don’t make anymore. He was totally out of it.”

Marlene smiled weakly at the girl. “Uh-huh, right. Well, this guy could be even weirder than a Canadian, Posie. So, no balling, okay? Just a date.”

Posie nodded seriously and then broke into a grin. “Also, I don’t want to get this new stuff all, like, gummy, you know?”

Marlene left the girl to a spate of renewed primping and went back to the kitchen, where Tran was entertaining Lucy and the boys by pretending to be a duck, in Vietnamese. When he saw Marlene, and the look on her face, he rose, dropping the clown act. Lucy was set to watch the toddlers, and Tran followed Marlene into her office.

“Well?” she said.

Tran brought a creased street map of New York out of his jacket pocket and spread it on her desk.

“He always follows the same route for each run, one every morning but Friday, with bread, and one in the afternoon on Saturday, Tuesday, and Thursday, with cakes.” Tran pointed at the map, tracing the web of streets with a Bic. “A dozen or so stops in Brooklyn and somewhat fewer in Manhattan.” He had marked the two routes in blue ink, neatly circling the stops. Marlene gave the map a cursory look. She was thinking of other things. “Is he followed?”

“Yes, but not continuously. There was a car with two dark-skinned men in it, twice, earlier this week. Yesterday, he was followed by an obvious pair of police, but they were not there this morning. I think they have lost interest.”

“Maybe, or maybe you missed them.”

Tran flicked an eyebrow upward but made no comment.

“And he stops in Washington Square every afternoon?”

“Yes, he parks and has a soft drink and a cigarette and eyes the college girls with a hungry look.”

“But does nothing?”

“Nothing, if burning looks are nothing. He has no money and his English is clumsy, and he is very proud and cannot bear rejection. Also, he thinks these girls are sluts, loose, because of their dress and their easy ways, yet he desires them. He hates this in himself. He wishes to be at the same time an Arab, faithful to his tribe, and an American boy, walking, laughing with his arm around some girl’s waist.”