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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots
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C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN
Yousef Fawaz's manner changed the instant Angie left the office.
His effort to appear unbothered vanished in a flurry of angry gestures. He pushed his chair back, stood, kicked the leg of his desk, thrust up his open hands in anger, rolled his fingers into fists, and rattled them as he paced. After a minute he sucked down a calming breath, picked up his cell phone, and called Gahrah.
“We need to call off today's delivery,” Fawaz said. He was still stalking the narrow length of the office, preparing himself for a fight with Gahrah.
“Did she tell you anything?”
“She doesn't
know
anything,” Fawaz said. “I am not surprised. Ward had to know I would ask her about what transpired at the inn.”
Mrs. Fawaz appeared suddenly in the doorway. “They are clean shirts, probably from the gift shop,” she said. “And they are Super Rush.”
Her husband acknowledged with a nod. He returned to the phone conversation.”The clothes Ward gave her to clean haven't even been worn. He wanted to make sure he saw her again this afternoon, on her way home.”
“So he suspects there is something in the evening delivery,” Gahrah said.
“Clearly. That's why we mustn't make an exchange today.”
“And give in to his terror tactics?”
“At least deliver the package later, or directly to the bank now, or in the morning,” Fawaz said.
“No,” Gahrah said. “That will only postpone a showdown. This man will not give up so easily. For all we know the police chief is involved. She may watch us, flag us for some minor or contrived infraction as they did with Hamza. We must deal with him decisively and we must maintain the flow. And it
is
possible we can use this to our advantage.”
“How?”
“Tell the girl that if Ward wants to go into the van she is to let him.”
“But I've already told her we do not wish him harm—”
“And that is the face we will present to her,” Gahrah said. “I will instruct the boys what to tell Ward—that he is risking what is left of his reputation for something that is entirely in his mind.”
“I don't know if that will scare him,” Fawaz said. “Ward will want to know what they are doing there.”
“Protecting our deliveries,” Gahrah told him. “For him to push further will make
him
the aggressor, put
him
in jeopardy with the law. That may be enough. When he came to see me this morning, Ward seemed—how to describe it? Not entirely convinced. Not committed. I could see that the money was speaking to him, the way it did with Mr. Dickson, though perhaps not loudly enough. If we add other voices, in a dangerous situation where he must act or withdraw, he will be persuaded to stop.”
Fawaz was not entirely convinced. “We tried to go softly with the farmer too, and that did not work.”
“The farmer was different,” Gahrah pointed out. “The farmer did not have another home to go to. He did not have another livelihood. He had no reason to bend. Ward is different.”
What Gahrah said made sense, though it failed to factor in the imponderables of human nature. But the director was in charge. “We will do as you say.”
“What time shall I send the boys over?” Gahrah asked.
“At 4:30,” Fawaz told him. “The girl leaves here at 4:45. You are sure they will make an effort to talk to Ward?”
“Talk is always preferable,” Gahrah said. “I will tell them what to say and I will tell them what they must hear. Why do you ask?”
“We do not want the girl turning against us,” Fawaz said.
“Do not worry about that,” Gahrah said. “We have leverage with her.”
That was true. It was not pleasant to consider, but a war sometimes resulted in collateral damage.
Gahrah praised the prophet and hung up. Fawaz lit a cigarette and sat for a long while after their conversation. He was not schooled in diplomacy. Until six months before he and his wife had been doing this same job in Mashhad, a city of over two million and the home of the Imam Reza shrine. Because of its holy nature, Mashhad is the nation's tourist capital—and the reason Fawaz learned to speak many languages as a boy. Perhaps, had he the opportunity, he might have become a translator at an embassy or for a government minister. But poverty does not allow such opportunities and the family was incredibly poor.
Fawaz's father, a tailor, always said, “It is strange how Iran under the Shah was rich in material things and poor in spiritual matters.” When the Ayatollah returned from exile, the reverse was true.
Now, in America, with the help of his childhood friend Aseel Gahrah, Fawaz and his wife were finally able to have both. He did not like all the violence; he liked it even less than Mahnoosh who felt that the infidels were getting no less than they deserved. But it was a means to honor the cause of
jihad
and to serve his own means as well, for in serving his ends he honored the Prophet who said, “
Do not withhold your money, lest Allah withholds from you.
”
Ward would make his own fate, as each of us does.
Grinding out his cigarette, Fawaz went to make room in the van for its passengers.
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
Ward might not be a working cop anymore, but his access to the FBI's restricted database had not been canceled.
An oversight, I'm sure
, he thought. The Feds were too busy watching for hackers to pay attention to legitimate users who didn't belong there.
Ward found nothing surprising online about the Midwest Revitalization Initiative, which was itself surprising. They were organized in Illinois in 2009 with funding from several anonymous sources, none of which was flagged for suspicious dealings with terrorist-linked organizations. From his Terrorist 101 training in New York he knew that anonymity for property purchases was granted only in the case of domestic individuals who were contributing to religious institutions, or those religious institutions themselves. Without a hacker, that was a dead end for now. As for the board of directors, they were all of Middle Eastern descent and none had criminal records.
The group had tried, at first, to buy properties in Skokie, Illinois, but were perennially outbid on properties by the Skokie Investment Corporation. The SIC had links to Israeli banks, which made sense: Skokie had a heavy Jewish population. The community wasn't going to lose a war to the Arabs, not there. Basalt was their next, and so far only other location. Ward understood the symbolism of Skokie. But why here?
The American heartland?
That was possible, but it had to be more. Perhaps the proximity to Aspen, playground of the rich and famous. And if what he suspected were true, Aspen might make a lot of sense. A lot of private planes came in and out of that airport. He was willing to bet that a lot of the overseas flights and their big-spending passengers got relatively free passes at customs.
Ward looked up some of the reports about the Muslims in the local paper, then checked the time. He thought about calling Hunter to tell him he would get Megan but decided against it. It was best if he stayed away from them for now. Joanne was kindling and he couldn't seem to help causing sparks.
He had a late lunch—or was it an early dinner?—at the counter of the empty diner and chatted with his waitress. Debbie Wayne was in her early thirties; she did not wear a wedding band and he guessed, correctly, that she was divorced.
“The economy made the problems we were already having even worse,” said the attractive redhead.
“What did your husband do?”
“He drove a limo for a car service,” she said as she filled a sugar container that really didn't need filling. “He still does, though bookings and tips aren't what they were. We were planning on starting our own car company but ...” Her voice trailed off.
“So have the Muslims been a good thing or a bad thing for Basalt?”
She looked at him strangely. “That just went from chitchat to something else.”
“Did it?”
“You a P.I. or something?”
“Why, no one else talks about the Muslims?”
She snickered. “That's all anyone talks about. That and how broke we are. I don't know. You just got that look, you know.”
“Oh? What's ‘that look'?” he asked around a bite of grilled cheese.
“Your eyes don't wander, you dress kind of city, and you actually listen when women talk.”
He chuckled. “I'm not a private investigator, though I used to be a cop in New York until I was accused of—”
“
You're
him!” she said, pointing at Ward. “I heard some of the regulars talking about you at breakfast the other day. Then I caught a little of it on the car radio.”
“Now I know how Lindsay Lohan feels.”
“No, it's a good thing,” she insisted. “I don't know if it helps, but the folks that morning were on your side all the way.”
“Actually, that means a lot,” he said.
“So I was kind of right, about you being a P.I.”
“Kind of,” he admitted.
“What's your interest in our situation?”
“My daughter lives in Basalt so I was just curious.”
“With her mother?”
He nodded.
Debbie refilled his Coke. “Just curious, huh? I think it's a little more than that.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Don't know. But working here you develop a good ear for ‘lines,' and that sounds like one.”
He smiled again. “Maybe a little.”
“How'd your daughter end up in Basalt?”
Ward told her. About halfway through he realized this wasn't like talking to Randolph or Chief Brennan. The woman was paying attention to him, not just his story. It felt good and it took Ward's mind off his objective for the first time since he went over the ridge the other night. He asked—hopefully with more subtlety than he had about the Muslims—if she were seeing anyone.
“Not a soul,” she replied. She wrote her phone number and, after a moment, added her address on the back of a check. She pushed it across the counter. “I hope you don't think I'm being bold.”
“I'm from New York,” he reminded her.
Her mouth twisted. “Dating's a problem when you know half the eligible men in town and wish you didn't, and the other half can't even afford pay cable.”
“Right now I can't afford
basic
cable,” he said.
“But I bet you know who to talk to so you can fix that.”
He smiled. “As a matter of fact—”
“God, I want to visit New York. I see it a lot on TV. It looks exciting.”
“It
is
that,” Ward agreed.
“It'd be nice to get shown around there by someone who knows where things happen.”
“Pretty much on every street corner, at some time or another,” he said.
“There, see what I mean? I like cities. I want to go to one.”
“Hold on,” Ward said. “If you've never been to a city, how do you know you'll like them?”
“I watch a lot of CSI shows,” she explained. “They're alive, energetic. Not like here. Hey, you can watch with me and tell me what's real and what isn't.”
“I could do that.”
“Anyway, I'm home nights. I have a second job from six to ten.”
“Doing what?”
“I take phone calls,” she said.
Ward's throat dried a little. “Oh,” he croaked.
She struck a sacred pose, eyes up-turned, hands together. “I am none other than Madam Night Sky on the Native American Psychic Call Line.”
It took Ward a moment to process that. He leaned back, chuckling, and nearly fell off the stool.
“Why is that funny?” she asked.
“
That's
not funny,” he said. “I am.”
“I don't understand.”
“I'm from New York,” he replied, half apologizing. “My baseline is somewhere between the gutter and the top of the curb.”
Now she thought for a moment; when she got it her cheeks reddened. They both laughed and she leaned forward to give him a playful smack on the head. She smelled of bacon and woman. It was a near-irresistible combination.
“Good God, I could never do that!” she said. “I know girls who do. They've told me some of the things they have to say. I'd just sit there laughing.”
“You take this other work seriously?”
“Very!” she said. “I read cards and all. I don't just sit there and make noises while I do the ironing.”
A couple entered the shop. The waitress regarded them. “Tourists.”
Ward turned. “How can you tell?”
“Apart from the fact that I know all the regulars, they have that ‘isn't this charming' look.” She stood, smoothed her apron, and winked at Ward. “I've got to work. Anyway, no pressure.” She tapped her address. “If you've got the time and energy after looking out for your daughter and the homeland, I'll be there with my Tarot deck.”
“Not sure you'll see a whole lot in my future.”
“You never know. Maybe you should do what I sometimes tell my clients: don't worry about it. The future's got its own plan.”
As Debbie grabbed a couple of menus and headed around the counter, she said, “And to answer your question about the people we were talking about earlier?”
“Yes?”
“Those men are the girls' biggest clients. They spend money like movie stars. I think they're all a bunch of phonies.”
That may have been the wisest statement Ward had heard in the past few days. Maybe longer.
Ward finished his sandwich, drank his Coke, and left a twenty on the counter. After the beating he had taken in New York, and then from Joanne, he found himself thinking very, very fondly of the two women here who had made him feel like himself again. Ward was not a religious man, but as he left the diner to go back to his room, he offered up a silent prayer of thanks.
His eyes scanned the sky as he stepped into the setting sun. He stood for a while and watched the sharp, orange orb descend behind the mountains. It wasn't the same as watching the sun from Manhattan as it dropped behind New Jersey, planes into Newark cutting across it, smoke from industry smearing the view.
Here, it was powerful and pure. It suggested something bigger than him, bigger than jets and smokestacks.
Maybe he had never been as alone as he thought.

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