The Chef

by James Patterson

  The energy is electric. The city is pulsing with life.

  Mardi Gras in New Orleans is the greatest damn party on earth, hands-down. And if this were any other year, I’d be joining in the fun. Sipping a fluorescent hurricane while I worked, to get a little buzz going. Grooving along with the music. Feeding my dear customers, either old-timers or lucky tourists tasting my special food for the very first time.

  But today, I’m tenser than a guitar string. I feel jumpy. Nervous. On edge.

  I’ve been trying to put on a brave face. For Vanessa, for Marlene, for our happy customers crowding in front of our service window. Trying to force the bad thoughts out of my head by focusing on my food.

  But it’s just for show.

  All I can think about is David Needham and his attack. And the utter ignorance and incompetence of Special Agent Morgan and NOPD Superintendent Fontaine.

  It’s barely noon; the day is just getting started. Anything could still happen. Anywhere. To anyone. At any moment.

  “You okay, Caleb?” Vanessa asks, resting a hand on my shoulder. “You look—”

  “Yeah. I…yeah, I’m fine. I need a little air.”

  Without waiting for a snarky comeback from Marlene, I hang up my apron. I check that my pistol is still tucked into my belt. And I hustle out of the truck.

  I just couldn’t stay cooped up in there any longer.

  Not when the fate of my city is hanging by a colorful thread.

  Chapter 74

  MUNCHING NERVOUSLY on my jalapeños, I make my way into the teeming crowds.

  I turn and head north on Bienville. The noise and music are getting louder. The mobs are getting even wilder. The partying even more super-extreme.

  I pass people wearing flashy wigs. Funky hats. Flowing capes.

  Dressed in togas. In Saints jerseys. In drag.

  I see people break-dancing. Making out. Throwing up.

  Men and women, young and old, of every race and creed on earth, all united by a love of drink and song and life.

  All packed together like sardines, flesh pressed against drunken flesh.

  Good God, I think. This is a tinderbox just waiting to explode.

  Anybody around me could be hiding a weapon or suicide vest under their costume—and no one would have any idea.

  I hook a left onto Bourbon Street, ground zero for Mardi Gras.

  At least I try to. The two short blocks from here to Canal Street look like one gigantic mosh pit. It’s a sea of purple, green, and gold, with people jammed together so tightly, they can barely move.

  But I’m not turning back. I nudge folks aside and start weaving my way through, toward the parade.

  In the distance, I begin to make out some passing floats—most pulled by big-wheeled tractors like the kind in the St. Roch safe house garage.

  Again, why in hell were Agent Morgan and Supervisor Fontaine being so stubborn in pooh-poohing the evidence I’ve uncovered? Is it because of the way I left the NOPD? Because I’m “just” a chef now?

  Each of the slow-moving, grumbling floats is a giant, multi-leveled, elaborately decorated creation that could easily be packed with hundreds of pounds of explosives, stuffed with a deadly mix of screws, nails, and other scrap metal.

  And each float is carrying a dozen or so crazy-costumed performers, hurling beads and trinkets at the exuberant crowds.

  The performers are all wearing masks, too. It’s actually illegal in New Orleans to ride a float without one. That strange law is a holdover from a different time, meant to encourage people to let loose on Mardi Gras by covering their faces.

  Today, it just makes it easier for terrorists to hide their identities.

  I finally reach the sidewalk along Canal Street and get my best view of the parade yet. I take out the pair of collapsible field binoculars I brought with me and start inspecting every tractor, float, and character that passes by.

  I scan the crowds, too. As many of them as I can.

  I even give a once-over to the NOPD cops dotted along the street, just in case.

  So far, nothing suspicious.

  True, I don’t know what I’m looking for.

  But I’ll know it when I see it.

  Minutes go by. Nothing.

  More minutes pass. Still nothing.

  The binoculars are getting damp in my clammy hands.

  I can feel my heart beating a little bit faster, my breath getting shallow.

  My cop instincts are kicking in.

  But why? What for?

  I see something yellow up ahead, and then something else. And again.

  Three guys, wearing the colors of the Franklin Avenue Soldiers, taking a break from dealing drugs and shooting their rivals to enjoy the day. Oh, great, I think. With everything that’s going on, do I need to hide now from these revenge-minded gangbangers?

  I almost feel like going up to them and saying, “Take a number, fellas!” when the crowd surges, surrounds them, and then they disappear.

  Good.

  Suddenly, I feel a hard shove from behind. My binoculars slip from my grip and clatter to the sidewalk.

  “Ohhhh, shit, sorry,” says a bottle-blonde in skintight jeans and a stained Saints T-shirt who just stumbled into me and spilled her beer on my jeans. “I’m a little trunk. I mean, drunk,” she giggles.

  “It’s okay,” I answer, picking up my binoculars and giving my wet pants a pat. “Don’t worry about it. Happy Mardi…”

  I jump as something starts vibrating in my pocket.

  My phone, set on vibrate. With all the music, shouting, and tractor noise, there’s no way I would have heard it ringing.

  I turn from the drunk woman and look at the screen.

  My PI friend, Gordon Andrews.

  I shove a finger into my left ear, bring the phone up to my right.

  “Hello!” I shout.

  “…him.”

  “What? Gordon, I can’t hear you!”

  I close my eyes, trying to focus on what he’s saying.

  The message comes in clearer this time as he shouts at me. “I said, I found him! Corner of Canal and Iberville.”

  Less than fifty feet away from where I’m standing among the happy chaos.

  “How? Did you hack his phone?”

  Even among the horns and music, I hear him laugh. “The narcissistic son of a bitch just posted a selfie on Facebook. Go, Caleb, go!”

  I slide the phone back into my pocket, push and shove, and—

  I don’t believe it. But there he is.

  David Needham.

  Standing in the crowd about thirty feet away, right where Gordon told me he’d be.

  Flanked by two Israeli bodyguards.

  Watching the parade with the icy smile of a shark about to attack.

  Chapter 75

  THE SIGHT of Needham makes my fists clench—and my mind race.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  Maybe he’s come to direct the attack from the ground, like a general.

  Or maybe he wants to watch the carnage in person. Like a psychopath.

  Doesn’t matter. If I can get to him, maybe I can still stop him.

  Maybe it’s not too late after all.

  I start elbowing my way through the rowdy horde of spectators standing between us. Despite all the commotion, I’m still careful not to draw too much attention to myself. Like a hummingbird flying through a hurricane, I get shoved and jostled with every step. But I keep going, gaze fixed on Needham like a spotlight.

  I’m just a few yards away from him and his two bodyguards when I see him check his Rolex. He shuts his eyes. Then takes out his phone.

  No! He could be about to call in the attack, or remote-detonate a bomb himself.

  I have to make my move. Now.

  I pick up my pace and start to charge toward him from behind. I’m practically shoving people out of my way as I go.

  Just as his bodyguards realize I’m closing in, I lunge at one and stomp the back of his kneecap, hard. His leg
buckles; he collapses to the sidewalk.

  “Rooney?” Needham exclaims, flinching in horror. “What the hell do you think—”

  Before his second bodyguard can intervene, I head-butt Needham in the nose.

  Then I swat his phone out of his hand, sending it skittering to the ground. It disappears somewhere beneath the feet of the boisterous crowd.

  Whipping out my pistol, I grab Needham by his collar. Step in close so no one else can see. And jam the hard steel of my gun into his belly.

  “Tell your men to back off or I shoot!” I shout into his ear. “Tell them!”

  His face has turned as white as vanilla buttercream frosting. His nose is a spigot of blood, oozing down his upper lip. With a nervous flick of his chin, he signals to his second bodyguard to stand down.

  “Now call off the attack, you piece of shit!” I shout again. “Give me the details and call it off!”

  “Attack?” he says, puzzled. “What attack? What are you talking a—”

  I dig my pistol deeper into his gut.

  “I know about everything, David,” I say. “The threats you’ve been making. Your hit squad of ex-Mossad thugs. I know about the money you’ve been giving to Islamic radicals. I even found a goddamn picture of you mugging with a murdered terrorist!”

  “I, I, I,” he stammers. “I can explain. Honest to Christ…”

  “Bullshit!” I say, my voice loud, the hand holding my pistol firm. “Lies! That’s all I’ve ever gotten from you. It stops right now.”

  “Okay…fine…just calm down,” he pleads.

  I feel his body trembling, hear his jagged breathing. His bodyguards are still watching me with sharp, experienced eyes.

  “Do I run my mouth sometimes?” he says. “Sure. But I wouldn’t hurt a fly. Ask my line cooks: I don’t even have the stomach to marinate raw meat. And yes, of course I’m going to have top-notch personal security. I run a restaurant group worth over sixty million—”

  “What about Crescent Care?” I demand. “What about Farzat? You lied to me!”

  “Because I was ashamed!” he cries out. “My cousin told me about the group. I thought they were a legitimate organization! I even catered some of their events! Ibrahim and I became friends. When I heard about his death, about all the rumors, I was horrified. I had no idea who he really was—or where my money might have been going. If he or anybody else were planning something, I don’t know anything about it, I swear!”

  I hold his gaze for a few seconds, boring into his beady eyes. It’s not easy to get a read on this bastard, especially with all the music and cheering around us.

  But something inside of me…tells me he’s finally being honest.

  His admission feels genuine, his explanation reasonable, his terror real.

  I remember Billy telling me something similar about Emily. How she convinced all of them to invest in that socially progressive café on Freret Street—the place that gave Farzat his first job in America and helped him resettle here.

  Emily. Oh, my God.

  Is she the Needham I should have been focusing on this whole time?

  But then why would she have given me total access to her family company’s finances? And why would she admit the FBI was trying to get a warrant for them?

  Unless…it was all misdirection? My mind reels at the possibility.

  Unless she wanted me to link David with Farzat to take the heat off of herself.

  Unless she’s been hiding right in front of me this whole time.

  “When did you last talk to her?” I ask, tightening my grip on Needham’s collar. “Where the hell is she now? Tell me!”

  “When did I talk to whom?” he says, eyes wide, his upper lip covered with blood from his broken nose.

  “Emily, damnit! Your cousin who tricked you into funding terrorists!”

  Needham crinkles his bloodied face.

  “We had dinner a few nights ago. She’s in the city for Mardi Gras. But it was Billy who told me about Crescent Care. He and I…we haven’t spoken in months.”

  Chapter 76

  BILLY. BILLY.

  The name rings inside my head like a death knell.

  I try to think back to the first time I sat down with him. He was so friendly that night. Maybe too friendly. The lavish comped meal, the bottomless wine. He was so helpful, too. So honest.

  Was it all a ploy?

  He was quick to confirm rumors of discord within his family’s empire—then even quicker to direct my attention to David, who he said was dangerous and unhinged.

  He was the first one to get me curious about the Needhams’ finances—by saying how juicy they were. If he’d misled David into giving money to an extremist group, he’d know I would eventually discover that—and his cousin would look even guiltier.

  He even admitted to having a personal connection to Farzat—as an investor in the café where he worked!

  Billy. Billy. It’s all starting to make sense.

  I bark at Needham, “Don’t go anywhere!” as I let go of his shirt and slip my handgun back into my jeans.

  Then I grope my pockets, looking for the business card Billy gave me. The one with his number scrawled on the back.

  I find it, still in my pocket from last night. I take out my phone and frantically dial.

  “Who are you calling?” David asks with dread. “What’s going on? Do you think my cousin could be—”

  “Shut up!” I snap, and cup my free hand over my exposed ear.

  Conditions are already bad for making a call, and they’re only getting worse. A marching band is rounding the corner a few blocks away. They’re blaring “When the Saints Go Marching In” and the crowd is starting to joyously sing along.

  “Oh when the saints…”

  “Come on, come on,” I whisper as the line rings and rings. “Answer, answer!”

  “…go marching in…”

  If Billy’s the one behind the attack, of course he’s not going to come out and admit it over the phone. I know that. But if I can get him talking, or figure out his location, or convince him to meet up, or trick him into spilling some clue…

  “Hi, you’ve reached Billy Needham, please leave me a message.”

  “Billy, it’s Caleb Rooney!” I shout, raising my voice over the cacophony around me. “Call me back as soon as you get this. It’s about…your cousin. It’s urgent!”

  “Oh when the saints…”

  I hang up and stare at his business card. Then I crumple it in my fist.

  I look back over at David, who’s helping his injured bodyguard to his feet.

  Then I look out at the street, at the parade reaching its grand finale.

  “…go marching in…”

  Here comes the dazzling marching band, wearing flamboyant pink and gold uniforms, high-stepping and twirling their instruments.

  Behind them, a massive float, decorated as the Roman Coliseum, carrying a team of masked gladiators flinging beads and toys high into the air.

  “Oh lord, I want…to be…in that number…”

  Lastly, I scan the crowd. Men, women, children. So many children. Lining the metal police barricades along Canal Street, clapping and singing their hearts out.

  “Oh when the saints go marching in!”

  On this beautiful day, the city is pulsing with happiness. Life. Joy.

  But my own pulse is creeping upward.

  My stomach is cramping with fear.

  My hands are damp, clammy.

  I pray that I’m wrong…but I’m terrified that I’m right.

  The attack is about to begin.

  Chapter 77

  SECONDS LATER, a series of explosions pounds through the heart of the French Quarter, just a block or so away from where I’m standing.

  WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

  Instinctively, I hunch over and shield my face against the shock waves that ripple outward in all directions.

  The marching band abruptly stops playing, the tune whining down to silence, the members lowering
their instruments, looking around in confusion.

  The parade grinds to a halt, with one tractor colliding into the rear of one of the large floats, this one displaying a Superdome with giant Saints players holding their arms up in triumph.

  And the crowd’s cheers of delight turn to screams of fear and terror, as they start charging away from the noise, and just beyond them, three billowing clouds of gray-black smoke float high into the clear blue sky. I can only darkly imagine the carnage that must be down there, just a block away.

  This is the stuff of nightmares, come to life.

  The dozens of uniformed cops posted up and down the sidewalks are bravely springing into action. Barking orders, shouting commands, gesturing manically, straining to keep some semblance of order, as people race, bump into one another, trip and fall down, trampling one another underfoot.

  My pistol is still in my hand and I feel utterly useless.

  Failure.

  I failed, the NOPD failed, the FBI failed.

  And Billy has succeeded.

  I flatten myself against a brick wall as the crowds surge by. Pushing. Shoving. Shouting. Crying. Mass hysteria begins to unfold as thousands of terrified spectators desperately try to flee. Many have their phones out, snapping pictures or recording videos as they go. But most don’t dare look back. Or slow down for one second.

  As for myself, I get shoved left and right. Shouldered. Rammed into. Even as flat as I am against the warm brick wall.

  I’m nearly trampled in the mad stampede—because I’m not going anywhere.

  Instead of joining the flow of evacuees, I’m battling against the current, struggling with all my strength to hold my ground.

  The reason is simple.

  As awful as these three initial explosions seem to be, Billy’s plot was too elaborate, too expensive, too expansive, to be just three bombs.

  I’m sure of it. I’d bet my life on it.

  I have a terrible feeling that this is only the beginning.

  Chapter 78

  I GRIP the handle of my pistol, ready to shoot. Crouching low, I scan the chaotic scene.