Infernal

by F. Paul Wilson

  “I’m serious. You need a break, Jack. You’ve been going nonstop since Kate died. You’re overdue.”

  “I had that week in Florida.”

  She squeezed his thigh. “You’re not going to try to tell me that was a break.”

  “Well, no.”

  Anything but.

  “Getting away will be good for you.”

  “With you pregnant? Forget it.”

  “How long is he talking about?”

  “About four days, I’d guess. Maybe five. Way too long with you in your sixth month.”

  “I’m fine. And I’ll be fine. Nothing’s going to happen in five days. And in case anything does, I’ve got Doctor Eagleton just minutes away.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. You can’t use me as an excuse.”

  “I’ve got other reasons for not going.”

  “Such as?”

  Jack didn’t want to mention his plan to exact some unofficial payback, if possible.

  If possible… a big if. But if the opportunity came around, Jack didn’t want to be out of the country.

  He did not want to miss out on something like that. Gia touched his thigh again. “Jack, he’s your brother. He needs your help. How can you say no?” Jack would find a way.

  * * *

  4

  When Jack got back home the first thing he did was call Ed Burkes at the UK Mission to the UN for an update. Jack had done a fix-it for the UK mission there a few years ago and so he’d asked Burkes for help. Ed had been shocked to hear about Jack’s father. He’d promised to do anything he could to help Jack get a line on the Wrath of Allah.

  But Burkes had nothing. His buddies in MI-5 were as baffled as everybody else. None of their contacts in the Arab world had ever heard of the Wrath of Allah.

  Jack slowly, grudgingly was reaching the point where he had to admit that international terrorism might be out of his league. Way out. Not that he wouldn’t take on a roomful of them if given the chance. But the chance part seemed a dead end. Like chasing smoke. These Islamic nuts didn’t frequent the bars and clubs where Jack’s contacts hung. They weren’t out and about, drinking too much, shooting their mouths off. How do you get a line on crazies who cluster in tight, insular, incestuous knots of fanaticism?

  He thanked Burkes and hung up.

  * * *

  5

  Jack loitered at the rear of the Isher Sports Shop and made small talk with Abe about the wake and funeral until the door closed behind the last customer. When he was sure they had the shop to themselves, he leaned on the scarred counter.

  “Any news?”

  Abe spread his hands and shook his head. “Not a thing.”

  Jack had asked Abe to poll his fellow gunrunners about the Tavor-2.

  “Nothing?”

  “What can I say? This will take time. Not like there’s a directory out there. And the ones I do know aren’t talking.”

  “Really? I’m surprised they wouldn’t trust you.”

  “Trust shmust. Who knows anymore in this business? What if I’d been picked up and what if I’d cut a deal to rat out my competition? After nine-eleven, already we were paranoid. Now…”

  Jack nodded. The runners took a beating from all the post-9/11 security measures—especially the truck and van searches.

  Abe said, “After La Guardia, with the feds trying to trace the Arabs’ weapons, we’re all running scared.”

  “Nobody’s saying anything?”

  “Like clams they become as soon as they hear what I’m asking. Not that I expected them to yammer like yentas, but I can see the shutters close and hear the doors slam when I say the magic word.”

  “Tavor-two?”

  “Right. ‘Never heard of it’… ‘Never carried it’… ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about’… ‘Why ask me? I run a candy store.’ Bupkis I got. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Least you tried.”

  “Until this cools down or something breaks, like mummies they’ll be. Too scared of the feds.”

  That started an idea…

  “But what if they’re hit by something that scares them more?”

  He decided to put in a call to Joey Castles.

  * * *

  6

  Jack had called him and asked for a meet at this Upper West Side dive called Julio’s. They’d met out front and wandered in. Typical neighborhood watering hole except for all the dead plants hanging in the front windows. What was up with that?

  Joey could tell Jack was a regular by the way just about everyone crowded around him, patting his shoulders and shaking his hand and saying how sorry they were about his dad.

  Joey hung off to the side, feeling like he was standing there with his dick in his hand. But not for long. Jack cut it short and said thanks but he had some business. Everyone wandered back to their places.

  So now the two of them sat in a back corner. A short, ripped spic brought them a couple of Rolling Rocks. Jack introduced him as the owner.

  “Anything I can do, meng,” he said as he gripped Jack’s hand. “Anything. You just say the word.”

  When he was gone Joey ran a finger through the wet ring left by his beer bottle and said, “You got something shaking, Jack?”

  “Not a thing. Nada. My guy’s been asking around and coming up empty.”

  “And your guy is…?”

  Jack gave him a look.

  Joey smiled. This was what he liked about this guy.

  “Jack the Sphinx. A boccalone you ain’t.”

  “I put the word out to everyone I know on the street to call me first if they hear anything. No one’s called.”

  “Same here.”

  “The key is those Tavor-twos. They weren’t bought at Wal-Mart. Can only be so many in the country. We find who sold them, we can find who they sold them to.”

  Joey shook his head. He’d had the same thought.

  “Trouble is, no one’s talking.”

  “That’s because they’re not scared of us.”

  “So what do we do? Brace them? Put the hurt on them?”

  Jack gave him another kind of look.

  “Come on, Jack. I know what you’re thinking: Joey’s a bidonista, what’s he know about rough stuff? Maybe you don’t know ‘cause you’ve never seen, but I can handle myself.”

  “Never crossed my mind, Joey. No, I was thinking of a bigger scare than us.”

  “Like?”

  “Well, I know your last name isn’t Castles. What I don’t know is if you’re connected.”

  Joey wondered where this was going.

  “Not directly, no, and we like to keep it that way. But you can’t operate, least not for very long, you don’t give the outfit a piece. Pop did it; Frankie and I been doing it.”

  “Can you make some calls?”

  “Yeah, some. But I know someone who can talk higher up the chain.” Joey was liking the idea more and more. “Yeah, by the time Pop retired, the boys had made a chubby piece from him, a piece they didn’t do nothing for. Got it ‘cause they fucking exist and nothing else. No reason he can’t look for something back. Not a lot, nothing that’ll cost them anything, just some information.”

  “Think he’ll do it?”

  “Pop? He’ll jump at the chance. I’ll tell him to ask the boys check around and see if anyone’s sold a Tavor, or even a bunch of five-fifty-six hollow-points, to a dune monkey.”

  “That’ll do it. But the cops might already know that.”

  Joey shook his head. “They don’t.”

  “You know for sure?”

  “For double sure.” Here was a chance to impress Jack. “Frankie and me made us a few friends in the PD over the years.” He made a motion of slipping his right hand into his waistband. “You know what I’m saying. That’s how I found out about the cyanide bullets. They’re keeping me posted. Seeing how much me and Frankie paid them over the years, they damn well fucking better. Time those meat eaters earned it by doing something more than looking th
e other way.”

  A smile twisted Jack’s lips. Just a little. Just for a second.

  “You sound like a good guy to know. They telling you anything else?”

  “They hear the Homeland Security people are pretty sure the shooters had inside help.”

  “Pretty sure?”

  “Well, they don’t know who yet, but they say someone at the airport had to be helping the fucks. First off, they came and went through an ‘Employees Only’ door. Second, they got away so clean, they had to have inside help.”

  Jack shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Look at me. I got out, and no one was helping me.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. You were there. But why didn’t you just—?”

  “Long story. But back to our problem: Who, what, and where is Wrath of Allah?”

  Joey shrugged. “Gotta be somewhere. I mean, we know they exist.”

  “But they may not be calling themselves Wrath of Allah. In real life they could be calling themselves Seventy-five Virgins Here We Come, but they use a different name when they call the media.”

  Joey closed his eyes and squeezed the neck of his Rock until he thought it would break.

  “The slick fucks.”

  He relaxed his grip, opened his eyes, and stared at Jack.

  “How do you stay so cool, man?”

  He watched Jack’s jaw muscles work.

  “Cool? Who’s cool? I’m so burned I want to throw something. Or break something. If the owner wasn’t a friend I might be going for a twofer and toss this table through a window.”

  “You hide it well, man.”

  “Years of practice.”

  Joey leaned back. “So… what we do we find these faccio di stronzones?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge—”

  “Hey, I know it’s a long shot, but what say we get lucky? What we gonna do? Call nine-one-one and tell them where they’re hiding? As if. Don’t know about you, but I don’t wanna see them sit in jail for a couple years waiting to go to court, then get traded for some hostage somewhere. Or get sprung on some technicality. Blood demands blood, Jack. Know what I’m saying?”

  This scary look passed across Jack’s face, then it was gone.

  “Yeah. I know exactly what you’re saying. I can hear my father’s blood screaming.”

  “Okay. We find them, we waste them. Deal?”

  Jack hesitated, then nodded.

  They sat and sipped in silence for a moment or two, then Jack cleared his throat.

  “How’re you doing without Frankie?”

  Joey didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. How to explain? He hadn’t lost a brother, he’d lost a piece of himself. He’d be less torn up if it had been the old man.

  When he finally spoke, he had trouble getting the words out. His voice sounded thick.

  “It’s tough, Jack. Real tough. I miss him. We was always together. Maybe that’s why we fought so much. Like a couple gavones, y’know? But the fighting never meant nothin’. When it was over it was over and we’d go grab a beer. I loved the guy, Jack, and now… I’m tellin’ you, Jack, I’m gonna waste those fucks. I swear on Frankie’s grave, I get the chance, they’re dead meat. I…”

  Joey felt his eyes filling and heard a soft sob. When he realized it came from him and that he was going to start bawling like a baby, he got up and turned away.

  He managed, “Gotta go, man. Talk to you later.”

  And then he was heading for the door, keeping his head down so no one would see him crying.

  * * *

  7

  Gia snuggled up against Jack as they watched the six o’clock news on the TV in the Sutton Square sitting room. He lived for moments like this.

  “Have you given any more thought to helping Tom?”

  “A little.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She squeezed his arm. “Jack, if he goes to jail, how will you feel, knowing you could have helped him and didn’t?”

  The old saying, Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time, came back to him, but he bit it back.

  “I don’t know.”

  She gave him a concerned look. “This isn’t like you. You’re usually so… so decisive.”

  He sighed. “To tell the truth, I don’t feel like me. This thing has me turned inside out. Dad… I mean, somewhere in the back of my head was the idea that he’d always be there. Stupid, I know, especially after what happened to my mother, but—”

  “Not so stupid. It’s the same with my folks. If your parents are in decent health, I think we all feel that way.”

  “Well, anyway, he’s gone.” Jack snapped his fingers. “Like that. My mother died in my arms. Kate died minutes after I let the EMTs take her from me. And my father’s body was still warm when I found him. Too much déjà vu. It’s got me all twisted up.”

  “That’s why you should go, Jack. It’s not a long time, but it’ll get you out of this city, away from the airport, the constant reminders. A little time at sea doing next to nothing might help you get a new perspective. Maybe you’ll come back right-side in.”

  He knew she was right, as usual. But he wanted that time away with Gia, not Tom.

  He wished he felt different about Tom. He wished he had the kind of relationship Joey had described with Frankie.

  But Joey no longer had his brother. And Joey had said that blood cries out for blood.

  Tom was blood… maybe Jack owed Tom the chance.

  Joey had the ball now and he’d be running with it. If the gun guys decided to talk, they’d only want to talk to someone connected. That meant Joey.

  And that meant Jack would be something of a fifth wheel for a while.

  He didn’t like that. He preferred to do things on his own. His business was the sole-proprietor type. He never worked with anyone, didn’t know if he could. And Joey… he didn’t know Joey all that well.

  But what choice did he have?

  Gia had said she’d be fine for the four or five days he’d be away, and he knew she was right.

  And it would be at least four-five days before word filtered down from the outfit and Joey got anything going.

  And Dad would have wanted him to help his brother.

  Jack sighed. Maybe it was time to call Tom.

  * * *

  Cadiz, Spain

  March 6, 1598

  Brother Francisco Mendes, member of the Society of Jesus, wound through the bales of fabric, the barrels of food and water and grog, the milling crowd of workers and passengers and animals until he found the Sombra.

  He paused at the gangplank and looked her over. A black-hulled, three-masted nao with the typical elevated stem and forecastle. Francisco knew all about her: three-hundred and fifty tons with a seventy-five-foot keel and a twenty-five-foot beam. Very much like the galleon he had piloted with the first Armada, but much less heavily armed.

  Saying a prayer that he’d be successful in his deception, he strode up the gangway.

  As he stepped upon the deck he looked around for a familiar face. He spotted an older man in his forties—perhaps ten years older than he—with a stubbly beard and a mild limp moving toward him. Francisco was startled to recognize Eusebio Dominguez. He looked so different with a beard.

  They’d met a week ago. Eusebio had been sent by the Vatican and was to be their man among the crew. Francisco knew nothing about him other than the fact that he had been a seaman in his younger days. As for his present circumstances, for all Francisco knew he could be a cardinal or a chimney sweep.

  Francisco was glad he had not been assigned the role of a sailor. He was too slight of build to pass for one. His neat black clothes, his shaven cheeks, and long black hair better suited him to the role of navigator.

  As arranged, Eusebio gave no sign of recognition. Instead, he made a show of a smirk and a surly tone as he eyed Francisco’s Valencian clothing.

  “What do you want?”

  “To see your captain.”