by Mark Terry
CHAPTER 45
Derek stared at O’Reilly. “Get out. I’m not working with you.”
“Oh, grow up, Derek.”
“You hung me out to dry—”
“You’re wanted by the LAPD for questioning, you’ve assaulted an officer, you’ve—”
“Get out of the fucking car.”
“Turn the damned key, put your right foot on the gas pedal, and let’s get the hell out of here before Black decides to lock you up for the week.”
It was probably good advice, although Derek would have been happier following it without her company. It was also clear she wasn’t leaving without making a scene. Without further complaint, he aimed the rental car toward downtown L.A. It was so solidly rush hour that they promptly slowed to a crawl. He figured that was probably a good thing, in that he was soon going to have to either tell O’Reilly where he was going or kick her ass out of the Nissan.
She said, “We’re fired, in case you hadn’t heard.”
Derek shrugged. “You were fired; I quit.”
She snorted. “Trust me, Derek. You were fired.”
He shrugged.
O’Reilly said, “Maybe we should get over to the hospital. Do you know where they took her?”
“I heard someone mention Brotman, but I’m not sure. Not much we can do for her.”
“Seems a little cold. Don’t act like you don’t care. I saw your face when I showed up.”
Staring through the windshield at the traffic congealing around him, Derek said, “I’d be glad to drop you off at the hospital.” Turning to her, he added, “In fact, it would give me great pleasure and satisfaction to drop you off at the hospital —preferably without stopping the car or slowing down.”
He felt the intensity of her gaze on him. Finally, “You’re an asshole, Stillwater.”
“You’re the one who jumped in the car uninvited. Feel free to jump back out.”
She clenched her fists. “I’m sure in school your teachers said you didn’t work or play well with others.”
“I went to missionary schools run by religious zealots in Third World hellholes all over the planet. There was no satisfying them no matter what I did, but it did give me insight into the kind of mind that would kill civilians because they think God wants them to.”
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “And by the way, O’Reilly, fuck you.”
O’Reilly was silent for a moment, which relieved Derek. His little rant had taken him to a place he really didn’t care to go.
Finally she said, “Where are you going?”
“The Avco Center.”
O’Reilly stared out her window for a moment before turning to him. “The law firm. And the guy asking Popovitch about a suitcase nuke. Right?”
“Got it in one.”
She glanced at her watch. “You think someone will be there? It’s late.”
Derek’s smile was grim. “I was sort of hoping no one would be there. Of course, in the world according to John Grisham, there’s always some young and ambitious attorney working late, so it’s possible there will be somebody there.”
“A couple federal employees breaking and entering. Seems to me there’s a bad historical precedent.” Yet O’Reilly didn’t sound very upset about this.
Derek said, “G. Gordon Liddy became famous. Wrote books, went on talk shows, opened his own school, got his own radio program.”
“Went to prison first.”
Derek dipped his head. “Yeah, there’s a potential downside.”
“So we don’t get caught.”
He glanced at her. “That would be part one of my plan. Don’t get caught.”
“What’s part two?”
“Haven’t figured that out yet.”
CHAPTER 46
John Seddiqi was on his way home from LAX when he received the call from Kalakar. His fingers groped for the call button on his phone and his voice sounded strained and weak to his ears. He hated the desperation in his voice, wishing he sounded tougher. For his daughter, he needed to be strong.
“Have you lost your—”
“John. Listen.” Kalakar’s accented English was low and calm.
“I want to talk to Malika. Right now.”
“You’re in no position to make demands, John. You do understand that you have no options, correct?”
“I’m not talking to you. I’m not going to speak with you until I first talk to Malika.”
“John, you’re not listening. You need to listen to me.”
A horn wailed. John realized he wasn’t paying attention to his driving. He had drifted into oncoming traffic. Heart leaping in his chest, he jerked the wheel. Sweat drenched his shirt. John was a good traffic controller. A traffic controller needed to be able to process complex information and stay calm. A traffic controller needed to think and not panic. He tried to switch on the focus and concentration that served him on the job, but this was his daughter here, this was his daughter’s life at risk.
He took a deep breath, felt his heart calm. “I’m listening.”
“Malika is going to be just fine if you do what I ask you to do. First, you need to go home and make sure your wife behaves.”
“Behaves?”
“Yes, John. Your wife is unpredictable. She does not obey you the way a good Muslim woman should. When you get home, you need to make absolutely certain she calls no one. E-mails no one. Make absolutely sure she does not panic and bring in the police or the FBI. This will get your daughter killed. Do you understand me, John?”
John swallowed. His throat felt like sandpaper.
“John?”
“Yes,” he croaked.
“What do you understand? Tell me.”
“No police. No FBI.”
“Good. Very good. We had an arrangement. A deal. You promised me, John, and you broke that promise. I no longer trust you, which is why I have your daughter with me. You love your daughter, don’t you, John?”
“Let me talk to her.”
“In time, John. In time. Here are your instructions. You are to go directly home. Keep your wife calm. You will go to work as usual tomorrow morning. Governor Stark has a rally in the morning. His plane will be flying in early. As soon as you have their flight path, you will call me with the time and location and GPS coordinates of where I will be able to have early visual contact. Do you understand me, John?”
“I don’t—”
“Do you understand me, John?”
“I—I—yes, I understand you.”
“Tell me what you understand, John.”
“As soon as I have the flight path for Governor Stark’s plane, I’m to call you and tell you the time, location, and coordinates of where you will first be able to see the plane.”
“Good, John. And that is all. Once I have done what I came here to do, I will return your daughter to you unharmed. Are we clear on that, John? I will not return her after you make your call. I will return her after I have accomplished my mission. That means that your information must be accurate and reliable. It means that you must continue what you are doing and not alert law enforcement or anyone else what is about to happen.”
“I don’t know what you’re going to do. I don’t understand how this information is useful to you.”
“You don’t need to know, John.”
“If I knew what you were going to do, maybe there’s something I could do to help now.”
“No, John. There isn’t. You’ll do what I ask. No more. No less. Understand me? No more. No less.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Be sure that you do.”
John swallowed. “I want to talk to Malika.”
“Of course.”
Traffic sped by. John realized he had unconsciously slowed as he concentrated on the phone call. He eased his foot down on the gas, sliding back into the stream of traffic.
“Daddy?”
“Malika? Are you okay?”
“Y-yes. But I’m scared.”
<
br /> “It’ll be okay, honey. Do what Mr. Kalakar tells you to do and you’ll be home tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, honey.”
“I want to come home now.”
Her voice quavered with fear, tearing at his heart. “I want you home now, too, honey, but we have to do what Mr. Kalakar wants and everything will be all right. Okay?”
Silence. John strained his ears for background noise, but heard nothing. “Okay, honey?” he repeated.
Kalakar’s voice came back on the phone. “You see, John? Your daughter is just fine. And she’ll stay fine just as long as you cooperate and do what you’re told to do. Keep your cell phone charged. I’ll contact you again before tomorrow.”
“Okay. Yes. Don’t hurt her.”
“If you do what is asked of you, your daughter will be returned unharmed. But John?”
John felt his throat close. Something about Kalakar’s tone, his words, promised a threat. “Yes?”
“Fail me, John, and I’ll mail your daughter to you in pieces.”
CHAPTER 47
Derek and O’Reilly’s concerns about entering the Avco Center turned out to be unfounded. The twelve-story office building was open and all they had to do was sign in at the desk. Confusing the issue somewhat, a nearby theater was called the AMC Avco Center. There apparently was a movie premier playing there tonight, and crowds were already starting to gather, complete with red carpet and limousines.
Parking several blocks away, they walked into the building. O’Reilly flashed her credentials to the security guard and scribbled something unreadable on the sign-in sheet. The guard wasn’t paying much attention. Earbuds from an iPod were plugged in and so was he, bopping along to some hip-hop tune of recent vintage.
They slipped into the elevator and punched the button for the eleventh floor. Derek noted that the Pakistan Consulate was on the top floor, twelve. He wondered, not for the first time, about the connection between Kalakar, who was Pakistani, the Pakistan Consulate, and the law firm of Jamieson, Perzada, Sulieman and Hill. There were plenty of other businesses in the Avco Center, and it was in downtown L.A., so it was possible it was only a coincidence. Derek wasn’t a big believer in coincidence, although he generally followed the axiom: it’s not a coincidence unless it is.
They got off on the eleventh floor and walked the length of the hallway, checking to see who was here and who was not. In addition to the offices of Jamieson, Perzada, Sulieman and Hill, which took up most of the floor, there was a commercial real estate office and the offices of a medical-billing firm. If there was anybody still in the offices, it wasn’t obvious. The floor seemed dead.
The plaque beside the law office’s door said:
Jamieson, Perzada, Sulieman and Hill
Attorneys at Law
International Entertainment, Representation, Contracts
Derek murmured, “Sssshhhoooooowwww bizness.” He reached out and tried the door. Sure enough, locked. So much for the World According to John Grisham. Derek wondered if he’d ever written about Hollywood lawyers. Maybe not.
O’Reilly pulled a handful of picks from her pocket. “Stand back, unless you want to do it.”
“You’re going to use picks?”
“Yes. Why? Were you planning on kicking the door down?”
“No. I usually use a power rake.”
“Noisy. This is quiet. And elegant.”
She went to work on the locks. The reason Derek used a power rake, sometimes called an electronic lock pick, for his occasional B&E in the name of national security, was he couldn’t pick locks worth a damn. It was a skill he’d never mastered.
In less than a minute O’Reilly had the door open. Derek cocked his head. “Nice.”
“I’ve got skills.”
“Apparently.”
“After you.”
“I guess I’ve got skills, too. I make a good target in case there’s someone inside there.”
“Lead with your strengths, Derek.”
He slipped inside the door. The lobby lights were still on. It was large and square with leather chairs and glass coffee tables, the walls covered with photographs of celebrities, many of whom Derek recognized, many that he didn’t. On one wall were photographs of the partners and staff. Derek studied them.
He said, “I’m going to check out Lawrence Perzada’s office. You suppose Lawrence is his real first name?”
O’Reilly checked the photograph. Lawrence Perzada was clearly Pakistani or Indian. She said, “Might be Americanized. I’m going to hunt around and see if I can find personnel records, see what we can find out about Abdul Mohammed. Although it’s doubtful there’ll be a line on his résumé saying, ‘procurer of suitcase nukes.’”
Derek nodded. The lobby transitioned into an open space of cubicles. He guessed it was for junior attorneys, paralegals, and secretaries. Off to the right angled a hallway that appeared to be conference rooms, mailroom, and storage. To the left another hallway seemed to host offices. He went left. O’Reilly went right.
Three doors down an office with a closed door had a single plaque saying:
Lawrence Perzada, Esq., Partner
International Entertainment
Derek considered that for a moment. Hollywood films were international. They were distributed throughout the world, often shot throughout the world with actors from around the world. When a film was shot on location in Morocco or Egypt or Russia or England or Pakistan, often at least part of the crew—the gaffers, best boys, key grips, and all the other esoterica of filmmaking—was hired from the countries where they were shooting.
And vice versa, he supposed—international films got distributed or shot in the U.S. as well. An attorney with expertise in this area would be invaluable to the film industry.
He checked the door and found it unlocked. He stepped into a plush office with windows looking west. Derek spied a tiny sliver of the Pacific Ocean, but mostly he saw skyline, lit up. It was a good, if not exactly spectacular, view.
Flicking on the office light, he studied the room. Large maple desk cluttered with manila file folders. A large computer monitor. A butter-colored leather chair. Two client chairs and at one end of the office, a seating arrangement of glass coffee table, two chairs, and a sofa. A vase of lilies rested on the coffee table.
A door led to a private bathroom complete with shower. A small closet revealed a blue suit, a pair of shoes, socks, three white dress shirts, and two ties. Backup business clothes.
The wall was covered with photographs. From what Derek could tell, they were of Perzada with a variety of movie notables: Mel Gibson, Angelina Jolie, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg, George Clooney, and a bevy of people Derek didn’t recognize.
He sat down at the desk, booted up the computer, and while it warmed up, studied a massive old-fashioned Rolodex. Derek began to go through it, card by card, starting with A.
Most of the cards seemed to be contacts in the international film business. There were directors and producers and attorneys and distributors and technical crews and caterers and hiring organizations in a variety of countries: Pakistan, India, Russia, England, France, China, Germany, Poland—the list went on. Nothing really caught his eye until the letter C.
Chughtai, Faiz Hasan.
Under the name was a telephone number and the notation: Vice Consul, Pakistan, L.A.
Derek blinked. He found a blank Rolodex card and scribbled down the information. He proceeded through the Rolodex, but nothing else struck him. He was about to focus on the computer when O’Reilly appeared at the door. “Anything?”
He told her what he had discovered.
“Shit. That’s bad. Diplomatic immunity and all that bullshit.”
“It definitely makes things more complicated. You find anything?”
“Not really. I found some personnel records and there’s a file for Abdul Mohammed, but there’s nothing useful in it. I made a copy of it.”
Derek held out his hand. She
gave it to him. “Want me to take a look at the computer?”
Derek nodded. He crossed over to the leather sofa and read through the employment history of Abdul Mohammed. Apparently he had graduated high school in Pakistan, joined the Army where he served for three years. He then rattled around Pakistan for a few years, working as a laborer, truck driver, carpenter, and then, a two-year period of unemployment. A year ago he came to the U.S. under a temporary work visa and was hired under the recommendation of Lawrence Perzada and brought into the mailroom at the firm.