Land, Jon

by [Kamal

  “Carrying something that would identify them.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then if we can find this Max Peacock, we can be there waiting.”

  “Problem there. My detective friend also informed me there is no such person in New York City.”

  “There’s got to be.”

  “But if my friend couldn’t find him, what chance do we stand of faring any better in the next twenty-four hours?”

  “Even if we get lucky,” Danielle said, “we don’t have whatever the courier was supposed to bring to identify himself to the Russians.”

  “Not yet,” Ben told her.

  * * * *

  Chapter 59

  I

  had it in my hands, right in my hands. . . .

  Ben had been torturing himself with that thought ever since the shopkeeper’s revelation of how the Russian conduits were to identify Fasil or his surrogate. Dalia had told him as much in her letter, given him all the clues he needed without coming out and telling him. It was just like her.

  The Buddha chest!

  To have explained the truth about the chest in detail would have been to invite Ben to take Fasil’s place at the meeting with Max Peacock in New York City. She would never have endangered him so directly; instead, she chose to give him the information he needed only if he came looking for it specifically.

  It was Fasil who brought me the Buddha chest. He asked me to hold it for him and when he was no longer in a position to come back for it, I appropriated the chest for my collection.

  The intent of the words, so thinly veiled, seemed obvious now.

  “You’re going where?” Brickland asked incredulously when the three of them rendezvoused back on the street.

  “Back to Jericho,” Ben told him.

  “Both of you?”

  “I know the ways terrorists and smugglers have managed to enter Israel through the West Bank,” said Danielle. “He needs me to show him.”

  “You’re both frigging nuts, you know that?”

  “We aren’t asking you to come,” said Danielle.

  “You’ve done more than enough already,” added Ben.

  “What chance you think you got to pull this off?” Brickland challenged them.

  “What chance will this region have, if Fasil’s people take delivery from the Russians of the means to destroy Israel?” Ben shot right back.

  Brickland smirked, then chuckled. “We’re two of a kind, hoss. Know why? ‘Cause neither of us knows when to quit. Let’s get ourselves a new car,” he told them both, “and hit the road.”

  * * * *

  T

  rue to Danielle’s word, the roundabout, time-consuming route got them into the West Bank without incident. Ben was more worried about the area around Dalia Mikhail townhouse. Would Shaath have ordered a stakeout surrounding it on the chance he’d return there? It was possible, but Ben’s lesson plan had never gotten to stakeouts and he sincerely doubted Shaath was capable of executing a proper one.

  Still, he warned Brickland to be wary as they crossed through Jericho. The colonel navigated the streets slowly and parked a block away from Dalia’s villa, insisting that he check the area himself on foot before letting them proceed.

  Brickland climbed back into the driver’s seat ten minutes later. “No cops. Nobody waiting in the apartment or outside it.”

  Ben and Danielle breathed twin signs of relief. They walked back to the villa accompanied by Brickland, Ben planning to use his police key on the padlock as he had before.

  But the padlock was gone, the hasp half torn off and the door shattered in the area of the latch. Ben’s heart sank. He had feared a break-in when he visited Dalia’s earlier that day. Now that fear had been realized.

  “You two go on inside,” Brickland instructed. “I’ll hang here in case any visitors show up.”

  Ben nodded and led Danielle through the door.

  Inside, the villa was a shambles, the contents of drawers and cases strewn all over the floor. Some of the smaller pieces of furniture were missing. The walls had been stripped bare of their artwork and Dalia’s pedestals stood with nothing atop them. Her computer was gone and her big-screen television lay on its back halfway across the living room floor, as if the thieves had abandoned the effort after realizing how heavy it was.

  The armoire, though, stood miraculously untouched, by good fortune the last piece the crooks would have reached. Feeling more confident, Ben popped the latch and eased the double doors open.

  The Buddha chest was gone.

  * * * *

  H

  e stood there staring for what seemed a very long time, hoping he had returned it to a different shelf and that he just wasn’t looking in the right place. But the chest didn’t reappear.

  “The thieves?” Danielle asked, suddenly by his side.

  Ben shook his head. “It wasn’t even that valuable. And why would they take it and ignore the rest of the valuables inside? No, one of Fasil’s people came here and took it. They messed up the rest to throw off the police, or anyone else who came looking.”

  Frank Brickland entered the townhouse, leaving the door open behind him. “We’ve been here too long, hoss.”

  But Ben wasn’t quite ready to leave. “Fasil’s replacement will take the chest to New York, to the meeting,” he told Danielle. “Take delivery from the Russians of whatever Fasil purchased. I guess we should be grateful.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?” Danielle wondered.

  Ben resealed the doors and popped the latch back into place as Brickland began to shift about impatiently. “Because if it had been thieves we’d be totally out of luck. Now at least we know where it’s going.”

  “To a man who doesn’t exist,” Danielle reminded.

  “I’m going to New York,” Ben insisted staunchly. “And, whatever it takes, I’m going to find Max Peacock.”

  The colonel stopped and burst out laughing. “Max Peacock? That’s the guy you’ve been talking about? The guy your cop friend in New York can’t find?”

  “Yes,” Ben said, befuddled.

  “Ever been to New York City, Benny?”

  “Yes.”

  “Obviously you didn’t see all the sights.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Max Peacock isn’t a person, it’s a place!”

  * * * *

  S

  trip bar off Forty-second Street I’ve dropped my share of Franklins in,” Brickland continued after the shock had worn off. “But you’d better get moving if you expect to get there by eleven a.m. tomorrow.”

  Neither of them moved.

  “We need you, Colonel,” said Danielle.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am. I’ve done too much already, mixed in where I didn’t belong. I interfered. In my business, that’s the only thing you don’t do.”

  “Then let us hire you,” Ben proposed.

  Brickland shot a scathing frown his way. “Hire me? Put both your next year’s salaries together and it wouldn’t touch my price.” He looked at the two of them standing there utterly crestfallen, and shrugged. “Oh what the hell, I was gonna fly home through New York anyway. ...”

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Chapter 60

  M

  ax Peacock’s was located on Eighth Avenue just around the corner from Forty-second Street. Ben and Danielle had the cab driver leave them off slightly down the block just after ten o’clock Tuesday morning. Brickland had promised he’d be there to meet them before the eleven a.m. meeting time, and take things from there.

  Gaining seven hours in the flight west was the only thing that saved them after a grueling eighteen-hour journey that began outside Dalia Mikhail’s villa the day before. They drove to Haifa, where Danielle secured passage for the three of them on board a Turkish freighter en route to Egypt’s port city of Alexandria. From there, a taxi brought them to Cairo, where one of Brickland’s contacts was waiting with passports and tickets on a plane bound for Kenn
edy Airport in New York.

  “I’ll put it on your bill,” the colonel had quipped.

  Once they had landed and made it through Customs, the colonel sent them on to Max Peacock’s alone while he went to round up some reinforcements, promising to be at Max Peacock’s no later than 10:45. Ben and Danielle could do nothing but wait for him, keeping the strip bar in sight as best they could while walking up and down the street to avoid attracting attention.

  When 10:45 came, fifteen minutes to go before the scheduled delivery of whatever Mohammed Fasil had paid twenty million dollars of Iranian money for, there was still no sign of Brickland.

  “Something’s wrong,” Ben said suddenly as they stood directly across the street from Max Peacock’s. “He’s not coming.”

  “Then we’ll have to follow his plan on our own.”

  Before Ben could respond, a bearded man wearing aviator sunglasses approached the entrance to Max Peacock’s. He stopped to study the street carefully, then headed through the door.

  “That’s Fasil’s surrogate,” Ben said, recognizing the man not so much from his appearance as from the bulky tote bag he carried in his hand, easily large enough to accommodate Dalia’s Buddha chest.

  Danielle could see Ben’s mind working as he scrutinized the area around Max Peacock’s, then checked his watch.

  “I’m going in,” he said suddenly.

  “You’re what?”

  Ben’s eyes were still on the door. “That man must be the one taking Fasil’s place. I’m going to take his place.”

  At was 10:50 when Ben entered Max Peacock’s in search of the man who had preceded him through the smoky, artificial air. The room was comfortably cool, thanks to an air conditioner he could hear rattling through the ductwork. A trio of theatrical stages featured dancers at various stages of disrobing. And in the center of it all, a breakfast buffet had been set up. Above the table, hanging from the ceiling, he saw the sign:

  LEGS and EGGS!

  A novel idea, Ben thought, making his way past the first stage where a dancer in cowboy garb, leather chaps glued to her thighs and buttocks had looped a lariat around the neck of a patron flashing a twenty-dollar bill, trying to reel him in. The second and third stages were on opposite sides of the room, the third very near the larger of Max Peacock’s two bars. Beyond the second stage were tables featuring dancers giving performances for individual patrons. The man who had just entered sat alone back by the wall, the tote bag that Ben surmised held Dalia’s Buddha chest tucked into his lap.

  Ben’s watch read 10:52. He steadied himself, took a deep breath, and weaved his way through the naked table dancers, who paid no attention to him whatsoever.

  Approaching the man’s table, he noted his strong Arabic features and felt somewhat reassured. Ben reached the table and watched the man bring the tote bag from the floor into his lap.

  “There’s been a change in plans,” Ben said.

  The Arab looked unsure. “Who are you? I don’t know you!”

  “But I know you. And I don’t sound like a Russian, do I? What does that make me? Come on! If I knew where to find you, what does that tell you about me? Stand up and walk out of here with me.” When the man continued to hesitate, Ben threw just enough desperation into his voice. “Hurry! Before it’s too late!”

  The man rose, tote bag in hand, and fell in behind Ben, his eyes darting nervously in all directions. No one paid any attention to them, the eyes of all those in Max Peacock’s having other sights to hold their attention.

  Instead of retracing his steps through the main body of the bar, Ben led the Arab through a nearby exit door that spilled out into an alley.

  “Now what is this—”

  Ben grabbed the man’s head and shoved it against the building’s brick exterior. Dazed, the Arab nonetheless managed to lash a quick backhand across Ben’s face. Ben still had firm hold of the man’s hair and jerked his head sideways. It cracked into the brick again, stunning him, and when he tried to pull free, Ben slammed him against the wall face-first this time. He was certain he heard something crunch, but the man continued to resist, so Ben jammed his face forward a fourth time. This time the man went limp and crumpled. Ben dragged the inert form behind the Dumpster, then grabbed the tote bag off the ground where it had fallen and rushed back through the side door.

  * * * *

  W

  hen Benunzipped thetote bag,he sawinstantly thathis hunch was correct: Dalia’s Chinese Buddha chest was inside. He rested it on the same table at which the Arab had been sitting. He tried to scan the room for his potential contact, but the presence of naked dancers churning about at nearly all the tables in front of him blocked his view.

  Suddenly he made out a quartet of beefy figures approaching through the washed-out, smoky haze. They curled around the tables featuring the dancers, moving with the cocky swagger of men used to getting their own way.

  Ben’s watch read 11:00 exactly.

  The burly one in the center, built like a barrel, caught sight of the heirloom in front of Ben and steered the other hulks toward him. The four men reached his table and enclosed it in a semicircle. Ben could see nothing over them but the smoke rising.

  “You’re right on time,” greeted the one in the center, his English burdened by a thick Russian accent.

  “So are you.”

  “Haven’t I been reliable from the start?” The Russian’s voice took on a dangerous edge. “But you wouldn’t know, would you?, because we’ve never met. Where is my friend Fasil?”

  Ben realized the man was quite short, more stocky than muscular. His self-confidence came from the three hulking, muscular bodyguards who watched Ben’s every move.

  He stroked the top of the Buddha chest. “You were told someone would come to take delivery of the merchandise, not necessarily Fasil.”

  “My friend Fasil say he come himself, unless something go wrong.”

  “It did: he’s dead.”

  The thick-bodied Russian looked genuinely shocked. “No.”

  “And you knew it. Please don’t play stupid with me. It might make me think you intend to break our arrangement.”

  “I break nothing!” the Russian raged. “I keep terms. I am honorable!”

  “Prove it.”

  “I have your deposit already. You think I would cheat you, cut out on a deal promising a rich future for both of us? What would I gain? I need you, you need me. We partners!”

  Partners? Ben thought. What was going on here?

  “You were partners with Fasil, not me. Everything’s changed.”

  The Russian’s eyes narrowed. Ben thought he might be growling under his breath. “You want new deal? You want money back? That it?”

  “Not at all. I only want what we paid for.”

  The Russian settled his bulk into the chair immediately across from Ben’s. It creaked under the strain. “Then what’s changed? Deal the same. Terms the same.” He threw a wink across the table. “Future the same for both of us and our people. We make a lot of people rich, eh, my new friend? Make enough for you to buy whatever you want for your people. Buy them power, whatever.

  Ben tried to keep his thoughts collected and his demeanor calm, but his mind was racing. He had come to Max Peacock’s expecting to pick up the merchandise Fasil had purchased. Obviously, though, the deal the terrorist had struck with the Russian underworld was considerably more complicated than that. He had to keep probing, find out exactly what was going on here.

  “Time is a factor,” he tried.

  “We keep to schedule already agreed upon,” the Russian told him. “Ship loaded. Leave port today as promised. You have goods in three weeks.” He smiled reverently. “What a sight, my new friend. I take you there now. You must see.”

  “Of course.”

  The Russian’s gaze moved toward the Buddha chest, which apparently hid more secrets than even Dalia Mikhail had realized. “Can I see?”

  Ben slid it absently his way. The Russian inspected it lovingly, o
pened and closed its thin doors several times. “I keep?”

  “Consider it a gift.”

  The Russian thanked him profusely, then said, “For my wife. My wife will love it. You know, we going to make history together, my new friend.” And he stuck out a beefy hand warmly. “I am Krechensky, Vladimir Krechensky. Call me Vlad. Is good doing business with you.”