Dark City

by F. Paul Wilson

  Neil would have loved to ask how much, but that wasn’t the way to get these things done.

  “But she’s not parting with any.”

  “Bingo. She’s totally cheap. The bitch.”

  Neil raised his hands in a peacemaking gesture. No one should talk about their grandmother like that. But it did offer a perfect opportunity to find out if anyone else was in the picture.

  “Now hold on. Maybe your grandfather won’t let her.”

  “Grandfather? He’s long gone.”

  Excellent.

  “Somebody else in the household putting in a discouraging word, maybe?”

  “Nah. I’m the only other one in the household now, but I’m back off to school tomorrow.”

  More good news.

  “Where’s that?”

  “UNC.”

  “Good school.” Good and far away. “Great b-ball team.”

  “You a Tarheels fan?”

  “I’m a fan of winning teams, and your guys are winners with a capital W.” Turning the talk back to Grandma … “So, you’re leaving your grandmother all alone?”

  He made a face. “Just the way she likes it. My mom thinks she should have a live-in but Nonna won’t hear of it. Too cheap.”

  Now we’re talking.

  “Well, then, let’s give the lady the benefit of the doubt. Maybe her money’s tied up in annuities or stocks that she can’t sell right now. Let’s face it, the market’s for shit these days.”

  “You kidding? She’s old-country Italian. She’d have the money stuffed in a mattress if it would fit. It’s all in cash in bank accounts, doing nothing.”

  Neil resisted rubbing his hands together. This sounded good—real good. Maybe this little detour to the bar wouldn’t be a waste of time after all.

  He gave his head a sad shake. “Such a waste. Money should be put to work, not left to molder in bank vaults.”

  “You’re telling me? Fiber optics, man—fiber optics is the way to go!”

  As casually as he could, Neil said, “Which bank, by the way?”

  “Chase.”

  He gave a sage nod to hide his glee. “A good, solid institution.”

  Never hurt to state the obvious. And it never hurt to have a couple of contacts inside a bank. Contacts who, for a modest fee, would ferret out the details of his nonna’s finances. Just one vital piece of info was missing. But how to get it?

  As he considered his options, he lifted his Bud toward his lips—but stopped halfway as a sour note sounded in his brain.

  “Hey, wait a minute. Did you say she was ‘old-country Italian’? But your name is—”

  “Beuchner. Yeah, my mother married a German, much to Nonna’s eternal dismay. But let me ask you: Can you get much more Guinea than Michelina Filardo?”

  Neil laughed—not because it was funny, but because he’d just been handed the last, most important piece of info on a mark—what he’d been fishing for since he’d stepped up to the bar.

  Asking for a name was always the hardest part because the first response on the other side tended to be, Who wants to know and why? But now he had all he needed: the name of a rich old widow and where she kept her money.

  “No, that’d be pretty hard.”

  He just had to hope that Michelina Filardo was public-spirited enough to catch a thief. Neil was reasonably sure the world-famous Zalesky charm was up to the rest.

  6

  As usual, they met in Roman Trejador’s suite. And, since he hopped from hotel to hotel about the city, this was not the same suite as the last.

  When Nasser al-Thani arrived he found Ernst Drexler already there, his glossy black hair swept straight back from a widow’s peak that pointed down to his aquiline nose. The Austrian was dressed in his ever-present, ever-tacky white three-piece suit; his black rhinoceros-hide walking stick leaned against a nearby wall.

  Trejador lounged on the couch. Fiftyish, urbane, Spanish by birth with dark good looks, his rough childhood had contributed to his skills as an actuator, making him the first choice of the High Council of the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order when it needed a problem solved. He was resplendent in his Sulka silk-and-satin smoking jacket, even tackier than Drexler’s suit—practically an antique.

  Nasser wore a simple gray thobe.

  “Greetings, Nasser,” Trejador said with no accent, raising his martini. “Spring water on the bar.”

  Although alcohol was legal in his native Qatar, Nasser had never developed a taste for it. Even during his Oxford years among prodigious beer quaffers, he’d never been tempted.

  Drexler sat in a straight-back chair next to an end table. He poured a little beer from a green bottle into a short glass, then checked his watch. “You’re almost late,” he said with a faintly German accent.

  Without responding, Nasser poured himself a glass of Evian. He’d grown to dislike Ernst Drexler over the past few months. Trejador referred to him—behind his back, of course—as “Ernst the Lesser” to distinguish him from his late father, a legend in the annals of the Order.

  Trejador said, “We anxiously await your assessment of the local Muslim situation.”

  “And by ‘we,’” Drexler added, “he means more than we two. The High Council grows impatient. It wants the money returned.”

  Nasser peeked into the bedroom as he passed the half-open doorway, hoping for a glimpse of one of Trejador’s whores, but it appeared empty. Too bad. The women he hired were unfailingly young and attractive. Especially a semi-regular named Danaë he’d seen on a number of occasions.

  “I know it’s been a long wait,” he said as he seated himself opposite the other two. “But we can’t set a trap for the hijackers without the help of the jihadists, and they’ve been embroiled in an interfactional turf war.”

  “While the thieves squander the Order’s money,” Drexler said.

  Nasser did not acknowledge the testy remark. “The problem has been that we have no stick to prod the jihadists into action, nor do we have a carrot. On the first go-round, they needed money. The prospect of a couple of million to fund their holy cause made them easy to manipulate.”

  The plan had been so simple. The Order’s goal was to foster chaos. The jihadists’ goal was to scour Russians and Americans and all non-Muslims from the Mideast, topple all the secularist regimes, replace them with sharia theocracies, bring holy war to America, then wipe Israel off the map—preferably, though not necessarily, in that order. The massive, inescapable chaos that would accompany those goals was just what the Order wanted. But the jihadists had needed money.

  Enter the Order last fall, via Nasser al-Thani, with an offer they could not refuse: Nasser would front them three million U.S. to purchase a truckload of young Caribbean and Central American girls. They would auction off the girls at prices guaranteed to double the money. They would repay Nasser the principal plus one million interest. The remaining two million was theirs to keep.

  Of course the more suspicious among them questioned why Nasser didn’t do this himself. He explained that, even though slavery was accepted in the Muslim world, as a distant relative of the Qatar royal family, he could not dirty his hands with trade in children. Earning a thirty-three-percent profit on a short-term loan was incentive enough for him. The situation was win-win all around.

  All went swimmingly until the slavemongers and the Arabs met at the exchange point on Staten Island. Gunmen ambushed the Arabs, cold-bloodedly killing everyone in sight, and made off with the cash and the girls. Neither had been seen nor heard from since.

  The High Council had fronted the money and wanted it back. But more than that, it wanted to make a statement about interfering with the business of the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order.

  Trejador’s eyebrows lifted. “Our grimy little jihadists don’t need money? Did they win the lottery?”

  Nasser smiled. “No, but in a way, they expect to.”

  Drexler leaned forward. “How, pray tell?”

  “They’re poised to take over
the Al-Kifah Refugee Center right across the river in Brooklyn. The Afghan relief charity it runs funnels donations from other Muslim centers all over America, amounting to about one hundred thousand a month, give or take a few.”

  “They why did they need our money?” Drexler said.

  “The jihadists we were dealing with had no say in the center’s funds. Then, as now, under Mustafa Shalabi, all the Al-Kifah money goes where it’s supposed to—to help the hordes of Afghans trying to recover from the pounding they took from the Russians. But Sheikh Omar Abdel-Rahman wants that money to fund his worldwide jihad, to start overthrowing people like Mubarak of Egypt and Saddam Hussein in Iraq. He looks harmless but he’s an Islamic Hitler. A fiery speaker who can rile up the Muslim masses. He was behind the assassination of Anwar Sadat.”

  “Pure chaos,” Drexler said. “Isn’t this exactly what we want?”

  “In the long term, yes. But in the short term, if they get their hands on the Al-Kifah account, they’ll have no financial interest in working with us. And isn’t it our goal to have a voice in the timing and placement of the terror they cause?”

  “It is.” Trejador sipped his martini, then nodded toward Nasser. “You called this meeting, so I assume you have a plan?”

  “Sheikh Omar’s followers are planning a coup—undoubtedly violent. Shalabi knows this. He’s readying to flee the country, but before he goes I’m betting he’ll empty the Al-Kifah account to keep it out of Sheikh Omar’s hands.”

  Drexler snorted. “I hope you’re not about to suggest we offer this Shalabi protection.”

  “On the contrary. I propose we strike first.”

  7

  “It’s wine o’clock,” Cristin said. “And I’m free-ee-ee-eezing.”

  She made a show of shivering despite her fur-lined trench coat.

  Jack glanced at his watch. Only five o’clock but the sun had sunk out of sight behind the Manhattan skyline just visible across the river. And yeah, the wind did blow cold out here in this car lot.

  He’d decided the Harley had to go. He was too exposed, too easy to spot, too vulnerable on the thing. Wheels weren’t a necessity in the city—pretty much a luxury, in fact—but growing up in rural New Jersey had embedded a mind-set that required a car be immediately available at all times. When he’d mentioned to Cristin that he wanted to check out what was for sale, she’d volunteered to come along.

  “Let me take a quick look through these and then we’ll find a nice warm bar.”

  She smiled as she scanned the rows of used cars. She’d been letting her dark hair grow out a little, and the wind whipping along Queens Boulevard swirled it into her face.

  “Used car lots in February. You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

  “Hey, you said you wanted to come along.”

  “I may have been having a small stroke at the time.”

  “No, it’s because Sunday is our day and you wanted to spend every second you could with me.”

  Sunday nights—and sometimes afternoons too—with Cristin. She’d been his high school girlfriend’s best friend. Shortly after running into each other here in the city, they’d fallen into a routine of dinner out followed by uninhibited no-strings sex at her apartment. Every Sunday since early November except for Christmas when she’d gone back to Jersey for the long weekend. The no-strings part was crucial to Cristin.

  “Oh, right. I forgot. But just to be on the safe side, can we stop by a hospital for a quick CAT scan before we have that drink? Just in case?”

  “One of those Irish coffees you like will warm you up and heal your brain.”

  “I’m not so sure. Just hurry up and check out these junkers, will you? If my coochie freezes, you’ll be out of luck tonight.”

  Jack laughed and gave her a quick kiss. “No way. That’s too hot to freeze—or even reach room temperature.”

  She grinned. “Better believe it.”

  He hurried toward the cars as fast as his aching hip would allow.

  “Hey, what’s with the limp?” Cristin said.

  He’d been able to hide it till now, but the cold was stiffening it.

  “Little accident with the Harley this morning.” He hadn’t mentioned his sliced shoulder either. Sooner or later he’d have to.

  “Ohhhh.”

  He looked at her. “You sound disappointed.”

  “Here I thought you were limping because you were glad to see me.”

  He laughed again. “Always glad to see you.”

  He moved among the cars. This used lot in Jamaica was the third—and now last, obviously—they’d visited. The other two had been fenced in and locked up. This one had no fence, so he could browse.

  He wove among the Toyotas and Hondas and Fords and Chevies and whatevers but nothing appealed to him. Yeah, they’d all do, but something was missing …

  The showroom was closed, which was why Jack had wanted to come out on a Sunday. He was not yet ready for a pushy salesman. But then, who ever was? But as he passed the showroom window he stopped. A little convertible, black on white, sat angled to the right. A handwritten placard had been inserted into the front license plate holder.

  1963

  Corvair

  The car had been old before he was born, but somehow it called to him. He turned and waved to Cristin.

  “Take a look at this!”

  She angled through the lot and stopped at his side, slipping her arm through his.

  “Look at what?”

  “The Corvair.”

  “Isn’t that the one that was ‘unsafe at any speed’?”

  “So someone said.”

  “And didn’t you tell me you wanted something safer than the Harley?”

  “You know me—Live-on-the-edge Jack.”

  She laughed. He liked that sound. “Really? Since when?”

  “Hey, I’m just looking.”

  She tugged on his arm. “You’ve done enough looking. Time for alky-hall and then food and then more alky-hall and then lots of fucking.”

  “In that order?”

  “Can you think of a better one?”

  They began walking back toward the street.

  “Mmm … no. Whose turn to pick?”

  “Mine. And I’m in the mood for Chinese tonight. But good Chinese.”

  “Chinatown?”

  “Yes!”

  “You got it.”

  When they reached the sidewalk he took one last look at the Corvair in the window—and could almost swear it was staring back.

  8

  Kadir jumped at the sound of the knock on his door. Closing his Qur’an, he rose and padded across the room.

  Someone at his door? This could not be good. He knew almost no one in Jersey City—certainly no one well enough to feel they could visit him unannounced.

  He stopped halfway to look out the window. The street outside was empty—no idling car, no sign of anyone watching. Jersey City tended to be quiet on a Sunday night.

  He approached the door and gave a quick, cautious look through the peephole, then pulled away. A young woman in a dark khimar stood in the hall. She knocked again.

  “Kadir, are you home?”

  He peeked again, taking a closer look. Most of her face was visible and looked familiar, reminding him of—

  “Hadya?” He pulled the door open and stared at the woman. A battered suitcase sat next to her on the floor. “Hadya, is that you?” he said in Arabic.

  She smiled. “Yes, of course it’s me. But why are you so surprised?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “But didn’t you get my letter?”

  “What letter?”

  He pulled her inside and shut the door. A hallway in a foreign land was no place to be talking to his younger sister.

  She looked confused now. “I wrote you a letter to tell you I was coming.”

  “I never received it.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no! I thought you’d be expecting me.”

 
Kadir was baffled. “But why are you here? Did something happen—?”

  “No-no. Mother and father are fine—still struggling to make ends meet, but healthy. I came because Uncle Ferran said I could work in his bakery.”

  Their mother’s brother owned a bakery on Kennedy Boulevard. Kadir had worked there when he first came over, until he learned how to run a cigarette stamping machine for Riaz Diab. The Ramallah Bakery was very successful and Kadir knew his uncle was expanding … but Hadya?

  “You came all the way to America to work in a bakery?”

  “As did you. There is nothing back home, Kadir. Nothing.”

  “It is hard work, and you must rise long before the sun.”

  She smiled. “I am not afraid of hard work or long hours. I am glad for any work and any hours. There is no work in Jordan, Kadir. And you know how Uncle Ferran likes to hire family.”

  True. Uncle Ferran had no children of his own, while Kadir and Hadya were two of nine. Kadir had been born shortly after the Six-Day War in Israeli-occupied Palestine, Hadya three years later. They grew up under the Zionists. His father finally moved the family to Jordan where he went to work in a clothing store. But as for Father’s children … no work, no future. Kadir blamed Israel … and the Americans who made Israel possible.

  And worse, when the PLO supported the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait last year, the Kuwaiti government expelled every Palestinian it could find—nearly half a million people. Most of them flooded into Jordan.

  How terrible things must be back home for Father to allow one of his daughters to travel alone to America.

  “But I had no idea you were coming.”

  Fear flitted across her features. “You’ll let me stay, won’t you? At least until I can find a place of my own.”

  He forced a smile and embraced her. “Of course, of course. You’re my sister.”

  Would this complicate his comings and goings? He didn’t know how Hadya would feel about jihad in America.

  “Oh, thank you, Kadir. For a moment I thought—”

  “My home is your home. I just wish I had known. I would have prepared the bedroom for you.”

  “Do not trouble yourself. I will sleep on the couch.”