Dark City

by F. Paul Wilson

  “No, I can’t.” He ticked off the points on his fingers. “Number one, the VINs are gone. Number two, they come in at night. Number three, they get crushed the next morning. Number four, they’re sold and outta here by that same afternoon. I keep nothin’ layin’ around. Nothin’! Can’t do that with a chop shop, Tommy.”

  Vinny turned and walked away. Fucking idiot.

  “Hey, Vinny!” he called after him. “We’re talking big money here.”

  Yeah. More to suck up your nose. The guy was nothing but trouble.

  3

  Kadir was beginning to fear that Sheikh Omar had gone insane.

  He usually spoke from his chair but tonight he was standing and waving his arms as he screamed out his hatred for the USA and all things American. He was infuriated by the humiliating defeat of Iraq’s Republican Guard—destroyed so completely that President Bush had called a cease-fire today after a mere one hundred hours of fighting. A one-hundred-hour war! Unthinkable! So incensed was the imam that he quite literally foamed at the mouth, soaking his white beard with spittle.

  He had no sympathy for Saddam Hussein either, calling him a traitor to Islam who heaped shame upon the Arab world.

  Kadir felt the same, almost ashamed to show his face on the street, knowing that the Americans he passed would be laughing behind his back.

  The mosque was crowded—the Iraqi defeat had brought Muslims from all nationalities to pray—and all had been listening raptly at first. But now Kadir noticed ripples running through the crowd of worshippers as one leaned toward another and whispered, and then that one learned toward yet another. Had another tragedy befallen the Mideast?

  He saw Mahmoud gesturing to him from the side, his expression grim. Something was definitely wrong.

  He rose and hurried over. One thing good about having a blind cleric for a spiritual leader was that he could not tell when you had to leave in the middle of one of his teachings.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered when he reached his side.

  Mahmoud cocked his head toward the door. “Downstairs.”

  When they reached the outer office of the refugee center, he closed the door behind them and leaned close.

  “They’ve found Shalabi.”

  So soon? Kadir had hoped for a week, perhaps even a month, Allah willing.

  “How? Who?”

  “A neighbor went to check on him and found the door broken. He went inside and found him, then called the police. Word of the condition of the body has leaked.”

  This was bad, very bad.

  “Should we have moved the body?”

  “It would have made no difference. We couldn’t hide all the evidence. Even without a body, it would be obvious he had been killed. Either way, suspicion would be falling on Sheikh Omar.”

  Of course it would. Their falling-out had been very public, at least to the Muslim community. Especially after Sheikh Omar had issued that fatwa against him.

  “Well,” Kadir said, “perhaps the police can suspect he was behind it, but how can they blame a blind man?”

  “They cannot.”

  Kadir shook his head. “He will be angry at us, won’t he.”

  “Yes, but not for long. Shalabi is out of the way and the refugee fund belongs to jihad.”

  Kadir hoped he saw it that way. He didn’t want Sheikh Omar to issue a fatwa against him.

  4

  Jack smiled as he watched the closing credits of All About Eve. He’d seen it before, but only on TV with commercial breaks every fifteen minutes or so. He hadn’t appreciated how dark and cynical it was, but that all came through loud and clear in a viewing uninterrupted by detergent and antacid ads. He was also impressed by the symmetry of its what-goes-around-comes-around ending.

  He liked symmetry. Life or reality rarely presented it, offering mostly chaos instead. Symmetry had to be imposed by humans—through religion, through fiction. The most satisfying stories always seemed to impose a level of symmetry on reality.

  Tomorrow night’s entry in the 1950 film festival: In a Lonely Place.

  Which was pretty much where Jack was now. He wished he had Cristin to watch it with him.

  5

  Kadir came home and found his sister sitting on the couch, listening to Sheikh Omar’s tape. Her expression was troubled.

  “What is wrong?”

  “I have finished the tape.”

  “And? Are you not enlightened? Filled with holy purpose?”

  “I wish to hear more.”

  Kadir fairly leaped to the shelf to fetch her another. The great imam was working his magic upon her. Soon she would be as devoted to Sheikh Omar as her brother.

  FRIDAY

  1

  Kadir was shaking as Ali Mohamed escorted him and Mahmoud from Sheikh Omar’s office. He glanced at Mahmoud, who had paled up to the roots of his red hair.

  Sheikh Omar had been furious. Not the screaming fury he’d shown against America last night. Today his fury had been cold and quiet, directed at the two of them, demanding to know why they hadn’t told him that Shalabi had been dead when they arrived. When they tried to answer, he wouldn’t listen, saying if they had told him, and he’d known the condition of the body, he would have had them report it to the police.

  Everything would be different now if they had, he told them. He could have announced that he had sent the two of them on a mission of reconciliation only to discover to their horror that the poor man had been slaughtered like an animal.

  But as it was, everyone thought Sheikh Omar was behind the brutality. Important donors were calling in, one after the other, to announce that they were cutting off their support. The river of donations that had been flowing into the Al-Kifah coffers was quickly dwindling to a trickle.

  Sheikh Omar might have excoriated them for hours longer had he not found it necessary to prepare for Salaat-ul-Jumma, the Friday Prayer. He declared them traitors to jihad and dismissed them from his presence.

  “You two had better find a way to make this right,” Ali Mohamed said.

  He matched Mahmoud in height but was far more massive.

  Kadir could barely think. Sheikh Omar wanted nothing to do with him. It took all his resolve to keep from bursting into tears.

  Then he remembered the card the man from Qatar had given him …

  He glanced at Mahmoud. “Maybe there is a way…”

  Mahmoud offered a puzzled look.

  Ali Mohamed said, “You had better find it quickly.”

  “Remember when Shalabi helped us arrange for the auction of certain items last fall?”

  Ali nodded. “I oversaw some of those arrangements.”

  Kadir had heard that, and was relieved to have it confirmed.

  “Could you oversee such arrangements again?”

  “I could. You are expecting another shipment?”

  “We could arrange it.”

  He caught a sharp look from Mahmoud who opened his mouth—

  Kadir pushed on before he could speak. “It will have nowhere near the potential profit of the last, but it could net us two hundred thousand—all of which would go to jihad.”

  Ali Mohamed’s eyebrows lifted. “Such a sum would also go a long way toward bringing you back into Sheikh Omar’s good graces. But you must be quick about it. Jihad calls me to duty in the Sudan.”

  “We will begin to make arrangements immediately.”

  “Good. After prayer I will begin contacting the buyers, tell them to be ready. Boys or girls?”

  The question took Kadir by surprise.

  “Both,” he blurted.

  Ali smiled. “Excellent. That will bring a good response.”

  Kadir tugged on Mahmoud’s arm and they fled to the street.

  “What were you thinking in there?” Mahmoud said as they walked against the cold wind blowing down Atlantic Avenue.

  “Do you see any other choice? We have to work with the man from Qatar.”

  “I see that now, but you didn’t tell Ali it is goin
g to be a decoy operation.”

  “I thought it best not to. He might not want to make the arrangements. And besides, how do I explain to him, as the man told us, that the leak came from our end? Much simpler to let him think that we will be offering real merchandise for auction. Those he contacts will think the same. Remember, if those two gunmen are not lured into the trap, we get nothing.”

  Mahmoud stared at him a moment, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Kadir, I think I may have been underestimating you.”

  Everyone, from his father, exiled from Palestine and working in a clothing store in Jordan, on down through his brothers, and his sister Hadya, and then just about everyone he had met in this godless country, had been underestimating him. Well, no more.

  “Come. We need to find a phone.”

  “We’ll be late for prayer.”

  “This is jihad, this is God’s work. He will understand.”

  2

  Roman Trejador watched al-Thani smile as he put down the phone.

  “Good news, I take it?”

  The Qatari nodded. “Excellent news. The jihadists are on board—practically begging to proceed.”

  “So soon?” Drexler said, sipping coffee. “The body was discovered less than twenty-four hours ago.”

  Roman too had to admit his surprise at how quickly they’d responded.

  Al-Thani said, “The brutality of Shalabi’s murder is the key. It had just the effect I expected it would.”

  Nasser al-Thani was proving quite an asset. Roman had invited him and Drexler to formulate preliminary plans for the trap. Now it seemed they would have to come up with hard details and logistics instead, and soon.

  Drexler frowned. “Just what effect is that?”

  “Well, Shalabi was definitely on the move, and he was going to take all the refugee fund’s cash with him. Sheikh Omar’s crew had to do something. Simply making him disappear would have been the best. They could have pocketed the cash for jihad and smeared Shalabi’s name as an embezzler. Even leaving it to look like a simple robbery-murder would have worked. Some suspicion would have fallen on Sheikh Omar, but nothing serious. But the condition of his body has caused ripples far and wide.”

  “How do you know this?” Roman said.

  “Ever since I called Shalabi’s neighbor with my concerns about his well-being, I have kept tabs on the Islamic communities for reaction. It came almost immediately. I heard from my father of all people—he’s in Dohar and even he had heard about it. Everyone is shocked and many regular donors are withholding support. Our young friend Kadir sounded near panic.”

  “And thanks to your work, they’ve turned to us,” Roman said. “As a result, we can have some say in what they do, and make sure it doesn’t work against the Order’s purposes.”

  “That is why this is so perfect. The Order will be the silent partner in this enterprise. After it is done, and after we pay the jihadists the bounty, I will have a close bond with them. And if in the process we get back most of the Order’s money—”

  Drexler held up a finger. “When we get it back.”

  Al-Thani nodded. “Yes, of course. When we get it back, we will be able to fund jihadist chaos right here in America, tailoring it to the Order’s needs.”

  Roman turned to Drexler. “I fear I’m not quite so sanguine about your ‘when.’ The plan depends on a number of factors we cannot control.”

  “Such as?”

  “The targets themselves. The two hijackers. First off, they must hear of the auction.”

  “I believe we can rely on that,” al-Thani said. “Kadir told me that the same person who oversaw setting up the auctions last time is already at work, contacting the same people. If the gunmen are keeping their ear to the ground, as the expression goes, they will hear.”

  “Fine,” Roman said. “But can we count on them to act? They have three million tax-free dollars in their pockets.”

  “Well, they also have thirty little girls. Or at least they had.”

  “Yes, whatever do you suppose they did with them?”

  “What do we care?” Drexler said. “The only thing that matters is that those two killers—whoever they are—have an agenda, and if they think more children are going to be put up for sale, they will move heaven and Earth to stop it.”

  Roman smiled at him. “You are so sure of that. Why?”

  “Because the hijackers did not simply kill those Arabs waiting to take delivery of the children, they genitally mutilated them.”

  “I continue to think you’re overstating the importance of those wounds.”

  “Not in the least. The survivor, Kadir, had mentioned it when I interrogated him. To confirm that, I had one of our brothers in the medical examiner’s office procure copies of the autopsy reports for me. Kadir had not been exaggerating. Every single corpse received multiple postmortem bullet wounds to the pubic region from an automatic weapon, literally obliterating the genitals.”

  “I saw the reports as well,” al-Thani said.

  Roman shrugged. “I’m not calling the mutilations into question, simply wondering about the conclusions being drawn.”

  Drexler leaned forward and held up his index finger. “If the gunmen had been there simply for the money, would they have made the extra effort to do that? I doubt it. They didn’t have time for games or mischief. That was pure rage. Those mutilations were also a warning to anyone else planning to sell children.”

  “I’ll concede that.”

  “Good.” He held up a second finger. “When Reggie and the other driver—the one he calls Lonnie—fled the scene with a truckload of the girls, why did the killers give chase? They already had the money.”

  Roman figured he’d answer Drexler’s question with one of his own. “Why didn’t they kill Reggie and Lonnie when they caught up to them?”

  Drexler lost a little of his steam. “That remains unclear. Reggie was unconscious at the time and can’t tell us. We do know that someone broke his knees.”

  “But left him with his manhood. Explain that.”

  “I cannot—at least not until we catch them. Maybe they’d spent their rage on the others. But do you have an explanation as to why they took the girls with them instead of simply leaving them there? That would have been the expedient thing to do.”

  No argument there.

  “Why do you think?”

  “Because expediency has no part in what they do. I believe they planned to return them to their families.”

  Al-Thani shook his head, looking baffled. “That would mean we are hunting murderous altruists.” He shook his head again. “Somehow…”

  “Not altruists!” Drexler said, banging a fist on his thigh. “Men with an agenda, a cause, a mission! They do not wish to do good. Their aim is to do harm to people who harm children. Those are two different things.”

  “What if they suspect a trap?” Roman said.

  Drexler gave a nonchalant shrug. “No matter. They will have to react. Their agenda will not allow them to ignore rumors of a child auction.”

  “But then they will come prepared for a fight,” Roman said.

  “And so will we. They numbered two last time.”

  Al-Thani said, “What of that driver … Lonnie? Do you think he’ll show up?”

  Back to Lonnie again … questions kept circling around him. Roman was pretty sure he knew the answer to that, but let Drexler take it.

  “The mysterious Lonnie remains a question mark,” Drexler said.

  Al-Thani added, “He could have been working with them. That could be why they let him live.”

  Roman was tiring of the conversation. They’d been over this many times before.

  “They also let Reggie live,” he said.

  “Yes, but they broke his knees. Not long after the attack, an apparently intact Lonnie was back to smuggling cigarettes to Riaz Diab. That is not the action of someone who just earned a share in three million dollars.”

  Roman remembered how Drexler had set out to capt
ure Lonnie and find out what he knew. The plan had ended in disaster for the two operatives sent to round him up. After that, Lonnie dropped out of sight—so completely, he might as well have fallen off the face of the earth.

  Al-Thani said, “If they suspect a trap, and still come, they will bring backup.”

  Drexler shrugged. “Perhaps, but not much. I see their mission as a sort of shared psychosis. I see them as very secretive. They cannot involve others to any great degree. They will not arrive with an army.” He smiled. “But we will.”

  Roman said, “I hope to be as sure when the time comes.”

  “We hold all the cards. We will know the truck’s destination, they won’t. We can have our forces positioned in advance, while our prey will have to improvise.”

  “What if they decide to hijack the truck en route?”

  “Only we will know the route in advance. The drivers won’t be told until they pick up the truck. But a mere hijacking does not fit with their mission. They wish to punish the traffickers.”

  Roman said, “We have to find someone to play the middleman, to act as the Judas goat and lead them to the killing ground. Reggie seems the obvious choice.”

  Al-Thani smiled. “Perhaps. He made the delivery before. His presence behind the wheel might lend an extra layer of credibility.”

  “But what of the ambush?” Drexler said. “Operatives from the Order would be—”

  “We have already lost two good operatives,” Roman said with a pointed look at Drexler. “I don’t think the High Council would wish to risk more.”

  Al-Thani said, “All I have to do is go to the Al-Kifah Refugee Center and say it’s for the cause of jihad and the entire mosque will volunteer.”

  “But we must be careful,” Roman said. “We walk a high wire here. Some of those Muslims lost friends in the original massacre. We can’t allow emotions to rule. Cool heads must prevail because we want these men alive. We must stress that to everyone we involve in the trap. Alive. Dead men can’t tell us where they’ve stashed the Order’s millions. Hammer that home: They are no good to us dead.”