Fear City

by F. Paul Wilson

  “It appears he has gathered a gamaii of equally dedicated zealots and they are ready to make a move.”

  Trejador said, “A gamaii, I take it, is some sort of cell?”

  “Exactly. He told me he did not need a lot of funding, but that the result would make the whole world take notice. ‘Shock the world’ were his exact words.”

  “Big talk,” Drexler said. “What’s the plan?”

  “He wouldn’t say over the phone. Wants to meet with me tomorrow. I don’t see that we have anything to lose.”

  “Except more money. The Order is already out millions because of these incompetents. I don’t see it approving another cent for them.”

  Trejador said, “It costs us nothing to listen, Ernst. They’ve been quiet since that truck exploded and sent a dozen or so of their brothers to Allah. Maybe they’re ready to move again.”

  “Let’s face it,” Nasser added. “Anything they can do to start a holy war in America will be to our advantage. You remember the incident better than I, I am sure, but you may not realize that this year marks the tenth anniversary of the bombing of the Beirut barracks. Nearly two hundred fifty Americans were killed in that single blast, but it caused hardly a ripple over here. Why? Because it was far away, it was over there. If something like that happens here—in Manhattan, of all places—the response will not be so blasé. The result will be … chaos.”

  “Yes, it will,” Trejador said, nodding. “But it will have to be big. As of last month, the Americans have a new president, that Democrat Clinton, blabbing peace-peace-peace. I fear we will find him less aggressive and decisive than his predecessor.”

  The Americans … what a telling phrase, Nasser thought.

  The three of them had centered their lives in the U.S. but none of them thought of himself as an American. Nor a member of any other national or ethnic group, for that matter. They existed beyond that. They were members of the Order which superseded all national and ethnic boundaries.

  “His predecessor,” Drexler said, “though aggressive, was still not decisive enough to strike at Iraq’s jugular when he had the chance.”

  “True. And America will come to regret that, which will be to our eventual advantage. Don’t forget, we are playing the long game here. But I fear we will need a spectacular act of terrorism to spur this president to a decisive response. I remember that a single truck bomb brought down the Beirut barracks—flattened them.” He turned to Drexler. “Your father had a hand in that.”

  Drexler nodded. “That he did. Like everyone else in the Order, he was disappointed that it did not draw the overreaction we anticipated from Reagan.”

  Nasser had never met Drexler’s father, but wished he had. The late Ernst Senior had been a legend among actuators. He was said to have played a crucial role in Hitler’s ascent within the Nazi party back in the days of the Weimar Republic. Talk about creating chaos! Ernst Sr. was touted by most as the greatest actuator in the history of the Order. Ernst II seemed ever to be trying to separate himself from his father’s long shadow.

  A good example of that eagerness had occurred a couple of years ago when he had jumped on Reggie’s claim to have seen the mysterious “Tony” alive in a cab in Lower Manhattan. Drexler had mounted a search for the supposedly dead man as an avenue toward recouping the High Council’s lost millions, but it all had come to naught. Nasser wondered why Drexler couldn’t see the supposed sighting as a cynical attempt by Reggie to maintain some level of value to the Order. He still kept the loser around, however, promising that he would prove valuable someday.

  Trejador said, “If these jihadists can detonate such a bomb here, in some iconic location, it will spur others of their ilk to try the same. Then the U.S., even with Clinton at its helm, will have to retaliate.”

  “A spectacular act of terrorism,” Nasser said, more to himself than the others. “I’ll think on that.”

  “Do that,” Trejador said. “We will do the same. In the meantime, hear what they have to say. And if it’s not ambitious enough, spur them to greater heights. What say you, Ernst?”

  Drexler fixed Nasser with his icy blue gaze. “Fine. Listen to them, but make no commitment until we’ve discussed it.”

  Nasser wanted to fling his water bottle at his smug face. The comment was as demeaning as it was unnecessary. Nasser was acutely aware that he had no decision-making power. He swallowed the bile and forced a smile.

  “Of course. Perhaps you could arrange to have one of your operatives drive me. For appearance sake.”

  9

  “You wasn’t shittin’ us, was you,” the kid said as Vinny pulled to a stop in the shadows beside the high chain-link fence.

  “No, I wasn’t,” Vinny told him.

  He’d already forgotten his name—a street name, so who cared anyway? Five teenage melanzanas in his car, four thirteen-year-olds in the back, and the old man of the troupe—all of fifteen—in the front. Aldo had another five in his car. All runners for Umeme and Chaka Raysor, the kings of the Bed-Stuy crack trade. Not that the brothers limited themselves to rock. They’d push anything that turned a buck. Late last year Vinny and Aldo had come into possession of a truckload of high-end sneakers—mostly Air Jordan VIIIs. Knowing how moulies went bugfuck nuts for overpriced kicks, they hauled them into Bed-Stuy and wholesaled the lot to the Raysor brothers. Since it was Christmastime, everybody made out.

  All the dealers used kids as runners, usually on bikes. They passed unnoticed most of the time, and were hard to charge when caught. And they worked cheap. So when Vinny approached the brothers with an offer to rent ten of their kid runners for a couple of hours, no problem—just pay up front. He and Aldo had divided up a list of new and used car dealers who had contracts with Tommy. Aldo had taken Queens, Vinny had Brooklyn.

  The kid in front was doing the talking.

  “F’reals? You payin’ us to bust up cars?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  A big grin. “Shit, we do that for free!”

  Vinny held out his hand. “Then gimme my money back.”

  Laughter from the front and back seats. Right. Like that was going to happen.

  “Just remember: Don’t bust them up too bad. These are used cars here and we don’t want the owner feeling they’re too banged up to fix. Just a bunch of dings and cracked windshields is all. Now get going. We got a lotta stops to make tonight.”

  As the other kids piled out of the car and began scrambling up the fence, the older one hung back and said, “Why you hatin’ on cars so much?”

  Hate cars? Nah. Vinny hated Tommy. And so he was only after cars connected to Tommy.

  The car detailing idea had hit Vinny a couple years ago when Tony the Cannon took them on a window-breaking spree to get even with the Genovese family. At that time Tommy had been horning in on Vinny’s salvage operation and Vinny had thought it could be of big-time benefit to him to help Tommy find something for himself. Something that perfectly suited a dick like him.

  So Vinny went hunting and found a guy with a car-detailing business. The owner of Augie’s Auto Detailing & Repairs was in to Tony for big bucks. Arrangements were made and soon Tommy took over as the new proprietor of the business while the previous owner, the aforementioned Augie, was demoted to manager but still ran it. After all, with hands like those, what did Tommy Ten Thumbs know about detailing?

  Almost immediately after Tommy’s arrival, Augie’s clients began to experience huge jumps in vandalism. Vinny and Aldo each lent a personal hand to help make that happen. The damage sent Augie and his crews to work. But soon after they’d fixed everything good as new, it would happen again. And again. This was getting expensive for the dealers. So Tommy, sympathetic soul that he was, stopped by the clients and offered complete coverage for a single annual fee. Consider it an insurance policy: No matter how much damage happened over the course of a year, Augie’s Auto Detailing & Repairs would be good for it. Just pay the annual fee and fuhgeddaboudit.

  The dealers knew
a bargain when they saw one and got in line to pay up. They put the word out to other dealers who weren’t Augie’s clients but were experiencing their own upsurge in vandalism, and the new guys got on board too.

  Miraculously, the vandalism stopped almost as suddenly as it started. But the annual premiums kept rolling in. With almost no detailing to be done, Tommy fired Augie and the work crews. He hired freelancers for the occasional little job now and then, and frittered away whatever revenue from the annual premiums didn’t go up his nose.

  He visited the otherwise empty Augie’s office once or twice a week to check the mail. Sitting pretty, Tommy was.

  Well, tonight was the wake-up call. But just to keep things from being too obvious, Vinny and Aldo were going to ferry the kids to a couple of lots unconnected to Tommy. That oughta muddy the waters enough to keep Tommy’s coked-up brain from connecting the dots.

  Vinny gave the kid a shove toward the door. “A car ran over my puppy when I was a kid and I never got over it. Now move your ass out there! And make sure you’re all back here in five minutes.”

  He watched him go. Those little monkeys could do a shitload of damage in five minutes—and enjoy every second of it.

  Tomorrow was one of Tommy’s days to visit the office. That was when Vinny’s fun would begin.

  WEDNESDAY

  1

  Dane Bertel parked his 1984 junker Plymouth Reliant fifty yards down Kennedy Boulevard from the Masjid Al-Salam. Time for a stint of stakeout. On the seat next to him he had the morning papers, a Thermos of coffee, and his favorite breakfast—fried egg and cheese with Taylor ham on a kaiser roll. It didn’t get any better than that. He poured some coffee and slouched into a comfortable position.

  The Mohammedans who ran the mosque sure as hell didn’t advertise its presence. A block-printed sign in the upper right window of the three-story, flaking brick building was the only clue. A nameless, low-end electronics shop, the China Lee Kitchen takeout, and a toy store took up the commercial spaces at street level. A mailbox/money-order/check-cashing place occupied the second floor; the mosque had the top to itself.

  Who’d ever guess that worldwide jihad was being planned in these seedy surroundings?

  Quite a comedown for Sheikh Omar—banished from the heart of the action in Brooklyn to this relative backwater. But faithful lunatics like Kadir Allawi and Mahmoud Abouhalima had followed him over. A dozen or so more surely would have trailed along had they not been blown to pieces on Long Island’s south shore a couple of years ago. But no shortage of crazy Mohammedans here in Jersey City. Omar had found a fresh audience for his hate-America rants.

  Dane had little doubt he’d been noticed. This section of Kennedy Boulevard, just off Journal Square, ran two lanes each way and was busy at all hours, but he’d parked along here too damn often to believe no one had made him. Still, he varied his vehicles and varied his parking spots up and down the street, sometimes near, sometimes far, but always with a view of the doorway, either straight through the windshield or reflected in one of the side-view mirrors. Today he sat on the opposite side with a straight-ahead view.

  He wondered what they thought of him. FBI? Dane had spotted Fibbies off and on taking a pass at surveillance, but mostly the Bureau seemed interested in Omar’s old digs, the Al-Farooq Mosque in Brooklyn.

  Dane stared at the doorway. Yeah, you wish I was FBI.

  When he was on watch like this, he wore an oversize boonie cap and a ratty beard—one that would never pass even a cursory inspection close up—and alternated this old Plymouth with his pickup truck. Kadir Allawi worked for the Mummy, one of Dane’s cigarette customers, and he couldn’t risk being recognized.

  He was reaching for the Taylor ham-and-egg sandwich when a black Mercedes rolled up and stopped in front.

  “Hello … what have we here?”

  Benzes passed by all the time but Dane couldn’t remember ever seeing one stop on this block. The driver was not an Arab, but that was all Dane was sure of. The combination of glare and tinted windows kept the inside hidden. All doors except the driver’s opened. From the rear emerged the unholy trinity: Kadir Allawi, Mahmoud Abouhalima, and Allawi’s roommate who had so many names Dane couldn’t be sure who he was. And from the front passenger seat …

  “Well, well, well! We meet again.”

  The trim Arab in the thobe … Dane had seen him on the beach that night two years ago. He hadn’t known who he was then and still didn’t know. He reached under the front seat and pulled out his Nikon with the telephoto lens. He already had plenty of pictures of the others, but this guy … who the hell was this guy?

  He took a few quick shots—making sure to include the Benz’s license plate in one—then leaned forward to study the group.

  Though clearly an Arab, the stranger didn’t seem part of the jihadist clique. Dane knew body language and this guy kept himself a step back, physically and categorically, from the other three. As if he were better than they. They in turn acted deferential, almost like supplicants.

  And then he knew.

  “Christ, they’re looking for money.”

  Two years ago the mystery Mohammedan had set up a sting to trap the hijackers who’d made off with the money the jihadists had been planning to use to buy teenage sex slaves. Jack had known about the sting and had involved Dane, and he’d be forever indebted to Jack for that.

  Because that was the night Dane had become convinced that another player was operating behind the jihadists. Not controlling them, per se; more like whispering in the ear of whoever back home was giving them orders. He’d sensed it for some time, but that night had crystallized it. And this Arab in the thobe could very well be connected to those unseen players.

  The four of them seemed friendly enough, all smiles and nods as the mystery man slipped back inside the car and the other three headed for the door to the mosque. He must have picked them up this morning before Dane arrived. He wondered where they’d gone, what they’d talked about. Up to no good, no doubt, but what exactly were they planning?

  He gulped the rest of his coffee and started the engine. Much as he hated leaving the jihadists behind—if they had fresh funding in their pockets, knowing what they did for the rest of the day might prove invaluable—he needed to see where this clown was headed, and maybe get a bead on his identity.

  Damn, he wished Jack were on board.

  He followed the Benz north on Kennedy, leaving a car between them. It looked like the Benz was headed for the Pulaski when the light turned amber and the jerk in front of him stopped instead of rolling through. Dane pounded the wheel in frustration as he watched the mystery Mohammedan glide away. Never catch him now.

  God damn, he needed Jack.

  2

  Tommy Totaro stood over the answering machine and stared at it. The LED indicator read 12.

  “What the fuck?”

  He’d walked in this morning on one of his twice-weekly swings by to check the mail and saw the message light on the machine blinking. That happened maybe once every three or four weeks, and even then the messages never totaled more than one.

  But a dozen?

  He started listening. Every call was from one of his policy holders, and every single one of them, one after the other, said the same damn thing: vandalism. Each of them screaming about twenty, thirty cars with dinged hoods and fenders and cracked windows and when was he gonna get out there and fix them? They couldn’t sell cars in that shape. They’d been paying their premiums, now it was time for Augie’s Auto Detailing & Repairs to deliver.

  Tommy dropped into the desk chair and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

  Shit!

  What was he gonna do? He had no crews. He’d let them all go.

  As he sat there the phone started ringing. He let the answering machine pick up.

  “Hey, Augie’s. This is Hal down at Morgan’s Used Cars. We had some assholes come through last night and…”

  He dialed the volume to zero and pounded his fist o
n the desk. This couldn’t be an accident. Somebody had targeted him. But who? The Genoveses? Had they gotten wind of the hurt he’d put on their windows contracts during his little midnight ramble with Tony C a couple years ago? This would be payback in kind.

  But no, they’d blame Tony for that. And anyway, that water was too far under the bridge. But he’d been targeted, no question.

  He looked up the number of one of the freelancers he used and called him. He didn’t like what he heard.

  “Hey, no, Tommy. I can’t. I’m up to my ears with Queensboro Dodge.”

  “They got hit too?”

  “Yeah, bad.”

  He didn’t hold a policy on them. So it wasn’t just him. Maybe he wasn’t being targeted. But who…?

  “Any word on what’s going on?”

  “I heard that witnesses saw a buncha black kids—young ones—running through the lot with hammers.”

  “No kidding. So you can’t help me out.”

  “Wish I could, Tommy. If you’d called sooner, I’d be there, but I gotta take the work when it comes.”

  “Yeah-yeah. I’ll remember that.”

  He slammed down the phone.

  A buncha black kids … that didn’t sound like a Genovese thing. That sounded like some fucking moulie trying to move in on his business. Well, he’d soon find out he’d picked the wrong fucking guy.

  3

  Nasser mentally shooed the room service waiter out the door as he watched him make a few final adjustments to the tray of club sandwiches. Finally he slipped out of the suite.

  “Really, Nasser,” Drexler said, placing half a sandwich on a small plate. “Twice in less that twenty-four hours? That is a bit much.”

  “This couldn’t wait.”

  “There’s always the phone,” Trejador said, helping himself to a full sandwich. He wore a light gray turtleneck and charcoal gray slacks.