Fear City

by F. Paul Wilson

  “How so?”

  He tapped the photo. “Unless the FBI has changed its hiring practices, this … boy is far too young to be any sort of agent, especially a field agent.” He reversed it to stare again. “And yet I am almost certain I’ve seen him before. I just don’t know where.”

  “What about the older one?”

  Drexler picked up the photo that gave the clearest view of the driver’s face. “He, on the other hand, looks rather old to be a field agent. But if he is an agent, he must be working on his own time.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “When Klarić voiced his opinion, I was naturally alarmed. So I called one of our brothers in the Bureau to have him check out the FBI’s interest in that mosque. He called back just before you arrived to say the Bureau had been very interested in the mosque’s imam, Sheikh Omar. But after numerous false leads and dead ends, they dropped surveillance in mid-January.”

  “Then who are these two?”

  “Considering their age difference, they could almost be father and son. Perhaps they have something personal against the mosque.”

  Nasser considered that. “Possible. But then why would the older one follow me, as he did last Wednesday?”

  “That concerns me. If his interest is our jihadists—are you sure they have agreed to change their target?”

  This was the third time since Nasser’s arrival that Drexler had asked for confirmation.

  Nasser spread his hands. “Who can be sure of anything when dealing with fanatics? Right now Kadir and Mahmoud appear to have overruled Ramzi Yousef. I will reconfirm that when I drop off the money tomorrow. But Yousef’s uncle is with al-Qaeda, and for some reason al-Qaeda finds the World Trade Towers especially attractive.”

  “They must leave the towers alone.”

  Again, Nasser wanted to know why but knew asking was futile.

  “I’ll stay in close touch with them up until Friday. But you had a thought on my being followed?”

  “Yes. If the watchers’ interest is in the jihadists, the older one could have seen you pick up and drop them off and decided that made you a person of interest as well.”

  “If he’s interested in Kadir and his cohort, for whatever reason, he may well stumble onto their bomb-making activities.”

  “Exactly my concern. Let’s have Reggie and Klarić pick them up and find out what they know.”

  “After they botched their last assignment?”

  “I wouldn’t say they botched it. They learned from the whore what we needed to know—that our secret is safe—and now we no longer have to concern ourselves with her.”

  Nasser kept his voice even. “I’ll get right on it.”

  “But we’ll work it differently this time. I want to be there when they question the young one. I want to know why he looks familiar.”

  “Very well.” A new aspect of the situation occurred to him. “What if the watchers already know of the bomb plans and are waiting to gather hard evidence?”

  Drexler shrugged. “What of it? Then we’ll know.”

  “So will Klarić and Reggie.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. If that happens, Klarić and Reggie will become immediately expendable. I’ll arrange for the contingency. Meanwhile, I’ll have Klarić drive you down to Reggie’s quarters and you can brief them both at the same time.”

  In the same room with the two men who had tortured and murdered Danaë … the day was getting worse and worse.

  8

  The knock on his door startled Reggie. The old building was mostly deserted. When he opened it and saw Klarić and al-Thani, he knew what it had to be about.

  “Now wait a minute,” he said, backing up. “I can explain about the girl.”

  Al-Thani gave him a disgusted look. “Did I mention anything about the girl?”

  “Well, I saw the papers and—”

  “Shut up and listen,” al-Thani said. “This is about something entirely other.”

  Well that was good news at least. Bad enough she’d washed up, but at least at first no one had known who she was—except him and Klarić, and they weren’t about to talk. As long as the Order stayed in the dark along with everybody else, all would be cool. Then he’d seen the headlines this morning and damn near shit his pants. He wouldn’t have been surprised to get kicked out on the street.

  Reggie leaned on the wall next to his room’s only window.

  “What’s up?”

  Klarić was holding what looked like photographs. Al-Thani pointed to them and said, “Show him.”

  Reggie took the stack—maybe half a dozen or so—and started shuffling through them. He blinked in shock, then straightened off the wall when he came to the third.

  “Holy shit! It’s Lonnie!”

  “You know one of them?” al-Thani said.

  Reggie showed him. “Yeah. This one. It’s the guy I drove up with the truckloads of girls.”

  Al-Thani gave him a yeah-right look. “Oh, is this like seeing the dead Tony?”

  “I wasn’t shitting you about that and I’m not shitting you about this. This guy is the fucker who broke my knees! Where’d you find him?”

  Klarić said, “I take picture of him in this morning.”

  “Where?”

  “In front of a mosque in which we have an interest,” al-Thani said. “It appears this young man and the other have an interest there as well.”

  “The place in Brooklyn where I picked up your little buddy Kadir a while back?”

  “No. This is in Jersey City. You may be interested to know it is now Kadir’s mosque, so you may see some familiar faces.”

  Reggie wasn’t the least bit interested to know. And as far as he was concerned, the fewer Arab faces he saw, the better. Including al-Thani’s.

  “What’s the deal? He’s following Kadir?”

  “We do not know, but we intend to find out. We wish to know exactly what they know about Kadir and his associates.”

  “You mean you want us to find out, like with the girl?”

  Something flickered across the Arab’s face. Distaste? Disgust? Hey, he was the guy who ordered the hit. He’d known she wasn’t going to survive the night.

  “Do whatever is necessary. Find out everything they know about the mosque and the people who frequent it, especially Kadir and his friends.”

  What was so important about Kadir? Reggie had spent a whole day driving up and down the interstates with that little raghead and he was nothing. A major camel-humping loser.

  “Okay. And after they spill, then what?”

  “Then I never want to see them again. Never. Do you know what ‘never’ means?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I gotcha. We’ll be more careful this time.”

  “See that you are. But the procedure will be different with the one you call Lonnie. Mister Drexler wishes to be present for his interrogation.”

  “Fine. But it won’t be pretty.”

  “Mister Drexler has a strong stomach.”

  “Good. We’ll grab Lonnie first. I can’t wait to get my hands on him. I’m gonna get real creative on his ass. We’ll let you know when we have him.”

  “When do you expect that to be?”

  Reggie looked at Klarić. “You know where this mosque is, right?”

  The Croat nodded.

  Al-Thani said, “He’s been there numerous times.”

  “Great. We’ll use that van y’all have—makes it easier to transport someone who doesn’t want to be transported. We’ll stake him out in Jersey City first thing tomorrow and wait for a good time to grab him. We’ll take him to that same loft where we worked on the girl and Mister Drexler can meet us there.”

  “Very good,” the Arab said. “But don’t start without him. I know you have a personal issue with this Lonnie, but you will be wise to wait for Mister Drexler.”

  “You got it. Can I ask why Mister Drexler is so interested in this guy?”

  “I do not see why not. You can ask him yourself when you capture
this Lonnie. And he will tell you if he so desires.”

  “You might want to be there too,” Reggie said.

  Al-Thani’s eyebrows lifted. “What makes you think so?”

  “Remember that hijacking a couple years ago when all your Arab buddies got massacred and three million of your money went missing along with two truckloads of girls?”

  “Such a thing is not easy to forget.”

  “Well, you just may be finding out where those girls and that money went. Because I got a feeling this Lonnie knows. Maybe not everything, but he knows something, and by the time I’m through with him, he’ll be blubbering every single fucking thing he knows, just like that whore.”

  Again, that weird look as the Arab gestured to Klarić. “After you drive me home you can return here and the two of you can make your plans.”

  After they were gone, Reggie went to the closet and pulled out his bow and quiver.

  Strange how things happened in circles. Back in 1990, Lonnie and Tony wandered into the Outer Banks house and Lonnie wound up driving a truckload of kids for delivery to some Arabs. The deal goes sour, he and Lonnie fight, Lonnie breaks his knees and pretty much disappears. Couple of years later, Lonnie’s back and the Arabs want good old Reggie to deal with him.

  Sweet.

  Oh, yeah, he’d deal with Lonnie. He’d find out everything the Order wanted to know, and then he’d learn other stuff. Like Lonnie’s real name. And after that he’d learn the names of his folks and his brothers and his sisters and his girlfriend. And one by one, Reggie would make them all pay just for knowing the guy who’d called himself Lonnie.

  He took aim at the stuffed jumpsuit and hit it in the right shoulder—just where he’d been aiming. Not a kill shot—a maim shot. The kill shot came last—after many, many other maim shots.

  Like with the whore. Damn shame to mess up a sweet piece of ass like her, but orders were orders. Al-Thani had told him Drexler had handpicked him and Klarić, so that meant he’d better deliver. But that hadn’t prevented the two of them from having a little fun with her first, poking her every which way with their own personal arrows before Reggie took out the bow and got down to the serious business.

  He’d set his mind to go at it like a test of his archery skills. Where to put an arrow to cause the most pain, and how many of those arrows could he put into her without killing her.

  He aimed again and hit the dummy’s left knee.

  What goes around comes around, Lonnie, my boy. And now it’s coming for you.

  MONDAY

  1

  “The old one,” Klarić said, “he is parked along this street in morning and he watch. There he is now.”

  They sat on rain-swept Kennedy Boulevard in a Dodge Caravan that had all the side and rear windows painted over on the inside. Reggie wasn’t used to getting up this early. Despite the coffees he’d downed on the way, he was still bleary eyed as he squinted at where the Croat was pointing.

  “Hit the wipers. I can’t see shit.”

  The wipers cleared the rain from the windshield, revealing a dented mid-eighties Plymouth Reliant with the bearded guy sitting behind the wheel.

  “Where’s the young one?” Reggie said. “Where’s Lonnie?”

  He didn’t care about this guy. The old fart could wait. Lonnie was their target today. Lonnie was the one he wanted. Fantasies of subjecting Lonnie to the tortures of the damned had filled his dreams last night.

  “I do not know. Maybe he doesn’t come.”

  Oh, he’d better, Reggie thought. He goddamn fuck-well better.

  Klarić reached into the pocket of his overcoat. “I did not get chance to show you this.” He pulled out a key ring and grinned as he held it up. “Look what I made.”

  Reggie saw keys and a one-by-two-inch rectangle of what looked like heavy beige paper. Then it flipped around and immediately he recognized the tattoo.

  “You saved it? You were supposed to burn that along with the hands.”

  “No-no. Is too good to waste. Nice souvenir, no?”

  Reggie wanted it—wanted it real bad.

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  “Is not for sale. I keep.”

  “I’ll give you a hundred bucks for it.”

  He didn’t have a hundred, but he wanted to see what it would take to make Klarić part with it.

  Klarić shook his head. “No-no. Much more than that before I even think to sell.”

  “How about—?”

  A Ford pickup passed them and then slowed by the Plymouth.

  “Whoa,” Reggie said. “What have we here?”

  The old guy leaned out the window to say something, then pointed north. The pickup pulled to the curb a couple of spaces ahead and who stepped out but the man of the hour: Lonnie himself, carrying a cup of coffee as he hurried through the downpour to the Plymouth.

  A sudden burst of rage narrowed Reggie’s vision to a tunnel with Lonnie framed at the end. Of its own accord, his hand fumbled for the passenger door handle. Klarić reached over from behind the wheel and grabbed his arm.

  “What you are doing?”

  Reggie realized he’d been ready to step out and go after him right here and now. He leaned back in the seat.

  “I want him, Klarić. I want him real bad.”

  “Cannot do here. Cannot be seen.”

  “I got that. I got that.”

  He watched Lonnie, moving all casual and loose-limbed as you please, hop into the passenger side of the Plymouth.

  Enjoy your life while you can, fucker. You ain’t got much of it left.

  2

  “Happy Presidents’ Day,” Jack said as he slammed the door behind him.

  Bertel looked confused. “What?”

  Jack couldn’t resist a little ribbing as he shook off the icy rainwater. Rotten weather for a stakeout.

  “It’s Presidents’ Day. I expected the inside here to be done up in red, white, and blue bunting.”

  Bertel did not appear amused as he sipped from his Thermos. “Forgot to look at my calendar today.”

  “But how could you miss it, what with all the car dealer ads and—?”

  “Can it. Did you manage to tail the mystery Mohammedan?”

  Okay, time to get serious, Jack guessed.

  “Yep. To an apartment house in Turtle Bay. He went to the ninth floor. And on the ninth floor lives someone named ‘N. al-Thani.’”

  Bertel gave him an appraising look. “Nice work.”

  “Know anybody by that name?”

  “Nope. But it’s the same name as the ruling family of Qatar.”

  “How do you know stuff like that? How does anyone know stuff like that?”

  Despite all of Bertel’s protestations to the contrary, Jack remained convinced he had some intelligence background. CIA, FBI, NSA, whatever. He was also convinced that Burkes and his guys had recognized Bertel’s name—maybe they didn’t know him personally, but they knew of him.

  “It’s in the papers,” Bertel said.

  “Not in the comics and sports sections.”

  “So you’re a big sports fan?”

  The change of subject wasn’t lost on Jack but he went with it.

  “I’m a fan of sports scores. The games themselves bore me. But let’s get back to this N. al-Thani. You’re telling me he’s like royalty?”

  “Probably not. Maybe distantly related. A prince of the line of the royal family of Qatar wouldn’t be caught dead with the likes we’re watching. Be like rolling in mud for him.”

  Royal family … that started wheels turning.

  “Let’s piece this together,” Jack said, thinking out loud. “Reggie was involved in selling little girls to some Arabs. The three million in cash intended for the sale was hijacked. Where did the three million come from?”

  “Could’ve come from anywhere.”

  “Right. But a few months later you see Reggie and this al-Thani—”

  “Along with a couple of our jihadists.”

  “R
ight. You see them on a beach where they’ve set up an ambush for the guys who hijacked the money. What does that tell you?”

  “Obviously you’re thinking it came from al-Thani.”

  “Well, yeah. Aren’t you?”

  “Not so sure.”

  “Why not? You yourself said the al-Thanis run Qatar. I don’t know a damn thing about Qatar but I figure any royal family of an Arab country has got to be up to their ears in oil money. I mean, they’re rich, right?”

  “As Croesus.”

  “So there’s a good chance our al-Thani was funding them, and the ambush was an attempt to get his money back.”

  “It makes sense but it may be a leap to assume he was funding them with his own money.”

  “You’ve gotta figure some of the royal al-Thani wealth bled out to the relatives.”

  “Enough to make them comfortable, yes. But comfortable enough to take a three-million-dollar flyer on a shipment of sex slaves? I don’t think so. I suspect someone or something else is backing him.”

  Uh-oh. Here we go.

  “The ‘Something Bigger’ you mentioned once?”

  Bertel smiled. “You remember?”

  They’d had this conversation while tailing Reggie and Kadir up route 95 a couple of years ago. Jack had never forgotten it because it had wormed under his skin.

  “I’m distracted sometimes,” Jack said, “but I’m a long way from senile. Since then have you found any proof of ‘Something Bigger’?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing concrete, but I’m more convinced than ever that I’m right.”

  Jack had to ask: “When you say ‘something,’ you don’t mean some evil supernatural force or anything like that, right?”

  Bertel gave him a scathing look. “I mean an organization made up of someones.”

  “Like the Illuminati? Or the Masons? Or the Knights Templar? Or the Trilateral Commission? Or the Bilderberg Group?”

  “You seem to know them all.”

  Jack was fond of conspiracy theories, but more for their entertainment value than their real-life relevance.

  “Those are just the tip of the iceberg.”