Джеймс Паттерсон - Killer Instinct

“Exactly. Only Ahmed was on the verge of doing just that. He’d infiltrated one of the mini cells and had just cracked another. That was the one that carried out the bombings,” said Foxx. “Ahmed was literally running toward Times Square in hopes of defusing at least one of the bombs when he was shot. By then he’d been exposed.”

Foxx watched me flinch. He knew the details of what had happened to me in London. I’d been exposed during the Westminster Abbey sting. Ahmed killed my would-be assassin a mere second before the son-of-a-bitch would’ve been my assassin.

“Tell me more about this cell,” I said.

“You know I can’t do that. I’ve already told you too much.”

That’s what you think, Foxx. But we’re only getting started. You just don’t know it yet.

I slid my heel along the concrete floor, the scraping sound echoing up and down the hallway. Timing is everything.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” I said. “Did I mention the guy who came to visit me yesterday?”

“What guy?” asked Foxx.

“The one who’s part of the cell,” I said.

Chapter 23

FOXX FOLDED his arms, rolled his eyes, and let out a deep and pissed-off sigh all at once. “Way to bury the lede, Reinhart. And you wonder why I never liked you.”

“I never wonder at all,” I replied. “I know exactly why you never liked me.”

“You were reckless.”

“I took risks.”

“You withheld information from the Agency.”

“I was careful whom I told things to.”

“You were a wiseass.”

“Yeah, okay, you got me there,” I said. “Guilty as charged. Now, do you want to hear about this guy or what?”

I told Foxx everything about my visit from Benjamin Al-Kazaz, or rather, the guy posing as a lawyer by that name. He’d somehow connected me to Ahmed but clearly didn’t know if I was CIA or merely an old chum from our London school days. Hence the charade.

“How did you know the guy was lying?” asked Foxx.

“He picked the wrong fake name.”

“Al-Kazaz?”

“No, his first name,” I said. “I made a joke about his returning to Saudi Arabia and how they’re not exactly welcoming Benjamins these days. He had no idea what I was talking about.”

“That makes two of us,” said Foxx.

“A few years back,” I explained, “the Saudi government banned a bunch of baby names. There were about fifty in total, and if you were a Saudi, there’s no way you wouldn’t know about it. One of the names, if not number one with a bullet, was Benjamin.”

Foxx didn’t need any further explanation. It was all the more obvious to him given that he’d been stationed in Israel during Obama’s first term. “Really?” he asked. “Because of Bibi?”

“Yep.” Saudi parents were now forbidden from naming a boy Benjamin because of Benjamin Netanyahu, the Israeli prime minister. Talk about holding a grudge.

“So this guy, Al-Kazaz, or whatever his real name is, isn’t a Saudi, and he knew Ahmed was dead. Why did he want you to think he was Ahmed’s lawyer?”

“Because of this,” I said, opening my hand.

Foxx stared at the tiny flash drive in my palm. “He gave that to you?”

“In a sealed envelope, yes. He claimed it was from Ahmed and he’d been holding it for him. If Ahmed died, he was supposed to get the envelope to me.”

Foxx eyed the flash drive. “It’s probably a virus—a way for him to hack your files and learn more about you.”

“Not probably,” I said. “That’s exactly what it is.”

“Wait. You actually—”

“Of course I plugged it in,” I said. “That’s what someone who’s never been in the CIA would do, right? I just made sure to use an old laptop. Lecture notes, research for my next book—the guy saw the life of an ordinary college professor, that’s all.”

“Did he actually fake a letter from Ahmed?”

“No, this guy was cleverer than that. He put a file on there that wouldn’t open. Meanwhile, the virus gets embedded and he becomes a ghost. The phone number on his fake business card? It’s out of service.”

“What about fingerprints?” asked Foxx. “The envelope he handed you? Or the business card?”

“Both clean,” I said. “I figure he was using tips on his fingers.” Tips are ultrathin silicone patches used to cover one’s fingerprints. Bomb-making terrorists are big fans of them.

Foxx continued to grill me like a prosecutor. That was his style. “Any cameras in your building?”

“Plenty,” I said. “But he wore a baseball cap in the lobby and in the elevator.”

“So we’ve got nothing to go on, huh?”

“I’m just thankful he doesn’t either,” I said. “I’ve got a family, and he knows where I live.”

The sound of the door opening next to us brought our conversation to a halt. A head peeked out. There are only a handful of imams in the world working secretly for the CIA. This was one of them.

“Okay,” was all the imam said. It was all that was needed.

Foxx turned to me. “Go ahead, take a few minutes.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I knew what I would see when I entered the room. Ahmed had long ago educated me on the death rituals of Muslims, beginning with the body being bathed and shrouded in three sheets. The imam was slightly breaking with tradition by leaving Ahmed’s head uncovered until after I could say my final good-bye.

Still, knowing what to expect isn’t always the same as when it actually happens.

I stood there and stared at Ahmed’s face, the sadness running through me. I felt numb.

Then came the guilt. I knew it wasn’t rational, but I felt it just the same. He had once saved my life. I wasn’t able to save his.

Suddenly all I could think about was Ahmed’s love of westerns. It now made more sense than ever. The best ones always feature a loner on the wild frontier, someone who never looks for the spotlight or needs to take credit for doing the right thing.

I’d left the Agency for all the right reasons. No regret. But standing there next to my old friend, that’s all I could feel. I somehow owed him justice.

What would Gary Cooper do? Right, Ahmed?

Of course, I had no way of knowing that I was about to find out.

My high noon was coming.

Book Two Masquerade

Chapter 24

THE ROOM was as hot as hell. It reeked of sweat and mold and something even worse.

Fear.

That’s him. He’s arrived.

The impeccably dressed man they all called the Mudir, the Governor, came walking into the room with a black duffel bag casually draped over his shoulder as if it were filled with laundry or whatever else someone might carry around who wasn’t actually a mass murderer.

Without a word of greeting to the thirteen men seated on the folding chairs in the basement of the mosque, he placed the duffel on a metal table with rusted hinges and slowly unzipped it. One by one, he removed the guns—all Russian made and all of them chosen for a specific reason, a feature or attribute that would help ensure the greatest amount of casualties.

Finally the Mudir spoke.

“Six of you will use the AS Val,” he said, holding up the assault rifle often used by Spetsnaz, the Russian Special Forces. “Its integrated suppressor will silence your rounds and delay the initial panic. The fewer people who are running, the more of them you can kill.”

The Mudir then lifted the AK-47, explaining that another six men would be stationed at the three main staircases connecting the lower level to the main concourse. There would be two men per staircase, both positioned halfway down the steps so as to ambush all those trying to escape from either level. “The two shooters will stand side by side. One aiming up, one aiming down. Fish in a barrel.”