Джеймс Паттерсон - Killer Instinct

Oh, really? Do you know what fottiti means in Italian? I assure you it’s not forty…

A minute later, venti coffee in hand, Elizabeth reached for a carafe of nonfat milk at the end of the counter.

“It sure looks like a large to me,” said a man with a thick Middle Eastern accent. He grabbed a Splenda, tearing it open.

“I know,” said Elizabeth. She figured he’d been right behind her in line. “Forgive me for not speaking Starbucks, right?”

The man laughed. “That’s funny,” he said. “I was told you were funny.”

Elizabeth immediately put down the carafe and turned toward the man. His sunglasses were as dark as hers. Maybe even darker. He was also impeccably dressed in a gray suit and blue tie with a matching pocket square that had just the right amount of puff to it.

“Do I know you?” she asked. Translation: How the hell do you know me?

“Here,” he said, handing her the open yellow packet. “That’s how you like it, right? Light with one Splenda?”

If this guy was trying to creep her out, he’d succeeded. Quickly, Elizabeth looked around. Was he alone? It seemed that way.

More importantly, was he a threat?

Through her sunglasses, Elizabeth focused on his hands. For the moment, both were where she could see them. The split second that changed, she’d be reaching for her Glock.

He knew it, too.

“I assure you there’s nothing to fear from me, Agent Needham,” he said. “I’m here to help you.”

“Good,” she said. “You can start by telling me who you are.”

“I’m a friend of a friend.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Actually, I don’t,” he said. “That’s not how this works.”

“How what works?” asked Elizabeth.

“Take the Splenda, Agent Needham.”

“Why?”

“So I can reach into my suit pocket,” he said. “Slowly, of course.”

Elizabeth thought for a second. If he wanted to kill me, he would’ve done it already…

She took the Splenda.

The man reached into his pocket—slowly, as promised—and removed an envelope, handing it to her.

“You’ll be asked by people where you got this information,” he said. “You can tell them anything, except that you got it from me.”

Elizabeth glanced at the plain white envelope. “I don’t even know who you are,” she said.

He nodded, satisfied. “Exactly.” He then pivoted on his heel, heading straight for the door.

Poof, he was gone.

Chapter 35

ELIZABETH GAVE another quick look around, her eyes darting, making sure the guy didn’t have a wingman. If he did, the disguise was excellent. The entire Starbucks held either people rushing in and out on their way to work or wannabe screenplay writers getting an early jump on hogging all the tables.

Ping!

Never mind. Her Uber was out front.

In the back of an old Ford Taurus in desperate need of an air freshener, she opened the envelope. Inside was a photo—old-school, three-by-five glossy—of a young man wearing a taqiyah, the traditional Muslim cap. Even more traditional was its color: white.

On the back of the photo, written in pen, was presumably his first name. Gorgin. There was also an address up in Pelham in Westchester County, about a half hour’s drive from Manhattan.

Finally there was this, her instructions: Ask him what he knows about the Mudir.

Elizabeth knew the word. Mudir was Arabic. It meant a local governor or someone who holds sway over a group of people. She didn’t recognize the young man in the photo, though.

Of course, that was the whole point. This guy, “Gorgin,” was supposed to be a lead. Supposed to be.

According to whom, though? And why the mysterious middleman back in Starbucks? Was she really supposed to trust this stranger with a Middle Eastern accent?

There were too many questions, with even more to come once she followed protocol and brought Pritchard up to speed. After his briefing, she’d show him the photo. If he didn’t know the young man in the taqiyah named Gorgin, there was probably a computer somewhere in-house that did.

But before that could happen, Pritchard would want to know something else. She could practically hear his booming voice, prodding her. Why you, Needham? How come you were the one he approached? Huh?

“Here we are,” said her Uber driver.

Elizabeth didn’t hear him. She was still listening to Pritchard in her head. “Excuse me?”

“This is your stop, right?” asked the driver. “Where you wanted to go?”

Elizabeth stared out the window at the granite facade of the JTTF building. Pritchard’s briefing would start in a couple of minutes. She’d have to hustle if she wanted to make it up to the conference room in time. She reached for the door handle.

Seriously, why you? What makes you so special, Needham?

Elizabeth’s hand suddenly froze. “Change of plans,” she told the driver.

Twenty blocks south and a $5.60 surcharge later, Elizabeth was at City Hall standing face-to-face with Beau Livingston, the mayor’s chief of staff, who had his back up against the door to his boss’s office. He was literally blocking her way.

“You can’t just show up unannounced, Elizabeth,” he said. Livingston’s arms were folded, his feet spread. The only way she was getting past him was through him.

No problem.

“If you don’t move, I’m going to kick you in the balls, Beau,” she said.

Livingston didn’t need his Phi Beta Kappa Harvard education to know she was serious. As for Mayor Deacon’s secretary, she might as well have had a bucket of popcorn in her lap while tilting back some Jujubes. She was watching from behind her desk, transfixed.

Of all things, though, Livingston started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” asked Elizabeth.

“The mayor bet me five bucks that you’d figure it out by lunch.” He glanced at his watch. “Nicely done. It’s barely even breakfast.”

He turned and opened the door to Deacon’s office. As he did, Elizabeth could hear Pritchard’s voice in her head one last time.

What makes you so special, Needham?

Chapter 36

“WELL, IF it isn’t my favorite agent,” said Mayor Edward “Edso” Deacon, looking up at Elizabeth from the sprawl of morning papers on his desk. He managed to punch the word agent enough to underscore that she was no longer just a detective, thanks to him. He waved her in. “To what do I owe the surprise?”

“Nice try,” she said. “You know you could’ve just called if you wanted to see me.”

Deacon cocked his head. “Really? Because I distinctly recall our last conversation, when you were so adamant about not being my eyes and ears over at the Task Force.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“The opposite. I’m the one doing you a favor,” said Deacon.

“Do you mean this?” she asked, removing the photo from her inside blazer pocket.

The mayor squinted. He was nearsighted, albeit not politically. “I don’t know. Is that what he gave you?”

Elizabeth stared, incredulous. “You don’t even know?”

“No, and I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

Deacon pointed at the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Needham.”

“I’d prefer to stand.”

“Duly noted. Now sit the fuck down. ”

Elizabeth sat down. Edso Deacon was still the mayor of the largest city in the country, after all. He giveth and could taketh away. Namely, Elizabeth’s job.

Meanwhile, Livingston was about to make his usual walk to the couch by the window, where he always sat during his boss’s meetings.

“Actually, Beau,” said Deacon, “give us a couple of minutes alone, will you?”