Стюарт Вудс - Wild Card

They watched as debris began to fall around the bench.

“There’s the arm we saw,” Stone said, as it landed a few yards from the bench.

“Right,” Dino replied. He quickly ran the three other camera views, but it was obvious that the shots from the first camera were the best. Dino set down his phone.

“It’s not every day you see a guy blown to pieces,” Dino said.

“Thank God for that,” Stone replied.

Dino’s phone made the noise again, and he picked it up. “Enhancement coming in,” he said.

Stone stood behind him and watched as the shot from the first camera ran again in the enhanced mode. “Looks like a cashmere topcoat,” he said.

“Yeah, but that’s not going to help us.”

“And a Yankees ball cap.”

“Right again.”

The motion stopped, a square was drawn around the head of the man in the Yankees cap. It was enlarged, then enhanced before their eyes.

“Hey, that’s good!” Dino enthused. “Our facial recognition software ought to be able to do something with that.” He turned off the phone, and Stone sat down.

“He looked sort of Mediterranean,” Stone said.

“So did the guy at Bloomingdale’s.”

“So, a Middle Eastern terrorist shoots two women in Bloomingdale’s and another Middle Eastern guy gets handed a briefcase with a surprise inside,” Dino said.

“The guy at Bloomingdale’s thought he was shooting Elise and Elena,” Stone said, “but he got it wrong, then his cohort goes to accept payment for the job from a guy by the river, only the guy by the river didn’t want to pay. That makes sense.”

“It does,” Dino said. Then his phone rang, and Dino put it on speaker and set it on the coffee table. “Bacchetti.”

“Boss, it’s Lieutenant Perdido, in intelligence tech services,” a voice said.

“What have you got?”

“A connection between the guy at Bloomingdale’s and the one from the bridge. Their passports, though their numbers were not consecutive, were both issued at the American embassy in Paris, and both on the same day.”

“Bingo!” Dino said. “What home addresses were on the passport application?”

“The same address: a New York apartment.”

“Well, get a warrant and get somebody over there,” Dino said. “And send those shots to the D.A.”

“Yes, sir!” The lieutenant hung up.

“I’d call that progress,” Dino said. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Not yet,” Stone said. “All you’ve got are two corpses, one in pieces, and they got their passports from the same forger, probably in Paris. If you can find another guy in the cell, then that will be progress.”

“That was going to be my next move,” Dino said petulantly. “I’m calling the D.A.” He picked up his phone. Someone answered, said the D.A. was unavailable, and took a message. “Probably not before tomorrow,” she said.

Dino hung up in disgust.

In his study, Stone and Dino had a good dinner of roast lamb and potatoes au gratin, then Stone’s phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Lance Cabot. I hope you’re well.” Lance was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and he had had dealings with Stone and Dino on many occasions.

“Hello, Lance, and yes, I am.” He covered the mouthpiece. It’s Lance, he mouthed.

“Why don’t you put me on speaker, so Dino can hear me, too?” Lance asked. “It would save me a phone call.”

Stone pressed the button and set the phone on the table. “You’re on speaker, Lance.”

“Good. I wanted you both to know that we’ve received a photograph, apparently of a suspect, shortly before he was blown to pieces. Your people, Dino, asked for our help in facial identification, since our software is, ah, somewhat better than yours.”

“Thanks, Lance, we appreciate the condescension,” Dino said.

“Not at all,” Lance replied, unruffled. “We have identified your man as one Harod Avaya, born in Paris thirty years ago, last known residence, the Gaza Strip. I expect he was the gentleman who received the elegant briefcase over by the East River.”

“Good guess, Lance,” Dino replied.

“Mr. Avaya was a Palestinian activist from his late teens, and not much later, an assassin. About two years ago, he and a colleague, Avin, dropped out of sight and, apparently, took up assassination as a trade, not to say an art, along with a third youth, one Rasheed Khan. Mr. Avaya and Avin Kayam had American passports issued on the same day in Paris, same year. They both listed the same New York City apartment as their residence. Through a further search, we have determined that Mr. Khan may also have received such a passport — under another name, so far unknown — at the same address.”

“It’s being searched as we speak,” Dino said, getting a little of his own back.

“My people, regrettably, assumed that the address was phony and did not bother to check it out.”

“How very useless of them,” Stone said.

“Quite.”

“And, Lance,” Dino interjected, “it was Mr. Kayam who was shot and killed by one of my officers this afternoon, outside Bloomingdale’s.”

“Ah,” Lance said. “Good to know. Have you made any progress investigating the murders of the two Swearingen sisters?”

“Yes, Kayam shot the wrong two women,” Dino said. “The real targets escaped and are now safe at Stone’s house.”

“That leaves our Mr. Rasheed Khan. What news of him?”

“We didn’t know he existed until you called, Lance,” Dino replied, “but you may rest assured we will turn our attention to him immediately.”

“Ah, good,” Lance said. “Have you anything on the person or persons who hired Mr. Kayam to kill the two women? I leap to the conclusion that it might be the Thomases, since a rather unflattering piece about them was in this morning’s Times. ”

“We hold that view, too,” Dino said, “but I’m having trouble convincing the D.A.”

“Would a call from me help?” Lance asked.

“It couldn’t hurt,” Dino replied. “It might be good for the D.A.’s spine, if he learned that others besides the NYPD like the Thomases for the crime. Might it be that you folks have something on them that we don’t?”

“I very much doubt it,” Lance said, “but I’ll ask. I think that pretty much all of what we know of them — apart from what has appeared in the Wall Street Journal over the years — resides in the files that Stone procured from the Bianchi estate. We found those fascinating.”

“Thank you, Lance,” Stone said. “It’s a pleasure to have fascinated you.”

“You’re very welcome. Dino, we would be most grateful if your intelligence division could pass along any other evidence of the last of the Palestinian trio.”

“I promise to keep you informed,” Dino said.

“Then I bid you good evening, gentlemen. Raise a glass for me.” Lance hung up.

Dino was immediately on the phone to report the existence of a third member of the cell. He listened for quite a while, then hung up. “My people are combing through the trio’s apartment right now,” he said, “and they are finding absolutely zip. The place had been wiped down and vacuumed.”

“Then,” Stone said, “that must mean that the third member of the cell, Rasheed Khan, heard of the deaths of his two colleagues and abandoned the apartment.”

“Makes sense, since both incidents were all over the news. Oh, they found fragments of male clothing in the apartment building’s incinerator, all high-end designer stuff that could be bought on Madison Avenue.”

“Then business must have been good,” Stone said. “It might be interesting to ask your people to look into other recent homicides for a connection.”