James Patterson - Kill Alex Cross

Kravetz manipulated her controls to follow them on camera.

“Wait for it,” she said. “Wait for it...”

As soon as they turned onto the sidewalk, two unmarked cars were there! They pulled up to the curb, and half a dozen agents jumped out. One of them took control of the wheelchair. Another cuffed the woman immediately.

I could hear the man in the chair shouting now, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

It all happened very fast. They’d barely gotten the woman into one of the cars when a handicap-accessible van pulled up. The Bureau was clearly ready for this. They loaded up their mystery man and everyone took off, leaving the corner just as quiet as it had been sixty seconds ago.

I looked over at Ned when it was done. He was still staring at the screen, but his eyes looked blank. If I had to guess, I’d say he was thinking about that terrible scene at the motel from the other night. Was this couple responsible? Were they the planners?

“Where are they taking those two?” I asked. “Any idea?”

Mahoney shrugged. “To hell, I hope.”

The name of the man in the wheelchair was Faizal Ahmad Angawi. According to the prevailing intel, he went simply by “Uncle” within the organization.

When they reached their destination, he was unloaded from the van, and his blindfold was removed.

“You maniacs! Where in God’s name have you taken me?” he screamed at the FBI agents. “You are breaking your laws.”

They’d arrived in a vast, unheated garage bay. Nothing too specific to clue him in to his exact whereabouts. There was a loading dock and a long row of empty steel shelving units along one wall. Several fluorescent light fixtures hung from the girdered ceiling, far overhead. Also, it was quite cold.

CIA interrogator Matt Sivitz stood in front of Angawi. His hands were clasped behind his back, while the seated man ranted on and on.

“I have my rights! You can’t do this. I demand to see my attorney immediately!”

“Absolutely,” Sivitz told him. “Just as soon as we’re back in the real world, you can see a lawyer, Mr. Angawi. Or should I call you Uncle?”

The man squinted up at him while the corners of his mouth turned down. “Uncle? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t be insulting. You know exactly what it means.”

Sivitz walked over and took a folding chair off the dock. When he set it across from the wheelchair and sat down, the two men were face-to-face.

“Here’s how I see it,” he went on. “I think you’re stuck in the middle of something here. You answer to your people back in Saudi. You pass orders to your operatives. But you don’t control anything. Not really. You’ve got all the knowledge but none of the power — and that’s what makes you vulnerable. Am I close?”

“Close to what?” Angawi shouted. “This is an outrage! I’m a law-abiding man. Look at me!” He reached for the wheels on his chair and found them locked.

Sivitz held up a finger, which was also clearly a warning. “Actually, we’ve been watching you for a while.”

He unfolded a slip of paper from his pocket and glanced down at it. “Does the number 20852409 mean anything to you?” he said. “No? Maybe you didn’t memorize the account numbers. How about Trinity Bank, in Washington? Saudi British Bank, in Riyadh?”

Angawi was having none of it. “You can’t intimidate me like this,” he said between clenched teeth. “All of my accounts are perfectly legal.”

Sivitz nodded. “All of Faizal Ahmad Angawi’s accounts are legal. That’s true. But not the ones you’ve created under Muhammed Al-Athel. Or Charity of Hope. Or Chesapeake Properties.” He watched the man while he spoke, gauging his expression. “That’s where Al Ayla’s money is coming in, isn’t it? Please correct me anytime here. Just in case I have any small details wrong.”

The detainee didn’t even show a glimmer of recognition. Just pure, seething hatred.

“I have a right to an attorney,” he said again. “I insist you take me back to the mosque this instant! Right now! Do you hear me? Are you recording this? ”

Sivitz stood up fast. His chair slammed back onto the concrete floor.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Listen very carefully. If you ever want to see your wife again, you’re going to drop this pathetic act of yours and start talking to us. Who is your contact in Saudi Arabia?”

“Are you threatening my wife? ” The man was shaking with rage now.

“No, Faizal. You are . What I’m saying is that you’re both going to spend the rest of your lives in separate American prisons at the rate you’re going. So tell me, who’s running your ops in the District?”

“This is illegal! Racist! Outrageous—”

“Where are Ethan and Zoe Coyle?”

Angawi reeled back then and spit in the agent’s face.

Sivitz saw red. He cocked a fist and came at him until Angawi was cowering with his hands up around his head. This meant he wasn’t immune to pain. Good to know.

It took another breath for Sivitz to pull himself back from the edge. He wasn’t going to hit this cripple. There would be no bruising. No physical proof of anything. Instead, he reached down and took Angawi’s chin in his hand.

“Look at me,” he said.

Slowly, the man’s eyes came up to meet his.

“You want to keep wasting your people the way you’ve been doing, you go right ahead. Put your wife on that list while you’re at it. Doesn’t make any difference to me. But just so you know — we’re not leaving this place until you give me something I can use. And — I will hurt you.” Sivitz stepped back and let go of his face. He looked visibly shaken now. “Names, Faizal. Places. Targets. You know what I want.”

Angawi took a deep breath. For the first time, it was hard to tell which direction he might go in. Maybe they were making some progress here, after all.

“I... demand... to... see... my... attorney,” Angawi said. It was so slow as to be mocking. Then he folded his hands on his lap and bowed his head, either at rest or in prayer. It was hard to tell which.

Sivitz watched for a minute, then turned away. He took out a pack of gum and unwrapped a piece as he headed for the door. “Goddamn, I miss cigarettes,” he growled to no one.

It was going to be a long night.

The hallway off the loading dock had been cleared of all personnel except for a lone armed agent at the far end. The guard pushed the elevator button for Sivitz as he approached.

“How’s it going in there?” he asked.

Sivitz ignored him and got onto the elevator without a word.

He rode to the sixth floor, where another agent was on post. Continuing down the hall, he passed a long row of dark offices until he came to the last one, with a light showing under the door. The placard next to it had his name engraved in block letters beneath a small rendering of the CIA seal.

Sivitz knocked twice, then opened the door with his key.

Inside, Mrs. Angawi was sitting at the conference table with a female translator from Langley. Peter Lindley was there as well, and Evan Stroud from the Directorate of Intelligence, who had jobbed Sivitz in for this one. All four had Styrofoam containers of sandwiches and chips in front of them and bottles of water from the kitchen down the hall.

“How are we doing in here?” Sivitz asked. “Everybody nice and comfy?”

The translator quietly relayed the question to Mrs. Angawi, who came back in a torrent of Arabic.

“‘I want to leave this building, this city. It’s a cursed place,’” the translator said, speaking for the woman as she went. “‘I shouldn’t be here anymore. It’s not safe for me.’”