F. Paul Wilson - Infernal

Not such a great position in these times.

3

After Tom had adjusted the securing ropes to his satisfaction, they hurried north along a narrow asphalt road toward the ferry stop. Jack had his new backup strapped to his ankle, and carried a small duffel with clean clothes. Tom had his backpack and nothing more.

Jack knew from the tourist guide that the Ferry Authority cut the number of runs in the off season, and the next could be the last of the day.

He hadn't been able to call Gia from the boat—Tom had insisted that absolute radio silence was necessary—but he'd take care of that as soon as they got to town.

The ferry wait was less than twenty minutes. Not much to see at first as they plowed across the open water of the Great Sound, so he sat inside on the lower deck and nursed one of the beers Tom had brought along. When the shoreline began to close in, Jack climbed to the upper deck and took in the view.

A range of dark green hills rose from the water to the south. The pastel colors and white roofs of the houses clinging to their flanks reminded him of a grassy mound studded with mushrooms. Here and there a Nelson pine or a narrow cedar jutted dark green fingers above the surrounding vegetation.

But the smaller islands, clumps of palm and pine-encrusted lava rock scattered throughout the eastern half of the sound, caught his attention. Many were too small for habitation, while others supported compact neighborhoods. But the in-between size, the ones with only a single house, captured his imagination.

What would it be like to live on one of those? Like owning your own country, or an island fortress protected on all sides by deep water. The isolation appealed to him: He, Gia, Vicky, and the baby, living apart from the world, making their own rules for their own tiny sovereign state.

An impossibility, of course. A wild, absurd fantasy. But still… no law against dreaming. At least not yet.

The ferry wove a path through the islands, stopping here and there among them, then veered north toward a crowded shore—Bermuda's business, entertainment, and cultural center, Hamilton.

As soon as they docked Tom led him down Front Street. It ran along the waterfront; the arcaded sidewalk sported a wide array of tony shops, but few pedestrians. Definitely the off season around here.

"Where are we going?"

"Well, the bank's closed, so that'll have to wait till tomorrow. Eventually we'll get to a place called Flanagan's, but I've got a few stops I want to make along the way."

"So do I."

Jack meant to call Gia before he did another thing.

4

Joey Castles sat in a rear-corner window booth of the Empire Diner. He watched the traffic on Tenth Avenue and marveled at the power of a phone call from the right people.

Joey used to love diners. Mainly because he used to love breakfast. Used to be he could eat bacon and eggs or a ham-and-cheese omelet—American, never Swiss—three times a day. And the only place you could do that was a diner.

Trouble was, he hadn't been feeling very hungry since Frankie bought it. He ate maybe once a day, if that. He was losing weight. He had to pull in his belt an extra notch yesterday morning, and the way things were going, it'd be two notches soon. He'd never been fat or even chubby, but Christ, he'd be a scarecrow soon.

He and Frankie had been more than brothers. They'd been like one person. Half of him was gone. Had to get a grip or this would eat him alive.

The man across from him snapped his phone closed and smiled apologetically.

"Business. Always business."

Joey nodded. "I hear you."

This was their second meeting. The first had been in a Coney Island merdaio that served them tea and some mix of black bread, sour cream, and onions that had made his breath stink into the next day. That meeting had been precall, and a waste of time.

This guy was Valentin Vorobev but everyone called him Valya. He had no license to sell guns but that hadn't stopped him from supplying factions of the Russian mob in Brighton Beach for years. He'd agreed to meet with Joey, but only on his home turf. But as soon as Joey mentioned the Tavor-2, Valya had developed a sudden case of amnesia.

Joey had wanted to put a few into the cacchio right then and there. He didn't care who sold the guns to the Arabs—

All right, he did care. After 9/11, anybody who sold anything lethal to a fucking Arab ought to be redesigned so he could join a castrati choir. But Joey was willing to overlook that.

You made a sale. Fine. Okay. That's just doing business. I'm all for doing business. Just tell me who did the buying.

What he wanted more than life itself was the names of the shits who pulled the trigger on his brother.

He'd contacted three runners before his meet with Jack. Same old story: Nobody was talking. Nobody knew nothin'.

Then he'd called Pop. Soon as he got on the phone the old man went off on a ten-minute half-English, half-Italian rant. His folks had come over on the boat from Palermo, so he'd grown up speaking Italian at home and English on the street. Sometimes when he got upset he spoke both at once. Joey and Frankie had heard a lot of Italian growing up. Frankie had picked it up pretty good. The only thing Joey could do in Italian was curse and swear.

But he knew enough to hurt when Pop dismissed his efforts as minchia del mare . No fucking fair.

But Pop's attitude did a one-eighty when Joey told him Jack's idea—except he'd said it was his own. The old man got right down to making calls to people who started making calls to other people, and finally one of those calls had reached out and touched good old Valya. Which had led to this second meeting—not, it was worth noting, at a place of Valya's choosing, but Joey's.

Others had called back as well. He'd be doing a round of new meetings during the coming days. Maybe one of them…

"Again, I am sorry for your brother," the Russian said in a thickly accented voice. "Terrible thing to lose brother."

He had a broad face, small dark eyes, and a jarhead haircut.

"You got that right."

Joey wanted a cigarette. Bad. But you couldn't light up indoors anywhere in this fucking city no more. Normally he might just fire one up and flip the old vaffanculo at anyone who hassled him. But the last thing he needed now was to draw attention to this booth.

So he tried to satisfy himself with coffee.

"I thought long and hard about your sorrow and decided that I, Valya, should share with you what little I know."

Yeah, right. You got a call telling you to cooperate.

"That's very kind of you." Joey leaned forward. "What can you tell me?"

"Only that items you are interested in, they are easy to get, but not easy to sell."

"What's that mean?"

A big shrug. "No one wants. Or better to say, no one cares. Not well known. Everyone want other Israeli item. You know what I mean?"

Joey nodded. He knew: Uzis. Every gangbanger and cugine lusted for a Mac-10 or an Uzi.

"Before this happened, who has heard of this item you seek? No one, I think. I have two of them for three years now and no one even ask. Not once." Another elaborate shrug. "If I have business where I could send back, I would send these back today."

Joey felt his voice rising with his temperature. "That's it? You meet with me and that's it?"

"I do this out of respect for your sorrow. And to save you from waste time."

Joey found himself talking through his teeth.

"Ay, puttanal Frankie was my brother! This ain't wasted time!"

Valya held up his hands. "You do not understand. What I say is these items most probably bought not in States. If this Wrath of Allah connects to al-Qaeda, then guns most likely smuggle in."