Read Afraid of the Dark Online
Authors: James Grippando
T
he Dark slept not at all, which was a normal night for him. He would sleep on the plane to Hong Kong after the money was in hand and Paulo was dead.
Last-minute changes to the plan had necessitated another trip to the storage shed. That little unit would have been the envy of al-Shabaab, had he still been loyal to them. Somewhere down the road, when the bodies were recovered and the Dark was on the other side of the globe, Scotland Yard would uncover the cache, and the Western media would report that another Muslim was preparing for jihad. As if every jihad involved war and violence. As if this struggle had anything to do with Allah.
The Dark stopped at the corner. Sunrise was still hours away, and it was cold enough to see his breath. Morning rush hour was just barely beginning, a few cars streaming by. A man and a woman huddled beneath the shelter at the bus stop. The nearest tube station didn’t open until five thirty
A.M.
, but an hour from now waves of commuters would flood into the underground like water into a storm sewer. The Dark was eight blocks from the abandoned hotel, just in case anyone was triangulating his wireless call and trying to pinpoint his location. Chuck Mays’ cell was on his speed dial. He punched “8” and waited.
“I’m here,” said Chuck.
“Is Shada in or out?”
“She’s in.”
The Dark smiled thinly. “I knew she would be. Now listen closely, because I’m not going to repeat this. Shada must come alone. Tell her to take the money to Billingsgate Fish Market.”
“The fish market?”
“Just
listen
. I know Shada a hell of a lot better than you ever did, and I’m being very reasonable about setting up the exchange in a public place. The fish market is probably the busiest place in London this early. Hundreds of people around, so there’s no reason for her to get scared of her own shadow and freak out. The ground floor has two cafés. Shada is to find the one nearer to the shellfish boiler room, take a seat, and wait.”
“When do we get Vince back?”
“When I get the money. Understood?”
“Yes, but—”
“No ‘buts.’ ”
“But you—”
“Quiet! Do you want your friend dead or alive?”
“You said I could talk to Vince in the morning.”
The Dark gripped the phone, angered by the audacity. “There’s plenty of morning left,” he said, seething as he ended the call.
For some of us.
He tucked the phone away and started back to the hotel.
J
ack’s cell rang as he stepped out of the Curry House’s storage room.
The Web conference following the Dark’s ransom demand had gone exactly as Chuck and Reza had choreographed it. Shada was ready to make the delivery. Jack would tail her—after he took this phone call.
He ducked into Reza’s office and answered it.
“It’s me,” said Andie. “First thing I want to say is that I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For pressuring you to drop the Jamal Wakefield case.”
There was a knock, and then Jack heard Reza’s voice on the other side of the closed door. “We have to go, my friend.”
“Andie, don’t worry about it,” said Jack. “We can talk when I get home.”
“No, you don’t understand. When I found out that you were trying to prove the existence of a black site, I had no idea that I was investigating the same black site that was at the end of your trail.”
Jack’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“It’s complicated, and I’m so angry with the bureau right now that I can hardly stand it. But you were representing Jamal ever since he was Khaled al-Jawar, Prisoner No. 977 at Gitmo. Obviously, the FBI knew he was really Jamal Wakefield, which means they knew his lawyers would eventually get into the issue of black sites in Prague. It was no coincidence that I was given this assignment. Someone high up thought they could play the national security card and pressure me into compromising your case. Or at least throw you off the trail of the black site in Prague, if need be.”
Jack lowered himself into the desk chair. He was having trouble getting his head around this one. “Wow. Andie, it’s five thirty in the morning here, I’ve hardly slept, and . . . just, wow.”
There was another knock at the door. “Jack,” said Reza, “we
really
have to go.”
“Andie, this is all good to know,” said Jack. “But I—”
“
Good to know?”
said Andie, incredulous. “Jack, I could be fired for telling you this. But here’s the point. I don’t know what exactly you’re doing over there in London, but you need to know that the people who ran this black site are beyond evil. Don’t kid yourself into thinking otherwise. Please,
please
, don’t take unnecessary chances.”
The door opened, and Reza stuck his head into the room. “Hang up the phone. We’re leaving.”
Andie asked, “Who was that?”
Jack hesitated too long, but Andie’s tone changed abruptly. “I gotta go,” she said. “Be careful, Jack. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said, and the call ended.
T
he Black Ice limo cruised through the night at forty miles per hour, top speed in a snowstorm like the one that was slamming the Mid-Atlantic region. Andie glanced out the dark-tinted windows. She’d seen few cars on the road tonight, virtually none since they’d exited the expressway. Bahena had told her that they were headed for the airport, but she had her doubts.
“Doesn’t look like a good night to fly,” she said.
Littleton didn’t answer. He was seated across from her, facing forward. Andie was in the other bench seat with her back to the cockpit. The chauffer’s partition behind her head was closed, leaving her and Littleton in privacy. They were forty minutes into the drive, and he had yet to speak a word to her.
Not a good sign.
Andie had ended the phone call with Jack in the nick of time, before Bahena had come around with the company limo. She’d made riskier calls while working undercover, and this one should have gone undetected. But she was beginning to have doubts.
The limo slowed, then pulled off the road to a stop. Andie glanced out the window. They were outside the glow of city lights, nowhere near an airport—nowhere near anything she recognized.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked.
Littleton stared at her, his face illuminated only by the dim, blue glow of the liquor cabinet to Andie’s right.
“Who are you?” asked Littleton. His tone was not cordial.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
He folded his arms across his chest. “Who do you work for?”
“Vortex,” she said.
“I mean who do you really work for? Amnesty International? Some other NGO with a left-wing agenda?”
“I work for your company,” she said.
Littleton tightened his stare, saying nothing, or rather letting his silence do the talking. Andie didn’t flinch, but she noticed the file folder on the seat next to him. Littleton picked it up, opened it, and said, “Bad weather or not, there’s a plane waiting for you.”
“Yes, I understand I’m being activated.”
He smiled sardonically, then shook his head. “You’re not being activated.”
“What’s the problem?”
Littleton pulled a photograph from the file, switched on the interior spotlight in the ceiling, and held the before her eyes. “This is Olga,” he said.
Olga looked to be at least six feet tall and about 180 pounds of solid muscle and steroids. The tight black hot pants, studded leather jacket, and black lipstick were straight out of Capital Pleasures. Her head was shaved, except for a single wisp of red hair that hung in her eyes. Her nose, lips, and ears were pierced with multiple metal rings, and she had her mouth wide open to reveal the tongue piercing. Tattoos covered her neck and right arm, mostly Chinese characters and random figures that vaguely resembled them. Andie took special notice, but she didn’t recognize any gang symbols.
“Olga is one of our most successful level-five activations,” said Littleton.
He returned the photograph to the file and removed another. “This is the last person we sent to meet Olga.”
Andie tried to show no reaction, but the difference between her level-one activation and level five was more dramatic than she’d thought. Olga appeared to be removing the man’s pubic hair with her teeth.
Littleton closed the file and put it aside, but he laid the last photograph faceup on the seat, where Andie could still see it.
“We can go one of two ways here,” he said. “You can tell me who you are and what you’re doing here. Or we can put you on that airplane, you can meet Olga, and you can tell
her
.”
Andie glanced at the photo, then back at Littleton. “I told you the truth. Would you like me to tell you again?”
Littleton’s smile was even more condescending than the last one. “Yes, tell me again,” he said as he switched off the light.
The partition behind her head slid open and Bahena grabbed her by the hair, jerking her head back. Andie was staring up at the base of his chin. Even in the darkness, she could tell that he was enjoying himself.
“But this time,” said Littleton, “Danilo will make sure you don’t lie to me.”
“You’re making a mistake,” said Andie, her heart pounding.
“No,” said Littleton. “
You
made the mistake.”
P
oplar is the nearest tube station to the Billingsgate Fish Market, but with a quarter million pounds in her backpack, Shada sprang for a cab. The market complex covers thirteen acres, and the driver dropped her as close as he could to the trading hall. Doors opened at four
A.M.
, and as Shada approached the entrance, buyers were already walking out with fish. The surrounding neighborhood wasn’t the Cockney crime scene of Hawthorne’s day—“a dirty, evil-smelling, crowded precinct, thronged with people carrying fish on their heads.” But it was still the East End before dawn, and the shadows were plenty dark. Shada tried not to look paranoid by checking over her shoulder too often as she hurried into the building.
Habib had called it the busiest place in London before sunrise, and once inside, Shada found that was no exaggeration. Billingsgate merchants sell over twenty-five thousand tons of fish and fish products annually, much of it straight out of ice-packed coolers at one of ninety-eight booths in the trading hall. The floors were wet, the noise was constant, and with open warehouse doors inviting January inside, Shada kept her coat on. Porters wore traditional white sailcloth smocks, and salesmen didn’t just sit on their coolers and wait for the fish to go bad. Like the fishmongers of old, they made sales by pulling people in and outshouting one another’s claims of freshness—most with civility, a few with the age-old flair that put the second definition of “Billingsgate” in the dictionary: coarse, vulgar language.
“Best halibut in the world right here, ma’am.”
The porter’s Scottish accent brought Shada to a stop. “I’m looking for the café,” she said.
“Straightaway,” he said, pointing.
She looked ahead, then checked over her shoulder. It felt like she was being watched, and she didn’t think she was paranoid.
“Thank you,” she said, moving on toward the café.
J
ack was trying to keep a safe distance, watching from behind a merchant’s signage for
FRESH PRAWNS
. A borrowed winter coat and knit cap from Reza made him less recognizable. Shada was wearing a yellow scarf that made her easy to spot in a crowd. She was in his sights, and he could see her conversing with a porter, but Jack wasn’t hearing any of it over the borrowed cell phone. Too much background noise in the hall, perhaps. Jack continued to follow her down a long and crowded row, passing booth after booth, cooler after cooler. Halibut from Scotland. Trout and salmon from Norway. Lobster and eel from New Zealand.
I wonder where they keep the psychopaths from Somalia.
From just beyond a booth offering smoked fish, he watched as Shada entered the café, bought a cup of coffee, and took a seat at an open table. She looked around, and Jack tried to remain inconspicuous by moving to another booth and feigning interest in a cooler of tuna steaks. A man entered the café and approached Shada, which caught Jack’s attention. Jack put Reza’s phone to his ear, trying again to eavesdrop, but he heard nothing, even though the man was clearly asking a question. Shada answered him—something along the lines of “this seat is taken,” Jack surmised. The man left her alone. A false alarm—but there was still reason for concern. Jack made a quick call to Chuck.
“She’s at the café, but I can’t overhear anything with this phone Reza gave me.”
“He should have known better,” said Chuck. “The spyware won’t pick up conversations if she has her cell phone tucked away in her purse or her pocket.”
Great
, thought Jack, and then an idea came to him. “Can you make her phone ring without displaying an incoming number?”
“I can make her phone sing ‘God Save the Queen,’ if I want to.”
“Then make it ring.”
“What for?”
“Just make it ring, but hang up and don’t let her know where the call came from.”
Jack ended the call and watched. Thirty seconds later, Shada dug her cell phone out of her coat pocket and answered it. From her reaction, Jack knew it was Chuck’s prank ring. She looked around, a little nervous. Jack crossed his fingers.
Don’t put it away.
She laid the phone on the table in front of her, as if waiting for it to ring again.
That’s it, Shada. Leave it right there.
T
he crank call left Shada a little jittery. It was odd that no incoming number had flashed on the display. She kept one eye on the phone and one on the active trading hall as she waited for the cell to ring again.
Her feet hurt and she needed sleep, but she wasn’t sure how long she could sit and wait. She was too on edge to stay in one place. The knots in the back of her neck were like golf balls, and if she came through this ordeal without a stomach ulcer, it would be a miracle. No one would ever understand. She had no one to talk to about it anyway. She certainly couldn’t tell Chuck or Jack everything there was to tell about Habib and her.
“Is this seat taken?”
Shada looked up, ready to shoo away another unwanted visitor, but she recognized the pretty face. They’d met once before. It was a hookup that Shada had arranged for Habib over the Internet, but Shada had cut it off because she was too young—just a girl, not a woman.
“What are you doing here?” asked Shada.
The girl stood there, silent, the expression on her face a whirl of angst and confusion. Perhaps there was some fear, too, but Shada didn’t have enough time to read every emotion. Without invitation, the girl took a seat, leaned on the tabletop, and broke her silence.
“What do you
think
I’m doing here, Maysoon?”
For no apparent reason, the girl dug her cell phone out of her coat pocket and laid it on the table between them. Shada had learned enough about computers from her husband to understand what that meant: Someone was listening to their conversation. The girl had activated the spyware with typical teenage awkwardness, which made Shada wonder about the crank ring right before the girl’s arrival. It hardly seemed like a coincidence that it had prompted Shada to lay her own cell on the table in front of her, where the right spyware could pick up her conversations.
Shada removed her cell phone’s battery and tucked the separated components into her pocket. Then she leaned into the table, choosing her words carefully, speaking not to the girl but to the girl’s phone—and trusting her instinct as to the eavesdropper’s identity.
“Habib,” Shada said, “let’s talk.”