Dark City (Repairman Jack - Early Years 02) (17 page)

Drexler held up a finger. “
When
we get it back.”

Al-Thani nodded. “Yes, of course.
When
we get it back, we will be able to fund jihadist chaos right here in America, tailoring it to the Order’s needs.”

Roman turned to Drexler. “I fear I’m not quite so sanguine about your ‘when.’ The plan depends on a number of factors we cannot control.”

“Such as?”

“The targets themselves. The two hijackers. First off, they must
hear
of the auction.”

“I believe we can rely on that,” al-Thani said. “Kadir told me that the same person who oversaw setting up the auctions last time is already at work, contacting the same people. If the gunmen are keeping their ear to the ground, as the expression goes, they will hear.”

“Fine,” Roman said. “But can we count on them to
act
? They have three million tax-free dollars in their pockets.”

“Well, they also have thirty little girls. Or at least they had.”

“Yes, whatever do you suppose they did with them?”

“What do we care?” Drexler said. “The only thing that matters is that those two killers—whoever they are—have an
agenda
, and if they think more children are going to be put up for sale, they will move heaven and Earth to stop it.”

Roman smiled at him. “You are so sure of that. Why?”

“Because the hijackers did not simply kill those Arabs waiting to take delivery of the children, they genitally mutilated them.”

“I continue to think you’re overstating the importance of those wounds.”

“Not in the least. The survivor, Kadir, had mentioned it when I interrogated him. To confirm that, I had one of our brothers in the medical examiner’s office procure copies of the autopsy reports for me. Kadir had not been exaggerating. Every single corpse received multiple postmortem bullet wounds to the pubic region from an automatic weapon, literally obliterating the genitals.”

“I saw the reports as well,” al-Thani said.

Roman shrugged. “I’m not calling the mutilations into question, simply wondering about the conclusions being drawn.”

Drexler leaned forward and held up his index finger. “If the gunmen had been there simply for the money, would they have made the extra effort to do that? I doubt it. They didn’t have time for games or mischief. That was pure rage. Those mutilations were also a warning to anyone else planning to sell children.”

“I’ll concede that.”

“Good.” He held up a second finger. “When Reggie and the other driver—the one he calls Lonnie—fled the scene with a truckload of the girls, why did the killers give chase? They already had the money.”

Roman figured he’d answer Drexler’s question with one of his own. “Why didn’t they kill Reggie and Lonnie when they caught up to them?”

Drexler lost a little of his steam. “That remains unclear. Reggie was unconscious at the time and can’t tell us. We do know that someone broke his knees.”

“But left him with his manhood. Explain that.”

“I cannot—at least not until we catch them. Maybe they’d spent their rage on the others. But do you have an explanation as to why they took the girls with them instead of simply leaving them there? That would have been the expedient thing to do.”

No argument there.

“Why do you think?”

“Because expediency has no part in what they do. I believe they planned to return them to their families.”

Al-Thani shook his head, looking baffled. “That would mean we are hunting murderous altruists.” He shook his head again. “Somehow…”

“Not altruists!” Drexler said, banging a fist on his thigh. “Men with an agenda, a cause, a
mission
! They do not wish to do
good
. Their aim is to do
harm
to people who harm children. Those are two different things.”

“What if they suspect a trap?” Roman said.

Drexler gave a nonchalant shrug. “No matter. They will
have
to react. Their agenda will not allow them to ignore rumors of a child auction.”

“But then they will come prepared for a fight,” Roman said.

“And so will we. They numbered two last time.”

Al-Thani said, “What of that driver … Lonnie? Do you think he’ll show up?”

Back to Lonnie again … questions kept circling around him. Roman was pretty sure he knew the answer to that, but let Drexler take it.

“The mysterious Lonnie remains a question mark,” Drexler said.

Al-Thani added, “He could have been working with them. That could be why they let him live.”

Roman was tiring of the conversation. They’d been over this many times before.

“They also let Reggie live,” he said.

“Yes, but they broke his knees. Not long after the attack, an apparently intact Lonnie was back to smuggling cigarettes to Riaz Diab. That is not the action of someone who just earned a share in three million dollars.”

Roman remembered how Drexler had set out to capture Lonnie and find out what he knew. The plan had ended in disaster for the two operatives sent to round him up. After that, Lonnie dropped out of sight—so completely, he might as well have fallen off the face of the earth.

Al-Thani said, “If they suspect a trap, and still come, they will bring backup.”

Drexler shrugged. “Perhaps, but not much. I see their mission as a sort of shared psychosis. I see them as very secretive. They cannot involve others to any great degree. They will not arrive with an army.” He smiled. “But we will.”

Roman said, “I hope to be as sure when the time comes.”

“We hold all the cards. We will know the truck’s destination, they won’t. We can have our forces positioned in advance, while our prey will have to improvise.”

“What if they decide to hijack the truck en route?”

“Only we will know the route in advance. The drivers won’t be told until they pick up the truck. But a mere hijacking does not fit with their mission. They wish to punish the traffickers.”

Roman said, “We have to find someone to play the middleman, to act as the Judas goat and lead them to the killing ground. Reggie seems the obvious choice.”

Al-Thani smiled. “Perhaps. He made the delivery before. His presence behind the wheel might lend an extra layer of credibility.”

“But what of the ambush?” Drexler said. “Operatives from the Order would be—”

“We have already lost two good operatives,” Roman said with a pointed look at Drexler. “I don’t think the High Council would wish to risk more.”

Al-Thani said, “All I have to do is go to the Al-Kifah Refugee Center and say it’s for the cause of jihad and the entire mosque will volunteer.”

“But we must be careful,” Roman said. “We walk a high wire here. Some of those Muslims lost friends in the original massacre. We can’t allow emotions to rule. Cool heads must prevail because we want these men
alive
. We must stress that to everyone we involve in the trap.
Alive
. Dead men can’t tell us where they’ve stashed the Order’s millions. Hammer that home: They are no good to us dead.”

Drexler smiled. “But long before we and the jihadists are through with them, they will wish they were.”

3

“Enough already with the fresh air,” Abe said, holding down his black fedora against the wind. “Put the top up.”

Jack glanced at him as they drove along one of the Central Park traverses. He’d talked Abe into going for a spin in the Corvair. Naturally he’d put the top down.

“You’re kidding, right?”

He looked at Jack with a poor excuse for a glare. “Does this
punim
look to you like it’s kidding? Up-up-up!”

“But the purpose of a convertible is to give you access to fresh air while you drive.”

“Not on the first of March. That’s
meshuggeneh
! What, you think I’ve got polar bear blood in my veins?”

The traverse didn’t offer much of a shoulder, so Jack waited until they had to stop at a red light at Fifth Avenue. He jumped out and pulled up the top.

“What? You do this by hand?”

“On this baby, yeah. The top’s so light, you don’t need power assist.”

As it dropped onto the top of the windshield frame, Jack hopped back inside and locked down the two latches.

“There. Comfy now?”

But Abe was looking past him. “You carrying?”

Oh, shit. DDP?

“Yeah. Why?” Jack turned and his heart picked up pace when he saw a grizzled cop walking toward them. Not beating as fast as it might have were he looking at a guy with a machete, but still … “Uh-oh.”

“Where is it?”

“Under the seat.” He looked down—no sign of the Ruger—then back to the approaching cop. “What did I do?”

“I have no idea.”

But the cop’s weathered face broke into a smile as he reached them. “Sweet ride,” he said, admiring the Corvair. “I had a red one when I was a kid. Can’t believe these things are still on the road.”

“Want a ride?” Jack said, jerking a thumb toward the narrow backseat. “Bring back old times?”

The cop’s face took on a wistful look. “Used to call mine Sarah. Got laid for the first time in a backseat just like that. Named the car after her.” He shook his head. “But my back would never forgive me for getting in there. You got a name for this one?”

That hadn’t occurred to Jack, but a name leaped immediately to mind.

“Yeah. Ralph.”

He frowned. “Ralph. You gay or something?”

“Last time I checked, no. It’s
Ralph
 … you know, as in
Nader
?”

The cop’s stare turned blank. A car honked behind them. The light had turned green. He slapped the top.

“Better get moving. Enjoy it, kid, whatever its name.”

Jack moved the dashboard lever to “D” and waved as he took off.
Kid
 … He’d turned twenty-two last month. When would people stop calling him “kid”?

Abe stared at him, his tone dripping scorn. “‘Want a ride?’ he says. ‘Want a
ride
?’ Are you
farblonjet
in the head already?”

“I knew he couldn’t take me up on it.”

“What if he was off duty and said, ‘Sure, can you drive me home?’ And Mister Schlemiel the chauffeur here with an unregistered Magnum under his seat has no choice but to do so.”

“But he didn’t, so let’s enjoy the ride.”

“Under the seat is a bad place for a gun unless you’ve got a holster there. You’ve got a holster?”

“Not there.”

“Well, then, it could slip out any second—you accelerate too fast it slides to the back; you stop too hard it’s between your feet.”

“Well, sitting is too damn uncomfortable with that big bulky thing sticking in my back. I think I need something smaller.”

Cristin’s discovery of the Ruger Sunday night had got him thinking smaller and less clunky; something he could hide better.

“Not for nothing is it called a ‘Magnum.’ You want smaller, I can get you smaller. How much smaller?”

“Something that’s a comfortable fit in back.”

“We might have to change the caliber. And to go compact, we’ll probably have to go semiautomatic.” Abe shook his head. “Oy.”

“I know you prefer revolvers, but—”

“Me? I should prefer? It won’t be me carrying a jam waiting to happen.”

Jack ignored the comment. According to Bertel, Abe had never evolved from the revolver.

“Oh, and maybe a backup—something real small, in case I don’t want any bulk but don’t want to go naked.”

“Naked?”

“You know—unarmed.”

“A concealed backup, you mean.”

“Yeah. Teeny-weeny. Like for an ankle holster.”

“Next time you come by I’ll take you shopping downstairs.”

Jack could hardly wait.

SATURDAY

1

Jack had been settled in his usual spot by the window of the Pelham bookstore/coffee shop since noon. He’d already followed Zalesky to Mrs. Filardo’s home twice this week. Neither time had he left with the old woman. When Jack and Julio had followed him last fall, he’d picked up his mark and driven her to a bank on a Saturday. Jack had a feeling today would be one of those Saturdays.

Of course, Zalesky could have struck out with Mrs. Filardo, and that would be a major bummer. Jack would have invested a lot of time and research, all for nothing. He couldn’t see how he’d ever be able to work a setup like this again. If Zalesky had indeed struck out, the only solution left would be to let Julio work him over with his baseball bat, like he’d wanted to from the very start.

Time dragged. And then, a little before two, the man appeared in his suit and hat, looking like a card-carrying member of officialdom.

Jack closed the book he’d been pretending to read and headed outside to his own ride. He’d decided against using the Corvair to tail Zalesky. He’d held on to the rental Chrysler and brought that along instead.

He followed Zalesky along the same old route down to Carroll Gardens and watched him stroll into the Filardo house. Moments later he emerged with an old lady on his arm. Jack had never seen Michelina Filardo, but this had to be her: widow’s black dress with bunned hair, the whole old-country Italian package.

*   *   *

Neil shook his head as he helped the yammering crone into the backseat of his sedan. Such a sweet-looking old lady on the outside. But inside … her grandson hadn’t been kidding: Michelina Filardo was a bitch on wheels.

He hid a smile as he slammed her door and walked around the rear to the driver’s side. Bitch though she be, she hadn’t stood a chance against the Zalesky charm and silver tongue. He’d fired her up and she was all gung-ho to trap this bank creep who was stealing honest working folks’ money.

“You drive a-careful now,” she said in her thick accent as he slipped behind the wheel. “No quick starts and a-stops, jerking my head back and a-forth. I got artheritis, you know.”

Arthur-itis?

“The valise for the money is there on the seat beside you,” he said.

“’At’s a briefcase, not a valise.”

There’s a difference? Whatever.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Neil eased into traffic and headed for the old lady’s Chase branch. A ride short on distance but long on
Watch-out-for-that-truck
and
Don’t-hit-that-old-man
warnings and orders to “Stop” long before he reached a red light or a stop sign. It seemed like ages before he pulled to a halt before the bank.