“He ended things with me. Okay?He dumped me.”
“This isn’t going to work out,” Sam said, sitting behind hisdesk at the capital, a hand on his forehead, looking into Allison’s eyes.
“Mat-Mat’s a friend. You know this is crazy. It always was.”
Larry is quiet. He focuses on his coffee, then looks overAllison’s shoulder at the shoppers. Oldies music is piped in over theloudspeakers.
“I know you didn’t kill Sam,” he says. “And I think I knowwho did.”
“Larry-”
“And I think you know, too.”
“I have to go. I’m sorry,” she adds, because she hadpromised him some background on her life, some items Larry Evans needed for hisbook. But his tell-all book is the last thing on her mind right now. She restsa hand briefly on his shoulder and leaves him.
TWO DAYS EARLIER…
Jane McCoy walks into Special Agent-in-Charge IrvingShiels’s office. “Sir?”
Shiels is behind his desk, a number of files open beforehim. He gestures to her to close the door, which she does, her heartbeatescalating.
“I see you got confirmation on Doctor Lomas’s debt.”
“Yes, sir.” But she assumes this is not the reason for hervisit. Her little field trip yesterday only confirmed what they already knewabout Doctor Neil Lomas.
Shiels takes a breath. “Agent, I just got a call. Muhsinal-Bakhari is making plans to go to Sudan in June. First of June, we’rehearing.”
“Yes, sir,” she says evenly, before the breath leaves her.
Muhsin al-Bakhari. They could not have hoped for anyonebetter.
“Haroon just booked a flight to Paris for the first ofJune,” he adds.
“So Haroon’s going to connect from Paris to Sudan,” shegathers.
Shiels nods. “He’ll do it when he gets there. He wouldn’t bedumb enough to book that flight now. I figure, he’ll land on June first. Spenda night in Paris. Book a flight for the third.”
Shiels knows whereof he speaks, having worked in the MiddleEast for years with the CIA. He knows how the Liberation Front operates, aswell as anyone can know.
The gravity of what McCoy has heard settles upon her. Onboth of them. Unbeknownst to him, Ramadaran Ali Haroon is going to lead theUnited States to the Liberation Front’s operations commander, its number-twoguy, Muhsin al-Bakhari. The brains behind the entire operation.
“When Haroon gets to the airport here,” says Shiels, “he’sgoing to be flagged. They’ll call us.”
“Sure. Of course.”
“You have to be the one who answers that call, Agent McCoy.You have to be sure he gets on that flight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Work him over. Basic questioning. Quiz him.”
“Understood, sir. I’ll be on the call that day.”
“Good.” He nods at McCoy. “That’s all, Agent.” He turns to afile on his desk, then looks up again at his subordinate, who has not moved.“Something else, McCoy?”
“Only-” McCoy clears her throat. “I was only thinking, sir,that there might be some casualties. Some innocents.”
“Lose a few to save a lot.” Shiels sighs. “I don’t have abetter answer than that.”
And McCoy didn’t expect a better answer. She knows therules. Anyone playing with fire-whatever team they’re playing on-knows therisks. Ram Haroon. Allison Pagone. Sam Dillon. Mat Pagone. Not to mention-
“Needless to say,” says Shiels, “let’s get this right.”
ONE DAY EARLIER…
It’s a small high-rise on the West Side. Ten units, five oneach side of the skinny, dilapidated building. McCoy has spent more than hershare of time on this side of the city; she worked in controlled substanceswhen she started out with the Bureau. Tough gig. She hated it, especiallytaking the users into custody. You typically busted the users to get to thedealers, but that didn’t mean the addicts walked. It was preferable, no doubt,to take them in and try to rehabilitate them, but she could never shake theunease of putting cuffs on people who were in the grip of addiction.
And now she’s back. Back on the grimy sidewalks, back by thesmall-loan shops, the convenience stores advertising phone cards and cigaretteson the metal fencing that covers their windows, the broken-down automobileslining the curbs. She sees too many youths running around for a school day. Thestreets are pocked with deep potholes, the traffic signs are painted withgraffiti. A car alarm is going off the next street over. She hears two womenyelling at each other in a low-rise above her, through a closed window.
So many problems, it’s suffocating to even consider where tobegin.
“I’m going,” McCoy says, turning her face toward the collarof her leather jacket. She doesn’t work undercover, but this is hardly astretch for her-jeans and a baseball cap-and she wants to have the conversationpersonally. She’s not as out-of-place on this particular block; many parts ofthe West Side, contrary to popular opinion, are racially heterogeneous. Thewhites around these parts are heavily ethnic, first-generation EasternEuropeans, mostly, along with Koreans, Latinos, and African Americans. So shedoesn’t fit in precisely, but she’s not off by much.
McCoy takes the length of the street, then turns at thecrosswalk and moves to the east side of the avenue. An Asian grocer is sweepingthe sidewalk outside his place. A young, very pregnant woman in a wool cap iswaddling toward her.
McCoy blows a bubble with her gum. The heels are a bituncomfortable but it fits the scene, so she works it as best she can. She getsthe attention of one boy, an African American kid sitting on a stoop, playingwith a deck of cards that rests on the step below him. It’s not much of an egoboost; the kid looks about thirteen.
Still, she winks at him for a response.
“Lookin’ good, my woman,” he says in a squeaky,preadolescent voice.
Good. She has just about passed him and continues on a stepor two, before turning back and facing the boy. “Hey, handsome,” she says,working the gum some more. A little flirtation does wonders on a kid this age.“Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“Oh, man,” he squeaks. He lifts the deck of cards, thenproceeds to drop three of them on the step between his feet. He shows her onecard-the three of clubs-and starts shuffling the three cards around with ratheramazing speed and agility. “Tell me where it lands, pretty lady.”
McCoy chuckles for his benefit and takes the opportunity,while he works his trick, to inventory the boy. A flashy Starter jacket withhood, gloves sticking out of his pockets, leather high-tops, an open cigar boxby his feet that holds a few dollars and some change. He’s keeping a little inthe box-singles and a few quarters-to make the game look low-stakes. The restis probably in his sock, but that’s of no concern to her.
Of concern to her is the gym bag to his immediate right.
The boy stops, shows his palms, and looks up at McCoytriumphantly. The three cards are lined up next to each other between his feet.There is no money involved here. He’s just showing off.
