That wasn’t exactly true, but the fact that Vince had once stood up to a crazed hostage taker and negotiated for Theo’s release wasn’t the driving force here. “This isn’t about who owes what to whom,” said Jack.
Her eyes welled. “You couldn’t be more wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you understand? I owe everybody. I betrayed my husband. The lover I took turned out to be the man who murdered our daughter. Vince lost his sight trying to save McKenna from him. It’s time for me to step up and do something about it.”
Jack couldn’t argue with her feelings.
“I’ll make the delivery,” she said. “That’s final.”
Jack followed her through the revolving door, and they climbed into the back of the cab. Shada announced the address.
“Bengali Town?” the driver said. “Nothing much open up that way at two A.M.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Shada. “Hurry, please.”
Chapter Sixty-seven
The cell rang just as the Dark finished untying the ropes. He pressed the gun to Paulo’s forehead and checked the incoming number. It was Littleton calling from his encrypted line at Black Ice. The Dark took it, but only briefly.
“I’m not alone,” he said. “Call me back in ten minutes.”
He tucked his cell away and started retying the knots.
“What are you doing?” asked Paulo. “I have to use the bathroom.”
“You’re just going to have to wait.”
He pulled the rope snug and placed duct tape over Paulo’s mouth. “Just a precaution,” said the Dark. “Like I told you: Yell, scream, kick, and stomp all you want. We’re the only ones in this building.”
He tucked his pistol into his belt and locked the door on his way out. There was an emergency stairwell at the end of the hall, and the LED on his key chain provided sufficient light to find it. The lock on the fire door at street level was busted-probably the work of vagrants-making it easy to come and go. He stepped into the cold night and checked things out. Traffic was nonexistent, and the wet pavement glistened in the fuzzy glow of streetlights. Hanging out in front of the abandoned hotel could draw the attention of the police, so he walked to the corner and waited for Littleton’s call.
The neighborhood was in late-night lockdown, storefronts hidden behind roll-down security shutters or accordion-style metal doors. A stray cat scurried past him on the sidewalk and disappeared into a burned-out shell of a condemned building. Windows in the flats above the shops were dark, save for one. Standing on the corner, he could see right inside. A television threw more than enough light to reveal all to the outside world, and it was surprising how many residents lacked the sense to pull the bedroom shade. Not long ago that the White Chapel rapist had walked these streets. People had short memories. Most people. Not the Dark, especially not when it came to rape-the rape of his youngest sister.
Stop it, the Dark told himself, angry for having allowed his thoughts to turn to his own ugly past. He checked his watch. Four more minutes until Littleton would call back-an eternity when there was nothing to do but dodge his own memories. In his mind’s eye, he could see the tears on her face, the terror in Samira’s eyes.
Her clothes were torn, and when she finally stopped sobbing, he could hear the fear in her voice. She didn’t want to talk, but as he dragged the truth out of her, Habib could almost smell the other men-men she did not know by name, but from her description, the Dark knew it was al-Shabaab. Probably even men he had worked beside in Mogadishu. Habib took his sister to Abukar-Jamal Wakefield’s father-for justice.
“Do you have four male witnesses?” asked Abukar.
“Samira was raped,” said Habib. “The only witnesses are the men who did this to her.”
“Have these men confessed?”
“The punishment is death,” Habib said. “Why on earth would they confess?”
Abukar waved his hand, dismissing them. “Then there is no rape to be punished.”
“What?”
“The law is clear,” said Abukar. “The rapist must confess, or there must be four male witnesses.”
Samira spoke up. “The Koran requires four witnesses to prove that a woman has committed adultery, not to prove that she was raped. You are twisting things for your own purposes.”
“Quiet!”
“You’re twisting it the way Westerners do when they want to defile Islam!” she shouted, her voice shaking.
“Stop, woman!”
“I was raped!”
“Enough with your false accusations!” said Abukar. “You have brought shame on your family.”
“Shame?” said Habib. “Look at her!”
“I’ve seen how she looks at men,” said Abukar, “the way she tempts them. Her thoughts are impure. The shame is on Samira and her family!”
The Dark’s cell rang, jarring him from his memories. It took a moment to shake off the anger-the stinging memory of how, brainwashed by a cunning and convincing older woman chosen by Abukar, Samira had walked into a crowded market in Mogadishu and “cleansed herself” of her shame.
“Go ahead,” the Dark said into his cell phone.
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation,” said Littleton. “We need a plan to recover those files that were taken.”
“That’s impossible. Even if I get the originals back, there is no way to account for every possible copy that could exist. It’s the technological version of trying to put the genie back in the bottle.”
“Damn you, Habib! How could you have been so stupid? You should have destroyed those files!”
Littleton was shouting a string of obscenities, as if that would change the fact that the videos were out there. It only made the Dark angrier. He was a young man who had believed in a cause when, years ago, he’d spent countless hours online for al-Shabaab, studying the state-of-the art encryption methods of pedophiles, trying to duplicate their methods for terrorism. It wasn’t Habib’s fault that, after viewing thousands of explicit videos, sex with underage girls didn’t just seem normal. It became a turn-on. It remained his obsession.
“I don’t understand it, Habib! What in the hell were you thinking?”
What could the Dark tell him? That the cloud had a silver lining? That if Project Round Up hadn’t led Chuck Mays to the black site torture videos that the Dark was trading on the P2P networks, the Dark might never have discovered that Jamal Wakefield was actually Abukar’s son? That this bit of good fortune was the only reason the Dark even bothered to prostrate himself in daily prayers anymore? That it had been worth all the pain and aggravation to show Abukar that he couldn’t even protect his son by harboring him on the run and turning him into Khaled al-Jawar?
It would have been perfect, in fact, had it not been for Vince Paulo and the explosion.
“No more!” he shouted into the phone.
“No more what?” asked Littleton.
“I made myself clear in the last call,” the Dark said. “I warned you that the files were out there. I didn’t need your permission to play my ace in the hole, but I asked for it anyway, which put you on notice that dead cops might be involved. Now it’s every man for himself.”
“So your ace in the hole is what-your exit strategy?”
“Yes. And I suggest you get one. Because in less than eight hours I’m playing my hand, and my ace in the hole will be a dead man.”
He ended the call, tucked away his phone, and started back to the old hotel.
