5. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 A.M. AND 2 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
Jack was treated like a guest. Yuri directed him to a private restroom in the back of the tavern. The old man even provided bandages and disinfectant for Jack’s cuts and scrapes. As he was cleaning up, Jack heard engines outside in the parking lot. There were no windows in the bathroom, so he toweled off his face and slipped his shirt over his head.
In a typical New York neighborhood, shots fired in a bar would have brought down police, ambulances, press, and maybe even a fire engine. Since the gunfight here, however, the only sirens Jack had heard were in the far distance — the likely response to the JFK plane crash.
Tatiana’s itself was isolated, the lone occupied building along a stretch of auto graveyards and vacant lots. The only way police would have known about the gunfire was if one of the patrons had called 911, and Tatiana’s patrons clearly wanted as little to do with the police as its owner. So Jack wasn’t all that surprised when he discovered the vehicles that had pulled up outside were not part of any government arm — local, state, or federal.
Yuri met Jack at the door and escorted him into the tavern area. The space was now filled with a dozen men, young and old, lean and fat. All of them appeared to be Eastern European, with blond hair, fair skin, and light eyes. They spoke to one another in Ukrainian. The bodies of Arete’s men were gone. Alexi’s corpse had vanished as well. The men swept the floor, moved broken tables and chairs outside. A carpenter hammered at the shattered, bloodstained floorboards. Others were slapping plaster and fresh paint on the bullet-riddled walls, while two bearded men, armed with AK–47s, guarded the entrance.
Georgi Timko waved Jack forward. “Too much noise in here. Come with me.”
Timko’s office seemed small for such a large man. Behind an old steel desk with an ancient Macintosh computer, a window looked out on a dark, deserted plot of weedy land. The chairs were comfortable, and the tea — hot and so sugary it was nearly the consistency of syrup — was surprisingly stimulating.
Also on the desk was Jack’s watch, PDA, and CDD satellite communicator, which looked just like a normal cell phone. Timko slid the objects to Jack.
“You can have these back, my friend. No guns, though. Not yet. We’ve had enough shooting for tonight.”
After some verbal sparring, Jack told Timko enough of the truth to make the man trust him. Timko freely admitted he operated a number of criminal enterprises, but denied any involvement in terrorist activities.
“That kind of thing is political, Mr. Jack Bauer. Since I came to America, I promised myself never to get involved in politics. It’s a dirty business.”
“Then why did Dante Arete’s Posse try to kill you?”
Timko shrugged. “I think it may have something to do with the other men you spoke of. The Lynch brothers.”
“The men in the Mercedes?”
The big man nodded. “I know them very well. They are not above assassination.”
“Tell me more.”
“The Lynch boys showed up…maybe a year ago. They went into business with the Columbia Street Posse around the same time. Griff Lynch came to me a few weeks ago, offered a business opportunity. I turned him down. But from his reaction, I’d say not many people have said no to Mr. Griffin Lynch.”
“What kind of business opportunity did he offer you?”
“Something about airports and smuggling. He was looking for men with experience in certain types of weapons.”
“Like shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles?”
Timko shrugged. “He didn’t elaborate.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “But Georgi, you seem to be an intelligent businessman looking for an opportunity to make a buck. Why did you refuse this one?”
“The deal sounded political,” Timko replied. “As I said before. I never get involved in politics.”
The office door opened. Yuri entered. The assault rifle was slung over the old man’s shoulder. In his arms he carried a tray.
“Ah, hot food at last,” sighed Georgi. “Please join me, Mr. Jack Bauer. I don’t know about you, but nothing makes me hungrier than getting shot at— especially when they miss, eh?”
The place was nearly empty, the last customer trading jibes with Donnie Murphy at the bar. The pub was dim now that the bright sign in the window had been extinguished; the mahogany bar and booths, the oak paneling on the walls, the framed black-and-white photographs of forgotten boxers, baseball players, and local entertainers all seemed to absorb the light that remained.
“I got to tell you, Donnie. I took a bath on those damned Mets tonight,” said Pat, a balding man with a well- known penchant for gambling.
“What can you do?” said Donnie in his rich baritone voice. “It’s the fortunes of war. You place your bet and you take what comes.”
With stooped shoulders, short-cropped gray hair, watery blue eyes and a loping limp, Donnie looked more like a senior citizen coaching a Little League team than the ex-con, ex-Westie turned pub owner. Only a few knew that Donnie’s limp was the result of a vicious kneecapping masterminded by a prison rival decades before.
Alone at a table counting the evening’s paltry tips, Caitlin sipped a cup of tepid tea. She’d only heard rumors about Donnie’s past as an Irish gangster and enforcer on the West Side of Manhattan, though it was no secret he’d spent a decade or more in New York’s notorious Sing Sing prison. Caitlin generally disregarded the rumors. She knew Donnie only as a generous and irascible old man who gave her the first real job she had in America, and a place where she and her brother could live when they were down and out and desperate.
“ ’Night, Pat, see you tomorrow,” Donnie called. “And next time, bet on the home team.”
The New York Mets game — broadcast live from the West Coast — had ended half an hour before, and the pub had pretty much emptied out after a few celebratory rounds. On the television behind the bar, the post-game highlights had been replaced by silent images of an airplane crash at John F. Kennedy Airport.
Caitlin pushed an unruly strand of red-gold hair away from her face, messaged a neck that ached from carrying trays all night. With a sigh she rolled the bills up in a napkin and thrust the wad into her blouse. Once milky and smooth, Caitlin’s pale skin was now sallow and uneven. Her formerly lustrous hair was frizzy and tangled. Her generous mouth frowned more than it smiled, and her lipstick — too red— exaggerated the emotion on her tired face.
The baby fat of her adolescence had melted away unnoticed in the past few months. Her long legs, once shapely, seemed thin and white under the short black skirt. But some of the changes were really improvements — age lent character and beauty to her face, her finely chiseled cheekbones more pronounced, green eyes large and lively despite the lines of exhaustion that edged them. Still, at twenty-two, Caitlin thought she was beginning to look — and feel — middleaged.
“Better lock up, Caitlin,” said Donnie. “Then get to bed.”
Before she could rise, the bell over the stout oak door dinged once as it swung open. Caitlin’s heart sunk when she saw Shamus Lynch on the threshold. Shamus had said he might stop by, but it was so late Caitlin, dared hope for a respite. But he was here now, a silver metal attache case clutched in his hand.
Shamus pretended not to notice Caitlin, greeting Donnie and accepting a Sam Adams. Caitlin rose, carried the cold cup behind the bar, and dumped the tea into the sink. As he took his first gulp, Shamus caught her eye, winked. The smile Caitlin returned was forced. When Shamus waved her over a moment later, Donnie diplomatically moved to the opposite end of the bar and raised the volume on the television.
Shamus slipped his arm around Caitlin’s hips. “Miss me?”
“Depends,” said Caitlin. “Were you gone?”
Shamus planted a wet kiss on her lips, smearing her lipstick. Caitlin did not resist. Shamus rested his hand on
