like you guys needed our help.”
“Wasn’t me, Chet. Captain Schneider’s the gung-ho jarhead.”
Chet chuckled. “Maybe CTU should sign the lady up.”
Tony couldn’t hide his irritation. Captain Schneider holstered her weapon, helped the prisoner out of the chair. Blackburn noticed a long decorative chain dangling from the man’s belt. He reached out and tore it off, rolled the silver links around his leathery black hand.
Saito studied the faces around him, then displayed an arrogant smirk. “This has been a lot of fun and all—” He winked at Jessica. “Especially meeting you, missy. But right now I need to confer with legal counsel.”
Hands in his pocket, eyes downcast, Jack entered the grocery store. Brass bells chimed as he pushed through the door. The interior of the store was surprisingly small and cramped. Narrow aisles and far too many goods piled one atop the other made the place feel claustrophobic. There was a vast array of products jammed into a limited space, but unlike most New York delicatessens, which copiously stocked beer, wine, and malt liquor in their refrigerator cases, no spirits of any kind were here — only soft drinks and dairy products. Jack wasn’t surprised since alcohol was forbidden to Muslims.
Behind refrigerated glass at the deli counter, Jack saw tubs of water-soaked feta; trays of black, brown, and green olives; stuffed grape leaves; hummus; mast — a kind of Afghan yogurt — flat
Somewhere a radio was playing, the volume low. The announcer spoke Dari, a common language in Afghan cities. From his quick reading of the CTU dossier in his PDA, Jack knew the Khalil brothers were nomadic Pashtuns by birth, so their first language was Pashto. Nomadic Pashtuns were raised according to an ancient tribal code called Pashtunwali, which stressed honor, courage, bold action, and self-reliance. They were also warriors by tradition, and undoubtedly by bitter experience, given the recent Soviet actions in Afghanistan.
Behind the register, a tall, thin man with a gray-streaked beard and an Afghan turban sat on a high stool. Jack waited patiently until a Hispanic man in a security guard’s uniform paid for a copy of the
“Excuse me. I’m looking for Taj. Is he here now?”
The man barely glanced at Jack. His eyes were deep brown, reflective. They were the eyes of an aesthetic, not a terrorist.
“Who is asking?”
“My name is Shamus Lynch. I need to see Taj. I have something for him. ”
The man’s gaze grew suspicious and he did not reply. The moment stretched, until Jack began to think his masquerade had failed.
“Go to the door at the back of the store,” the man said at last. “Follow the stairs to the basement.”
Jack nodded, walked through the aisles to the rear of the market. When he was out of sight, the turbaned man reached under the register and pressed a button.
A few moments later Jack reached the bottom of the rickety and uneven wooden stairs. The three-story building that housed the market was more than a century old, so the basement walls were made of crumbling sandstone, the floor bare earth, covered here and there with rotting planks. The ceiling was so low, Jack had to crouch a bit to move around. For illumination two glowing bulbs dangled from wires wrapped around the plumbing. The place was dark, damp, and stank of mildew. Instead of a large, expansive area, the basement had been partitioned into sections by walls fabricated from unfinished wood already beginning to rot.
“Hello,” Jack called softly.
From the partition behind him, a fist lashed out, cuffing Jack on the side of the head. The blow was not meant to kill, or even stun him, just put him down. It worked.
The man who’d struck emerged from the shadows, pinned Jack to the floor. He wore an Afghan skullcap, his scraggly beard dangled in Jack’s face. One of his front teeth was missing and his hot breath reeked.
Jack did not struggle, even when a second and third man emerged from the shadows. One was a youth, his face twitching nervously. The other was past middle age, stocky and powerfully built. He also wore a turban, along with a clean if slightly shabby suit and a too-wide-to-be-fashionable tie. This man knelt next to Jack and fumbled through his pockets until he located a wallet. Inside the worn black leather he found cash, several credit cards, and a New York driver’s license, all belonging to Shamus Lynch.
The older man lowered a lightbulb from the ceiling and shined it into Jack’s face. Blinking against the glare, Jack wondered if his passing resemblance to Shamus Lynch — along with the fact that he held the man’s ID — would be enough to convince these men he was the real deal. Though Jack could not see beyond the light in his eyes, he heard footsteps and knew more men had arrived.
“It must be him,” someone grunted.
“As I said. Who else could it be?” the older man replied.
The man pinning Jack to the floor rolled off, then stood. He extended his hand, helped Jack to his feet. Jack rubbed the glare out of his eyes, focused hard to pierce the darkness. Soon he discerned five men surrounding him. Two were armed with U.S. Army— issue.45s, a third man had an AK–47 slung over his shoulder. Jack scanned the crude wooden walls around him, but could not figure out where the others had come from.
The older man closed the wallet, returned it to Jack.
“I am sorry for the rough treatment, Mr. Lynch. We had to be sure you are who you say you are.”
Liam jerked awake, glanced at his watch. He’d been dozing for nearly thirty minutes. At Times Square there’d been a long delay because of bollixed-up track work. He’d waited forever to transfer from the Number 7 to the 2. Now the subway ride to Brooklyn was moving slower than bottled shite. He sat on a dead-still train in a dark tunnel between two stations. Which stations? He couldn’t be sure since he couldn’t remember when he’d fallen asleep.
Hugging the metal case in his lap, he sat up in the orange plastic seat and stretched his jeans-covered legs. The train started up again, rumbling toward the next station. He rubbed his tired eyes, fighting fatigue. For a long time during the seemingly endless underground journey, Liam had kept himself awake by visualizing all the stuff he was going to buy with the money Shamus was paying him.
New tackies first, he’d decided — not the gacky no-name brand from the discount store. Maybe a pair of Air Jordans, black with blue stripes. And a pair of new shoes for Caitlin, too. She was always complaining about how much her feet ached after working twelve hours in the boozer.
Liam’s biggest dream was to own one of those new MP3 players. Two of his friends from St. Sebastian’s had them, and they were downloading free music from their computers all the time. Liam thought that was bleedin’ deadly. Of course, he didn’t even own a computer so for now, having an MP3 would only work if he used his friends’ machines. But if Shamus let him work the summer in his store, who knows? He might be able to afford a used PC and an MP3 before school started in the fall. That would be bloody brilliant.
Soon the train began to slow; the metal-on-metal screech of the brakes drowned out the garbled station announcement that simultaneously crackled over the intercom. Liam sat up, gazing through the window to see which station they were pulling into. Finally he saw the platform, the dirty beige ceramic tiles lining the walls. Then a strip of black tiles spelling out the name of the stop: Hoyt Street.
The train slowed as the conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom.
“Attention passengers, attention passengers. This train is going out of service. Hoyt Street is the last stop on this train. Anyone wishing to continue on to Atlantic Avenue, exit here and wait for the next available train. We are sorry for the inconvenience.”
Liam stood, still groggy. Clutching the overhead rail, he moved to the door as the train squealed to a stop. The doors slid aside and Liam stepped onto the concrete platform. No one else exited the train, and he saw no one else on the platform. He discovered he was far from the nearest exit — two or three subway car lengths, at least.
The doors closed again. With a hiss the brakes were released and the train lumbered forward, gaining speed as it moved into the tunnel. Finally it disappeared, a steady blast of air in its wake. When the noise of the subway
