himself. If one division of the government had concerns, they would eventually share it with the Secret Service, and Tuman’s carefully scripted plans could all be exposed in one fell swoop.
And, adding to his nervousness, the People’s Consulate had called him. Oh, they had no idea of his plans, of course. They were as blind as bats. But they had called him, concerned about the inquiries of the American government. What, they wanted to know, was “Marcus Lee” doing to attract so much attention?
Tuman approached al-Libbi and said for the benefit of any Secret Service ears that might be listening: “You’re wrecking my morning glories. Please stop hacking them up!”
Al-Libbi turned toward him, a light sheen of sweat on his face, his dark eyes gleaming in the sun. He actually seemed to be enjoying this work. He nodded, tipped his cap, and went back to work.
“We have to call it off,” Tuman whispered.
The terrorist stopped his attack on the hedge. “What?”
“First the Federal agent. Now my own consulate is calling me. I don’t like it.”
Al-Libbi jabbed the head of the clippers into the grass and rested his hands on the two extended handles. “For a man who worked as a double agent inside China for twenty years, you are very jumpy.”
“I listen to my instincts,” Tuman replied. “I convinced them for years that I had left my ethnic loyalties behind, that I was a party member first, a Uygur second. I could always sense when someone didn’t believe me and I have that sense now. Someone out there knows that I’ve helped ETIM, and sooner or later that person is going to tell
“Don’t worry about them,” al-Libbi said. He leaned over the handles of his clippers. “Listen, my friend, it is too late to stop this.”
“It is not too late,” Tuman insisted. “We’ll refund your money.”
“Really?” al-Libbi replied in his perfect American tones. “Did you really think I was going through all this for two million dollars?” He smiled. “I took this job because it will put me back where I belong.”
“At the top of the most wanted list?”
The small smile widened across his face. “Two lists: most wanted by Western governments, most wanted by Middle Eastern employers.”
“It can’t happen now.” Tuman stepped around so that his body blocked any view from the living room. A small semiautomatic had appeared in his hand.
11. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5 P.M. AND 6 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
Mercy drove away from UCLA Medical Center in her borrowed Crown Vic, her arm still stinging and stiff where they’d drawn the blood. As soon as the coroner and more officers had arrived at the house on Fourteenth Street, Mercy had evacuated herself to the hospital. Few of the words Copeland had spoken made sense to her, but the word
She had to get back to her desk and regroup. Her original case had been the investigation of Gordon Gleed’s death. Her intuition now told her that Copeland wasn’t responsible for his murder, at least not directly. Frankie Michaelmas had done it. She seemed to have a fetish for bludgeoning people to death, and, following her practice of instant impressions, Mercy sensed that Michaelmas was far more violent in her heart than Copeland was. Frankie was her target, but Frankie had proved elusive.
Mercy stepped on the accelerator.
Ayman al-Libbi smiled at the gun as though it might have been a bouquet of flowers or a borrowed book. “Are you going to shoot me?” he said calmly. “That will expose you as much as any rocket attack.”
“I’m a hero,” said Tuman, who had thought of this option long ago. “I stopped a wanted terrorist who had somehow slipped past the Federal agents.”
“You waved me through the door,” al-Libbi said. “You told them I was all right. Don’t you think they’ll ask about that?”
Tuman continued to spin his story. “You killed the agents first. I managed to get you while you were focused on them.”
The terrorist nodded appreciatively. “So you’ll kill them and frame me after I’m dead. It’s a good story. It will work. And here’s your opportunity.” Al-Libbi’s eyes lifted up to look over Tuman’s shoulder.
Tuman didn’t go for the bluff. Not really. But his eyes flicked to their corners for just a fraction of a second. That was all the time al-Libbi needed. His left hand grabbed the gun while his right hand struck at Tuman’s face, the fingers stabbing into his eyes. Before the Uygur could even squeal, al-Libbi was holding the gun. But he couldn’t use it without alerting the guards inside. As Tuman staggered back, holding his eyes, the terrorist pocketed the gun and picked up clippers. They stabbed like a snake’s head. The first blow sliced the Uygur’s hands, which were covering his face. Tuman recoiled from them instinctively, exposing his throat. The killer stabbed again.
Al-Libbi left Nurmamet Tuman gurgling on the grass, his throat frothing blood, and walked calmly inside to deal with the Secret Service agents.
Jack’s agency SUV rolled up to a parking space a block from the Cat & Fiddle.
“Wait,” he said, pressing his hand over Jessi’s forearm. His eyes flicked from the rearview mirror to the side view and back. He watched cars roll past them.
“What?” Jessi asked. She was already nervous. Bauer’s silent company during their drive had raised her tension even more.
The red Camaro Jack was watching rolled past with a single driver inside. He’d seen it twice during their drive, or at least he’d seen two Camaros that looked the same. Camaros were popular with a certain type, but Jack didn’t like seeing two of them. The first time he’d seen them there’d been a driver and a passenger. Classic surveillance procedures involved two or more automobiles that alternated the pursuit.
Either Jack had seen two very similar vehicles, or he was being followed by a team that had cycled through too quickly.
“Nothing,” he said at last. “I’ll go in first. Wait a few minutes, then come in. You’ll do fine.”
He waited for her to nod, then exited the car and hurried up to the Cat & Fiddle’s door. Inside it was dark and cool, and would have been smoke-filled in the days when California allowed smoking. The Cat & Fiddle had a blue-collar feel that appealed to its upscale crowd. Jack hunched his shoulders a bit as he entered, being someone who’d had a hard day at the office. He didn’t bother to look around, even though he caught a flash of white at the bar. There would be time for that. He knew immediately which booth he wanted — a corner table with a view of all the ins and outs, and near the emergency exit, but it was taken by a man in a blue T-shirt. There were many other empty booths, so he took one in the corner near the bar. ESPN was playing on both televisions. A waitress in her forties gave him a menu, but he ordered a beer and watched MLS soccer. Watching television gave him an excuse to keep his chin up and his eyes looking out across the room. He saw the woman in white now, and he decided it was safe to stare for a while. He couldn’t see her face, but he could see the Japanese tattoo on the small of her back where it peeked over the top of her low-slung white skirt. She was blond, with narrow shoulders and long arms. It would have been a giveaway if he didn’t stare at her.
Jack forced his mind into the present. This had to happen before the next thing, like firing a weapon: first load, then acquire, then fire, then assess. The virus was in Kim. They had no cure, but someone did, and he was going to find them. The way to find them was to focus on this…
Jessi walked in. She turned a few heads as she walked to the bar. One of those heads belonged to the man in a blue T-shirt and a buzz cut. He went right back to sipping his beer, but his eyes had lingered on Jessi a little too long, and Jack knew that Anastasia Odolova had a babysitter.
