let me see him, but he talked like an American. He only wanted a little for himself. The rest he said to sell to Dog and Dean.”
“How did he know them?” Jack asked.
“Don’t know. They weren’t the same type, that’s for sure. And they didn’t know my guy at all. They kept talking about Mark or Mike or something, but that definitely wasn’t the guy who arranged the whole thing.”
“What was he going to do with it?”
“Are you kidding me?”
Jack wasn’t kidding. He cut another red line across the arms dealer’s forehead. But he doubted Farrigian could answer his question. The mastermind behind the C–4 had gone to great lengths to keep the authorities busy with other problems. There was no way he would tell his master plan to the likes of this.
“What did you to do Diana Christie?” Jack asked.
“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even meet her. I made you guys when you came last time. I didn’t trust you, but you weren’t my problem, you were Dean’s, so I sent you to him. Guys want to pay me to keep my mouth shut, they pay me, right? Otherwise it’s the law of the jungle. When she came back, the boss man was here to meet her, not me. Did they kill her?”
“Eventually,” Jack said. “Oh, man, look, none of this is my thing. I just buy and sell, you know?” Jack asked how much C–4 the mysterious leader had kept for himself. Jamey Farrell would have been pleased when Farrigian said, “About ten pounds.”
Marwan al-Hassan had one more act to perform before leaving for the Unity Conference, a sort of purification ritual. Slowly, carefully, he slid his left arm out of its sling. Then he began to unwrap the bandage that covered his arm. It took several minutes, and every movement was painful, but he forced himself to continue until the bandage was gone. His forearm looked sickly and pale, but under long sleeves it would not be noticeable. There would be pain, but the pain was a small price to pay for the glory that was to come.
Jack’s phone rang. “Harry, what’s happening? Are you at the coroner’s office?”
“Yeah, and you need to get down here. Now.”
“They did the autopsy?”
“Yeah, but you need to see this to believe it.”
18. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11 A.M. AND 12 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
Security for the Unity Conference was subtle but efficient. Guests passed through two sets of metal detectors in the lobby and took a specially designated elevator to the top floor, where Swiss Guards dressed in elegant black suits politely relieved all guests of their unnecessary bags and coats. As they did, a hidden camera snapped a high- resolution photo of their faces and a computer matched it against a predetermined guest list. Guards surreptitiously passed swatches of chemically treated cloth over some part of each guest, and the swatches were casually passed back to a coatroom that had been turned into a laboratory. The swatches were examined — one that turned black indicated the presence of explosive agents.
The man who called himself Abdul al-Hassan passed casually through all this security, even patiently allowing the Swiss Guards to probe his arm sling. The only moment of trouble he had was walking through the second metal detector, which, unbeknownst to him, was set at a higher sensitivity. The detector made no sound, but a single light went off on the far side of the metal frame, and a young man in Armani smoothly gestured for al-Hassan to step to the side.
“Do you have any metal on you, sir?” he asked in lightly accented English.
“Metal?” al-Hassan said. “No. The other detector didn’t—”
The young man smiled. “They are temperamental sometimes.” He held up a metal wand. “May I?” Before al-Hassan could respond, he began to wave the handheld detector over the attendee. The wand hummed steadily until the guard passed it over alHassan’s arm.
“Ah,” he said. “I broke my arm. There is a metal plate in there.”
The guard nodded. He gently fingered the cloth sling again, and then waved al-Hassan through.
“Can you believe the security here?” said a woman who appeared suddenly beside him.
Marwan al-Hassan knew immediately that this was a Jew. Only his training kept the look of disdain off his face. “Necessary, I suppose.” He turned away from her.
“Well, no need to be rude, Mr. al-Hassan,” the woman said. “Are you saying you don’t remember me?”
Marwan looked at her calmly, but he felt his heart pound against the side of his neck. Could he be undone so quickly? “I’m sorry?” “Amy Weiss.” The woman laughed. “I interviewed you on Thursday about the conference.” “Ah, of course,” he said apologetically. “I’m so sorry. The last few days have been very hectic.”
“I’m sure,” Amy Weiss said. “That’s just twice now, after I did that story on your peace efforts after the ’93 bombing.”
Marwan fought the urge to squeeze her neck until her head popped off. “We all have our failings,” he said sweetly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Boo McElroy had never picked up his room as a kid, so now he was stuck picking up trash on Interstate 5. Boo (his real name was Bradley, but no one called him that) didn’t have the vocabulary to use the word
Until he got caught robbing a 7-Eleven, his third robbery since turning eighteen. Now he was serving a year in county, and working off some of that time wearing an orange vest and raking up trash along the freeway with a crew of cons.
He couldn’t believe how much shit people tossed out of their cars. Come on, he tossed a bottle or can now and then, but his own personal shit couldn’t amount to much. It was all these other bastards who treated the city like it was a toilet.
He used his poker to jab a can and then lift it up into his trash bag. He moved on and saw a large canvas bag. It was his size and half covered in dust and leaves. It looked full. Well, hell, he thought, no way was he picking up that big thing. They couldn’t make him—
He stopped mid-gripe and blinked. He used his poker to push aside some leaves.
There was a cold, gray hand sticking out of the bag.
Jack saw Harry Driscoll waiting outside the door of the forensics lab.
“What couldn’t you tell me over the phone?” Jack asked, slightly annoyed.
“Inside,” Harry said. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. You have to see it.”
Jack followed Harry inside, where they were both greeted by a woman in a lab coat who introduced herself as Dr. Siegman. She looked astounded and fascinated and was clearly eager to get back to the autopsy room. Outside, they donned surgical masks, then entered.
The naked corpse of the priest lay on the examination table. Its left arm had been cut open and splayed out.
“This is why we wanted you to come down,” the coroner said. “Look at the arm.”
Jack approached the table and looked at the sickeningly butchered arm. The bone was exposed, but along the bone there was a steel plate, around which had been packed strips of what looked like very wet putty.
“C–4?” Jack asked. Siegman shrugged. “That’s not my field, but from what the detective tells me, that may be the case.”
Siegman picked up a probe and used it to push aside some of the dead tissue. “Look how it’s designed. A plate like this is normally used to brace a badly broken bone. But this one is a lot weaker. And look how the explosives are packed in there. I think if this were to explode, all this metal would go flying outward.”
