tormentor's grasp? It hardly seemed possible.
And yet, as he watched him listening to the recording with his eyes closed, stopping it here and there to rewind and hear again a sentence or phrase, he became aware of the man's quiet confidence, of a hint of furnace-hot intensity roaring beneath his ordinary surface. And Munir began to see that perhaps there was a purpose behind Jack's manner of dress, his whole demeanor being slanted toward unobtrusiveness. He realized that this man could dog your steps all day and you would never notice him.
Munir's thoughts wandered to the question that had dogged him for days: Why me?
He wasn't rich. He wasn't important. He kept to himself. He did not write insulting blogs. He had no public or online identity. Because Arabs and Islam were viewed with suspicion in America, he kept a low profile. He was almost as invisible as Jack.
Why me?
Unless it was Allah's doing. Munir admitted that he had not been an observant Muslim. Worse, he, Barbara, and Robby celebrated Christmas these past few years. Not because of Barbara, who was an infidel as far as any religion was concerned, but because of Robby. They celebrated the secular aspects of Christmas, with the tree and the gifts and the Santa Claus fantasy. They were all Americans, and Christmas was an American holiday.
Had that drawn Allah's wrath? The Koran said that any man who renounces Islam must be killed. He had not renounced his faith, but he had certainly ignored it for many years. Was that why he was being tortured rather than killed?
The recording ended then. Jack pressed the stop button and stared at the phone.
'Something screwy here,' he said finally.
'What do you mean?'
'He hates you.'
'Yes, I know. He hates all Arabs. He's said so, many times.'
'No. He hates you.'
'Of course. I'm an Arab.'
What was he getting at?
'But this almost seems personal. I get a feeling there's more going on here than just nine/eleven or you being an Arab or any of the bullshit he's been handing you.'
Personal? No. It wasn't possible. He had never met anyone, had never been even remotely acquainted with a person who would do this to him and his family.
'I do not believe it.' His voice sounded hoarse. 'It cannot be.'
Jack leaned forward, his voice low. 'Think about it. In the space of a few days this guy has made you offend your God, offend other people, humiliate yourself, and who knows what next? There's real nastiness here, Munir. Cold, calculated malice. Especially this business of making you eat pork and drink beer at noon on Friday when a good Muslim is supposed to be at the mosque. I didn't know you had to pray on Fridays at noon, but he did. That tells me he knows more than a little about your religion-studying up on it, most likely. He's not playing this by ear. He's got a plan. He's not putting you through this 'wringer' of his just for the hell of it.'
'What can he possibly gain from tormenting me?'
'Torment, hell. This guy's out to destroy you. And as for gain, I'm guessing on revenge.'
'For what?' This was so maddening. 'I fear you are getting off course with this idea that somehow I know this insane man.'
'Maybe. But something he said during your last conversation doesn't sit right. He said he was being 'a lot more generous than you'd ever be.' That's not a remark a stranger would make. And then he said 'faux pas' a little while after. He's trying to sound like a redneck but I don't know too many rednecks with faux pas in their vocabulary.'
'But that doesn't necessarily mean he knows me personally.'
'You said you run a department in this oil company.'
'Yes. Saud Petrol. I told you: I'm head of IT.'
'Which means you've got to hire and fire, I imagine.'
'Of course.' Munir felt a chill. 'A Saud employee?'
'That's my guess,' Jack said. 'Look in your personnel records. That's where you'll find this kook. He's the proverbial Disgruntled Employee. Or Former Employee. Or Almost Employee. Someone you fired, someone you didn't hire, or someone you passed over for promotion. I'd go with the first-some people get very personal about being fired.'
Munir searched his past for any confrontations with members of his department. He could think of only one and that was so minor Jack was pushing the phone across the desk.
'Call the cops,' he said.
Fear wrapped thick fingers around Munir's throat and squeezed. 'No! He'll find out! He'll -'
'I'd like to help you, pal, but it wouldn't be fair. You need more than I can give you. You need officialdom. You need a squad of paper shufflers doing background checks on the people past and present in your department. I'm a one-man shop. No staff, no access to fingerprint files. You need all of that and more if you're going to get your family through this. The FBI's good at this stuff. They can stay out of sight, work in the background while you deal with this guy up front.'
'But-'
He rose and clapped a hand on Munir's shoulder.
'I'd like to catch this guy for you, really I would, because he sounds like scum. I'd like to tie him up in a room and leave you alone with him. But I sense time growing short and I'm not the guy to find him before he does something really nasty to you, your wife, or boy. You need help with staff. That's not me. So I'm going to do you a favor.'
'What?'
'I'm going to walk out that door and let you call the feds. They're what you need, not me.'
And then he walked out of the room and out of the apartment.
He was right, Munir knew that, but still he wanted to cry.
10
The number on the fax had had a 212 area code, which put it in Manhattan. So Eddie had called the Order's New York headquarters-a private number, members only. The man who answered the phone had tried to get out of meeting in person, but Eddie had insisted. Whoever was looking for Weezy had a face and Eddie wanted to see it. He was given the address of an 'administrative office' in a medium-rise building in midtown where he found an elderly woman at a reception desk. The familiar seal of the Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order had been painted on the wall behind her.
She'd led him to a room and told him that someone would be with him shortly. Shortly turned out to be almost immediately.
'Brother Connell?' said a voice behind him. 'I am Claude Fournier.'
Eddie's pulse jumped as he turned. He hadn't heard the door open. A tall, fiftyish man, painfully thin and dressed in a brown leather coat and dark slacks stepped toward him. He looked as if he had just come in off the street. He extended a long-fingered hand.
Eddie surreptitiously wiped his sweaty palm on his thigh before shaking the proffered hand. The man reeked of tobacco smoke.
'Yes, my name is Connell, but you're not the man I spoke to.'
A blue-black mole sat dead center in Fournier's chin. Eddie tried to keep his eyes off it.
'No. He is busy. We are all busy. What can you tell us about Louise Myers? Do you know where she is?'
'No.'
He frowned. 'Then why this insistence on a face-to-face meeting?'
'The woman you're looking for is my sister.'
