their neighbors’ houses, right?”
“Or steal cars from potential terrorists,” Tony said.
Jack shook his head in disgust. He had no problem with the juvenile justice system treating kids like kids, but there was a point where you had to draw the line. Sure, some of them came from broken homes and had grown up in terrible environments, but that didn’t really excuse the choices they made. And when it came down to it, the law-abiding citizens of this country were usually the victims of those choices.
Jack had come to believe that some people were just born bad. These kids knew damn well that what they were doing was wrong and couldn’t care less.
So why should anyone else?
Of course, in this case the actions of a bunch of misguided do-gooders might actually work in Jack’s favor. If the kid was due to be released, that meant access, and Jack might finally be able to talk to the punk.
Juvenile court records were routinely kept confidential in California, but Jack had managed to use a back- channel source to get a name and address, and he knew the kid lived with his brother and mother at the Sunnydale projects.
He had tried contacting the mother-Juanita Thomas-shortly after the blast, but her line was a constant busy signal, and he had assumed that he wasn’t the only one looking to do a bedside interview with her son. But now that the focus of the investigation was a bunch of militia wannabes, most of Jack’s colleagues would be centering their attention on the Constitutional Defense Brigade. Which meant, if he was lucky, he might just have the carjacker all to himself.
He looked at Tony. “You interested in a trip to Sunnydale tonight?”
Tony shook his head. “I’m headed to Camp Parks to run a training session. Gotta be up at dawn.”
“So what-you’re leaving me out in the cold?”
“I’d just slow you down anyway. I’m a doddering old man.”
Jack stifled a laugh. “A doddering old man who thinks two hundred knuckle pushups on a hardwood floor are just a warm-up every morning.”
“Sorry, Jack, but duty calls. Besides, if you’re heading into Sunnydale, what you really need is a negotiator. Somebody who knows the area and is a helluva lot easier on the eyes.”
Jack took a moment to process this. “Are you talking about who I think you are?”
Tony grinned. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
9
London, England
“Someone followed me to Sofia,” Haddad said.
He had waited for his imam for over an hour. It had taken some time to reach the decision to tell him about the Turk and the whore, but once Haddad had made up his mind he was anxious to be done with it.
When he first arrived, Imam Zuabi was away from the office and Haddad had grown more and more impatient with each passing minute. He had been to the Muslim Welfare Center and Mosque many times since the day it opened, but events of late were taking their toll on him and he felt little comfort within its walls.
When Zuabi returned, the sun had gone down and it was time for Maghrib — evening prayer. So the two went to the wudu room together and quietly washed their bodies before heading upstairs to kneel before Allah.
Afterward, they returned to Zuabi’s office, and after a few brief pleasantries Haddad broke the news.
“I think they may have traveled with me on the plane to Belgrade,” he said. “That is the only explanation I can think of for their being there. But I wasn’t aware of them until after I arrived in Sofia.”
Zuabi considered this. “Do you know who they were?”
Haddad shook his head. “A Turk and a woman, that’s all I can tell you. I thought she was a Gypsy, but now I’m not so certain.”
Haddad saw no point in mentioning their night together. The whore lingered in his memory as an effigy of dangerous lust and blind, stupid, dangerous trust. The pleasures he had enjoyed, and they were considerable, were swallowed in a swamp of disgust and self-reproach.
Zuabi frowned. “This is a concern, Hassan. If someone knows about our plans, they could destroy everything we’ve built. I assume you took care of the matter?”
“The woman,” Haddad said. “But the Turk got away. And I can’t be certain how much he knows.”
Zuabi’s frown deepened. “Our friends won’t be happy about this. They’ll want assurances that we haven’t been compromised. Our relationship is already on shaky ground after the incident with Abdal.”
Zuabi often spoke of their “friends,” but had never bothered to give Haddad details about who they were. The Hand of Allah had several sources of revenue, much of it funneled through charities around the world, but these particular friends-or benefactors-continued to remain anonymous to Haddad, an endless source of frustration for him. Did Zuabi not trust him? Was he not, after all, one of the Hand of Allah’s most dedicated soldiers?
But like any good soldier, he remained silent, not allowing himself to ask the questions that so plagued him.
Instead he said, “Is it necessary for them to know?”
Zuabi thought about this a moment. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in raising an alarm until we understand who we’re dealing with. You continue as before and I’ll look into the matter. If you see this Turk again, find out what you can and then kill him.”
“What about Abdal? Have you decided what to do with that fool?”
Haddad had only learned about the disaster in San Francisco upon his return to London, and had been relieved to hear that the Americans believed the incident had originated locally. Abdal al-Fida had recently returned to London himself, and if it had been up to Haddad he would have killed him within moments of his arrival.
But Zuabi was apparently leaning toward benevolence.
“He’s quite contrite about the whole incident,” the old cleric said. “He has promised to do anything he can to remain in our favor.”
“He’s a liability,” Haddad said. The words were softer than he had intended, since he himself had made a few bad calls of late.
Zuabi nodded. “But I see no reason to let him believe that. Fear has a way of loosening a man’s tongue. If he continues to believe he is safe with us, he’ll remain faithful to the cause.” He paused. “And he is the son of one of my dearest friends. I’ve known him since he was a boy.”
“Is it wise to let sentiment guide us?” Haddad pressed. “We could arrange an accident-”
Zaubi’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not worry. Abdal will be dealt with when the time is right.”
“And the woman he’s been seeing? Will she be dealt with, too?”
“We’re not savages, Haddad. Abdal may be impulsive, impatient, but he’s not stupid. The woman is a mere distraction. A Yemeni girl. I’ve looked into her and she knows nothing about us.”
“And if you are mistaken?”
Anger flashed in the man’s eyes. “Are you questioning my judgment?”
Haddad made it a habit to question everyone’s judgment, including his own, but he immediately backed down.
“No,” he said softly. “Of course not.”
The anger was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and Zuabi rose from behind his desk. “Then I believe we’re done here.” He gestured for Haddad to accompany him to the door. “There’s much to do before you travel, my brother. This Turk aside, I trust everything else is in order?”
“Yes. It’s all falling into place. I’ll be leaving again in a few days.”
“Good,” Zuabi said, then smiled. “I look forward to the moment we can stand here together and celebrate the defeat of the infidels.”
“As do I,” Haddad told him. “As do I.”
He was waiting for his train when he thought he saw the Turk again.
