Midas

All he could think about was how everything was a game. People played at life and they got cute and, as a result, some other people died who didn’t have to.

Bruno had returned about an hour earlier, rang the doorbell, and when Justin answered it, Bruno had handed him a piece of paper with a name on it. Justin read the name, said, “Anything you want to tell me about what happened?”

Bruno shook his head, said, “Anything you want to ask me about what happened?”

Justin shook his head back. Bruno said, “Next dinner’s on you,” turned and went back to his car.

Now Justin looked at the name he’d typed into the computer, the name that Bruno Pecozzi had brought back to him from Lieutenant Colonel Warren Grimble. It was the name of the person that Hutchinson Cooke had flown from Guantanamo Bay to the East End airport.

Mudhi al Rahman.

He looked down at the piece of paper that had recently been faxed over from the Riverhead Police Department. The note read:

Next time give us something better than a bunch of fucking jacks. Because we’re so damn good, we got you something anyway. The partials belong to Mudhi al Rahman. Saudi big shot. Good luck. Merry Christmas. And fuck you again about the jacks.

It was confirmed.

Mudhi al Rahman was the man who had played jacks with Hannah Cooke.

He was the man who’d been flown into East End by Hutch Cooke.

Justin was certain he was the man who’d rigged all three bombs and the man who’d made the cell phone calls to set them off.

As soon as he’d gotten the confirmation, he’d gone on the Net, to Google, and typed in “Saudi royal family.” He was sent to a page that said there were 312,000 entries. The first one on the list-“Explore Saudi Family Trees”- looked like it would do just fine, and he was right. It didn’t take him long to scour the unfamiliar-sounding names until he came to Mishari al Rahman, Dandridge’s friend and business partner. He clicked on that. The names of dozens of brothers and sisters and even more children appeared. The tree listed one of Mishari’s sons as Mudhi al Rahman.

Part of the game.

Terry Cooke had known all along.

He remembered the notes he’d typed into the computer after he’d come back from D.C. He’d asked Terry why her husband had flown into East End.

I don’t know, she’d said. I guess bad guys have to live somewhere, don’t they?

He’d asked again.

Things are just so muddy, she had said to him. That’s what Hutch would have told you. Things are muddy.

Hutch Cooke had said, I fell down the tower, to let her know he was in Paris.

She had played the same game.

Everything’s muddy.

Muddy. Mudhi.

Everything was muddy, all right.

Mudhi al Rahman.

Why East End? he’d asked Terry Cooke.

I guess even bad guys have to live somewhere, don’t they? That’s what she’d said.

Some fucking game.

Justin picked up the phone, called information, then dialed the number of the top local Realtor. She had an office on Main Street as well as one in Bridgehampton.

As the phone rang, he remembered when he’d first moved to East End Harbor, seven years ago. He’d had a day off and it was a beautiful morning in July. He’d gone to Gibson Beach in Sagaponack. Lay down on a blanket, maybe twenty feet from a group of mothers and their small children. The beach was crowded but he’d carved out a nice little space for himself, quiet. He’d soaked in the sun, eyes closed, left alone with his thoughts, for a good hour, and then he felt a shadow cross his chest. He opened one eye and squinted up. A man was carrying a folding beach chair, setting it down in the sand just a few feet from Justin. The man smiled at him and Justin smiled politely back. Justin closed his eyes again, drifted back to his thoughts, and that’s when he realized that the man sitting next to him was Salman Rushdie. There was a million-dollar fatwa out against him; the entire Muslim fundamentalist world had sworn to find and kill him. And here he was sunning himself on one of the choicest, most crowded beaches in the world. Rushdie stayed about two hours, nodded and smiled at Justin again when he picked up his beach chair and left. Justin followed him with his eyes until the fugitive writer disappeared into the tarred parking area. He remembered shaking his head in amazement.

Just as he was shaking it now.

If a man on the run from the fundamentalist world could hide in plain sight in the Hamptons, why not the most feared terrorist in the country?

Someone answered the phone on the other end: “East Ender Realty.”

“Rose?”

“You got her. Who’s calling?”

“It’s Justin Westwood, Rose.”

“Funny, I was just talking about you. Do you remember my friend Lisa? She was asking about you. I think she’s a little bit interested in you, if you know what I mean. I told her I hadn’t seen you around. I even asked Leona, I bumped into her on the street, and she said you’d been out of town. Some kind of family emergency. .”

“I need some information, Rose. This is official business and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it quiet.”

“Uh-huh. . sure. . I didn’t realize. . I mean. .”

“I have a name and I need to find out if he owns or rents a house in the Hamptons. Can you find someone if I give you a name?”

“That’s a big can-do. Give me fifteen minutes, I can find anyone you want, tell you how much square footage he’s got, and how much less than the asking price you can buy his house for.”

“All I need’s an address,” Justin said. “For someone named Mishari al Rahman.”

“Gazillionaire Arab, right? I’ll call Claudia over at Hamptonian Realty. They seem to handle most of the Arabs. Don’t know where they got the connection, but it’s a mighty profitable one, lemme tell you.”

“It’s kind of important, Rose. Can you make the call now?”

“You know it’s Christmas Eve, right? People are gonna be takin’ off pretty soon.”

“Then you should probably call before they leave. And Claudia has to keep this confidential. If she mentions this to her client, I’ll make sure she spends the next few Christmases in jail.”

“Jesus. You in the market? Is this about you wanting to buy? ’Cause if there’s a sale in it, the holiday goes right out the window-”

“It’s police business, Rose. Important police business. Call me back as soon as you’ve got something.”

“Right. Call you back in a nanosecond.”

His phone rang in under three minutes. Rose’s harsh, nasal voice pierced the receiver. “Lucky bastard’s got a house on Gin Lane in Southampton. You know, it’s too bad my family wasn’t in the oil business. I’d like a house on Gin Lane myself.”

“You have an address?”

She gave it to him. “You’ll see a big house, well, hell, they’re all huge over there, aren’t they? But the guy you’re lookin’ for, Mr. A-rab, his joint’s next to the house with the golf hole on the side. The par three that leads down to the water. To the left of that, that’s your guy.”

“Can you call Claudia and tell her to stay put for a little bit? I need one more thing from her.”

“Sure. But how long? She does have a family, you know. Well, not exactly a family. But a boyfriend and he’s-”

“Tell her to wait for me for half an hour, okay? No longer than that.”