Afraid of the Dark (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

J
ack took a seat at the bar in Cy’s Place, where Theo was mixing cocktails for a jazz-loving crowd. Neil had agreed to meet him after work, and Jack wanted to bounce Maryam’s request off him. For once, Jack was the one to arrive early, and he had a little time to kill.

He ordered a beer and updated his Facebook status again—his fourth update in the two hours that had passed since he’d said good-bye to Maryam Wakefield. He hoped that Andie—wherever she was—would see it and call him. He didn’t want her to worry about his safety, but he felt she should know about the threat against his grandfather.

“
Until you have a wife and children . . .”

Jack had driven from the hotel with plenty on his mind, but Maryam’s tears had triggered some very serious thoughts . . . about children. Specifically, about the teachings of Muhammad and the short list of things that may be of benefit after death—charity, knowledge, and a child who prays for you. A child. Maybe even more than one. Jack was an only child. Andie was adopted. Funny how little they’d talked about how those experiences might shape their own family after marriage. The last time—the only time, really—that they had seriously discussed children was right before Andie left for her latest undercover assignment. In fact, it had happened at this very spot in Theo’s bar.

Now, with the buzz of Cy’s Place in the background, Jack was thinking about how awkward it had been.

“D
o you want kids?”

The question left Andie coughing on her vodka tonic. “What brought that on?”

“I sort of sprang the engagement ring on you at my surprise birthday party. You said yes on the spot. But looking back on it, we’ve never had a serious talk about kids.”

“We’ve been engaged for only three weeks.”

“Most people discuss it before they even get engaged. Probably we would have, too, if the leap from dating to a marriage proposal hadn’t been so spontaneous. Maybe it’s the reason we still haven’t gotten around to picking a wedding date.”

Jack hadn’t intended to put a chill on the night, but the awkward silence that gripped their conversation was unlike any Jack had felt with Andie.

“Do I want kids?” she said, teeing up the question once more. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Really? How many?”

“At least one. Maybe two.”

“Really?”

Really.
What a word. What a response. I like my coffee black.
Really?
The Sox are going to the World Series this year.
Really?
I’d like to saw off your right hand and superglue it to your chin.
Really?

“Yes. Really.”

Andie’s cell rang. Their conversation ended right there. The call was from the assistant special agent in charge of the Miami Field Office, telling her to pack her bags and report for her assignment. Two minutes later she was out the door, seemingly relieved to leave Jack alone with the seven-pound, eight-ounce elephant in the room.

“S
orry to keep you waiting,” said Neil as he pulled up the stool beside Jack.

He was actually right on time and had dropped everything at the office to meet Jack on a moment’s notice. Now he was apologizing for having kept Jack waiting.
Classic Neil Goderich.

“No problem,” said Jack.

Theo came over and wiped down the countertop. “What are you drinking, Mr. Goodwrench?”

It was just Theo’s way; “Goderich” had been “Goodwrench” as long as Jack could remember.

“Do you have milk shakes?”

“Do you have testicles?” said Theo.

“So . . . yes?” said Neil.

Jack translated. “Actually, he means ‘no.’ ”

“Bummer,” said Neil, letting it roll right off his back. “How about hot tea?”

It was happy hour, but apparently hot tea was something Theo could tolerate at his bar. He headed for the kitchen, and Jack picked up where his voice-mail message to Neil had left off.

“Maryam Wakefield wants to sue Chuck Mays.”

“That much I gathered from your message,” said Neil. “What for?”

“Money. A wrongful-death theory, I presume. She thinks Jamal was set up.”

“How?”

Jack emptied the rest of his bottle into his beer glass. “Mays has been working for a few years now on something called Project Round Up.”

“Yeah, Jamal mentioned that. But he didn’t seem to know much about it.”

“No one does, except for Chuck. Jamal’s mother thinks it was something illegal, or at the very least not totally on the up-and-up.”

“All these guys in the data-mining business push the envelope,” said Neil.

“True. But what makes this situation a little different is that after McKenna was killed and Jamal disappeared, the FBI actually came in and found encrypted messages on Jamal’s computer. Even Andie confirmed that those messages exist, but I can’t get anything more than the fact that they relate in some way to terrorist organizations.”

“And Mom refuses to believe that her son was in any way connected to terrorists.”

“Beyond that. She thinks Chuck Mays needed a pawn to venture into a forbidden area of cyberspace as part of the research and development for Project Round Up. That way, if the shit hit the fan and the FBI swooped in with a search warrant, Chuck Mays had his own in-house Muslim to point the terrorist finger at.”

“Chuck used him as the fall guy.”

“That’s the theory.”

Theo was back. “One hot tea,” he said as he placed the cup in front of Neil.

Jack’s cell rang. The display read
PRIVATE
. “This could be Andie,” he said.

“Go ahead and take it,” said Neil.

Jack answered with anticipation, but it wasn’t Andie. It was Dr. Spigelman.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“The doctor who gave CPR to Ethan Chang at Lincoln Road Mall. Do you have a minute?”

Jack glanced at Neil, who was multitasking between the list of tapas on the bar menu and the e-mails on his BlackBerry.

“Sure, go ahead,” Jack told the doctor.

“I’ve been following your case for Jamal Wakefield in the newspaper, and I know that the police have been looking into a possible connection to Mr. Chang’s death. Anyway, you may or may not know this, but the medical examiner’s office just released the toxicology report a few hours ago.”

“I did not know that,” said Jack. “What did it show?”

“That’s the reason for my call. It’s extremely vague.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I also wanted to let you know that I’ve been following this toxicology issue very closely. For reasons of my own safety.”

Jack was reaching for his beer, but that halted him. “What kind of danger are you in?”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem. I’ve been thinking a great deal about that night on Lincoln Road Mall. Something wasn’t quite right—from a medical standpoint, I mean. There’s no doubt that Mr. Chang went into cardiac arrest, but the medical examiner states that it was induced by asphyxiation. Suffocation, in layman’s terms.”

“Someone strangled him?”

“No. Suffocation induced by a toxin.”

“What kind of toxin?”

“The toxicology report says it cannot be identified.”

“That sounds weird.”

“To say the least. And I have a theory for that. Have you seen the mall’s security tape where Chang has that brief encounter with someone who’s probably just pretending to be blind?”

“I haven’t seen it, but I heard about it.”

“Action News loaded the key frames on their Web site about an hour ago. I’m sure all the networks have it up by now. Check it out. Chang clearly gets stuck in the leg with the white mobility cane. An hour a later he was in convulsions and dropped dead. I believe that something was administered at that point of contact.”

“But the initial autopsy showed no sign of injection.”

“That’s what has me so worried. It must have been a toxin that’s lethal even if just a small amount comes in contact with the skin. Possibly a synthetic, like VX, or—”

“Nerve gas?”

“In liquid form, yes. A ten-milligram drop of VX can kill you. A raindrop is eighty milligrams.”

“But it doesn’t just fall from the sky like rain.”

“Look, I know I must sound paranoid, but I researched this. Terrorists in Japan used sarin to kill commuters on the Tokyo subway back in the 1990s. VX is even more deadly, but there are ways to get it. You steal it. You buy it from some Russian mobster who smuggled it out of the former Soviet Union. Whatever.”

Jack paused, as the conversation was getting a little flaky. “Did you say you researched this?”

“Yes, don’t you see what’s going on? Surely the medical examiner knows what kind of toxin was involved. This report is a cover-up. Maybe the government doesn’t want to send the public into a panic over fears of chemical and biological warfare.”

A retiree with time enough to dream up conspiracy theories.
Great.

“Doctor, I’m not saying you’re paranoid, but—”

“Please, I need help. I don’t know why the medical examiner won’t say what killed Ethan Chang. The point is that if I came in contact with the same toxin when I was helping that man—or even if I just breathed in the fumes—I need to start on an antidote.”

His voice was becoming increasingly urgent, and Jack needed to reel him in. “Okay, I hear your concern. But let’s think about this for a second. If you were exposed, wouldn’t you be dead already, or at least showing some kind of symptoms?”

“Not necessarily. Chang got a direct application and died in an hour. Depending on how much I got and how it got into my system, it could take weeks to see the effects.”

“All right,” said Jack, trying to keep him calm. “Let’s look at this another way. What would be the downside of starting yourself on a nerve-gas antidote as a precaution?”

“For some of these synthetics the antidote is itself a toxin. I can’t just be self-prescribing willy-nilly. I need to know exactly what kind of toxin was involved.”

“What have you done so far?”

“I’ve plied every professional contact I’ve made over the past forty years, and I can’t get anywhere. I’ll be honest, I’m no fan of lawyers, but I know when I need one. You seemed like the logical choice. You’re plugged into this already with the work you’ve done for Jamal Wakefield.”

It still sounded flaky to Jack. “So you want a lawyer to go into court and get a judge to force the medical examiner to reveal the toxin that killed Ethan Chang. Is that what you’re asking?”

“Bingo. If the son of a former governor can’t cut through red tape, who can?”

Jack glanced at Neil, who was finishing his tea and trying to get Theo’s attention.

“Mr. Swyteck?”

Jack heard the doctor’s voice, but he was thinking. It had all started with a Gitmo detainee who spoke no English. Several bodies later, Jack was now discussing nerve gas with the second potential client of the day who was—in someone’s eyes—nothing more than collateral damage in one hell of a cover-up.

That, or the crazy conspiracy theorists are coming out of the woodwork.

“Refill, Mr. Goodwrench?”

Neil handed Theo his empty cup, and Theo poured more hot water. It was a simple thing but a pivotal moment for Jack: the man who’d mentored him at the Freedom Institute served hot tea by a former badass from the ’hood who had been the only innocent man Jack and Neil had ever represented.

Had been.
Until Jamal came along.

“Mr. Swyteck, are you still there?”

Jack was still taking in his Neil-and-Theo moment, and though it wasn’t technically accurate, another word came to mind to describe his mentor. “Doctor, can I call you right back?” Jack said into the phone. “I need to consult with my partner.”

Chapter Thirty-four

T
he Internet café on Bethnal Green was open twenty-four hours. At half past midnight in the middle of week, he expected to have his choice of terminals, especially on such a cold and nasty night. The rain was turning to sleet, and the sidewalks were deserted, but he was unlike most of his fellow Africans in Somaal Town. January’s bite didn’t bother him, and he actually preferred the shorter days of winter. The late sunrise and early sunset were his friends, and if that meant living in a colder climate, so be it. His given name was Habib.

To his victims, he was known as the Dark.

He shook out his umbrella and entered the café. The fluorescent lighting assaulted his eyes and, for some reason, triggered a yawn. His quick trip to Miami and back had left him drained. As a rule, he didn’t sleep well on airplanes, no matter how exhausted he was. This time his work had been especially taxing. Everything had come off without a hitch, thanks to his 24/7 approach to preparation, coordination, and execution. After landing at Heathrow, all he could do was climb into bed and sleep for eighteen hours. He still didn’t feel rested.

The clerk behind the desk was reading a graphic novel online. She looked up and directed him to a terminal. He pulled up a chair in front of the monitor, logged on, and created a new Internet account. Using the same account twice was out of the question; it was important that his messages never be traced back to him. This account would be in the name of Doris Lader, a fifty-two-year old woman from Las Vegas who had provided her credit card number and other personal information in response to a phishing e-mail that she had thought was from Citibank.

Americans had to be the stupidest people on earth.

He quickly entered the necessary information to create the account, then typed in his screen name. It was the same one he used for all his phony accounts, the same mix of lowercase letters and capitalized initials:

ruaoTD.

Are you afraid of The Dark.

He was up and almost ready to go. The only remaining step was to choose the preferred language. Sometimes he used English, sometimes he used Somali modified Latin script. It didn’t really matter this time. The message was short, and he banged it out in just a few quick keystrokes. He always created the message and proofread it before typing in the address. It was good practice to prevent a half-baked message from sailing off accidentally. He read it one last time.

“I killed your son. I wanted you to know that.”

Satisfied, he typed in the address and hit
SEND
. It was gone in an instant, headed to Mogadishu.

He logged off, and the clerk didn’t even look up from her LCD as he exited the café. A cold blast of wind hit him as soon as the door opened. His flat was just a block away, but even so, he was tempted to go back inside and wait for the weather to improve.

Which could be June.

He popped open his umbrella and headed out into the night, walking with purpose. There was one more thing to accomplish tonight. He rounded the corner, passed the street entrance to his flat, and walked down the alley to the cellar door.

The international call from the pay phone had pissed him off in a big way. It was her first offense, and a very foolish one at that. Did she think she could buy a calling card without his finding out about it? Did she think she could do
anything
without his knowledge? He turned the key and shook his head with amusement as he unlocked the door. There was no doubt in his mind that she would tell him who she had called, why she had called him, and what she had said. If she lied, he would not be fooled—because he already knew everything there was to know about that call. He just wanted to hear her say that she was sorry for what she had done.

Oh, so sorry.

He entered, closed the door behind him, and climbed down the steep stairs. The cellar had just one small window at street level, which had been made translucent with a streaky coat of paint on the outside. The streetlight glowed behind it, and the shadow of iron bars cast a zebra pattern across the floor.

He watched her sleeping on a mattress in the corner. Finally, she seemed to sense his presence.

“Who’s there?” she said, only half awake.

He didn’t answer. She reached for the lamp switch.

“Leave the light off,” he said, and his command halted her.

“You’re back,” she said.

It was that frightened and timid voice that had lured him into complacency. The one that had led him to believe that, after almost six trouble-free months, she could be trusted with a modicum of supervised free time. The one that had made it almost inconceivable that she would find the courage to venture out to a pay phone.

He grabbed the covers at the foot of the bed and peeled them back. She jerked away, but he grabbed her by the ankle. The monitor was still in place.

“I never really left,” he said.