Dead or Alive (20 page)

“Hey, Jack,” said a familiar voice. He turned to see Dominic and Brian standing in the doorway.

“Hey, guys, come on in. What’s happening?”

Each brother took a chair. Dominic said, “Reading a computer all morning gives me a headache, so I came up to harass you. Whatcha reading? Application to the Treasury Department?”

It took a moment for Jack to get it. Treasury oversaw the Secret Service. These kind of jokes had been coming since the Georgetown thing. While the press was giving the incident heavy coverage, his name had so far remained out of it, which suited him just fine. Hendley knew the whole story, of course, which didn’t bother Jack at all. More ammunition when it came to pitch his boss.

“Smart-ass,” Jack shot back.

“They know anything about the mutt?” Brian asked.

“Not that I’ve heard. The press is saying no accomplices, but in something like this they only get what the Secret Service wants them to get.” In a town where leaks were more the rule than the exception, the Secret Service knew how to run a tight ship. Jack changed the subject. “You heard about the Marfan theory, right? About the Emir?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Dominic replied. “Didn’t pan out, right?”

Jack shrugged. “Trying to think outside the box. His location, for example: My gut tells me he’s not in Afghanistan, but we’ve never thought beyond there or Pakistan. What if we should be? He’s got all kinds of money, and money buys you a lot of flexibility.”

Brian shrugged. “Still, kinda hard to imagine a guy like that getting even fifty miles away from his bolt-hole without being spotted.”

“Assumptions and intel analysis are dangerous bedfellows,” Jack observed.

“True. If he’s moved on, I bet that fucker’s laughing his ass off watching everybody hump those mountains looking for him. How would he do it, though? Sure as hell couldn’t just walk into the Islamabad airport and ask for a ticket.”

Dominic said, “Money can buy you a lot of knowledge, too.”

“What do you mean?” Jack asked.

“There’s an expert for every problem, Jack. The trick is knowing where to look.”

 

 

 

T
he day passed quickly. At five, Jack poked his head into Dominic’s office. Brian was sitting in the chair across from his brother’s desk. “Hey, guys,” Jack called.

“Yo,” Brian responded. “How’s the computer maven?”

“Chipping away.”

“What’s for dinner?” Dominic wondered.

“Open for ideas.”

“His love life must be like mine,” Brian muttered.

“Found a new place in Baltimore. Wanna give it a try?”

“Sure.”
What the hell,
Jack thought. Eating alone was never fun.

T
he three-car convoy headed north on U.S. 29, then turned east on U.S. 40 for the trip into Baltimore’s Little Italy—nearly every American city has one—off Eastern Avenue. The trip was almost identical to Jack’s normal drive home, a few blocks from the baseball stadium at Camden Yards. But that season had ended, again without a trip into the playoffs.

Baltimore’s Little Italy is a rabbit warren of narrow streets and few parking lots, and for Jack, parking his Hummer was not unlike bringing an ocean liner alongside. But in due course he found a spot in a small parking lot and then walked the two blocks to the restaurant on High Street, which specialized in Northern Italian food. On walking in, he saw that his cousins were camped out in a corner booth, with nobody else close by.

“How’s the food here?” he asked, taking a seat.

“The head chef is as good as our grandfather, and that’s high praise, Jack. The veal is really first-class. They say he buys it himself every day at Lexington Market.”

“Must be tough, being a cow,” Jack observed, scanning the menu.

“Never asked,” Brian noted. “Never heard any complaints, though.”

“Talk to my sister. She’s turning into a vegan, except for the shoes.” Jack chuckled. “How’s the wine list?”

“Ordered,” the Marine responded. “Lacrima Christi del Vesuvio. I discovered it in Naples on a Med Cruise. The Tears of Christ from Vesuvius. Took a trip to Pompeii, and the guide said they’ve been growing wine grapes there for about two thousand years, and I assumed they have it pretty well figured out. If you don’t like it, I’ll drink it all,” Brian promised.

“Brian knows his wine, Jack,” Dominic said.

“You say it like you’re surprised,” Brian shot back. “I’m not your typical jarhead, you know.”

“I stand corrected.”

The bottle came a minute later. The waiter opened it with a flourish.

“Where do you eat in Naples?”

“My boy, you have to work real hard to find a bad restaurant in Italy,” Dominic told him. “The stuff you buy on the street is as good as most sit-down restaurants over here. But this place is seriously okay. He’s a
paisano.
”

Brian tuned in: “In Naples, there’s a place on the waterfront called La Bersagliera, about a mile from the big fortress. Now, I’ll risk a fistfight and say that’s the best restaurant in the entire world.”

“No. Rome, Alfonso Ricci’s, ’bout half a mile east of Vatican City,” Dominic pronounced.

“Guess I’ll take your word for it.”

 

 

 

T
he food came, along with more wine, and the conversation turned to women. All three dated, but casually. The Carusos joked that they were looking for the perfect Italian girl; for Jack’s part, he was looking for a girl he could “bring home to Mom.”

“So what’re you saying, cuz?” Brian asked. “You don’t like ’em a little slutty?”

“In the bedroom, hell, yes,”Jack replied.“But out in public ... Not a big fan of halter tops and giant tramp stamps.”

Dominic chuckled at this. “Brian, what was the name of that girl, you know the one, the stripper with the tattoo?”

“Ah, shit ...”

Dominic was still laughing. He turned to Jack and said, half conspiratorially, “She had this tattoo just below her belly button: a downward arrow with the words
Slippery When Wet.
Problem was, she spelled
slippery
with one
p.
”

Jack burst out laughing. “What was her name?”

Brian shook his head. “No way.”

“Tell him,” Dominic said.

“Come on,” Jack prodded.

“Candy.”

More laughter. “Spelled with a
y
or an
ie
?” Jack asked.

“Neither. Two
e
’s. Okay, okay, so she wasn’t the brightest bulb. We weren’t exactly on the marriage track. What about you, Jack? What’s your taste? Jessica Alba, maybe? Scarlett Johansson?”

“Charlize Theron.”

“Good choice,” Dominic observed.

From a nearby stool at the bar they heard, “I’d go for Holly Madison. Great boobs.”

The three of them turned to see a woman smiling at them. She was a redhead, tall, with green eyes and a wide smile. “Just my two cents,” she added.

“The woman has a point,” Dominic observed. “Then again, if we’re talking about intellect ...”

“Intellect?” the woman replied. “I thought we were talking about sex. If you’re going to bring brainpower into it, then I’d have to go with . . . Paris Hilton.”

There were a few moments of silence before the woman’s deadpan expression showed a hint of a smile. Jack, Dominic, and Brian burst out lauging. The Marine said, “I suppose now would be the time to ask if you want to join us.”

“Love to.”

She picked up her freshly refilled glass of wine and moved to their table, taking a seat beside Dominic. “I’m Wendy,” she said. “Spelled with a
y
on the end,” she added. “Sorry, I couldn’t help eavesdropping.” She said to Dominic, “So we know Jack likes Charlize and Brian goes for dyslexic strippers—”

“That hurts,” Brian said.

“—but what about you?”

“You want my real answer?”

“Of course.”

“It’s going to sound like a line.”

“Try me.”

“I prefer redheads.”

Jack groaned. “So smooth.”

Wendy studied Dominic’s face for moment. “He’s telling the truth, I think.”

“He is,” Brian confirmed. “He’s still got a poster of Lucille Ball in his room.”

General laughter.

“Bullshit, bro.” To Wendy: “You meeting someone?”

“I was. A girlfriend. She texted me, said she couldn’t make it.”

 

 

 

T
he four of them ate dinner, shared more wine, and talked until nearly eleven, when Jack announced he was going home. Brian, having seen the same signs his cousin had, bowed out as well, and soon Dominic and Wendy were alone. They chatted for a few more minutes before she said, “So ...”

The opening was there, and Dominic took it. “You wanna get out of here?”

Wendy smiled at him. “My place is a couple blocks from here.”

 

 

T
hey were kissing before the elevator doors closed, parted briefly when the car reached her floor, then moved together to her door, then inside, where the clothes started coming off. Once in the bedroom, Wendy wriggled the rest of the way out of her dress, revealing a lacy black bra and matching panties. She sat down on the bed before Dominic, grabbed the end of his belt, whipped it free, then lay back on the bed. “Your turn.” A lock of red hair had fallen over one of Wendy’s eyes.

“Wow,” Dominic breathed.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replied with a giggle.

Dominic took off his pants and got onto the bed. They kissed for thirty seconds before Wendy pulled away. She rolled over and opened her nightstand drawer. “A little something to set the mood,” she said, looking back at him, then rolled over with a tiny rectangular mirror and a thumb-sized glass vial.

“What’s that?” Dominic asked.

“It’ll make it better,” Wendy said.

Ah, shit,
Dominic thought. She saw his expression change and said, “What?”

“This isn’t going to work.”

“Why, what’s the matter? It’s just a little coke.”

Dominic got up, retrieved his pants, and slipped them on.

“You’re going?” Wendy said, sitting up.

“Yep.”

“You’re kidding me? Just because of—”

“Yep.”

“God, what’s your problem?”

Dominic didn’t answer. He grabbed his shirt from the floor and slipped it on. He headed for the door.

“You’re an asshole,” Wendy said.

Dominic stopped and turned around. He fished his wallet from his pants and flipped it open to reveal his FBI badge.

“Oh, shit,” Wendy whispered. “I didn’t ... Are you going to—”

“No. This is your lucky day.”

He walked out.

 

 

 

T
ariq Himsi was contemplating the power of money. And the vagaries of choice. Finding the Emir a companion, even for a fleeting assignation, was a delicate proposition. His tastes were specific; his security paramount. Fortunately, the whores here were plentiful, easy to find on the street, and, as it turned out, quite accustomed to unusual requests, such as being driven to an undisclosed location in a vehicle with blacked-out windows. His earlier surveillance had shown that while morally corrupt, these women were far from stupid: They patrolled their corners in twos and threes, and whenever one of their cohorts got into a car, one of the others would take down the license plate number. A quick trip to one of the local airport’s off-property park-and-ride lots had solved this problem. License plates were easy to install and even easier to dispose of. Almost as easy as disguising his appearance with thick black glasses and a baseball cap.

Tariq had initially considered engaging an escort service, but that brought its own complications—not insurmountable, certainly, but complicated nonetheless. Through their network here he had obtained the name of a service known for zealously protecting its clients’ privacy, so much so that it was used by many celebrities and politicians, including several U.S. senators. The irony of using such a service was tempting, Tariq had to admit.

For now he would satisfy himself with engaging one of the street whores he’d been observing for the last week. Though she generally dressed as did all the others—in obnoxiously revealing outfits—her taste seemed slightly less appalling, her manner slightly less shameless. In the short term, she would do as a receptacle.

He waited until well after the sun had set, then waited down the block, watching for a lull in traffic before pulling out and driving down to where the woman and her two companions stood. He pulled to a halt beside the curb and rolled down the passenger window. One of the women, a redhead with impossibly large breasts, strode toward the window.

“Not you,” Tariq said. “The other one. The tall blonde.”

“Suit yourself, mister. Hey, Trixie, he wants you.”