Fear City (10 page)

Kadir wasn't sure he liked the idea of adding a newcomer to their inner circle. This Ayyad might already know of their desire to topple the towers, but he didn't know when. As far as Kadir was concerned, too many people knew already. Aimal Kasi had gone back to northern Virginia, saying he had to attend to his business, but he swore an oath to look for ways to bring jihad to the American capital on his own.

“How do we know this Ayyad? Can we trust him?”

“He was recommended by my uncle. He is a member of the Muslim Brotherhood and, although he was born in Kuwait, he is a Palestinian, just like you. He has a degree in chemical engineering from an American university. He is devoted to jihad. We will need him to show us the best spot in the basement to place the bomb to topple the tower. He will be very helpful.”

Kadir sighed. If this Ayyad was good enough for Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, then he supposed he was good enough for Kadir Allawi.

Salameh put his old Chevy into gear and headed for City Chemical. Kadir had the address—in the area known as the Heights—and they pulled to a stop before a young Arab waiting out front.

Yousef introduced Ayyad around, then spoke in Arabic. “You placed the order?”

Ayyad nodded and handed him a slip of paper. “I need money to pay for it and an address for delivery.”

Kadir studied the handwritten sheet over Yousef's shoulder.

Urea—1,200 lbs
HNO
3
—105 gal
H
2
SO
4
—(93%)—60 gal

He had no idea what it all meant, but it included more than half a ton of urea, whatever that was. Was the storage space going to be big enough?

“How much?” Mahmoud said from the front seat.

“Thirty-six hundred and fifteen dollars.”

Kadir blinked. He had paid 772 dollars for the storage locker. No one would rent on a monthly basis so he'd had to pay a year in advance. And now another 3,600 dollars. That meant they'd run through almost half the money in less than an hour after they'd borrowed it. And they still hadn't found a safe place to mix the chemicals. What would that cost?

Mahmoud had the money, and as he began counting, Kadir gave Ayyad the address of the Space Station on Mallory Avenue.

“Locker four-three-four-four,” he told him.

Yousef said, “Have you found a mixing space?”

Ayyad nodded. “A converted garage on Pamrapo Avenue. I spoke to the owner. It's available immediately.”

Kadir had to ask. “Did he say how much?”

“Five hundred fifty per month and he'll let us rent month to month.”

“Good.” He smiled with relief. “We won't need more than a month.”

“But he also wants a month's security, so we'll have to give him eleven hundred in advance.”

Eleven hundred … that put them past the halfway point in their funds. Kadir would have to cut his hours at Diab's labeling machines to devote his time to the bomb. He wondered if he still even had a job. Diab had to be furious at him for bringing those criminals to his place. But what choice did Kadir have? He was being manhandled, and if he'd somehow managed to escape and run, he would have ended the day with empty pockets. They'd have no money at all.

If only that greedy Egyptian Diab supported jihad in America, he would understand and make allowances, but he did not. He was making too much money selling his smuggled cigarettes. America was a land of milk and honey for him.

“This place will suit our needs?” Kadir said.

Ayyad nodded. “It has cinder-block walls and is back from the street. It is perfect.”

“Yousef said you have a degree from an American university. Which one?”

“Rutgers.”

“And yet you risk everything for jihad. May Allah bless you into eternity.”

Before Ayyad could reply, Mahmoud handed a roll of hundred-dollar bills through the window. “You can add the last fifteen yourself?”

Ayyad shrugged. “I can. But you should know that when I spoke to them inside they said it's too late for a delivery today. So I'll arrange a time for tomorrow. Is ten
A.M.
good? I'll tell them one of you will be waiting for the truck then.”

“Why not have it delivered straight to the garage?”

Ayyad shook his head. “The owner will cancel the lease if he sees all those chemicals going in. We need to do it piecemeal.” He patted the Nova's roof. “You can use this car. How old is it?”

“Nineteen seventy-eight,” Salemeh said.

“Let's hope it holds up. Who will be at the storage place to take delivery?”

“We'll all be there,” Yousef said.

“Good. Meanwhile I will need another eleven hundred to secure the rental on the Pamrapo place.”

Mahmoud counted out another eleven bills and handed them through the open window.

The four of them watched Ayyad walk inside, then they drove away.

It's happening, Kadir thought as his stomach tingled with anticipation. It's really happening.

 

7

“Damn.” Jack slapped a rolled-up
Cosmo
against his thigh. “Where the hell are you?”

Almost midnight and still no sign of Cristin. He'd watched TV—
Top Cop
,
Cheers
,
Wings
,
LA Law
, and made it through
The Tonight Show
monologue with that new guy, Jay Leno, before bailing. He couldn't stand any more waiting.

Okay. She probably had an event tonight, some party or reception for one of her CEO or politician clients, and she had to stay until the end to make sure everything ran smoothly. But midnight? What event ran till midnight?

She's fine … she's fine …

He kept telling himself that, but it didn't ease the neck-tightening tension. He couldn't put it off any longer. He'd told himself he wouldn't go through her things to see if he could track her down, but the imminence of the midnight hour changed the rules.

He started searching through her drawers. He found a checkbook, he found an electric bill, a water bill, a NYNEX bill and a Nokia bill.

Wait. He'd spotted a Nokia label on her mobile phone. He unfolded the bill and found her number. Great! He grabbed her home phone and punched it in … and listened to ring … after ring … after—finally she answered.

“Cristin?”

But her recorded voice told him she couldn't answer the phone right then but just leave a message and a number and she'd call him right back.

“Shit!”

The corkscrew winding through his neck tightened further.

He saw her checkbook and bank statement. He hadn't gone looking for them, but since they were right here …

He flipped through her check register. Nothing unusual there … Victoria's Secret and places like that. He unfolded her bank statement.

“Holy shit!”

Her balance was $52,647.38. She couldn't make that much as an event planner, could she? Must have inherited a good piece of it … a dead grandmother or something.

He pawed deeper into the drawer and came across a box of business cards. He'd seen these before: bright red with
CELEBRATIONS
across the middle in lemon-yellow script and “Events” below in smaller block print. An 800 number beckoned from the lower left corner.

The company she worked for. Okay … call her bosses, wake up their asses and ask them where the hell she was. He punched in the number and a woman came on the line.

“Celebrations. How can I help you?”

They had someone answering the phones at this hour. Cool.

“Hi, I'm looking for one of your party planners, Cristin Ott?”

“Cristinott? Is that one name? How do you spell it?”

“Two names.” He spelled it for her.

“No, I'm sorry, we have no one by that name.”

This couldn't be right.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa! She's one of your event planners. She's worked for you for years.”

“I'm sorry, sir. She's not listed. How did you get this number, if I may ask?”

“It's right here on her card.”

“A Celebrations card?”

“Yes—bright red with yellow printing.”

“That would be it. But the only name printed on those cards is the company's. Did she write her name on the back?”

Jack knew the reverse would be blank but flipped it over anyway.

“No. But I happen to know her personally—know her well. She works for you people.”

“I'm afraid you've been misled, sir. No one by that name works for Celebrations—or let me put it this way: That name is not on my list of Celebrations employees.”

Jack clenched his teeth against a swelling knot of anger.

“Have you got a supervisor I could speak to?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Where are you located? I need to have a talk with someone in charge there.”

“I'm the only one here and I've told you all I know.”

“I just need your address.”

“Sir, this is an answering service.”

Jack bit his upper lip. Should have guessed that. He took a breath, gathered himself.

“Okay, fine. Just tell me where Celebrations has its office and I'll check directly with them.”

“I don't have that information available. And even if I did, I'm sure it would be against our rules to give it out.”

Jack pulled the receiver from his ear but stopped himself from smashing it against the wall.

Not my phone.

Try another tack.

“Please. She's missing and I'm worried ab—”

“I'm sorry, sir. I can't help you and I have other calls. Good night.”

The line went dead.

With deliberate slowness and exaggerated gentleness, Jack replaced the receiver on its cradle as the woman's words came back to him.

I'm afraid you've been misled, sir. No one by that name works for Celebrations …

What the hell?

 

FRIDAY

 

1

“You stayed there all night?” Abe said around a huge bite of a bialy.

“Till the dawn's early light.”

Jack knew better than to show up twice in a row without an offering of consumables, so he'd brought Abe half a dozen bialys, still hot from the oven of a kosher bakery down the street. He nibbled at his own, not really hungry.

“And she never showed?”

“I stayed up calling every hospital in the five boroughs and asking to be connected to Cristin Ott's room. When I struck out on that I'd ask the operator to switch me to the emergency room. Then I'd tell the emergency room that my sister, Cristin Ott, had been taken away in an ambulance but I didn't know where to. Was she there? And between hospitals I'd call her cellular.”

“Maybe she slept over at a friend's.”

“That's what I'm hoping. But she'd still answer her cell phone, don't you think?”

“Maybe she turned it off.”

“I wouldn't be doing any of this if she'd only called Le Pistou to cancel our lunch—”

“Oy. You'd eat at a place called ‘Le Pistou'? Where is it? Next to Le Chazzerai?”

“Abe, I'm worried. This isn't like her.”

“Sorry. I see that you are. But what do you know of her already? Sure, you saw her every Sunday for two years, but now the place where she said she worked has never heard of her.”

“That's what I don't get. That's what scares me.”

“She was a party planner, you say?”

“She preferred ‘event planner.'”

“Whatever. Never in those years did she invite you to one of her events?”

“No.”

“Not even to sneak you in?”

“No.”

“And you never wondered why?”

“To tell you the truth: no. Probably because I never
wanted
her to sneak me in. I'm not a party person, and the last place I want to be is stuck in a room with a bunch of people I don't know, especially if they're corporate types, or account execs, or deputy mayors, or state assemblymen. She organized private parties, not open to the public. Sneaking me in—even if I wanted in—would jeopardize her job, and that was something I did
not
want to do.”

“So maybe she just had second thoughts. She didn't want to start up with you again.”

“Maybe. But I know her, Abe. She's an up-front type. She would have called.”

“Then you need to find this Celebrations place.”

“Don't think I haven't tried. I went to the library and scoured all the phone books—went out as far as Suffolk County. No dice.”

Abe's expression turned dubious. “In all five boroughs and Nassau and Suffolk there's no place called Celebrations?”

“Oh, sure. About a dozen. But they sell party hats and helium balloons. And they don't have eight hundred numbers.”

“So give me this eight hundred number.”

“No use calling. It's just an answering service. I called back three times last night and got, as you like to say, bupkis.” A thought hit him. “Maybe I should try again this morning. Probably hit a different shift and might get a more cooperative operator.”

“You shouldn't count on it, so don't do it. Like I said, give me this eight hundred number and I'll find out the address.”

“Of Celebrations?”

“No, the answering service. Then you can go there and work your magic.”

“If I could do magic I could find Cristin. But you can do that—find the address?”

Abe gave one of his shrugs. “In my business I shouldn't want to know who's calling? And who I'm calling back?”

“Yeah, I guess you would.”

“Of course I would. I have a guy who can back-check numbers. Not out of the goodness of his heart does he do this, so you'll have to pay.”