Fear City (8 page)

Nasser faced front and spoke to his driver in English. “We'll drop them back at the mosque now.”

If they had other options, he was sure they'd already exhausted them before contacting him. He'd let them stew for a while, then renew contact later.

He spent the rest of the trip back to the mosque listening to the jihadists muttering among themselves in the rear.

 

7

Vinny had been keeping an eye on the salvage yard's parking lot through his office window. He was ninety percent sure Tommy would show up unannounced. And wouldn't you know, just after four
P.M.
, a brand-new, cherry red Z-car roared in from Preston Street and skidded to a halt next to Vinny's Crown Vic.

He watched Tommy remove a cardboard box from the passenger seat and start up the stairs. Vinny stepped out and blocked his way to the landing—and he had the bulk to do it.

“Tommy. What's up?”

Tommy had to stop two steps from the top and look up at Vinny.

“Just dropping off some office supplies.”

“Thanks, but I don't need any.”

He laughed. “Oh, no. These are mine. I shut the detailing place.”

“Yeah? How come? I thought that was going great.”

“It was till last night. I think some spook is tryin' to move in on the business. Sent a whole buncha little moulies through all the lots last night, dinging up everything in sight.”

“Lot of those places have contracts with you, I take it.”

“Yeah.” Another laugh. “My phone won't stop ringing. Good luck waiting for an answer. Like I'm really gonna go fix up their dinged cars, right?”

That was the way the racket worked. Collect the premiums during the quiet time, but should the shit hit the fan, close up shop and disappear.

“Yeah, that would break the bank.”

“Damn fuck right it would. So I closed up till I can track down this mook. Hey, do we have to stand out here?”

“I was just going out.”

“Yeah, well, I'm just coming in.”

“Where?”

“Where else? The office. I'm back.”

Vinny shook his head, real slow like. “No, you ain't back.”

Tommy looked all offended now. “What? We're partners.”

Another slow shake. “We was never partners, Tommy. Tony stuck you in here because you had no place to go. Soon as you sniffed a better deal, you lit out like you had a rocket up your ass.”

“Hey, if you're pissed at that, I can make it up to you.”

Pissed? After orchestrating the whole detailing opportunity, Vinny had done a happy dance when Tommy left.

“Nothing to make up. I didn't even notice you was gone.”

“Yeah, well, this is our junkyard and—”

“No, it's mine. And it's staying mine.”

“Fuck that. I got an interest here and—”

Vinny started reaching for his wallet. “Tell you what, Tommy. I'll pay you back two bucks for every one you invested here.” He stopped his hand halfway there. “Oh, that's right. You didn't put shit into it. You only took out. Come to think of it, you owe
me
.”

“You can't do this, Vinny. You can't fuckin'—”

“Go home, Tommy. You left. You ain't coming back. Don't take it personal. We're still in the same crew so we still gotta work together, but not here.”

Tommy glared at him, then headed back down the stairs. At the bottom he turned and pointed up at Vinny.

“You ain't heard the last of this. Not by a long shot.”

Vinny knew he'd go call Peter or Junior and whine to them, but that wasn't going to work this time. Tommy Ten Thumbs Totaro might be a connected Gambino, but with the Chief sent up for life and being pressured by the other families to let go, the Gottis had their hands full. No time for Tommy's piddly-ass bullshit. And if he went to Tony he'd get a fucking earful.

Vinny watched Tommy burn rubber leaving the lot, then returned to the warmth of his office.

His
office.

 

8

Kadir shivered in the icy wind blowing down Brooklyn's Atlantic Avenue. And yet as cold as it was, it felt positively balmy compared to the reception he and Mahmoud had received in the Al-Farooq Mosque behind them. They were identified with Sheikh Omar, who wasn't welcome there, and consequently neither were they.

They'd found themselves even less welcome in the Al-Kifah office, home of the Afghan Refugee Fund. The fund had suffered a huge fall-off in contributions after the brutal murder of its founder, Mustafa Shalabi. Many in the mosque and the Al-Kifah office blamed Sheikh Omar for that. Being blind, he couldn't have done it himself, but shortly before the murder he had issued a
fatwah
condemning Shalabi.

Kadir and Mahmoud's pleas for money had fallen on deaf ears. They weren't asking for a handout, just a loan. Instead they had been shown the door.

“I can't believe Allah is allowing this to happen!” Kadir said.

Mahmoud nodded as they began walking toward the subway station on Flatbush. “The call to jihad goes unanswered for lack of a few thousand dollars. How pathetic we are.”

“There must be
some
way we can get money.”

“If we can convince Yousef to turn from the towers to the UN, we can go back to the man from Qatar.”

Kadir shook his head. “Yousef is set on the towers. It will take more than a lack of funds to change his mind.”

“But with no money, we have no bomb.”

“And without Yousef, we have no one trained to make a bomb.”

The walked on in silence for a while.

“If only we had credit or something of value,” Kadir said, grinding a fist into his palm. “We could go to a bank.”

Mahmoud grinned. “I would love that.” He changed to a wheedling tone. “‘Please, Mister Capitalist Infidel Dog, sir. Will you lend us ten thousand dollars so that we may destroy your unholy system?'”

They both laughed as they reached Flatbush, but on the corner Mahmoud stopped and grabbed Kadir's arm.

“Wait. We don't need a bank. Some of the other cabdrivers who have as little credit as we do have borrowed from private lenders. The interest is very high, though.”

Kadir shrugged. “What matter? It's not as if we're going to stay around to pay it back.”

Mahmoud laughed again. “True! When I go to work later I'll ask around for a name and a number.”

For the first time since this morning, Kadir felt a ray of hope.

 

9

Nasser ran into Drexler waiting for the elevator in Roman Trejador's hotel. Drexler had called this emergency meeting less than half an hour ago, but Nasser had precipitated it.

As planned, he'd placed an early-evening call to Kadir to prod him into changing the target. The response had shocked him: They'd found another way to get the money.

Nasser had immediately called Trejador but got the hotel's voice mail instead. So he'd contacted Drexler with the news. Drexler got through to Trejador and they set out from their respective apartments for the hotel.

They found Trejador in a robe, mixing a martini.

“Was all this rush really necessary?” he said.

“We need to change their minds,” Drexler said.

Two sets of eyes focused on Nasser.

“Well?” Trejador said. “How set are they?”

“Allawi and Abouhalima are not the problem—they just want to blow up some Manhattan real estate, and the bigger the better. It's the newcomer, Ramzi Yousef, who's the problem. He's fixated on the towers.”

Trejador shrugged. “So? Make it without him.”

Drexler smiled. “We can arrange an accident.”

“He's their bomb maker.”

“Ah.” Trejador sipped his martini. “That's the catch twenty-two, as they say. What can we do to change his mind?”

“Not easy. His uncle is with al-Qaeda and sent him here specifically to bomb the towers.”

Trejador began wandering the front room of his suite. “All right, then. We must sweeten the pot.”

Nasser shook his head. “I've looked into his eyes and I don't think he can be bought.”

“No, I meant sweeten the UN pot—make it an irresistible target. Who do the jihadists hate most in the world?”

“Israel,” Drexler said. “It's at the top of every hit list.”

“Well, since you can't kill a country, who in Israel would they most like to see dead?”

Drexler shrugged. “The prime minister, I suppose.”

“All right, then. What if Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin sets up a secret meeting in the UN with Boutros-Ghali?”

Nasser found himself nodding. “Sheikh Omar hates the secretary general because he's so cozy with Mubarak.”

“But let's sweeten it even further. What American do they hate the most? Whose head would they most like to see on a pike?”

“The last president has got to be up there—he invaded Iraq.”

“Bush? That might be a stretch. We're in New York. What New Yorker?”

“That would have to be D'Amato,” Drexler said.

Nasser said, “Alfonse D'Amato, the senator? Why?”

“Why wouldn't they? He is perhaps the most vocal supporter Israel has in Congress. A bit of a grandstander about it too. When Iraq began firing Scuds at Israel during the war, D'Amato made a big point of flying over there to demonstrate his solidarity.”

Trejador looked at Nasser. “Can you come up with someone better?”

“No. D'Amato is loathed by jihadists.”

“Excellent.” Trejador clapped his hands. “Rabin, D'Amato, and Boutros-Ghali all meeting at the UN.” Another look at Nasser. “Will our pet jihadists be able to refuse?”

Nasser had to smile. “I do not see how.”

“Then we need to set a date for this momentous meeting. How long for them to make the bomb, do you think?”

Drexler frowned. “They told al-Thani they're planning a van bomb. Even something that size … If they can get the materials quickly, I'd say no more than a week.”

“Let's give them a few days more. And let's make it a Friday, since that's a day of prayer for all of the participants. That brings us to…” He briefly shut his eyes. “The twenty-sixth. Good. The secret meeting will take place at eleven
A.M.
on the tenth floor of the UN Secretariat Building on Friday, February twenty-sixth.”

“Wait-wait-wait,” Nasser said. “I know the Order has reach, but how can we possibly…?” Trejador's smile and Drexler's disdainful look stopped him. “Oh, I see.”

He now understood that when Trejador said “secret” meeting, he meant so secret that even Rabin, D'Amato, and Boutros-Ghali wouldn't know about it.

He felt like an idiot.

Drexler said, “Our people in the UN can find some excuse to lure D'Amato over. Boutros-Ghali is already there, of course. The Israelis never advertise their prime minister's whereabouts unless it's a state occasion, so for all anyone will know, Rabin can be anywhere we wish him to be that day.”

“Rabin, D'Amato, and Boutros-Ghali,” Trejador said. “The Unholy Trinity for our jihadists. If they—”

He turned at the sound of a door opening down the hall and then a young brunette appeared. Nasser knew her—the alluring Danaë.

“I'm leaving now,” she said in a soft voice. “I have another appointment.”

“Of course,” Trejador said. “I'll be in touch.”

She smiled. “Of course you will.”

She turned her blue gaze on Nasser and held the smile, then winked and turned away.

Nasser's knees felt semi-solid. Danaë … one of Trejador's prostitutes. He seemed to hire the same ones over and over. Nasser had been infatuated with Danaë since he'd first seen her a number of years ago. He'd caught glimpses of some of Trejador's other call girls, but none had ever tempted him like Danaë.

He would love to hire her—just for one night—but feared he might be committing some sort of breach by sharing a woman with his superior. As he watched her glide toward the door, he noticed Drexler's livid expression. Danaë removed her coat from the front closet and made her exit.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Drexler turned on Trejador and exploded.

“You had one of your whores here while we were discussing the greatest act of terrorism this city, this country—the
world
has ever seen?”

Trejador appeared unfazed by the outburst. “Well, I
was
expecting to have the evening to myself. You called the meeting rather abruptly, if you recall.”

“But this is unconscionable! You have no idea what she might have heard!”

“The door was closed. And besides, Danaë is a pro. She doesn't peek, she doesn't pry, she doesn't
care
.”

“She may have heard something without even trying. How can you risk that?”

“I'm not risking anything.”

Drexler grabbed his coat and his cane. “I can't stay here any longer.” He pointed the silver top of the cane at Nasser. “You come with me. We have matters to discuss.”

Nasser glanced at Trejador. Both were his superiors, but the Spaniard had seniority. Trejador gave a go-ahead shrug.

Moments later Nasser found himself in the hotel hallway with a very agitated Drexler.

“Come!” he said, grabbing his arm and tugging him toward the elevators. “I want her followed!”

“Where?”

“Wherever she goes.” He jabbed the elevator's
DOWN
button repeatedly. “I want to learn who she is and who she knows—everything about her!”

“She's just—”

“What? Just a prostitute? You don't know that. She may have a second line of business—like blackmail. Or worse. Did you ever hear of Mata Hari? We can't risk this.”

When the doors parted he fairly pushed Nasser into the car ahead of him and stabbed the
LOBBY
button. The car made an uninterrupted descent, and as the doors opened he propelled Nasser into the lobby.