Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) (30 page)
“Just what I read in the paper,” I said. “He was, I assume, a serious bad guy.”
“The baddest of the bad. A highly educated, radical extremist who made other radical terrorists wet their bed in fear. Matar loved torture. He believed that the only way to kill the infidels was to infiltrate and live among them. He started up a terrorist organization called Green Death. Their motto is:
‘Al-sabr wal-sayf sawf yudammir al-kafirun.’
”
‘Al-sabr wal-sayf sawf yudammir al-kafirun.’
”
A spasm ripped through me:
“Al-sabr wal-sayf.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“‘Patience and the sword will destroy the sinners.’ ”
I shook my head, trying to clear it.
“Mohammad Matar spent almost his entire life in the West. He grew up in Spain mostly, but spent some time in France and England as well. And Dr. Death is more than a nickname—he went to medical school at Georgetown and did his residency right here in New York City. Spent twelve years in the United States under various assumed names. Guess what day he left the United States?”
“I’m not really in the mood for guessing.”
“September tenth, 2001.”
We both stopped talking for a moment, almost subconsciously turning south. No, we wouldn’t be able to see those towers, even if they still stood. But respect had to be paid. Always and hopefully forever.
“Are you saying he was involved in that?”
“Involved? Hard to say. But Mohammad knew about it. His departure wasn’t a coincidence. We have a witness who places him at the Pink Pony earlier that month. That name ring a bell?”
“Isn’t that the strip club the terrorists went to before September eleventh?”
Jones nodded. A class trip crossed in front of us. The children—they looked about ten or eleven years old—all wore matching bright green shirts with the school name emblazoned on the front. One adult took the front, another the rear.
“You killed a major terrorist leader,” Jones said. “Do you have any idea what his followers would do to you if they found out the truth?”
“And that’s why you took credit for killing him?”
“That’s why we kept your name out.”
“I’m really grateful.”
“Is that sarcasm?”
I wasn’t really sure myself.
“If you keep stumbling around, the truth is going to come out. You’ll kick a beehive and a bunch of jihadists will be there.”
“Suppose I’m not afraid of them.”
“Then you’re demented.”
“What happened to Terese?”
We stopped at a bench. Still standing, he put one knee on the seat and used it to balance his briefcase. He fumbled through it. “The night before you killed Mohammad Matar, you dug up the remains of Miriam Collins’s grave for the purposes of a DNA test.”
“Are you hoping for a confession?”
Jones shook his head. “You don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what?”
“We confiscated the remains. You probably knew that.”
I waited.
Jones pulled a manila folder out of the briefcase. “Here are the DNA test results you wanted.”
I reached out. Jones played coy for a moment, as if debating whether he should let me see it or not. But we both knew. This was why I was here. He handed me the manila folder. I opened it. On top was a photograph of the bone sample Win and I had collected that night. I turned the page, but Jones was already walking.
“The tests were conclusive. The bones you dug up belong to Miriam Collins. The DNA matches Rick Collins as the father and Terese Collins as the mother. Furthermore, the bones matched the approximate size and development for a seven-year-old girl.”
I read the report. Jones kept walking.
“This could be faked,” I said.
“It could,” Jones agreed.
“How do you explain the blood found at the murder scene in Paris?”
“You just raised an interesting possibility,” he said.
“That being?”
“Maybe those results were faked.”
I stopped.
“You just said that maybe I faked a DNA blood test. But wouldn’t it be more rational to assume that the French did?”
“Berleand?”
He shrugged.
“Why would he do that?”
“Why would I? But don’t take my word for it. In this briefcase, I have your original bone sample. When we are done, I will give it to you. You can test it for yourself, if you wish.”
My head swam. He kept walking. This made sense. If Berleand lied, everything else fell into place. Removing emotion and want from the equation, which seemed more likely—that Miriam Collins had actually survived the crash and ended up in her murdered father’s room, or that Berleand was lying about the test results?
“You got involved in this because you wanted to find Miriam Collins,” Jones said. “Now you have. The rest you should leave to us. Whatever else is going on here, you now know for certain that Miriam Collins is dead. This bone sample will give you all the proof you need.”
I shook my head. “There’s too much smoke for there to be no fire.”
“Like what? The terrorists? Almost all of your so-called smoke can be attributed to Rick Collins’s attempt to infiltrate the cell.”
“The blond girl.”
“What about her?”
“Did you capture her in London?”
“No. She was gone by the time we arrived. We know you saw her. We have a witness from Mario Contuzzi’s apartment, a neighbor, who says he saw you chase her.”
“So who was she?”
“A member of the cell.”
I arched an eyebrow. “A blond teen jihadist?”
“Sure. The cells are always a mix. Disenfranchised immigrants, Arab nationals, and, yes, a few crazy Westerners. We know that the terror cells are stepping up the effort to recruit Caucasian Westerners, especially women. The reason is pretty obvious—a cute blonde can go places an Arab man can’t. Most of the time the girl has serious daddy issues. You know the deal—some girls turn to porn, some sleep with radicals.”
I wasn’t sure I bought that.
A small grin played on his lips. “Why don’t you tell me what else is bothering you?”
“A lot of things,” I said.
He shook his head. “Not really, Myron. It’s pretty much down to one thing now, isn’t it? You’re wondering about the car accident.”
“The official version is a lie,” I said. “I talked to Karen Tower before she was murdered. I talked to Nigel Manderson. The accident didn’t happen the way they said.”
“That’s your smoke?”
“It is.”
“So if I clear that smoke, you will drop this?”
“They were covering something up that night.”
“And if I clear that smoke, you will drop this?” Jones said again.
“I guess,” I said.
“Okay, so let’s discuss alternate theories.” Jones kept walking. “The car accident ten years ago. You think what really happened is . . .” He stopped and turned to me. “Well, no, you tell me. What do you think they were covering up?”
I said nothing.
“The car crashed—I guess that you buy that part. Terese was rushed to the hospital. I guess you buy that part too. So where does it go wrong for you? You think—help me here, Myron—that a cabal involving Terese Collins’s best friend and at least one or two cops hid her seven-year-old daughter for some odd reason, raised her in hiding all these years . . . And then?”
I still said nothing.
“And this conspiracy of yours assumes that I’m lying about the DNA test, which you can now learn independently I’m not.”
“They were covering up something,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “They were.”
I waited. We headed down past the park’s carousel.
“The crash happened pretty much as you were told. A truck bounded down A-Forty. Ms. Collins spun her steering wheel, and well, that was that. Disaster. You know the backstory too. She was home. She got a call to come in so that she could anchor prime time. She hadn’t planned on going out that night, so I guess in some ways it’s understandable.”
“What is?”
“There is a Greek expression: The humpback never sees the hump in his own back.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Maybe nothing. That expression is talking about flaws. We are quick to find flaws in others. We aren’t so good with ourselves. We are also poor judges of our own abilities, especially when there is a nice carrot in front of us.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“Sure I am. You want to know what was covered up—but it’s so obvious. With her daughter dead, hadn’t Terese Collins been punished enough? I don’t know if they were worried so much about the legal ramifications or just the guilt a mother would load on herself. But Terese Collins was drunk that night. Could she have avoided the accident if she was sober? Who knows—the truck driver was at fault but maybe if her reaction time was a little faster . . .”
I tried to take this in. “Terese was drunk?”
“Her blood test showed she was over the legal limit, yes.”
“And that was the cover-up?”
“It was.”
Lies have a certain smell. So does truth.
“Who knew?” I asked.
“Her husband. So did Karen Tower. They covered it up because they feared the truth would destroy her.”
The truth may have done that anyway, I thought. A weight filled my chest as I realized yet another truth: Terese probably knew. On some level, she knew about her culpability. Any mother would be devastated by a tragedy like that, but here it was, ten years later, and Terese was still trying to make amends.
How had Terese put it to me when she called from Paris? She didn’t want to rebuild.
She knew. Maybe subconsciously. But she knew.
I stopped walking.
“What happened to Terese?”
“Does that clear the smoke, Myron?”
“What happened to her?” I asked again.
Jones turned and faced me full. “I need you to let this go, okay? I’m not much of an ends-justify-means sort of guy. I know all the arguments against torture and I agree with them. But the issue is murky. Let’s say you catch a terrorist who has already killed thousands—and right now he has a bomb hidden that will kill millions of children. Would you punch him in the face to get the answer and save those children? Of course you would. Would you punch him twice? Suppose it was only a thousand children or a hundred or ten? Anyone who doesn’t get it at all . . . well, I would be wary of such a person. That’s an extremist too.”
“What’s your point?”
“I want you to have your life back.” Jones’s voice was soft now, almost a plea. “I know you don’t buy that. But I don’t like what happened to you. That’s why I’m telling you this. I’m protected. Jones isn’t even my real name, and we are here in this park because I don’t have an office. Even your friend Win would have trouble locating me. I know everything about you now. I know your past. I know how you destroyed your knee and how you tried to move past it. You don’t get many second chances. I’m giving you one right now.”
Jones looked off into the distance. “You need to let this go and move on with your life. For your sake.” He gestured with his chin. “And hers.”
For a moment I was afraid to look. I followed his gaze, my eyes sweeping left to right, when I suddenly froze. My hand fluttered toward my mouth. I tried to take the blow standing, felt something blow across my chest.
Standing across the expanse of green, staring back at me with tears in her eyes but looking as achingly beautiful as ever, was Terese.
31
DURING the attack in London, Terese had been shot in the neck.
I was back at that lovely shoulder, kissing it gently, when I saw the scar. No, she had not been drugged or taken to a black site. She had been kept in a hospital outside of London and then flown to New York. Her injuries had been more severe than mine. She had lost blood. She was still in a great deal of pain and moved gingerly.
We were back at Win’s Dakota apartment, in my bedroom, holding each other and looking up at the ceiling. She rested her head on my chest. I could feel my heart beating against her.
“Do you believe what Jones said?” I asked her.
“Yes.”
I ran my hand down the curve of her back and pulled her closer. I felt her shake a little. I didn’t want her out of my sight.
“Part of me always knew that I was deceiving myself,” she said. “I wanted it so badly. This chance at redemption, you know? Like my long-lost child was out there and I had a chance to rescue her.”
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