"Idris and Harry," Dara said, "were going for twenty-five million."
"They might get it for bin Laden, but not some kid learned Arabic in prison."
"How do you know that?"
"It's where black kids become Muslims."
He looked out toward Marshal Foch in the middle of the plaza.
"Who do you know," Buck said, "drives a silver BMW drophead, has a black top?"
Now Dara was looking for a BMW in the light traffic, a few cars coming around to slip off into connecting streets.
"Directly across from us," Buck said. "It crept past once. Now it's coming around again. Tell me if you know the car."
There it was, silver shining hot in the sun. She said, "I've never seen it before."
She watched it drive past them, the windows dark, she couldn't see the driver. She watched it make a wide turn toward Marshal Foch, taking its time. She glanced at Buck drawing a nickel-plated Mag revolver from under his jacket.
Buck said, "I tell you to hit the deck, hit it."
The BMW got almost to Marshal Foch before it began to come around in a slow right turn, back this way but closer to the curb, approaching the Cafe Verdun and the sidewalk tables and she heard Buck yell at her and saw him pull the table over on its side, Dara going down behind it seconds before gunfire came from the car. She didn't see Buck. She looked past the table and saw Jama in the car, the window down, Jama holding his Walther and firing point-blank at the table, the rounds splintering wood and she went down to press herself against the pavement, thinking, Where's Buck? Thinking, Jesus Christ, please shoot him. And it stopped. The ringing in her ears faded. She looked over the table and saw Jama still in the car window, still pointing his gun at her. She could say she didn't know what his name was, he'd never told her. But thought, Take a chance, and said, "I bet your name's James Russell, isn't it?"
"Russell," Jama said. "The idea was a tease, see if law people could figure it out. You know how many knew it? Two. No, three down, four to go."
Past him she saw the white Toyota enter the plaza. Dara gave the white Toyota time to get over here, saying to Jama, "Who cares what your name is. You'll either be shot down or go to prison-" She stopped, was going to say "for life" but never got to say any of it. Jama was aiming at her and Xavier was ramming the white Toyota straight into the right side of the BMW, banging in the door and some of the fender.
Xavier said after, "Jama didn't know what hit him. Fired three out his right side window, nothin to shoot at, and ran. Fired three times through the table. That leaves him two shots in the gun."
"One," Buck said.
He was standing a few yards from them brushing at his knees.
"He hit me with his first shot." Buck opened his coat to show his white shirt bloody beneath his arm. "He got me right here in my love handle, through and through."
Dara said, "We'll take you to a hospital."
"I can manage," Buck said. "I know where I can have it fixed up."
Dara said, "Did you hear him say his name?"
"I did, but you're the one got him to tell it. I'd say it's your score."
Dara said, "I wouldn't feel right about it."
"It's worth five grand easy," Buck said. "More, you hunt down where he did time and get a positive ID."
Dara said, "Oh…?" She said, "But it would look like I'm doing it for the money."
Buck said, "Yeah…?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
HE WASN'T SURE HE hit the movie girl. Talking too much, not tending to business. He hit the suit was with her but not in a good spot. Saw him grab his side twisting around and go down. Not a cop, a white man with a bright-metal piece. But the one rammed into him could be cops, the reason Jama gunned it out of there, tires screaming on the pavement, and thanked Allah for saving his ass. Jama didn't look back till he was out past Marshal Foch and saw in his rearview it was a white Toyota had plowed into him. Saw the tall nigga outside the car. Saw him standing, hands on his hips, watching him drive away. Saw Dara the movie girl and the suit on his feet now raising his piece, sun flashing on it. Then lowered it, cars passing in front of him. Jama remembered the suit scooting away from Dara and aiming the piece to fire when Jama shot him. Was he drawing gunfire away from her? It looked like it. What was he, the suit, a boyfriend? Jama asked himself what woman he knew, any of them, he'd stand up to draw fire away from. And saw Dara looking out from behind the table, her shirt wet from coffee spilled on her. He saw her at Idris's party at Eyl and aboard Aphrodite the time she visited. She knew his name. He came to realizing it, he didn't start with it. He saw her by the table and shot holes in it to scare her. He wanted to hit her he'd of done it. Then why didn't he?
He turned north on to rue d'Ethiopie and thought of Celeste and knew she'd lied to him. He didn't know it in her room but did now, sure of it. She didn't know his name, even after he told her. Saying she pretended not to know it. Lying was the girl's business.
He pictured Dara again on the tanker, while they were anchored off Eyl. On Aphrodite, full of liquefied natural gas. He thought of the phone number that would set off the C4 in the hold. Saw the numbers in his mind, 44-208-748-1599. He had another number Qasim had given him, an al Qaeda contact. Someone with the latest word. And saw Dara again in the room where he was handcuffed to the chair. She never put on different looks, she used the same one all the time. Show she was interested in him. He believed they could sit down and have a conversation and keep each other thinking. He wondered if she was fucking that tall nigga. If he wasn't too old. He could be her grandfather. Mean. Told you he can break your neck and you believe him. Dara, he couldn't see her going to him to fuck her. Dara could take her pick. No, there was nothing going on with Xavier. Maybe she'd let him see her naked once in a while, that's all. The old fucker stares thinking of the old days. Jama knew he had to kill her. She knew his name. Except he'd like to get to know her better first.
He could be running out of time, once she gave the FBI his name. If she did. Or if she was in no hurry, he believed Dara would like to sit down with him, too. She was cool, but not how she talked, told you things. She talked eye to eye with you and could put you on doing it. That was cool, asking did he want to be in the movie she's making. Was she fucking with him or was she serious? Find that out if you want, then shoot her.
He'd put the car in the alley behind Hunter's digs-what he liked to call his apartment-and make some plans for the next couple days or so. See if he could pull off something with Aphrodite he needed to do. That big fat LNG tanker waiting in the stream to blow up. When he wanted to see Dara again for some reason-he might feel a need to do that-he'd go to her hotel. Right now he had to phone his al Qaeda connection, find out if they were still fucked up, couldn't make up their mind, and tell his guy what he was going to do. Take it out of their hands. Get it done.
He called the number of his contact. THE VOICE ON THE cell repeated the numbers Jama called and said in Arabic, "Allah is God. He hears us and watches over us."
Jama said, "Why, I believe that's Assam Amriki I'm speaking to. My old buddy, is that you?"
The voice said, "Don't use names."
"It's been seven years, man, I still recognize your voice, your proper way with the Arabian, showing you cultured. Assam, my brother, where you at?"
"Don't ask that."
"You still the propaganda man, doing recruitment videos?"
"I'm hanging up the phone you talk to me like that."
"How you want me to talk to you?"
"Tell me why you called."
"I want to know about the tanker, where it's at."
"The mission is no more."
"Delayed? Postponed?"
"It's off. We don't touch the ship."
"It's got explosives on it."
"The ship is explosive. It makes no difference, we don't touch it."
"Once they took us off, Qasim thought you'd put two more Qaedas aboard and get it done."