Still, even among the true believers, sometimes money trumps all. When Al Qaeda started looking for ways to move money around after 9/11, after the West slammed the door on all their bank accounts, Hezbollah was happy to play ball. Diamonds became one of Al Qaeda’s favorite financing mechanisms, even if it meant that some Sunnis and some Shi’as had to make nice.
Whether you were Sunni or Shi’a, though, you could still hate the Jews, and when you got to the commercial end of the diamond market, the part in Antwerp and New York, the Jews still ran the market. So Israel was wired into it pretty good. Munroe knew Stein had been working with Mossad to fuck up Al Qaeda’s diamond play, sucking their runners into false buys, whacking them and taking the stones.
So al Din? Could be he was on Al Qaeda’s dime this time, whacking Stein, trying to clear Mossad out of their pipeline. Except al Din was still hanging around Chicago. Not a smart play unless the man had another reason to stay in town. Munroe had played footsie with al Din before, couple of times, and he knew one thing for sure. Al Din had a reason. The guy didn’t do stupid.
And that meant the Stein murder was the opening gambit on a bigger play, one that had something to do with better than $100 million in stones on the move. That was a butt-ton of operating capital. Hell, the ragheads had pulled off 9/11 for box tops and bottle caps by comparison. Something was up. Something big. And there were too many teams on the field.
“OK,” Munroe said to the Lagos station chief. “Three things. First, wake up the Google jockeys at Langley and have them start running scenarios – what kind of mischief could our Islamic friends get up to with nine figures to play with? Could be Al Qaeda boys, could be Tehran. So big-ticket items – loose nukes, whatever. Get ears up in all the weapons markets. Find out who’s flush all of a sudden and we’ll have a chat with them. Second, whoever has the diamonds has to move them, and these stones aren’t papered up. That’s gonna take an inside player somewhere, and that means Johannesburg, Antwerp, Mumbai, Tel Aviv, New York, maybe the Russians – there has to be money on the move, and a lot of it. Let’s find it. Third, Stein was Chicago, al Din’s in Chicago, so I’ll be in Chicago soonest. Get me an asset roster. Anybody we got in the Windy City, on or off the books. And anybody we can lean on. I know that Mayor Hurley and his thugs have that place wired up – I want real time access to every camera and microphone in town before I hit the ground. And let’s see if we can find out who has the goddamn diamonds, shall we?”
“I’m on it,” the man said.
Munroe killed the connection, went to the window, opened it, leaned on the sill and looked out over the city. Three in the fucking morning, but plenty of traffic. New York thinks it doesn’t sleep? Nobody’s stealing a march on these little yellow bastards. Warm breeze, always that scent of nước mắmon the air. An elegiac feeling he had too often these days. Munroe never knew when it was going to be his last time someplace anymore. If this was it for Saigon, he hated to say goodbye.
CHAPTER 9
Liz Johnson sat across the table from Lynch in the booth at McGinty’s. Over her shoulder, he could see her on TV above the bar. Not unusual – he saw more of her on TV these days than he did in person.
“You’re on the tube,” he said. Her and one of the talking heads at CNN. Sound was down, he couldn’t tell what they were talking about, but then Hastings Clarke’s picture popped up, the former President of the United States who resigned his office by eating a gun after Lynch had dug up his past. He and Johnson had just been starting out then; she’d gotten the story from the inside. Her book on the whole mess was coming out in a couple of weeks. She was A-list talent now. She’d gone from a local reporter at the Trib to one of the faces every cable news outlet wanted in their stable. Spent as much time in New York and Washington as she did in Chicago these days.
Johnson turned, took a peek. “PR. Publisher’s got me booked solid the next couple weeks. Keep having the same conversation over and over again.”
“You’ve got it down, what I’ve seen. Things looking good?”
She shrugged. “Going to a third printing, just on the pre-orders. Not Sarah Palin numbers, but good.”
Lynch smiled at her and nodded.
“None of that would have happened without you,” she said.
“Sure,” said Lynch. “Don’t forget the little people.”
She frowned a little, not sure how to take that. “That a problem?”
He shook his head. “Weird, is all. Got my wake-up from the clock radio the other day, you talking with somebody over at WBBM. I’m half out of it, reach over to the other side of the bed before I realize you’re not there.”
She gave him a sly smile. “I’ve got better ways to wake you up, Lynch. You know that.”
“That I do,” he said. “That I do.” She was only in town for the night, back to New York in the morning. But he was glad they were at McGinty’s. Not the kind of place where he’d spend dinner watching her sign napkins and pose for pictures.
“This Stein thing going to be another hairball?” Johnson asked. Lynch and Johnson had a deal. Anything they said was strictly off the record unless they both agreed otherwise, and she’d kept her end of the bargain right down the line. Nice to have somebody to talk to, somebody outside the department.
“Don’t know what to make of it yet. Second killing just up the street the same night, looks like the same shooter. Some African refugee. Bernstein’s pulling Stein’s business shit apart. The whole thing’s got a funny smell to it already.”
Waitress dropped off their burgers, and Johnson took a huge bite, closed her eyes for a moment, smiled. “Jesus, real food.”
“They aren’t feeding you out east?”
“Oh, sure, all the arugula and overpriced fish I can eat. You go to Komi with Stephanopoulos, you don’t get any bacon cheeseburgers.”
Lynch laughed. “And how is George?”
“Short. Nice hair, though.”
Later, upstairs in Lynch’s apartment, she lay on top of him on the bed. They hadn’t been together in three weeks, so the first time had been urgent, but now they were rocking gently. Her Blackberry buzzed, vibrating on the table next to the bed. She didn’t reach for it, he had to give her that, but he felt her stiffen for a second, and she never seemed to come all the way back to him. He couldn’t blame her exactly, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. They finished.
“I’m going to wash up a bit,” she said, rolling off him. “Have to catch a plane in a couple hours.”
“Still back tomorrow though?” Lynch asked.
She nodded, already had the Blackberry up, scrolling through her messages. She took the phone into the bathroom with her.
Lynch lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. She was the best thing in his life, and she was in the bathroom with her Blackberry. He was in his bed alone.
CHAPTER 10
Nick Hardin was working on plan B.
With Stein dead, he could go to Mossad direct. But he didn’t have a personal contact and Mossad tended to play dirty. If he walked into the consulate, he might get his $10 million, or he might get ten cents of lead through the brainpan. More likely, they’d use this as leverage, and ship him back to Africa as their personal indentured asset until his luck ran out. Hardin was looking for an exit strategy, not an unpaid second career as Tel Aviv’s sub-Saharan lackey.