Like having a fucking job, though. Up at goddamn seven in the fucking morning.
But Seephus was cool with it. Meant the crew boss thought he was a player. Meant he got to meet the out-of-town crews, build out his network. Might even mean Hernandez knew his name.
Seephus knew one way to get on Hernandez’s screen for sure – find this Hardin fuck.
Crew boss, he’d passed the picture around, let everybody know this was a major fucking deal. Didn’t say what it was about, just that Hernandez wanted this fucker bad, and that any brother played a part in that, he gonna be one happy nigger. So Seephus had studied the picture good. He was good with faces. Little game he played on the train, watching the people get on and off, trying to remember who goes where. Like the guy up two seat on his right? Guy with that buzz cut white guys like when they start going bald, always got the iPod buds in his ears, always got the laptop open? Got on every morning in LaGrange. Got off at Route 59. Always had a Starbucks cup.
Little tired for it today, though, just leaning on the window, watching the word slide by. Wished he could sleep on the train like he seen so many people do, but he figured he nods off, somebody pinches his bag, he’d end up sleeping on a slab down at the ME’s for good.
And then he saw Hardin.
Hardin was going stir crazy. Spent all the previous day in the damn condo. Him and Wilson eating all their meals take out, couldn’t even get out, take a run, nothing. Made sense, all the people looking for him, but it was sawing on his nerves. Switched on the TV, switched it off again. Did another hundred pushups. Had to get out tonight, make his deal with Lafitpour. That should be scaring the shit out of him; instead, he was looking forward to it.
She had a lot of books, at least. He flipped the coffee maker on, checked out the shelves; saw The Mosquito Coast by Paul Theroux. He’d read a couple of his travel books and liked them, figured he might as well see what the guy could do with a novel. Coffee maker dinged. He poured a cup, walked out on Wilson’s small balcony, sat at the little café table she had out there, watched the train pull in to the station.
CHAPTER 42
Seephus looked up again from the Sun-Times he’d picked up off an empty train seat when he jumped off. Proud of that move. Gave him something to do ’stead of just standing on the platform. Had the disguise on, he knew, but he still felt like the only brother at a Klan rally. Nobody seemed to be paying him no mind, though.
Been like half an hour now. He’d called in. Boss man told him just sit tight, he’d get a call. Couple of trains had come and gone, one going each way, him still on the bench on the platform. Fucker was still up there, though – second floor, second balcony in from the corner.
Seephus’ cell went off: Tupac tone he’d downloaded. Seephus slapping at the phone, trying to shut that shit off, kinda thing get the whiteys looking at you.
“Yo?” He answered.
“Mr Jones, this is Jamie Hernandez…”
Seephus trying to listen through the cha-ching sounds in his head.
CHAPTER 43
Lynch, Bernstein, and Starshak walked into the room full of suits in the Federal Building on Adams. At the front of the room, the new US Attorney, Alex Hickman, was backslapping a handful of brass. Hickman was political as hell, always looking for a camera.
Hickman did the introductions.
Brad Jablonski from the DEA was there, gave Lynch a nod. Hickman’s replacement at the Bureau, little guy named Tate, one of Hickman’s coattail riders. Handful of other suits, just introduced as “out of DC.” Could mean anything. Some gangs-and-drugs guys in from a couple of the larger suburban PDs; Perez, guy from Aurora that Lynch knew; guys from Joliet, Elgin. Wilson, the DEA agent from the last meeting, was in the back.
Hickman hit a switch, dimming the lights, and brought up a PowerPoint show on the screen. It was the same split screen shot Lynch had used, Hardin in his Marine Blues and the cop cam grab.
“Gentlemen, meet Nick Hardin…”
Hickman made his spiel, his DC suits chiming in to back him on a couple points. The diamonds, Hezbollah, the Al Qaeda connection. They threw some kisses out to Starshak and Lynch, blew a little smoke up their asses – kudos for spotting Hardin, running all this shit down in just a few days.
A new shot popped up on the screen. A grainy blow-up picture of some guy taken from a long ways off. Olive-skin, dark hair, on the slight side, a little Omar Sharif vibe to him. He was in a sport coat, open shirt, at an outdoor café somewhere, chatting up a looker in a sundress. Lynch noticed one of the suits, one Bernstein had been eyeballing, tightening up just a touch.
“Husam al Din,” said Hickman. “Translates to the Sword of Faith. Intel we’ve got says he’s freelance, pretty much the go-to shooter for fundamentalist Islam.” Hickman looked at the Chicago PD contingent. “Lynch, we’re pretty sure this is your .22 guy.”
“When did you get this?” Starshak said, little edge in his voice.
“Relax, Captain,” said Hickman. “This is brand new. We have a dossier for you guys. We’re sharing everything we’ve got.”
“Where’d you get it?” asked Lynch.
“Except that,” said one of the suits. “We aren’t sharing that.
Hickman made his case on Hernandez, claiming he was after Hardin not for personal payback but because Hernandez was playing ball with the Al Qaeda and Hardin had queered their deal.
“We’ve got two huge criminal organizations, one with substantial amounts of cash that it needs to launder, one with significant non-cash assets it wants to get liquid.” said Hickman. “Fred, you want to give them a quick brief from the Treasury perspective?”
A short, heavyset woman got up, took over the laptop, bounced through a few spreadsheets, banks where they’d found overlap, transaction dates that tied together.
Starshak looked at the woman, then turned to Lynch. “Fred?”
“Probably lying about their names, too,” Lynch said.
Lynch heard a soft snort out of Bernstein. “Smell a rat?” Lynch asked.
“It’s BS. That much money moving around the system, the story would be if it hadn’t crossed trails at one institution or another. Of course there’s overlap. This isn’t proof, it’s spin.”
When Hickman was done, Jablonski piped up. “Feels kind of out there, Hickman. We’ve been working Hernandez forever. Never caught a whiff of anything like this.”
Tate, Hickman’s new Bureau boy, cut him off. “There are other elements of this we can’t share. But if we can put Hernandez and this al Din together, then we can throw the War on Terror net over the whole lot of them.”
Jablonski shrugged. “Good by me. I’ve lost enough people to this asshole. You guys want to take him off and waterboard him for a few days, I’m not crying over it.”
“Anybody else have questions?” Hickman asked in a tone that suggested no would be the appropriate answer.
“Yeah,” Starshak said. “You got a reason I’m not supposed to be worried about some terrorist running around town? Shutting down this money laundry of yours is fine, but I’m kinda wondering about, oh, I dunno, shit blowing up.”
“Our intel is that al Din is here strictly as security, protecting the diamonds on the way in and the cash on the way out.” Hickman didn’t look pleased.