“You need to know. You always need to know,” said the Sheikh. “What's going on is that the network's gone rabid, man. There's a purge on.”
“It's not us, Rasheed. You're tagged as mine. No one will touch you as long as you're working with us.”
The Sheikh laughed. “Damn, man, no one's scared of you. You Feds are always three steps behind.”
“Caught you, didn't I?”
The Sheikh smiled. “You got lucky. But I mean going down. That ain't jail, man. They're dead. Bodies just piling up, and no one's fingered, everybody's denying. Likely true, too — everybody's getting hit. If you in the business, you get marked, a price is on your head. No one wants to talk about it. Like the fucking boogeyman.”
Savas felt his heart rate increase. More killings? Purgings in the terrorist underground? This was potentially even bigger than he thought. He needed the Sheikh to stay where he was! “Rasheed, you don't have to run. We've got protection teams. We can watch your back, undercover. If it gets too hot, we can take you into protective custody.”
The Sheikh just shook his head. “This ain't the usual. Boys aren't scared for nothing. Someone's coming after us, G-man, and they ain't interested in business. They interested in dead men. Networks are wrecked. There ain't no credit, no trail, nothing we can see.”
He looked around anxiously, water dripping from his cap. The rain continued its downpour, periodic flashes following rolls of thunder echoing against the concrete and stone walls of the tunnel. A small river began to flow through the tunnel under the bridge, soaking through their shoes.
The Sheikh grinned diabolically. “Doing your job for you.”
“This is important, damn it!” Savas had to convince him to work from within. “We know this is happening. We've got to figure out who is behind this!”
“That ain't no interest to me. I done well in this business, and no one's wise to me. But money ain't no good if you're six feet under.”
Savas used the only tool he had left: fear. “Do you really think you can hide from them, Rasheed?” The Sheikh's widening eyes betrayed his concern. Savas continued. “Whoever is behind this, they've taken out imams in England and diplomats in New York. They're all over the globe, invisible, professional. Like you said, they don't seem to be familiar with the word ‘mercy,’ or to have an interest in money or negotiation. You're a player, Rasheed. For both sides, we know too well, but a player who makes the network hum. You're one of those important links. It's not a question of whether you have a price on your head — it's how much, and when they will cash in.”
“Fuck you, man!” he shouted, and started to back away.
“You run, and you'll be completely on your own, unprotected and no closer to knowing who is after you. If we can figure this out, we can come down hard on these people, and that will go a lot farther toward saving your ass than trying to hide in a hole. They'll dig you out, Rasheed. Then they'll pull the trigger.”
The Sheikh looked like he was near panic; the truth of Savas's words burrowed inside him. He would either break in alarm from the fear or see that the FBI was throwing him a lifeline — a tenuous one, perhaps, but without it, he was helpless in the water as the sharks circled.
The man inched back toward Savas. He grasped the line.
“What do you want? I don't have much time. They're on to me. Too many small things; can't explain it. But I know.”
Instinct. Savas exhaled softly. “You're to keep your eyes open. We'll assign a team of undercover agents to shadow you. If what you say is true, you'll be the trap.”
“I'll be the fucking bait, man.”
Savas leveled his gaze at the man. Honesty was essential. “Yes, Rasheed. You will be.”
10
Pants Henry lay in an alcohol-induced daze on a hard park bench.
A cool breeze stirred through the darkness surrounding him, rustling leaves and pieces of litter along the sidewalk, searching for morning. The boiling New York summer had not yet triumphed over the spring, and the city had still to warm to its deep tissue of concrete and metal. A rare and soft stillness rested over Manhattan. A good time to sleep it off.
A beige moon hung over the East River, and a winking handful of stars forced their way through the moonlight and the orange haze of streetlamps. Pants breathed slowly on his bench in Dag Hammarskjold Park in Midtown, a brown paper bag on the ground next to him, a pushcart and several bags of cans and sundry objects to the side. After so many years frequenting this park, he was nearly a decoration. The locals tolerated him, and his one intact pants leg, as best they could.
The moonlight darted through the metal grid of a park sculpture that rose from the middle of the plaza. Six spidery pillars of black iron climbed toward the heavens from foot-tall concrete blocks, and six filigreed arches curved upward, intersecting at a small ring to create a netted dome. The moonlight danced through this meshwork, alighting on Pants's haggard face, beard, and the thin wire transmitter/receiver running from ear to mouth. Soft static bursts escaped from the device as he quietly responded.
“Eagle 7, this is Alpha center.” The language was guttural, vaguely Germanic, uninterpretable to anyone who might have overheard.
“Copy,” Pants whispered in the same tongue, his eyes cracked open imperceptibly.
“Report.”
“Plaza is clean.”
“Remain in position. Delta team has exited the target zone. Surveillance has been redirected. The gardeners are planting. Estimate less than ten minutes. Situation is nominal but critical. Execute extreme caution. This is it, Eagle 7.”
“Roger, Alpha center.”
Pants knew that ten minutes was more than enough. The city block at Second Avenue had been re-created in the deserts of the Southwest, the operation rehearsed more times than he wished to remember, with too many different scenarios, too many failures and unexpected events encountered. Nothing could go wrong tonight.
That was why, when he saw motion at the far end of the park, training took over, and the outcome was never in doubt.
He watched as two young men stepped into the plaza. Their voices were loud for the hour, alcohol a likely culprit. They appeared to be fair-skinned blacks or Latinos, with loose-fitting jeans, sharply cut shirts revealing strong muscles, and not a few thin-edged scars. Unmoving on the park bench, Pants was not surprised to see the black-and-gold tattoos. Latin Kings. Fallen from their heyday, broken by police and changing times, their members were still feared. He would need to be focused.
“Alpha center, two unidentifieds, moving toward the garden. Latin Kings. Moving to intercept.”
“Roger that, Eagle 7. Mission critical. Sanitize the plaza.”
“Roger, Alpha Center. In progress.”
He rose slowly from the bench, an old bum seemingly both drunk and hungover. He reached down for his paper bag and shuffled toward the middle of the plaza, walking slowly beneath the iron dome, grasping bars to steady himself. The two Kings slowed, still laughing, but many nights living near death's edge had sharpened intuitions that preserved life. There was nothing unusual about the wino in front of them — Pants had made sure of that — but still they slowed. Pants understood: that place of unreason that awakens in the face of danger whispered deep within them.
He made himself appear oblivious to their motions, stumbling forward and talking to himself and to the brown stone-tiled walkway at his feet. Approaching within ten yards, he raised his head, babbling nonsense and quickening his gait. The young men slowed and stared at each other. They seemed amused, an initial sense of caution replaced with a smirking mischief. Pants watched as the man on the right reached into his pocket and pulled out a short knife, grinning.