Savas continued after the voice spoke for several seconds. “If you are being followed, we'll have you covered. Come up Thirtieth Avenue toward the subway line. We'll be hidden close to the station, near the car, but we'll see down the street for a long way. Anything suspicious and we'll move on it.”
Savas closed the phone.
“One of the subway stations, John? Kinda public for this.”
Savas paused a moment, deep in thought. “I know, but I needed a place he could identify and get to fast, without confusion. Also, it will be harder to pull anything off in a crowded place.”
Miller raised his eyebrows. “If they do, we could get some collateral damage.”
Savas nodded, his face troubled. He had accepted the risk but was burdened by it anyway. The location — so close to the church. Why did I choose to meet him there?
“He was clean?”
“Said he was using a pay phone.” He turned toward Miller. “I can't believe his cell was being tracked! Who has that kind of access, Frank?”
“Phone companies and select government agencies, John. You know that.”
“The CIA hit squads? Damn it, I don't believe that, Frank!”
Miller shrugged. “No one else could have that access, John. No one.”
“To pull off all these kills, they'd need worldwide access. It doesn't make sense.”
“Well, someone's tapped into US communication networks, all to track down this one guy. Either they really want him, or they have a kind of casual access that is frightening.”
“He's not that important.”
“Then we ought to be worried about who we are dealing with, John.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
The Sheikh was due to be on foot, moving up the street toward the station from the west. After checking the platform, Savas and Miller quickly descended from the elevated tracks above Thirty-First Street. Miller sat down at an outdoor café and was the perfect model of a relaxed two-hundred-and-thirty-pound marine enjoying the fine June weather. Savas took a more awkward position, slowly gazing over the newspaper stand in front of a deli. Soon, he had run out of papers to stare at and began to examine the produce out on display when he noticed a movement from Miller's direction.
The marine had spotted their quarry first and rose from his seat, heading toward the street crossing. Savas's cell vibrated as Miller sent an alert to his phone. Across the street and halfway down the block, weaving erratically, was the harried figure of the Sheikh. Oh, Christ! Savas tensed instinctively as he realized that the man was nearly running. He and Miller locked eyes for a moment, the communication enough, then both began to cross the street in the direction of their informant. Savas reached down and felt for his gun in his side holster, hidden behind the side of his suit jacket. He continued to zero in on the Sheikh, while scanning the sea of people behind him.
The hunter was hard to miss. A tallish man rounded the corner at the far end of the block, and, like the Sheikh, he moved too fast, counter to the normal flow of pedestrians. Savas heard Miller shout from the right. Both men pulled their guns and began sprinting toward the Sheikh, who had nearly reached the corner. Several people began to scream, and Savas waved them out of their way.
“FBI! Everyone clear the way! Clear the way!”
The pedestrian traffic parted like the Red Sea, some people dropping to the ground, some rushing into buildings, most running either right or left of Savas. Savas saw the Sheikh and waved him down.
“Drop! Drop down!”
The Sheikh dropped. His action, and the parting crowd, exposed the figure pursuing him. A gun was in the assassin's hand. As the killer sprinted, he steadied the weapon, aiming it at the Sheikh.
Savas braced himself against a lamppost and fired. Gunshots exploded from his and Miller's weapons. People screamed. Bullets whizzed past him, sending shards of shattered concrete into the air.
The battle was brief, the assassin caught in an unexpected crossfire. Savas watched him stumble and fall backward. His weapon arm struck the sidewalk, sending the gun rattling behind him.
“Frank, the Sheikh!” screamed Savas. Miller dashed forward to the prone figure of their contact. Savas approached the downed killer, gun steadied in his hands and aimed forward. Four shots had found their mark: two in the chest, one to the gun shoulder, and the last either a graze or partial-penetration head wound. Savas knew the wounds were life threatening. But the man was alive! Miller came up to his side with the Sheikh in tow, who spat out curses.
“Shut it!” yelled Savas, as he pulled out his cell, mashing several buttons. “Getting medical help here as soon as possible. We aren't losing this bastard! He's our key, Frank. I promise you, one way or the other, he'll lead us to the truth.”
The man mumbled several words, then suddenly came to consciousness. For a moment he looked confused; then he seemed to place himself and his situation. Even seriously wounded, he managed to attempt an attack. Savas, uninjured, was more than ready, and he forced the man back down. The killer relaxed, having spent most of his available energy. Savas grabbed him by the shirt collar.
“Nice try, asshole. While you're awake, you should know that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?” The man whispered something Savas could not understand. “I'll take that as a ‘yes.’”
Suddenly, before Savas had even released his grip on the man, an impact blew open the man's forehead, showering the three of them with blood. Stunned momentarily, they didn't move. Then Savas turned quickly toward Miller.
“Get him down! Get him—” But it was too late. As Miller reached over to grab the Sheikh, a loud slap sounded, and their contact arched his neck, a shot blasting through his spine and brainstem. He dropped instantly to the ground, his vital processes immediately halted. He was dead.
“No, damn it!” shouted Savas, as he drew his fists up sharply and pounded the hard concrete. The trap had been reversed! Another assassin had been waiting or in pursuit. He finished the job on the wounded killer, then turned his sights on the Sheikh.
Guns drawn, Miller and Savas scanned the general direction from which the bullet had originated. No further shots followed. The second assassin was gone.
“He shot him first.” It was Miller's voice. The ex-marine was staring at the body of the dead assassin. “As much as they wanted your contact dead, they wanted more to make sure we didn't take that killer.”
Savas nodded, the implications dawning on him. He slowly stood up, his palms numb and clenched, one feeling strangely pricked. He turned his hand over and opened his palm. Gleaming yellow in the sunlight was a golden necklace, torn unintentionally from the dead assassin's neck. Fresh blood stained the gold links. At the bottom hung a golden pendant. It was a strange object, shaped like an anchor, and unlike anything Savas had ever seen.
The harsh face of a bird was carved in its side.
15
In the fading light of the June evening, John Savas watched the old women file out of the church in Astoria. A sea of black with gray caps, they walked or shuffled, some limping down the steps toward the streets. In the midst of the black tide, there were the more nimble steps of the young, small islands lit with bright colors in the midst of the older generation. Vespers was over, the last prayers of the day having been read. Soon, the cantor himself walked out into the falling night. Gazing up at the gold-painted dome and the neon-white cross, he lit a cigarette, crossed himself, and stepped down into the night. In seconds he was lost in the swirling currents of New Yorkers flowing across the busy streets.