She left the comb on the dresser and walked over to the kitchen. The gurgling of the coffeepot was loud now; the pot filled with warm brew. She put her hands on his shoulders. Standing five-foot-five, she was nearly half a head shorter than he was, and as she kissed him, she rose up on her toes.
“Good morning,” she said. “I forgot to tell you.”
“It's the best morning I've had in a long time, Rebecca. I mean that.”
She squeezed his hand, and he embraced her. For several moments he held her close to him. “So,” she said, stepping back, “how's that coffee?”
“It's ready.” Savas grabbed two cups, quickly checked them to make sure they would pass some minimal health inspection, and, satisfied, filled each about three-quarters. “How do you take yours?”
“Black,” she said.
“Me, too.” He smiled back at her.
“Let me see what you have in this refrigerator of yours.”
Savas thought to dissuade her of the action but changed his mind. She might as well see that, too. He sipped at his coffee and walked over to the window, gazing outside and upward to the rising sun. The light was warm, the air fresh on his face. He felt something inside of him, an emotion long forgotten, crushed by years at NYPD, banished by the loss of his son. A feeling he immediately associated with his childhood, nearly excitement, washed through him now as it had not for long decades.
But inside, another voice arose in challenge, from a darker place, a buried place, and for a moment it seemed that the light outside faded and a chill had come into the air. He knew this voice, because he had listened to it for many years now. There was anger in its cry, a hatred that refused any solace or sense of peace. Leave me alone. For today, let me be.
He placed the coffee cup on the windowsill and turned to look at Cohen, bent over, head invisible, blocked behind the refrigerator door.
“Oh, wow, John. This is worse than I thought.”
He smiled, and for the moment, the angry voice was silenced. The older feeling swelled within him: Hope. That was the feeling. Simple hope. Could it last? The thundercloud deep inside waited, and he knew it would not be denied. He ignored it. For one day at least, he would remember what it was to hope.
34
Arab nations and their organizations issued multiple statements today condemning the string of Muslim-targeted terrorist attacks and threatened Western nations with economic repercussions if these attacks did not end and the responsible parties were not apprehended.
The Arab League issued a terse statement accusing Western governments of “complicity” and a “willing inaction” in stopping the attacks and finding those responsible. Two hours later, OPEC followed suit, threatening “economic hardship” to any nation “supporting Western terrorism against Muslims.” One high-ranking official who spoke under conditions of anonymity said that “Muslims are furious. This has brought even sworn enemies together to fight their common foe. This will blow up in the faces of infidel nations. This will make the oil crises of the last century seem like a celebration.”
Spokesmen from the European community in Brussels sought to stave off the controversy, indicating that all possible investigative organizations were active and working diligently to address Muslim safety in Europe and apprehend the terrorists. A White House spokesperson stated that it was counterproductive to threaten the United States when it was itself involved in efforts to solve these crimes. “These attacks have also occurred on our own soil, and we wish justice done as much as anyone,” said the press secretary.
The source responded to these remarks. “Words are not enough. It is time for the Western nations to practice what they tell Muslim nations — to stop terrorists. Unless these murderers and destroyers of Muslim holy sites are caught and executed, the West will be held responsible. I tell you now, Allah will rain suffering on your people.”
Traffic on the FDR northbound was unusually bad. It was a constant stop-and-go, intermittent motion turning quickly into what looked like a frozen river of vehicles. Tugboats on the East River pushing box-laden barges overtook them on the right. A cabbie darted left directly in front of Savas, pushing his way into the middle lane and forcing him either to slow down or to plow into the yellow car. He felt the symptoms of road rage coming to the surface, but with Cohen riding shotgun, he sighed and let the taxi have its pointless lane change.
After nearly forty-five minutes, they reached the Sixty-Second Street exit and pulled off under the FDR, past a gas station, and onto York Avenue. They found a parking garage on Sixty-Third Street, then walked the five blocks to New York Hospital. Passing the small green oasis of Rockefeller University on the right, the pair turned down Sixty-Eighth Street toward the hospital. Within ten minutes, they were in a recovery room staring down at Husaam Jordan.
Savas's first thought was that he looked well. He had clearly lost some weight from his once hyper-muscular frame, and his right leg and shoulder were still bandaged, but he was alert. His eyes were bright, and he was reading a set of newspapers draped over his legs. As they walked in, he looked up and smiled. His basso profundo boomed throughout the small room.
“John. Rebecca,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Here to rescue me?”
Cohen smiled. Savas just shook his head. “Agent Jordan, from what I've heard, you do a good enough job of that sort of thing yourself.”
“‘Good enough’ is a relative term.” His smile faded. “It was not good enough for the men I took with me. Good men, who have served this nation well.” Jordan gestured to his arm and shoulder with his left hand. “More personally, it was not enough from the point of view of my leg and arm. They have been reminding me of this frequently.”
“I've heard that you will be released soon,” Cohen said.
“Yes, next week if I have anything to do with it. I have a very aggressive rehabilitation program planned, and I can't wait to start.”
A nurse dashed into the room and took the lunch tray he had cast to the side. “Well, you won't be doing anything aggressive as long as you are on my floor,” she scolded, giving him a disapproving glare. She looked over at the two visitors. “He's been nothing but trouble since he got here.”
Savas suppressed a laugh. “Yes, well, ma'am, he's been a load of trouble for a bunch of folks. But I think his heart is in the right place.”
Jordan looked directly at Savas, who returned his gaze. It was the closest he felt he'd ever get to admitting that he had changed his mind about the man. The nurse just grunted and took the tray out of the room.
Jordan changed the subject. “So, I hope you have brought me some news finally. After two surgeries, three hospitals, and a week under sedation, I'm trying to figure out where the world is again.” He held up a newspaper that showed schematics of the Martyrs Monument and an analysis of how it had collapsed. “I don't suppose our friends from Valhalla have blown anything else up?”
Savas shook his head. “Thank goodness, no, although given what's happened so far, we're all waiting for this month's attack.”
“Yes, so am I,” said Jordan.
“So is the rest of the world,” interjected Cohen. “The president has called a special meeting with representatives from the Arab League at Camp David. The Muslim world from Africa to the Middle East to Southeast Asia is in chaos. Conspiracy theories abound.”