After lunch, he tours the town, searching for realtors, and chooses a smaller one.
Zeb poses as an investor from New York looking to get away from the big, bad city. He has his cover complete with business cards, a fancy title at a venture capital firm in Manhattan and pictures of a happy, smiling family. Any calls to the firm will get routed to Broker or Andrews. Zeb has many such covers.
The realtor is too happy to help Zeb. Business is slow, ‘For Sale’ signs dot the town, and homes are not moving. The realtor drives him across the township spread across a hundred miles. It’s a nice oasis away from New York. They spend a couple of hours looking at a few choice properties within Zeb’s budget.
Zeb asks him to drive past Chesterfield Drive. The agent looks at him, a question in his eyes. Zeb shrugs and says some of his friends were looking at houses there, so he wanted to see the area.
Chesterfield Drive is not far from I-95 at one end, and the Metedeconk Golf Club is close by the other. Zeb spots Holt’s house easily. It’s a single-family home and is the only house that appears deserted. The windows are bare, newspapers piled on the porch.
The realtor notices Zeb’s glance. ‘It’s been deserted for a long time. Family home owned by some guy in the army who hardly comes back to it. No one else stays there. I left a note a year or so back, to see if he wanted to sell. Didn’t hear a peep out of him.’ Shakes his head at the injustice of a world unwilling to help him sell a house.
Zeb ignores him. He notes the single garage, the spacing between the house and its neighbors, possible entry and exit points. They come to the end of the road and turn onto Colchester Drive and head back. More viewings, more monologues from the realtor, and they’re done for the day. Zeb pays him the earnest money, promises to be back next week for a second viewing on a house, and makes his escape to his Cherokee.
Zeb enters Chesterfield Drive again and parks his vehicle a few houses away. He walks to Holt’s house, as if seeking directions, and rings the bell. He waits a while and then walks around the house, peering through the windows.
Through the kitchen windows at the back, he can make out thick layers of dust on the sink and kitchen counter. He circles the house fully, but there’s no sign that anyone’s been there recently.
He goes back to the Cherokee and prepares to drive away, but turns the engine off as a thought strikes him.
He walks back to the house and slips a note under the door. It’s a simple message — ‘I am coming.’
On the way back, he calls Broker. Broker tells him that Holt and the other two are definitely back in the USA. ‘They flew out of the Congo the second day after you left, under assumed identities. I have their biometrics coming in at JFK. I have put an alert on their debit and credit cards, and have put the word out in my network. Let’s see what bites.’
Broker hears silence from Zeb’s end, just the muted sounds of traffic. Then, ‘Pass the word to your network that I’m hunting them. Let them know I’m coming.’
‘Why? That will alert them, won’t it? Oh, I get it. You want them to be always looking over their shoulder. Dude, I like your style.’
He calls Broker again as he nears Hamilton Heights.
‘Two calls in one day? If you don’t watch out, you’ll use up your conversation quota for the whole year.’
‘Senator Hardinger,’ Zeb says.
‘What about him?’
‘His family company has mining interests in Africa and South America. Who manages them? Who all are employed there?’
‘That’s a different shark you’re going after, Zeb. You think there’s a connection? A little far-fetched, don’tcha think?’
Silence.
‘Right. I’ll dig into his background and let you know. Give me a few.’
Zeb reaches Cassandra’s apartment late in the evening and finds Rory playing on his PSP.
‘Aunt Cassie said you went out. I was hoping to get in some baseball practice. Will you be staying a few days, Zeb?’
Zeb shakes his head. ‘No, I have to go back to my apartment tonight.’
Rory’s face falls, but he doesn’t say anything.
‘Next time I come, maybe we can go camping.’
Rory lets out a shrill whoop, pumps his fist, and zips out of the room to tell his mom.
Cassandra looks at Zeb. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?’
Zeb smiles his rare smile. ‘Not really, but when has that stopped me? I need to go back to my apartment.’
‘I think Connor will want to meet you when he’s back from Africa. I’ll call you when he’s home.’
The subway carries him back to Jackson Heights, tubes full of people moving from light to dark and then light.
Chapter 5
Andrews pays him a visit a week later. They meet at a bar in downtown Manhattan, Andrews looking tired and disheveled.
‘I don’t have good news for you. I’ve been asked to back off by the FBI.’
Silence fills the space.
‘Holt is doing a deal with those bastards. In return for immunity, he’s offering a mother lode, their words, of information on Al Qaeda recruitment in the Congo.’
Zeb sits immobile, watching Andrews.
‘He contacted them as soon as he returned from Africa. He said he had vital intel on Al Qaeda in Africa.
‘Terrorism, Al Qaeda, those are the magic budget words, Zeb. Try to understand. The Feds have given him immunity in return for whatever information he can give them. What threatens our country is more important than what happened over there.’
Zeb walks away without a word.
‘You know backing off applies to you too,’ Andrews calls at Zeb’s back.
He walks a long time, seeing nothing and hearing nothing. The rage makes the city disappear, the landscape barren and shrouded in dark.
He emerges from his dark fog a few hours later to find himself sitting on his favorite bench in Central Park, near Springbanks Arch. He wonders briefly which other lost souls have sat there in the interim.
As he makes his way back to his apartment, he’s surprised at his reaction to the whole deal. He should have expected something like this would happen. After all, Andrews and the Director lived in a political world.
But nothing has changed for him, and with that, he takes out his tabla and plays into the night.
A few days later, Broker calls. He hasn’t been able to get much more on Holt or his conduit. Holt seems to have dropped off the grid even though he’s sharing intel with the FBI. Broker’s network has someone who is happy to talk with Zeb, though.
‘Kelly is damaged goods. He left the forces a few years back, couldn’t get over the PTSD after his four stints in Afghanistan. He fed me some good intel, and when he heard I was looking for Holt, he contacted me. He refuses to tell me what he has and will only talk to you. He doesn’t know anything about you, just says he wants to talk to my client directly.’
Broker continues, ‘This could be a setup.’
Zeb thinks about it for a moment. ‘Set up the meet — in the same bar we met, on Allen Street.’
‘Will do. I’ll get back to you when it’s set.’
Two days later, Zeb meets Kelly.
Broker offered to watch his back, but Zeb works best alone. Zeb arrives a few hours early, driving a ubiquitous yellow cab, having paid the cab driver to take the day off, and parks away from the bar, with a good view of the entrance. He doesn’t see any surveillance. He has been wearing Broker’s fancy shades, and those haven’t revealed any tails either.
He sees Kelly entering the bar alone and on time. He waits another half hour and walks down an entire block, either side of the bar, casually. Nothing and no one stands out.