“As you promised, you mean. Why not? It’s either us or the Americans.”
“Al-Hakim was an Egyptian national. My government doesn’t look upon this matter precisely as you do. But, on a more positive note, our government is not nearly as restrictive when it comes to issues of interrogation. We are the Mecca of extraordinary rendition.”
“What do you mean, was an Egyptian national? Be careful, Mr. Talhouni. Should I interpret the noises that I heard earlier as the screams of a dying man; should I learn that certain interrogation techniques, that specific protocols which are — how should I put it? — unorthodox are being used by my Egyptian counterparts; should I be placed into a position of foreknowledge, I would be in violation of International law, not to mention several UN Human Rights directives. Article four of the ’94 Convention Against Torture obligates all state parties to ensure that all acts of torture are criminal offenses under domestic legislation.”
“You have a remarkable memory, Chief Seiden. Did you study the law?”
“Psychology, actually,” said Seiden. Then he added, “You’d be surprised how useful it can be in our profession. Over time, for example, I’ve developed an uncanny ability to know when someone is lying.” He stared at Talhouni and frowned. “You might think this a gift. It’s not. It isn’t always pleasant lifting off the skullcap, looking in. Where was the suspect apprehended?”
Talhouni stroked his greasy mustaches. “Not far from here,” he said. “In the Khalili Khan. It is ironic, no? The Khalili market was a venue for the spice cartel controlled by the Mameluke in the Middle Ages, a monopoly which eventually encouraged the Europeans to search for new routes to the East, which prompted Columbus to discover America, without which, of course, Israel would not exist. Amusing, is it not?”
“You live in the past, Mr. Talhouni. Your whole country does.”
“When the past is so much more glorious than the present, Chief Seiden, it is easy to fall out of time. But do not think me an ignorant man. I have traveled. I have been to Hangelar and Bonn. I was trained there by the German Grenzscutzgruppe Nine. I am sure you’ve heard—”
“Did he say anything important, before his unfortunate… ”
“… demise? I’m afraid so.”
“Well? Well, what did he say?”
“He believed his device was active. ‘Armed and active.’ Those were his very words. They all did.”
“They?”
“All three of them,” answered Talhouni. “Three mules dispatched by Gulzhan Baqrah. Al-Hakim, who admitted to planting the bomb in the sewers of Beersheba. A man called Ziad, shot while crossing the border from Lebanon into Israel. I’m sure you know about him.”
Seiden nodded.
“And an Algerian named Ali Hammel. Only Hammel is still at large.”
“Where’s he going?” asked Seiden.
“Well, that’s the bad news, I’m afraid. That’s why Al-Hakim was being so… recalcitrant. He just didn’t want to let it go.”
“Where, Mr. Talhouni? I haven’t got all day.”
Talhouni sighed and looked down at the red spots on his shirt. “To New York,” he answered, picking at the stains. “The Empire State building.”
Chapter 27
Seamus Gallagher of WKXY-TV had only planned to drop by his office for a few minutes en route to a story in the Bronx when he noticed the little brown shipping box in the tray outside his cubicle. It looked like a videotape cassette. Gallagher hesitated for a moment, put down his cup of coffee and examined the label. Nothing. No return address. But the stamps and postmark were from Lebanon. He unwrapped the box and removed the plastic holder. As he’d suspected, it was a tape, but of what, he had no way of knowing.
Gallagher sat down behind his desk. There was no label on the box, nor on the tape itself. It was anonymous. He plopped it into his old VHS machine. Then he leaned back in his seat, pulled the lid up from his coffee cup, and took a sip. It was light and sweet, just as he liked it. He watched the TV screen. It seemed to be working but he couldn’t see a thing. The screen was blank. No, black, he realized, as it came to life, as fire blossomed in a corner of the screen, crawling from right to left. Then he saw two people in the shadows, two men. One was in his forties, with sloping shoulders and a close-cropped beard. The other was a fat youth in his mid- to upper-twenties. He said something, and then more lights appeared, descending from the ceiling; they swung down in a kind of cape, a fishing net of flames.
Gallagher parked his coffee on his desk. He nuzzled closer to the TV screen. The bodies of the men were suddenly illuminated. He heard them start to scream. He watched them writhe and wiggle, even as a pale green line snaked in across their chests, bright floriated text, from right to left. Gallagher couldn’t read Arabic but he knew it when he saw it. And then they simply melted, live and in color, the men, like in some cheesy horror flick. Their hair caught fire and their eyes and noses dripped like melted wax, blackened and fell away. The recording ended. The videotape went blank, then exploded into static. Gallagher hit the “rewind” button.
He watched the clip over and over again, editing it in his mind. There was only so much you could show on television. It wasn’t the FCC that worried him, although Homeland Security would have a field day with this clip. It was the sponsors. Management didn’t give a rat’s ass about the audience — not really — as long as it was big enough. It was the ad dollars that concerned them.
Let the chips fall where they may, he told himself. The tape was clearly the Beersheba terrorist attack. Someone was feeding him this story, was handing it to him on a platter. He didn’t know who, and he didn’t particularly care. It was making his career.
He examined the packing box more carefully. Something was stuck on the inside, glued to the paper. He plucked it out. It was a kind of postcard, he realized, the photo of some dome, looking up from within. He turned it over. The legend was in several languages, including English: The muqarnas featured in the dome of the Shaykh Lutfallah Mosque, Isfahan. It bore a postmark from Iran. He read the card. It was an invitation to some kind of event at midnight on Wednesday, the very next evening in New York. And it was signed by El Aqrab.
Gallagher put the card down on his desk. He stared down at the dome of the Iranian mosque. He looked at the ornate paneling and thought that this would probably topple Prime Minister Garron. News of his freeing El Aqrab in exchange for a fake nuclear device wouldn’t go over very well in Israel. The Israeli press had recently reported that a number of PLO detainees had been released in exchange for a couple of Israeli businessmen and the remains of several soldiers — but certainly not the infamous El Aqrab. El Aqrab must have anticipated this event prior to mailing him the tape. That’s why he’d sent it to an American, as opposed to an Israeli journalist. And to help cultivate suspense, no doubt, in the hearts of all New Yorkers.
What’s going to happen tomorrow at midnight? he thought. Gallagher sipped his coffee, pondering. One thing for sure: My ratings are going up. He parked his coffee on his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed the FBI.
Long after his watch was over and most of the crew had already drifted off to sleep, the Algerian mule Hammel lingered in number two hold. The chamber had the density of a commercial garage. And it was but one of three holds, on top of one another, separated by a pair of giant metal hatches. It was dark in the hold. It was dark and cold and smelled of rotting fish. A reefer on the starboard side had sprung a leak. He’d have to report it to the Chief Mate in the morning. Hammel felt a wave of nausea hit him. He wretched and toppled over. He had been sick since early morning, ever since the Rêve de Chantal had steamed out of the port of Arrecife, away from Lanzarote and the Canaries, heading toward New York. Hammel was from Tamanrasset, in the heart of the Algerian Sahara. Whoever had called camels the “ships of the desert” had lied.