Sal Demenci looked over at the FBI crew with an expression of amazement, “If you guys can hear all of our conversations through windows and doors, then how come we’re all walking around freely?”
Paul again deferred to Nick with raised eyebrows.
Nick shrugged. “Because a lot of this stuff is illegal and inadmissible in a court of law. Believe it or not, Sal, even you guys have rights.”
“How did you guys find out about this house anyway?” Sal asked.
Matt didn’t look up as he responded to Sal’s inquiry. “The INS picked up a young Kurd and brought him in for questioning. His visa was in order, so they let him go. Fortunately, we’ve got a team working over there undercover. They tagged his coat with a tracking device and we followed the signal to this house.”
Sal looked at Nick. “Is that legal?”
“Not always,” Nick said. “This time, however, we had the proper paperwork in place.” The lines of legality were getting blurrier every minute. It was ironic that Nick wound up explaining the law to one of the most lawless men he knew. They were using lions to track down a wild bear running loose in the neighborhood. Not only that, but they were training the lions how to kill a predator more efficiently. This could not turn out well.
Matt placed a finger on the map. “There,” he said. “That’s where we plant him.”
Nick nodded. He gestured to get Paul Hartwick’s attention and the agent pulled one of the headphones away from an ear.
“You still think one of them is leaving?” Nick asked.
Paul held up a finger while listening to the conversation inside the house. “They’re still arguing about it. Apparently this is a bombing crew and they’re supposed to commence their mission at 1:30 AM.”
Nick glanced at his watch. “That’s less than two hours from now. Where does the guy want to go?”
Hartwick didn’t respond. He held his gaze on one of the screens in front of him while concentrating on the voices in his ear. “He wants to get a drink.”
Nick squinted. “What?”
Hartwick nodded. “Yes. That’s it.” He pointed to a line on the blue screen. “Number three wants to get a drink. He wants to go to a bar. Number two is telling him that it’s too dangerous. They can’t afford any attention.”
“You’re kidding,” Matt said, scrambling with the map to find a bar nearby. “Is he mentioning any names?”
“Something about blues.” He smiled at Nick. “Number three wants to hear some blues music.”
“Shit,” Matt said, fumbling with his diagram. “Blues, blues, who’s got blues music?”
“The horse you came in on,” Silk uttered.
Matt and Nick both stopped to look at him.
“That’s the name of the place,” Silk explained. “The Horse You Came in On. It’s a dive, but they’ve got the best blues in the city. It’s down on Thames, shit, walking distance from here.”
“He’s right,” Matt said. “That was my fiancée’s favorite club.”
“Your fiancée?” Silk said. “You have a fiancée?”
Matt shrugged. “A long time ago.”
Nick leaned back behind Matt’s shoulder and shook his head at Silk. He needed to sublimate any thoughts of Jennifer Steele.
Hartwick jumped up from his chair. “He’s leaving.” He stood over the agent’s shoulder next to him and punched a button on the panel. On the screen in front of him a man was seen opening a door, then scouring the street for anything suspicious.
“Can he see us?” asked Sal.
“No,” Hartwick said. “We’re too far away.”
Nick looked at Silk. “You ready?”
Silk stood up and checked the inside pockets of his denim jacket. “Guess it’s time to have some fun.”
Sal grabbed his arm. “You be careful out there. These guys aren’t going to be there to back you up.” Sal looked at Nick for confirmation.
“He’s right,” Nick said. “We can’t be seen escorting you in and out of trouble. Place this in your ear.” He handed a tiny rubber earpiece to Silk, who placed it in his right ear. It was flesh-colored and practically invisible unless you had an otoscope handy.
“We can hear you and you’ll be able to hear us. If we see something that concerns us, we’ll warn you. Other than that, you’re on your own.”
Jimmy Fingers shook his head. “I don’t like this setup. It stinks. We’re not allowed to back up our own people?”
“Hey,” Matt snapped, “we can scrap this entire project right now if you don’t like the terms.”
Sal held up his hands. “Okay, okay, cut it out. Silk goes out alone, but if we hear trouble, you gotta let us go after him — give him some kind of protection.”
Matt pursed his lips. “If we see it falling apart, we’ll drop you off. But then we disappear. There can’t be any evidence of collaboration.”
“Guys,” Hartwick said, tapping the monitor in front of him. “He’s moving.”
Silk slid open the panel door and looked at Nick.
“Careful,” Nick said.
Silk flashed a thumbs up, then looked back at Sal with a glint in his eye. “This one’s for Tommy.”
They sat there wordless, just the hum of the computers breaking the midnight stillness. Nick looked out the front window and recognized a figure approaching the van. There was a soft knock on the passenger window and Nick opened it. Agent Dave Tanner stood in the night air with a concerned expression.
“What’s up, Dave? Why are you out of position?”
“Walt called,” he said, staring at Nick with such a mournful expression that Nick could only think of one thing that could cause such a look.
“Julie?” Nick breathed.
Tanner nodded. “You’d better come with—”
Nick was out of the van before Tanner could finish the sentence.
Mustafa Derka sat at a small round table against the brick wall. Besides the candles flickering on the tabletops, the only light in the bar came from the stage twenty feet away. Four young men with messed-up hair and ripped blue jeans swayed rhythmically to the grinding wail of a Muddy Waters song. The guitarist hunched over and slid his fingers up and down the neck of his guitar until he reached a high note, where he bent the bottom string with precise timing to the beat of the drums. Derka sipped vodka from a short, ice-cubed glass and smiled. Being the boss had its privileges. While his crew was gearing up for tonight’s bombing, he was enjoying the final moments of a set of American blues.
He’d been in America for six months and the one redeeming value he saw with the place was their music. Back in Kurdistan, in his youth, Derka’s ambition to play a musical instrument was ignored. After all, there were so many hardships. Derka’s parents were killed in Saddam Hussein’s mustard gas raid of 1988. In the streets and alleys of his village, Halabja, corpses piled up while Derka played in the hills with his friends. They were fortunate in their ignorance. They remained playing as Iraqi helicopters dropped the chemical bombs on his village. While his Kurdish relatives scrambled into their cellars for protection from another routine round of artillery from the air, Hussein surprised them with the deadly poison. The invisible gas settled down to the lowest point on the ground. The basement.
No, Derka wouldn’t get the chance to play any guitars or drums, but it didn’t lessen his enthusiasm for the sounds they could make. Especially when they stirred the emotions that the blues seemed to bring.