Dark City (Repairman Jack - Early Years 02) (8 page)

Nasser smiled. “No, but in a way, they expect to.”

Drexler leaned forward. “How, pray tell?”

“They’re poised to take over the Al-Kifah Refugee Center right across the river in Brooklyn. The Afghan relief charity it runs funnels donations from other Muslim centers all over America, amounting to about one hundred thousand a month, give or take a few.”

“They why did they need our money?” Drexler said.

“The jihadists we were dealing with had no say in the center’s funds. Then, as now, under Mustafa Shalabi, all the Al-Kifah money goes where it’s supposed to—to help the hordes of Afghans trying to recover from the pounding they took from the Russians. But Sheikh Omar Abdel-Rahman wants that money to fund his worldwide jihad, to start overthrowing people like Mubarak of Egypt and Saddam Hussein in Iraq. He looks harmless but he’s an Islamic Hitler. A fiery speaker who can rile up the Muslim masses. He was behind the assassination of Anwar Sadat.”

“Pure chaos,” Drexler said. “Isn’t this exactly what we want?”

“In the long term, yes. But in the short term, if they get their hands on the Al-Kifah account, they’ll have no financial interest in working with us. And isn’t it our goal to have a voice in the timing and placement of the terror they cause?”

“It is.” Trejador sipped his martini, then nodded toward Nasser. “You called this meeting, so I assume you have a plan?”

“Sheikh Omar’s followers are planning a coup—undoubtedly violent. Shalabi knows this. He’s readying to flee the country, but before he goes I’m betting he’ll empty the Al-Kifah account to keep it out of Sheikh Omar’s hands.”

Drexler snorted. “I hope you’re not about to suggest we offer this Shalabi protection.”

“On the contrary. I propose we strike first.”

7

“It’s wine o’clock,” Cristin said. “And I’m free-ee-ee-eezing.”

She made a show of shivering despite her fur-lined trench coat.

Jack glanced at his watch. Only five o’clock but the sun had sunk out of sight behind the Manhattan skyline just visible across the river. And yeah, the wind did blow cold out here in this car lot.

He’d decided the Harley had to go. He was too exposed, too easy to spot, too vulnerable on the thing. Wheels weren’t a necessity in the city—pretty much a luxury, in fact—but growing up in rural New Jersey had embedded a mind-set that required a car be immediately available at all times. When he’d mentioned to Cristin that he wanted to check out what was for sale, she’d volunteered to come along.

“Let me take a quick look through these and then we’ll find a nice warm bar.”

She smiled as she scanned the rows of used cars. She’d been letting her dark hair grow out a little, and the wind whipping along Queens Boulevard swirled it into her face.

“Used car lots in February. You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

“Hey, you said you wanted to come along.”

“I may have been having a small stroke at the time.”

“No, it’s because Sunday is our day and you wanted to spend every second you could with me.”

Sunday nights—and sometimes afternoons too—with Cristin. She’d been his high school girlfriend’s best friend. Shortly after running into each other here in the city, they’d fallen into a routine of dinner out followed by uninhibited no-strings sex at her apartment. Every Sunday since early November except for Christmas when she’d gone back to Jersey for the long weekend. The no-strings part was crucial to Cristin.

“Oh, right. I forgot. But just to be on the safe side, can we stop by a hospital for a quick CAT scan before we have that drink? Just in case?”

“One of those Irish coffees you like will warm you up and heal your brain.”

“I’m not so sure. Just hurry up and check out these junkers, will you? If my coochie freezes, you’ll be out of luck tonight.”

Jack laughed and gave her a quick kiss. “No way. That’s too hot to freeze—or even reach room temperature.”

She grinned. “Better believe it.”

He hurried toward the cars as fast as his aching hip would allow.

“Hey, what’s with the limp?” Cristin said.

He’d been able to hide it till now, but the cold was stiffening it.

“Little accident with the Harley this morning.” He hadn’t mentioned his sliced shoulder either. Sooner or later he’d have to.

“Ohhhh.”

He looked at her. “You sound disappointed.”

“Here I thought you were limping because you were glad to see me.”

He laughed again. “
Always
glad to see you.”

He moved among the cars. This used lot in Jamaica was the third—and now last, obviously—they’d visited. The other two had been fenced in and locked up. This one had no fence, so he could browse.

He wove among the Toyotas and Hondas and Fords and Chevies and whatevers but nothing appealed to him. Yeah, they’d all do, but something was missing …

The showroom was closed, which was why Jack had wanted to come out on a Sunday. He was not yet ready for a pushy salesman. But then, who ever was? But as he passed the showroom window he stopped. A little convertible, black on white, sat angled to the right. A handwritten placard had been inserted into the front license plate holder.

1963

Corvair

The car had been old before he was born, but somehow it called to him. He turned and waved to Cristin.

“Take a look at this!”

She angled through the lot and stopped at his side, slipping her arm through his.

“Look at what?”

“The Corvair.”

“Isn’t that the one that was ‘unsafe at any speed’?”

“So someone said.”

“And didn’t you tell me you wanted something safer than the Harley?”

“You know me—Live-on-the-edge Jack.”

She laughed. He liked that sound. “Really? Since when?”

“Hey, I’m just looking.”

She tugged on his arm. “You’ve done enough looking. Time for alky-hall and then food and then more alky-hall and then lots of fucking.”

“In that order?”

“Can you think of a better one?”

They began walking back toward the street.

“Mmm … no. Whose turn to pick?”

“Mine. And I’m in the mood for Chinese tonight. But
good
Chinese.”

“Chinatown?”

“Yes!”

“You got it.”

When they reached the sidewalk he took one last look at the Corvair in the window—and could almost swear it was staring back.

8

Kadir jumped at the sound of the knock on his door. Closing his Qur’an, he rose and padded across the room.

Someone at his door? This could not be good. He knew almost no one in Jersey City—certainly no one well enough to feel they could visit him unannounced.

He stopped halfway to look out the window. The street outside was empty—no idling car, no sign of anyone watching. Jersey City tended to be quiet on a Sunday night.

He approached the door and gave a quick, cautious look through the peephole, then pulled away. A young woman in a dark
khimar
stood in the hall. She knocked again.

“Kadir, are you home?”

He peeked again, taking a closer look. Most of her face was visible and looked familiar, reminding him of—

“Hadya?” He pulled the door open and stared at the woman. A battered suitcase sat next to her on the floor. “Hadya, is that you?” he said in Arabic.

She smiled. “Yes, of course it’s me. But why are you so surprised?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“But didn’t you get my letter?”

“What letter?”

He pulled her inside and shut the door. A hallway in a foreign land was no place to be talking to his younger sister.

She looked confused now. “I wrote you a letter to tell you I was coming.”

“I never received it.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no! I thought you’d be expecting me.”

Kadir was baffled. “But why are you here? Did something happen—?”

“No-no. Mother and father are fine—still struggling to make ends meet, but healthy. I came because Uncle Ferran said I could work in his bakery.”

Their mother’s brother owned a bakery on Kennedy Boulevard. Kadir had worked there when he first came over, until he learned how to run a cigarette stamping machine for Riaz Diab. The Ramallah Bakery was very successful and Kadir knew his uncle was expanding … but Hadya?

“You came all the way to America to work in a bakery?”

“As did you. There is nothing back home, Kadir. Nothing.”

“It is hard work, and you must rise long before the sun.”

She smiled. “I am not afraid of hard work or long hours. I am glad for
any
work and
any
hours. There is no work in Jordan, Kadir. And you know how Uncle Ferran likes to hire family.”

True. Uncle Ferran had no children of his own, while Kadir and Hadya were two of nine. Kadir had been born shortly after the Six-Day War in Israeli-occupied Palestine, Hadya three years later. They grew up under the Zionists. His father finally moved the family to Jordan where he went to work in a clothing store. But as for Father’s children … no work, no future. Kadir blamed Israel … and the Americans who made Israel possible.

And worse, when the PLO supported the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait last year, the Kuwaiti government expelled every Palestinian it could find—nearly half a million people. Most of them flooded into Jordan.

How terrible things must be back home for Father to allow one of his daughters to travel alone to America.

“But I had no idea you were coming.”

Fear flitted across her features. “You’ll let me stay, won’t you? At least until I can find a place of my own.”

He forced a smile and embraced her. “Of course, of course. You’re my sister.”

Would this complicate his comings and goings? He didn’t know how Hadya would feel about jihad in America.

“Oh, thank you, Kadir. For a moment I thought—”

“My home is your home. I just wish I had known. I would have prepared the bedroom for you.”

“Do not trouble yourself. I will sleep on the couch.”

“I will not hear of it. The bedroom is yours.” He stepped back. “Let me look at you.”

She was clothed with proper modesty in accordance with al-hijab—a khimar over a dark
abaya
, leaving only her hands and face exposed. His little sister had grown into an observant Muslim woman.

She might prove very useful.

9

Cristin covered her mouth as she laughed around a mouthful of beef and broccoli in garlic sauce. “I can’t believe you’re such a klutz.”

Jack didn’t look up. He was concentrating on manipulating the tips of his chopsticks around a shrimp in the heap of fried rice on his plate.

“I grew up in a meat-and-potatoes house in the hinterlands, better known as Middle of Nowhere, New Jersey.”

“So did I.”

“No. You grew up in Tabernacle, a bustling metropolis compared to Johnson.”

“Okay, so we had a pizza place, but never Chinese takeout.”

Jack had trapped the shrimp. Now to get it to his mouth.

“And don’t forget—you’ve had four years in the city to practice. I haven’t been here a year yet.”

Into his mouth—success. But jeez that was a helluva lot of work for a single shrimp.

They’d settled on a little restaurant on Elizabeth Street. The neon sign over the front window was in Chinese and they were the only Caucasians in the place. Cristin had assured him that this was a good sign. He’d come to enjoy Chinese food at college, but had eaten it with a fork. This place hadn’t offered any utensils beyond chopsticks, and Jack was determined to conquer them.

Leaning back, he took a swig from his Tsingtao and watched Cristin manipulate her sticks like she’d been using them all her life.

Sundays with Cristin. Jack had become used to the ritual but lately had found himself feeling a little restless with it. He didn’t want to want more but … he wanted more. Not more
than
Cristin—more
of
Cristin.

But her party-planner job kept her tied up all week. And forget holidays. He would’ve loved to have spent New Year’s Eve with her, but no way. Her biggest night of the year—parties up the wazoo.

He said, “
The Doors
opens Friday. Want to go see it?”

“Sure. I love their music.”

He wasn’t a particular fan, though he liked “Roadhouse Blues” a lot. He’d much rather catch
The Silence of the Lambs
, but figured
The Doors
was more up her alley.

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“You’ve got all their CDs on your shelf.”

“‘Light My Fire’ is like the story of my life.” She smiled. “Besides, it’ll make for a warmer Sunday afternoon than car hunting.”

“I meant opening day.”

Her smile widened. “What? You’ve got the hots for Val Kilmer?”

Perfect opening: “No. Just for you. Enough to want to see you twice in one week.”

Her smile faded as she shook her head. “No can do. Got a big corporate party Friday night.”

“How about during the day?”

Another head shake. “Meetings.”

“How about Saturday then?”

She sighed and reached into her pocketbook. She emerged with a business card and handed it to him.

“See that?”

He looked at the card: bright red with
CELEBRATIONS
across the middle in lemon-yellow script. “Events” ran below it in smaller block print. An 800 number was tucked in the lower left corner.

“‘Events,’ huh? What happened to ‘parties’?”

“Memo from on high: We’re no longer ‘party-planners,’ we’re now ‘event-planners.’ Because while a party can be an event, an event is not necessarily a party. And events tend to be more profitable.”

He looked again. “Your name’s not on it.”

She shrugged. “The company has them printed up. All the planners get the same card. But that’s not the point.” She took the card back and held it up between them. “The point is, I make very good money with these folks. I’m socking away a ton. But Celebrations isn’t the only party—sorry, event-planning service in town. Loads of competition out there, and so to do the job right, I’ve got to be available. I’ve been building a very tony client base—CEOs, state senators and assemblymen, deputy mayors, city council members—and that’s important, because I work on commission. The more elaborate and expensive the party, the more I take home.”