Gods and Fathers (12 page)

Sylvana Dalessio was born and raised in Rome. She had read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s
Little House
series of children’s books as a girl and thought that as a result she was familiar with American farming and farmhouses. But the ancient stone and timber house where she was helping keep Adnan Farah prisoner surprised her when she first saw it looming up out of a foggy night, and kept surprising her thereafter. On the kitchen wall, above an ancient claw-footed stove, hung ten cast iron frying pans with the years 1960 through 1969 painted on them in white. Today, she had finally gotten around to asking Johannes, Erhard Fuchs’ brother, what they signified, and he had told her that his grandmother, Clara Fuchs, had won the local frying pan throwing competition ten years in a row.
No targets
, he had said,
just how far you could throw it.

And then there was the room, cold and bleak, where Clara and her husband Albert had committed suicide together in 1995 by drinking beer laced with cyanide, just after calling the local funeral director to tell him to come and pick up the bodies.
It was Heineken,
Johannes had said, with a little bit more pride than Sylvana thought was warranted. A fading print of Vermeer’s
Girl with a Pearl Earring
was still on the wall over the bed with a crucifix next to it. No, this wasn’t
Little House on the Prairie
.

Yesterday, she had taken the one-mile walk to the Catamount Motel on Route 12—ten rooms facing a large, graceful pond, surrounded on three sides by an apple orchard—that Albert and Clara had built, and then operated for forty years before shuttering it in the early nineties and retiring to the farmhouse. Starkly utilitarian and clean in the old Dutch way, the large sign out front that said APPLES FREE BEWARE OF MOUNTAIN LION had apparently kept vandals away. Peeking through the curtained windows, she could see that each room still contained its original bed, night table and dresser. On the walls were cheaply framed calendar photographs of tulip fields, windmills, and boaters on canals.

Fuchs family property for close to two centuries, the house and the motel had been rented for a few years after Albert and Clara died and then fell empty until the fall, when Johannes came over to “assess, patch and sell.” This was the Fuchs brothers’ story in any event. When Erhard and Sylvana showed up five days ago with Adnan Farah, his wiry black hair thick with coagulated blood, barely conscious, Johannes, who did not seem surprised, or even concerned, meticulously cleaned the bomb maker’s scalp wound and chained him to the bed in his grandparents’ old bedroom. He then made a call to Holland, and the next day his sons Wilem and Josef, strapping young men both, arrived.

Since then Farah had been kept quiet by daily injections of morphine—except for yesterday and today. He was being watched at the moment by Josef, the dark son with the big hands and brooding eyes. Preparing to debrief him for the first time, Sylvana stood at the deep chipped-enamel kitchen sink. She had just washed her hands and was waiting for the water in the teakettle to boil. The scene through the mullioned window above the sink was stark and pure in its near total whiteness. Snow was starting to fall heavily—again—and soon the stone walls that criss-crossed the property, now partially exposed, would be obliterated and the gnarled branches of the trees that grew on each side of the long rutted dirt drive would be bending under their heavy white load. One of these icy branches had cracked during the night, causing Sylvana to wake instantly and reach for her Ingrham.

The radio on a nearby counter top had been filled with news these past five days of the so-called torture inflicted by the Americans on terrorists captured after 9/11. Before she reported to Beirut in 2006, Sylvana had spent a week at Langley—as had everyone who worked at Monteverde—undergoing these same interrogation techniques. The news reports made it seem like the Americans were sadists, “torturing” their prisoners for pleasure. The waterboarding had terrified her, but she now knew that it would not kill her. Still, she had a simple plan to kill herself with cyanide if the Syrians ever took her.

Thank God, she had lived until today—this night—when she would confront the man who had built and detonated the bomb that had killed her father and mother, riding in the car behind Rafik Hariri that day in Beirut in 2005. The severed head of their driver had been propelled like a small rocket into her father’s face killing him instantly. Her mother, her body filled with nails, had lingered three days before dying.

“Sylvana,” Johannes Fuchs spoke from behind her.

“Yes,” she replied, still facing the window.

“Shall we begin?”

Johannes was a retired policeman, five years older than Erhard, and had cooked them dinner every night on the claw-footed stove. On the first night he told Sylvana, as they ate pea soup loaded with potatoes and chunks of bacon, of the event in 1977 that had changed his and Erhard’s life. They had just buried their father, Fredrik, after a dreadful and depressing battle with pancreatic cancer, and Erhard, nineteen, was on a train with their mother, Hellen, and thirteen year-old sister, Margret, heading to the university town of Groningen, where Erhard was to resume his studies and Hellen and Margret were planning a visit with relatives. The train was taken over by terrorists, and, after a two-week standoff, attacked by Dutch marines. The passengers had been lying on the floor, face down. Erhard had watched as the terrorist leader blew their mother and sister’s brains out with an AK-47 rifle as the attack began. A week later he enlisted in the Marines and Johannes left his job as a dockworker in Harlingen to begin the process of joining the KLPD—the Dutch national police.

Sylvana turned to face Johannes.

“How’s our young man?” she said.

“He’s showered, fed, quiet.”

A pitcher of water, a small towel, a pair of latex gloves, a very sharp barber’s razor and a small, hi-tech digital video camera in a black leather case sat on a lacquered tray on the plank-topped kitchen table.

“This will not take long,” Sylvana said. “He will talk or die.”

“I know the guy who’s the head of the UN team,” said Jack McCann. “We met with him this morning. He blew us off, and then he calls and asks me for a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” Matt asked.

“To follow a guy, an Englishman named Alec Mason.”

“Why?”

“It’s connected to Loh and Davila. They were specially assigned to him.”

“What were they working on?” Jade asked.

“He wouldn’t say.”

“What’s his name?” asked Matt.

“Erhard Fuchs. He’s a Dutchman, former military intelligence.”

“Is that where Clarke is?”

“Yes.”

McCann, Matt and Jade were sitting in a back booth in The Square Diner, which wasn’t square but in the shape of a railroad car. The place was busy at just past midnight, its proximity to City Hall, the Criminal Courts building and One Police Plaza making it a popular hangout for the law enforcement and political types who worked downtown. Over coffee, Matt and Jade had shown McCann the contents of Bob Davila’s manila envelope, filling him in on the Hariri investigation and its connection, via Michael’s two so-called friends, to Yasmine’s murder and Michael’s arrest.

“Fuchs gave you nothing?” said Matt.

“He said he couldn’t, that we should talk to the Justice Department.”

“Did you?”

“The Commissioner said he would call,” McCann replied. “I’m out of that loop.”

“What about Bill Crow?” Matt asked. “Can you find out if he works for the FBI? Where he’s assigned?“

“I have an Army buddy who’s an agent,” McCann answered. “He’s pretty high up. I’ll give him a call.” Then, looking at Jade: “What else did Davila say?”

“Just if
Monteverde
meant anything to me.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Does it?” McCann said. “Mean anything to you?”

“No, but I looked it up. It’s an old hotel the Hariri investigation team is working out of in Beirut.”

“Something weird went down in Locust Valley,” McCann said, shaking his head.

“Something to make Bobby mistrust the UN,” said Jade. “And the FBI to contact him.”

“How did Michael know these two guys?” McCann asked, pointing to the pictures of Adnan and Ali on the table.

“They worked for his stepfather,” Matt replied.

“The rich Syrian.”

Matt nodded.

“What kind of work?”

“I don’t know. Odd jobs, Michael said. I only met them the one time. Hassan got them the house sitting job in Locust Valley.”

“What does Hassan do?” McCann asked.

“He’s a big shot in Syrian oil,” Matt replied. “Very rich. That’s all I know.”

“He put up Michael’s bail, correct?” McCann asked. “Two mil?”

“Correct.”

“And he’s paying Michael’s lawyer?”

“Correct.”

“What about Nassau County?” said Jade.

“Zero,” the detective replied. “They told us to contact the FBI. Now I know why.”

“Why?” Jade asked.

“Because the UN and the Justice Department must have strong-armed them,” said McCann. “There must be details about the crime they don’t want made public. That’s probably why this guy Crow contacted Bobby.”

“Like the identities of the victims,” said Matt. “Except for Nick.”

“That they couldn’t hide.”

“No.”

“So Bobby wanted me to know,” said Jade, pointing to the photographs, “that these two were the ones who killed Yasmine Hayek.”

“And he gets killed for his trouble,” said McCann.

“By whom?” said Matt. “Not the UN.”

“I doubt it,” Jack replied. “But who the fuck knows? The world is crazy now.”

“Did you run a search on the Locust Valley house?” Jade asked.

“Yes,” McCann answered. “It’s owned by a Syrian national named Wahim, a diplomat of some kind. We can’t get in touch with him.”

“Who pays the taxes?”

“His lawyer,” the detective answered. “Everett Stryker.”

“You’re kidding,” Matt said.

“Nope.”

“He also represents Westside Properties,” said Matt, “the owner of Yasmine’s building.”

“We know,” McCann said. “The company officers are all lawyers in Stryker’s firm. We’re trying to get the names of the shareholders.”

“This might be our answer,” said Jade. Her cell phone had rung and she was looking at its screen.

“Angelo,” she said, after putting the phone to her ear. Then, after listening for about thirty seconds, she said, “Thank you,” and clicked off.

Matt and Jack remained silent.

“Westside Properties has one shareholder,” Jade said. “A person named Rex al-Salah, of Queens, New York.”

“Did you get an address?” Matt asked.

“2344 Linden Place.”

“I think that’s right near the bridge,” said McCann.

Jade put her cell phone, an iPhone, on the Formica table, and, after surfing for a few seconds, turned it to face McCann. She had zoomed in on the satellite image of 2344 Linden Place. McCann and Matt leaned in. Across the front of the two-story building, crowded in among small warehouses and tenements, they could clearly see the words
Lucky’s
above the entrance in bright red neon script.

“Michael told me he and Adnan and Ali hung out at a place called Lucky’s in Queens,” Jade said, “and that Adnan and Ali were friendly with a bartender there named Rex.”

“A
bartender
owns a ten story apartment building on Central Park West?” McCann said.

“Unless there are two Rex’s at that address,” said Matt.

“Let’s pay him a visit,” McCann said, “and find out.”

At the cash register, waiting for change, McCann’s cell phone rang. Matt, who had tried to pay but was firmly nudged aside by McCann, watched as his detective friend put the phone to his ear and listened intently, his eyes narrowing.

“How did you get here?” he said to Matt after clicking his phone off.

“My car.”

“That was Clarke,” McCann said. “They put Mason to bed, but guess where he made a stop tonight.”

“Where?” Matt replied.

“Lucky’s in Queens. I’ll pick up Clarke. We’ll meet you there.”

Lucky’s had a bar along the wall on the left when you walked in, backlit in blue. A series of portraits hung from a valance above the bar, with hidden spotlights on each one. The features of each face were distorted and misplaced—one was all lips and teeth with three small eyes, another had two noses in profile, another the snout and whiskers of a billy goat—the worst, it might be said, of Cubism cum Andy Warhol. At the far end three young men in their mid-twenties were sitting in front of shot glasses and beer backers, talking quietly, watching a basketball game without the sound on a flat screen television. The rest of the barstools were empty, about twenty altogether, except the two directly in the middle occupied by Jack McCann and Clarke Goode.

The place was dimly lit, the tables at the back wall, at one of which sat Matt and Jade, in deep shadow. In the middle of the room stood a platform for a DJ, empty tonight. Some kind of repetitive club music was coming from speakers hidden somewhere on the dark walls. The only light came from small fake candles on the tables and the green-visored lamp above a pool table behind the DJ station, where a man in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt was racking and hitting balls.

“I don’t recognize any of these people,” Jack McCann said to the bartender, pointing up at the valance.

“They’re just people,” the bartender said. “Nobody famous.”

“Whose the artist?” Clarke Goode asked.

“I am,” the bartender said.

“They’re very good,” McCann said, “very interesting.”

“Thank you.”

“You wouldn’t be Rex al-Salah, would you?” Goode asked.

The bartender, a very slight man of about thirty with a beaky nose, a scruff of beard, and small black eyes, had served McCann and Goode beers and was rearranging glasses on a shelf below the bar as they talked. He had on a shiny black shirt buttoned to the top. He stopped what he was doing when he heard this question.

“Who’s asking?” he said.

“I’m Detective McCann,” Jack said, pulling his gold shield out of an inside pocket of his corduroy sport jacket. “NYPD. This is Detective Goode.” Clarke also displayed his shield.

The bartender, a wine glass in each hand, said nothing. He looked over at the front door, where a muscular bouncer with long blond hair was sitting on a stool talking to a waitress. The glasses sparkled as they caught the blue light from the fixtures above.

“I’m Rex,” he said, turning back to the detectives.

“Pleased to meet you,” Goode said, extending his right hand. Rex was slow to get the point, but finally he put down one of the wine glasses and extended his own right hand to briefly shake Goode’s.

“We’re here to talk about the Excelsior,” McCann said, “the building you own on Central Park West. One of your tenants was killed there last month.”

Rex again remained silent, the other wine glass still in his left hand.

“Your security people have skipped town,” Goode said.

“You’ll have to talk to my lawyer,” Rex said.

“Why can’t we talk to you?” Goode asked, his smile gone.

“I don’t own any building on Central Park West.”

“No, a company called Westside Properties does,” said McCann. “You own all the stock.”

“Give me your cards,” Rex said. “I’ll have my lawyer call you.”

“What’s his name?” Goode asked. “We’ll call him.”

“Or her,” said McCann. “In case it’s a woman. Women can practice law in the United States.”

Before Rex could respond, two men came out of a room in the back, a slice of bright light appearing and disappearing, like a semaphore at sea, as the door they used opened and quickly closed. They took seats between the group of young men watching basketball and the detectives.

“I have to wait on those guys,” Rex said.

“Sure,” McCann said. “We’ll wait.”

“We wouldn’t want him to lose his job,” Jack said when Rex had moved away.

“Right,” said Goode, “with real estate prices so depressed in Manhattan, he probably needs every nickel he can lay his hands on.”

“He might even have to sell his fucked up art.”

As they talked both Goode and McCann were glancing sideways at the men Rex was serving. Both were swarthy, both in jeans and leather jackets. One had a dark vee-shaped beard, but the bar was too dimly lit to see much else beyond that. Rex served them drinks in rocks glasses, then walked back to McCann and Goode.

“I have to go off duty soon,” he said. “Why don’t you just give me your cards? My lawyer will call you.”

“Sure,” said McCann, taking a card out of his wallet and handing it to Rex. “One more thing,” the detective continued, sliding three photographs he had laid on the bar towards Rex. “Take a look at these. We were told these two hang out here, and that this one was actually in here tonight.”

Rex glanced at the pictures of Adnan and Ali stolen from the UN by Bob Davila, and of Alec Mason, e-mailed by Erhard Fuchs earlier in the evening to the NYPD’s Counterterrorism Bureau. “I never saw them before,” he said.

McCann pointed at Adnan and Ali and said, “We think these two killed your tenant.”

“I don’t have a tenant,” Rex replied.

“This one was seen right here in Lucky’s earlier tonight,” said Goode. “You probably weren’t on duty when he came in.”

“Maybe you were taking a piss,” said McCann.

“Or having a smoke,” said Goode.

“We were told he went in the back room for a few minutes,” said McCann. “Who’d he meet back there?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then you’re completely in the clear,” said Goode.

“Which is a good thing for you,” said McCann. “Being connected to a murder can get you in a lot of trouble. It’s frowned upon here in New York, but you probably know that, you being such a big property owner and all.”

Matt and Jade watched from their table along the back wall, shrouded in darkness, as Jack and Clarke left Lucky’s. They had agreed beforehand to leave five minutes after the detectives and then be in phone contact. They watched as the man in the hoody put down his cue stick and walked to the door that led to the back room. When he swung it open there was a young man standing, silhouetted, in the light spilling from the interior: Michael. Hoody went in and the door was quickly shut, but almost immediately it swung open again and an older, stocky man, in a dark suit with a white shirt and no tie, wearing a full, neatly trimmed beard, emerged: Mustafa, Basil Hassan’s servant.

They watched as Mustafa spoke briefly to the two men at the bar and then returned to the back room.

“Was that…?” said Jade.

“Yes,” Matt replied, “Michael. And the stocky guy was Basil Hassan’s servant, Mustafa.”

They were silent for a moment, absorbing this.

“What now?” Jade said, finally.

“You go with Jack and Clarke. I want to talk to my son.”

“Matt…”

“Don’t tell them we saw Michael. I want to find out what’s going on first.”

“Matt…”

“Tell them I ran into an old friend. Tell them any lie you want. But get them out of here.”

Jade was silent, putting her scarf on. They had kept their overcoats on, unbuttoned, as they had their drinks. She rose, then bent to kiss Matt, whispering as she did, “I’ll tell them you saw Mustafa, that you wanted to talk to him about Michael. Be careful. I don’t like this place.”