Gods and Fathers (19 page)

“Mr. DeMarco?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Antonio Lee.”

“Antonio?”

“Yes.”

“Welcome home. What can I do for you?”

“I’m at my mother’s office. She’s not here. She was supposed to meet me at school…”

“Did you go home?”

“Yes. She wasn’t there.

“Have you called her cell?”

“Yes, nothing, voicemail.”

“She told me she was meeting a client in Queens,” Matt said. “She probably got delayed.”

“But she didn’t call me.”

“Did you call her service?”

“Her service?”

“She has an answering service she sometimes uses.”

“No.”

“I’ll call them.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”

“Should I stay here?”

“Go home, I’ll call you. Are you calling on your cell?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on, before you go, do me a favor. Is there a folder for a Charles Hall around your mom’s desk or office, or something in a Rolodex? Look around, I’ll hold.” Matt waited, picturing the tiny one-person office Jade had described to him that she rented on East Broadway, near Manhattan’s Chinatown. Low rent, she had said, that’s the big thing.
It’s small,
Matt thought
, if something’s there, he’ll find it.

And he did. “There’s a folder here,” Antonio said. “There’s a card here. Mechanical Pumps Corp., 2411 137
^th
Street, Queens, Charles Hall, President.”

“Is there a telephone number?” Matt asked.

“Yes. 718-987-6654.”

“Text it to me.”

“Okay.”

“Go home, Antonio. If your mother shows up, ask her to call me. I’ll call you later.”

Matt looked around for Michael, spotting him near the restaurant’s foyer in a group that included Debra’s mother and cousins on Debra’s side. The post-burial luncheon, at one of Arthur Avenue’s famed Italian restaurants, was beginning to wind down. People were saying their goodbyes. Basil Hassan, whose face and demeanor, whenever Matt caught sight of him, were quiet and contemplative, was nearby. He saw Matt and came over.

“Are you leaving, Matt?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.”

“I have put a call in to Ms. Lee.”

“Thank you.”

“Here, take this.” Debra’s widowed husband handed Matt a business card. “Please call me. I would like to discuss Mustafa with you. And Haq.”

“I hope you are who you say you are, Basil,” Matt replied. “For your sake.”

“I may or may not be,” Hassan said. “Tell me, what is it you want, ultimately?”

“I want the charges against Michael dropped, and I want a public apology.”

“And how do you plan on accomplishing that?”

“I’ve already set the wheels in motion.”

“I’m afraid you’ve placed yourself in very grave danger, and your son as well.”

“Michael has been in grave danger, as you put it, from the moment Yasmine was killed and he was framed for the murder.”

“You may have made it worse by interfering.”

“He’s my son. What would you have done?”

“The same. Yes, without question.”

Matt looked at Basil’s card, then put it in his suit coat pocket. “I’ll call you.”

“Dad, I think I know this building.”

“You do? How?”

Matt and Michael were sitting in Matt’s car, which was parked on 137
^th
Street, across from number 2411. There was no
Mechanical Pumps, Inc
. sign to be seen, but the building was clearly industrial, the type containing a machine shop and small warehouse that can be found scattered throughout the back end of Queens, hard by the twenty-four/seven grit and noise from the major highways that in the fifties and sixties turned old ethnic neighborhoods into isolated islands of shocked despair. Sagging tenements, empty or near empty, straddled number 2411. The street was busy, with traffic flowing continuously and cars parked on both sides as far as the eye could see.

On the ride from the Bronx, Matt had called Jade’s answering service and learned that they had not heard from her since the day before. On 154
^th
Street they had passed the subway entrance for the line Jade would have taken from Manhattan. There had been nothing on the radio about a breakdown on this or any other line in the system. Matt had also called both Jade’s cell, which had gone to voicemail, and Charles Hall’s number, which had produced a “not in service” recorded answer.

“There’s an alley around back,” Michael said. “The back entrance of Lucky’s is there. Adnan and Ali and I hung out in an office in this building. I’m pretty sure it’s this building. Let’s drive around back.”

Matt swung the car onto 137
^th
Street, turned left and then, as Michael pointed out a sign that read,
PWE-9098
, left again. The day was bright and sunny, but now, as he edged his SUV cautiously down the narrow street, an alley really, around dumpsters and piles of rusted chain-link fence and other debris long forgotten by the sanitation department, they were in shade, the sun obliterated by the tenements looming on both sides. An occasional spindly tree reached for the sky. “Stop,” Michael said as they approached one of these. “Pull over.”

“That’s Lucky’s on the right,” Michael said, pointing to a sheet-metal door covered by a grate. “And that’s the warehouse,” he continued, nodding toward a rusting rolling door set above a suet- and grime-blackened concrete loading platform. “The office is upstairs.”

“Why hang out there?” Matt asked.

“Adnan and Ali said they knew the owner. It was quiet and safe. We smoked grass and listened to music.”

“Was it an active business?”

“No, it was dead in there. We cleaned up the office a bit, but the rest of the place was a mess. The thing is, Dad, there’s an underground walkway that leads to Lucky’s basement. We would park in the alley here, get high, then use the tunnel to go to Lucky’s to have a few drinks.”

“Is that how you got in?” Matt asked, pointing to a worn out but solid looking door to the right of the corrugated steel dock door.

“Yes. They had a key.”

“Let’s try.”

“Okay.”

As Matt was about to exit the car, his cell phone rang. He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket and looked at the screen:
Private Caller
. “It’s not her,” he said, realizing for the first time just how worried he was.

“Hello?”

“Listen carefully,” a male voice said. “You will not hear this message again. I have Miss Lee. She is safe at the moment. I want to make an exchange.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Mustafa al-Hakimi.”

“What kind of exchange?”

“I want my son released from prison.”

“The one who killed his sister.”

Silence.

“Are you listening, Mr. DeMarco?”

“Go ahead.”

“Put Wael on a plane to Damascus. When he arrives, I will tell you where Miss Lee is and you can collect her.”

The rush of adrenalin Matt suddenly felt was not new to him. He had experienced it in street fights when he was a boy, in the ring in the Marines, in the moment just before he cracked Johnny Taylor’s neck in half, in the courtroom when he felt that an adversary or a judge had insulted him. All his life he had felt this hammering in his brain and never once had he resisted it. But now he had to. Jade could die. He looked at his free hand clutching the steering wheel, a death grip he would one day apply to Mustafa al-Hakimi. But not today. Today he would control himself, shake the pounding from his head. He had no choice.

“And Mr. DeMarco,” Mustafa continued, “do not doubt me. If you do not do as I ask, your woman will die, but first she will suffer. I have young men with me who are sexually active. Do you understand?”

“I’ll need some time,” Matt said.

“Yes, I understand. I will give you twenty-four hours. I will call you tomorrow at this time. If Wael is not on his way to Syria, your Miss Lee will die and I will disappear.”

“Who was that?” Michael asked after Matt clicked off.

“Mustafa.”

“Mustafa?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“I’m dropping you off at Jade’s apartment. Don’t let him call the police.”

“Dad…”

Matt’s phone, still in his hand, rang again. He clicked the green receive button and put it to his ear.

“DeMarco?” his caller said.

“Yes.”

“Bill Crow.”

“Crow?”

“We’re ready to deal.”

“Ready to deal?” Matt replied. “Okay, hold on, I want to turn on my tape recorder.”

“You can’t stop being a wise guy, can you, DeMarco?” said Crow. “You must have a death wish.”

“Okay, it’s on,” said Matt. “Let’s be clear. You get the charges dismissed against my son, I’ll give you Adnan Farah.”

“Who you’ve kidnapped.”

“You’re wrong there, but I
can
deliver him. Is that the deal?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I’ll meet you at Jon Healy’s office tomorrow morning. When the charges are dismissed, I’ll turn Farah over to you.”

“No,” said Crow. “That’s not how it’s going to work.”

“No? How, then?”

“I need to talk to Farah, in person.”

Matt, thinking this over, did not respond.

“Take it or leave it,” Crow said.

“Okay,” said Matt, “but I’ll need time to make arrangements.”

“What kind of arrangements?”

“The same kind you’d make if you were in my position.”

“How much time?”

“Twenty-four hours.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow morning. Have a good day.”

Matt clicked off and began to pull away from the curb.

“Who was that?” Michael asked.

“Crow. He says he wants to make the deal.”

“What did Mustafa want?”

“He also wants to make a deal.”

“Mustafa? What’s going on, Dad?”

“Does this street go through?” Matt asked.

“No,” Michael said. “You have to make a K-turn. It’s wider at the end.” Matt inched his way along until he came to the garbage-strewn courtyard of an abandoned tenement building, where he started his three-point turn.

“What’s going on, Dad?” Michael said again.

“Mustafa has Jade. He wants to trade her for his son.”

“He has Jade?”

“Yes.”

“His
son
? Dad…”

“Yes.”

“Where are you going?” Michael asked. Matt had turned the car around and was heading out of the alley.

“I think I know how to reach Mustafa.”

“How?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“What about Jack and Clarke? They’ll help.”

“I don’t want them involved.”

“Why not?”

“I started this, I’ll finish it.”

“You started it? How?”

“I put Mustafa’s son in jail for life.”

“What did he do?”

“He killed his sister. She was dating a boy, so he stabbed her fifteen times.”

“That was your job.”

“I rubbed it in, Michael. I rubbed the kid’s face in it, and his father was watching. I even tried to get the death penalty, but Jon Healy wouldn’t go for it.”

“His father?”

“Yes, Mustafa.”

“Mustafa?”

“You’re repeating yourself. Yes,
Mustafa
. He had Yasmine killed just to frame you, to put
my
son in jail for life. I started this whole thing.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I was a tough guy, a Marine. Once a Marine… , you know the saying. I hated the kid, what he did. I rubbed it. But he was just a kid, ruled by his father, brainwashed by his fanatic father.”

“Dad…”

“Just babysit Antonio. Tell him I’m looking for his mom, that I think I know where she might be.”

“Do you?”

“Maybe. I’ll call you.”

“You have three very dangerous adversaries,” Basil al-Hassan said. “Haq, Crow, and Mustafa.”

Hassan’s spacious and beautifully appointed apartment, with its high ceilings and tall windows, had been as quiet as a church, as if Debra’s death had left a pall that still lingered. This inner room, Hassan’s
sanctum
, was even quieter.
It’s the place where he grieves
, Matt thought. He had been drumming his fingers on the polished wooden arm of his chair, but he stopped abruptly, the sound too loud in the hushed room. Basil, outwardly calm, his face unreadable, sat across from him at his large, impeccable mahogany desk.

“You need to put your cards on the table, Basil,” Matt said. “You offered to help, remember?” Basil may have been grieving, but Matt had no time to waste on sentiment or to soften his words. The point needed to be gotten to as quickly as possible.

“Debra said you were hot tempered.”

“That’s in the past.”

“Are you sure? Because the game you are about to enter is quite dangerous. Emotion has no place in it. It gets you killed.”

“What game?” Matt was not at all sure about his ability to control his temper. There was a fire in him that all his life had been impervious to his attempts to put it out. It was raging now, at the thought of Jade being gang raped and killed. The best he could do was control his outward demeanor, a skill he had learned the hard way as a boy. Hassan was rich and Middle-Eastern, and therefore likely to have resources, cultural and financial, well beyond Matt’s. More than that though, there was something about the Syrian’s demeanor when they were talking at the funeral luncheon that rang true, that spoke of a man who was willing to be an ally, but who, for reasons Matt could not plumb, needed one as well. It was this last, a hunch, really, a desperate one, that had driven him to accept Basil’s offer, and to reveal to him the facts as he knew them that had laid down the bloody trail to his door.

“What about the New York police?” Basil asked, ignoring Matt’s question. “Surely they want Farah. He killed Yasmine Hayek in Manhattan.”

“They’ve been told by the U.S. government to stay out of the case. Fuchs offered them Farah and they turned him down, on orders from the Justice Department.”

“What about your two detective friends? Are they disobeying orders?”

“Yes, they’ll help me if I ask them.”

“If you ask them?”

“They don’t know about Jade.”

“You haven’t told them?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m going to kill Crow and Mustafa. I don’t want them to lose their careers.” Matt did not have to mask his feelings as he said this. On this issue his blood was cold as well as hot. He had had enough of the Indian and the Servant. He would find a way.

“What about your career?”

“My career is to rescue Jade and free my son of the murder charge against him.”

“What else did Adnan confess to?” Hassan asked.

“He and Ali assassinated Rafik Hariri.”

“Hariri? On Haq’s orders?”

“Yes.”

“And he will testify in The Hague?”

“Yes, but for some reason my government doesn’t want him to.”

“How did you manage this?”

“I didn’t, Fuchs did.”

“I don’t doubt that Crow blew up the house in Stone Ridge,” Hassan said, “or that he killed Fuchs. As to whether he and Haq and Mustafa are working in concert, if demons can be said to work together at anything, I cannot say.”

“You said something about a dangerous game. I don’t have a lot of time. Can you help me or not?”

“Haq is an Iranian high up in the Syrian Secret police, the Mukhabarat,” Basil said. “He was sent here to kill Adnan and Ali, and to keep an eye on me.”

“How do you know this?”

“It is a guess, but an educated one.”

“What about Yasmine Hayek? Was Haq behind that?”

“This I do not know. I did not know until now that Mustafa has his own agenda.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“I was a hero in Syria until recently. A war hero and an oil hero. I have many friends, many contacts. Haq has more powerful friends, in Syria and in Iran. The balance has shifted in his favor. My friends can no longer protect me. I believe Haq wants me dead.”

“Why?”

“I represent sanity. Syria has gone insane.”

“That’s it? You’re sane, he’s not?”

“No, there’s more. I am one of the people in Syria who are hoping for a revolution. More than hoping, preparing.”

“How?”

“When the riots start in Damascus and Dera and Hama, I want to be ready to help.”

“How?”

“With arms—handguns, automatic rifles, missile launchers, RPGs.”

Matt remained silent, taking this in. “So the oil was a cover?” he said, finally.

“No,” Hassan replied. “I discovered Syria’s only successful oil field. The Assads let me get rich. But the field is drying up, and Iran has grown very powerful over the past ten years or so. They give orders, Syria obeys.”

“I see. How’s it going? The arms business, I mean.”

“Not well, except for Libya. In Syria and Iran I will need your government’s help.”

“It looks like they’re on Syria’s side right now.”

“Yes. We shall see.”

“What about Debra?” Matt asked. “Was she a beard?”

“A beard?”

“To give you easy access to the U.S.?”

“No. I loved her. It took a long time, but I finally loved someone again.”

“But it didn’t hurt to have an American wife.”

“No, the Assads loved that.”

“Sorry. I felt I had to ask about Debra, for my son’s sake.”

“My cards are now, as you requested, on the table,” Basil said. “With this information you can easily have me killed.”

“Or get myself killed.”

“Yes.”

“How can you help me?”

“If you can bring Mustafa to me, I can get him to let your woman go.”

“That’s a tall order. How do I reach him?”

“Perhaps Mr. Stryker can help you. I have made inquiries. He is on the Mukhabarat’s payroll. This may give you leverage.”

“What about Crow?” Matt asked.

“You wish to kill him too.”

“Yes.”

“I cannot help you with Crow.”

“Okay, just asking.”

“He may still be important to your government. I may need their help soon.”

“What kind of help?” Matt asked.

“I may need asylum, or rather what you call witness protection. It may be the only way I can escape Haq’s reach.”

“Let’s kill him too,” said Matt.

Hassan smiled, and Matt smiled back, but he wasn’t kidding.

“I’ve thought of that,” Basil said. “It would not be easy. But first things first. Bring me Mustafa. I guarantee he will cooperate.”

“Before I go,” Matt said. “I assume you’ve swept this place clean. If not, we’re dead men.”

“I have,” Basil replied. “People were in this afternoon.”

“What did they find?”

“High-tech mini-cameras, two in every room.”

“Did you talk about your arms business here?”

“No, never, not even in this country.”