Top Hook (37 page)

And then he saw the letters A M, and H. Full caps.

Angel of Mercy Hospice.

Tony Moscowic had taken three thousand dollars to bug a
hospice
?

An old phrase from a criminal-justice class rattled through his head:
death-bed confession.
But it was Shreed's wife who had been in there, not Shreed. But she would have known things, wouldn't she? So that somebody who wanted to know Shreed's secrets might have—He thought it through and was half-ready to believe that Menzes himself had paid Moscowic to bug the AMH, except that that wasn't the way the Agency usually operated. Some other country?
What rinky-dink intelligence service would hire a Tony Moscowic? Yes—North Korea, Sudan—you name it.

He got out Moisher's card and called him at home. On the phone, Moisher sounded even younger than he did in the flesh. Triffler wanted to ask for his parents.

“Hey, Detective Moisher, Dick Triffler. I had a thought.”

“Yeah?” As in
Yeah, yeah, yeah, pant, pant!

Triffler was leafing through the Northern Virginia phone book, and he didn't speak until he was sure that the Angel of Mercy Hospice was listed in just that way. Then he said, “About that AMH.”

“Hey, yeah!”

“You think of looking in the phone book?”

“Yellow pages?”

“No, the white pages where they list businesses and
stuff like that. You said it was a place, not a person, right? It just occurred to me that you could look under the As, and under there find things that also had an M and an H.”

“That'd be a lot of looking.”

“Well, yeah, because you'd have to do DC and Northern Virginia as well as PG County and maybe Montgomery, right?”

“Boy, that's a lot.”

Triffler wanted to reach down the phone and grab his throat. “But it might pay off!”

“How would I know?”

Triffler suppressed a groan. “You'd have to make a list, and then visit every place on the list with a photo of the dead guy and ask if they'd ever seen him or if they knew his name. You might get lucky.”

“Gee, that's a lot of places to visit.”

“Yeah. I'd get right on it.” He heard Moisher sighing, like a man whose Sunday has just been taken away from him. “I'll bet if you worked it right, you could get the Virginia and DC cops to do their areas for you.” He was counting the number of AMH businesses. “After all, how many can there be?”

Not so many, actually.

After he hung up, he smiled. If Moisher would get on the stick, it would work—if, that is, somebody at the hospice remembered Tony Moscowic.

If not, maybe he'd have to tell Menzes and let
him
figure how to keep his case from being tainted.

Harry O'Neill was sipping a second cup of coffee in the restaurant of the Hilton, staring out the enormous windows at the dhows drawn up along the pier in the last rays of sunset. Most of them were from Iran, laden with carpets and saffron, opium and marijuana. They were at the forefront of Harry's thoughts because he was trying to judge if Shreed might attempt to use one of the boats to cross to Iran and disappear. He hadn't heard from Djalik, who was supposed to be following Shreed, and he didn't know what to do next. His watch told him that Alan ought to be meeting with Anna at that moment, but his concern was fixed on Shreed. He knew he ought to call Dukas, but he was leaving his cellphone free so Djalik could get him.

When his cellphone rang, he had it in his hand and active before it had a chance to ring a second time.

“Harry?”

“Dave, where the hell are you?”

“I'm driving through the Al Hajar. Shreed crossed into Oman about an hour ago.”

“You sure?”

“Sure as shit. Border guard remembered him. I think he's headed for Muscat.”

“I'm on my way. Get somebody to cover the airport and head for the docks.”

“Roger. Call me when you land.”

Khouri, the Palestinian detective, lay in a clean bed in what at first looked to Dukas like a dirty room but was only in need of paint. The equipment was new and sparkling, in fact—oxygen, an IV. The cop himself looked young and gaunt, as if the ordeal had taken both years and pounds off him. Gorzum loomed at the foot of his bed.

Dukas let Wahad talk. Gestures were made in Dukas's direction. A third man, introduced as Mister Almasi, also Palestinian, stood on the other side of the bed—tall, shrewd, older.
Palestine Liberation Organization
, Dukas thought.

“Ask him to tell me what happened,” Dukas said, gesturing toward the wounded man.

The story was the one Dukas had already had from Wahad, embellished by Gorzum: the Palestinian detective had interrupted a drug buy, then been attacked by two men he thought were muggers. He had shot one and been shot by the other before any of the three realized that they were all policemen.

“Then what?”

The young cop looked at Mister Almasi before he answered. “The buyer and the seller ran away.”

“Ran?”

More eye contact between the two Palestinians. “A manner of speaking.”

“Who was the buyer?”

“An American.”

“How did you know?”

“We can all tell.” Gorzum laughed.

“Did you know the American?”

The detective's eyes went again to Almasi. Then they went briefly to Gorzum and slid away, then locked on
Dukas's. Dukas turned to Gorzum. “Can I talk to him alone?”

Gorzum shook his head and widened his stance, announcing immovability.

It was one of those impossible moments that block an investigation: the man wanted to tell him, because he wanted the ten-thousand-dollar reward, but he wouldn't do it in front of Gorzum, because Gorzum might screw up the reward. And Gorzum wouldn't leave.
Check.

Dukas took three photos out of his pocket, one of Shreed and the other two of men of more or less the same age. He handed them across the bed to Almasi.

Both the wounded detective and Almasi recognized Shreed; Dukas would have gone to court on their reactions. But both denied recognizing any of the three.

Dukas asked some more questions and then Gorzum said they had talked enough, and he held the door open. Dukas and Wahad went to a seating area and huddled together, as people do in hospitals. Dukas pressed the photo of Shreed into Wahad's hand. “Ask Mister Almasi to show this to the detective again and ask if it's the man. Just do it! I'll take care of Gorzum.”

Wahad wanted to object; he was a conciliator, not a conspirator. But Gorzum came up then and Wahad excused himself and headed off as if looking for a toilet. Dukas offered to buy Gorzum coffee. When they got it, the caffeine hit him like a sweet blow. “You know this Almasi?” he said.

Gorzum more or less shrugged. “PLO. Big shot.” They talked about being cops until Wahad came back and signaled Dukas with his eyes, and Dukas excused himself. Down a corridor and around a corner, Almasi caught up with him. He held out the photo. His English was
not very good, but it was good enough to tell Dukas that the young detective had said yes.

“Sharid,” the Palestinian said.

Dukas thought it was an Arabic word. He must have looked puzzled, because the Palestinian said it again. Then he tapped the photo and again said, “Sharid.”

Then Dukas got it.
Sharid, Shreed.
He nodded his head too vigorously. “Shreed!”

The Palestinian made the universal sign, fingers on thumb, rubbing. “Money.”

“Not now. Later.” Where was Wahad when he needed him?

“Money?”

Dukas pointed out and down. “Tomorrow. Day after tomorrow.” How could he explain that he didn't carry ten thousand dollars around in his pocket? He sighed. Exhaustion weighed on him like an overcoat.

The Chief of Naval Operations worked a seven-day week, or at least a six-and-a-half-day week, because he liked to go to church on Sunday. By oneo'c lock, however, he was in his office, ready to wade through the e-mails and the paper that he often couldn't get to when other people were around. Now, however, an aide poked his head in and said, “Can you see Admiral Pilchard?”

Momentarily annoyed, the CNO forced his face to stay expressionless, then let it rearrange itself into something pleasant. Pilchard was an old friend from flying days. “Five minutes,” he said, knowing that Pilchard would understand—one of the compliments that friendship paid to command.

“Dick,” he said, standing with his hand out. “What's up?”

“I know your time's tight, so I'll make it short.”

The CNO nodded his thanks.

“A female chopper pilot named Rose Siciliano. Top commendations, deep-select for promotion, just finished the War College, then she got blindsided by a false accusation from the CIA, and she's been in purgatory since. Her name's been smeared in the fleet. Now there's confirmation that the whole thing was a put-up job, and I'd like her cleared and commended so that everybody can see she's clean.”

“Why today?”

“Because Lieutenant-Commander Siciliano is stretched thin; her husband's at sea; and the guy who smeared her is a CIA biggie who's apparently defected.”

The CNO sat up a little straighter. After a glance at a walnut clock on his desk, he said, “You better take ten minutes.”

Pilchard laid it out for him. He produced such documents as there were, named names, gave a crisp history of George Shreed and his apparent flight. He ended with the presumption that Rose's ordeal had been caused by Shreed to cover himself.

The CNO leaned back. “I'd already heard that a top CIA guy was gone. I've raised holy hell about it because it wasn't the Agency that told us; it was an NCIS agent. I've got ships out there looking down Chinese gun-barrels, and the Agency can't tell us what the hell the guy took with him!”

“They're probably in denial. They won't admit he's gone.”

“What do you want?”

“Exonerate Rose Siciliano. Her husband, too—he's one of the guys who's looking down a Chinese gunbarrel.”

The CNO looked again at the clock and tapped a pencil on the desk. “How come I didn't know about any of this, Dick?”

Pilchard's chin went up. He hated gossip, but he didn't blink at laying blame where it belonged. “Your intel people sat on it. Somebody over there is the conduit for the Agency smear. Maybe it was just you-scratch-my-back, I'll-scratch-yours. Whoever it is managed to get her and her husband's orders changed with the authority of your office.”

The CNO threw down the pencil. He stabbed a button. “Manion! Get the DNI on the phone—get him off the golf course if you have to. Now!” He stood and began to prowl the room. “What's she want?”

“Reinstatement of her orders to the astronaut program.”

“She's got it. How about if I bring her in here until the orders are written—special aide on TAD to my office? That's an endorsement that the fleet will recognize.”

Pilchard stood. “More than I had the balls to ask for.”

The CNO nodded. “Give Manion her phone number. I want to talk to her directly.” He glanced at the door, and Pilchard, taking the cue, headed for it. “And Dick—anything you know about this crap in ONI, you share with me—right? I want a head.”

Pilchard paused, then nodded.

Alan and Anna left the restaurant arm in arm. Alan had reached a level of comfort with her that puzzled him, like having a dangerous criminal as an old but untrusted friend. They walked up the street through the humid evening air, and she told him stories from her time in
Bahrain and Dubai. They weren't ugly stories, or she censored the ugliness; mostly they were comic stories of men and socialites and parties. She never mentioned how she had moved from the Arab states to Iran. He didn't ask. He told her stories about the boat.

They walked through the lobby at the hotel and Alan took her up to his room. She sat on the bed.

“Money?”

“I have to send for it. What do you have to sell?”

“Is this photo Rose? She is beautiful. Did you place her here to protect yourself from me?”

She crossed her legs and tossed her head and smiled. He suspected that her statement was right, and that left him feeling even more of an adolescent.

“Maybe. Probably. What are we here for, Anna? I know who the mole in the Agency is.”

“Perhaps you need to buy my silence, then.”

Alan shook his head. He thought he'd done well enough in the small talk; now he was in the real battle.

“I'm not buying your silence. What I want is your help in stopping George Shreed. Do you know his whereabouts?”

“I will. He wants me; or rather, he wants what is left of Efremov. You have no idea where he is now, do you?”

“I know he was in Dubai six hours ago. We'll find him.”

“Perhaps, but in twelve hours I'll know where he is. I can sell you that. And I still have all of Efremov's files, Alan. Can I interest you in a white paper on French arms sales to Iran? On North Korean mini-sub construction? Some names of Hezbollah and Republican Guard officers overseas? George Shreed is not the only item on the table.”

He walked over to her, from the secure chair to which he had retreated, and he stood close to her and looked her in the eyes. He was so close that she expected him to kiss her, but then she saw it had never entered his mind. His eyes weren't hard, close up, but they were very intense.

“Anna. In thirty-six hours, China will go to war with India. I think China is counting on George Shreed to win the peace, or failing that, the war. He has codes, or something, that the Chinese think will tip the balance and overturn all of the US vast superiority in technology and training.”

“I don't know what he has. What do I care? I'm not a fan of your United States.”

“Thousands of people will die, Anna. For nothing. For bad diplomacy and a gambit in Beijing. You can help stop that, Anna. You can control the event.”

“I am not a philanthropist, Alan Craik. But I will do my part in saving the world for the agreed price. For one million dollars, I will give you Efremov's files, and throw in whatever I learn in the next few days about George Shreed's whereabouts.”

“Let me send for the money, okay?”

He picked up the telephone and called Soleck's room. There was no answer. He took a slip of paper from his wallet and called the pager. She got off the bed and went into the bathroom.

“I've always loved the Gulf,” she called over the sound of running water. “Water, endless water. Think what that means to an Arab.”

The phone rang.

“Craik.”

“Howdy, sir. It's Evan?” Crashing music in the background, and a relentless rhythm machine beat.

“I need the suitcase.”

“Wow! Cool. Where are you?”

“In my room. Seven forty-six.”

“Wow! So it's going down? On my way!”

Soleck probably thought he was living in a
Miami Vice
episode. Anna came back out wiping her hands on a small towel. “Even the towels here are good. I used to steal one, every time I had the chance.”

“The money will be here in a moment.”

“I wonder sometimes about you, Alan. Why am I not grabbed and—interrogated? Or why not use your black friend to protect you?”

“I don't get you, Anna. What do you want?”

She shot back, “Absolute control of my life. To never
again
depend on a man for protection.” Her hands were clenched for a moment, and then they unclenched. Alan heard Harry whisper “
get her motivation”
at a café in Italy. Well, there it was.

“George Shreed won't give you that, Anna. George Shreed will leave you drained, or dead.”

She was quiet for a moment, but when she turned back to him she had recovered her wry smile.

“Poor Shreed. If Allah hath a thousand hands to chastise, most of them must be near Mister Shreed just now.”

Alan answered a low knock at the door. Soleck filled the doorway, but from somewhere down the hall there was a giggle. He looked past Alan into the room. Anna had risen from the bed and was standing close behind Alan. Soleck stared at her.

Alan reached out and took the case from his unresisting hand.

“Later,” he said, and closed the door.

“Who was he?”

“One of my pilots.”

“Very handsome. A little young.”

“I think he's already found a friend for the night.”

She took the case and laid it on the bed, then popped the cover. It was crammed full of money, stacks in all denominations. It did not look like the slim, well-ordered briefcases of cash that appeared on TV. Anna laughed to herself.