fourth number from the bottom. The phone had only been activated within the last five minutes, but it would be best to keep the call short all the same.
He pressed SEND and listened as it began to ring. Once, then twice. He cast a glance toward the closed bathroom door behind him. Carol was dressing.
They needed to move. On the fourth ring, it was answered, a woman’s voice, her tones rich with a Jamaican accent. “Hello?”
Harry allowed himself a faint smile. “You’re as cautious as ever, Rhoda. Haven’t forgotten a thing, have you?”
“Why are you calling?” the woman asked, punctuating her words with a French oath. “Your name’s out to law enforcement—they’re already throwing out a net over northern Virginia.”
“If you know that, then you know why I’m calling.”
A long pause. “I’m good at what I do, but I can’t work magic, Harry. Not really. All the voodoo in the world couldn’t save your butt now—what did you do to get this reaction?”
“Not over the phone. You know that,” Harry responded, clearing his throat. “You’ve forgotten Kingston?”
Another pause, and then the woman sighed. A long, heavy sigh of resignation. “No, I haven’t. What time should I expect you?”
“We’ll be on your doorstep within the hour,” Harry replied, closing the phone. The old Hollywood myth of the lone spy was just that—a myth. Nobody out in the cold survived without a network. It was just a matter of doing whatever it took to activate it. Sometimes that meant calling in favors and stepping on more than a few toes.
11:32 A.M. Central Time
Dearborn, Michigan
It was perhaps one of the greatest ironies of Dearborn that in this city, once home to so many of America’s autoworkers, most of the residents now relied upon public transportation subsidized by the federal government.
But it did help ease traffic problems. The black man let out a snort of disgust as he glanced into the rear-view mirror, checking for any signs of the police. How have the mighty fallen.
Now, the state and federal governments subsidized well nigh the entire police force of Dearborn. The only choice, really—for it was a safe bet that half the city’s population didn’t make enough to pay taxes, and the other half had no interest in a police force.
Abdul Aziz Omar fit squarely in the second category, particularly on a day like today.
He glanced into his rear-view again, catching a glimpse of his passengers. Names? He didn’t know theirs—but the man in the middle, the young man with the faraway, almost ethereal gaze, he knew simply as the Shaikh.
What he was doing here in Dearborn was also a mystery.
All of which would be revealed in due time, the black man mused, reaching for his thermos of tea in the center console. Insh’allah .
12:34 P.M. Eastern Time
U.S. Route 211
Virginia
He’d had the feeling once before—chasing a serial killer across five states, back in the days before he’d joined the Bureau’s Counterterrorism Division. A sickening feeling of being just one step behind, always too late.
Vic Caruso rounded the end of the SUV to find Marika Altmann standing there, holding a clear plastic baggie up to the sunlight.
“Any luck finding the casing?” he asked, zipping up his coat against the wind.
Altmann replied with a shake of her head, placing the baggie containing the deformed .45-caliber slug back in the evidence tray on the floor of the vehicle. “If he’s Agency, he probably picked up his brass. My guess is this guy is good.”
“He is,” Caruso responded quietly. His partner shot him a sharp, piercing glance.
“You know him?”
“After a fashion,” he replied, turning to look her in the eye. “In mid-September, I was assigned to head up an investigation into a CIA leak. He was one of the targets.”
“And?” Marika pressed, a shrewd look in her eyes.
“And that’s a long story.” Long story indeed, Caruso thought, looking out across the highway
He pressed SEND and listened as it began to ring. Once, then twice. He cast a glance toward the closed bathroom door behind him. Carol was dressing.
They needed to move. On the fourth ring, it was answered, a woman’s voice, her tones rich with a Jamaican accent. “Hello?”
Harry allowed himself a faint smile. “You’re as cautious as ever, Rhoda. Haven’t forgotten a thing, have you?”
“Why are you calling?” the woman asked, punctuating her words with a French oath. “Your name’s out to law enforcement—they’re already throwing out a net over northern Virginia.”
“If you know that, then you know why I’m calling.”
A long pause. “I’m good at what I do, but I can’t work magic, Harry. Not really. All the voodoo in the world couldn’t save your butt now—what did you do to get this reaction?”
“Not over the phone. You know that,” Harry responded, clearing his throat. “You’ve forgotten Kingston?”
Another pause, and then the woman sighed. A long, heavy sigh of resignation. “No, I haven’t. What time should I expect you?”
“We’ll be on your doorstep within the hour,” Harry replied, closing the phone. The old Hollywood myth of the lone spy was just that—a myth. Nobody out in the cold survived without a network. It was just a matter of doing whatever it took to activate it. Sometimes that meant calling in favors and stepping on more than a few toes.
11:32 A.M. Central Time
Dearborn, Michigan
It was perhaps one of the greatest ironies of Dearborn that in this city, once home to so many of America’s autoworkers, most of the residents now relied upon public transportation subsidized by the federal government.
But it did help ease traffic problems. The black man let out a snort of disgust as he glanced into the rear-view mirror, checking for any signs of the police. How have the mighty fallen.
Now, the state and federal governments subsidized well nigh the entire police force of Dearborn. The only choice, really—for it was a safe bet that half the city’s population didn’t make enough to pay taxes, and the other half had no interest in a police force.
Abdul Aziz Omar fit squarely in the second category, particularly on a day like today.
He glanced into his rear-view again, catching a glimpse of his passengers. Names? He didn’t know theirs—but the man in the middle, the young man with the faraway, almost ethereal gaze, he knew simply as the Shaikh.
What he was doing here in Dearborn was also a mystery.
All of which would be revealed in due time, the black man mused, reaching for his thermos of tea in the center console. Insh’allah .
12:34 P.M. Eastern Time
U.S. Route 211
Virginia
He’d had the feeling once before—chasing a serial killer across five states, back in the days before he’d joined the Bureau’s Counterterrorism Division. A sickening feeling of being just one step behind, always too late.
Vic Caruso rounded the end of the SUV to find Marika Altmann standing there, holding a clear plastic baggie up to the sunlight.
“Any luck finding the casing?” he asked, zipping up his coat against the wind.
Altmann replied with a shake of her head, placing the baggie containing the deformed .45-caliber slug back in the evidence tray on the floor of the vehicle. “If he’s Agency, he probably picked up his brass. My guess is this guy is good.”
“He is,” Caruso responded quietly. His partner shot him a sharp, piercing glance.
“You know him?”
“After a fashion,” he replied, turning to look her in the eye. “In mid-September, I was assigned to head up an investigation into a CIA leak. He was one of the targets.”
“And?” Marika pressed, a shrewd look in her eyes.
“And that’s a long story.” Long story indeed, Caruso thought, looking out across the highway
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