8

Right on time, Joey pulled up in a beat-up 1995 Grand Am. Jack slipped into the passenger seat. They shook hands and Joey roared off. He was wearing a navy blue windbreaker over a black T-shirt. He didn’t look so hot. He’d lost weight, had bed head, and needed a shave. Looked like the kind of guy who’d own this car.

“Where’s your Merce?”

The last time Jack had seen him he’d been getting into a sporty silver SLK roadster.

“Borrowed this for the day.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Got my reasons. But before we get into that, check out that envelope there.”

Jack spotted a manila envelope between his seat and the center console. He pulled it out and dumped the contents onto his lap.

He saw a blurry black-and-white photo of a bearded man in a knit skullcap. Next came a Xerox of what looked like a page from a work visa file with a photo of a man identified as Hamad bin Tabbakh bin Sadanan Al-Kabeer.

Joey reached over and tapped the sheet. “You believe that fucking name?”

“A mouthful.”

“I had it explained to me that ‘bin’ means ‘son of.’ So this fuck’s first name is Hamad and his last name is El-Kabong, and he’s the son of Tobacco who’s the son of Santana, or whatever.”

Under that lay a slip of paper with an address.

Jack stared at it. “Paterson, New Jersey? Really?”

“Yeah. Paterstine. Dune Monkey City.”

“So why’s this El-Kabong, as you put it, our most favored suspect?”

“Because I know a guy who sold him two Tavor-twos and a bunch of nine-millimeter hollow-points.”

Jack felt a burner ignite in the base of his brain.

“Really. Who?”

“You know Benny?”

“The guy that always sounds like a bad imitation of Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins?

“That’s the one. He gave me a videotape and something with El-Kabong’s prints on it. I had one of my men in blue run them for me. This is the guy who popped up.”

The heat in Jack’s brain jumped a hundred degrees.

“That’s a slam dunk.”

Joey sighed. “Not quite. He bought the Tavors last Thursday.”

“Thursday? Shit, Joey. That’s no good. He couldn’t have used them at the airport.”

“Yeah, but he could be replacing the ones he left there. Which means he’s probably planning another massacre.”

“You’ve got to get this to the feds.”

Joey gave his head an emphatic shake. “Can’t do that, man.”

“Why the hell not? They’ve got tech and manpower we can’t even dream of.”

“No-no. Think about it: I go there I’ve got to tell them where I got this info. I can’t give up Benny. He gave it to me ‘cause he knows I’m stand up. I mention his name his ass lands in the joint. For a long, long time. No way I can do that to him.”

“I still think—”

“Shit, Jack, you know the feds. Everything by the book. Take them weeks, months to move, if at all.”

“Why wouldn’t they move?”

“Looking for bigger fish. And you know them—always making deals. Who knows? They may let these guys walk.”

The heat turned higher.

“So why show this to me if you’re not going to do anything with it?”

Joey’s expression took a grim turn. “Oh, but I am. And you damn fuck better believe that.”

“Like what?”

“Like take a little trip to Paterstine and check out this sand nigger.”

“And then what?”

He shrugged. “Play it by ear. My guy called the Paterstine cops and heard this Hamad’s active in a small group called the Center for Islamic Charities. They said it’s suspected of raising cash and funneling it to dune-nigger groups in Palestine. Like I give a shit what they do over there, but when they come over here and shoot my brother down like a dog…”

Jack noticed Joey’s knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel.

“All right. If they—”

“Look.” Joey nodded toward the street ahead. “A fucking towel head. Think anyone mind if I run him down?”

Jack looked and recognized the distinctive peaked wrap of the turban.

“I would. He’s not an Arab, he’s a Sikh.”

“Same difference.”

“No—big difference. He’s Indian. No relation at all to the guy we’re after. He’s on our side.”

“Yeah? Well then he should damn well look it.”

Jack had no response. Better not to say anything at all. Joey’s blood was up and his rage encompassed anyone from anywhere in and around the Middle East. He was looking for someone to hurt and not too particular.

Jack knew the feeling, but he wasn’t to the point where he was planning to walk into a mosque and open up with an MP-5.

“Forget him for now and answer me this: If this Islamic Charities group ships money to terrorists, why’s it still operating? The feds have shut down other operations like that.”

“Because they’re only suspected. No one’s been able to nail them. And they’re so small, no one’s devoting time to them. But… what if this Islamic Charities place is really a cover for Wrath of Allah?”

Jack thought about that. Yeah. What if?

Joey added, “What all this comes down to, Jack, is I’m asking you want in.”

Jack thought about that. Part of him still wanted to let the feds take it from here, but another part—the part boiling on the rear burner in his brain—screamed for blood.

As much as he wanted to spend all the time he had left with Gia and Vicky, he had to devote some time to this thing. If this Hamad Al-Kabeer had anything to do with Dad’s death, then Jack wanted to settle with him before he went wherever he was going.

“All right. I’m in. But I want a little more than what we have.”

“That’s why we’re headed for Paterstine.”

“Now?”

“We can be at the GW in a few minutes, and after that it’s into the wilds of darkest New Jersey.”

“Step on it then. I don’t have a lot of time.”