9

They’d found Al-Kabeer’s apartment house—a battered three-story brick-front building—and had driven by without stopping. Then they found the Center for Islamic Charities—a storefront space with curtained windows on a tattered commercial block—and circled it about a dozen times before parking half a block down and across the street.

“Now you know why I didn’t bring the Merce.”

Jack nodded. Crummy neighborhood. Not the kind of place two white guys in a high-ticket sportster would go unnoticed.

“He in there?”

Joey shrugged. “Don’t know. But I figure we watch his house and he’s already out, we sit there all day and get nothing. We wait here we got a chance to catch him coming or going.”

“Double your pleasure, double your fun.”

“Zackly.”

Jack glanced at his watch. “I can give it two hours tops, Joey, then I’ve got to get back.”

“C’mon, Jack. We’re on a stakeout, only this time we’re the cops. You can’t bail out.”

“No choice. If I had the time I’d sit here all day and night, but time is tight right now.”

Wasn’t that the truth.

Somewhere around the thirty-minute mark a bearded guy with a pleated kufi hat and a long gray jubba stepped out of the center and walked their way.

“Jesus,” Joey said. “That our guy?”

Jack glanced back and forth between the man and the photos.

“Could be.”

“Shit. The beards make all these fucks look the same.”

Jack pointed to the visa photo, bull’s-eyeing the mole on the right side of Hamad Al-Kabeer’s nose.

“See that?” The guy was about even with them now, but even from across the street Jack could make the spot on his nose. “Tell me it’s not the same.”

A flat-finish 1911 .45 appeared in Joey’s right hand. His left was reaching for the door handle.

“Let’s get him.”

“Whoa-whoa. He’s just one guy. We want more.”

Joey, grim-faced, waggled the pistol. “Oh, we’ll get more. El-Kabong’s gonna tell us everything we need to know.”

Jack knew how Joey felt, and wouldn’t have minded a little of that action for himself—if this was the right guy.

Jack popped open his door. “Just sit tight a sec. I’m going to see where he’s going.”

“What for?”

“You never know.”

Jack hit the pavement and left the door closed but unlatched behind him. No use in drawing attention with a slam. He kept to the opposite side and far enough behind Al-Kabeer to stay beyond his peripheral vision.

He maintained his position for two and a half blocks until the Arab made a left turn and disappeared around a corner. If Jack’s sense of direction was working, the guy looked like he was heading back to his apartment. Jack trotted to his corner and made a point of not looking left until he’d crossed.

He spotted Al-Kabeer standing midblock with a cell phone to his ear. Incoming or outgoing? Maybe incoming because he turned and started retracing his path.

Jack positioned himself directly behind him. Yeah, Al-Kabeer was headed back to the Center.

This sucked. This meant…

Jack had an idea.

As Al-Kabeer crossed the street half a block from the Center, Jack picked up speed to close on him. He saw Joey watching. He signaled to bring the car around. As soon as he saw Joey nod, he raced up behind Al-Kabeer and knocked him flat. Jack landed with both knees on his back, knocking the wind out of him.

As the Arab struggled for air, Jack grabbed his cell phone and rifled through the pockets of his long coat where he found another phone. He took that and snaked a wallet from a rear pocket—this needed to look like a mugging—then jumped up and ran for the car. Joey tromped the gas as soon as Jack hit the passenger seat and the Ponti squealed down the street.

A few quick turns and they hit the on ramp to 80 East.

“Remind me not to get you pissed at me, all right?”

“Why?”

“Shit, you move fast. That’s what I call kicking ass. One second you’re behind him, next second you’re on top of him, third second you’re in the car.”

It hadn’t been that fast.

“Didn’t want him to see me, and definitely didn’t want any of his pals coming to help.”

“What’d you get?”

Jack flipped through the wallet. Found a couple of credit cards in Al-Kabeer’s name, half a dozen business cards, and forty-two bucks. But Jack found the phones more interesting. The first—the one he’d been using when Jack hit him—was a standard Verizon model. The second, however…

“How about that? A prepaid phone.”

Just like mine.

Joey glanced at it. “So?”

“No contract, no credit check, no name connected to the number. So why’s he got a regular phone plus one that leaves him anonymous.”

Joey’s grin would have made a shark wince. “So he can’t be traced when he calls his fellow dune coons.”

“We need a way to see who he’s been calling on this.”

“No prob.”

Jack looked at him. “You’ve got an in?”

“Hey, Frankie and me, we used to hawk cell phone licenses. I got tons of connections. We’ll get those numbers.”

“Great. But make it fast.”

Make it very fast.

“And one more thing,” Jack said. “I need you to take me on a quick detour.”