“Now,” the agent said. “Or I start firing.”
Something in the agent’s voice convinced him to drop the knife. He knew the agent was more of a cowboy than most and it wasn’t time to start an attack. Not yet.
“Kick it my way,” the agent insisted.
Kemin kicked it to him and watched the agent pick it up.
“What else do you have?”
What more did he need? A good knife and two of the best hands in the KSF.
“Nothing,” Kemin said.
The gangster hopped off the bed and walked around Kemin as if inspecting for disease. Kemin felt his wallet pulled from his back pocket so quickly he had no time to respond. The gangster returned to the bed and sat.
“Let’s see what we have here,” the gangster said, rummaging through his wallet. The man was so close he almost took a swing at him.
“Look at me,” the FBI agent said. When Kemin turned, he saw no emotion in the agent’s eyes.
“Where’s Barzani?” the agent asked.
Kemin had to stifle a laugh. “What are you going to do-put me in jail?”
“I’m going to get the answers, one way or another.”
Kemin smiled. He didn’t have a thing to say. The agent could pull every finger from his hands and it wouldn’t have an effect on Kemin’s desire to talk.
The agent walked up to Kemin and patted him down. Once he was convinced Kemin was free of weapons, he stood directly in front of him and stared. His jaw was tight and his eyes held fire.
“What are you doing?” the gangster said.
The agent didn’t respond.
“What, you gonna slap him?” the gangster said. “You think that’s gonna get him to sing?”
“Shut up, Tommy” the agent said.
Suddenly, the gangster had a pistol in his hand. From behind the agent, the gangster clocked him hard and the agent went down. The agent’s pistol came loose and ended up just a yard from Kemin’s feet. Kemin cursed himself for not being prepared for the opportunity. By the time he realized what was happening, the gangster had recovered the agent’s pistol and waved one of them at Kemin and the other at the agent.
“Sit down,” the gangster ordered the agent.
The agent sat on the floor and rubbed the back of his head. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m doing whatever it takes to get to the bottom of this. It’s obvious this dipshit didn’t order my cousin to be killed, so I need to find out where the asshole is.”
“Listen-”
“No,” the gangster barked. “I’m done listening. Now it’s time for me to act.” He waved the tip of the pistol to a chair in the corner of the room. “Sit over there and watch.”
The agent got to his feet and sat down.
The gangster ordered Kemin to sit down a few chairs away from the agent and Kemin complied. It concerned him that the gangster seemed to be in charge of things.
The gangster sat back on the bed and placed one of the guns next to him while sifting through Kemin’s wallet with his free hand. He’d pull a card or folded piece of paper from his billfold, then toss it on the bed as discarded junk. Kemin knew there was nothing of true value there.
The gangster hopped off the bed and appraised Kemin without a trace of fear.
“Okay,” the gangster said. “You’re not going to tell him anything because he can’t do anything to you. I mean he’s got that whole Constitution thing hanging over his head all the time.” The gangster looked over at the agent. “Am I right? It’s a fucking wonder people even pay their speeding tickets anymore.”
The gangster turned toward Kemin once again. “There’s nothing he could do to you physically that could matter in even the slightest.”
Kemin almost nodded. The gangster was getting at something.
“So,” the gangster said. “What could I do to motivate you?”
Kemin sat silent.
The gangster leaned back on the bed again and continued his fascination with Kemin’s wallet.
“How about money?” the gangster continued. “Is that of any use? Nah, supposedly you guys are rolling in dough. Torture? Naw, too unreliable. You’d probably tell me anything I wanna hear.”
Suddenly the gangster’s face brightened as he uncovered Kemin’s fake visa.
“I forgot, you’re from Turkey?”
Kemin remained still.
“Holy cow,” the gangster said. “What are the odds? It turns out I gotta couple of friends vacationing over there right now. Well, it’s more of a business trip,” the gangster winked at Kemin. “If you know what I mean.”
The way the words came out, Kemin stiffened a bit.
“Don’t do this, Tommy,” the agent protested.
Kemin wasn’t sure what he was talking about.
The gangster pulled a picture from Kemin’s wallet. It was a photo of his children from a couple of years ago. They were two and four then. He held it up for Kemin to see.
“One boy, one girl.” The gangster smiled a paternal smile. “You must be proud.”
Even though they were both half a world away, Kemin’s throat became dry. He licked his lips. This turned the gangster’s paternal smile into a sinister leer.
“Cut it out,” the agent said, more forceful this time.
The gangster grabbed an open tablet computer sitting on a vacant chair and looked at the screen. “Let’s see here,” he said tapping his fingers on the screen. “It says here, Kemin Demir, twenty-seven years old. Birthday, July ninth, oh, here’s an interesting item-last address in Turkey.”
“That’s confidential information,” the agent barked.
The gangster leaned back onto the bed and casually opened his cell phone. He began to dial a series of numbers. Too many numbers. As he dialed, he said, “I wonder what time it is over there?”
Kemin felt his heart pound in his chest.
As the gangster put the phone to his ear, the agent said, “Tommy, knock it off.”
The gangster ignored him as he spoke into the phone. “Gino, what’s up?”
There was a pause, then the gangster said, “Hey, where are you again in Turkey?” Another pause. “Ankara?”
The gangster looked down at the computer. “Is that anywhere near Sincan? … Oh really, not far at all… Listen, is the Butcher still with you? … Good, and he brought his tools? … Oh, good.”
Kemin felt his knees become weak.
“Hey,” the gangster continued, “what’s the weather like over there? …Oh wow.”
The gangster held his hand over the phone and looked at Kemin. “It’s raining cats and dogs over there.”
Kemin had spoken to his wife just an hour ago. He could hear thunder throughout the entire conversation.
“Well, don’t step in any poodles,” the gangster said, then laughed uncontrollably.
Kemin tried to swallow, but came up empty.
“Listen, I have some good news for the Butcher.” The gangster stared at the picture of Kemin’s two children as if it were the Mona Lisa. “Tell him I have some fresh meat for him.”
The gangster held his hand over the phone once again and addressed Kemin. “The Butcher is a pedophile. A real sick bastard, but hey, he knows his way around a carving knife.” He returned to the phone. “Yeah, tell him it’s exactly the cut he likes.” He casually glanced back down at the tablet. “The address is-”
“Wait!” Kemin shouted. He looked over at the FBI agent. “Are you going to allow this?”
The agent said to the gangster, “Any information you acquire now is tainted. It will never hold up in court.”
The gangster continued without hesitation. “It’s three, nine, four-”
“Stop!” Kemin came to his feet. With the reflex of a cat, the gangster pointed the pistol at his chest.
“Sit down, asshole,” the gangster said.
Kemin sat.
“Not you, Gino,” the gangster said into the phone.
Kemin struggled to gain a normal breath. Part of him wished this was all a big game they were playing, but he couldn’t afford to guess wrong.
Kemin looked down. “I’ll tell you what you want.”
The gangster continued his conversation as if he didn’t hear him.
“I said I’d tell you what you want,” Kemin repeated, louder this time.