The men’s room door was less than two meters away.
Haddad knew that the Turk would check back here. It made sense. He immediately flattened against the wall and waited, mentally calculating the time it would take his pursuer to step inside and cross to the back. It had taken Haddad about twenty seconds, and the Turk was moving as quickly, with purpose.
In less than fifteen seconds the Turk stepped into the hallway, apparently expecting his quarry to be in one of the rooms, behind a locked door, perhaps trying to get out through a window.
He wasn’t. Haddad was facing the hallway door.
As the door swung outward Haddad lunged, grabbing the Turk by the collar. Spinning the smaller man around, he shoved him to the left so that he crashed through the men’s room doorway. The Turk’s eyes went wide in the grimy white light as he stumbled back and slammed against a stall door. Haddad pinned him there with a forearm pressed hard across his exposed throat.
“Who are you?” Haddad demanded in Turkish. “Why are you following me?”
The Turk made a sound in his throat but nothing came out. Haddad released the pressure and the man spat at him. Haddad spun him around again and shoved him hard against the door. The Turk couldn’t get out and now no one-including his partner-could come in. With one fluid motion, Haddad pulled a butterfly knife from his back pocket and flicked it open. The two metal pieces that sheathed the double-edged blade rotated around their pivot pins and snapped together, forming the hilt.
He pressed it to the Turk’s Adam’s apple. “Answer me or you’ll bleed out on a dirty bathroom floor. Who are you working for?”
“N-no one,” the Turk sputtered. “I–I wasn’t following you, I only came here to use the-”
Haddad pushed the knife into the soft flesh of the man’s throat. Blood began to trickle around the steel blade.
“You think I’m a fool?” Haddad hissed. “I saw you in Sofia, sitting in the hotel lobby. And on the train before that. How do you think your whore wound up with a plastic bag over her head?”
“I–I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Stop insulting me with lies!”
Haddad withdrew the knife, grabbed him by the collar again, and jerked him onto his knees. The Turk cried in pain as his kneecaps slammed into the bathroom tile. Haddad again put the knife to his throat.
“I won’t ask again,” Haddad said. “Who are you and why are you following me?”
But the Turk said nothing and that was the wrong strategy to employ. Haddad had no qualms about making good on his threat. The only question was how much of his head would still be attached to his body when Haddad was done.
“You’ve made your choice,” Haddad said under his breath. He put a thumb and index finger into the man’s eyes, pressed back so his head was against the door and his throat was exposed, then pressed the blade to flesh.
The Turk stiffened. “Wait! Wait! ”
Haddad stopped. Waited.
The Turk’s voice trembled. “I was telling the truth. I… I don’t work for anyone. I was following you because I want to join you.”
That surprised Haddad. “What are you talking about?”
“I want to join your cause.”
“Why didn’t you say so back in the hotel? Why did you hesitate with a knife to your throat?”
“I wanted to be sure in Sofia. Here, I wanted you to see I had courage.”
Haddad laughed. “And what about the woman in Sofia? Did she want to join me, as well?”
“She was no one. A simple whore. I saw her go to your room so I hired her to follow you from the hotel.”
“More lies,” Haddad said.
“No… no, I’m telling the truth! I know all about the Hand of Allah. I know all about your operation.”
Haddad hesitated. “And what operation would that be?”
The Turk paused a moment, lowering his voice almost reverentially as he suddenly spoke English. “Roadshow.”
Haddad stared at him for a long moment. He had no idea what the Turk was talking about. He had his orders, but he knew of no operation by that name.
But what startled him was that he’d heard the word before. Spoken by Imam Zuabi during a telephone conversation several weeks ago as Haddad had waited outside his doorway. He could remember nothing else about what had been said; it hadn’t seemed important. But that word-now that he’d heard it again-came back to him with clarity. And it troubled him.
Was this something else Zuabi was keeping from him?
He looked at the Turk. “This is nonsense. There is no Operation Roadshow.”
“Why would I lie? You have my life in your hands.”
Haddad pressed the knife against the Turk’s throat again as if to prove that point. “Then where did you hear about it?”
“I… I don’t remember. On the street. People talk…”
“What people?”
“I told you, I don’t remember.”
“And I don’t believe you,” Haddad said. “Tell me now or I swear to Allah-”
Suddenly, the Turk brought his left elbow up hard, digging it into Haddad’s chin. Pain tunneled through Haddad as he stumbled back, loosening his grip on the knife. Before he could recover, the Turk jumped to his feet and shot a hand out, grabbing hold of the bigger man’s wrist, twisting so that the joint was bent with the force of the Turk on one side, the weight of Haddad’s body on the other. It was a basic combat technique, simple and debilitating.
The nerves inside Haddad’s arm caught fire and the knife fell free, clattering on the floor.
The Turk may have been small, but that was an advantage in the confined space. Throwing another elbow, he connected with Haddad’s temple, causing both ears to ring. Then he squirmed around him, kicked Haddad from behind-sending him belly-down on the floor-and made a mistake. Instead of running out the door, the Turk looked for the knife.
It was under Haddad.
Scooping it up and scrambling to his feet, Haddad spun and tackled the Turk by the legs, taking him down just short of the door. Rolling the Turk over, he straddled the man, pinning his arms with his knees as he pressed the knife against the smaller man’s jugular.
“ Why were you following me?”
“Die in hell!” the Turk spat, struggling beneath him.
Haddad smacked him across the face. “You first! Tell me who you work for!”
Suddenly, to Haddad’s surprise, the Turk stopped fighting. There was a quiet rage in his eyes and Haddad knew he would get nothing from him.
Nothing at all.
The Turk said softly, “May Allah condemn you for what you are about to-”
Haddad didn’t let him finish the sentence.
He uttered a prayer as he thrust the knife into the man’s throat, dragging it deeply along the jawline.
10
San Francisco, California
“So what is this, Jack? Some kind of black thing?”
Maxine no longer had stitches in the side of her face, but the mark they’d left behind still looked raw and painful. She was driving at a fairly good clip, headed south on Van Ness, Jack in the passenger seat.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“You think because I look like everyone else in the hood, I’ve got the key to the kingdom?”
Jack could tell by the tone of her voice that she was only half serious, but now that she’d put it out there he had to respond.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but you did grow up in the Dale, right?”
Max stopped at a red light. “Fourteen years of hell before my mom got a job that paid her enough money to move us out of that dung heap.”
“So what’s the problem? This is more about knowing the territory than anything else. Although you have to admit this Jamal kid is more likely to talk to you than me.”
She gestured to the side of her face. “You almost got me killed once. Isn’t that enough?”