“Yet here we stand,” Jack said.
“Because I want you to understand the gravity of the situation in which you’ve found yourself. Trust me, if you continue to pursue this line of inquiry we will consider you a genuine problem and react accordingly. Is that understood?”
Jack stared at the Escalade’s windshield and considered calling Swain’s bluff. But he decided not to push his luck. The man was right about one thing: not here, not now.
“Understood,” Jack said tersely.
Swain smiled again, but there was no humor in it. “Excellent. I’m glad we could come to this agreement.”
Then he turned, went back to the Escalade and climbed in. A moment later, the SUV shot backward, quickly turned around in an empty space, and disappeared up the street.
It was only then that Jack realized he was trembling.
Returning the Remington to its case, he closed the trunk, then climbed back behind the wheel.
Contrary to what he’d told Swain, he had no intention whatsoever of adhering to their so-called agreement. And he knew Swain wouldn’t, either. When the time and environment were right, those men would strike again and Jack could only assume that he’d be the victim of a sudden heart attack or a tragic accident.
Worst of all, he still knew nothing about Operation Roadshow. And with Bob Copeland dead, there was little chance of him learning anything more.
He halfway considered calling the one man who had stuck by him during the Truth Tellers debacle-Senator Harold Wickham-but if Wickham were to start digging like Copeland had, who was to say he wouldn’t wind up suffering the same fate? Jack couldn’t have that on his conscience.
As he started the engine, he pulled his cell phone out and hit speed dial. A moment later, Tony Antiniori answered.
“I was getting worried,” his friend said. “Where the hell are you?”
It was amazing how reassuring it was just to hear Tony’s voice. Part of it was the fact that it was Tony himself, but part of it was having a friend on deck with him during a blow. Someone watching his back.
“I got sidetracked,” Jack told him. “I think it’s time for me to get a little more proactive with this story.”
“What does that mean?”
There was only one way Jack knew to make any leeway here and hopefully get the information he needed.
“I’m going to London,” he announced.
To which Tony replied, “I don’t think so, Jack.”
PART TWO
18
London, England
Ever since his return from the United States, Abdal al-Fida knew he had been living on borrowed time.
His contact in San Francisco had been vague about what might happen to him, and it would be up to the imam to decide whether he was to live or to die for his transgression. Abdal had received this news with trepidation, of course, but his meetings with his imam had given him hope. They had prayed together, and in the light of day he felt optimistic about his fate. He had sworn his undying allegiance to the Hand of Allah and begged for forgiveness, promising that he would never again fall prey to his impatience, and his own self-interest.
But with each night’s darkness came uncertainty. He would lie in his bed with Sara pressed against him, feeling the Newham cold seep in through his bedroom window, and anxiety would burrow into the pit of his stomach, the feeling that he would not be alive much longer.
Abdal would never have survived such torment if it had not been for Sara. She knew exactly who he was and what he believed, and what he was willing to do to further those beliefs. But she had not asked questions when he returned. She had only soothed him when he needed soothing, giving him pleasure while asking little in return. The Koran gave sexual freedom to men, saying, “ Women are your fields: go, then, into your fields whence you please.” He had not known another Muslim woman like her, devout in her beliefs yet willing to love. But there must be others. In the Muslim world, the surgical restoration of virginity was a thriving business.
And if she were a sinner, the sin they shared was so sweet and exhilarating that Abdal could not imagine why Allah would condemn it. Surely they would be forgiven once they married.
Assuming he lived to see that happen.
Abdal had not told Sara about his mistake in America, how he had jeopardized months of planning with his impulsiveness. He couldn’t let her know that he was a failure, a disgrace, even though he was certain she would not think less of him for it. She knew what had been done to his family and she understood his pain. But he could not risk seeing even a hint of disappointment in her eyes-not judgment, but simple regret for his inability to exact vengeance against those who had harmed them.
Abdal felt her warmth in the darkness, her life. He had fallen in love with Sara the instant he saw her and he remembered that moment with great clarity.
It was late afternoon just six months ago, and he was in the tube, headed home after work. The train had pulled into the Charing Cross Station and the doors opened, letting in a rush of commuters. With them came what he could only believe was an apparition-a woman too beautiful to be real.
Yet she was real. And as she timidly pushed her way through the crowd, moving in his direction in search of a place to sit, Abdal jumped to his feet, gesturing for her to take his place.
She had smiled at him then, a smile like a warm breeze, and Abdal had stared at her so long and so hard that she finally looked away in discomfort.
He had cursed himself for making her feel that way. No one should-ever.
Abdal had never been awkward around women, but there was something about this one that both unnerved and fascinated him, and he could not bring himself to speak to her. To apologize for his rudeness.
Still, he wanted to ride past his stop, just to be near her a bit longer, and it had taken all his will to leave that train when he arrived at his station in Newham.
He saw her the next day. And the next. He didn’t know whether it was coincidence or the work of Allah, but they somehow managed to share the same car for nearly a week. On the fifth day, after he had once again surrendered his seat to her, she was the one to speak.
“My name is Sara,” she said softly, once again offering him that warm smile. “Since you’ve been so kind to me, I thought you should know.”
Names had never meant much to Abdal. They were merely labels used to identify people. But Sara’s name was like a song to him. The sound of it, as it was released from those beautiful lips, washed over him as if it were sent from heaven. A message from Allah that there was something special about this woman. Something beyond her beauty.
Sara. Sara Ghadah.
Abdal’s own name caught in his throat as he struggled to respond, but he finally managed to get it out, and what followed was a flood of words he had no memory of. Whatever he said to her, it made her laugh and that could only be good.
For the next several days they sought each other out on the train until Abdal finally found the courage to ask her to dinner. They went as soon as they left the train, and only then did Abdal realize that Sara was just as eager to know him as he was to know her.
They ate at a small cafe near Hyde Park, a meal that lasted much longer than it should have. It was a traditional halal meal, which was more and more common in London, offered by merchants who prized profit over indignation toward the Muslim population. They had lamb with a white bean and risotto mix on the side, finishing with fruit. While the food was mediocre, every bite seemed exquisite because he was sharing it with her.
Afterward, they walked in the park, talking. Abdal told her about his job repairing computers in a small government office, but he didn’t mention the strings that had been pulled to get him that job, nor the parts of his background that had been carefully erased and rewritten.