Faisal’s head jerked up, and he blinked in surprise. As his eyes focused on Naif, a flash of fear glimmered, quickly replaced by anger. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“The Wahaddi Brotherhood sends its regards. You, the traitor who besmirches the greatness of Islam with your cowardly peace.”
“You are the traitor,” Faisal said.
Naif raised his pistol and pumped four bullets into the old man’s chest, the sound echoing off the walls in spite of the silencer. Faisal slumped over as though he had once again fallen asleep, and Naif walked up to his chair, put the barrel an inch from his forehead and fired twice more.
Naif picked up his spent cartridges then went quickly through the rest of the house, making sure it was empty. Afterwards, he hurried down the stairs, and leaving the door slightly ajar as he had been instructed, walked outside.
He climbed into the passenger seat of the van, glanced at the driver, and jerked his head, “Go.”
“Successful?” the man asked.
Naif nodded.
“Good,” the man said.
As they pulled away from the curb, Naif put one hand against his ribcage where his heart bucked like a trapped beast. His arteries burned with the rocket fuel of his anger. At that moment, he felt feral, lethal as a Nile crocodile. He dropped his hand to his pocket and fingered the hilt of his combat knife. Once the killing started, it was so easy to keep going.
He took a shuddering breath. The man beside him had no idea. Christian, he wanted to say, only the restraining hand of Abu Sayeed lets you draw breath for one more day.
TWENTY-THREE
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
HAVING SIGNED THE DOCUMENTS, BRENT was too full of anger to think clearly. He yearned to lash out, especially at the larger of the two agents. It took all his self-control not to slug the bastard, and he felt a burst of relief when Betty Dowager showed up at his office door. She offered to accompany the agents over to the custodian bank where they would complete the seizure of Dr. Faisal’s account.
He waited for them to leave then called Simmons. “They just appropriated my client’s account,” he said.
“Apparently they’re working some sort of terrorism case,” she said. “It takes precedence over any financial crimes, so there’s nothing I can do. Just go along with them and don’t blow your cover.”
Brent hung up then looked up the number of the Manhattan FBI office. His hope died completely when the receptionist there transferred him to Darius Stewart’s line and he listened to Stewart’s voice mail announcement. Until that moment he’d harbored a wild hope that Stewart and Anderson were scam artists of some kind.
He slammed the phone into its cradle then marched down to Betty Dowager’s desk and waited for her to return. When she finally did, he told her to get Biddle on the phone.
“What do you think I’ve been trying to do,” she snapped. She dialed again then shook her head, saying his phone was still turned off. She tried to object, but Brent saw Biddle’s number on her computer screen and copied it onto a scrap of paper.
His next stop was Fred Wofford’s assistant, who said that he, too, was out of touch and unreachable. The woman seemed anxious, and he suspected Wofford knew about the FBI’s visit but wanted no part of handling it. Typical Wofford, he thought, as he went back to his office, stared out at the rain, and thought again about the old man he’d met at Biddle’s party and all the money he’d spent for world peace. Records of his gifts were everywhere. Dr. Faisal was no more a terrorist than he was! Complicit bankers—bullshit! The longer he sat, the madder he became.
How was it possible that in the United States of America the Federal Government could seize a person’s property then threaten witnesses with jail if they reported it? To hell with them all—the FBI, Justice Department, and screw his cover. It was patently wrong, and he was equally at fault if he sat back and did nothing. With that, he stormed out of his office and burst through Owen Smythe’s door.
Smythe glanced up and shot him a questioning look. “Is the rumor true?” He studied Brent’s face a few seconds then nodded. “FBI?”
Brent slammed the door then collapsed into a chair. “The sons of bitches!” He proceeded to tell Smythe everything about the FBI’s visit, his attempt to get Biddle, and his conversation with Spencer McDonald.
When he finished Smythe sat forward and put his elbows on the desk. “We just let the FBI take it?” He sounded shocked.
“Eight hundred and twenty million. All cash because we just sold him out of the market. Nice and neat.” Brent scowled and made a signing motion. “Poof, the whole thing just walks out the door with no argument.”
“Sounds like a movie,” Smythe said.
Brent was about to agree when there was a knock on Smythe’s door and Betty Dowager put her head inside. Her glance took in both men, and her expression became severe. “Mr. Biddle is on the phone,” she said in a cold voice, as if she knew he’d already violated the gag order. “The call is coming to your office.”
Brent felt Betty’s eyes burning into his back as he ran next door, but he didn’t care. “Give me the details,” Biddle barked as soon as he picked up the phone.
Brent filled him in on all of it.
“What did Spencer say?”
“To let them take it.”
“Then it was the right thing to do,” Biddle said without hesitation. “I trust his judgment implicitly.”
“I’m glad you do. We’ve let the government walk out with our client’s money without doing a thing.”
“I’m sure Spencer realized that now was not the time to fight.”
“Well, I want to know when it will be.”
“When Spencer tells us. I want you to sit down with him as soon as he’s available and let him review the documents.”
Something in Biddle’s tone troubled him, a sound of finality, as if certain unfavorable conclusions had already been drawn. “I assume we’re going to support our client. Dr. Faisal is no terrorist.”
“The FBI will have to tell us that,” Biddle said.
“Dr. Faisal entrusted us with his money!” Brent said, feeling his temper begin to rise. “He deserves our full backing until the facts are in!”
“We also need to protect the firm,” Biddle said. “We will do what is right, but for now, the first thing is for you to meet with Spencer as soon as possible.”
There was a brief silence. Brent could hear the hissing of their sat-phone connection. “By the way,” Biddle added, “I’m sure there’s a gag order surrounding this, but in any case we don’t need it getting out. You haven’t told anybody, have you?”
“No,” Brent lied.
At exactly three o’clock, Brent stood at the bay window in Genesis Advisors’ first-floor reception room and watched a silver Mercedes S500 pull to the curb. He held his umbrella over his head, rushed out through the rain and opened the passenger side door.
“Brent Lucas?” the man behind the wheel asked. When Brent nodded, he reached out his hand. “Spencer McDonald.”
Brent guessed McDonald was in his late fifties. He had a pale complexion, a swelling stomach, and thinning gray hair that had once been light brown. His blue eyes hid their cleverness behind wire rim glasses, and a ring of soft fat at the neck almost camouflaged the stubbornness of his jaw.
“I hope you intend to fight this,” Brent fumed, “because I certainly do.”
McDonald pulled away from the curb. “I understand how you feel; however, the last thing we need right now is anger and irrationality.”
“I can be pissed off without being irrational,” Brent snapped.
McDonald said nothing as he turned left on Fifth Avenue and followed the flow of traffic downtown. They turned right on Sixty-Fifth and headed across Central Park, then turned south again. Brent assumed they were headed to an office somewhere on the West Side, but then McDonald surprised him by turning into the Lincoln Tunnel. “Where are we going?” he demanded.