Wilson shook her head. “He might be the mouthpiece, but this feels a little above his pay grade. That last meeting we had, there were some mysterious DC suits in the room, and all of a sudden we got the DEA and the FBI playing kissy face, coordinated raid to grab you, lots of background on money movement everywhere from Switzerland to Vanuatu. That wasn’t our intel, and I don’t think it was the Feebs’ either. That smelled like Agency.”
“Makes sense,” Hardin said. “If somebody was going to pick up some chatter out of West Africa after I knocked over that load, those would be the guys, them or Mossad.”
“And they’d know who the diamonds belonged to,” said Wilson. “And they know who you are. And they know about Hernandez. So this is their chance to tie all that shit up in one nice, neat package.”
“But without the diamonds, they’ve got no story.”
“And without you, they’ve got no diamonds.”
“And,” Hardin said, “with this BS story already out there, they’re running out of time. I think we just found our lever,” Hardin said.
“Something else to think about, though.”
“What?”
“Who else was shooting back at the condo?” Wilson asked.
“What do you mean?”
“That shit inside?” Wilson said. “Radio said what, two druggies and an old lady dead in the hallway? Who did that?”
Hardin thought for a moment. “Agency maybe? SOG guys?”
“I don’t think so,” Wilson said. “Hickman and whoever is pulling his strings, they were looking to get everything official, had a joint raid task force ready to bust you at Lafitpour’s office. If they’d known you were at my place, they would have had me in a box and they would have had enough shooters in raid jackets running around Downer Grove to invade Iwo Jima. You never would have made it out of the building.”
“Already had the mob after me once,” said Hardin. “Maybe Corsco took another shot, ran into the cartel guys, things went bad?”
“Possible, but Hernandez and Corsco? They have to coordinate shit to run their drug territories, so they’ve got channels, they talk. Seems like they would have talked about this.”
“That leaves Al Qaeda. I did steal their diamonds.”
Wilson’s face went still. “Ah shit. The guy from the briefing.”
“What guy?”
“Quick slide they threw up on the screen, some Al Qaeda hotshot. Husam something. I kinda lost focus there for a second, after they announced they were set to bag you.”
“Al Din?”
“Yeah, Husam al Din.”
Long exhale out of Hardin. “Fuck.”
“You’ve heard of him?”
Hardin nodded. “In the Legion. If the DGSE needed muscle in Africa, my unit was usually it. So I played ball with them a bit. Some after I was out, too. This al Din guy, he’s the best the Al Qaeda types have. If that was him up in your hallway, I’m glad we weren’t there.”
Wilson sighed, sank down in her seat a little, a long look out the window. She talked without turning her head. “So we’re dodging a drug cartel, the mob, the cops, the Feds, and some hot-shot terrorist guy.” Wilson said.
“Don’t forget the mysterious suits,” Hardin answered. “Somebody’s playing the man behind the curtain. Whoever the Great and Terrible Oz is, he may well be our biggest problem. But he’s also probably the guy who might want to buy our lever.” Hardin flicked back on the radio, scanned looking for some music. “We should be back in Chicago in a couple hours.”
“There’s no place like home,” said Wilson. “There’s no place like home.”
“Screwing you, my friend?” Fouche shouting into a phone somewhere across the Atlantic.
Hardin and Wilson were heading west on 90 toward Elgin, big enough town, not one either of them had ties to, close enough to Chicago to operate, far enough out to keep some of the eyes off of them. Hardin put a call in to Fouche to see if he could reopen channels with the other side.
“Screwing you?” Fouche’s voice still raised, but calming down a little. “A day ago, I’m expecting my cut on this deal. Now I’ve got the Russians I roped in making angry Russian noises. And these are the wrong sorts of Russians, those Eastern Promises types, gonna show up in the sauna, cut my schlong off for me. And you wanna know am I screwing you?”
“Sorry, man,” said Hardin. Reaction he needed. He knew Fouche. If Fouche had played it cool, Hardin would know something was up. “But I had to ask, you know? And I’m getting a little short-tempered over here myself. Second time in a couple of days I’ve had somebody trying to kill me.”
“Somebody’s trying to screw you, it’s that fucker Lafitpour,” said Fouche. “Maybe you should pay him a visit.”
“I already know about Lafitpour,” Hardin said. “But he’s fronting for somebody. I need to know who. I want you to get back to him, tell him I know he tried to fuck me over. Tell him I know he’s playing ball with somebody at Langley or thereabouts. Tell him that’s a nice story they’re selling, this drugs and terrorists bullshit. Tell him I got no problem with that, I love a good story. Tell him I get my money and get out, they can tell whatever story they want. But if I don’t, and quick, then I’m gonna start telling my own story.”
Pause on the line, some transatlantic hum filling the void.
“Drugs and terrorists?” Fouche said. “You want to fill me in here?”
Hardin gave him the quick version.
“So you have some leverage,” said Faust.
“Yep,” said Hardin.
“You don’t mind, then, if I look to move that ten million figure a little, bump up both our ends.”
“Don’t mind at all. Oh, and Pierre?”
“Yeah?”
“Since this is supposed to be some cartel-and-terrorist circus now, if they need some coke, you know, to lend a little verisimilitude to the enterprise, let them know I’ve got a kilo of Hernandez’s blow.”
CHAPTER 59
Munroe admired the view across Adams Street from Lafitpour’s office in the Rookery Building. “Burnham designed this place,” Munroe said. “Pretty revolutionary in its time. Metal framing, elevators. One of the first high-rises, the start of the great architectural Renaissance after the Chicago fire.”
“Who’s Burnham?” asked Hickman.
“The man who was quoted as saying ‘Make no small plans, they have no magic to stir men’s blood,’” answered Lafitpour. “Large or small, however, we need plans. Hardin’s Frenchman has been back in contact.”
“Then I guess we’re in the right place,” Munroe said. “What did Fouche want?”
“Recent events have emboldened our fugitives. Between the rather colorful news coverage and the desultory effort being made to pursue them, they have discerned our plans, at least in broad outline. Hardin knows we need him and his diamonds to make it work. Fouche says that Hardin is happy to play along, but he is having some trust issues.”
“I’d be having some myself,” said Munroe. “We can always buy a little trust. Everything has its price.”
“Price was mentioned. They want $25 million now. It seems they also have a kilogram of Hernandez’s cocaine, and they are willing to throw that in.”
“The blow will help,” Munroe said. “Window dressing on the Hernandez side of things. Push back on the number a little. We cave too easy, it’ll smell funny. But settle for whatever you gotta settle for. Just get us a meet. “
“I thought you were tapped out at fifteen,” said Hickman.
“I am,” Lafitpour said.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Munroe. “Comes down to an actual deal, we show up with the $15 million, they’ll take it, trust me. Right now, I just need them somewhere I can get a scope on them.”
“I will get back to Fouche,” said Lafitpour.
Munroe looked at Hickman. Hickman was looking thoughtful.