And so America, the most powerful nation on Earth, had spared no effort, no expense, no technical wizardry or human sacrifice in their obsession to find Bin Laden. Even with his fortune, his international network, the open support of the Taliban, the tacit support of Pakistan, the ambivalent support of the Saudis, even with all of those advantages, he could not hide forever.
Al Din stood now in a different bar feeling a crowd of Americans reacting to a basketball victory in much the same way the crowd in Cleveland had reacted to news of Bin Laden’s death and realized that, if Bin Laden could not hid forever, then neither could he.
With Bin Laden dead, if al Din completed the New Mexico project, the Americans would need a new face of evil. As Tehran’s puppet, its cut-out, as the face at the end of the money trail, al Din would be it. He would be the new Boogeyman, In fact, MOIS would make sure of it, was already making sure of it. That explained the delay in paying him. Tehran would tie the money from the diamonds directly to al Din and al Din directly to Al Qaeda.
Al Din had never considered America to be his enemy, just his target. And he had never considered MOIS or Al Qaeda or Hezbollah to be his friends, just his clients. He had no mission but his own wealth and his own survival. Now it seemed that the best way to preserve both would be to switch sides.
He would make a deal with Munroe. And he would retire in the West, a rich man instead of a hunted one, secure from any threat his betrayal might bring from his current masters, because the Americans, the most powerful nation on Earth, would now be working to ensure his safety instead of his death.
That was his plan, anyway. But it would be a ticklish business. Munroe would value his cooperation. It was clear from the political rhetoric al Din was hearing in the American media that Munroe was using his knowledge of the diamonds and some other angle that al Din did not understand to create a new axis of evil, this one running from the Mexican drug cartels to Bin Laden’s corpse. Al Din could give Munroe a way to add Tehran to that axis. The only question was whether Munroe would prefer that al Din cooperate as an ally or as a corpse.
Corpses were much easier to manage.
In the meantime, he would continue to look for Hardin. He would recover the diamonds, not for Tehran, but for himself.
CHAPTER 66
Corsco slammed the door, his face red.
His home. That cop, that fuck Lynch, had the balls to turn up at his home. Show up with his little Jew in tow; brace him in front of his family. Of course Lynch couldn’t have exactly called Ringwald and set something up, Corsco knew that now.
Corsco didn’t give them shit, of course. Couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Corsco had no clue what was going on. Ringwald? Why? Over what? Sounded like a pro – .22s, close range. Lynch told him that much, probably trying to shake him up, which he had.
One of the other families? But why Ringwald? Why give Corsco that kind of heads up if they were coming after him? Hernandez maybe, over this Hardin shit? But again, why the lawyer? And .22s weren’t Hernandez’s style. He’d have gone in with a chainsaw. This Hardin puke? Did he hear something; figure he could get information out of Ringwald?
Too many fucking questions.
But whatever the hell was going on, he had the cops up his ass like a big-fisted proctologist, which means they’d be digging hard at anything they could get their mitts on. And one of those things was Fenn. Fucking actor, should’ve known he’d have some kind of cocaine immunity.
Type of thing he’d usually have Ringwald set up, but until he got a new shyster on the payroll, he’d have to use what he had. Took out his cell, called Franco. Franco was solid.
“I need you on a plane to Kansas City,” Corsco said. “I want the Eagle on Fenn.”
Franco didn’t say anything for a second, which Corsco understood. The Eagle made people nervous.
“What kind of number can I give?” Franco finally asked. This was no time to be cheap. First of all, there weren’t a lot of hits, not in real life. Hit men were a movie thing. In the mob, mostly they were favors. Sure, you had some guys with the stomach for it, so maybe you used them more than others; maybe they got a little rep. But you didn’t have these shoot-the-balls-off-a-gnat, karate-master ninjas who charged six figures a pop that you saw in the movies.
You just had the Eagle. And the Eagle wasn’t cheap.
“Whatever it takes,” said Corsco. “But this has to be fast, a day, maybe two. Or no deal.”
CHAPTER 67
Munroe slid his keycard into the door to his suite at the Hilton. Had to make some calls, check some e-mails.
As he stepped past the short wall that blocked off the bathroom and the closet from the rest of the suite, he saw Husam al Din sitting in the easy chair by the window, a silenced automatic steady in his lap. When a second passed and al Din hadn’t shot him yet, Munroe exhaled. Must be here to talk. Or at least to talk first.
“If you would please remove your weapon, release the clip and then pull back the slide,” said al Din.
Munroe took out his 9mm, dropped the clip and then jacked the round out of the chamber.
“Drop it in the trash can please,” al Din said. Munroe did.
“And the backup,” al Din said. “Inside of your left ankle, if my memory serves.”
Munroe bent over, pulled out the .32, went through the same routine.
Al Din nodded toward the desk. Munroe saw the extra Beretta that he kept in the nightstand broken down on the blotter.
“My intentions are not hostile,” said al Din, “but I thought our conversation might go more smoothly if you weren’t focused on getting to one of your backup weapons during our conversation.”
“Swell,” said Munroe. “You mind if I take a piss first?”
“Be my guest. But I have also removed the weapon you had taped under the sink.”
Munroe shrugged. “It was worth a shot. Still gotta piss though. At my age, my bladder doesn’t handle having guns pointed at me as well as it used to.”
Al Din gestured toward the bathroom with the pistol. Munroe went to the john, came back, spun the desk chair around to face al Din and took a seat.
“Enjoying Chicago?” Munroe asked. “Tried the pizza? Lots of good Italian joints out near the United Center.”
Al Din smiled. “I wanted to talk about the boogeyman. Isn’t that what Bin Laden used to be? The Boogeyman?”
“Boogeyman?”
“Did I use the term incorrectly?”
Munroe shook his head. “Just caught me by surprise. No, you used it perfectly. Guy’s been dead a while now, though. Why the sudden interest?”
“I’m afraid someone else might be planning on making me your new one,” said al Din.
Munroe snorted. “You’re good, buddy, but you’re getting kind of a big head, aren’t you? You’re not exactly a household name. A boogeyman has to be someone we can shake at the voters when we need to give them a good scare, has to be a known entity. You’re under the radar. And I thought you liked it that way.”
“That may be about to change.”
Munroe paused, considered that information. “So you guys were moving the diamonds for a reason. And you’re still in town, so that reason is local.”
Al Din nodded.
“Anything you care to talk about?”
Al Din shrugged. “I thought first we could discuss the elasticity of loyalties.”
“One of my favorite subjects,” said Munroe. “Getting a little disenchanted with Sandland? Looking for an upgrade?”
“To paraphrase your American saying about baseball, terrorism has been very, very good to me. But I’m not sure that retirement in Waziristan is to my tastes. One of the dangers of operating in the West, I suppose, the seduction of comforts. The women, the food, the liquor.”