"Easy," Jack said. "We call."
Jack used his Tracfone to call information, then he punched in the number.
An accented male voice answered on the third ring. "Center for Islamic Charities."
Jack tried to imitate his accent. "Yes, is Hamad Al-Kabeer there?"
"Who's calling?"
"He does not know me, but he was recommended as someone who would see to it that a charitable donation would find its way into the right hands."
"Who was it who recommended him?"
"I'd rather say so in person, if you understand."
"I understand. You are arriving here?"
"Yes, I will be in your area later today and thought I might stop in to see Mr. Kabeer."
"He'll be here, Mr…?"
"I prefer to introduce myself personally, if you understand."
"I understand."
"Good! Then I shall see you soon."
Jack cut the connection.
"He's there."
"Awright! Time to kick some burnoosed butt!"
5
-15:59
No one had answered the first ring, so Tom pushed Gia's doorbell again.
He was pissed. It had taken that damn stupid cabby all of five minutes to lose the Grand Am. When he'd resigned himself to the fact that he'd never catch up to Jack, Tom had told the cabby to drop him at Eight Sutton Square. The guy had known Sutton Place but had no idea of how to find Sutton Square. So Tom had had to direct him.
Idiot.
Tom wasn't sure why he'd given in to the impulse to come here. Best guess was that he wanted to smooth things over with Gia. He knew she was upset with him—she couldn't be anything else—and that was a weight on him. He had to make her understand.
He caught a flash of movement in the sidelight—Gia peeking to see who it was. She opened the door.
"Hello, Tom," she said, her tone as flat as her expression.
Well, no reason to have expected a big welcome.
"Hi, Gia. Since I was in the area I—"
"Jack's not here."
I know, he thought. That's why I am.
"That's okay. I really wanted to speak to you." He shivered in a gust of cold wind off the river. "Can I come in? Just for a minute?"
She said nothing as she stepped back and held the door open. As soon as it closed behind him, Tom turned and reached for Gia's hands.
She slipped them behind her back.
"What do you want, Tom?"
"I want to apologize for everything that's happened. I had no idea—"
"You did! That's why you went looking for it." Her eyes blazed, her words strained through clenched teeth. "Why couldn't you have left that thing where you found it?"
"If I'd known it would come to this, don't you think I would have?"
"I don't know what you would or wouldn't do!"
"Aw, Gia, you can't believe—"
Tears rimmed her eyes. "Do you have any idea what you've done to our lives? Not just Jack's but to Vicky's and mine?"
This was heading in the wrong direction.
"I know I—"
"You know? You don't have a clue! I told you that Jack is our rock! But some time around eight o'clock tomorrow morning he'll be gone!"
Her features hardened again as she jabbed her index finger against Tom's chest.
"Can you understand that? Our rock will be gone. And all because of you!"
Each poke against his chest was like a knife thrust.
"Gia—"
"I don't think I have anything more to say to you, Tom. I know you didn't mean for this to happen, but in the end it all comes back to you. You're responsible."
"Isn't there something I can do?"
She opened the door.
Tom walked out.
The frigid air on her front step felt balmy compared to the chill in Gia's foyer.
6
-15:35
They made good time to Paterson. When they reached the city limits Jack climbed into the backseat and opened the duffel Joey had brought. He gaped at the two sawed-off Browning 10-gauge pumps and suppressor-fitted 9mm Tokarevs. He ejected a cartridge from the shotgun and checked it: double-ought buck.
"Jeez, Joey! You planning on taking on an army?"
"Ya never know, Jack. I got the silencers figuring maybe we can do our work and get out without raising too much ruckus."
Were Abe here he'd be telling Joey there was no such thing as a silencer, only a suppressor. But Jack didn't correct him.
"The shotguns will sort of put a crimp in that."
"Yeah, well, they're for backup—in case we have to clear the room, y'know?"
Jack knew.
"Since you're right-handed, Joey—"
"How'd you know that?"
Jack had to think about that. He sized up a person's handedness without thinking. It had become instinct.
"I noticed. I'm right-handed too, so why don't we do it this way: I go in with a nine in my right and a shotgun in my left. You go in with a nine in your belt and a Browning at the ready."
Joey shook his head. "Uh-uh. I want the nine out—I don't get the answers I'm looking for real quick, I'm gonna spend a round or two on persuasion."
"Okay. But just stay cool."
Cool… Jack was anything but. He could feel his guts knotting. This headlong rush was not the way he did things. Had he the time—Christ, something like sixteen hours left, maybe less—he'd have spent days working up to this, knowing all the exits, watching the place all day so he'd know exactly how many people he'd find when he went through the door.
If they were stepping into an armed camp or, worse yet, a trap, where the Lilitongue was going to take him might be the least of his worries.
"I'm cool. But I hold the nine, okay?"
Jack repressed a sigh. This was Joey's show. He'd located these guys, set up everything. Jack had to play backup.
"Okay." He hoped he wouldn't regret it. "But remember, even if it gets ugly, I need one of them alive… just one."
"What—? Oh yeah. Your truth serum."
As they waited for the sun to set they cruised the area—with the windows cracked to let out Joey's smoke—and discussed some strategy: who'd go in first, the sequence of events as they wanted them to go down, things they'd say, questions they'd ask.
"Let me do the talking," Joey said. "At least most of it. I got things to say to these shits. I got a lot to say. And hey, I know you run a game now and then, but for me it's in the blood. I come from a family of talkers. We can talk our way into a gal's bed as fast as we can talk our way into a guy's bank account. I can get 'em saying what we need to know."
Jack couldn't argue. He'd done his share of persuading—lots of ways to persuade—but he'd never considered himself much of a talker.
"Okay. But don't go Fidel on me."
"Castro?"
"Yeah. I've heard that his shorter speeches run a couple-three hours."
Joey laughed. "Okay. No Fidel and no Crazy Joey. I'm going the divide-and-conquer route, Jack. In no time at all I'll have them pointing fingers at each other. And then we'll know our next step."
7
-15:21
Shortly after the sun dipped below the horizon, Joey turned onto the block of the Center for Islamic Charities. Jack scanned the twilit sidewalks. Not much happening. Of course, in a largely Muslim neighborhood, not too many would be worried about having fewer than two shopping days till Christmas.
Joey found a parking space near the front of the Center. Jack slipped out of his leather jacket. He pulled his watch cap low and the collar of his coveralls high, hunching his shoulders to hide as much of his face as possible.
"Pop the trunk, will you?"
As Joey complied, Jack stepped out with one of the Tokarevs in his belt and the shotgun under his jacket.