“Wanda,” he said into the receiver.
She was a lot calmer than he expected.
“I’m calling to tell you something, Jay,” Wanda Chinkle said. “We’re not actually as stupid as you might think.”
“Thanks,” Justin said. “That’s very comforting.”
“It’s not meant to be. It’s meant to be a warning.”
“Is this about something in particular?”
“It’s about several things. For one, Warren Grimble has disappeared.”
“Who’s that?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Warren Grimble. Military Intelligence. His specialty is prisoner interrogation. He’s spent a lot of time in Iraq. But he’s intermittently stationed at Gitmo.”
“Huh,” Justin said. “That’s a coincidence.”
“How’d your fingerprint ID turn out?” Wanda asked.
“Not very helpful,” he said. “Kind of a wild goose chase, I guess.”
“Both sets?”
“What?”
“You told me you were running one set of prints.”
“Oh. I just figured I’d sneak in a second set. An old case I’ve been working on.”
“I’m doing you a favor now,” she said. “So listen to what I’m telling you.”
“I’m listening.”
“You can trust me.”
“I know. You’ve told me.”
“Well, it’s important that I tell you again. I want you to remember that specifically. If a time comes when you’re not sure, just remember what I said. Please.”
Justin massaged the area directly over his eyes with his right hand. “Is there some kind of secret message in all this, Wanda? What are you trying to tell me?”
“I’m trying to tell you the only thing I can tell you. You can trust me and anyone who’s with me. Anyone. Okay?”
“Sure,” he said. “Sure. Okay.”
She took a deep breath. “I’ve arranged the meeting we discussed.”
He exhaled a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“Before I give you the details, are you sure you don’t want to tell me what this is about?”
“You’re much better off not knowing.”
“Final answer?”
“Yes, Regis. Final answer.”
“I’d also like you to remember that you said that.”
“Okay. I’ll remember that, too.” He knew he was letting his impatience show through. “Now what do I have to do?”
“He doesn’t want to see you at the Justice Department.”
“So where?”
“New York.”
“The city?”
“The Waldorf Towers. Suite 1603.”
“When?”
“Tonight. Seven o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Jay. .”
“Uh-oh. Sounds like another warning.”
“Just some advice. And I hope you take it seriously. You won’t be allowed in tonight if you’re armed. But once you leave the hotel, make sure you have a gun on you at all times.”
“Sounds like pretty sound advice,” Justin said.
“The best you’re gonna get,” Wanda Chinkle told him.
“Pretty soon, I won’t even be able to count how much I’m gonna owe you.”
“You know me, Jay. I’ll hardly ever mention it.” When there was a silence from his end, she said, “You still there?”
“Still here,” he said. “Sorry. I’m just thinking how well I know you.”
Justin was sitting in front of his new computer, staring at the screen, at the notes and lists he’d entered since he’d returned to East End Harbor.
All he could think about was how everything was a game. People played at life and they got cute and, as a result, some other people died who didn’t have to.
Bruno had returned about an hour earlier, rang the doorbell, and when Justin answered it, Bruno had handed him a piece of paper with a name on it. Justin read the name, said, “Anything you want to tell me about what happened?”
Bruno shook his head, said, “Anything you want to ask me about what happened?”
Justin shook his head back. Bruno said, “Next dinner’s on you,” turned and went back to his car.
Now Justin looked at the name he’d typed into the computer, the name that Bruno Pecozzi had brought back to him from Lieutenant Colonel Warren Grimble. It was the name of the person that Hutchinson Cooke had flown from Guantanamo Bay to the East End airport.
Mudhi al Rahman.
He looked down at the piece of paper that had recently been faxed over from the Riverhead Police Department. The note read:
Next time give us something better than a bunch of fucking jacks. Because we’re so damn good, we got you something anyway. The partials belong to Mudhi al Rahman. Saudi big shot. Good luck. Merry Christmas. And fuck you again about the jacks.
It was confirmed.
Mudhi al Rahman was the man who had played jacks with Hannah Cooke.
He was the man who’d been flown into East End by Hutch Cooke.
Justin was certain he was the man who’d rigged all three bombs and the man who’d made the cell phone calls to set them off.
As soon as he’d gotten the confirmation, he’d gone on the Net, to Google, and typed in “Saudi royal family.” He was sent to a page that said there were 312,000 entries. The first one on the list-“Explore Saudi Family Trees”-looked like it would do just fine, and he was right. It didn’t take him long to scour the unfamiliar-sounding names until he came to Mishari al Rahman, Dandridge’s friend and business partner. He clicked on that. The names of dozens of brothers and sisters and even more children appeared. The tree listed one of Mishari’s sons as Mudhi al Rahman.
Part of the game.
Terry Cooke had known all along.
He remembered the notes he’d typed into the computer after he’d come back from D.C. He’d asked Terry why her husband had flown into East End.
I don’t know, she’d said. I guess bad guys have to live somewhere, don’t they?
He’d asked again.
Things are just so muddy, she had said to him. That’s what Hutch would have told you. Things are muddy.
Hutch Cooke had said, I fell down the tower, to let her know he was in Paris.
She had played the same game.
Everything’s muddy.
Muddy. Mudhi.
Everything was muddy, all right.
Mudhi al Rahman.
Why East End? he’d asked Terry Cooke.
I guess even bad guys have to live somewhere, don’t they? That’s what she’d said.
Some fucking game.
Justin picked up the phone, called information, then dialed the number of the top local Realtor. She had an office on Main Street as well as one in Bridgehampton.
As the phone rang, he remembered when he’d first moved to East End Harbor, seven years ago. He’d had a day off and it was a beautiful morning in July. He’d gone to Gibson Beach in Sagaponack. Lay down on a blanket, maybe twenty feet from a group of mothers and their small children. The beach was crowded but he’d carved out a nice little space for himself, quiet. He’d soaked in the sun, eyes closed, left alone with his thoughts, for a good hour, and then he felt a shadow cross his chest. He opened one eye and squinted up. A man was carrying a folding beach chair, setting it down in the sand just a few feet from Justin. The man smiled at him and Justin smiled politely back. Justin closed his eyes again, drifted back to his thoughts, and that’s when he realized that the man sitting next to him was Salman Rushdie. There was a million-dollar fatwa out against him; the entire Muslim fundamentalist world had sworn to find and kill him. And here he was sunning himself on one of the choicest, most crowded beaches in the world. Rushdie stayed about two hours, nodded and smiled at Justin again when he picked up his beach chair and left. Justin followed him with his eyes until the fugitive writer disappeared into the tarred parking area. He remembered shaking his head in amazement.