Just as he was shaking it now.
If a man on the run from the fundamentalist world could hide in plain sight in the Hamptons, why not the most feared terrorist in the country?
Someone answered the phone on the other end: “East Ender Realty.”
“Rose?”
“You got her. Who’s calling?”
“It’s Justin Westwood, Rose.”
“Funny, I was just talking about you. Do you remember my friend Lisa? She was asking about you. I think she’s a little bit interested in you, if you know what I mean. I told her I hadn’t seen you around. I even asked Leona, I bumped into her on the street, and she said you’d been out of town. Some kind of family emergency. .”
“I need some information, Rose. This is official business and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it quiet.”
“Uh-huh. . sure. . I didn’t realize. . I mean. .”
“I have a name and I need to find out if he owns or rents a house in the Hamptons. Can you find someone if I give you a name?”
“That’s a big can-do. Give me fifteen minutes, I can find anyone you want, tell you how much square footage he’s got, and how much less than the asking price you can buy his house for.”
“All I need’s an address,” Justin said. “For someone named Mishari al Rahman.”
“Gazillionaire Arab, right? I’ll call Claudia over at Hamptonian Realty. They seem to handle most of the Arabs. Don’t know where they got the connection, but it’s a mighty profitable one, lemme tell you.”
“It’s kind of important, Rose. Can you make the call now?”
“You know it’s Christmas Eve, right? People are gonna be takin’ off pretty soon.”
“Then you should probably call before they leave. And Claudia has to keep this confidential. If she mentions this to her client, I’ll make sure she spends the next few Christmases in jail.”
“Jesus. You in the market? Is this about you wanting to buy? ’Cause if there’s a sale in it, the holiday goes right out the window-”
“It’s police business, Rose. Important police business. Call me back as soon as you’ve got something.”
“Right. Call you back in a nanosecond.”
His phone rang in under three minutes. Rose’s harsh, nasal voice pierced the receiver. “Lucky bastard’s got a house on Gin Lane in Southampton. You know, it’s too bad my family wasn’t in the oil business. I’d like a house on Gin Lane myself.”
“You have an address?”
She gave it to him. “You’ll see a big house, well, hell, they’re all huge over there, aren’t they? But the guy you’re lookin’ for, Mr. A-rab, his joint’s next to the house with the golf hole on the side. The par three that leads down to the water. To the left of that, that’s your guy.”
“Can you call Claudia and tell her to stay put for a little bit? I need one more thing from her.”
“Sure. But how long? She does have a family, you know. Well, not exactly a family. But a boyfriend and he’s-”
“Tell her to wait for me for half an hour, okay? No longer than that.”
“Okay. I’m sure she’ll do that.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just let me know when you’re looking to upgrade, okay?”
“You got it,” Justin said.
He looked at his watch. Almost time to get moving, he thought. But he still had a few minutes. He made the call he’d been wanting to make all day.
“You have Christmas plans?” he asked Reggie when she answered the phone. He was a little stunned to realize how glad he was to hear her voice.
“I was going to drink a six-pack and watch It’s a Wonderful Life. Got something better in mind?”
“I might.”
“That as specific as you gonna be, Jay?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Okay. Sounds good to me.” She laughed. “So much for playing hard to get, I guess.”
“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
“What about tonight? We might as well go all the way and do Christmas Eve as long as we’re doing it.”
He looked at his watch. “How unhard to get are you gonna play?”
“About as unhard as it gets.”
“Then I’ll try to call you later, okay?”
“Whenever, Jay. I’ll be here.”
He was happy when he hung up the phone. He didn’t know how long it would last but he was happy. He had to admit it probably wouldn’t last very long.
It was time to head into the city.
Justin started out the door, turned back, went to his desk and pulled out his Glock. He thought about Wanda’s warning. He’d leave it in the car when he parked in the city, lock it away in the glove compartment. But she’d said to stay armed as soon as the meeting was over. Wanda wasn’t an alarmist. No need to be a fool about this.
He went out to his car, stuck the gun in the glove box.
He realized he was hungry, figured that a high-and-mighty government official wouldn’t plan on serving him dinner at 7 P.M. in his hotel suite, he’d be lucky to get a glass of water, so after he’d gotten what he needed from Claudia the Realtor, Justin stopped at the Burger King on Montauk Highway. As he drove toward Manhattan, he munched on a cheeseburger that tasted like cardboard and some chicken fingers that weren’t bad if heavily dipped in the honey mustard sauce. He poured two full shots of bourbon into his large BK Coke, somewhere around Exit 52 he checked his glove compartment, just to make absolutely sure the gun was still tucked inside, and then he drove straight and fast along the LIE. He only stopped wondering whether anyone would possibly believe what he was about to reveal when he popped in a Bob Dylan CD, Oh Mercy, and turned it up full blast to play the song “Everything Is Broken.”
It seemed like the right sentiment, so he played it five times in a row, as loud as he could, until he drove through the Midtown Tunnel, turned uptown on Park Avenue, and found himself in front of the Waldorf.
Stepping out of the car and taking a ticket from the guy at valet parking, he hoped Dylan was wrong.
Most things are broken, he thought, sure. Absolutely.
But please, he hoped, not everything.
34
Ted Ackland, the assistant attorney general of the United States, sat on the coarse, tweedish couch in the living room of his hotel suite sipping from a highball-sized glass of scotch and water. He was impeccably dressed, from the crisp starched collar of his white dress shirt to his perfectly tailored black wool Armani suit, to his black dress socks that didn’t have a millimeter of sag to them, and his black, highly polished Cesare Paciotti shoes. He crossed his legs, lifted his eyebrows in approval of the scotch, and motioned for Justin Westwood to sit down.
“Merry Christmas,” he said. “I apologize for the security you had to pass through. You wanted to see me alone, that’s what it takes in this day and age.” He raised his glass in Justin’s direction. “To crazy times.”
Justin sat. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“My wife wasn’t too damn happy. She’s wrapping our kids’ presents by herself. And having a candlelit dinner for one.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Agent Chinkle is someone everyone respects tremendously. For her to call and say that I should see you, and say that it’s urgent, well. . I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t respond to something like that. No matter what day it is.”
There was something ingratiating about the man. He drew you in with his warmth and his passion. Justin almost felt sorry for him. Ackland’s life must already be somewhat nightmarish. What Justin was about to tell him wasn’t going to ease his burden. “You look tired, sir.”
Ackland’s lips formed a distracted smile. “Well, my department’s been a little busy lately. Perhaps you’ve noticed.”
“Busier than I think even you’ve noticed,” Justin said.
The smile faded from Ackland’s face. “Are we getting to your business now, Mr. Westwood?”