“We did, yes.” I clamped the receiver between my shoulder and ear and began straightening the stuff on the desk. I needed to be doing something.
“In towns and villages and mud huts all over the country, Marines are rolling in through the front door and terrorists are running out the back.”
“Is this at all relevant to the case?”
“They’re leaving all their shit behind, like bomb-building instructions and maps and computers and memos and all the internal papers and documents and other crap that goes with running an organization, be it an airline or a terrorist ring.”
“Memos from Osama?”
“Right, right. Expense reports. Performance reviews. Anyhow, there’s this bumfuck little village south of Kabul called Zormat. In Zormat is a house. In the house is a closet. In the back of the closet is a big black Hefty bag.”
“If you say so.” When the surface of the desk was straightened, I started in on the drawers. I collected a bunch of loose binder clips and put them back in their box.
“Inside this bag are empty wallets, family photos, business cards, a few passports. Nothing of value but things that might mean something to the people who lost them, especially…are you listening to me?”
“I’m listening.” And trying to refill the stapler. Those replacement strips of staples are hard to handle without breaking them apart.
“Especially if they lost them in a hijacking.”
“Uh-huh.” I stopped. What? Wait. “What are you saying? Are you saying-” I switched the receiver into my other hand. “You’re saying there’s a bag in a closet in Afghanistan filled with the personal belongings of the people on Salanna 809?”
“A black Hefty bag.”
“From four years ago? You cannot be serious.”
“Serious as a fucking heart attack.”
“How did it get there?”
“Those shitheads who did the hijacking…what the fuck were they…” I heard papers shuffling on his end. “Jihads R Us or Jihad Express or-”
“Armed Islamic Martyrs Brigade.”
“Those guys, yeah. The ones who took over the aircraft, this was their safe house or headquarters or something like that.”
“How did it get there? The hijackers were all killed.”
“The ones on the plane. But I told you this thing was fucked up, didn’t I? It was a circus. People on, off, on, off. That’s how they got their guns, by the way. Those fucking Sudanese let someone onboard who was carrying Kalashnikovs. Stupid motherfuckers. Anyway, one of them must have gotten off somewhere along the way, brought the bag back with him, threw it into a closet, and forgot it was there. You do that, don’t you? Put shit away and forget about it?”
“Well, yes, but I’m not an international terrorist.” I closed the drawer. Enough cleaning. “Why would they keep incriminating evidence around?”
“I don’t think the Taliban gave a flying fuck what these guys had in their closet. Can you imagine the eBay potential for that stuff? Someone is going to make a lot of coin.”
I got up and walked to the bookcase, which had been my next planned stop on the cleaning-and-straightening tour. “This has to be it.”
“What has to be what?”
“The reason all this is happening now. The whole thing with Fratello. Susan said the feds showed her Roger’s wallet.” I started to feel the tingle of a few things finally coming together. “It must have come out of the Hefty bag, and whatever else they found must have led them to that safety deposit box and the money.”
“Shanahan?”
“What?”
“I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”
“I know. Sorry.” I couldn’t remember who knew what. The only thing I had told Dan was that Harvey had disappeared. “Roger Fratello is an embezzler. He stole a bunch of money and fled the country around the same time as Salanna 809. I think he was on that plane traveling as Gilbert Bernays.”
“Wait, I’ve got a copy of the manifest. Hold on.”
“You have a copy of the Salanna 809 passenger manifest? How did you get that?”
“Majestic used to handle Salanna down at JFK. I know this flight attendant who used to be married to a ramp supervisor down there, and he knew a guy who knew a guy, and I don’t know. I just did it. Bernays, you said?”
“Gilbert Bernays.”
“Yeah, hold on.” I heard pages turning. Whereas Felix’s thinking music was a low, steady hum, Dan’s was more like a fast rattle, something like “tsetsetsetse,” as in tsetse fly. “He was in seat 4B. Boarded in Brussels, on his way to Johannesburg.”
“Supposedly, he was one of the ones who survived.”
“Do you want to talk to him?”
“Why? Do you know where he is?”
“I know where he might be for the next few days. Believe it or not, these Salanna 809 people have reunions.”
“The hostages have reunions?”
“I shit you not, and they’re former hostages. Lucky for you, they’re having one this week.”
“This week? That’s a pretty strange coincidence, don’t you think?”
“No. It was scheduled for later in the year, but they moved it up because of a State Department request. State wants to meet with the survivors to give back their stuff. It’s happening because of Zormat.”
Wasn’t everything? One way or another, everything was happening because of Zormat and what was found there. Nothing, I was finding, was coincidence. Coincidence, in fact, was to be regarded with deep suspicion.
“Where is this reunion?”
“Paris. Do you want to go? I can get you in.”
“Is it a private affair?”
“It’s very private. They don’t let anybody in.”
I would have asked how he could do that, but the answer was always the same. He knew a guy who knew a guy. “How long is this thing going on?”
“Tomorrow and the next day until noon.”
I went back behind the desk and sat down. It had been a rough day, and no matter how good the lead, a trip to Paris in the next twenty-four hours felt overwhelming. Besides, the more I thought about it, the less reason I could find to go there. Harvey was safe, I didn’t know what Rachel was up to, and as long as I could protect Harvey from her, I didn’t care. Roger Fratello was the FBI’s problem. I couldn’t afford a walk-up fare to Paris, anyway. That had to be at least a couple grand. But Dan had done a lot of good work for me, as he always did when I asked. I didn’t want to just dismiss the idea.
“Let me call you back after I figure out what’s going on. Harvey has more to tell me, and I’m still waiting for Bo.” I started to end the call but had one more thought. “But if I have to go, you have to give me a break on the fare.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
I would have said thanks and good job, but he’d hung up on me. It was so much fun to push his buttons. I was just about to dial Felix when Bo walked in. I took one look at his face and hung up. Felix would have to wait.
11
WHEN BO LOWERED HIMSELF ONTO THE FURNITURE, IT seemed to sigh. That’s what the couch did when he settled his bulk on it. “We have to talk.”
“Let me just check on Harvey. I left him in the shower.”
“It’s important.”
“I can see that. I’ll be right back.” Harvey’s room was dark when I got there. He had already managed to get himself into his pajamas and then into his bed. The light that fell across his face illuminated the fact that he had combed his hair and shaved. It appeared that he had also taken his meds. The bottles were arranged next to his nightstand, the milk was gone, and he was sleeping soundly, unbothered by his own loud snoring. I closed the door, leaving it open just a crack in case he needed something.
Bo started the meeting the second I walked into the office. “They were marked.”
“Marked?” I sat in the wingback across from him. “Those guys at the house?”
“Yes.”
I thought about how he and Timon had checked the bodies with both curiosity and concern. “The tattoos?”