“FBI?” the frightened man asked, almost desperately.
“Yes, FBI. Who else?”
The man visibly relaxed. Relaxed! Whatever Ambassador Hamid was afraid of, it was not the FBI or discovery by US law enforcement. On the one hand, Savas was relieved, pleased that his cover was not blown, that he still had a hook in this big fish. He was also disturbed. What would frighten this man so much that arrest, and possible life sentencing by the FBI, seemed a relief in comparison?
“Who, indeed?” said the ambassador, a false and awkward smile forced onto his wide face. Again he glanced around nervously, then checked his watch. “Then we are still good. If you do not disappear again! But we must meet in more protected locations.” Hamid seemed to have finished an internal argument of some kind. “Captain Dimitris, we will have our deal.”
Savas put on his greediest grin, but he was also smiling internally. Swallow the bait whole, Ambassador. Soon the FBI would have a catch of unprecedented visibility, but only after they had exploited Hamid to obtain all the underground contacts this octopus's tentacles reached. Then they would crash on him hard, force more information out of him to save his skin, and toss him in jail until he was too old to remember his lucrative moonlighting. Diplomatic immunity be damned.
The ambassador continued. “We will contact you when we are ready. It will be soon. You will come to a place we designate.” Savas groaned inwardly; the ambassador was introducing complications.
“Of course, Ambassador. But, after Indian Point, business is much more difficult. More expensive. You understand?”
The ambassador hardly frowned. “Yes, of course. This was anticipated.” Savas nearly laughed out loud. How predictable the criminal mind. “What are your terms?”
Savas knew he had to drive a hard bargain to cement his character. “Double, Mr. Ambassador, and a quarter in advance.”
“That's outrageous!”
“So is whatever you want to smuggle in.”
The man nodded. “We will consider it and be in contact.”
Hamid rose, having never ordered a drink, and checked again with the bodyguard by the door. He then walked with his nervous glances back across the bar to the exit. The seated goon followed him out, and Savas could see them through the window standing together, waiting for their driver.
Savas pushed his untouched drink to the side. There was much to consider, much to plan in this setup. He would return to the FBI and talk to Kanter. They would need enormous resources to bring in Hamid. After two years of tedious work, slowly bringing to life the character of Savas's Greek smuggler, luring several interested parties into the net, Savas had hit the jackpot. The monsters needed gremlins to sneak them in, and there were always greedy men like Hamid to serve in those roles. Relying on them was a weakness, a trail back to the hive. Savas intended to exploit it.
A sharp sound tore through his consciousness — a strong slap from outside. He could instantly visualize several possible weapons involved, but his mind lurched away from the details, and he stood up, looking through the window.
The music had stumbled to an awkward halt. People in the bar were screaming and backing away from the window. Like the first stages of a Jackson Pollock commission, red paint seemed to have been flung sharply across the glass, thick, languid drops tracing slow paths toward the sidewalk from a central bull's-eye. Crumbled on the ground against the glass was a figure in a trench coat, three large forms bent in panic over it, screaming into cell phones. The back of the coat had a fist-sized hole blown out of it and, like the window, was stained in bright red.
Savas was dumbfounded. Within seconds, years of work had collapsed along with that form. Important and carefully orchestrated openings into international terrorist organizations had slammed shut. As chaos erupted and patrons scrambled to exit the bar, Savas stood still, staring at the downed shape outside, knowing too well that it would not rise. The shot was perfect, through the heart, the bullet chosen and aimed by a professional.
Ambassador Hamid had been assassinated.
2
Through the window of the bistro, Savas could see an elegant woman in a gray pantsuit step out of a cab. Her highlighted hair shone a rich golden blonde in the May sunlight, and she walked with a quick and confident step across the sidewalk to the restaurant entrance. She spoke politely to the maître d', who directed her toward a table at the back. He watched as she surveyed the establishment — tables well separated, sounds absorbed by the old woods and carpets — approving of his careful choice. They were ensured a private and comfortable conversation. Savas smiled when several heads turned as she made her way to the table where he waited.
“Dr. Wilson, it looks like your medical training has paid off.”
She sat down and looked at him sardonically. “OK, John, and the punch line?”
“Well, I saw at least three men look your way. At forty-eight, you must've developed some serious antiaging formula.”
She smiled curtly. “Requisite flattery: check. Quotation of age: Uncheck. Decent digs for lunch: check. And the check?”
“Check,” nodded Savas.
“I think you owe me dinner for this one.”
“Lorrie, this case is three years, five agents, several hundred thousand dollars…”
“And one dead diplomat.”
Savas frowned. “He was plugged into terrorist networks I'd give my right arm for!”
“He was plugged, alright.”
Savas sighed. “Somebody wanted him out of the way. I don't know if it's a competitor, another government, or what. But he was taken out for a reason. I want to know who and why.”
A waiter came over to the table, and they quickly ordered, resuming their conversation when he was out of earshot. The woman pulled out a manila folder and slid it across the table. Savas put his hand on it.
“This is everything?” he asked.
“Jeez, you're one greedy bastard. My husband is alive because of you, but there have to be limits, John.”
Savas was already flipping through the pages. “How is Mike?” he asked absentmindedly.
“Fine. Look, John, everything you need is there. I've looked over it. They didn't get much from the crime scene. They recovered the bullet — high caliber — damn thing blew right through him. They traced the angle of fire to a rooftop a block away. A long-range shot. The shooter was thorough — not a print, not a shell, not so much as a hair anywhere up there. The diplomatic turbulence on this pushed them to work overtime. Top forensics team. Several people flown in from other crime labs. I wouldn't be surprised if they brought in a board-certified psychic. Nothing.”
“Mmmmm,” said Savas, reading through the file.
“But you are right about something.”
Savas glanced up from the papers. “Yes?”
“Somebody wanted him dead very seriously. The ballistics report is eyebrow raising, if you know much about guns.”
“Go on,” said Savas, irritated at her dramatic pauses. He had forgotten how she liked the stage.
“7.62 by 51 millimeter, 308-caliber hole and bullet.”
“Sniper rounds?”
“Yes, standard issue US Army and civilian law enforcement. With a twist,” she said coyly, sipping from her water, her attractive face angled slightly. Savas just stared at her. “A slight variant on the ammunition. Ballistics had to call in help. Turns out it's a limited production of the cartridges used only in the beginning stages of the Iraq War. Couldn't get much more information on it. Definitely not civilian ammo.”