Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(66)

Hercule leaned forward, said quietly, “You were wrong, Imam, about Nasim. Your assurances and blind faith in your plan for him brought us failure in New York. And for what? To protect a stream of money coming to the mosque and to you.” There, it was said, and it sat squarely between them now. He watched the imam stiffen, imagined his thick white hair beneath its brilliantly white burnoose stiffening with him. Was he insulted? Afraid? Perhaps both. Hercule’s voice had been like chipped ice.

Hercule took another bite of his chocolate croissant, being careful the chocolate didn’t ooze out, and waited. The imam never believed it possible he could be wrong, and that’s what made him dangerous. How would he deal with his most obvious blunder?

“Nasim brought us failure only at JFK,” the imam said finally, his voice calm, as if they were discussing the light rain outside. He shrugged. “Nasim did no lasting damage. He knew nothing except his small part.” He flipped his hand over, palm up. “He gave them nothing at all, so they continue to have no proof of anything.”

The imam smiled then, crossed his arms over his white-robed chest. “If Nasim was my mistake, then you, Hercule, are responsible for our failure at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. The end result of your plan in New York was a few broken windows on Fifth Avenue and the dead senator’s hearse destroyed when the bomb exploded. Ah, but all the mourners inside the cathedral, and the cathedral itself, they were unharmed.

“Instead of blaming yourself or me, Hercule, for what has failed, let us enjoy what we’ve accomplished and move on to the next great task before us.”

The old fossil had not only attacked him, he was giving him a sermon. Hercule realized the imam saw clearly he had managed to surprise him, and he was enjoying himself. Hercule said slowly, “You said yourself the boy finding the bomb, the priest hurling it away from the cathedral, was bad luck, that no one was to blame.”

“There you have it. So was Nasim—simple bad luck. Who could have guessed that an FBI agent would be there in the security line? We both knew Nasim was not a trained fighter, and so it was possible for that woman with her sinful red hair to defeat him.” Hercule saw his hand was now a fist on the table when he spoke of her, the veins riding high and thick beneath his flesh.

And that was why Hercule still admired the imam. He could turn on a dime, as the Americans said. It was well done. “Yes, and I saw the FBI press conference after they killed our men in Connecticut. The woman spoke directly to me, taunted me. On the flight I had time to plan. Everything is in place to rid us of her. She will become dust and bone for what she did.”

“It is dangerous to play the hero in a holy way,” the imam said, taking another sip of his cappuccino. “But why do you waste time killing this woman now when you have so many more pressing matters to settle? Sabeen Conklin has come to see me often since her son and his family disappeared. MI5 made accusations about me to her, and she had the gall to question me about whether I had anything to do with it. I had no choice but to lie to her, and assure her I was equally concerned and would look into it myself.” He pictured Sabeen Conklin, a vain, rich, middle-aged woman, but still a true believer, despite all her Western extravagance. He’d been slowly turning her back to him again, comforting her daily in her time of grief. Until the Conklins were freed. “What will happen now after her accursed daughter-in-law and grandchildren contact her? Marie Claire will poison her against us, and she will sell the business, just as her husband was doing.”

Hercule took another sip of his Earl Grey tea, squeezed in more lemon. “Unfortunately, Imam, that is right, we will have to turn to other resources. The FBI has taken control of Marie Claire Conklin. They would not be so unwise to let her show herself, so there is little we can do. You should treat Sabeen Conklin as you always have and stop wishing for the impossible. Marie Claire now has all the control of all the money, not she.

“The bottom line here is that Bella will bring in more than Sabeen Conklin ever funneled illegally through her husband’s business to you. What you need to do, Imam, is to eliminate all your records of her donations, and where that money went. Very soon now you can expect a visit from MI5, and this time they will have a warrant.”

The imam said, “I do not understand why MI5 hasn’t already come around to accuse me of all manner of mayhem in New York, but they have not.”

Hercule was surprised, too, because it was not what he would have expected of them. And that worried him even more. “When they come, simply continue to tell them you know nothing of this. Destroy all files they shouldn’t see. They cannot touch you without them.”

The imam laughed. “They are fools. I have no fear of them.”

The imam didn’t understand his own enemies. Hercule wondered if his ignorance, his trust in the old barbaric ways, would be the end of him. He looked around the tearoom once again. “This is the last time we will meet. It will soon be too dangerous.”

The imam nodded. “There is no need to take undue risks.” He arched a thick white brow. “Is our next . . . effort to proceed? Has the Englishwoman given you what you need?”

“Yes. I am meeting her to confirm at lunch tomorrow.” The imam hadn’t called her his lover, though she was. She was also very good at it, for an earl’s daughter. Possibly because she had to pawn the gifts he gave her to keep her wastrel brother from living in a ditch because her family had finally cut him off. It was to her advantage to keep him pleased.