Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(79)
“I’ve already been in Dalco’s sights, in McCutty’s woods with you. We’re in this together, Savich.” He gave Savich a wide grin. “Hey, danger is my business.”
Savich grinned back, but his voice remained serious. “Yes, but there’s physical danger we risk every day, but then there’s this. What did Anna have to say about the ambush on Saturday?”
“I haven’t talked to her about it. I didn’t want to frighten her, didn’t want to have to try to explain the inexplicable. She’d believe me, but it would scare her and I don’t want to do that. Maybe after we’re married and she knows me better—we’ll see. Right now, though, I don’t want her involved.”
Savich didn’t understood that, but it was Griffin’s decision. Anna was a DEA agent who could kick the crap out of a drug or gun dealer and whistle as she slapped on the cuffs. Savich thought she could deal with anything. She and Griffin had met when she was undercover in Maestro, Virginia, a couple months before, and had fallen for each other, a surprise to both of them.
“I ask because Sherlock woke me up when Dalco attacked me. She heard me moaning, thrashing around. I don’t know what would have happened if she wasn’t there.”
“Anna’s also a heavy sleeper. She’d be dead to the world even if I was lying there panting like a dog.” His face split into a big grin. “But she claims her dreams are light and sweet since she met me—” Griffin broke off, embarrassed. “Well, it wouldn’t be easy, telling her about a case like this.”
“For what it’s worth, my advice is to tell her, Griffin. She might have some good ideas, like Sherlock. Use her.”
Savich could tell Griffin wasn’t going to say a word to her. Nothing more he could say. “You in?”
“Oh, yes, I’m in. You know what, though? I’ll bet none of those agents out there have the slightest idea what we’re talking about in here.” He paused, looked straight at Savich. “Or maybe they could guess.”
Savich shook his head, rose. “Let’s do it.”
WYVERLY PLACE
LONDON
Monday afternoon
Hercule stood in the center of his penthouse flat on Wyverly Place, sipping his favorite Golden Slope chardonnay, staring at the television as the BBC reported the incident the night before in Brooklyn, New York, a video of the raging fire in the background. The same FBI agent who’d saved JFK had shot one of the attackers, and that was headline news across the world. The BBC’s report was, naturally, very different from Al Jazeera’s. It was from an informant at the news desk at Al Jazeera that the imam had gotten the call telling him of what had happened in Brooklyn, minutes before the news broke in the media. It was the imam who’d called Hercule on his burner. The old man was upset, but Hercule had also heard the trace of a gloat in his voice when he told him that his own handpicked killers had failed.
What had happened? His contact in New York, Salila, was a man who owed Hercule his very life. Salila had provided the incendiary device and the automatic weapons. He’d sent over some of his best people. Mohammad Hosni, not as fast with a knife as he’d once been, perhaps, but still a seasoned warrior, competent with an automatic, and a leader. Mifsud Shadid, his protégé, too young to entrust with the planning, but eager, and ruthless as a viper. And little Kenza, Hercule’s own prize, only seventeen. He’d seen her fight when she was fourteen, seen how she simply didn’t give up even when she fell to her knees, her face turning blue because she couldn’t breathe. Yet she’d kicked out with her foot and knocked her opponent to the ground, then leapt on him. He’d instructed the imam to give her over to his best trainer. With his guidance, she’d been fashioned into a guided missile, his guided missile.
Another big reason he’d selected the three was because none of them were on the watch lists, and they’d sailed through customs and security as he’d known they would, as British Muslims, an older man shepherding his two young friends. He didn’t know who had been killed, who was being held in FBI custody at Federal Plaza. The woman, his Kenza, was said to be severely wounded and under guard at a New York hospital. No casualties were reported among the FBI: not their target, Sherlock, none of them. How should he have planned differently to change the outcome? In hindsight, he could answer that easily enough. The FBI had set a trap, and that meant he’d acted too quickly. He should have given the FBI time to grow confident and lax.
It was now in the past, over with. He’d lost that battle, but he would win the war. He always did.
At least he knew none of the three would talk with the FBI. Kenza would spit on anyone who asked her questions. He trusted them all implicitly, another reason he’d chosen them. But would Kenza live? He had no way to know, and none of his informants knew a thing. The FBI had put an immediate lid on her whereabouts. Not that it mattered how soon he found out. Still, it was disconcerting to him to feel helpless. Hercule hated it. Who was dead, Mifsud Shadid or Mohammad Hosni?
He put it aside when his mobile buzzed. He’d been waiting for the call, from his man Bahar, who was to check in with him well before he entered St. Paul’s. Hercule heard the London traffic in the background as he listened. It was understood they would always speak in English because Arabic coming out of a man’s mouth tended to make Westerners pay attention. You could be holding a bomb in your hand, but if you spoke the Queen’s English, Londoners would give you a smile and a nod. But today Bahar wouldn’t be anything like himself. Hercule had planned out his appearance to the last detail, known exactly how he should dress for his role. It would be risky because they’d have increased security at St. Paul’s since the bombing at St. Patrick’s. But if he could get Bahar through the door as a plausible wedding guest, it wouldn’t make any difference. No one knew who Bahar was, and even if they did, they wouldn’t recognize him dressed as he was today.