Wild Card (Stone Barrington #49)(65)

The second man seemed to inspect the briefcase, then stroked it with one hand, then both his hands moved into position to open the case. The explosion was noiseless, since there was no audio, but the force of the blast was visible. The man in the baseball cap simply disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

They watched as debris began to fall around the bench.

“There’s the arm we saw,” Stone said, as it landed a few yards from the bench.

“Right,” Dino replied. He quickly ran the three other camera views, but it was obvious that the shots from the first camera were the best. Dino set down his phone.

“It’s not every day you see a guy blown to pieces,” Dino said.

“Thank God for that,” Stone replied.

Dino’s phone made the noise again, and he picked it up. “Enhancement coming in,” he said.

Stone stood behind him and watched as the shot from the first camera ran again in the enhanced mode. “Looks like a cashmere topcoat,” he said.

“Yeah, but that’s not going to help us.”

“And a Yankees ball cap.”

“Right again.”

The motion stopped, a square was drawn around the head of the man in the Yankees cap. It was enlarged, then enhanced before their eyes.

“Hey, that’s good!” Dino enthused. “Our facial recognition software ought to be able to do something with that.” He turned off the phone, and Stone sat down.

“He looked sort of Mediterranean,” Stone said.

“So did the guy at Bloomingdale’s.”

“So, a Middle Eastern terrorist shoots two women in Bloomingdale’s and another Middle Eastern guy gets handed a briefcase with a surprise inside,” Dino said.

“The guy at Bloomingdale’s thought he was shooting Elise and Elena,” Stone said, “but he got it wrong, then his cohort goes to accept payment for the job from a guy by the river, only the guy by the river didn’t want to pay. That makes sense.”

“It does,” Dino said. Then his phone rang, and Dino put it on speaker and set it on the coffee table. “Bacchetti.”

“Boss, it’s Lieutenant Perdido, in intelligence tech services,” a voice said.

“What have you got?”

“A connection between the guy at Bloomingdale’s and the one from the bridge. Their passports, though their numbers were not consecutive, were both issued at the American embassy in Paris, and both on the same day.”

“Bingo!” Dino said. “What home addresses were on the passport application?”

“The same address: a New York apartment.”

“Well, get a warrant and get somebody over there,” Dino said. “And send those shots to the D.A.”

“Yes, sir!” The lieutenant hung up.

“I’d call that progress,” Dino said. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Not yet,” Stone said. “All you’ve got are two corpses, one in pieces, and they got their passports from the same forger, probably in Paris. If you can find another guy in the cell, then that will be progress.”

“That was going to be my next move,” Dino said petulantly. “I’m calling the D.A.” He picked up his phone. Someone answered, said the D.A. was unavailable, and took a message. “Probably not before tomorrow,” she said.

Dino hung up in disgust.





51


In his study, Stone and Dino had a good dinner of roast lamb and potatoes au gratin, then Stone’s phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Lance Cabot. I hope you’re well.” Lance was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and he had had dealings with Stone and Dino on many occasions.

“Hello, Lance, and yes, I am.” He covered the mouthpiece. It’s Lance, he mouthed.

“Why don’t you put me on speaker, so Dino can hear me, too?” Lance asked. “It would save me a phone call.”

Stone pressed the button and set the phone on the table. “You’re on speaker, Lance.”

“Good. I wanted you both to know that we’ve received a photograph, apparently of a suspect, shortly before he was blown to pieces. Your people, Dino, asked for our help in facial identification, since our software is, ah, somewhat better than yours.”

“Thanks, Lance, we appreciate the condescension,” Dino said.

“Not at all,” Lance replied, unruffled. “We have identified your man as one Harod Avaya, born in Paris thirty years ago, last known residence, the Gaza Strip. I expect he was the gentleman who received the elegant briefcase over by the East River.”

“Good guess, Lance,” Dino replied.

“Mr. Avaya was a Palestinian activist from his late teens, and not much later, an assassin. About two years ago, he and a colleague, Avin, dropped out of sight and, apparently, took up assassination as a trade, not to say an art, along with a third youth, one Rasheed Khan. Mr. Avaya and Avin Kayam had American passports issued on the same day in Paris, same year. They both listed the same New York City apartment as their residence. Through a further search, we have determined that Mr. Khan may also have received such a passport—under another name, so far unknown—at the same address.”

“It’s being searched as we speak,” Dino said, getting a little of his own back.