Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(12)

“I had one other responsibility besides texting Ahmed every day at noon,” said Al-Kazaz. “He gave me your name and your address. If he were to die, I was immediately supposed to come see you.”

“Why?” I asked.

He reached into his pocket. “To give you this,” he said.





CHAPTER 14


“WHAT IS that?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Al-Kazaz, holding up the envelope. “I don’t think I’m ever supposed to know. But you are.”

He leaned over the coffee table, handing it to me. It was your typical number 10 white envelope. No writing on either side. Sealed.

“How long did you say you’ve been holding on to this?” I asked.

“A total of three years, although Ahmed asked for it back a few times. I figured it was to make some changes. Updates, perhaps. He’d always return a new envelope to me within a day or two.”

“Do you remember the last time Ahmed asked for it back?”

Al-Kazaz thought for a second. “Maybe six weeks ago?”

“And he never told you what was inside?” I asked. “Not even a hint?”

“No, nothing,” he said. “I was curious, of course, but there was also a part of me that wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Do you know what I mean?”

“Sure, I understand,” I said. “You’re an attorney. What you don’t know can’t be used against you, right?”

“Something like that.”

“Ahmed obviously trusted you, though. You were good friends?”

“Actually, no,” said Al-Kazaz. “We weren’t friends at all.”

“I suppose that makes sense. A friend might ask too many questions. Besides, sometimes it’s easier to trust a stranger.”

“You might be right.”

“Still, it’s not like you two didn’t have anything in common,” I said. “Saudis with British accents? I can’t imagine that’s a coincidence.”

“How did you know I was Saudi?”

“I’m assuming based on your last name.”

“Huh,” said Al-Kazaz. He looked impressed. “Most Americans wouldn’t have a clue.”

“Most Americans have never traveled outside the United States,” I said. Something like half, in fact. Accordingly, most don’t know the definition of xenophobia.

“Is that where you first met Ahmed?” he asked. “Overseas?”

“Yes, we were both students in England. Some years ago we made plans to meet up in Saudi Arabia, but they fell through. I think Ahmed had to attend some insurance conference in Geneva,” I said. “What about you? Have you been back there recently?”

“To Saudi Arabia? No, it’s been many years.”

“Of course, who could blame you, right? Your country hasn’t exactly put out the welcome mat for Benjamins, have they?”

He gave me a blank stare.

“Oh, my goodness, do you smell that? Actually, I hope you don’t,” I said suddenly, turning to Annabelle. “I’m sorry, it seems someone is in desperate need of a diaper change.”

Al-Kazaz took his cue. “I’ve already claimed too much of your time as it is,” he said, standing.

I scooped up Annabelle and shook his hand. “It’s horrible we had to meet under these circumstances, but I appreciate your honoring Ahmed’s wishes,” I said. “Thank you for bringing the envelope.”

“You’re welcome.”

I walked him out, watching as he made his way down the hallway to the elevator. Annabelle was watching him, too. I gave her a squeeze and whispered in her ear, “Thanks for taking one for the team, Anna-banana.”

I’d smelled something, all right. But it wasn’t her diaper. It was Al-Kazaz, who was full of crap. If that was even his real name.

Whoever he was, he had delivered a near perfect performance. In fact, he probably would’ve had me were it not for one little mistake.





CHAPTER 15


“NICELY DONE, Needham,” said a fellow agent walking by as Elizabeth stepped off the elevator. Elizabeth didn’t even know his name.

“Thanks,” she said.

She delivered about a dozen more thank-yous en route to Evan Pritchard’s office in the back corner of the JTTF field unit. It was the proverbial morning after and everyone was up to their necks in chasing leads and poring over past intelligence reports, but at some point they had all managed to see the video of Elizabeth saving their boss’s life. They’d also heard she was the first to spot the drones in the second-wave attack.

“Oh, great. There she is, the bane of my existence,” said Pritchard’s assistant, Gwen, sitting behind her desk outside Pritchard’s office. Gwen, pushing sixty, was five foot nothing and ninety-eight pounds of chutzpah and sarcasm. “You had to do it, huh, rookie? You had to save his life so he could continue to make mine miserable?”

There was absolutely nothing to laugh about in the wake of the attacks, but Gwen didn’t give a damn. Her brother had worked for Cantor Fitzgerald and was on the 105th floor of One World Trade Center the morning of 9/11. If poking a little fun helped her fend off having to relive the memory of that day all over again, so be it.