Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(41)

My father casually walked over to Elijah. The way the two were still smiling I thought they were going to hug.

Nope.

The very second my father was within range he delivered a roundhouse punch to Elijah’s gut. I mean, hard. I could literally hear the wind getting knocked out of the guy.

“That’s for macing my son,” said my father.

Elijah was now bent over and gasping for air, but I figured not for long. He was bound to retaliate, and I was ready to jump in between the two to make sure he didn’t. Instead, Elijah didn’t do anything. Not in terms of fighting back. He simply waited to catch his breath, straightened out his spine, and gave my father a slight nod as if to say he knew he’d had that coming.

When he proceeded to reach into his blazer, I figured he was finally having that cigarette. Nope again. Out came his money clip.

“Are those Dunlop Elites?” he asked, pointing to the tires on my bike.

“They were,” I said.

Elijah peeled off five one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to me. “That should cover it.”

I took the money. Apparently all debts were settled because, of all things, now my father hugged Elijah, and Elijah hugged him back. What the hell is going on?

There’s always been a weird unspoken code among operatives, no matter which flag they saluted, but this was even beyond weird.

“I take it you guys worked together?” I asked.

“Not really,” said my father.

“Let’s just say we didn’t work against each other,” said Elijah.

That was actually the first thing that sort of made sense in a screwed-up-world kind of way.

“Son, meet the Prophet,” said my father.

And like that, I was shaking the hand of the guy who only minutes earlier had maced me and shot out my tires. I didn’t think twice about it, though. The guy was a legend. Now he was officially real, too. Up until that moment, I’d never been fully convinced he actually existed.

Remember when President George W. Bush was assassinated at the Red Sea Summit in 2003? Of course you don’t. It never happened. It almost did, though. The story goes that the Prophet took out not one but two would-be suicide bombers in Sharm El Sheikh, Egypt. What made that all the more incredible was that the Prophet was known to be a Mossad agent. He saved not only Bush’s life but also the lives of the leaders of Egypt, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and the Palestinians. Give that a moment to sink in. It was a Who’s Who of Israeli antagonists, if not outright enemies, and this guy saved them all in order to save Israel’s strongest ally. And you wonder why we always have their back?

The Prophet saw coming what no one else had. Hence, his nickname in the intelligence community from that day forward.

Clearly, he hadn’t lost his touch. He knew that someone would be staking out Mayor Deacon. If not Elizabeth, then someone who was working with her. I never saw him coming, but at least I thought enough to bring backup. Who knew they would know each other?

Do I call him the Prophet? Mr. Prophet?

“I need your help,” I just said instead.

He nodded. “More than you even know. The Mudir is only getting started. It’s all coming.”

“Another attack?”

“Yes, and another after that. A series of them. And if I’m right, the finale will make everything else look like child’s play.”

I wasn’t sure where to begin. What kind of attacks? When? And how do you know? I wanted everything, every last detail. There wasn’t enough he could tell me.

Until I realized something.

There was actually nothing he could tell me. Not here. Not now. I had to let him know I understood that. This wasn’t checkers. It wasn’t even chess. It was classic game theory. Whatever I gained from him could end up costing him dearly in ways I couldn’t even fathom. Sources. Contacts. Cooperating agents. In short, his current livelihood. Or worse, his life. There was a young man out in Pelham named Gorgin who had already paid with his.

It was the Prophet’s move, and it would have to come on his terms.

“How much time do you need?” I asked.

He looked at me and then my father. “He’s smart like you, Eagle,” he said.

“Even smarter,” said my father.

The Prophet let go with a quick smile, as if maybe he had a son of his own. “You’ll see me again,” he said.

He then turned and walked away, out the alley and toward the back of the Excelsior. I watched, along with my father, as he got into the limo. Immediately, it drove off.

Son of a bitch. The mayor wasn’t even at the hotel. He never was.

The Prophet had set the whole thing up.





CHAPTER 57


I STEERED clear of the question while my father and I waited in the alley for the flatbed to arrive and tow my bike. We kept the conversation light, talking mostly about the happenings at Yale and my teaching. My father had pulled the lever for Republicans far more times than any Democrat in his life, but he could never understand the way some people saw fit to mock the so-called Northeast elites in their supposed ivy-covered towers. “Any of those morons would kill to have their kid go to Harvard or Yale,” he would say. He was right.

Finally, in the elevator up to my apartment, I got around to the question. He knew all along it was coming. “Were you there?” I asked.