May 3
Gilligan’s Soho Grand Hotel
310 West Broadway
New York City
6:51 A.M. EDT
The package arrived shortly before 7 a.m., delivered by a man dressed in an untucked Polo shirt and jeans, middle-aged and short and slightly balding. He looked annoyed, perhaps at being called into service early on a weekend morning, but more possibly because of the hotel security man accompanying him, watching with eagle-eyed, if impassive, scrutiny.
The messenger said nothing, merely handing over the bulky envelope and a clipboarded delivery receipt. Denny took the first, scrawled illegibly on the second.
“Sorry, Mr. Littrell,” Hotel Security apologized, deadpan. “He insisted that it was hand-delivery, addressee-only. Wouldn’t leave it at the front desk.” He wore a summer-weight blazer over khakis and glanced with chilly disdain at the more informal attire of his fellow traveler.
“S’alright,” Denny muttered, already examining the envelope and feeling its heft.
“We apologize for disturbing you,” Hotel Security repeated as Denny closed the door on them both.
He studied the package from several angles, felt gingerly for any patterns that might indicate tape-wires or batteries. As a rule, Denny was not excessively paranoid; still, years as a news correspondent in various conflict zones had left their mark.
Especially when you start messing with spooks who know you have a story they do not particularly want told, Denny reminded himself.
On one Middle East visit, Denny had filed a decidedly memorable report on a Lebanese politician who had not known that plastic explosives can be molded to appear suitably paperlike. The newfound knowledge had been as short-lived as had the politician himself.
For caution’s sake, Denny used his penknife, making a two-inch slit along the envelope’s side-crease. A tentative lift with the tip of the knife revealed actual paper inside. Sufficiently satisfied—but still eschewing the sealed flap; one could never be certain with bomb triggers—he carefully tore the envelope wide enough to remove its contents.
Carson had promised the “Reader’s Digest version” would be sent to the hotel room. There were perhaps half a hundred pages; if this was the abbreviated content, Denny told himself wistfully, the full file would fill a computer disk or more.
On the top of the clipped sheets was a photograph: a man sitting in what appeared to be a café in what looked like an Arab sook.
“Where did you get that?”
Tavah—bare legged, hair askew, don only in one of the plush terrycloth hotel robes that had hung in the suite’s bathroom—was glaring at the picture in Denny’s hand. With no change in either her expression or its intensity, she shifted both to Denny’s face.
Huh. Could be she’s simply not a morning person, Denny told himself. But I’m guessing there’s something my little Shin Bet baby hasn’t been telling me.
“Guy look familiar, does he?” he asked pleasantly. “Hey—come to think of it, you’re both from the same stomping grounds over there. You recognize him, do you?”
“Did Jeffrey give that to you?” Her tone was accusatory.
Ah-ha, Denny thought.
But what he said aloud was different.
“A good newsie never reveals his sources, sweetie. At least, in this country.” He chuckled. “I understand if that’s a tough concept for you guys to grasp, but it’s been good for us.”
“Damn him! He knows that disclosure of his presence will drive Ahmad underground, I told him we cannot risk—” Tavah laser-eyed at her temporary roommate. “You intend to use this? To broadcast his name, his face?”
“It’s kind of what I do for a living, dear.”
“Is this part of his BOLO, this ‘be on the lookout’ nonsense?” Tavah demanded. “Who else has this information?”
“In the news business, you mean? I’ve been assured that I am the honored ‘one,’ singular. I believe it, too. Friends are friends; sort of a ‘one hand washes the other’ thing. Isn’t that what friends are for?”
“If we are to be friends, Denny, you must not use this.”
“I value our relationship—believe me, more than I can say. At least, in mixed company. But things have gone a bit too far not to use it, honey. The guy who turned D.C. into a radioactive waste site, here in the good ol’ USA? Let’s see if having his face on a few million TV sets helps get him caught, eh?”
“He will slip again into the shadows. You will have your important television program, but we will not have Ahmad Abu Khaled.”
“Do you think that if I don’t run it, they won’t give it to somebody else?”
Denny told himself it was not quite a lie: After all, should it suit somebody’s purpose, they might. Never know who they might want to buy off some other story…
Tavah studied him, and Denny watched anger morph into calculation.
“You will use this tomorrow evening? I cannot persuade you otherwise?”
“Nope. Sorry—but no.”
“Not even if I can help you—as a friend, Denny—find an even better story?”
“I’m listening, Tavah.”
“I must speak with other friends first. Will you promise not to discuss this with anyone while I do?”
“Sure,” Denny said, fully aware that “not quite” did not apply this time. “Tell you what. I’m going into the studio to lay down videotape for a couple of other ‘in case’ pieces for tomorrow’s show. That’s a few hours for you to do what you gotta do, see who you gotta see. We’ll have a friendly lunch somewhere afterwards, see where all this takes us, okay? You have a preference where you want to meet up?”
“I will find you,” Tavah said, and smiled thinly.
• • •
May 3
NBC News
Rockefeller Center
New York City
7:29 A.M. EDT
“No way,” Todd Lieberman breathed. “Are you shitting me, Denny?”
“Uh-uh. The guy is here, Todd—right in the U.S. of A. They’re looking for him in fucking New Jersey, of all places.”
“We have to get a bulletin out on this right now—”
“Forget that. Our story, our show. Tomorrow night.”
“Have you thought this one through, Denny?”
The newsman smiled.
“Through and through, Todd. We’re going to lay down a taped profile of the guy right now, get it all ready to air. You’ll run the camera, do the edit work yourself; no leaks, nobody else involved. Two versions, though. One as if this is ‘the’ story, a profile of a hunted terrorist.”
“That isn’t the story? Are you nuts?”
“It may just be the accompanying background—B-roll, Todd. I’m going to try to find this guy myself.”
Denny appreciated the reaction displayed on his producer’s face.
“You are nuts.”
“I’ve heard that before. Anyway, version one has to be able to be aired as the show opener, whether I’m in-studio or not.”
Todd eyed Denny, warily.
“What’s version two? If you can’t find this Abu Khaled guy, you figure on not showing up here?”
“Nope,” Denny said. “It’s for if I do find him. In that case, I figure there’s a damn good chance I won’t be showing up anywhere at all. Likely, ever again.”
In the silence that followed, Denny remembered what might indeed have been a last request.
“By the way,” Denny said. “I need a new cellphone.”
Todd tried to turn it into tension-breaking humor.
“What, you drop another one in the toilet?”
“I need a new one,” Denny repeated, “and so do you. One with pre-paid minutes. One nobody else knows to tap. A cheap one; no GPS shit that somebody can zero in on. Send an intern, and give her cash to buy them.”
• • •
May 3
Zuccotti Park
1 Liberty Plaza
New York City
7:32 A.M. EDT
“We could arrange for him to disappear,” the man seated beside Tavah Duhahi said, his tone that of a person wishing only to be helpful. “Temporarily would be best. Permanently, perhaps, if you can adequately demonstrate that need.”
“No. He is right. They would only find some other television ‘personality’ to do their work. We would accomplish nothing.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“We have been betrayed by our ‘friends’ at the FBI,” Tavah said. “They have chosen to disregard our interests, believing they can arrest Ahmad. Foolish. Very well; we will ignore their interests too. We will find him first. And kill him.”
The man—in his daily life, he was a seller of rare books, working from a small shop in Midtown and living in the city’s Astoria district—arched an eyebrow.
“This has not proven easy thus far,” he noted.
“Before, Ahmad could have been anywhere in the world. Now our FBI colleagues have narrowed down our search considerably.”
“Still.” He shook his head in doubt.
For a moment, both were as silent as the nearby statue; like they, the bronze figure was also seated, also apparently pondering the coming day’s laborious potential.
“Do not tell me you are without resources, Ari,” Tavah scoffed. “Even here, their newspapers report that Mossad has more operatives spying on the Americans than there are grains of sand on the beach. Others among your colleagues have penetrated the mosques that have sprung like mushrooms on this much too fertile soil. Ahmad purports to be a religious man; he also seeks converts to his own plans.”
“Your point?”
“This region boasts many mosques. Where better would such a devout man find such zealous persons than at a nearby mosque?”
She leaned closer, made her voice more insistent.
“Use your resources—your people—for us, Ari. Consider this a formal request, Shin Bet to Mossad.”
He shrugged. “I will consult with Director Pardo. And I will pass his decision to you immediately. But he will certainly need to know two details: If we locate Abu Khaled, who will perform the wet-work? And what are your plans to deal with this newsperson?”
Tavah settled back, contentment on her face.
“Ease his bureaucratic mind, Ari; I ask only information from Mossad. I will close the files on Ahmad myself. As for the newsman, I do not trust him sufficiently to leave him without proper supervision; left on his own, in his childish quest for a ‘story,’ he might create complications.”
“And?”
“And I will take him along. With me. Depending on the circumstances, he may obtain quite a story indeed. If he survives, of course.”
• • •
May 3
520 Madison Avenue
New York City
7:58 A.M. EDT
“I do not forget what you do for me, Denny. I was a marked man in Nazareth. Had not you assisted with my visa to your land, I would now be dead.”
“You were a damn good translator,” Dennis Littrell said. He grinned. “And a better bodyguard. I don’t kid myself, Wasif. You balance out the times you saved my butt over there, it’s me that owes you.”
They sat together, in metal-latticed chairs at a metal-latticed table. The soft whisper of cascading water against stone provided a soothing ambience too, the full effect of furnishing and falling water as peaceful as the backyard garden for which it would not have been out of place.
But few backyard gardens also boast a graffiti-covered section of the Berlin Wall, or the frequent presence of a veteran newshound for whom that wall carried many memories.
Denny was that frequent visitor, usually arriving alone, and the manager had no hesitation at opening the patio-like plaza for a familiar face even early on a Saturday morning.
Nor did the manager mind overmuch repeating the process a few minutes later, when another man knocked softly—this one a stranger, but meeting the description provided by Denny. As requested, the door had been relocked and the pair left undisturbed.
“How can I be of service?” Wasif asked.
“It’s kind of a sensitive matter. I’ll understand if you don’t want to get involved, Wasif.”
“Must I repeat myself, Denny?”
“Fair enough. You still a devout man, Wasif?”
“I am. Insha’Allah, I shall always be.”
“Still active in the community—I mean, you know a lot of people at a lot of mosques, right?”
“I serve on the council. There are members from the tri-state region.” Wasif frowned. “Denny, what are you asking?”
Denny pushed a copy of the photograph across the lattice.
“I’m trying to locate this man, Wasif. I’m hoping he might have shown up in an area mosque.”
“His name?”
“He won’t be using it, and I’d prefer not to say. But understand this: He is a dangerous man, very dangerous, and you’ll be taking a big risk helping me here.”
“He is a terrorist?”
“He is probably the guy who did D.C. a couple of days ago. I almost died there myself.”
Wasif studied the photograph for a moment; his finger traced around the background image of the sook.
“I know Souq Al-Hal’lal well. I knew it well. I cannot know it ever again, because of people like this man. May I keep this photograph?”
“You’ll help?”
“This man has brought disgrace upon my religion, Denny. His actions are an abomination against the teachings of the Prophet, peace and honor be upon his name. There is no honor in this man, and he is the enemy of all who seek peace. I will do what I can, Denny.”
“I need it pretty fast, Wasif.”
Wasif smiled. “I have never known you not to need something fast, my friend. I will not delay, be assured.”
“Use this phone.” Denny passed over the number of the throwaway phone now in Todd Leiberman’s possession. “Ask for Todd. He’ll take it from there.”
“Very well.” Denny watched as Wasif studied the numerals on the paper scrap, then returned it to the newsman. “I will remember. I do not think it wise to have this in my possession. Your man Todd will hear from me today.”
“I’m glad to see you’re taking this seriously. I wasn’t kidding about the danger you’re taking on.”
“This country is my homeland now,” Wasif said. “You have given it to me, yes. But it is my duty to guard it, to protect it, as much as it is yours. I will take care, Denny. Please do so yourself.”
“Don’t I always?”
“No, Denny. No, you do not.”