May 3
New Jersey Turnpike
Outside Secaucus, New Jersey
1:42 P.M. EDT
It was a Lexus, fully fitted out by Avis with a complete complement of bells and whistles: from the unneeded heated-or-cooled leather seats, to the equally unneeded backup video camera in the rear bumper, to the very-much-needed GPS display on the dashboard. Denny possessed a valid driving license, but—in lieu of a Manhattan resident’s propensity for taxis and car services—one that had been largely unused for years.
Far longer than that, on his last drive into the savage wilds of the Garden State.
But driving an automobile is akin to riding a bike; one never really forgets the mechanics of either act, though recent practice is always a wise idea before steering even a motorized vehicle through the Lincoln Tunnel and onto the Jersey Turnpike in Saturday afternoon traffic.
“Did you even see that truck?” Tavah Duhahi demanded, after one particularly thrilling lane change.
“If you wanted to drive, you should have had your people forge a driver’s license for you,” Denny muttered. “How much further do we have to go?”
Tavah studied the GPS display, where a scarlet dot indicated their current location.
“Perhaps a dozen more miles. If we survive this journey. I am not optimistic about our chances.”
“What’s the old line? ‘You can kill me now, or you can kill me later.’” Denny glanced at his companion’s face, risking another near-miss on a Volvo they passed; apparently, given the stony expression on Tavah’s face, Fram did not advertise heavily in Israel.
“You know,” he pressed. “A joke. Oil filters. Replacing them. ‘You can pay me now, or you can’—forget it, okay? My guy Todd says this mosque’s on Thirty-Second Street. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”
“And what is your plan then, Denny?”
“Old-fashioned shoe leather, my sweet. I start asking questions.”
“Which will not be answered. Certainly not to you, not by this old mullah.”
“I’ll leave him for last, if I talk to him at all. It’s a religious community, and if Mr. Abu Khaled has indeed shown up around there, somebody else has seen him too. I’ve found that if I ask enough people about something, I usually get results.”
“The result will more likely be that you will alert him. This, you do not desire. Believe me, Denny.”
“You have a better idea?”
“I could … speak to the mullah. Myself, alone. Perhaps he would prove more cooperative.”
Denny shot a hard glance at her.
“That’s not how we do it here. No rough stuff, Tavah—with him or anybody else. Save it for when you go back home to Israel, okay?”
“Your innocence is touching, Denny. But as you wish. We will attempt your methods. And we shall see, no?”
“I mean it.”
“As do I, Denny. As do I.”
• • •
They parked in an alleyway half a block from the mosque, engine idling, where they had a clear view of the stragglers hurrying to whatever Saturday afternoon activities were apparently already under way inside. Most were women, many wearing various forms of the head-covering hijab, though a surprising number of them did not.
Not an ultra-conservative congregation, then, Denny told himself. At least, it’s not one of those wild-eyed fundamentalist Wahabi mosques the Saudis are funding all over the place. I guess that’s good news for my purposes today…
“You intend to kidnap your interview subjects from this alley?” Tavah inquired, too sweetly. “Should I have brought chloroform and a blanket in which to wrap them?”
“Just getting the lay of the land, Tavah. When I’m in unfamiliar terrain, I like to scout it out a little first.”
They waited, watched, waited more. The stakeout drew out to ten minutes, then fifteen.
“License and registration, please. I need your identification too, ma’m.”
The voice startled Denny, who had been fixated on the mosque’s doorways. The speaker was a trim black man, dressed in casual clothes and a plaid sports jacket that did not quite conceal the silver badge affixed to his belt, nor the bulge of the holstered service pistol behind it.
Papers were provided, returned. The policeman took exceptional interest in Denny’s NBC press card.
“What is the nature of your business here, Mr. Littrell?” the plainclothes officer inquired.
Denny grinned. “Research, Officer.” He gestured at Tavah, herself returning her less-than-official ID to her bag. “She’s my freelance research assistant. Thinking about doing a piece on immigration, maybe how communities integrate into the country. Process of becoming Americans, you know?”
“That’s why you’re out here watching the mosque? The memorial service?”
“That’s what they’re doing inside?”
“Mourning the dead President. And the folks down in Washington.”
“I’ll put that in the story.”
“Sorry to interrupt. What with everything that’s happened, we’re trying to keep an eye on things here, check any vehicles, empty or occupied, that look a little suspicious.”
Denny chuckled. “I’m just glad you didn’t think we were parked back here necking. ‘Suspicious looking’ is better for my ego, for sure. Better than a public indecency rap, definitely.”
The policeman smiled, if only a perfunctory gesture.
“Me, I saw too many car bombs in Iraq,” he said. “No sense in letting that happen here. I mean, we don’t want any pissed-off ‘patriots’ to take out their … uh … emotions, let’s call it, on people who just happen to be Muslim.”
“Good thinking. There are too many crazy people out there, you ask me.”
After the policeman had left, Tavah gave Denny a sour glance.
“Research assistant? Freelance? You could not have said something more … impressive, Denny?”
“Sure. Next time I’ll say you’re the freaking president of NBC News. I just thought maybe you didn’t want to have your ID looked at too closely, okay?”
“I accept your apology.”
Minutes again flowed like cold pancake syrup.
The street had emptied. Any who wished to enter the mosque had done so, and Denny wondered impatiently how long Muslim memorial services might last…
He saw movement on the dashboard, on the miniature television screen that commanded the rear view of the auto, glanced at it with an almost idle curiosity.
He’s back again, eh? Can’t be too careful, I guess…
This time there were two figures, visible only from mid-chest down, only for an instant, on either side of the vehicle, now disappearing entirely…
Denny opened his mouth to alert Tavah.
But by then she had already seen the hand, the pistol, on her own side of the car.
It was an automatic, sleek black, identical to its twin now pointed at Denny’s head.