Day 3: May 17, 2115 Hours, Daylight Saving Time
Old Town, Winchester, Virginia
THE HANDLEY REGIONAL Library is located in Winchester’s Old Town district a block off the walking mall. Obviously, it’s named for John Handley, a Pennsylvania judge who left a bundle in 1895-ish for Winchester to build such a library. Old John had class, thus the Beaux-Arts limestone building that the historians will tell you was built to resemble an open book. I don’t see it, but that’s what the Internet said. The grand building has an octagonal entrance beneath a central dome that looks very, well, Beaux-Arts, I guess. There are two large wings off the main base with stone relief figures, balustrades, and colonnades—yep, the Internet—those are fancy railings and columns. At night, the library is more impressive than in daylight. The stalwart structure is accented by landscaping lights that gave it a majestic appearance. I love old architecture. That’s one of the things I love about Winchester. The turn-of-the-century charm.
Not tonight.
When Bond left Noor’s place, I stayed a while longer and exchanged more reminiscence of my travels with her. More to calm her nerves than anything. Sam stayed clear. After another hour, I bade them goodnight and headed for my clandestine rendezvous with the mysterious “G.”
The “mysterious” part had my hair up, and I double-checked my .45 twice on my way to Old Town.
“G” could be friend or foe. He could be witness or killer. Because of that, I would observe “G” arrive and be ready for anything. I weaved my way through side streets and alleys in northwest Winchester until I positioned myself on Library Lane, a small street a quarter block northwest of the rear of the library. It was nine twenty when I sat to wait. From the safety of night shadows and a large maple tree, I watched the library and the alley behind it that ran the length of the building and alongside a patio area where picnic tables and benches sat empty. My position allowed me to see whoever approached from three sides.
In Mosul, Iraq, I learned the hard way that when you had such a meeting, you arrive extra early just to watch the other team show. It can save your life. Bad guys like to ambush you or plant IEDs—improvised explosive devices—so when you arrive late, you die a horrible, violent death. LaRue used to say, “The second to arrive dies.” I nearly did on my first rendezvous with an Iraqi snitch by ignoring his wisdom. He never let me forget that, either.
My watch showed 10:05 when someone rounded the corner a half a block to my right. The figure crossed the street and headed for the rear of the library. It was about five-four and thin. I couldn’t make out his features, but it was a man. He walked slow and uneasy, perhaps worried about a trap.
We already had something in common.
I slipped my .45 out and used the building’s shadows to angle behind him as he stopped beside the bushes near the picnic tables. I reached the rear of the bushes, still in total stealth, and lifted my .45. Then, I eased in close.
“Sit at that picnic table, hands on top.”
The man jumped and started to turn.
“Easy.”
He didn’t turn, but his hands slowly rose in surrender. “I sent the note. I am Ghali. I at river. I bring something.”
Bingo—“G.” I inched forward. “All right. Turn around. Slow. I have a big gun aimed at your head. I don’t miss very often.”
“Baleh, Hunter.”
Hunter? I stepped close and patted him down with quick, hasty handfuls of his clothes. “You called this soiree. What do you want?”
“Swar-ray?” Ghali’s face twisted and his hands lowered.
“What do you want?”
“Please, you scare me.” He smiled, showing a dingy mouthful of teeth. Then he rattled off a download of information that made my head spin. “At river, I there with Saeed and the box. A man bring it to Saeed. I no see him anywhere before that night.”
I glanced around. “Who is Saeed?”
Ghali stiffened. “Saeed Mansouri. He is often in Sand Town—Sandy Creek. We are refugees from Afghanistan and Iraq. A few Syrian families arrived now. But Saeed is not one of us. He and his men are terrible men—Iranians. They are outsiders. Saeed Mansouri is a Raees.”
I knew what that was. A“Raees” was the big boss—the local village gang-boss. Militia chieftain. More succinctly, chief thug.
“Is he a refugee, too?”
Ghali shook his head and looked down. “I will not say. Not here. No. He is not one of us. None of his men are. Do not ask me until you have me safe. But I will tell you Saeed is not the only one. There are others.”
Others? Terrorists? I understood why Saeed Mansouri had him scared to death.
“Okay, go on. Tell me about Saeed’s box.”
Ghali breathed easier. “Saeed tell two of his men to open this box. One man, he afraid, he held the box and would not open it. Saeed mad and shoot. First he hit the box. Then he shoot the man. The box open and fall on him. Very bad. Alhamdulillah. He a mad man.”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down. Who brought the case? The box, I mean?”
“It come from somewhere I do not know. I was there only to drive. Saeed order me to use my truck.”
“Was it Khalifah who sent the box?”
“You know of Khalifah? Caine?”
LaRue was right. Caine was involved. “Was the box a steel case with a funny lock?”
“Baleh, funny lock.” Ghali shot uneasy glances around the darkness.
I pressed him. “Tell me about Khalifah.”
“If you help me. I tell you everything I know. He is a very bad man—he and Caine. But they are outsiders like Saeed Mansouri. They make those in Sand Town do things they not wish to do.”
A car made the turn along the street behind the library and Ghali jumped back into the bushes. When it was gone, he stayed put.
“Deal,” I said. “I’ll help you. Tell me about the case and the killings.”
“Everyone fear what in case. Everyone who touched it when it opened is dead.” Ghali’s head swiveled toward every sound and headlight for a block.
I raised a hand to calm him. “What was in the box?”
Another car passed behind us and slowed.
Ghali backed deeper into the bushes.
The car eased on.
My radar started pinging and now I was jumpy. “What was in the box, G?”
“I want protection.” Ghali’s voice was hurried, scared. “Saeed, he divoonei. You say crazy. Caine, he alqatil.”
I knew what alqatil meant. Killer. Assassin. We knew about the same Caine.
Ghali went on. “Something in the case very bad. Everyone who touched it when the case broke open dead.”
Ghali knew more, and I pressed him. “You know more, G. Out with it. What happened after the case broke open?”
“I not know. I run away after he started shooting. I run fast into the woods. I do not want to be near Saeed any longer. I help you find who kill you brother. Saeed and Khalifah have many plans. Big plans. Very bad things.”
“Ghali, did you see who shot Kevin Mallory?”
“I know much more. Much.” Ghali hesitated; then, “Deal first. Then I give you more.”
Well, he might not be the witness I wanted, but he was better than nothing. From my wallet, I pulled out the first bill I could find. A fifty. With the pen I’d swiped from Artie earlier, I jotted my cell phone number on it in bold numbers I could see in the dim light.
“Here’s my number.” I handed him the fifty. “Call me tomorrow at noon sharp. I’ll have everything set up to get you safely to my people.”
He stuffed the bill into his jeans. “Baleh. I trust you?”
“You trust me.”
“Okay, I have message then, ‘Why Kevin Mallory not stop the mall? You must help before more happens.’” He thrust his hand into his back pocket.
I lifted my pistol. “Don’t be stupid, Ghali.”
“No, you no understand. I have something.”
Headlights spotlighted us when a car swung sharply around the corner of the library and turned into the alley. Red lights flashed on and a wooop-wooop sounded. A voice called out, “Freeze! Don’t move!”
Bond.
“Dammit.” I turned to Ghali. “Go. Run.”
“Nah, nah.” Ghali bolted down the alleyway into the darkness. When he did, Bond wrenched his car to the right and hopped the curb to give chase.
Before I knew what had happened, Ghali—the mysterious “G”—and Bond were gone.
So was I.