Threat Level Black (27 page)

Howe spent all of the morning and a good deal of the afternoon recounting the kidnapping for investigators. They were spare with their own details, but it was clear from their questions that they connected it with the Korean operation, an attempt by the Korean he had rescued to tie up loose ends.

Howe asked one of the investigators—a DIA officer named Kowalski—point-blank why they’d bother. Kowalski blinked a few times and then shrugged.

A long queue of messages awaited him both at the motel and on his cell phone’s voice mail when he was finally done with the interviews. He sat in the motel lobby systematically listening and recording the numbers and callers on a pad. Before he decided who to call back, however, he phoned his mother for the second time that day, just to reassure her that he was all right.

“Jimmy called you,” she said, mentioning his friend. “He’s hoping you’re all right.”

“Yeah, he called my cell phone too,” he told her.

“Well, people worry.”

“I’m okay, Ma.” It occurred to Howe that he had been having some variation of this conversation for forty years.

“He has tickets for a football game.”

“NCAAs, Mom. It’s basketball. In New York. I already left a message telling him I can’t go.”

“He’s very excited.”

Howe laughed. “He’s always excited about something.”

“Just so you know.” His mother paused, changing the subject. “I’m going to bingo tonight with Gabby Thomas. I suppose my ears will be red for days.”

“I guess,” said Howe. He listened to his mother tell him something about the neighbors, then told her he had to get going.

“Well, of course you do. I will talk to you when I talk to you,” she said.

“Love you.”

He didn’t usually say that, and it took his mother a half-second to respond.

“I love you, too, Billy.”

Among the callers on his voice mail were three members of the NADT board, along with Delano, who was belatedly expressing surprise at the security snafu and sympathy about the “incident.” Howe decided that firing the vice president would be the first thing he did; one thing he didn’t need was a phony.

Howard McIntyre was the one person he wanted to talk to who
hadn’t
called. As Howe went through the cell menu to find his number, the cell phone rang; it was Alice.

“Hi,” he said.

“I wasn’t sure I’d get you,” she said. “I thought I’d just leave a message.”

“It’s me in the flesh,” he said. He winced, overly self-conscious but unable to do anything about it.

“Well…” she started.

“Well, what?”

“I, um…I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

Howe felt a pain in his ribs, a physical pain: She was dumping him.

Not dumping him exactly, since they weren’t a couple or anything like that, but she was going to tell him they couldn’t be.

The pain was like a hard cramp, the sort that might come from sudden depressurization.

He loved her, and he wasn’t going to let her walk away.

“I was rude yesterday,” she said.

“Rude?” The word croaked from his mouth. “You weren’t rude.”

“I should have thanked you for saving my life. But I didn’t.”

“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have been there. So I apologize.
I’m
the one who should apologize.”

What else is it?
he thought to himself.
Go ahead and tell me.

Go ahead.

“Why don’t we argue about it over dinner?” he told her.

“Argue?”

“I’m joking. Want to have dinner with me?”

She hesitated. If she said no, he would ask, straight out, if she was seeing someone else.

Then he’d pull out all the stops. Though he wasn’t exactly sure what that would mean.

“Where do you want to eat?” Alice said finally.

Macklin put a surveillance team on the real addresses but couldn’t come up with enough people to canvas the area of the phony address, which would have been across from Madison Square Garden if it had existed. Fisher decided to walk it himself, checking variations of the address on the theory that the real address would turn out to be some variation of the false one. He found a pizza parlor, an Israeli restaurant, and a junk shop proclaiming that it sold Manhattan’s finest selection of antiques, but no safe house or reasonable facsimile.

“What’d you find out?” asked Macklin when he called in to see if anything was new.

“Scalpers are getting five hundred bucks for decent seats to the NCAA play-offs this weekend,” said Fisher.

“Five hundred, huh? Cheap.”

“Yeah, I bought two and charged it to your task force.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I am,” said Fisher.

“God, you just about gave me a heart attack,” said Macklin.

“You search those two apartments?”

“Jesus, Andy, there’s no way in the world I can get a search warrant based on an address in a shoemaker’s ledger. You know that.”

“You have to be creative, Macklin. Come on. You’re disappointing me.”

“Look, if it helps, the Amsterdam Avenue place is vacant.”

“Sure that helps,” said Fisher. “That’s probably the place.”

“I don’t think so. The building was torn down two weeks ago.”

“Maybe we should sift the rubble.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“We’re grasping at straws, Macklin. You have to get into the spirit of things,” said Fisher, though he, too, doubted that sifting the ruins would actually turn up anything.

“I put it under surveillance. Somebody’s watching it.”

“What about the other one—up in Inwood, right? Let’s get a search warrant.”

“If we see anything suspicious, then we can move.”

“He’s a terrorist and a fugitive, Kevin. You put that on the legal papers, the judge pounds his gavel, and we go in.”

“Come on, Andy. This is New York. I couldn’t get a search warrant here to raid Lee Harvey Oswald’s house.”

“That’s because he didn’t do it,” said Fisher.

Macklin, no conspiracy buff, changed the subject. “Kowalski has a phone conference set up for five.”

“That’s nice.”

“Come on, Andy. I have a number for you to call in to. You can do it with your sat phone. He’s been in D.C. talking to Howe and getting some other background. He really thinks the case is wrapped up,” Macklin added, “but if you want to present your arguments to him—”

“Listen, I’ll make you a deal: I don’t scalp the tickets and I miss the phone conference, okay?”

“Andy. Look, I’ll call you, okay? Just leave your line open.”

“What kind of seats you want? On the aisle?”

Macklin hung up. Fisher walked around some more, hoping to be struck by inspiration; the only thing that came close was a bike messenger crossing against the light. Finally, Fisher decided he might just as well head back up to Scramdale; with any luck he’d be on the train when Macklin tried to connect for the conference call.

His wanderings had taken him over to Seventh Avenue, where there was an entrance to the subway. Unsure whether the lines that stopped here went to the Grand Central train station, Fisher did something native New Yorkers are loath to do in public: He stopped and consulted one of the large subway maps near the gates.

The trains in question were the 1, 2, 3, and 9, and are known collectively as the Broadway Line, taking their name from the fact that they follow the street. They did not, in fact, go to Grand Central, though it was possible to get there via a shuttle at Times Square.

Much more interestingly, Fisher realized that, not only was it the same line that went to Washington Heights, but the train ran north to Inwood—and its last stop in Manhattan was within two blocks of the address he’d found earlier.

A straw, surely, but one to be seized.

“Last natural forest in New York,” said one of the detectives Macklin had sent to watch the Inwood address. He jerked his hand behind him, gesturing toward the expanse of trees rising to the northwest. “You know, Peter Minuit bought Manhattan on a spot over there.”

“I’ll take the tour later,” said Fisher. “We have a suspect or what?”

“Basement apartment, halfway down Nagle,” said the detective. “Separate entrance. Looks vacant.”

Nagle mixed small food markets with check cashing shops with travel agencies; some of the signs were in Spanish but the graffiti betrayed a much wider mix of ethnic slurs. The man playing tour guide was named Witt. He was a state trooper whose enthusiasm made it clear he was not a native. Fisher and Witt sat in the front seat of a Jimmy SUV;Witt’s partner was in the back, nursing a 7-Up. They had a clear view of the apartment’s entrance, which sat between two travel stores. The entrance to the upper portion of the building was near the end of the block. Fisher noted that there were plenty of pay phones along the street.

“You interview the subject?” Fisher asked.

“Our orders were to watch the place,” said Witt. “Nobody’s come in or out.”

“You mean nobody’s used that entrance.”

“It’s the only way into the apartment.”

“Where were you born?”

“Long Island. Why?”

There was almost surely another entrance to the building from the apartment itself; the unit would have been set up originally either for a superintendent or else was a utility area for a furnace. In any event, there was no sense making a federal case out of it.

“Drive around the block a bit. I want to see what it looks like.”

“If we leave, we’re not going to know if anybody comes in or out.”

“Yeah,” said Fisher.

The trooper put the truck in gear. They drove past the 207th Street train yard, then back around toward Baker Field and Inwood Hill Park. It was a very mixed neighborhood, a little lower in the pecking order than Astoria, maybe, but probably a notch or two above the place in Washington Heights.

Witt pointed out some rocks he said had been disturbed by the “glaciers.”

“Very historical area,” said the trooper as they swung past the Dyckman House, which had been built just after the Revolutionary War and, by some colossal municipal oversight, had actually been preserved by the City.

“I’m thinking our guys don’t care too much for history—or glaciers,” said Fisher. “Park the car and let’s go talk to Mr. Brown.”

Fisher had the others go around from upstairs, covering the back entrance.

“You sure you want both of us there?” asked Witt. “What if he shoots you or something?”

“I doubt we’ll be that lucky,” said Fisher.

He gave the others a minute to get into position, then went down the stairs and rapped loudly on the door. He had to try twice before he heard shuffling inside.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Brown?”

“Yes?”

“FBI. I’d like to talk to you for a second.”

“FBI?”

“You probably hear that all the time, right?” said Fisher. He had his wallet out and held it up against the window near the door. “Here, take a look. I want to ask you a couple of questions.”

“FBI?”

“Yeah.”

“J. Edgar Hoover?”

“His illegitimate son.”

Locks began turning. Fisher held his creds out as the door opened.

There was no need to. Brown was blind.

“You’re with the FBI?” asked the man, who was about sixty-five. He had an ebony face with short but full gray hair, and walked with a slight stoop.

Fisher glanced at his feet. He was wearing sneakers.

“I wanted to ask you about some shoes,” Fisher told Brown. “You have some dress shoes fixed a while ago?”

“Dress shoes? Me?”

“Mind if I come in?” said Fisher.

“Come along.”

The apartment had a mildew odor and the white walls had weathered gray. There wasn’t much furniture: a sofa and easy chair in the living room, a bed and wardrobe in the bedroom, table and chairs in the kitchen.

“What does the FBI want with shoes?”

“We’re very into heels,” said Fisher. “Mind if I look at yours?”

“Look away,” said Mr. Brown.

Fisher followed him to the closet. Mr. Brown’s dress shoes were worn at the heels and hadn’t been repaired since they’d been bought, let alone within the past six months. Fisher looked around the closet and under the bed without finding any other shoes—or sarin gas, or E-bombs, or anything except a little dust. He went with the man into the kitchen, telling him about the shoemaker but being purposely vague about what sort of case he was working on. Mr. Brown had lived in the Inwood area for more than thirty years, though he’d only had this apartment for about five. He had not been to Washington Heights in more than three decades, not since his friend Jimmy Fleming had died; they used to talk baseball and drink beer in Jimmy’s kitchen on St. Nicholas Avenue.

“Used to cheat,” said Brown. “I know he did. But he was a good sort otherwise, so I let him. And he was free with the beer.”

St. Nicholas was a block away from the apartment the three suspects had been in, but it was obviously just a coincidence.

But what about Brown’s name and address? Fisher’s theory was that the terrorists had used it as a way of passing along the address either of a drop or a meeting place. But if Brown had lived here for all that time, it couldn’t be either.

Just another coincidence, then?

That was the worst part of the grasping-at-straws stage: The straws inevitably came up short, bent, and twisted.

“Someone’s in the hall out there,” said Mr. Brown. He jerked his hand toward a door at the far end of the kitchen.

“Just my guys backing me up,” Fisher told him. “Lot of people come down that hallway?”

“Nah. Door’s been stuck for a year.”

Fisher got up and looked at it. It had at least a dozen coats of white paint and several varieties of locks, including one keyed dead bolt about six feet from the ground.

Higher, he thought, than Mr. Brown could reach.

“Mind if I try it?” asked Fisher.

“Suit yourself.”

“You got the keys?”

“Don’t need keys from the inside.”

“When was the last time the apartment was painted?” Fisher asked.

“Oh, God, before I moved in. The landlord’s offered to spruce things up, but it’s fine with me.”

“Maybe you should try the door,” suggested Fisher.

Brown got up and went to it, opening all of the locks—except the dead bolt.

“See?” said Brown.

Macklin was unsympathetic when Fisher called him from the stakeout car.

“Let me get this straight,” said Macklin. “You want a warrant to search the apartment of a blind man because there’s a lock on the door he can’t reach?”

“Pretty much.”

“With nothing to link the blind man to the terrorists.”

“That’s right. He’s not involved.”

“You know, Fisher, I used to think you were a genius,” said Macklin. “Now I think you’re a crank.”

“Since when are those mutually exclusive?”

“You missed the phone conference. Kowalski was asking for you.”

“And?”

“DIA wants to close down the task force.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s finished.”

“You haven’t found out who bought the sarin gas or where they were going to use it, or how. You don’t have Faud. And then there’s the E-bomb.”

“The E-bomb was a red herring,” said Macklin. “Like your door lock. Look, we got a good bust on the sarin warehouse. We’re still interviewing those guys we picked up in Washington Heights—”

“Who don’t know anything,” said Fisher.

“Who claim they don’t know anything. Meanwhile, this Daud Faraghmeh—”

“Faud Daraghmeh.”

“Whatever. He’s gone. He hopped a plane out of Kennedy, I guarantee. He’ll turn up twelve months from now in some CIA report on Egypt.”

“Yemen.”

“Whatever. Listen, in these days of budget cuts, we all have limited resources—”

“You been talking to Jack Hunter?” Fisher asked.

“As a matter of fact, he was in on the conference call, and he agreed that the task force is no longer necessary. We need to shift our resources around, especially with the President coming to town. The locals can take over the investigation and fill in the holes for the prosecutors. Hunter was mentioning a corruption case that he wanted you to—”

“We must be going through a tunnel,” said Fisher. “You’re breaking up.”

“I thought you were still with the surveillance team.”

“Can’t hear a word you’re saying.” Fisher hit the End button, then turned to Witt, who had a bemused expression on his face.

“Zone sergeant would dock your pay if you tried that as a uniformed trooper,” said the detective.

“Fortunately, Macklin’s not a sergeant,” said Fisher, “though he is often zoned. Let’s go get something to eat. Bag the surveillance.”

“Bag it completely?”

“Until Wednesday. That’s when his home aide comes to take him shopping.”