The End Game

“You’d think.” Maitland sighed. “Why I’m really here, Savich, is to assign you to work with Drummond and Caine, coordinate on this end, since all the push is coming from the vice president and she’s laid this in our laps. Starting now. I’ll barbecue you the best corn on the cob if you bring COE in and stop Damari. Oh, yes, I’ve cleared this with Milo in New York. He’s on board.” He rose. “Mossad believes it’s Iran and Hezbollah behind the contract on the vice president. We need to stop them.”

When Maitland disappeared from Savich’s office, Sherlock gri

As for Savich, he felt pleased at the huge vote of confidence and worried he couldn’t pull it together and the vice president could be shot. No, not going to happen. Who had hired Damari wasn’t his concern, Damari was. So first things first.

Sherlock rose. “You know what I’d like to do? Wrap my hands around Trafford’s throat and shake him until he gives up everything he knows. And you and Nicholas and Mike are supposed to uncover everything in one day?”

“Looks like it.” Savich laughed, picked up his cell to call Nicholas to give him the good news that he was now coordinating his investigation, whatever that really meant, in addition to his own boss, Zachery.

Savich’s cell blasted out Blondie’s “Call Me.” Speak of the devil. “Nicholas, I was about to call you. There’s a lot—”

Nicholas overrode him. “Listen, this is crucial, Savich. We think we’ve found the last knowns of COE. We have a witness who claims there was a group of four people staying in an apartment in Brooklyn. Last night, the place burned down. Here’s the kicker—one of the men staying at the apartment looked Middle Eastern. Which leads to the question—if this guy really is Middle Eastern, then what the bloody hell is he doing hooked up with a bunch of fanatical terrorist haters who want the West to stop importing oil from terrorist countries, which includes just about all of them?

“Our witness said when the original group returned late last night—we’re assuming from the Bayway bombing—the Middle Eastern man wasn’t with them. Like I said, we need to find out who he is. We’ve got a sketch artist working with the witness, and—”

“Nicholas, stop a moment. Send me the sketch when it’s finished and I’ll see if I can’t find out who this guy is. Now, are you and Mike familiar with Zahir Damari?”

“Yes, of course,” Mike said in the background. “Überassassin, arguably the most deadly in the world. He’s a really bad dude, on everyone’s most-wanted list. Why, what’s up, Dillon?”

“We found out a couple of hours ago that he’s here in the United States. The Mossad believes he’s going to try to assassinate the vice president. Maybe others, still unverified. Probably Iran and Hezbollah behind it. Yes, yes, I know, the peace talks.”

Stu

“Wish I were. Let me tell you all of it.” After Savich had briefed them, he said, “Sherlock says not to worry, that I’ll be a great coordinator, and look at the bright side, it’s only a day or two before we get this wrapped up. Now tell me about the fire in Brooklyn, your witness, and whatever else I need to know.”

Once they’d told him about the shooting, the fire, and the black Suburban that carried away an unconscious woman lying beside the burning building, Savich said, “It’s all coming together; we simply need more and we need it fast. I fear there’s another terrorist attack coming and we have to stop it. Find that Suburban and find that woman. We’ve got to know who pulled her out of the fire.”

“She’s the key, I know it,” Mike said.

“Could be. Keep me posted. Nicholas, give me the description your witness gave you of the Middle Eastern man, then send me the sketch the moment you get it.”

41

KING TO G1

West 30th Street, Chelsea

New York City

The black Suburban was registered to an address in the middle of the block of 30th Street. It was a brown brick high-rise, recently redone. The long, narrow lobby was clearly visible through the big front windows. They saw a doorman inside, another man behind a counter. Tenant mailboxes filled the wall opposite the doors.

Mike pulled the Crown Vic up in a no-parking zone, put her FBI card in the window.

“Gray said fifteenth floor,” Nicholas said. “At the very end of the east hallway, 1507.”

They breezed by the doorman and the young guy behind the counter, their creds held high. “FBI, we’ll talk to you later,” Mike said. The elevator was fast, with no tenants getting on to slow them down. Mike knocked on the bright red door of 1507, waited, knocked again.

Then, “Coming!”

They knew they were being studied through the peephole, so Mike held up her creds.

“FBI. We’d like to talk to you.”

They heard chains falling, a dead bolt twisting, and then the door was pulled open by a pretty young woman sitting squarely in her mid-twenties. She had long, straight black hair and wore stylish black glasses, a short plaid skirt, and Doc Martens on her small feet. A perfect advertisement for Ms. New York Hip.

“Goodness, FBI?” She splayed her hands in front of her. “Listen, I haven’t done anything, I mean, I couldn’t have even if I wanted to since I’ve been here all morning. Oh, I’m sorry, come in, come in.”

She waved them toward the living room, but Mike shook her head. “Agents Caine and Drummond, FBI. And you are?”

“Melody Finder.”

“Ms. Finder, do you own a black Suburban?”

Ms. Hip laughed. “Not a chance. I’m a lifelong New Yorker. I have a driver’s license only for ID.”

Nicholas showed her the screen of his phone. “Ms. Finder, we show a black 2009 Chevy Suburban registered to this address. In the name Melody Finder and that’s you.”

“Well, yes, you already know I’m Melody Finder, but I think I’d know if I had a car.” A gray tabby poked its head from beneath a green-and-white-striped sofa, then ambled over to ribbon between Melody’s feet. “Tigger, not now, you’re going to make me fall on my face. Oh, dear, get back, no, you can’t run out!” She grabbed the cat. “Sorry about that, I really need to close the door or my critters will make a break for it. Please, come in and tell me why you think I own this car. There’s got to be a mistake.”

The space was a small loft with floor-to-ceiling windows and lots of natural light. Not much furniture, only the sofa and three chairs, all in shades of green and white, a couple end tables loaded with magazines. A big silver tabby lay on its back in the middle of the sofa, smack in the center of a shaft of sunlight.

“That’s Pooh.”

At the sound of his name, the cat cracked an eye, gave them a stare, then promptly fell back to sleep.

“I don’t think Pooh is all that ready to run free,” Mike said.

“He had a huge lunch he’s sleeping off. Please, sit down, both of you.”

Mike and Nicholas sat on the sofa, on each side of the cat. Mike leaned forward. “Ms. Finder, we really don’t have much time. We—” Pooh opened her eyes, eyed Mike, and stretched out a paw to touch her on the knee. Mike automatically rubbed his ears. In the next moment the cat was curled on Mike’s lap. If the situation weren’t so dire, Nicholas knew he’d be hard-pressed not to laugh, particularly since Ms. Finder was staring at Mike in amazement.

“Pooh hates strangers.”

“I suppose even a cat has to respect the FBI,” Nicholas said. “Now, Ms. Finder, do you know anyone in the building who might have a Suburban? It seems the records were listed improperly.”