Afraid of the Dark

Chapter Sixty-eight

Their taxi stopped in front of a tiny East End establishment with a big sign that read BANGLATOWN CURRY SHOP. Jack counted at least twenty restaurants up and down the narrow street that looked almost exactly like it. Not one was open for business.

“I told you everything would be closed,” the driver said. “If you’re hungry, I know a little place not far from here.”

“This will be fine,” Shada said.

Jack paid the fare, and when the cab left, they were the lone signs of life on the block. It wasn’t hard to imagine the street clogged with cars and delivery trucks, the sidewalks jammed with people from all walks of life from around the world. In a matter of hours, tourists and regulars alike would stop to decipher exotic menus posted in the windows, and by the end of the day, the guy at the pushcart on Brick Lane would hear customers order the jellied eels in at least twenty different languages. From two A.M. to four A.M., however, was a dead zone, when the eerie pall of urban quiet fell.

“I guess this is why they call New York the city that never sleeps,” he said.

“Don’t kid yourself,” said Shada as they passed a wall covered with BLM gang graffiti. “This is Brick Lane Massive territory.”

Jack followed her around the corner to the back of the curry shop. Many of the windows along the alley had been bricked over, and burglar bars and metal shutters covered those that remained. Jack recognized more BLM graffiti tags on the walls, but most of them had been spray-painted over by “White Flatz” and “Bow E3,” suggesting a turf war. It made Jack want to walk faster. Chuck had called ahead to say they were coming, and the light burning over the rear entrance indicated that someone was indeed expecting them. Rather than knock, Shada made a quick call on her cell. Someone on the inside started working the locks, and from the sound of it, Jack had visited jails with less security. Finally, the door opened.

“Come in, please,” the man said.

Jack followed Shada inside, and the man introduced himself as he closed the door and refastened the locks. His name was Sanu Reza from Dhaka. Chuck had already told them about Reza’s earlier meeting with Vince.

“I’m so sorry to hear about Mr. Paulo,” he said.

“I’m sorry you sold him a gun,” said Jack.

“I do as Mr. Mays requests. That makes tonight your lucky night.”

Jack could only wonder.

Reza led them down a dark hall past the kitchen, and the lingering smell of curry made Jack hungry. They stopped at the solid metal door at the end of the hall. A separate alarm system protected whatever was beyond that door, and Reza entered the pass code. There was another set of locks to unfasten, too. Finally, he pushed open the door and switched on the light. Bags of rice were stacked from floor to ceiling. Boxes of spices lined another wall. Reza directed them inside and locked the door.

“An awful lot of precautions to protect rice and spices,” said Jack.

Reza smiled. “Old family recipe.”

A PC hummed on the desk in the corner. Reza took the chair in front of the glowing LCD and logged on. “You there?” he asked.

The computer screen flickered and Chuck’s image appeared. “Welcome to Banglatown,” he said. “First things first: Reza, show them the money.”

Reza popped a switchblade and cut open one of the bags. Rice spilled to the floor, but not much. Reza reached inside and, by the handful, pulled out twenty-five bundles of fifty-pound-sterling notes. Jack didn’t ask where it had come from, but with the East End’s history of organized crime and gang graffiti all over the neighborhood, he didn’t really want to know. Reza stacked the bundles of cash into four neat piles on the table.

“Two hundred fifty thousand pounds,” he said.

It wasn’t nearly as bulky as Jack had expected; he could have stuffed it in his coat pockets and walked out.

“What will I carry it in?” asked Shada.

“How about a big bowl of yogurt and cold cucumbers?” said Jack. It was how patrons of Bengali restaurants put out the fire in their mouths.

“Good one, Yank.” Reza pulled a backpack from a shelf and handed it to Shada. “In my neighborhood, this will draw much less attention than a briefcase.”

Jack picked up one of the stacks and examined it. “Is this real or counterfeit?”

“Absolutely real,” said Reza. “The only qualification is that in one of the stacks I will insert a bogus bill that contains a miniature GPS tracking system. Chuck will be able to follow the money after Shada delivers it.”

“Doesn’t GPS require a battery?” asked Jack.

“It’s all in the same bill. I’m talking miniature. The battery will only last twenty-four hours and is set to beep out the coordinates every fifteen seconds. It sleeps between signals.”

“Which bill gets the GPS system?” asked Shada.

“That’s not important,” said Chuck.

“I’d like to know,” said Shada.

“I’m not telling you,” said Chuck, his tone taking on an edge.

“What do you mean you’re not going to tell me?”

“It’s better that you don’t know,” said Chuck.

“Better for whom?”

“It’s for your own safety.”

“That’s bullshit, Chuck, and you know it. Tell me which one has the damn chip in it.”

“Shada, back off,” said Chuck.

Jack could see the anger in her eyes, and even though Shada had expressed remorse for what she had done, it was also clear that she was approaching her limit with Chuck. Jack jumped in before they could tell each other to shove it.

“Folks, can we all take a deep breath and remember why we’re here?”

Slowly, the tension drained from the room, and before anyone could stoke the fire, Jack changed the subject.

“I understand that there is no talking Shada out of making this delivery,” Jack said. “I can also understand why she feels the way she does. But I’m here for a reason, too.” He paused as thoughts of his friend caught up with him. “If Shada is going to put herself at risk, I want to provide backup.”

“No,” said Shada.

“Why not?” asked Jack.

“It’s better that you don’t,” she said, glancing at Chuck’s image on the screen while parroting his words. “It’s for your own safety.”

“Now we’re getting petty,” said Jack. “I’m sure everyone is overtired.”

“I agree with Shada,” said Chuck.

“What?” said Jack.

“There’s no reason for you to tail her,” Chuck said. “We’ve got the GPS tracking embedded in the bills. If something goes wrong, we’ll call the police.”

It didn’t sound like Chuck-taking the safe route and suggesting that they call the police in a pinch-but Jack was getting too tired to argue. “We have a little more than two hours until the call,” said Jack. “Let’s all try to get some rest.”

Reza said, “There’s a two-bedroom flat upstairs that you can use.”

“Works for me,” said Shada.

“Me, too,” said Jack.

“Shada, no hard feelings?” said Chuck. It was the first bone he had tossed since finding out about the Dark, and it seemed to take Shada by surprise.

“Whatever,” she said.

“Good night, everyone,” said Chuck.

Reza logged off the computer and led them from the storage room, locked the door behind them, and reset the alarm. A back stairwell led them up to the second-floor flat. Reza directed Shada to the bigger of the two bedrooms, and Jack took the small one with the twin bed. He needed sleep, and he hoped his mind would shut off and let him rest.

“I’ll wake you at five,” said Reza.

“Thanks,” said Jack. He sat on the edge of the mattress, and even though it was lumpy, all worry about falling asleep vanished. One shoe was off when his phone chimed with a text message. It was from Chuck: Just between u and me, it read, and the last two words were in all caps: FOLLOW HER.

Jack pulled off his other shoe, typed a response, and hit SEND: Do you trust her?

He settled back onto the mattress, exhausted and staring at the ceiling, his phone resting on his chest. Chuck’s response came sooner than he’d expected: Would you trust your wife after she cheated?

The question hit Jack hard. Shada had been so contrite that he’d actually let himself believe that Chuck should be more like those I-love-you-no-matter-what guys who forgive and forget. But when the question was turned around on him-would you trust your wife?-he realized that this was the real world, not Lifetime TV or the Oxygen Channel. Jack typed out his response, then rolled over and turned out the light as he hit SEND once more:

OK. I’ll follow.