Blood Trust

TWENTY-TWO

ARIAN XHAFA stepped off the military air transport at Vlorë Air Base in southwest Albania into a driving rain. The dark, fulminating sky seemed as low as the treetops, and a filthy wind battered him.

An armored car pulled up and he got in. He was carrying no luggage; none had been needed. At once, the armored car pulled away, exiting the base without going through either immigration or customs.

“Good to be home?” the Syrian said.

Arian Xhafa nodded. “Always.” He was a man of swarthy skin, dark curling hair, which merged with his full beard. His face seemed chiseled by wind and sun, the deep-set eyes, the high cheekbones, the hawk’s-bill nose. He might be Albanian by birth, but his aggressively Middle Eastern blood had forged his physiognomy.

The Syrian sighed. “I have no home.”

“A long-held dream, soon to be realized, my friend.”

Even next to Xhafa, the Syrian was a big man, tall, his shoulders and arms knotted with muscle, as if he had been a hod carrier or a bricklayer all his life. His hands were big and square, calloused, their backs ropy, dark as coffee. But his eyes had in them the talent of a sculptor. It was, of course, his eyes that were most remarked upon. One green, the other blue, each seemed to be buried in a different head or, more accurately, connected to a different brain.

People were terrified of the Syrian, and with good reason. You never knew what he was thinking or how he would react. He had a real name, of course, the one his parents had given him, but it had been so long since he had used it that it had been all but forgotten. Xhafa, for instance, had never known it.

“So,” the Syrian said now, “how was Washington?”

“I despise that city,” Xhafa said, “and it despises me. Dardan has been killed.”

“Is that such a tragedy?” The Syrian was not one to mince words or care who he defamed. “I warned you about him. He was weak.”

“He was family,” Xhafa said stiffly.

The Syrian grunted. “Sentiment is itself a weakness.”

Xhafa fought to swallow the rebuke. He feared the Syrian as much as everyone else, he simply refused to show it. It would do no good, he knew, to remind his companion that he had lost all his family to war. The Syrian never invoked their names; it was as if they had never existed. While in Washington, Xhafa had read of a recent DNA study that proved, genetically, at least, there wasn’t much difference between the Arabs and the Jews. Something else he dare not mention to his dour companion. On the other hand, losses were much on his mind.

“It’s not only Dardan,” he said now, “but my men in Tetovo. The entire fortress was destroyed.”

“That was, of course, always a possibility,” the Syrian’s face darkened, “but I cannot understand how the enemy escaped the ambush you laid for them in Dolna Zhelino.” His tone made it sound like the error was somehow Xhafa’s.

“They killed all my men.”

“Yes, but how?”

“My men—”

“Were no doubt happy to die for the cause,” the Syrian said with a dismissive sweep of his hand.

“My men are not yours,” Xhafa said. “They’re not ignorant mountain fanatics who die without a thought.”

The Syrian was not offended. In fact, he laughed. “This is true, Xhafa. The men of the mountains of Afghanistan and Western Pakistan are the defeated, the disenfranchised who were chased into their mountain lairs by stronger tribal forces. The mountains’ lawless state attracts the fanatics, the extremists, the outcasts of society. But, listen to me, Xhafa, they are my most valuable resource. Their ignorance breeds fanaticism and that is my stock in trade. They are my creatures because I tell them what they want to hear. In return, they do what I tell them to do.”

He puffed out his cheeks, his eyes alight. His ideas made him restless. “What they want is simple: They want to blow up the society that cast them out. This is the opportunity I give them and they are grateful.”

“They have proved to be the best weapon we have against the West,” Xhafa said.

The Syrian snorted. “The West believes that it is their fanaticism that makes them cruel, but, no, this is incorrect. What makes them cruel is their monumental ignorance. They have no conception of the world. Good for me. Even better, they don’t care, so I don’t even need to lie to them. They’ll never get what they want, of course, but in the meantime they are useful as agents of chaos. And because they wish to martyr themselves for their doomed cause, they keep coming. They die and they rise endlessly.”

The Syrian stroked his beard. “But never mistake me for one of them, Xhafa. As you know, I come from the lowlands, from a wealthy family. I’m well educated, a graduate of universities in both the East and the West—under different names, of course. You might say that I’m a man of the world. A prerequisite to understanding the enemy.”

A certain tension informed his body. “What must be understood is the cause of the enemy’s success.” Being a master tactician, he was understandably focused on battlefield failures. In contrast, the loss of human life was of importance to him only inasmuch as it affected his plans. “The failure in Dolna Zhelino might be explained away by happenstance, but not the complete destruction of your fortress in Tetovo.” He tapped his forefinger on his knee. “No, there is another factor here of which we’re ignorant.”

Xhafa shook his head. “I still don’t understand the need for such complexity.”

“That’s because you haven’t studied this Jack McClure. His mind works best within complicated situations. To him, that’s the way the world works, and he’s not far off the mark. Give him something simple to solve and he’ll become immediately suspicious. Frankly, he’s a con artist’s worst nightmare. To my knowledge only one person was able to con him, and then not for long.”

“Annika Dementieva.”

“Correct.” The Syrian sighed. “You know, Xhafa, I tried to do this the simple way, but, try as I might, I couldn’t get to Gourdjiev. I lost half a dozen of my best men in the process. Even at his age, that wily old fucker is still formidable.”

The Syrian stretched in his seat and cracked his knuckles. “So I had to tackle the problem from another angle entirely. I decided to go after Annika. But I knew I couldn’t do it directly. I had to move softly and take a roundabout route.”

“Which is where McClure comes in.”

“There is something between Annika and McClure, of that there can be no doubt.” The Syrian smiled his crooked smile. “As I said, sentiment is itself a weakness.”

“Maybe she’s continuing to play him.”

The Syrian scratched at the thicket of his beard, which was shot through with white. “That possibility has occurred to me.” His smile widened. “But the beauty of my plan is that it doesn’t matter. She is so heavily defended and almost as wily as her grandfather that McClure is the best way—probably the only way—to get to her. And she, my dear Xhafa, is the only way to get to Gourdjiev and all the secrets locked up in that brilliant mind of his.”

He sighed again. “The truth is, I cannot go forward without those secrets.”

Xhafa pricked up his ears. This was the first time the Syrian had come close to defining the goal of his plan—a plan he had been forced to go along with if he wanted to continue the very profitable arrangement he had with the Syrian. A powerful incentive, since this arrangement had provided him with capital and influence in exchange for a third of his smuggling operation. Now Xhafa’s small fleet of new and larger planes were filled with the Syrian’s mysterious cargo as well as Xhafa’s stolen girls.

“Just what are those secrets?”

“Enough criminal dirt and serious indiscretions to take control of his worldwide constellation of politicians and security officers.”

Xhafa would have staked his life on the fact that the Syrian was not telling the truth or, at least, not the whole truth, but he let it go because, humiliatingly, there was nothing he could do. The hard truth was that he felt like a child beside this man, this monument to power.

The rain beat down hard against the reinforced metal top and the landscape outside was gray and hazy, like a painting whose colors had run together. They had been joined by a phalanx of motorcycle police fore and aft, the caravan cutting a swath through the streets with the seething din of war.

The Syrian shifted again, the aura of his power rippling outward, filling the entire vehicle so completely that Xhafa could scarcely draw breath.

“And as to the other part of your mission…?” The Syrian let his last words hang between them like an implied threat.

“Arjeta Kraja is dead,” Xhafa said. “I killed her with my own hands.”

“THE LAST time I saw Naomi Wilde?”

“That’s what I asked.”

Peter McKinsey shifted in his chair. It was a stiff chair with one of those minimalist backs guaranteed to make you more uncomfortable the longer you sat in it. He was downtown at Metro Police HQ, in a separate suite of offices reserved for the Violent Crimes Unit.

“Yesterday, at about a quarter to five in the afternoon. We’d been using my car. I dropped her back at the office. She got into her car and drove off.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

McKinsey nodded. “She told me she was going home.”

“Directly home?”

“‘I’m going home, Pete. I’ve had it.’ This is word for word what she said to me.” He spoke neither quickly nor slowly, but his voice was appropriately tight. After all, his partner of six years was missing.

Chief Detective Nona Heroe’s head came up. She had been scribbling in a small spiral-bound pad. “Agent Wilde said, ‘I’ve had it’?”

McKinsey nodded. “Yes.”

Heroe tapped her pen on her notebook. “What did you take that to mean?”

He shrugged. “That she was beat. We both were. We’d been up and working for more than two days.”

“In that time you two never went home?”

“Just to shower and change clothes.”

Heroe marked this down as if it would someday be used as evidence against him. He hated her even more.

She looked up. “Where were you before you arrived at the office?”

“We were following up several leads concerning the trafficking network that brought Arjeta Kraja into the States illegally.”

“And?”

“Unfortunately, they led nowhere.”

“Why were you so interested in Ms. Kraja?”

“That was Naomi’s idea. According to Alli Carson, the Kraja girl was seen with Billy Warren the night he was tortured and killed.”

Heroe processed his tone. “And you didn’t believe Ms. Carson.”

“Let’s put it this way. I’d have liked the opportunity to question the Carson girl more closely.”

“What stopped you?”

McKinsey shrugged. “You know as well as I do. She’s a protected entity.”

Heroe made more notes. “And you never found Ms. Kraja’s body.”

McKinsey sighed heavily and pressed his thumbs into his eye sockets. “She vanished into thin air.”

“Just like Agent Wilde.”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way, but I suppose you could say so, yes.”

Heroe scribbled industriously. She was good at it. Engaging his eyes again, she said, “Agent McKinsey, I’m afraid I have some bad news. We found Agent Wilde’s car. It had gone off the road in rural Maryland. We had the devil’s own time pulling it out of a concrete abutment at the base of the embankment.”

“Did you find her?” Suitably anxious tone. “Did you find Naomi?”

“No.”

He frowned. He was good at it. “What about her handbag, her cell? I’ve been trying to call her for hours.”

“There was nothing in the car,” Heroe said. “The driver’s side door was open and the seat belt hadn’t been engaged when the airbags deployed.”

McKinsey shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“That makes two of us, Agent McKinsey.”

Heroe flipped closed her notebook and stood. McKinsey admired her while she stretched. She was an imposing woman, with a good figure, fine features, and skin the color of bitter sweet chocolate. She seemed to be on the good side of forty, young to be the head of Violent Crimes. Either she had offered herself to all the right people, he thought, or she was very, very smart.

“Why don’t we take a break.” It was not a question. She gestured to a sideboard on which stood some kind of stainless-steel-and-glass apparatus that looked like it belonged in a Starbucks. “Would you like some coffee?”

“As long as it’s not swill.”

Her laugh seemed to him corrosive.

“I make my own. Stumptown.”

That meant nothing to him. While she busied herself, he looked at his hands. Steady as a rock. But he sorely wanted to get the hell out of there. He wasn’t used to being interrogated, and now he regretted his rash action at the bank. But he had had no choice. Naomi had discovered the connection between Middle Bay and Gemini Holdings. He was now in the middle of a shitstorm and he knew that bastard Pawnhill blamed him. He’d tried to warn Naomi away from Middle Bay but, as always, she had been like a dog with a bone. He’d admired that in her. Truth be told, shooting her dead had frazzled his nerves. That was a surprise. Before coming to the Secret Service he’d killed before, more times than he’d like to count, but this kill was different. It was Naomi. Christ, it was like a marriage—in many ways, more intimate. They’d had each other’s back. Until yesterday. Truth be told, he was still in shock. He continued to stare at his hands, wondering when they would begin to shake.

He looked up as Heroe returned with two tiny cups, setting one down in front of him.

“What the hell is this?”

She resumed her seat opposite him. “Haven’t you ever had an espresso?”

“I drink coffee,” he said.

“Espresso is coffee.” She took a sip. “Only better.”

He downed his in one gulp.

“About Agent Wilde’s car,” Heroe said. “I don’t think she was in it when it crashed.”

McKinsey almost choked. “I don’t … I don’t follow.”

“Forensics. No blood, bits of skin, the kind of evidence you’d expect to find somewhere in the interior—the front seat, the headrest, the steering wheel. There was nothing at all.”

Shit, he thought, I was so freaked out I forgot to plant the forensics.

At that moment, when he needed a reprieve the most, he got it. The door opened and Heroe’s boss, Alan Fraine, stuck his head in and signaled. Excusing herself, Heroe rose and went out of the room with him. He had counted off a hundred seconds when she returned, a scowl on her face.

She put her back against the open door. “You’re free to go.”

McKinsey grinned at her as he went out, and couldn’t help saying, “See you around the block.”

AFTER MCKINSEY had left the building, Heroe and Alan Fraine had a sit-down in his office. Unlike most offices, it was fanatically, almost obsessively, neat. Fraine himself was the same way. A man on the downward slope of middle age, balding, with a high, freckled forehead, he had small hands and feet, delicate fingers. His usual outfit was a neatly pressed long-sleeved shirt and suspenders, rather than a belt to keep his pants up over his narrow hips. He sat behind his desk while Heroe pulled over an armchair.

“I still wonder whether my leaking McKinsey’s whereabouts was a good idea,” Fraine said. “I was listening and it seemed to me that you were actually getting somewhere with him.”

Heroe sighed. “It was more important to find out who his rabbi is. So give.”

“You were right, it wasn’t his boss at the Secret Service,” Fraine said. “It was Andrew Gunn of Fortress.”

“Damn, isn’t that something!” Heroe punched the air. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”

“You think McKinsey’s dirty?”

“I know it,” Heroe said. “Furthermore, I think Naomi Wilde is dead—not missing, not abducted. I think she was killed because of what she knew or maybe discovered. And Peter McKinsey’s my prime suspect.”

“One federal agent murdering another? Jesus, Heroe, even for you that’s a lot to swallow in one gulp, especially with nothing tangible to back it up.”

“Take as many gulps as you want. The fact is Naomi Wilde’s car went off the road without her in it. Someone else dead-manned it to go off the road precisely where it did. I’m going to go over his alibi with a fine-tooth comb.”

Fraine swung his chair around and looked out the window with his thousand-mile stare. “If she’s dead why wasn’t she in the car?”

“My best guess? Her murder was a spur-of-the-moment thing, and it was messy. Also, if I had to go further, it’s possible that the manner of her death might have led us to suspect McKinsey.”

Fraine was used to Heroe’s speculations. The reason he didn’t shoot them down was that more often than not they proved correct. He spread his hands. “Okay, say you’re right on all counts—”

“I know I am.” She produced a cell phone and placed it on the desk between them.

Fraine glanced at it. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“This is Naomi Wilde’s cell. We found it in the center console of her car, where it was protected during the crash.”

“So?”

“Don’t you think if she were heading off to a dangerous place she’d have it with her?” She shook her head emphatically. “No, she was with someone she trusted when she was killed.”

“Someone like Peter McKinsey.” Fraine rubbed his forehead. “If you’re right—and that’s a big if—this isn’t going to go down well with the brass, not well at all.”

“Not my problem.”

“It will be if you can’t find the body. Not a word of this can be breathed to anyone until it’s found.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then your theory never leaves this office.”

“I can’t let that happen.”

“Where is she, Nona? Where is Naomi Wilde?”

“Fuck if I know.” She made her voice into a hoarse rasp. “But wherever she is, she’s sleeping with the fishes, just like Luca Brasi. And like a Corleone I’m going to track down whoever murdered her and get my revenge.”

Fraine turned back and leaned forward with his elbows on his desk. “Revenge is a mighty disturbing word coming from a law enforcement officer.”

Heroe rose. She was like a Valkyrie—fierce, dark, determined. “Yeah, well, murdering a Secret Service agent is a mighty disturbing business.”

“WHAT DID she say just before she died?”

Arian Xhafa turned, but the Syrian appeared quite serious.

“She said, ‘Why?’”

The Syrian’s eyes went briefly out of focus. They were like pits, merciless and brutal. “That’s what they all say. You’d think someone would be more creative.”

Perhaps you will be, when you die, Xhafa thought.

“Arjeta Kraja possessed knowledge, Xhafa, and knowledge is like a virus—it can so easily spread exponentially.” The Syrian raked his fingers through his beard, a sign that he was lost in thought. “Did she say anything else?”

“Yes.” Xhafa shivered. He had hoped the Syrian wouldn’t ask. “She said, ‘Where I’m going, there are no more secrets.’”

The Syrian started as if he’d been stuck with a hypodermic. “I knew the moment she ran,” he said, “and now here’s the proof of it. You see, you fool. She did know.”

Once again Xhafa felt like a child being reprimanded for his ignorance. Suddenly, he was possessed by a murderous rage, and he spent the next thirty seconds consciously uncurling his fingers, keeping them from becoming fists. Ever since the Syrian had brought up Arjeta Kraja, Xhafa had felt a cold lump forming in the pit of his stomach. The orphan student body at the Tetovo school was larded with girls—recruits to slavery his agents had stolen or bought from their desperate or unscrupulous families. One of those was Arjeta’s sister, Edon. Did she know what her sister knew, had her sister spoken to her before Xhafa had had a chance to silence Arjeta? He didn’t know. Come to that, he didn’t know whether Edon Kraja had survived the attack on the school. He prayed to Allah that she hadn’t. In either case, he dared not say a word about Edon to the Syrian. If he did, he knew it would be the end for him.

Oblivious to Xhafa’s mounting tension, the Syrian gazed out the smoked window, deeply immersed in his own thoughts. The caravan pulled into a huge estate, passed through an electronically controlled gate in a high fence topped with rolls of electrified razor wire, and now rolled along a drive of crushed marble so white that even in the gloom it sparkled. Men holding huge attack dogs on leashes appeared on either side of the house. The dogs strained at their leashes, their eyes golden and greedy.

The Syrian ignored them. “She saw and she must have heard someone mention the name.”

“But who would mention the name?” Xhafa said.

The armored vehicle came to rest precisely in front of an immense oak door, snatched from a looted medieval cathedral, that rose, as if on a plinth, at the top of six wide white stone steps.

The two men emerged from the vehicle. The attack dogs’ flanks quivered but they remained stationary; the scents of the two men were known to them.

The door was opened by Taroq, the compound’s chief guard. They exchanged greetings as he ushered them into a space as large as a football field and as spare as a monk’s cell. There was no furniture to speak of, only a number of silk prayer rugs, large cushions, and one low wooden table on which sat a tall teapot with a long S-shaped spout, six small glasses in brass frames, and an antique hookah. The two men removed their shoes on the doorstep and stepped into soft leather slippers with turned-up toes.

Light flooded the space from a series of windows on either side wall. Against the rear wall, a good distance away, was a simple desk and chair. On the desk were three computers—two desktops and a powerful but thin laptop. All were hooked into a high-speed modem with which the house had been specially provided, according to the specifications of the person sitting at the desk, peering from one screen to another.

“Hello, boys,” the figure said in a darkly sweet contralto. She spoke in English. “Back already?”

The chair swiveled around as the whisper of the men’s slippers approached. A young woman sat in the chair. She was thin as a reed with a pale, ascetic face whose main feature was a broad, high forehead. Her blond hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail that came to rest between her knife-thin shoulder blades. She wore a pair of black jeans and a man-tailored shirt of the same color with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing silken hair that was almost white. She wore no makeup or jewelry, but her deep-set emerald eyes glittered with a fierce and almost feral intelligence.

Then she stood and came toward them in long, athletic strides. She was tall, but not nearly as tall as the Syrian. She had to arch upward, standing on tiptoe, to kiss him on the lips, a long, lingering kiss whose naked passion forced Xhafa to look away.

The Syrian’s face broke into a smile of what might, for him, be termed bliss.

“Caroline, my habibi,” he said. “What terrible mischief have you been up to while I’ve been absent?”