Jihad

CHAPTER 116

By the time Dean landed in Mexico City Sunday morning, the Art Room had found the alias Kenan Conkel had used during his September visit and connected it with a pair of stolen credit cards used for a cash advance and meal in Mexico City, as well as an airline ticket to Veracruz, a city on Mexico’s Gulf Coast.

“I doubt he was there on vacation,” said Telach sarcastically as she briefed Dean, “but we haven’t figured out what he was doing. If he was setting up a safe house or some sort of network, that may be why he’s there.”

The fact that it might be part of whatever attack Asad was planning was left unsaid. The Mexican police had been told that Kenan was wanted in connection with the murder in Detroit; Dean was to talk to them first thing Monday. He would also check in with the CIA, which had an extensive file on al-Qaeda dealings in Mexico.

“First, get some sleep,” Telach told him. “I know you haven’t had much the last week.”

Dean grunted. He took a cab to the hotel the Art Room had booked, then went out again to check the area where the cash advance had been made, a business district largely deserted on Sunday. The restaurant, by contrast, was in a bustling neighborhood, the street choked with locals and a smattering of tourists. Dean wandered through the nearby streets as if he were a jet-lagged, awestruck tourist, sizing up the area. After about five minutes he realized it was useless to look for Kenan here, but he kept walking anyway, hoping for a lucky break that would snag the kid. When he finally gave up, he had an impossible time getting a taxi and ended up walking nearly three miles back to the hotel.

Worn out, Dean collapsed on his bed as soon he got into the room. Within moments, he was sound asleep.

He woke at three A.M. the next day. Dim yellow light filled the room, as if it were encased in amber. Smog had descended on the city, filtering the bright lights of the hotel and nearby buildings. Outside, the city was cast in a sinister sepia, the color something stolen from a 1930s gangster movie. It would be the scene right before the good guy was shot, thought Dean, the setup for the big tearjerker at the end.

He closed the curtains and went back to the bed, but couldn’t sleep. He thought of Kenan Conkel and then his parents, clueless and confused back home.

Dean thought of his own father, stubborn — twenty times more stubborn than Kenan’s for sure — and ornery. He’d have come after Dean if he heard he’d been mixed up in something like this.

Or maybe not. Maybe he’d been in denial as well. Dean had expected him to make trouble with the marines, but he hadn’t. He’d just treated Dean as if he didn’t exist, which at the time was all right with Dean.

If he saw Conkel now, Dean wasn’t going to bother shadowing him. He’d grab the kid and get him locked up. It was the best thing for him, and his family, to say nothing of the innocent people he might end up helping to murder.

Assuming Dean caught up with him.

Dean closed his eyes, but he couldn’t turn off his brain. After an hour more of fitful tossing and turning, he got up and took a shower, then went to look for something to eat.