Midas

3

East End Harbor

Long Island, New York

November 4

Bashar Shabaan had seen death before. Seen it up close.

The first time, he had been sitting in a car in Basra, minding his own business. Bashar was just slouched in the front seat, behind the wheel, waiting. He wasn’t waiting for anyone or anything. He was just waiting. It was during the first Gulf War.

In front of him was a truck. It looked like it was going to fall apart, like it couldn’t drive one more mile. There was a family inside, a mother and a father and some children, two teenaged boys. An American army jeep pulled up alongside and then the broken-down truck started to drive away. One of the boys rolled down a window, put his hand out to wave to the American soldiers, and the next thing Bashar knew there was gunfire everywhere. The tires on the truck exploded and then sagged, and the rickety wooden slats that had been built to hold the truck’s cargo splintered and just disappeared. The truck’s windows shattered and everywhere there were bullet holes. The woman was crying, weeping tears of rage and despair. The man and the two boys were dead, Bashar could see parts of their bodies dangling from the seats. Soldiers were yelling. He heard an officer, angry and loud, saying, “You stupid fuck! It was just a fucking kid! What the fuck were you thinking?” Then more soldiers came and the crying woman was taken away. Then the truck was taken away. Then it was as if nothing had ever happened. Except that Bashar knew that it had.

Another time, years later, he saw death come when it was not so unexpected. He was across the street when his cousin Hamid stepped onto a Jerusalem bus and martyred himself. Bashar saw the geysers of blood and the severed legs. He saw a little girl with lovely blonde hair, soft and curly, maybe seven years old, get on the bus right before Hamid. He also saw her body on the street moments later, her fair skin charred black, her blonde hair on fire.

Death did not shock Bashar Shabaan. Or terrify him. Or even make him curious in any way. He did not welcome it or embrace it. He was not like Hamid. But he understood that death was a part of life. And that life was largely about death and dying. There were no surprises to life, Bashar believed, because it always ended the same way.

Well, perhaps there was one surprise: Bashar Shabaan did not understand why he could not stop sweating.

It wasn’t hot outside. There was even a pre-winter chill in the air. It was the kind of damp autumn weather that Bashar detested. He liked heat, the baked feeling that came from standing in the glowing sun. He did not care for the American fall or winter. It gave him colds and the flu. For the three years he had lived in this country, he had shivered from November through February, no matter how many layers of clothes he had on. Bashar preferred warmth. The kind of warmth that radiated from his country.

But on this November afternoon, he felt none of the day’s coolness. He was burning up inside. His stomach was hurting and his mouth was dry and his throat was tight. Sweat was pouring from his forehead and palms.

And as he walked he suddenly understood the reason. The surprise was not really such a surprise. Yes, Bashar had seen death. But he had never before been the cause of it.

He had always wondered whether murderers, even ones who believed their causes were just, like Hamid, got nervous before they committed their crimes. Whether any of them, soldiers or martyrs, ever felt guilt or remorse or fear. Now he knew.

Murderers got sweaty palms and stomach cramps before they killed their victims. Murderers were afraid.

There was a big crowd of people milling around the street, about two blocks away from the restaurant. At first Bashar thought they were there for him, that it was some kind of giant trap. There were cameras and lights and policemen and suddenly his feet couldn’t move; they refused to take one step. But then he realized they weren’t there for him at all. It was a movie. They were shooting an American movie. There were long trailers and large men with larger bellies drinking beer and yelling into walkie-talkies. The policemen were actors, dressed in costume. He saw one actor, someone he recognized, sitting in a chair, doing a crossword puzzle. Bashar knew who it was, had seen him on television, on one of the late-night talk shows, but couldn’t think of his name. He waited a few moments, tried to remember, finally gave up. By then his feet could move. And they did. One step, then two, and then he was walking again, leaving the movie behind.

He was almost to his destination. He wiped his hands on his raincoat and, as he’d done at least a dozen times in the past two minutes, reached into his right coat pocket to feel the cell phone and make sure it was there. He ran over his instructions one more time, his lips moving ever so slightly in conjunction with the words in his mind.

Go inside.

Give the person at the front the right name.

Go to the table. Hand the briefcase over. Put it down on the floor.

Turn and leave. Don’t run. Walk slowly. Be polite.

Once outside the door, take the cell phone. Call immediately. Say that the job is done. Go to the alley to the left of the building. Then run.

Run as fast as you can.

Run like the devil himself was chasing you.

Bashar thought about running. He thought about his weak legs and fiery stomach.

He thought about getting paid for his few minutes of work. Fifty thousand dollars. It was a lot of money. More than he had ever seen before.

He thought about what was going to happen.

Then he thought about how the devil really would be chasing after him.

Bashar wondered if he’d have enough money to bribe the old bastard if they ever met.

He thought that just maybe he would.

Jimmy Leggett felt uncomfortable.

The woman across the table from him was looking at the wine list and that was one reason Jimmy felt edgy: he wasn’t used to eating in such fancy restaurants. Harper’s was new, open a couple of months and already filled with money. Hamptons money, which meant direct from Wall Street, Hollywood, or simply handed over from wealthy parents who could afford Long Island oceanfront property as their second, sometimes even their third home. The people eating their Cobb salads on their carb-free diets wore casual-looking sweatshirts made of cashmere and they paid with Platinum credit cards. He wasn’t a total rube, he’d been around some, but this was a little too refined for his taste. They didn’t just have fish, they had fish with a pistachio crust. The steak wasn’t just steak, it was pink peppercorn coated steak. It was like everything on the menu was pretending to be something it wasn’t. The martinis had flavors-apple and caramel and lemon cream-and there wasn’t a bottle of wine on the wine list that cost less than forty-eight bucks. He’d checked it out and even muttered something before the woman he was eating with had removed the list from his hands to take a look herself.

The second reason Jimmy Leggett was uncomfortable was that he was pretty sure the woman was taking him to lunch because she wanted to have sex with him and Jimmy had been married for twenty-seven years without once having cheated on his wife.

He glanced at the woman now, as she ordered a bottle from the waiter. She was a weekender. East End Harbor, where Jimmy had been police chief for nearly thirteen years, had a lot of weekenders these days. Not always. Although only fifteen minutes’ drive from the choicer part of the Hamptons, it used to be a year-round community, nicely blue-

collar and unpretentious. You had kids and they stuck around, they were able to buy a nice house just a few blocks away from where they grew up. It was the un-Hamptons town in the wealthy and chic Long Island beach community. But the past decade had brought prosperity. Even to East End. Things had slowed down somewhat in the past couple of years, along with the economy, but there were still clothing stores that sold hundred-dollar T-shirts and food stores that sold nothing but truffles and caviar and champagne glasses. The next generation was moving upstate or mid-Island, they couldn’t afford to live in their hometown anymore-small two-bedroom Victorian houses were going for seven hundred grand. The burger joint on the corner was now a sushi bar. The take-out Chinese was a creperie. And this attractive fifty-year-old weekender whose ex-husband had paid her a tidy sum of money to get away from her and who’d clearly had a couple of face-lifts and probably a boob job, thought it would be sexy to have a fling with the local head cop. She came into the station the first time to complain about kids with boom boxes. Then she came in again to ask advice about an alarm system for her house-prosperity had brought crime along with expensive T-shirts-and then everyone in the station knew that the next few times she showed up she was coming in to flirt with the boss. Times have changed, Jimmy thought. And he was trying to decide now if he was going to finally change along with them.

But none of that was what was really bothering him at the moment. He’d get over the price of the lunch. And he’d deal with whatever he decided to do about the woman, one way or the other. Something else was making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

It was the guy at the front of the restaurant, the sweaty guy with the briefcase.

He looked Middle Eastern. Maybe Indian. Jimmy was never too good with that kind of thing. People were people as far as he was concerned. He never paid too much attention to where they came from. The guy was walking past the hostess, going straight for a table just a few feet from Jimmy’s. He was carrying an expensive leather briefcase. Large. It looked like it was heavy.

The guy found the table he was looking for. There were three men sitting there. One of them wore a pinstriped suit and tie, an outfit that was none too common out there, especially at lunchtime. The other two men were more in keeping with the community dress code. One wore khakis and a tennis sweater. The other had on pressed jeans and a starched, long-sleeved button-down blue shirt with a two-tone collar. The sweaty guy said something to Pressed Jeans, and put the briefcase down on the floor next to the man’s chair. Pressed Jeans nodded, didn’t look surprised or alarmed at the delivery. He didn’t tip the guy either. But the sweaty guy didn’t wait for a tip. The moment he released the briefcase, his back was turned and he’d taken two quick steps toward the door.

Jimmy stood. He wasn’t sure why. Cop’s instinct. There was something funny about this guy. Something was up. So Jimmy took a step forward, didn’t even look at the woman at his table, didn’t see her disapproving frown. He was watching the sweaty guy, who suddenly stopped walking and looked down toward the pocket of his raincoat. The guy looked confused all of a sudden, like he couldn’t believe what was happening. Jimmy didn’t know what the hell was happening either. All he knew was that he heard a muffled ringing sound.

The sound of a cell phone receiving a call.

Bashar Shabaan froze in place. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

The phone was not supposed to ring. They were not supposed to call him. He was supposed to call them. This was very, very wrong.

And then suddenly he understood. There was no question in his mind. It wasn’t wrong at all. It made perfect sense. It was exactly as planned.

Exactly as they had planned.

Bashar wanted to scream, but he didn’t. He wanted to run, but he didn’t do that either. Instead, Bashar stood still, completely still, and thought about his faith. He thought about Hamid and what he must have felt stepping onto that bus. And he prayed for his mother and father. He thought that when he first saw death, when he’d seen the soldiers kill that family, he was young. So very young. And now he was so very old.

Twenty-nine years old.

As old as he’d ever get, he thought.

Then he closed his eyes and thought about how he’d never get his money.

He’d never find out if he could bribe the devil.

A real pity.

Because he knew without a doubt he’d be meeting the old bastard any moment now.

First came the noise.

Jimmy Leggett heard that. It was so deafening, so loud that it seemed to have a physical force all its own. And then it got louder because soon there were screams and moans and crying and prayers.

Then the blood came.

Jimmy Leggett saw that. At least some of it. Mostly what he saw was his own blood, which spurted because something ripped into his chest, tearing him apart. That same something lifted him up and carried him backward so fast he felt like he was flying.

There was a lot more blood than just Jimmy’s because the initial explosion also ripped many other bodies in half, mangling and crushing anything in its ferocious path. The impact shattered almost all the glass in the restaurant-the windows, the mirrors, the chandeliers-sending fragments and shards, some mere slivers, some the size of checkerboards, hurtling through the air; deadly, jagged projectiles slicing through skin and bone, splashing the white stucco and beige tiles of Harper’s Restaurant with gallons of blood, as if being hurled from hundreds of paint cans, blood that was thick and dark, dark red.

And then just as quickly it was washed out and pink, because the sprinkler system burst into action and then a water main was severed, and the new mix of blood and water flooded across the restaurant floor like a river, streaming into the street through what was left of the front of the restaurant. It looked like a slaughterhouse being hosed down after the working day. Jimmy felt that because he was still alive then, his body broken and wet and dying.

Other debris swept past Jimmy as he lay there: pieces of furniture, shoes, plates, silverware, vases, even jewelry, much of which was still attached to severed fingers and ears. And that’s when Jimmy Leggett smelled the death that surrounded him. The bloody rags that just moments before had been well-cared-for clothing but were now scattered everywhere: stuck to whatever walls remained, wrapped around table legs, flapping against unmoving bodies. The arms and legs that had been ripped from their sockets, that were dripping red and were piled up so thick they looked like stacks of firewood.

And then Jimmy’s senses got fuzzy. He was barely aware of the ceiling plaster that was plummeting in chunks, dropping into the frenzied activity below and onto the deafened, terrified survivors, making them think that the sky itself was falling. He understood that there was new movement, but didn’t know it was the emergency medical workers and doctors who arrived within minutes after the blast went off and were doing their best to move anyone still breathing into waiting ambulances. He felt heat, great heat, but didn’t realize that volunteer firemen had arrived, too, and were waging battle with the fire that broke out when a gas main in the kitchen ruptured. By the time those customers at Harper’s who were not killed by the explosion had burned to death in the raging fire, Jimmy could see, hear, feel, and smell nothing at all.

Jimmy Leggett’s last thoughts were about his wife. He saw her face, wanted to tell her not to be so sad. Mostly he wanted to say that he probably wouldn’t have slept with the weekend woman no matter how much the goddamn lunch had cost. Within seconds of his death, the streets had been cordoned off and no one was allowed within three blocks in any direction of the devastation. And within three hours after it had begun, the worst was over. The dead had been removed, the living were in Southampton Hospital. Where there had once been life, all that remained was a sudden quiet, an absence of movement, an eerie vision of things that remained untouched and unchanged. A photograph of Main Street in East Hampton that still hung on the restaurant wall, unscarred. A candle that stood unbroken in its candleholder. Mere feet from the center of the room, the point of the explosion, was a round table that stood absolutely intact-flowers still blooming in a small glass vase; the tablecloth neither torn nor sullied; knives, forks, and spoons sitting exactly as they’d been placed. There were two plates on the table. One held a half-eaten steak with a nearly untouched baked potato. It looked as if the diner would be returning from the bathroom momentarily to finish his or her meal. The other plate was filled with small, thin pieces of pasta. It also had a severed hand next to it, a fork still clutched in the fingers.

The FBI showed up, taking over from the overwhelmed and shell-shocked local law enforcement, and the human tragedy was quickly turned into an impersonal crime scene. The TV cameras stayed, of course, positioning themselves as close as they were allowed, and settled in for a long siege. Print journalists churned out copy, spoke to witnesses, and searched for theories while TV reporters stood in front of the cameras and made an instant and unanimous proclamation, sending it out over the airwaves: a terrorist bombing.

A message from America’s enemies to its citizens: No one is safe.

Anywhere.

Anymore.

Ever.