“The Strategist will kill you!” Mifsud yelled, and leapt to his feet, shaking his fist at them, his shackles clanging. “There was no way for you to know we would attack, we were very careful when we followed you.” Tears came into his eyes, choking him. “It was a trap, you were waiting for us to come, you wanted us to come. We couldn’t know there would be so many of you—”
Sherlock gave him another push. “Of course we knew you were following us. The Strategist failed you, didn’t he? As did your precious imam. They sent you into a trap. Which one of those brilliant men selected Nasim Conklin to blow up the security line at JFK? Which one of them sent the three of you?”
Shadid flew out of control. “You shut your mouth, you accursed woman! Your laws are absurd, sending two useless women to insult me. As for the imam, yes, I know of him. So does every true Muslim in London. He is a great man, a holy man. The British will never be able to arrest him, he is too well protected by their own laws.”
Kelly buffed her fingernails on her sleeve as she said in a bored voice, “Sit down, Mr. Shadid, calm yourself. You should know that Imam Al-H?di ibn Mirza isn’t going to be giving any more orders. We’ve heard the good news that the imam has been formally arrested in London. MI5 is providing his lodging now, no cell phones or visitors allowed. Your great holy man has had his teeth pulled. Next comes his head,” and she made a chopping motion.
“There is no hangman’s noose in England!”
“Oh, yes, true enough, Mr. Shadid,” Kelly said. “But from where you come from, all you need is a knife, do you not, to cut off a hand, an ear, a head?”
Mifsud Shadid spat toward Kelly again, but Mr. Clark-Wittier’s leather case was in the way. “No, you are lying to me. What you are saying is impossible.”
Kelly shook her head at him. “Your counsel here can tell you it’s true. As we speak, MI5 is searching the imam’s office and home on Camden Street.” She rose and slammed her fist on the table in front of Mifsud. “Your imam was as convinced as you that he was untouchable. I doubt he took all the precautions. They will find names, times, and places. They will find your names, too, won’t they? Your precious imam will never again see the light of day, and neither will you.”
Kelly leaned close. “In spite of her tender years, Kenza will be imprisoned for life, or, more likely, she’ll get a shiv in her back within her first few months in prison. All civilized countries hate terrorists, and that includes their criminals in prison. Kenza won’t be able to protect herself, not with a shattered wrist. She’ll end up in a potter’s field, a cheap gravestone to mark where her bones lie.”
Mifsud was breathing fast and hard, his mouth working.
One more push, Sherlock thought, and said, “MI5 passed us a report that the Strategist has a young Muslim girl as a mistress. Is it Kenza?”
“No! That is a lie!” Mifsud leapt to his feet, chains banging against the table. Then he sank back down in his chair, lowered his face in his hands. “No,” he whispered, “that is another of your lies. Kenza hasn’t even met him. He is too important for the likes of her.” He raised his face to Sherlock. “She would not sleep with anyone, Kenza and I—” He shook his head, shut his mouth.
Cal rose. “Mr. Shadid, I am here to advise you. If you wish to survive, if you wish that young girl, Kenza, to survive, you need to tell the FBI agents everything you know or suspect or have heard about the people who sent you here. Otherwise”—he shrugged—“I shall not be able to help you.”
Sherlock sat back in her chair, tapped her pen on the tabletop. “Did the Strategist force her to sleep with him, Mr. Shadid? And did she tell you? Did it make you angry?”
Kelly said, “If you tell us what you know, I will personally ensure that Kenza is kept protected. I will not allow her to be killed.”
Shadid was shaking his head, crying. He swiped a shackled hand over his eyes. “She said nothing to me because you are lying, it’s all lies. Listen to me, the Strategist would never shame Kenza, she is honest and loyal, a fighter. He would never shame any Muslim girl, no, he consorts with an Englishwoman, a Christian noblewoman, he flaunts her in everyone’s face.”
Jackpot.
In the next room, the agents turned to their laptops and started pulling up London society pages and online social event calendars, looking for an English noblewoman on the arm of a rich Algerian who would turn out to be a terrorist.
CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT
HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Monday morning
Savich reached out his hand to his phone, paused, drew it back. He wanted to speak to Sherlock, let her reassure him once again that she was all right, although he knew she’d downplay what had happened last night in Brooklyn. He’d let her get away with it, given that Cal was his pipeline. No way would he let Cal shade the truth when it came to Sherlock. He frowned. Could he trust even Cal to be totally up front? Or, like Sherlock, was he leaving out details, not wanting to worry him? Savich hated being apart from her, hated not knowing she was safe.
Was he being a hypocrite? He wasn’t about to tell her what he was going to do to try to expose Dalco. He believed his logic was sound. There was nothing she could do to help him, so there was no point in worrying her.
Interviews and physical evidence couldn’t tie Dalco more directly to the crime scenes, he hadn’t even been there. And that meant there was nothing else left to Savich but to destroy Dalco. Then he would have to convince the federal prosecutor not to prosecute Walter Givens and Brakey Alcott because they hadn’t been responsible for the cold-blooded murders they’d committed. A formidable challenge, but he was the only one who could save them. He had a plan, he was now ready to move, to face it head-on. He needed Griffin. He walked to where he was working on his computer, Ollie standing at his elbow.
Griffin looked up, met Savich’s eyes, and nodded. He said something to Ollie, turned off his computer, and followed Savich into his office. Savich waved him to a seat, said without pause, “I have a plan, Griffin, but before we drive to Plackett to the Alcott compound, I want to make sure you understand what you’re getting into. It could be dangerous.
“As you know, some of the Alcotts—or all of them—have been lying, covering up who Dalco is, probably because they’re afraid of him. There’s anger and conflict in that family, there has to be, because of Dalco using Brakey to commit murder, and they’ve been covering that up, too. It’s a front they’ve kept together, and it’s gone on long enough. I’m going to blow it all up if I can. It’s the only way forward, the only way to find out who Dalco is.
“I told you Dalco has already tried to kill me himself. If you come with me to the Alcotts’ today, you might provoke him into targeting you, too. It’s a risk you need to consider.”
“I’ve already been in Dalco’s sights, in McCutty’s woods with you. We’re in this together, Savich.” He gave Savich a wide grin. “Hey, danger is my business.”
Savich grinned back, but his voice remained serious. “Yes, but there’s physical danger we risk every day, but then there’s this. What did Anna have to say about the ambush on Saturday?”
“I haven’t talked to her about it. I didn’t want to frighten her, didn’t want to have to try to explain the inexplicable. She’d believe me, but it would scare her and I don’t want to do that. Maybe after we’re married and she knows me better—we’ll see. Right now, though, I don’t want her involved.”
Savich didn’t understood that, but it was Griffin’s decision. Anna was a DEA agent who could kick the crap out of a drug or gun dealer and whistle as she slapped on the cuffs. Savich thought she could deal with anything. She and Griffin had met when she was undercover in Maestro, Virginia, a couple months before, and had fallen for each other, a surprise to both of them.