Banquo's Ghosts (35 page)

“That’ll play well,” Agent Smith commented, while Wesson remarked, “Yeah, yanked the prayer rug right from under them.”

Banquo wasn’t amused. “But in the process you lost Abdul at LaGuardia, correct? And managed to get caught in the Queens workhouse.”

O’Hanlon cleared his throat, somewhat chagrined. “Obviously we’re running all these prayer guys down and will have more on them in the morning.” This didn’t seem to impress Banquo sufficiently, so he added: “I’m getting the sense, though, that these Prayer Rugs are absolutely clean, per Wallets’ impression. This is a political stunt meant to portray TSA as proto-fascists, file a lawsuit or two, and maybe get some loosening of security.”

“Speak of the devil,” Wallets said and gestured toward the muted TV.

Josephine von Hildebrand gassing on Olbermann’s
Countdown
. Actually—as it became clear when Banquo un-muted the TV—she was mostly just saying, “You’re right, Keith.”

“You’re right, Keith—it’s almost like Muslims can’t pray in this country anymore.”

“You’re right, Keith—there’s nothing scary about Muslim piety.”

“You’re right, Keith—there’s something suspicious about the timing of this so-called security incident.”

Showing his usual commitment to balanced debate, Olbermann then turned to his other guest, who totally agreed with him—Ibrihim Mahdi of the Council on Islamic Peace and Tolerance. O’Hanlon nodded toward the screen and said, “He’s a big Hezbollah symp. Just try to get that guy to condemn suicide bombing. He’ll talk circles round you.”

“Mr. Olbermann,” Ibrihim Mahdi said, “we want people to reject ignorance and intolerance. Muslims aren’t frightening. Muslim prayer is not a crime. We wish we lived in a society that understood the basic precept of tolerance.”

“Ibrihim,” Olbermann asked, tight-lipped and intense, “do you think the neocons are going to take advantage of these incidents?”

Banquo hit mute again and tossed the remote on the table. “So what
did
you find at the other workbench place today?” he asked O’Hanlon.

“So far we’ve got some guys with a sewing machine and bizarre habits. No explosives. Nothing illegal. But lots of paint, blue jeans, a few reinforced, hardened backpacks, and a special shower setup.” O’Hanlon described them all in more detail.

“What are the backpacks hardened with?” Banquo asked.

“We couldn’t tell.”

“Backpacks make everyone nervous,” Banquo mused. “You sure they didn’t have ball bearings sewn in the sides, something like that?”

“No, definitely flexible plates of something or other.”

“And the shower—that kind of setup makes you think biohazard. What about strange liquids, lab materials, powders? Anything of that nature?”

“Nothing.”

Banquo stared at the now muted TV. “Just lots of paint?”

“Yep.”

“What do you think, Wallets?” Banquo asked.

“I’m sure the same thing you do. These are strange cats that give off a bad vibe. But maybe they’re freelance amateurs, or just low-level guys leading somewhere else.”

Banquo raised a hand. “Or maybe they’re really smart. They know the heat’s on, so they tied a can to your tail and dragged you right to LaGuardia for a prayer meeting.”

Wallets sighed. He had no answer for that. “Then there’s the—”

“Phone call,” Banquo, Wallets, and O’Hanlon said in unison.

“Her name is Farah Nasir. New player,” O’Hanlon began. “We’ll get a tap up and running tonight and should know more about her tomorrow. Wesson, I want you to peel off Giselle for a while and stick to Farah. Where does she work, who does she see, what are her days and nights like? Everything.”

“She’s my girl lollipop,” Wesson said.

The table went silent for a moment.

“Anyone care to take on the word ‘polak’?” Bryce ventured.

Banquo raised a silent eyebrow.

“Maybe we’re dealing with an Eastern European conspiracy,” Smith cracked. Six pairs of eyes looked dimly at her. Banquo’s lips curled upward, and then he looked at O’Hanlon. “Tell me about the paint.”

“Oh, yeah. They apparently bought it at Blick’s, a local art supply store on Bond Street.”

“Someone should go by the store and see if there’re any patterns, anything odd, whatever.”

“Can you
hurt
anyone with paint?” Bryce asked.

“Ever see a Hitchcock movie?” Banquo grunted. “Or read a Roald Dahl story or eaten a leg of lamb? You can hurt someone with anything, given enough malice and imagination. We’ll give these Workbench Boys some slack just as soon as we see them working at their easels next Saturday in Prospect Park.” His eyes drifted to the bottle of Armagnac on the shelf, and Bryce knew what to do. When the glasses finally came round the table, Banquo quietly mused, “Isn’t
anyone
slightly bothered how quickly the WINS Newsman got to LaGuardia? Or is it just me?”

J
ohnson stared at his laptop screen. His new mail icon flashed at him. The email address read “[email protected]” with the subject line “Good to See You Safe.” Johnson knew the sender: Jan Breuer, bribe master, once of Dutch Shell, now apparently associated with an oil consulting firm working out of the Netherlands. The body of the message was simple: Glad you’re back. Visiting New York for several weeks, perhaps they could get together. Gather you know my friend Anton Anjou of Banque Luxembourg. Small world. And a cell phone number.

Johnson immediately forwarded the email to Wallets, who replied in under fifteen seconds: “Meet him. Find out what he wants.” Johnson sensed Wallets reading everything going through his PC. It didn’t really bother him; the snooping over his shoulder had long since ceased to have an impact. For the first time in his life, Peter felt clear as a glass of water.

The TV in his Brooklyn Heights apartment droned on in the background. Yet another “small world” moment. From London, MSNBC was conducting an overseas interview with a new and influential face on the international scene: Dr. Yasmine Farouk, PhD, of the Tehran Polytechnic Institute, while behind her stood the insect-thin Sheik Kutmar. She, in Western garb and demure blue hijab covering her hair; he, in traditional robes and turban. Underneath her face ran the title
“Vice President, Atomic Energy Organization of Iran.” Behind them, the Thames flowing before the long stretch of the Parliament building and Big Ben. “We oppose obtaining nuclear weapons,” Yasmine had said, “and we will peacefully use nuclear technology under the framework and observation of the Nonproliferation Treaty and the United Nations International Atomic Energy Agency.”

Johnson felt a pit in his stomach. He had ostensibly escaped Yasmine and Kutmar but was not rid of them truly, not if they were going to become international media darlings. He thought
he
was supposed to be the media whore. A mere four minutes earlier Jo von H had left a voice message on his answering machine. The UN was sponsoring the young Iranian physicist and her mentor, Dr. Yahdzi, on a trip to the United States. In a coup de théâtre she’d snagged the right to sponsor the first American press avail, beating out the big guys. Apparently the Iranians liked
The Crusader
’s coverage. Tomorrow 10 AM. The Josephine von Hildebrand apartment. Be there.

Perfect. Life imitates Marcel Duchamp’s 1917 Dadaesque sculpture
Fountain
. An upside down urinal. Sure, he’d be there and try not to piss on himself.

Giselle came out of her bedroom, paused near the couch, and stared at him gazing stupidly into his laptop. Finally he noticed her.

“Hi. Sorry—dreaming.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of that lately.” That sounded harsh to his daughter’s ears, and she softened it some: “I mean, after everything—”

There was nothing to forgive. “I understand.”

Giselle seemed to fret over some decision. Something she wanted to ask him. “Feel like—feel like coming to dinner tonight?”

He knew what she meant.

Il Monello on 2
^nd
Avenue and 76
^th
Street was one of those top-end neighborhood restaurants that make Manhattan the envy of the dining world. Seating fewer than sixty people, a troop of small tables along couched walls, under nine-foot flat matte ceilings. With a few more
tables in the middle. But what the place lacked in elbow room, it made up for in the whiteness of its linen and the polish of its service. There wasn’t much space to hang over tables and gossip. If you came to a place like this, you were seated to be served. The acoustics were unobtrusive, the voices of those at supper gently cascading over one another. Not like in those cavernous ugly modern places where you couldn’t hear yourself think. Here you could say, “Pass the salt,” and your dining companion would actually hear you.

Anton was already seated when Giselle and Johnson arrived, but rose like a gentleman and held the chair for the young lady. In twenty minutes they were most of the way through an excellent Chianti, the appetizers of grilled shrimp Fra Diavolo and carpaccio devoured while Johnson couldn’t remember what pasta he’d ordered. Oh that’s right, parpadelle, bow ties with pancetta, broccoli rabe, and pine nuts. A feast for a king. But he didn’t feel like a king this evening. More of a hovering wasp, waiting for the chance to sting.

It took all Johnson’s self-control not to sling his wineglass into Anton’s face; the indulgence with which he treated Giselle and unctuous yet easy way he sucked up to Daddy Peter—knowing all the while the smooth shit was buddies with the Brooklyn train riders. Almost too much to tolerate.

Suddenly the mood was broken when a voice came at them from the bar. “Anton! Peter!” A buttery voice with a slight accent. Belgian. Nederlandisher. And for the first time in years Johnson saw his old bribe master; the blond head of Jan Breuer bobbed at them from across the restaurant. His cheeks slightly florid with drink. Johnson wondered just how much a man had to drink to get those veins in his face. God, he’d done his share, more than enough to get a spider web or two of varicose blood vessels that grew livid with every glass he knocked back. The scent of cigarettes preceded the Belgian oil man, the odor saturating him from suit to skin.

“Jan! Amazing!” Johnson reached across the table with his hand.

“Indeed, my friend.” Then to the Frenchman, “Anton, I’d heard you were assigned to New York.”

The three of them had an extra seat. “Care to join us?”

The mildly drunk Dutchman accepted. “For a moment or two—my clients are late.” Anton seemed a little put out to see the man, as if some business between them hadn’t turned out so well. Saying, “You’re looking well, Jan.”

The middle-aged Belgian Big Oil consultant rumbled in his throat. Then coughed softly, a grisly nicotine cough. “Nice of you to say so. But I’m not.” Then Johnson noticed the gray pallor about his eyes, the deepening blue circles. “I’m afraid my Marlboros finally caught up with me,” Jan Breuer said. “Then sort of traveled up,” he pointed to his head. “It’s gone to my brain now, and as everyone knows, I was never so smart that I could afford to lose much of it.”

All at once Johnson felt terrible. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your email this afternoon. I was planning to; of course, if I’d known—” Babbling. But Jan Breuer laughed and waved his apology away.

“You didn’t. Let’s plan on something tomorrow. No time like the present, eh?”

“Indeed,” Johnson agreed. Suddenly glad to do it. Never mind the preposterous coincidence of seeing Jan in the restaurant. Sure the fantastic appearance nagged him, but seeing the dead man walking changed everything. Maybe that was the point. Maybe Jan contacted him after all these years to show him how it all came to an end. The final outcome. The one-way ticket paid in cash, no baggage. Nothing to declare.

“Ah!” Jan Breuer’s eyes flashed at the door. Some people waved through the windows of the restaurant. He downed his drink. “My guests. We’re going somewhere else. Peter, see you tomorrow, anywhere you choose. Anton, perhaps you’ll see me too if time permits. And when you do, allow me to make amends.”

At this Anton merely nodded but neither rose nor extended his hand for a farewell handclasp.

Before the man had gone five steps, Anton grimaced into his endive salad. Then hissed, “Good riddance. Couldn’t happen to a more deserving charlatan.”

Giselle was scandalized at her beau’s callousness. “Anton!”

“It’s true!” Anton shot back with an ugly flash of the eyes.

Now Johnson was curious. “What did he do?”

Anton snorted. “It was so complicated I’m not sure I can even explain it to myself. Suffice it to say, he deposited some funds that weren’t his to handle. And worse than that, of questionable origin. Before long EU bank inspectors of various nations were knocking on our doors. The bank will have nothing to do with him now. I mean Bank Luxembourg isn’t exactly House of Rothschild.”

Then with some clicking of gears and the tic-toc of his mind, Anton addressed Johnson as mildly as possible: “How did
you
know him, Peter?”