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“Good,” I say, removing the flag pin with the built-in video camera and listening device. “What now?”
“Ernest Hollister is gone, this time tomorrow,” he says.
“Where?”
“I hear Cuba is nice this time of the year,” he says. “And you?”
I stare ahead at the dark upholstery of the seat-back before me.
“I want my smoke order lifted.”
“Done,” the tanned man says. “What else?”
“I don’t know who they are, or where they are,” I say. “But there are people out there who aided Rashad Hussain, or gave him money, or helped him do what he did—actions that ended up killing Tom and Denise.”
“I’m sure,” he says, then pauses. Clears his throat. “I’m working on some information that may be of use to you. Did you know that in the time leading up to the attack, your husband was corresponding with a news reporter called Yuri?”
“No,” I say. “Who is he?”
“He’s not a news reporter,” the man says. “We’re not sure who he is, but once we find out, we’ll let you know. In the meantime, what do you have planned?”
“While you’re chasing down Yuri, I’m going to do my own work,” I say, still staring at the blackness in front of me. “And then I’m going to track those people down, and kill them all.”
“How much time do you need?” the tanned man asks.
“Six months,” I say.
“Three,” he replies.
“Deal,” I say.
Chapter130
AT THEMulia Resort on Bali, Rashad Hussain is relaxing at one of the 108 luxurious villas that sprawl across its private 75 acres, savoring his view of the Nusa Dua beach and its accompanying warm waters. He’s waiting for his evening meal to be delivered by one of the many submissive and polite Balinese women who serve so expertly here.
He feels utterly safe and secure here. On the grounds of his villa, four members of a private security firm keep close watch on his surroundings, led by a slim, muscular Russian named Gregor; a former Spetsnaz NCO, he was released last year for excessive cruelty, which certainly takes some effort.
The air is pleasant and fragrant, and Rashad sighs with pleasure, knowing he will rest here for another week—as Roland Abboud, international businessman—while he considers his next move.
He sips from a pineapple-juice drink.
That operation in New York…too big, too complex, he now realizes. And whatever he did has been swept under the proverbial rug. The American news media have reported an amazing coincidence: a train accident happened at the same time some electrical fuses blew at One World Trade Center, causing a panicked evacuation that resulted in a few dozen deaths and injuries.
He sips again from his drink.
All right, it didn’t go as expected, but that doesn’t mean it was a failure. It was a learning experience—and Rashad learned a lot.
Next time it will be simpler, more direct.
Like that suitcase-nuke ploy he tried back in France. It was fake, but surely there are real devices like it out there in the world.
All it will take to find them is money and time.
And Rashad Hussain has plenty of money, and all the time in the world.
A soft rap on the door of his thatched villa.
“A moment,” he calls out. He puts his drink down, walks back into the villa and up to its main entrance—even his leg has healed well—and opens the door.
