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YURI:Don’t know. But there’s been lots of traffic jams. My sources say one thing, one thing only.
Tom knows what Yuri is saying when he mentions traffic jams. He’s not talking about the Queens-Midtown Tunnel at rush hour. No, he means an increase in intelligence traffic, also known aschatter.The easiest explanation he got forchatterhad come from Amy, back when they were first dating. She had said, “If killer A is communicating with killer B and you can’t read what they’re saying, but you know they send two emails a week, that’s a pattern. If those two emails increase to twenty, or two hundred, or two thousand, even if you still don’t know what they’re saying, you know they’re talking about something important, something big.”
That had been the case, Tom recalls, pre-9/11. There had been increases in chatter and message traffic, but nothing that could be deciphered or analyzed to point to a particular target.
All that existed were the indications that something bad was coming, and the usual government idiocy that meant the CIA couldn’t talk to the FBI, and both agencies ignoring warnings from their respective agents in the field.
TOM:Can’t you tell me any more? I’m getting the same whispers from this side of the world.
YURI:Not now. But my FSB guys are certain: something bad, something bad is coming.
TOM:Great.
YURI:Piece of advice?
TOM:Would love some advice.
Pause.
Pause.
YURI:Get out of New York.
Chapter20
THE PAINin his side, in his skull, and in his legs grows harsher and more demanding with every step, but Jeremy is determined not to show Amy how hurt he is. He’s also determined to keep a distance between them, especially after telling her about Rashad Hussain. That part was true indeed, but as for his offer to let her help him…well, as he knew from experience, sometimes bad things had to happen for the greater good.
Amy is down on one knee in front of him in a narrow trash-filled and urine-smelling alleyway, looking at a two-story concrete building on a street lined with two-story buildings, utility wires crisscrossing overhead, satellite dishes on top of the flat roofs. Dented and beaten-up sedans from half a dozen different automotive brands—old trade-ins from everywhere in Europe, dumped here for one more resale—crowd the street. A dog is barking somewhere. A solitary light on a utility pole at the other end of the street flickers into life as the dusk grows deeper.
She turns to him, H&K MP5 hidden under her coat, SIG Sauer pistol in her hand, and whispers, “Is this it?”
He squats down beside her, gritting his teeth at the pain. “Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“The shutters,” he explains. “The only one in the street with yellow shutters.”
“Okay,” she replies. “What now?”
Here goes,he thinks. “Amy…I’m knackered. Can you help?”
“Sure.”
Jeremy says, “The house with the yellow shutters. It has the Renault parked in front, missing the rear windscreen. Go across, knock on the door. Ask for Nassim. Tell him Ricky is here. Needs help. He’ll know what to do. I’ll stay here…”
“Ricky?”
“That’s how he knows me.”
Amy says, “I don’t like leaving you behind. We’ve got a lot to do with Rashad and we can’t afford to be split up.”
“It’s only ten meters or so. I’ll be fine. I’ll lie doggo here with the trash and wait for the two of you to come back.”
She seems to think this through, then whispers, “Very good. Nassim. Don’t stray…Ricky.”
He makes a point of leaning against the brick wall of the alley. “Wouldn’t dare.”
Amy doesn’t say anything more, just does her job—which is to briskly walk across the street to the parked Renault, dodging a few potholes along the way. When she’s out of sight, Jeremy turns and limps as fast as he can to the other end of the alley.
