“How can I help you?”
“Luke, we just got a piece of intel,” she said. “The body you and Don found in the hospital.”
“Tell me.”
“Thirty-one-year-old Ibrahim Abdulraman. Libyan national, born in Tripoli to a very poor family. Little if any formal education. Joined the army at eighteen. Within a short time, he was transferred to Abu Salim prison, where he worked for several years. He has been implicated in human rights violations at the prison, including torture and murder of government political opponents. In March 2011, as the regime began to collapse, he fled the country. He must have seen the writing on the wall. A year later, he turned up in London, working as a bodyguard for a young Saudi prince.”
Luke’s shoulders slumped. “Hmmm. A Libyan torturer working for a Saudi prince? Who then ends up dead while stealing radioactive materials in New York? Who was this guy, really?”
“He had no history of extremist ties, and doesn’t seem to have had strong political beliefs. He was never an elite soldier for any military, and appears not to have undergone any advanced training. It looks to me like he was an opportunist, hired muscle. He disappeared from London ten months ago.”
“Okay, give me that name again.”
“Ibrahim Abdulraman. And Luke? You need to know something else.”
“Tell me.”
“I didn’t find out this information. It’s on the big board in the main room. This guy Myerson at NYPD didn’t give me the identifiers when he had them, and they did their own search. They released the information to everybody without even telling us. They’re boxing us out.”
Luke looked at Ed and rolled his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in an interagency pissing contest. “All right, well…”
“Listen, Luke. I’m a little worried about you. You’re running out of friends here, and I doubt an international incident is going to help. Why don’t we pass the bank transfer details up the line, and let Homeland make this call? We can apologize for the hack, say we got overzealous. If you go see that diplomat now, you’re putting yourself way out on a limb.”
“Trudy, I’m already there.”
“Luke—”
“Trudy, I’m hanging up now.”
“I’m trying to help you,” she said.
After he hung up, he looked at Ed.
“You ready?”
Ed barely moved. He gestured at the building.
“I was born to do this.”
*
“Can I help you gentlemen?” the man said as they walked in.
A glittering chandelier hung from the ceiling in the front lobby. To the right, there was a sofa and a couple of designer chairs. There was a long counter along the left wall, with another doorman standing behind it. He had a telephone, a computer, and a bank of video screens. He also had a small TV set showing the news.
The man appeared about forty-five. His eyes were red and veiny, not necessarily bloodshot. His hair was slicked back. He looked like he had just stepped out of the shower. Luke guessed he had worked here so long, he could drink all night and do the job in his sleep. He probably knew by sight every single person who ever came in or out of this place. And he knew that Luke and Ed didn’t belong.
“Ali Nassar,” Luke said.
The man picked up his telephone. “Mr. Nassar. The penthouse suite. Who may I say is calling?”
Without saying a word, Ed slid over the counter and pressed the handle on the receiver, severing the man’s connection. Ed was big and strong like a lion, but when he moved, he was fluid and graceful, like a gazelle.
“You may not say anyone is calling,” Luke said. He showed the doorman his badge. Ed did the same. “Federal agents. We need to ask Mr. Nassar a few questions.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible at this moment. Mr. Nassar doesn’t accept callers before 8a.m.”
“Then why did you pick up the telephone?” Newsam said.
Luke glanced at Ed. That was a snappy answer. Ed didn’t seem like the debate team type, but he
“Luke, we just got a piece of intel,” she said. “The body you and Don found in the hospital.”
“Tell me.”
“Thirty-one-year-old Ibrahim Abdulraman. Libyan national, born in Tripoli to a very poor family. Little if any formal education. Joined the army at eighteen. Within a short time, he was transferred to Abu Salim prison, where he worked for several years. He has been implicated in human rights violations at the prison, including torture and murder of government political opponents. In March 2011, as the regime began to collapse, he fled the country. He must have seen the writing on the wall. A year later, he turned up in London, working as a bodyguard for a young Saudi prince.”
Luke’s shoulders slumped. “Hmmm. A Libyan torturer working for a Saudi prince? Who then ends up dead while stealing radioactive materials in New York? Who was this guy, really?”
“He had no history of extremist ties, and doesn’t seem to have had strong political beliefs. He was never an elite soldier for any military, and appears not to have undergone any advanced training. It looks to me like he was an opportunist, hired muscle. He disappeared from London ten months ago.”
“Okay, give me that name again.”
“Ibrahim Abdulraman. And Luke? You need to know something else.”
“Tell me.”
“I didn’t find out this information. It’s on the big board in the main room. This guy Myerson at NYPD didn’t give me the identifiers when he had them, and they did their own search. They released the information to everybody without even telling us. They’re boxing us out.”
Luke looked at Ed and rolled his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in an interagency pissing contest. “All right, well…”
“Listen, Luke. I’m a little worried about you. You’re running out of friends here, and I doubt an international incident is going to help. Why don’t we pass the bank transfer details up the line, and let Homeland make this call? We can apologize for the hack, say we got overzealous. If you go see that diplomat now, you’re putting yourself way out on a limb.”
“Trudy, I’m already there.”
“Luke—”
“Trudy, I’m hanging up now.”
“I’m trying to help you,” she said.
After he hung up, he looked at Ed.
“You ready?”
Ed barely moved. He gestured at the building.
“I was born to do this.”
*
“Can I help you gentlemen?” the man said as they walked in.
A glittering chandelier hung from the ceiling in the front lobby. To the right, there was a sofa and a couple of designer chairs. There was a long counter along the left wall, with another doorman standing behind it. He had a telephone, a computer, and a bank of video screens. He also had a small TV set showing the news.
The man appeared about forty-five. His eyes were red and veiny, not necessarily bloodshot. His hair was slicked back. He looked like he had just stepped out of the shower. Luke guessed he had worked here so long, he could drink all night and do the job in his sleep. He probably knew by sight every single person who ever came in or out of this place. And he knew that Luke and Ed didn’t belong.
“Ali Nassar,” Luke said.
The man picked up his telephone. “Mr. Nassar. The penthouse suite. Who may I say is calling?”
Without saying a word, Ed slid over the counter and pressed the handle on the receiver, severing the man’s connection. Ed was big and strong like a lion, but when he moved, he was fluid and graceful, like a gazelle.
“You may not say anyone is calling,” Luke said. He showed the doorman his badge. Ed did the same. “Federal agents. We need to ask Mr. Nassar a few questions.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible at this moment. Mr. Nassar doesn’t accept callers before 8a.m.”
“Then why did you pick up the telephone?” Newsam said.
Luke glanced at Ed. That was a snappy answer. Ed didn’t seem like the debate team type, but he
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