“Hi, Mrs. Filardo. I’m Nathan Munden with the New York State Banking Department. I called you a short while ago.”
“I remember. I’m a-no stupida. Show me you badge.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
No problem. He had impressive ID, and had added a little something extra, just for her. He pulled out his badge, his ID card in its leather folder, and his calling card. Both the latter said he was a member of the State Banking Department’s fraud investigation unit.
She opened the glass storm door a couple of inches and he passed them all through.
As she was inspecting them he said, “Turn over my card.”
She did so, stared at it a moment, then looked up at him. “What’s this?”
He gave her his sincerest smile. “Your Social Security number. On the phone you seemed worried that I was going to try to trick you out of it. I just wrote that there so you’d know I’m not trying to trick you—I already have it.”
“How you get it?”
It had been included on the printout Melinda had provided, but she didn’t need to know that.
He shrugged. “State Banking Department, remember? We tend to know these things.”
Well, that was the clincher. She pushed open the door. True to his gentlemanly civil servant image, he removed his hat as he stepped through.
In!
She was staring at his card again, the front now.
“What’s a-this ‘fraud’?”
“I investigate people trying to cheat the banks, and someone’s doing just that not ten blocks from here at your Chase branch.”
“No!”
“Yes! They’re using the computer system to shift funds to a private offshore account when one of the depositors makes a large cash withdrawal. They think they’re getting away with it, but we’re on to them.”
“Then a-you should arrest them!”
“We will. Oh, believe me, we will. But the trouble is, we don’t know who is doing it. We know it’s happening but we can’t identify the hacker—that’s the term for someone who illegally enters a computer system. We do know he or she is operating out of the branch at Hamilton and Summit, but we don’t know who.”
“What you want a-from me?”
“We need a regular depositor at the branch to make a large withdrawal while we’re watching the computers. We’ll know which terminal was used to run the hack and when we find out who was at that terminal at the time, we’ll swoop in and nab him.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And why you a-come to me?”
“Because you’re a longtime depositor. Who would expect you of being an undercover agent working with the Banking Department’s fraud investigation unit?”
Now her eyes widened. “Me? Undercover?”
That word got them every time. Well, almost every time. The ones who had a sense of civic duty were the best marks for this game, which was why Neil favored the old ones—the older the better. Anywhere in the seventh decade was good.
Forget about trying the “civic duty” hook on anyone much younger: You’re from the Banking Department? Fix your own problems, asshole.
But these old folks were a different breed. If the mark was male, World War Two or Korea vets were the easiest. They’d fought for their country in wartime and were more likely to be willing to help out the government. For the women, anyone who’d lived through the Depression and had seen banks fail had feelings for their fellow depositors, even if savings were insured these days.
But then add “undercover” and that usually clinched it. He’d seen it in their eyes time and time again: I’m going to be an undercover agent for the government … me.
“Yes, but don’t worry. There’s no danger to you or your money. This is strictly white-collar crime. No guns, no violence, this person is stealing simply by fooling the bank’s computers.”
“They steal a-my money?”
“Yours and your neighbors’.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s very complicated, and I’m not sure I understand it completely myself. But we know it’s happening. And your end is very simple. This Saturday I’ll pick you up and drive you the ten blocks to your local branch where—”
“Why on Saturday?”
Neil hid a smile because he knew then he had her. He had already stopped asking if she was going to do it and switched to when they were going to do it, and she was still on board.
“Because our crook”—no accident in using our—“only does his dirty work on Saturdays when the bank’s computer centers are understaffed. However, we’ll make sure they’re fully staffed when we know our undercover agent Michelina Filardo is on the job and setting the trap.”
He was laying it on thick, he knew, but he sensed this lady needed an extra dose of the Zalesky charm and silver tongue to get her fired up and all gung-ho to trap this thief.
He waited for some sort of positive response, but she was holding back. Okay, time to hit her with one of his closers—again, playing it as if her participation was all settled and done, with only the details remaining.
“Now, one thing we need to be very clear on: You cannot mention this to anyone—anyone. And there’s a very good reason for that. You know and I know that most people are blabbermouths. Am I right? I bet you can think of a couple of your neighbors right off who, if you told them how you’re going to help the government catch a thief on Saturday, they’d be right down at the bank yakking about it. Am I right? Am I right?”
She was nodding now. “Mrs. Naccari. What a boccalone!”
Neil had no idea what that meant, but was pretty sure Mrs. Naccari couldn’t be trusted with a secret.
“Right. And I’m sure you know plenty more like her. Remember: loose lips sink ships, and telling the wrong person will sink our chances of nailing this creep who’s stealing honest, working folks’ hard-earned money.”
She kept nodding. Good. Her head was going in the right direction. Up and down was good.
“So, I’ll pick you up after lunch on Saturday, say around one thirty or so, and we’ll drive down to the branch to make your withdrawal.”
“How much?”
“The withdrawal? I think twenty thousand will do it.”
She gasped. “What? No! That’s a-too much!”
He shrugged. “We need a sizable amount to tempt the creep. And don’t worry: It won’t be out of the bank vault more than an hour or so. You take it out, the computer boys identify the creep, and we redeposit it. Easy as pie. No one will know that you helped us catch a thief.”
She was shaking her head. “Twenty thousand…”
“But what you need to do is notify the bank ahead of time that you’re going to make the withdrawal and to have the cash ready for you.”
He always had the marks set up the withdrawal a couple of days ahead of time. It avoided so many hassles, especially suspicions about a possible hostage situation. The withdrawal wasn’t coming out of the blue. This was no emergency. It all had been arranged days in advance. The cash would be waiting.
“I know this is a lot to throw at you at once, so here’s what I’ll do: I’ll come back tomorrow afternoon and walk you through arranging the withdrawal.”
She still looked uncertain about the amount. Time to back off and give her breathing room.
“You have a lovely home, by the way.”
“I have lived here many years.”
Probably bought it for a song too. From the look of the place and the size of her account, she could afford to lose twenty grand—twice that—and not squawk.
“Well, I’ll be going now. I’ll stop back tomorrow afternoon.” He shook her hand. “You’re a good citizen, Mrs. Filardo. The country could use more people like you.”
And then he was out the door and sailing toward his car. He’d set the hook but couldn’t be sure how well. This old broad was a tough one. But he’d have her ready to reel in after tomorrow’s visit.
6
Jack watched Zalesky strol
l out of the Filardo house with a definite bounce to his step. Whatever had gone down in there must have gone his way. Jack wished he knew what. Too bad he hadn’t been able to wire Zalesky himself. As it was, he’d simply have to assume that the game was on and continue to keep an eye on him.
Jack turned on his receiver on the remote chance that the guy would talk to himself as his drove. No such luck. Only Madonna’s “Justify My Love” pulsed through the earpiece.
Damn.
7
Nasser al-Thani cursed the moon as he hurried through the sand with the others. Why tonight, of all nights, did it have to be full and glaring down at them like a spotlight?
The moon wasn’t the only problem. The frigid wind off Gravesend Bay blasted through his thin coat as he fought off another wave of nausea. In the past he had targeted certain people for death, even helped plan their demise, but never before had he personally participated in the act of murder. His gut churned at the prospect, but he saw no way out. Drexler had put him in charge of the mission and he had no choice but to prove his mettle.
He had no choice about the timing either. Mustafa Shalabi had a ticket for an outbound plane tomorrow morning. They had to confront him tonight or they would miss him. And they had to reach him ahead of Sheikh Omar’s thugs, who might also have learned of Shalabi’s travel plans.
He let Drexler’s man, Szeto, lead them down the beach to the end of the Sea Gate fence. Szeto and the newcomer, Reggie, had scouted the route earlier. The American’s mobility was somewhat limited due to his reconstructed knees, and so he brought up the rear. The three of them rounded the fence, putting them officially in Sea Gate, then headed back up the dunes.
Nasser found a shadowed spot near the end of Oceanview Avenue, shielded from the near-day-bright moonlight, and gathered the other two close. The only good thing about the cold weather was that it kept everyone indoors. If this were summer, they would have been noticed by now.
“We split up here and meet again outside the house in ten minutes.” He checked the glowing dial on his watch. “No later than eleven forty-five.”
They’d had to leave the car on Polar Street, on the other side of the fence. That meant walking to Shalabi’s house. Sea Gate was such an insulated community, it wouldn’t do at all to have a group of three strangers walking along its streets. But three isolated individuals, strolling different routes, that was another story. They all knew the address and had mapped out the separate routes they were to follow.
Reggie left first, since he moved the slowest. Then Szeto. Nasser waited half a minute, then set out on his own route—up Oceanview and turning left on Highland Avenue. Sea Gate had its own police department—tiny, but a presence nonetheless. He kept an eye out for a patrol car as he walked, but encountered none. He stepped behind a tree trunk as a car rumbled by—no use in being spotted, even by a disinterested party—but did not see another for the rest of his walk.
When he found Shalabi’s house, he was relieved to see the Mercedes still parked outside. Worst-case scenario had been the Egyptian leaving while they were walking here. Szeto was already crouching in the shrubbery on the shadowed side when Nasser arrived. Reggie showed up about a minute later.
“I already check back door,” Szeto whispered. “Is locked.”
The front door will undoubtedly be the same, Nasser thought.
Shalabi was running scared. In a gated community like this, one might grow careless and leave doors unlocked, but not when you feared for your life.
Szeto shrugged off his backpack and removed a short, heavy pry bar. Used properly, it would allow them to break in and subdue Shalabi with a minimum of fuss.
Used properly …
Szeto had assured him he was experienced with its use, and the three of them had discussed the best way to proceed.
“Let’s not waste any more time, shall we?” Nasser said.
The trio moved to the rear entrance. Reggie eased open the storm door and held it. Two panes of glass allowed a look inside, revealing a small, dark utility room lit by light filtering from the kitchen beyond; a washer and dryer lined the wall to the left.
Shalabi could be anywhere in the house. They could not allow him time to call 911, so Szeto had suggested a way to bring him to them. Obviously he’d done this before.
Nasser watched as Szeto forced the pry bar’s flat tip between the door and the frame, right below the knob. When he had a firm, two-handed grip on it, he nodded. Nasser gave the door three sharp knocks.
They waited. A silhouette appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. Light filled the utility room.
Shalabi.
“Now!” Nasser whispered.
He gave the door a hard kick as Szeto yanked back on the pry bar. Shalabi was halfway to the door when it sprang open with a shower of splinters. His mouth formed an elongated O within his beard as he began backpedaling. But Szeto, the pry bar raised above his head, was already charging. He smashed it across Shalabi’s skull once, twice, and the man went down without a sound.
Nasser motioned Reggie inside and caught the storm door as it swung closed. He pushed the broken door shut behind them and stood over the fallen Shalabi, facedown on the floor, bleeding but still breathing.
“What do we do now?” Reggie said.
“Drag him into a hallway so you won’t be visible through a window.”
“Then what?”
“Mister Drexler says he wants his death to look like someone has made an example of him, to send his allies a message—a warning. I’ll leave the particulars up to you.”
Reggie smiled as he pulled out a knife and flicked open a four-inch blade. He looked at Szeto. “I guess that means we improvise.”
“I do not understand this ‘improvise.’”
“It means we have a little fun.”
Szeto grinned. “Ah yes. I understand fun.”
As they began dragging Shalabi deeper into the house, Nasser moved away.
“Leaving the party?” Reggie said.
“He’s only part of the reason we’re here. I’ll take care of the rest.”
He wanted no part in mutilating an unconscious man. Shalabi had shipped his family off to Cairo. By all rights he should be alone in the house, but without being able to keep the place under direct surveillance, that was only an assumption right now.
Nasser moved quickly through the first floor. Only one dirty plate in the kitchen sink: a good sign. He checked every room and closet. All empty. He found the master bedroom on the second floor. Two suitcases lay on the queen-size bed: one open, partially packed with clothes, the other closed. He unzipped it and raised the top.
Cash. He rifled through the banded stacks and guessed it totaled close to two hundred thousand dollars. As suspected, Shalabi had no doubt cleaned out the Al-Kifah Refugee Center’s bank account and was personally going to take it to Afghanistan before his blind rival could get his grubby hands on it.
Well, now it belonged to the Order, leaving Sheikh Omar Abdel-Rahman empty-handed. Without their anticipated windfall, he and his followers would be cash strapped and willing to listen to another get-rich-quick proposal by the man from Qatar.
Nasser stuffed the money into the empty backpack he’d brought along, and left a parting taunt for whoever might come later. Then he returned to the first floor. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard two muffled reports. Then Szeto and Reggie reappeared, the former unscrewing a suppressor from his pistol and the latter wiping his knife on a towel.
“Clubbed, stabbed, and shot,” Reggie said with a grin. “I believe that sends a message—in spades.”
Szeto said, “You wish to see?”
Nasser forced a smile. “I trust you.”
“So other than sending this message, what have we accomplished here?” Reggie said.
Nasser gave him a stern look. “You ask too many questions.”
Reggie folded the knife and held up his empty hand. “Just asking.”
“What I will tell you is th
at what has happened here tonight may lead to allowing you a little personal time with the man who broke your knees.”
“That fucker, Lonnie?”
“If that is indeed his name.” Nasser doubted it.
Reggie’s grin was fierce as he flicked the knife open again. “Oh, I am so there.”
“Enough chatter. We leave by the routes we came and meet back at the car.”
Nasser watched them go, then began turning out the lights. If Shalabi’s friends and associates assumed he was fleeing the country, it might be days, perhaps weeks before anyone discovered his body. Not that it mattered. The first step had been taken along the road to trapping the hijackers who had stolen the Order’s millions and eventually reclaiming what was left.
He would be sure to make an example of them to send another sort of message: Do not interfere in the Order’s business.
WEDNESDAY
1
“The door!” Mahmoud said in harsh, whispered Arabic. “It’s broken!”
“No!”
Kadir could not believe it. He stepped closer to Shalabi’s back door and, sure enough, the frame was splintered near the lock.
They’d waited until three A.M., when the moon was sinking in the western sky, then cut a hole in a section of the Sea Gate fence and slipped through. The low, bright moon cast long shadows, and Kadir and Mahmoud had kept to those as they’d slunk through the streets toward this darkened house.
This was the last thing Kadir had expected. Sheikh Omar had chosen them to remove Shalabi, had even issued a fatwa, saying, “We should not allow ourselves to be manipulated by his deviousness,” and declaring that Shalabi was “no longer a Muslim.” Jihad demanded his permanent removal.
The plan was to subdue him, bind him, and put him in the trunk of his own car. Before closing the lid, they would tie a plastic bag over his head. Then they would drive him out of Sea Gate to a grave they had already dug in a deserted stretch of sand out near the end of Ocean Parkway. By the time they reached Gilgo Beach, he would already be dead. All they would need to do then was drop him into the hole and fill it in. Mustafa Shalabi would never be seen or heard from again. They would leave his car parked at the airport and everyone would assume he’d fled the country with the refugee center’s funds.