The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

She let her eyes close again and let the morphine take her back to float in the white clouds. She was warm, she was safe, and best of all, her uncle was here and he’d protect her. She felt him squeeze her hand. As she floated away, she thought things could be worse.

But then it hit her, she had to tell him, had to—her eyes opened. “Uncle Carl, they’re going to assassinate someone, someone big.”

The machines beeped faster, insistently now.

He smoothed her hair off her forehead. “Calm down, Nessa. We’re going to stop them. We’re on their trail already. Now I want you to get some rest.”

“No, no, there’s going to be another attack—and an assassination, someone important—” She was gasping for breath, fighting to stay awake.

Pain, so intense, struck her chest like lightning. She felt a strange rush bubbling inside her. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Her heart monitor went haywire.

Nurses and doctors rushed into the room, shoving him out of the way.

“What’s happening?” Carl Grace yelled.

“She’s coding. Sir, please, you must move out of the way.”

29

BISHOP TO C4

Brooklyn

Rather than going immediately into Vida Antonio’s Laundromat, they stopped to study the burned-out auto repair shop. It took up most of the opposite block. The second story had collapsed into the first, and wouldn’t you know it, the broken-down cars in the lot right next to the burned-out building weren’t damaged. The brick was scorched black; the glassless windows gaped onto the street. The smell of soggy insulation and burned wood still filled the air. Bits of ash were still being churned up by passing cars. A yellow strip of crime scene tape was strung across the drive to keep vehicles out of the lot.

“Nothing to do here,” Nicholas said. “Let’s go see Mrs. Antonio.”

Vida Antonio was waiting for them behind a spotless counter in her Laundromat. She was small and round and gray and sharp-eyed, somewhere in her late sixties. She had a seen-it-all air about her, and the barest hint of an Italian accent, almost smothered by all-out Brooklynese. They were barely through the door when she said, “You the FBI?”

Nicholas nodded. Mike said, “Hello, Mrs. Antonio. I’m Agent Caine, and this is Agent Drummond. I understand you saw something of interest last night?”

Mrs. Antonio immediately held a finger to her lips and gestured for them to follow her into the back, past a dozen churning washing machines and dryers, ten or so patrons sitting in chairs reading or cruising the Internet on their tablets, or staring blank-eyed at the tumbling windows in the machines. Two young guys were folding sheets and talking. No one paid them any attention.

Once inside a small office, Mrs. Antonio breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Before I tell you anything, I need to see some ID.” She held out her hand.

They gave her their creds, and Mrs. Antonio examined them closely before saying, “Anyone can see me talking to you from the street. I don’t need to upset anyone, you know what I mean? Certain folk could get the wrong idea. Now, don’t think I’m talking about the Mob and them seeing you and coming in to cut my throat. It’s the young people, they get nervous around cops and I don’t want to lose business.

“I’m pleased you took me seriously. Of course I knew you had to be FBI; the two of you are as spiffy and clean as a sunrise. Except for the bruises. What did you do, get into a catfight?”

“Yes, ma’am, and I won,” Mike said. “I’m glad you called the tip line. Can you tell us what you saw across the street last night?”

“Okay, okay. Let me see, a week ago, Georgie—Georgio Panatone, he owns the repair shop—he took off for Europe. Lord knows where he got the money, business hasn’t been too good this year for either of us. Before he left, he told me some friends were going to stay in his place, water his plants, keep an eye on things, so not to be worried if I saw people come and go. He gave me a spare key in case there was trouble, and took off.”

She sniffed. “I don’t know why he didn’t ask me to care for his things, we’ve known each other for decades. Anyway, I’m nosy, so I watched over things, in case something happened. Friends can’t always be trusted. The day he left, I saw a big black van drive up and five people got out and they had all kinds of boxes, and what looked like small TV screens. They dropped black curtains over the windows in Georgie’s apartment—it’s above the shop—and isn’t that strange? Black curtains? Like they didn’t want anyone to see what they were up to. What sort of plant-watering friends do that?”

Mike said, “I agree, ma’am, it’s very strange behavior. Can you tell us what the people looked like?”

Mrs. Antonio’s brows shot up. “Well, of course I can and I was going to. I didn’t bring you out here to tell you about some black curtains. You some kind of dummy?”

Nicholas and Mike both grinned. Mike said, “Ah, no, ma’am. Forgive me for interrupting. Please continue.”

“Okay, then. So they didn’t leave for two days, until last night. I saw them clear on the steps—four men: one was an Arab; three were white. I’d say the Arab guy was well into his forties, two were in their thirties, and a younger guy, probably late twenties, like my oldest grandchild, Nelson. And there was a pretty young woman with red hair stuffed under a ball cap. They were carrying duffel bags and backpacks.

“Last night, three of the men and the young woman piled into a beat-up Corolla Georgie had sitting on his lot. They had a lot of stuff with them in duffel bags. I don’t see them come back, but every half-hour or so, the curtains twitched, so I knew for certain the young guy had stayed behind.” Nicholas saw that Mike was ready to shout to the heavens.

Bless Zachery’s gut.