“There’s a chance Ibrahim is still alive and I don’t want to get him killed,” Gage told Milton Abrams after recounting the previous night’s events. “But we need to find him and figure out what the Chinese are up to.”
“And you’re afraid you’ll be bird-dogging him for the Chinese who may be worried he’ll spill the beans, whatever they may be.”
Gage picked up his cup from the kitchen table and took a sip.
“Exactly.”
Gage’s cell phone rang. He’d left it on the kitchen counter the previous night so those who were tracking him would think that he’d remained in Abrams’s apartment. He didn’t recognize the number, but it had a Boston area code. He could think of only two people who could be calling: Goldie Goldstein or Abdul Rahmani. He didn’t answer it, but watched to see if the caller left a message. He or she didn’t. He retrieved his encrypted phone and called Alex Z in San Francisco.
“Sorry to wake you up,” Gage told him when he answered. “I need you to call a number and see who it is and what they want. I don’t want people listening in on me.”
Alex Z yawned. “No problem, boss.”
Gage gave him the number and disconnected.
Alex Z called back a minute later.
“He wouldn’t ID himself,” Alex Z said. “But he was pissed and he said that he’d heard from someone you two called Fred.”
Gage’s hand tightened around the phone. Ibrahim was alive. “What did he say?”
“That Fred is also pissed, homicidal, something about his wife having to go into hiding. The guy said you’ll know where to find him at 1 p.m. today.”
As Gage disconnected, Abrams’s cell phone rang. Moments after he answered it, his eyes widened, and he said, “I’m on my way,” and then flipped it closed and rose from his chair.
“I’ve got to get down to Washington,” Abrams said. “Rumors are flying about the president’s health, and the markets have no confidence in Wallace. They want me and the treasury secretary standing in front of the cameras when the New York Stock Exchange opens.”
Gage thought of the surveillance outside Abrams’s apartment house and of his need to dodge them on the way out.
“How are you getting there?” Gage asked.
“A limo from here in five minutes, then a helicopter from a pad downtown.”
Gage pointed his thumb upward. “Can I hitch a ride partway?”
“Why not? I suspect that the taxpayers are going to owe you a lot more than a helicopter ride.”
Gage called Viz, who’d taken Arndt home and then had checked the layout of the surveillance in Central Park.
“It’s practically a convention out here,” Viz said. “It’s hard to tell who’s who. Hicks is in his usual spot along with two others spread out on either side. And there are two vans stationed at either end of the block that are using as much bandwidth as T-1 lines, but I have no way of knowing whether they’re aware of each other.”
“I need you to come back inside and turn all of the bugs back on as soon as Abrams and I leave.”
Gage disconnected, then called out to Abrams, who was in his bedroom changing into his suit, “You have a large briefcase I can use? I need to take a lot with me, but I don’t want to be seen with my Rollaboard and clue them in that I’m on the move.”
“In my study. There’s an old-style leather catalogue case in the closet.”
Gage retrieved his nonencrypted cell phone to make a call so that those intercepting him would believe that they knew where he was going and called Alex Z.
“Abrams and I are on our way down to Washington,” Gage said. “By helicopter. We’ll stop along the way to pick up one of his underlings.”
Abrams came back into the living room, tying his tie, as Gage turned the phone off again.
“Should you be telling our plans to the other side?” Abrams asked.
“When they hear on the news that you’ve been called to Washington, they’ll assume the rest is true, too. Except I’ll be getting off where they think someone is getting on.”
Abrams smiled. “I like my job better than yours. It’s a lot simpler.”
Gage collected Abrams’s briefcase, stuffed it with his own attaché case, along with a change of clothes, and then pointed toward the door.
Abrams’s limo took them first to the helipad, then to Newark Airport where Gage got off. To disguise his trail, Gage rented a car with the unused Federal Reserve card that Abrams had given him the previous week, and then headed north toward Boston. Three and a half hours later, he pulled up in front of the Turkish halal café down the block from Ijara Automobiles.
The owner, sitting by the cash register, lowered his paper and cast dead eyes at Gage as he entered.
Abdul Rahmani, the only customer in the café, neither looked up nor rose from his seat.
Gage pulled up a chair across from him.
“You’re as much of a bungler as Hennessy,” Rahmani said, shaking his head. “I should’ve known.”
“Ibrahim could’ve picked up his phone at any time since I first came knocking on your door.”
“Why should he have? There’ve been dozens of people looking for him over the years. Investigators. Intelligence agencies. Business reporters. Professors. Graduate students. Hedge fund managers—why should he bless you of all people with a call?”
“Because I know the truth about what happened to him.”
“That only means that you know what he knows. Bravo.”
“Thinks he knows—and he’s wrong. Maybe dead wrong.”
Rahmani spread his hands. “So? Let’s hear it.”
“I’ll tell it only to him, and only in person. I’ll also explain to him why some of the people he thought were his friends are now on the hunt for him.”
“It doesn’t make a difference, they won’t find him. No one will ever find him, unless he wants to be found. I don’t even know where he is.”
Gage inspected Rahmani’s face, trying to discern a connection between his aggression and door-slamming protection of Ibrahim and the fact of his calling to get Gage to come to Boston. He then surveyed the café, wondering whether it was bugged.
“How long would it take for you to get in contact with him?” Gage asked.
Rahmani shrugged.
Gage walked over to the counter and grabbed a takeout menu and a matchbook and brought them back to the table. He drew out the flowchart that he’d drawn for Casher, showing Ibrahim’s connection to the Group of Twelve. He then spun it around so Rahmani could see it.
“Can you describe this to him?” Gage asked.
Rahmani reached for it. Gage pulled it away. Rahmani’s face reddened.
“It’s not complicated,” Gage said. “Just memorize it.”
Gage let Rahmani stare at it a little longer, and tore it up. He then removed Rahmani’s saucer from under his coffee cup, piled up the pieces, and set them on fire.
Gage held his open hands over the flame and then rubbed them together.
“Let’s see whether this generates a little heat where Ibrahim is, too,” Gage said. “And then maybe a little light.”