Chapter Thirteen

 

          Rimone was puzzled. For most of the day he had kept watch from his bedroom window, and he had seen Yaro come and go several times, always using the back stairway, usually, except for one time, returning to the house after about an hour. Why was he doing that? Rimone had had apprehensions when, six months earlier, the old woman who had lived next to them since he and the others had arrived, Mrs. Davis, had died and been replaced by this new solitary tenant, this man who was the perfect age and appearance to be a policeman. But after a while, certainly long enough for anyone watching their movements to come to some conclusion or other, when nothing had happened, he had begun to relax. Yaro seemed to be clearly a foreigner, have no visitors, and keep highly irregular hours. Immigrants seldom came to America to join the police force, cops usually operated on some kind of schedule, even when undercover, and there was no reason to excite anyone's possible suspicions by appearing to have no friends. He had even followed Yaro a few times, to a strip joint, a movie theater, a nightclub, where he had picked up a prostitute, and a restaurant, where he had dined alone. He had no visible means of support, spent too much money, when he went out, for a cop, and didn’t own a car. There was nothing to indicate that he was anything but an eccentric European who was living off some kind of stipend, pension, investment, or cash that he’d stashed away. If anything, he behaved more like a criminal than a cop. Several times Rimone had detected the odor of grass coming from his apartment, along with the sound of vintage rock and roll music.

          A few weeks ago he had switched from his customary attire of either jeans or tightly fitting, Eurofag leisure wear to this gray three piece suit that reminded Rimone of the old Untouchables reruns he had seen on TV. But this was also not something any policeman in his right mind would think of doing, especially if he was supposed to be undercover. Rimone had simply assumed that he’d finally gotten a job of some kind, probably selling real estate or some kind of promotional self employment, since his hours were still no more regular than before. How long he had been using the back stairs was uncertain, but it could not have been with the apparent exclusivity that he exhibited now, since Rimone had run into him at the front door barely a week ago.

          There was no obvious explanation for his current behavior, but for the moment Rimone felt that he should regard anything odd as suspicious, just to be on the safe side. He went into the living room, where he had asked Ghassan to hang out most of the day and keep an eye on the newly occupied apartment across the street, being careful not to make it obvious that he was doing so. Botrass would be coming home from making the day’s deliveries soon, and he and Ghassan would have to be ready to unload the van when it arrived.

          He found Ghassan sitting near the window reading a book, or at least looking like he was, with a line of sight across the street to the facing Brownstone’s front entrance. He set up the backgammon pieces and they began to play, still in front of the window. He lit a cigarette and offered one to Ghassan.

          “Did you see anything of interest?”

          “Nothing. No new people, no activity in the apartment. The blinds have been closed all day.”

          Rimone rolled the dice and made his move.

          “That in itself is of some interest. There should be new people. We know the apartment has been rented. The sign is gone, and the window has only recently been covered. And Mirna recalls seeing a large van parked in front last week. What time is it?”

          Ghassan looked at his watch.

          “Three forty-five.”

          “The new tenant may be still at work. Try to remain watchful. When Botrass arrives, stay by the window. I will unload the van by myself.”

          They finished the game and he went into the kitchen for a coke. Mirna was there.

          “Did you reach Konstantine?”

          “Yes,” said Mirna. They both sat down at the kitchen table.

          “And?”

          “We should clean the apartment this weekend. You should try in the next few days to determine if we are indeed under active surveillance and, if so, how extensive it is. Most of the materials can be taken out on the falafel trays. The covers will be a suitable disguise. The only problem will be the guns. If we are being watched, we do not want to alert anyone to our knowledge of this fact. Check the apartments to the rear of the house as much as possible. We may be able to bring the guns out that way. If this is impossible, we will have to simply clean them thoroughly and store them in the basement, where we can deny any connection to them.”

          “They are automatic weapons. In America this is a very serious crime.”

          “If there is no other evidence of criminal activity, their mere existence will not be enough to legally link them to us.”

          Mirna went to the stove and turned down the heat in the oven. She poured herself a glass of tea and sat down again.

          “Have you checked the phone?” she asked.

          “There is no sign that the phone is being tapped, no voltage drops, transmission signals or other telltales. But if it is being done directly through the phone company, it will be impossible to detect.”

          “It doesn’t matter. We say nothing suspicious on it in any case. But signs of tapping would prove that we are under surveillance. What about Mr. Hrubesh?”

          “His behavior is a mystery to me. I can find no explanation for it, sinister or otherwise. But it continues.”

          “Perhaps tomorrow you should try following him, very discretely, of course. If he has a car that he is using, rent one and see where he goes. If he is using public transportation, you may need to in any case. There is probably no point in it, but you might try listening through the old door that used to connect our apartments. He lives alone, so this will doubtless be a useless exercise, but we should try every possibility.” She seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then went over to one of the kitchen drawers. She reached deep into the back of the drawer, extracted a small key, and came back to the table. “Mrs. Davis gave me this years ago, in case of some emergency.” She handed the key to Rimone. “Unless he has changed the lock, this will open Mr. Hrubesh’s door. Use it if you think necessary.”

          They heard the sound of an engine outside and saw Botrass backing the van into the driveway. Rimone went down and met him in the front hallway.

          “I will unload the van by myself,” said Rimone. “Ghassan is keeping watch on the house across the street.”

          “Oh,” said Botrass, “is there something suspicious?”

          “No. Did you see any signs of being followed?”

          “No, nothing. Perhaps we are just being paranoid.”

          “We shall see. This evening, I will investigate our new neighbors at closer range.”

          “Do you really think this is necessary?”

          “Yes, Botrass,” said Rimone, giving him an intense look, “I really think this is necessary.”

          He finished unloading the van while Botrass cleaned up, took a shower himself, and dressed. Black pants and a black pull-over sweater. He kept watch for a hour more but saw nothing of Yaro.

          They took an early dinner, shortly after sunset. Ghassan ate in the living room, continuing his watch.

          “What, exactly,” said Botrass, “is Ghassan supposed to be looking for?”

          Rimone put down his fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

          “Anything that might be suspicious. But mainly, some signs of the new tenants that occupy the front apartment. It is not natural that there should be no activity of any kind. No lights, no new people going in and out, no new cars on the street.”

          “Perhaps it is not strange at all. It is only the eighteenth. They may be still at their former residence, and not plan to actually move until after the first of the month. That would explain the blinds on the window.”

          “You may be right. But after dinner I am going to take a look for myself.”

          Botrass, who seemed to have lost interest in his food, stretched his arms to the side and put his hands on his hips.

          “Well, I’m feeling a bit restless. I think a walk is what I need after driving through traffic all day. Why don’t I go instead?”

          “You think that sneaking around our neighbor’s back yard would be relaxing activity?”

          “Sure. Sounds like fun. Maybe I will find some beautiful girl undressing.” He laughed.

          Rimone raised his eyebrows. Mirna was cutting a piece of lamb. She stopped for a moment, then continued without looking up.

          “In that case, I should send Ghassan.”

          Botrass smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

          “Please, I was only kidding.” He seemed unusually nervous, even for Botrass. “Really, I will make a conscientious effort.”

          “Thank you for offering, but as you can see, I am all ready to go. No, I think I would like to do this myself.”

          ”Well,” said Botrass, waving his hands about, “Of course, as you like.”

          Rimone stood up and put his chair back under the table.

          “Wait,” said Mirna. “I forgot to mention, Serena is coming for dinner tomorrow. She is bringing a guest, her new boy friend. Please be prepared to entertain him.”

          “Do you think this is a good time?” said Botrass.

          “How would you propose that I explain that it is not?” said Mirna. “He is a black jazz musician, someone from Tony’s band. Play him some good music, get him to talk about himself. Perhaps he likes backgammon. Serena must not be allowed to become more curious about her family’s behavior, especially at this moment. Just relax and have a good time.”

          “All right,” said Rimone, heading for the door. “I’m going.”

          He went into the hallway and took the back stairs. Using the same route that Yaro had taken, he came out on Fourteenth Street and went two blocks over before turning East. As he walked down the hill, he stayed as close to the buildings as possible to keep out of the newly rented apartment’s line of sight, and finally ducked around the side of the building to the back. It was dark, but not yet so late that people might not be watching. He had considered waiting until after midnight, but opted for the idea that an earlier time, if he was noticed, would be less suspicious looking.

          Moving casually, he took a position by the wooden fence to the backyard and deliberately smoked a cigarette, keeping an eye on all of the neighboring windows from which he could be seen. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he suddenly turned and jumped high enough to grab the top of the fence, pulled himself over, and dropped down on the other side. He lay in the darkness at the bottom of the fence for several minutes, then finally moved to a position from which the building’s back stairs were visible, keeping in darkness as much as possible. There was light coming from the second floor apartment’s back windows.

          Hoping that anyone watching from the building would assume he was one of their new neighbors, he walked to the stairs and climbed silently to the second floor landing. The back door was fitted with a glass window. He avoided it as much as possible, jumped onto the deck railing, and scrambled onto the flat section of roof covering the porch.

          A few seconds later he heard the door open and someone come out. Footsteps went from one side of the deck to the other. He could see nothing, but it was clear to him that he had been heard going onto the roof, by someone who was now scanning the area. He heard the door open again and could smell cigarette smoke.

          “See anything, Mr. Cosak?” It was an older, gravelly voice.

          “Nothing,” came a second voice. “But I’m sure I heard something.”

          “Well,” said the first speaker, “we’re not the only ones living here. Let’s finish up.”

          Rimone heard the shuffling of feet and the sound of the back door closing. He waited some more, for at least five minutes, before moving. Inching his way to the edge of the roof awning, he lay flat on his stomach and dropped his head over the side, just enough to look back into the doorway.

          He could see two pairs of feet and the legs of a table. Metallic sounds were coming faintly through the door. He thought he had an idea of what they were.

          “Make sure you put a drop of oil into this hole in the frame,” the gravelly voice was saying. Rimone pulled himself a little farther over the edge.

          “Good,” said the voice. “Now let’s see if you can put it back together by yourself.”

          The top of the table became visible. There were several metal pieces lying on it, the parts of a disassembled nine millimeter Browning P-35. The heads and shoulders of the two men were still cut off from view. He watched as one of them put the gun back together. The other man reached into his pocket.

          “Very good, Mr. Cosak,” said the gravelly voice. “Now try putting this on it.” He pulled something out of his pocket and put it on the table.

          It was a silencer.

 

 

 

          Botrass was sitting by the front window when Rimone came back.

          “Well,” he said, as Rimone took off his sweater, “did you find out anything?”

          “Yes. How was your walk?”

          “I haven’t taken it yet. I decided to give Ghassan a break.”

          “Did you see me go over the fence?”

          “Yes. There was no reaction from any of the other houses.”

          “Fine.” He started for the kitchen, where Mirna and Ghassan were sitting at the table, talking. “Come into the kitchen.”

          “What about my job here?”

          “It’s over.”

          They sat down with Mirna and Ghassan.

          “We are definitely under surveillance by the police,” said Rimone, lighting a cigarette.

          “Allah,” said Ghassan, crossing his arms.

          “And they are not ordinary police,” continued Rimone.

          “Why do you say that?” asked Mirna.

          “Because ordinary police do not use Browning High Powers. Or, if they do, they are their own personal guns, and they know how to clean them. And they don’t equip them with silencers.”

          “Then who are they?” said Ghassan.

          “I don’t know. DEA, FBI, maybe even CIA, operating illegally. American authorities don’t pay much attention to their own rules anymore.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “Not since Bush took over.”

          “What are we to do, then?” asked Ghassan.

          “Exactly what we were going to do,” said Rimone. He looked at Mirna. “Your father is definitely a very remarkable man. He has deduced from almost ten thousand miles away what we could not see under our very noses.” 

 

 

 

          Botrass entered the small pub on Irving and went directly to the bar, where he asked for change. Then he went to the pay phone and put in a call to Beirut. After a few moments a sleepy voice answered.

          “Mr. Walid? I’m sorry to wake you. This is Botrass.”

          “I told you not to call me here.”

          “This is important.”

          “Give me your number.”

          Botrass read the number from the phone box.

          “I will call you back in ten minutes exactly.”

          Botrass went to the bar and ordered a drink. It was after dark and Allah was not watching. Nine minutes later, he went back to the phone.

          “Alright.” Walid sounded annoyed. “What is so important?”

          “Rimone has discovered the police surveillance. You must send your team.”

          There was silence on the line for a moment.

          “Are you sure about this?”

          “Yes. They are right across the street.”

          There was again silence.

          ”I see. You were correct to call me.”

          “What should I do?”

          “Do nothing. My men will handle the situation.”

          “Make sure they know about me.”

          There was another brief pause.

          “You may rest assured that they will.”

          “Will they expect me to help? I would rather not.”

          “They will expect nothing from you.”

          “And how soon will they get here?”

          “That is enough questions, Botrass.”

          “Yes. Of course.”

          “Goodbye, Botrass. You have done well.”

          “Goodbye.”

         

 

 

          Rimone was still in the kitchen when Botrass returned.

          “Did you have a good walk?” he asked, as Botrass headed for the bathroom.

          “Oh, yes,” answered Botrass. “An excellent walk.” He smiled nervously and closed the bathroom door.

          Rimone listened to the sound of Botrass brushing his teeth. It seemed strange to him, somehow, that Botrass would still want to take his walk, in the light of their recent discoveries. He went into the living room and sat down on the couch. Yaro, he speculated, must be going to the surveillance house on his forays from the back stairs. But why? Why not just use the front entrance, at least once in a while? I am thinking that everything is strange now.

          On a sudden impulse he got up and walked to the locked door that used to connect their apartment with Yaro’s. He put his ear to the thinnest part of the wood. It seemed that he could hear something coming faintly through, probably from Yaro’s living room. It was music. He listened harder, putting his hand over his other ear and pressing harder against the door. He was able to hear a little better now. He could make out the music more clearly. It was not the familiar sound of Yaro’s customary sixties rock and roll. This, he thought, is also strange.”

          The music was Oriental. The words of the song were in Arabic. It was the unmistakable voice and oud playing of Egypt’s legendary musician and movie star, Farid Al Atrash.