This had been no coincidence. Darwin hadn’t just saddled me with a ridiculous name out of spite or boredom. He’d been showing off , trying to impress me with the depth of his preparation. I wondered about the surname he’d given me: Burlap. I slipped my credit card into the slot and waited for an internet connection. It took me a couple tries to make it work, but when it did I plugged in my phone and typed “burlap” into the search engine. I learned that burlap is a breathable fabric made from jute and vegetable fibers. I learned that its resistance to condensation protects its contents from spoilage. I read a little further and discovered that burlap is sometimes used in a religious ceremony called “mortification of the flesh,” during which believers wear an abrasive shirt called a cilice.
As in Alison Cilice.
For the hundredth time I made a mental note never to fuck with Darwin.
Alison said, “You doing some research?”
“Part of the job,” I said.
“Which is?”
“I’m a jewelry salesman.”
“For Rolex?” she said, drawing out the word.
“Among other top brands,” I said.
I slid my watch off my wrist and handed it to her and wondered if she could tell it was the real thing. Judging by her eyes, my guess was she could.
“It’s really heavy,” she said.
“Much bulkier than the Piaget in my case,” I said. Her smile grew wider than I would have thought possible. Her eyes took on a dreamy glaze and she held the tip of her tongue against the bottom of her upper lip and tapped it in a way that seemed sexually suggestive.
“I wonder if we’ll run into each other in the bar one night this week,” she said.
Completely in love with Kathleen, I had no intention of bedding this plus-sized jewelry whore. Still, I had a part to play on behalf of national security.
“I’m positive we’ll not only meet, but share a drink as well,” I said.
“You’re that sure of yourself?” she said, holding that same wide-mouth smile.
“I am. Or my name isn’t Cosmo Burlap.”
She burst out laughing. “Oh Gawd!” she said. “You poor man! Tell me you’re lying.”
Chapter 27
Here’s the story on Alison Cilice:
Several days before I shared a flight with her to Dallas, Alison Cilice’s image was captured by a Denver Airport parking lot surveillance camera in the company of a suspected terrorist named Adnan Afaya. This, according to Darwin.
“And guess who Afaya has been linked to?” Darwin said.
At the time I was in a hurry to get back to my dinner with Kathleen at The Spotted Pig. I said, “Just tell me, okay?”
“Fathi.”
That got my attention. “Father or son?” I said. The father, being the UAE diplomat, was virtually untouchable. The son, on the other hand…”
“Abdulazi,” he said. “The son.”
“I’m on it.”
“Thought you might be.”
Last Valentine’s Day, Callie and I thought we’d killed a woman named Monica Childers by giving her a lethal dose of botulinam toxin. This was a contract hit ordered by Victor. As it turned out, Victor had two reasons for killing Monica: first, he wanted to test his army’s ability to divert a spy satellite, which he used to view the hit, and second, he wanted to see if his antidote for botulinam toxin would work. His people found Monica’s body and managed to resuscitate her. Then, having no further use for Monica, Victor sold her to the Fathis, to be, as he put it—their sex slave. I asked Victor if Monica was still in country and he basically said that the Fathis had fucked her to death.
And that has stuck in my craw ever since.
I can just imagine my psychiatrist, Ms. Nadine Crouch, asking, “Since you tried to kill her, why do you care how she died?”
It would be a good question, and I’m not sure I’d be able to supply a credible answer. But for whatever reason, it pisses me off . Maybe it’s because I’m a counter-terrorist and I don’t like the idea of terrorists raping American women to death. Maybe it’s because I felt used by Victor, or because Monica turned out to be a decent person who didn’t deserve to die that way. In the final analysis my subconscious reasons aren’t important. What’s important is that I made a decision to punish the Fathis, father and son, for what they did to Monica. And maybe this link to Alison Cilice could put me in a position to do just that.
Of course, Darwin wasn’t interested in punishing the Fathis. He’s all about destroying terror cells before they have a chance to mount attacks on domestic soil. Not that he’d shed a tear if I managed to kill either or both of the Fathis. At any rate, Darwin believed Alison and Afaya were having an affair, and that Afaya was planning to use Alison to infiltrate some of the Park ‘N Flys.
“In three months it’ll be Thanksgiving,” Darwin said, “One of the busiest times of the year.”
“So?”
“If the terrorists get a driver into the Park ‘N Fly trucks, they can load them up with explosives and crash them right into baggage claim.”
“What can I do?”
“Get close to her, find out what she knows.”
“You want me to sleep with her,” I said, trying to sound indignant.
“Sleep with her, torture her, what do I care?”
