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Authors: James Patterson, Andrew Gross
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man. That he couldn’t be controlled by any system.
She and Ben got home around ten. The alarm was on. The housekeeper had gone for the night. She double-bolted the front door and went upstairs.
She knew she should tell Ben about today. But it was silly, and she wasn’t a silly person. She’d been on a hundred trials. She’d seen plenty of brazen criminals who thought they were bigger than life itself. Why was this one different? He wasn’t! To hell with him.
She watched Ben disappear into his walk-in closet to get undressed, then into the bathroom. She heard him brushing his teeth. She went over to their bed. She pulled off the pillows one by one. Then she stripped down the duvet.
Miriam Seiderman felt her heart slam to a stop.
“Ben! Ben, come out here, quick! Ben! ”
Her husband ran into the room, his toothbrush in hand. “What is it?”
Under the covers there was a newspaper, folded open to page two. The headline read, GANGSTER STOPS TRIAL DEAD.
She was staring at Dominic Cavello. An artist’s sketch. The very moment in the courtroom that had stayed with her all evening.
That look.
She turned to Ben. “Did you put that here?”
Her husband shook his head and picked up the Daily News. “Of course not, no.”
A chill started to creep down Miriam Seiderman’s spine. The house had been locked, the alarms set. Her housekeeper, Edith, had left at four.
What the hell was going on? This was this evening’s paper.
Someone had gotten in here tonight!
Chapter 23
AROUND THAT TIME, in a dimly lit Albanian café in Astoria, Queens, Nordeshenko sat reading a newspaper of his own.
A few customers were at the bar. A soccer game was playing on the satellite, piped in from the home country, and the local boys were drinking and cheering, occasionally shouting in dialect at the screen.
The café door opened. Two men stepped in. One was tall, with ice-blue eyes and long blond locks flowing over his black leather jacket. The other was short and dark, Middle Eastern-looking, wearing a green military jacket over camouflage trousers. The two men took a seat at the table next to Nordeshenko’s. The Israeli never even looked up.
“It’s good to see you, Remi.”
Nordeshenko smiled. Remi was his Russian nickname. From back in the army, in Chechnya. A version of Remlikov, his real name. Nordeshenko hadn’t used it in fifteen years.
“So look what the wind dragged in.” The Israeli finally folded down his newspaper. “Or maybe the sanitation trucks.”
“Always the compliments, Remi.”
Reichardt, the blond with the scar under his right eye, was South African. Nordeshenko had worked with him many times. He had been a mercenary in Western Africa for fifteen years and had learned his trade well. He had been taught how to inflict terrible pain when most boys were learning grammar and mathematics.
Nezzi, the Syrian, he had gotten to know while on duty in Chechnya. Nezzi had once participated in a terror raid against the Russians in which a lot of schoolchildren got killed. Nezzi had blown up buildings, shot Russian emissaries, whatever it took. He could construct a bomb from materials one could easily find in a hardware store. Nezzi had no qualms about anything, no ideologies. In this age of fanatics, it made him a dying breed. Refreshing in a way.
“So tell us, Remi”—the South African shifted in his chair—“you didn’t bring us out here to watch Albanian football, did you?”
“No.” Nordeshenko tossed the newspaper over on their table. Facing them was the courtroom sketch of Dominic Cavello—the same one he had left in the judge’s bed just a few hours before.
“Cavello.” Nezzi wrinkled his brow. “He’s on trial, no? You want us to do a job on him while he’s in jail? We could do that, I suppose.”
“Have a drink,” Nordeshenko said, signaling the waiter.
“I’ll have one after, ” the South African said. “And as you know, our Muslim pal here lives the rigorous life of the
She and Ben got home around ten. The alarm was on. The housekeeper had gone for the night. She double-bolted the front door and went upstairs.
She knew she should tell Ben about today. But it was silly, and she wasn’t a silly person. She’d been on a hundred trials. She’d seen plenty of brazen criminals who thought they were bigger than life itself. Why was this one different? He wasn’t! To hell with him.
She watched Ben disappear into his walk-in closet to get undressed, then into the bathroom. She heard him brushing his teeth. She went over to their bed. She pulled off the pillows one by one. Then she stripped down the duvet.
Miriam Seiderman felt her heart slam to a stop.
“Ben! Ben, come out here, quick! Ben! ”
Her husband ran into the room, his toothbrush in hand. “What is it?”
Under the covers there was a newspaper, folded open to page two. The headline read, GANGSTER STOPS TRIAL DEAD.
She was staring at Dominic Cavello. An artist’s sketch. The very moment in the courtroom that had stayed with her all evening.
That look.
She turned to Ben. “Did you put that here?”
Her husband shook his head and picked up the Daily News. “Of course not, no.”
A chill started to creep down Miriam Seiderman’s spine. The house had been locked, the alarms set. Her housekeeper, Edith, had left at four.
What the hell was going on? This was this evening’s paper.
Someone had gotten in here tonight!
Chapter 23
AROUND THAT TIME, in a dimly lit Albanian café in Astoria, Queens, Nordeshenko sat reading a newspaper of his own.
A few customers were at the bar. A soccer game was playing on the satellite, piped in from the home country, and the local boys were drinking and cheering, occasionally shouting in dialect at the screen.
The café door opened. Two men stepped in. One was tall, with ice-blue eyes and long blond locks flowing over his black leather jacket. The other was short and dark, Middle Eastern-looking, wearing a green military jacket over camouflage trousers. The two men took a seat at the table next to Nordeshenko’s. The Israeli never even looked up.
“It’s good to see you, Remi.”
Nordeshenko smiled. Remi was his Russian nickname. From back in the army, in Chechnya. A version of Remlikov, his real name. Nordeshenko hadn’t used it in fifteen years.
“So look what the wind dragged in.” The Israeli finally folded down his newspaper. “Or maybe the sanitation trucks.”
“Always the compliments, Remi.”
Reichardt, the blond with the scar under his right eye, was South African. Nordeshenko had worked with him many times. He had been a mercenary in Western Africa for fifteen years and had learned his trade well. He had been taught how to inflict terrible pain when most boys were learning grammar and mathematics.
Nezzi, the Syrian, he had gotten to know while on duty in Chechnya. Nezzi had once participated in a terror raid against the Russians in which a lot of schoolchildren got killed. Nezzi had blown up buildings, shot Russian emissaries, whatever it took. He could construct a bomb from materials one could easily find in a hardware store. Nezzi had no qualms about anything, no ideologies. In this age of fanatics, it made him a dying breed. Refreshing in a way.
“So tell us, Remi”—the South African shifted in his chair—“you didn’t bring us out here to watch Albanian football, did you?”
“No.” Nordeshenko tossed the newspaper over on their table. Facing them was the courtroom sketch of Dominic Cavello—the same one he had left in the judge’s bed just a few hours before.
“Cavello.” Nezzi wrinkled his brow. “He’s on trial, no? You want us to do a job on him while he’s in jail? We could do that, I suppose.”
“Have a drink,” Nordeshenko said, signaling the waiter.
“I’ll have one after, ” the South African said. “And as you know, our Muslim pal here lives the rigorous life of the
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